#I need to come up with a name for them...

[tqlepatia]

HEADCANONS | SEVIKA × SLEEPY! WIFE! READER

notes : lol sorry for the long wait, i tried to make it quite long :3

content : pure fluff, the tittle it's self explanatory

You fall asleep in the car every time. Doesn’t matter if it’s a five-minute drive or an hour. Sevika drives with one hand and rests the other gently on your thigh, rubbing circles while you snore softly.

She’s found you asleep on laundry piles, the kitchen table, and even half off the bed. Instead of waking you, she just makes sure you’re warm and safe and takes a picture for her private album.

Sevika secretly times in her mind how long it takes you to doze off during movie nights. Your record is 52 minutes into the film.

You always insist you're not tired. While yawning and curled up in a blanket. Sevika raises one brow: “Sure, babe. Wide awake.”

She loves it when you nap on her chest. Your breath warms the space right over her heart, and she swears nothing calms her nerves like that.

Sometimes you fall asleep mid conversation, You were talking about how hard it was to make a perfect cake, then your voice went slower and lower till the room was in silence. Sevika just chuckles and finishes your sentence for you before covering you with a throw blanket.

She’s developed the stealth of a trained assassin. Walking around the house in near silence to avoid waking you, especially if you’ve been having light sleep.

You always nap after meals. Sevika picks up your empty plate, kisses your forehead, and whispers, “I’ll clean up. Just rest.”

She adores your sleepy voice. That soft, raspy mumble when you call her name with your eyes still closed makes her melt instantly.

You cling to her like a koala in your sleep. Sevika has mastered the art of staying still for hours just so you can rest peacefully.

You fall asleep in public. she just places her hand on your thigh and keeps talking like nothing happened.

She has to carry you to bed most nights. And she pretends to complain, but you catch her smiling every time, remembering how she walked with you in her arms the day of your wedding

You fall asleep while waiting for her to get ready for work, and she sneaks back to the room just to watch you rest ( she tells silco she's reaaaaaly sick that day just to get a whole day with you ).

When you nap on the couch, she watches over you like a guard dog. Anyone who even thinks about waking you up will get the glare.

You sleep with your hand on her chest or stomach. She won’t move a muscle until you shift first.

She has a soft spot for how you mumble her name in your dreams. “Vika…” and she’s feeling her cheeks hot in the dark of the room..

She keeps extra blankets everywhere. One in the car, two in the living room, one folded on her office chair, just in case her sleepy wife gets tired again.

She’s tried to tease you about how much you sleep. But you looked at her with half-lidded eyes and said, “You love it,” and she couldn’t argue.

Sometimes she wakes up in the middle of the night just to watch you breathe. Then, she kisses your forehead and goes back to sleep.

She’s your favorite mattress. Even in summer, even when it’s too hot, your head always finds her chest or thigh.

You always nap in her worn out T-shirts. Sevika pretends not to notice—but she keeps giving you more of them.

You fall asleep face down during massages. Sevika kisses the back of your neck, adjusts your pillow, and keeps rubbing your back until you start snoring.

Your naps are sacred to her. She rearranges her schedule so she can hold you when you need rest.

If anyone jokes about how much you sleep, she’ll glare at them. “She works hard. Let her rest.”

When you fall asleep in the bath, Sevika gently scoops you out, dries you off, and tucks you in like you’re made of porcelain.

She loves coming home to find you curled up on the couch, book forgotten in your lap. It makes her chest ache—in a good way.

She memorized your sleep patterns. She knows when you’re dreaming, when you're restless, and how to soothe you without waking you.

You always fall asleep first, but wake up with Sevika already watching you. She greets you with, “Hey, sleeping beauty,” and kisses your temple.

When she’s away on business, she knows you have trouble sleeping. So she adopted a fluffy pet for you. It's not the same as her cuddling you, but it works.

No matter how many years pass, she never gets tired of watching you sleep.

౨ৎ - 𝐓aglist ; @prettyinpink69 , @abbysdollie , @marieeeluvsyou , @littlelovelunette , @madzorwhatever , @zvmbitegirl , @salsalsusu , @katarandaa, @starrycherie , @moonshimegf , @watermelonshine, @zombieeepup, @laviannasfanfics , @windytulips, @genderfluidlesbain999 , @dulcerbbns

[sebsxphia]

Do you know that audio on TikTok that’s like I made love to my wife 4 times and this morning she made pancakes and whatnot? Could you do a story where it’s the daggers and this is how they find out about bobs wife?

don’t stop.

robert ‘bob’ floyd x reader.

￫ summary: jake attempts to catch bob out, but bob has something to reveal.

￫ word count: 1K.

￫ warnings: mentions of sex, smut and food.

￫ authors notes: i hope i based this off the right sound, my dear anon! 🥹 i’m sorry this took so long too 🥺 my main masterlist can be found here! 💌

Bob stood beside Natasha in comfortable silence as they dressed in the appropriate gear, ready for a test flight.

They instinctively turned to face one another when the other needed help attaching a certain piece to their suit or tightening their straps. They had grown un-deniably close over the past two years, and they knew each other’s movements step by step.

Natasha’s eyebrows raised, and she let out a small groan. “Here they come.”

Bob’s breath hitched as he heard the booming voices coming through the door.

Javy sauntered in, with Jake on his heels, both snickering about something like schoolboys.

“Oh, Jake, you wouldn’t believe it.” They both swung open their lockers in sync. At a glance, you wouldn’t think that they flew separately. They were so similar as they mirrored the movements of getting their gear on.

“I made love to her four times last night. This morning, I got pancakes. She woke up at six to make them for me before I left. God, I fuckin’ love my wife.”Javy boasted with prideful laughter.

Jake only spurred him on, with a proud slap on his back and matched Javy’s amusement.

However, at Javy’s confession, Natasha snorted quietly to herself.

Jake’s head cocked to the right of him and his eyebrows raised with a questioning glance her way. He leaned back against the lockers containing their gear and attached some to himself.

“What’s so funny, Nat? You tellin’ me you could beat Javy’s record?” Jake questioned her with a smug grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

By this time, Mickey, Rueben, and Bradley had all filtered into the room as well. They didn’t want to interrupt the ego-boosting feud that was currently unfolding in front of them. They geared up in silence but still listened with eager ears, their eyes flicking back and forth between Jake and Natasha.

She took a sharp breath between her teeth and broke Jake’s questioning gaze. She purposefully didn’t look back at the guys but calmly stated, “Well, I made love to my wife six times, and yeah, I also got breakfast.”

The silence from them both was telling. She continued fixing her gear and calmly played off her triumphant feat. It was as though it was the most normal thing in the world for her (which wasn’t far off).

She heard Bradley’s hushed whistle of “Oof,” and she smiled proudly to herself as she looked down to see where she was fiddling with a buckle on her suit.

Bob, on the other hand, had watched the entire exchange before him, with bated breath. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, and the corner of his lips twitched into a grin as he saw Jake and Javy’s bewildered faces.

If only they knew how good you were for him last night. If only they knew how pretty you looked on your knees and spread out on the soft linen, all for himself. If only they knew how pretty you sounded, as you whimpered and whined his name all—

“Bob!” Jake’s biting tone snapped his attention straight towards the blonde-haired man. “You’re lookin’ smug for a guy, who, as far as we know, hasn’t been laid in… two years?” He questioned with faux interest.

Natasha immediately belted out an amused, “Ha!”

She knew Bob better than anyone here. She had met you, Bob’s long-time wife. Natasha and her wife had been to dinner with Bob and you. She had been to BBQs in your backyard and tried your delicious home-cooked macaroni and cheese. You were even invited to her bachelorette party when she got married.

Natasha also knew that no one else knew.

Bob was private about his life away from the naval base. He had his reasons, but more than anything, he appreciated the peace he shared with his one love. You.

Jake’s jeering and deeply imposing question made his eye twitch a little from behind his glasses. He pushed his frames up the bridge of his nose with his index finger, before looping his hands into the gear on his chest. He puffed out his chest slightly and stood confidently across from Jake.

“Well? You got a wife?” Jake asked the question carelessly and casually, making Bob squirm. He severely despised people thinking about his wife like that, as if you weren’t the moon to his sun.

A beat, and Bob responded. “Yeah.”

Javy’s mouth fell open in disbelief. Mickey and Ruben had turned around to watch the whole thing by then. They nudged one another in the ribs and whispered, “I told you so!”

Bradley didn’t flinch. He knew. He saw Bob and you on the beach one evening. Bob gave him a curt nod, and when he arrived at the Navy base the next morning, Bradley swore he wouldn’t tell anyone. He understood, more than anyone, why people kept their private lives away from here.

Jake snorted, although he blinked furiously as Bob’s statement took him aback. “Okay then, Baby, how many times did you make love to them last night?”

He crossed his arms over his broad chest in an attempt to shield himself from perhaps being scolded by Bob Floyd.

“Once.”

“Once?! Oh, Bob.” Jake mocked with faux sympathy. “And did they make you anything this morning?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Bob’s gaze narrowed fiercely towards Jake. “My wife was asking me not to stop.”

There was a deafening silence, and then a chorus of bellowing laughter and jeers echoed throughout the room.

Even Javy let out a loud chuckle, gripping Jake’s shoulders and playfully shaking him. “He got you there!”

Bob cocked his head at Jake, with an assured smile now etched fully onto his lips. He asked if Natasha was ready, and then they both headed out onto the tarmac, leaving Jake behind, practically frozen in shock.

Once the rest of the guys had had enough playful jabs towards him, they all made their way out to join the others. But Jake felt a firm hand on his shoulder as the tall brunette towered over him.

“Don’t assume stuff like that, Hangman. Wait until you find out that he has a kid.”

taglist: @floydsmuse @beachbabey @tallrock35 @luckyladycreator2 @unmistakablyunknown @birdy-bat-writes @thedroneranger @kmc1989

tagging those who may be interested: @becks-things @rhettabbotts @hangmanapologist @lewmagoo @peachystenbrough @thecowboyfiles @auroralightsthesky @beautifulandvoid

[rosemaryhoney27]

Danny’s (Un)Deadly Detour

Danny Fenton should have known better.

Gotham was not a pit stop for casual road trips. It was the kind of city that screamed “keep driving,” especially for someone with Fenton Luck™. But he’d needed gas, a snack, and maybe a picture of Wayne Tower for Jazz. What he hadn’t needed? To get kidnapped by a clown on bath salts.

But here he was. Tied to a rickety metal chair in the middle of an abandoned amusement park, with cameras pointed at him from every angle. And the Joker—the actual Joker—was monologuing.

Again.

“…and this, my sweet little roaches of Gotham, is what happens when you wander into my city without a sense of humor!” the Joker cackled, his voice sharp and jittery as he zoomed in on Danny’s blank, deadpan face. “Let’s see what the Bat thinks of this fresh-faced nobody!”

Danny sighed. Loudly. “You know, if you’re gonna monologue, can I at least get popcorn? By the way the name is Danny.”

“Rude!” the Joker snapped, flinging a pie at him. Danny let it hit. Custard wasn’t the weirdest thing he’d dealt with today.

But the worst was yet to come.

Joker danced over to a second chair—this one wheeled in by a henchman—and with dramatic flair, yanked the bag off the second hostage.

It was Robin.

Not Nightwing, not Red Hood—nope, the angriest of them all. The one with the sword that had to be taught not to kill.

Robin’s sword was gone, but the glare on his face could cut through steel. “You will regret this,” he snarled.

“Ohohoho!” Joker shrieked with glee. “Isn’t this just delicious! A no-name civilian and Gotham’s pint-sized prodigy! Let’s spice things up, shall we?”

He pulled a lever, and both chairs were suddenly suspended above a vat of glowing green chemicals.

Danny blinked. “You have to be kidding me. That’s actual toxic goo? Like, cliché supervillain-grade?”

“It’s authentic!” Joker sang. “You’re welcome!”

A signal light flashed. Batman was watching the stream.

“Here’s the game, Batsy,” Joker said to the camera, eyes manic. “You choose! Robin, your precious brat—or the poor, sweet innocent who made the mistake of existing in Gotham. Pick one to save. Or I drop them both.”

Robin scowled but said nothing. Batman’s voice came through a speaker—low, angry, calculating. He was trying to buy time. “Let them both go, Joker. This won’t end well for you.”

“Oh, I know, Bats,” Joker giggled. “That’s what makes it fun!”

Danny, meanwhile, had had enough. He rolled his shoulders slightly. The ropes weren’t great—they were tight, but not ghost-proof. And he really didn’t want to risk Robin getting hurt.

Danny exhaled. “Welp. Time to Fenton this up.”

Before anyone could stop him, he broke free of his restraints with a loud snap, flipped forward—and let himself fall into the vat of chemicals.

“DANNY!” Robin shouted, jerking in his bonds.

Even the Joker stared in stunned silence. “Did… did he just—did he really—?”

Batman’s voice cut in, alarmed. “No!”

The vat bubbled.

The camera zoomed in.

The feed went black.

Joker didn’t have long to process the shock. A cold wind whooshed through the funhouse, flickering lights and rattling metal. The shadows stretched too long, too thin.

“Wha—what is this?!” he hissed, looking around. “Where’s my laugh track?!”

Then, behind him: a voice.

“I died,” it said, whispery and echoing, “because of you.”

The Joker spun—and froze.

Floating in midair, eyes glowing toxic green, was a white-haired, fanged apparition. Phantom. Danny. And he looked pissed.

“You killed me,” Danny intoned, letting the lights flicker with every word. “You wanted a show. I hope you enjoyed it.”

Joker stumbled backward, babbling nonsense. “N-no—this isn’t—there’s no such thing as ghosts—!”

Danny opened his mouth and let out a low, haunting wail—enough to shake the floorboards and rattle the Joker’s bones.

The clown's eyes rolled up into his head, and with a pitiful whimper, he collapsed in a heap.

…and soiled himself.

Five minutes later, Batman burst in through the skylight. Robin was already free, sword in hand, glaring down at the unconscious Joker.

“What happened?” Batman demanded.

Robin looked up. “He jumped in. Broke the feed. Then came back as a ghost and scared Joker into unconsciousness.”

Danny floated down behind them and shrugged. “It was either that or listen to another twenty minutes of his monologue. No offense, but your rogue gallery sucks.”

Batman stared at him.

“…You’re a ghost.”

Danny gave a lazy salute. “Half ghost, technically. Long story. Want some popcorn?”

Robin, for the record, was still annoyed. “You could have warned me before pretending to die in front of me!”

Danny grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Moral of the story: Never road trip through Gotham. Especially not with Fenton luck.

[spearofheaven]

⋆˚࿔ BEHIND CLOSED DOORS — office worker! nanami kento

SUM. when your husband’s secretary acts just a little too friendly around him

CONTAINS. 18+ content, MDNI. 1.1k+ words. x fem reader. semi-public sex. exhibitionism. cunnilingus. fingering. use of pet names.

"you need an appointment to see mr. nanami."

the receptionist spoke in a bored tone, barely looking up from her computer to give you a once-over. all the while she rolled her eyes and obnoxiously smacked her gum, like you were the one wasting her time.

but before you even had the chance to answer, the office door creaked open. "and i thought i mentioned that she could come in without needing one," nanami spoke up, appearing beside her desk.

the receptionist straightened up and busied herself with 'stacking' a couple papers on her desk. fluttering her lashes when she did look up at him, leaning forward just the slightest bit. "sorry, sir. you've just been soo busy and you did mention you didn't want anyone to bother you."

you honestly couldn't blame her, though. not when your husband had walked out of his office without his suit jacket on—the sleeves of his blue button down pushed up and showing off his watch. and well, the most important thing, his wedding ring. which she was blatantly trying to disregard.

"i'm aware. but you should know that doesn't apply to my wife, she's welcome to enter whenever she pleases," you could practically see her jaw clench as soon as he called you his wife, "please don't have me repeat myself. again."

"yes, sir. it won't happen again."

what she'd promised last time.

you stepped foot into the office, ceiling to floor windows decorating the space behind his desk. your heels clacked against the pristine floors, walking over to one of the wooden chairs.

"i brought you some lunch. saw that you forgot your bento at home and i wasn't sure if you brought any money to buy lunch," you spoke up, giving him a soft smile as you offered him the bento.

"thank you," he took the bento from you, setting aside, "but i think i'd like to have something different for lunch," kento cleared the space in front of him, patting on the wooden desk. a silent invitation. the skirt you had on rose up when you took a seat. the perfect offering if you'd ask nanami.

calloused hands ran down your legs, gently spreading them open. taking his time despite the thirty minute time constraint. "i'm sorry about her, by the way," nanami spoke up in a whisper, his lips pressing against your calf. "i don't know how much more obvious i need to be about being happily married."

his lips were reverent as he kissed up your leg, one of his hands holding the other in place. "like i'd ever want anyone but you, my love," he murmured, more so to himself, gently nibbling on your inner thigh. where only he'd be able to see them after. your legs spread apart almost instinctively, giving nanami the perfect view of the lace panties he adored so much.

and as much as he loved seeing you in them, the sight of you without them was much better. kento hooked one finger around the waistband, slowly removing them. sliding them inch by inch down your legs. "you didn't think we should hurry up, mr. nanami?" you questioned teasingly, pushing his hair back to take a look at his face.

"and why would we do that, mrs. nanami? i want to enjoy our time here," he pulled the underwear off, letting it fall to the floor. "well, you know you're sooo busy," you drawled, twirling a hair strand in between your fingers. he let out a small scoff, gently nipping at your leg in retaliation.

"never busy enough for you, you know that," kento’s voice came out muffled, licking a stripe up your cunt. he swirled his tongue around your clit before moving down, running the tip of his tongue down your folds. "never?" you mused, looking down at nanami. he wasn't paying that much attention to you anymore—rather, just your pussy.

"never," he muttered offhandedly, pushing a finger inside of you. your heels dug into his shoulder blades, your back arched when kento curled his fingers to hit your g-spot. and while it'd hurt at first—it was a pain that nanami was more than welcome to receive if it meant getting to lose himself in you.

your nails—paid for by yours truly—tugged on his hair, pulling him closer to your dripping cunt. kento clicked his tongue, looking up at you, "come on, use your words. tell me what you want and i'll give it to you."

"more, please," you responded almost immediately, your grip on his hair loosening up. just a bit. he replaced his tongue with two fingers, slowly getting past that initial resistance before pushing them in and out of you.

even with his glasses fogging up with every heavy breath that he took and your slick covering his mouth and chin, nanami continued to push his fingers inside of you. coaxing out all the pretty little noises you were making. "you can be a little louder, no? just a little bit, sweetheart," nanami curled his fingers, drawing out a whine from your lips.

you dripped onto his digits with each thrust, the golden wedding band on his finger glistening against the office lights. "k-ken, don't stop," your nails dug deeper into his hair, messing up the time he took fixing it this morning. you weren't even sure what was louder anymore—the squelching in between your legs or your moans.

your thighs clamped tightly around his head, holding him in place. "open them, darling. you can take it, you even asked me for more," kento felt the way your legs trembled—the way you were almost hesitant to open your legs again. you were close. "too much, too much," your moan had come out louder this time—loud enough to bleed through the walls.

not that it mattered.

you felt that familiar pressure build up in your lower tummy, your legs threatening to close again all the while your toes curled against the leather heels. too much, you'd said, and you still found yourself needing even more. "cum for me sweetheart, you can take it. take what's yours," his words served as a final push, your orgasm washing over you like a wave.

nanami pulled his dripping fingers out from your cunt and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping them off. effortlessly, he wiped away the spit and slick dribbling down his chin before carelessly tossing the handkerchief to the side. like it was nothing more than just a bother.

your chest heaved as you leaned back against the desk, watching your husband stand up from his spot. a wet patch adorned the front of his khaki pants, his cock practically twitching against the confines of his boxers. "i think i'll just skip ahead to the main course."

needless to say, you didn't have any more trouble coming into nanami's office after that <3

[mooningningg]

can I request toji, sukuna and nanami's reaction with a reader who disappears when they have a really bad fight? not because something bad happened to reader but because reader it's scared of them after that fight and runs away

ahh sorry if this is too specific :,³

ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴇꜰᴛ

...In which you disappear after a really bad fight without them knowing.

Toji, Sukuna, and Nanami.

Genre, angst. Notes, MORE REQUESTS!!! part ii is here.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

The fight started with something stupid — maybe about Megumi, maybe something deeper. You snapped. He snapped harder. His voice had thunder in it. And even if his anger wasn't at you directly… it still felt like a storm breaking open.

“If you didn’t like how I handled shit, you should’ve said something earlier,” he growled, pacing like a caged dog. “You're not the only one with pressure, y'know. The world doesn’t revolve around your feelings.”

You flinched when he slammed a drawer. That was the last thing he saw before going to bed.

When he woke, the blanket on your side was cold. The keys were gone.

“Y/N?” he called out, sitting up. “Babe?”

Nothing.

He stood in the center of the room, suddenly hollow.

Then he was moving.

Pacing. Rummaging for his phone. Calling — once, twice, three times.

“Pick up. Baby, just fucking pick up.” “You left? Just like that?” “...Shit.”

Toji didn’t even throw a shirt on. He grabbed his keys, slammed the door, and tore through the streets like a man chasing his own shadow.

Your favorite café. The bridge you liked. The park bench where he first kissed you. All empty.

He calls again. This time his voice cracks.

“I didn’t mean it. I didn’t fucking mean it. Just… come back. I swear I’ll be better.”

“Please.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

The fight wasn’t loud — it was violent in tone. Cold. Sharp. He didn’t yell. He bit.

“If you’re so fucking tired of me, maybe you should’ve left earlier.”

“I’m not your goddamn emotional support dog, Y/N. Grow the fuck up.”

You had never heard him say something like that.

You hadn’t realized how small he could make you feel with a few well-placed words.

So you left while he was in the shower, hands shaking as you packed.

When Sukuna stepped out and called your name — no answer.

His voice echoed through the apartment. Empty.

He grabbed his phone off the table and checked the hallway. Your shoes were gone.

“Tch. You’ve gotta be kidding me.” He dialed. No answer.

“Don’t play games with me, Y/N.” Click.

“You really left over that?” Click.

Then he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing.

He called again. This time, his voice was… low. Rough. Real.

“Look… I know I’m shit with words, alright?”

“But you got no idea what it’s like… waking up and not feeling you next to me.”

"...Please, baby. Come home.”

The next voicemail was only breathing. Then a whisper.

“I’ll wait right here. Just... come back.”

KENTO NANAMI

It wasn’t even supposed to be a fight.

He was exhausted. Quiet. You wanted closeness. His wall was up.

“I just need time to breathe, Y/N.” “You don’t always have to fix things. Let me be.”

And you said: “Do you even want me here?”

He didn’t answer. Just closed the door to his study behind him.

When he emerged later to apologize — you weren’t there.

No note. No jacket. Just your mug sitting in the sink and your absence like a sharp edge in the air.

He checked the bedroom. The kitchen. The street.

He stood in the living room, blazer still half-on, staring at the place you used to sit.

His first instinct wasn’t anger. It was dread. Deep and creeping.

“You’re afraid of me,” he whispered aloud. That thought shattered something inside him.

He didn’t call. He didn’t text.

Instead, he wrote a message. Simple. Honest. No punctuation — a rare thing for him.

i’m sorry for the way i spoke i didn’t mean to push you away i understand if you need space but please tell me you’re safe i love you

Then he sat on the couch, suit still on, untouched tea cooling beside him — and waited.

[jinwoosungs]

06/21/25; 12:22am

{ 18+ drabbles / headcanons }

[ they make you ride their thighs ]

featuring: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel, caleb

[ minors don’t interact; by choosing to interact with this content, you have consented to viewing something n-fw despite the warnings. ]

you were trapped against the bed, feeling sylus’s hot breath against your ear when he gently bites down on the shell of it. his large hands were already tracing at your sides, admiring every dip and curve before telling you, “i can smell you from here, sweetie…”

he trails off, already flattening his hand against your abdomen before trailing further down the expanse of your body, not stopping until he was practically cupping your drenched center. with a subtle flick of his fingertips, he manages to shred the flimsy material of your panties, freeing you from the damp fabric as he inserts a finger within your heat.

by now, you were left panting with need for him, nails gripping at the sheets below you as the onychinus leader worked on stretching out your walls. when he feels the way you clench oh so beautifully around him, he knew that he was a goner-

practically obsessed with the way you felt like silk against his calloused hands.

with a low groan of your name, he removes his fingers from your slick walls, licking them clean before picking you up. the movement was so sudden that you had to brace yourself on his broad shoulders. a smug expression was seen on your lover’s face the moment he brings you down on his thighs, clenching the muscles as you felt them create an almost hedonistic friction against you.

“ride me.” his command comes out as a low growl, already gripping at your waist as he set the perfect pace for you. your lips were parted as a series of soft mewls were heard as you tighten your hold on his shoulders while dragging your aching cunt across his thighs.

you felt as though you were slowly losing your mind, the sensation of your swollen clit rubbing against his muscled thigh causing your pleasure to reach even further heights as you cried out to him-

only to be torn away from your impending release the moment sylus removed you from his thigh. tears dot your vision at the sudden loss of him, yet when he places your writhing form back on the bed, his devilish expression doesn’t go unnoticed.

“sorry sweetie, but the only thing i’ll ever let you cum on is this cock.”

admittedly, you were being a tad bit whiny when it came to gaining zayne’s attention.

here he was, back at home where you desperately wanted him to be-

yet instead of spending time with you, he was cooped up in his office!

wishing to voice your disdain for how he was still working, you enter the room to see zayne pouring over some documents with his glasses on. he meets your gaze while giving you a kind smile.

“what is it, honey?”

“hmph, when you told me you were able to take some time off, i was really happy and excited! but now, seeing you doing work leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. why can’t you take a break and spend some time with me?”

zayne sighs, leaning back in his chair while patting at his lap. “i’m sorry, you’re absolutely right. why don’t you keep me company as i finish off a few things?”

all too eager to just be with him, you happily skip towards him, settling yourself on his lap as he returned his attention back to the paperwork at hand.

minutes were spent in silence, and admittedly, you were getting bored. adjusting yourself so that both of your legs were on either side of his lap, you heard zayne sharply inhale for a brief second (was he trembling as well?) before turning his attention back to the papers.

upon feeling his thighs grazing at your clothed center, a wicked grin was painted on your face when you braced yourself on his desk before dragging your hips forward. your sudden grinding on his thighs makes the akso surgeon drop the papers, your name coming out in a low hiss as you worked on riding him.

you had no idea such friction could feel so good, and with zayne clenching his muscles ever so slightly, you felt as though you were slowly losing your mind-

the paperwork already forgotten as he relished in the sensation of you using him for your own pleasure.

it starts out innocently enough, with you deciding to read together while sitting on your boyfriend’s lap. admittedly, when your friends recommended that you read a particularly spicy book, you didn’t think it would make you feel anything-

only to be proven wrong just a few chapters later.

the love interest described had blond hair and blue eyes, just like your xavier. and he was practically a god between the sheets, worshipping the main heroine with a fervor that made you clench your legs together.

and when their respective release occurred, you were unconsciously grinding your hips back and forth on xavier’s lap.

your sudden movements earns a grunt from him, yet he doesn’t say nor does anything to stop you. with his own book forgotten, the young hunter tosses the novel to the side, opting to help with your release when he grips at your hips with both of his hands.

you gasp when you felt xavier move you even faster against him, making your clothed center catch his knee each time he forces you to rut against him. with your own novel forgotten, you brace yourself on top of his legs, chasing your high as you kept grinding with a desperation above him.

yet it all came crashing down on you when xavier places a hand down your shorts and panties, giving your swollen bundle of nerves a pinch that sent you over the edge within seconds. spilling yourself onto his hand, you shiver when xavier pushes a finger within your pulsating heat, helping you ride out your release before whispering in your ear.

“think you can do the same thing for me, but this time on my cock?”

when rafayel asked if you could pose for a personal sketch, you saw no reason to deny him.

however, you weren’t expecting to be in this situation.

for starters, you were left utterly bare for him, your naked breasts heaving with every move you made. secondly, the lemurian had demanded that you use his thighs for your own pleasure-

and he meant every word of it.

as the artist was laid back comfortably against the bed with his sketchpad in hand, you were settled on his lap, dragging your naked sex over the silk material of his clothes. with each grind, you left a shiny sheen of your arousal against his pants, yet was unable to show even a modicum of decency when it all just felt too good for you.

“you’re such a gorgeous princess… my beloved who can do no wrong in my eyes.”

rafayel clenches his thighs while the sounds of charcoal scratching against the pages of his book becomes more prominent. the artist doesn’t tear his eyes away from you, taking in the expression of your teary eyes and how you kept biting down at your bottom lip.

“r-rafe, please…! it’s t’much for me…”

he gently coos at you, relishing in your soft whines of his name when he places his sketchbook off to the side along with the charcoal.

“you’ve been such a good girl for me as well, so i guess this calls for a reward.” rafayel tells you with a sweet smile, adjusting his pants so that his cock was freed before bringing your silken heat down on him.

and when you were finally impaled by his cock, you became an incoherent mess of moans as you rode him with a desperation.

“i’m gonna make you so damn wet f’me. gonna make you cum so much that you’ll forget your own name.”

caleb’s words serve as a promise to what was to come when he takes your bare body and settles you on top of his lap. spreading your legs so that you could straddle him, the colonel lays back against the couch while snapping his fingers.

“go on. get to work and show me just how much you want me.”

letting out a whimper, you brace yourself on his broad shoulders before grinding on him, allowing your juices to stain at his skin. he lets out a hiss upon feeling how wet you were, his cock already poking at your thighs each time you ground yourself against him.

“that’s it, babygirl. such a good girl f’me.” caleb’s praises were making the heat rush to your head, causing you to become even bolder when you end up stroking his cock with the underside of your cunt instead. this effectively causes his hisses to morph into a guttural groan of your name.

unable to take it much longer, caleb places both hands against your hips, keeping you still before thrusting his cock fully inside of you. both of you toss your heads back in response to such a hedonistic sensation, with caleb setting a brutal pace when he fucks himself into your heat over and over again. the red hot pleasure came to a boiling point, with your mind drunk on it all as you allow caleb to use you as his personal toy.

with a smirk, caleb places wet kisses down your throat, continuing to impale you with his cock while telling you,

“this is what you get for playing with fire, pips.”

end notes: i lowkey missed writing so much, so i set my status to a semi-hiatus instead 🥹 have this unedited thirst post in celebration ♡

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[slutzforbueckers]

I’m begging for like really really really sub paige riding readers face for the first time

DON’T SUFFOCATE

♡—pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

♡— warnings: smut

♡— synopsis: sub paige riding your face for the first time.

“baby—wait—” paige gasped as you gripped her hips and pulled her up your chest, her hands flew to the headboard for stability. she was supposed to be riding your face—like ten minutes ago—but she was too nervous she’d suffocate you or that she was too heavy, even though you’d reassured her that nothing would happen like fifty times.

your fingers pressed into her hips slightly and you rolled your eyes—not because you were annoyed but because you were offering to let her take what she wanted but she was too worried about you. typical paige.

“nothing is going to happen, p. i promise.” you muttered as you moved her up more. paige didn’t believe you—not one bit—but she still lifted her hips and moved to hover over your face. her knuckles went white from how hard she was gripping the headboard, trying her hardest not to let any of her weight fall on you.

“just let me taste you.” you ran your hands over her ass before turning your head and placing a soft kiss to her inner thigh. paige whimpered, she probably would’ve argued more but the ache between her legs was getting to be too much to ignore.

“okay okay, just don’t—don’t suffocate.” she said. you nodded your head with a slight smirk and she finally lowered herself down onto your face. the second your tongue made contact with her dripping cunt she let out a soft breath of relief, her eyes fluttering shut.

you could tell she was still hesitant to completely sit so you waited until she was starting to get lost in the pleasure before wrapping your arm around her and pulling her down all the way. paige’s hips jerked when you wrapped your lips around her clit and sucked, her hand flew down into your hair as she started grinding down without fully realizing it.

your tongue slid through her folds and you moaned at the taste of her, holding her a little tighter as you started to really get into it. the vibrations ran through her core and she moaned louder. paige’s cunt gushed on your tongue and her head tipped back—lips parting with moans she couldn't hold back, brows pulling together, body buzzing.

her thighs trembled on either side of your head and a high, breathless gasp escaped her lips when you flattened your tongue and dragged it through her soaked folds. “fuck—” she whimpered, her body starting to hunch over as her hips rutted faster. “so good—feels so good, mommy.”

the name slipped from her lips before she could stop them but she felt too good to really care. you groaned against her and slapped her ass, the name making your stomach tighten.

“say it again.” you murmured against her pussy, licking a slow, wet stripe up to her clit before wrapping your lips around it and sucking hard. paige whined and her hips started to fall out of rhythm, her stomach tensing.

“don’t stop, mommy, please—dont stop,” she cried out, her voice filled with need and desperation. her whole body was trembling now, thighs threatening to close around your head but you spread them open again.

paige was still gripping the headboard with one head and the other was still buried in your hair, tugging with your tongue moved in just the right way—her breath came out in short, high-pitched whines.

“mhm—just like that,” she choked out, mind set only on the wet sounds your mouth made and that orgasm coming at her full speed. “m’so close—fuck fuck—”

you moaned into her pussy, the vibrations making her hips jolt. she was a mess above you, sweat clinging to skin, mouth open in broken moans. you sucked her clit agin and a sob tumbled from her throat as she came hard—thighs quivering around your head, your name falling from her lips like a prayer.

you held her through it, arms wrapping around her waist as she trembled and whimpered, her hips slowly coming to a stop. she rested her forehead against the headboard, panting in efforts of trying to catch her breath. paige slid down your body and slumped down fully onto your chest, arms and legs giving out. you slid your hands over her ass and up to her waist.

after she caught her breath she lifted her head from the crook of your neck and brushed her lips against yours, not caring about the way your mouth and chin was covered in her slick. paige let her breath mingle with yours for a second before gently pressing her lips against yours.

she kissed you slow and let all her feelings pour out, paige let out a soft breath as she pulled away. after sex kisses were always her favorite—she loved the way she could taste herself o your tongue, the way it lingered on her lips even after she pulled away.

still, you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t ruin the moment with a joke.

“so, mommy, huh?” you teased with a smirk.

“oh, shut up.”

[sooniebby]

ఌ 𝐋𝐎𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐊

w.c › 7.4k

warnings › bottom male reader.

plot › A loanshark is terrorizing your community, so you try “scaring” him off. He thinks you’re a dumb fool who will make the perfect plaything after his last toy… unfortunately broke beyond repair.

kinks › manhandling, degradation, semi-pet play, dacryphilia

words to know › P/Phi (พี่) — title used for someone older, can also be a sibling. Nong (น้อง) — title used for someone younger, also for siblings. Khun (คุณ) — Mr/Ms/You. Hia (เฮีย) — “an older brother”, used mostly for an older male with Chinese ancestry. Sawatdee khrap/kha (สวัสดีครับ/สวัสดีค่ะ) — “hello”, khrap ending is for men, kha ending is for women.

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

「จะทำทุกๆอย่าง จะทำทุกๆทาง」

“Where’s the rest of the money, you little bitch?”

“What, are you waiting for that savior of yours?”

「ให้เธอได้รู้สึกอบอุ่นหัวใจไปกับฉัน」

“How deep should I cut, Boss?”

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Everyone’s eyes focused on the man sitting on the makeshift bed in the apartment. Every item of any significant value trashed or pocketed in their pockets.

A pained gasp left the withering body in the middle of the room, his eye swelling black. Despite himself, his one good eye stared defiantly at the man sitting in the center of the room. Portraying a last ditch effort of strength.

The boss slowly rose up. Eyes followed him as his loafers stepped across broken class. The crunch filling the room as he stared down at his victim.

「แต่เราเพึ่งรู้จัก แค่มองด้วยสายตา」

He slowly reached into his pocket, pulling out a short blade. It shined underneath the blinking light from the ceiling. His gaze watched as the victim began to struggle against the lackey’s grip.

“Stop struggling. You’ll only make me enjoy this more,” the lackey whispered in the victim’s ears.

The victim could only watch as the boss handed over the short blade.

“Leave a mark.” Was all the boss said. He walked out to the open door. A group of residents stood nearby—the crowd quickly cowering at the sight of him. His head was held high as they bowed theirs, not even daring to catch a glimpse into his eyes.

A sharp piercing scream filled the apartment complex located in the slums of Chiang Mai, Thailand.

And the residents could only offer a prayer to his screams.

「มันทำให้ฉันนั้นรู้คีว่า จะเป็นเช่นไร」

A round of applause set off just as you finished your song. A wide grin spread on your lips. The applause was the best part of being a singer. To hear the appreciation for your artwork. You slide your guitar to rest on your back as you got off your stool.

“Thank you, Thank you. The last song was Everything by Scrubb. Enjoy the rest of your night everyone!”

You immediately got off stage and went to the bar’s owner. She was speaking to one of her employees before catching sight of you. A wide grin appeared on her lips as she began to shoo away the bartender to handle some customers.

“Nong~!” She cheered, engulfing you into a hug as soon as you were near. You eagerly returned the hug, giggling when she pressed a kiss on your cheeks—red lipstick now staining it. “You were great, as always. Let me get your pay for this week.”

“Thank you, P’Janine.” You bowed your head slightly, pressing your hands together. Janine handed over some money that she pulled out of her bra. You blinked but took the money away—used to her quirks by now.

Janine offered you a wide grin and only nodded, “of course, of course. Oh? Nong, I’ve heard you’ve been working extra shifts.” She said, a sudden seriousness to her expression. “You haven’t…” her voice trailed off, letting you connect the dots.

The people here were even scared to utter her name, as if she would appear behind them.

You frowned, “Phi” you said with an exasperated sigh, “why would I be dumb enough to borrow from her? I’m fine, I don’t need anything.”

“Is it for Plawan then? He hasn’t come visited me in a while, is he bored of me?” She whined, obviously trying to left the mood.

“Yea. Wan… His dad,” you shook your head. “He wouldn’t want me to blabber about his business.” You muttered.

Janine nodded. “Of course. Tell him to visit me soon. I always have a spot open for him to work here. I’ll pay him double!”

You grinned and nodded, “Okay, I’ll tell him. I better go now, it’s getting late.”

“Right, right. Go! Make sure to eat dinner! Stop skipping your meals!” Janine yelled just as you left the bar.

Your feet barely touched the ground as you sprinted over to your moped, immediately mounting it with ease. You hastily fastened your helmet and rolled the handles, blasting off to return home.

You made a sharp left and slide into your usual parking spot, killing the engine. There was a sinking feeling in your stomach.

And unfortunately, it was never wrong.

“Wan,” you called out before you even reached the fourth floor, frowning at the sight of his apartment door wide open. Inside, everything was trashed. Valuables all gone. You stepped inside, pausing when glass crunched underneath your sneakers.

“Plawan! Where are you?” You rushed to the only room of the apartment, pushing the door open to see it empty. “Wan..? Plawan?!”

“P’(Name)!”

A hushed voice suddenly called out. You walked out of the bedroom to see Star, a little girl that lived next door to Plawan. She was dressed in her elementary uniform still. Her hair messy from the neat pigtails you saw her with this morning.

“Star,” you sighed in relief, rushing over to her.

Star shushed you, motioning for you to lower your voice. “Come, P’Wan is with my mommy.” She grabbed your hand and began leading you to the apartment right next door. The apartment was bare with only old and fraying furniture.

Star’s drawings were plastered all over the walls, the one thing that breathed life into the decaying room. “Mommy!” Star called out, pulling you to the bedroom.

She pushed open the door and your sight was immediately set on Plawan lying down on the bed. He was badly beaten, a bandaged over his eye. Star’s mother, Pearl, glanced back at you with a glare, her body covering Plawan as if she was protecting him until she noticed it was just you.

“(Name),” she sighed, pulling away. Her hands were covered in blood, her blue nurse scrub darkened in certain areas. “I was able to stop the bleeding but he should visit a real hospital in case of internal bleeding. I heard from the neighbors that they were beating him for at least an hour.”

You frowned, pulling off your guitar as you placed it against the wall. Pearl moved away—giving you space.

“I would’ve left him in his room but… they broke the locks. I didn’t want him to stay in there.” She said, giving you a comforting smile. You tried your best to return it.

“I’ll take him to my room tomorrow.”

She nodded and walked away, guiding Star with her. As the door closed, you couldn’t help but sigh once more. Of course those loan sharks wouldn’t honor the deal they made. They were supposed to come tomorrow morning—not tonight.

“Hia…”

You gazed down at Plawan, sighing in relief to see him staring up at you. “Wan, are you okay? I didn’t think they’d come tonight, if I’d—”

“It’s okay.” Plawan muttered, his voice hoarse. “It’s not your fault. They’re loan sharks.”

“Yea.” You let out a bitter laugh. “True. What did they do? What did they take?”

“Everything. I was only able to keep my phone… so they can keep contacting me.” Plawan sighed. “They even took our photos, what are they gonna do with that?”

“Anything to torture you…”

“Hm.” He sighed, closing his eyes. “He came this time. Told them to mark me.”

“He?”

“The boss.”

You frowned. “He came? Your debt is hardly anything extravagant, you’re always on time.”

Plawan attempted to shrug only for him to curse, “ow… I don’t know, it felt like… it was to show the others just how scary he is. He hasn’t visited our complex in two years.”

“Wait, he told them to mark you?”

“Mhm. It’s on my chest.” He whispered, looking away from your stare.

Your eyes flickered to the bandage on the left side of his chest. All you could really do was just stare and possibly hope he would heal without a scar.

“And…” Plawan suddenly added, catching your attention.

“And?”

“My face. He… he ruined half of my face.”

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

1 year later

“Wan, what should we do with the ashes?” You asked, staring at the urn resting on the ground in front of you.

Plawan signed, pushing back his bangs. His left side of his face that had a jagged line running from his hairline down to his chin had finally healed after a full year. He frowned at the urn of his deceased father and glanced back over at you.

“Shouldn’t I just flush it down the toilet?”

“Hm, wouldn’t that clog the toilet? That thing can hardly handle your poop. You’re gonna give it a bigger shit to handle?” You joked, grinning at the slight laugh you earned from Plawan.

It was rare from him these days.

“Maybeeee,” you hummed, closing your eyes as you thought long and hard. “You can pour it over some of the loan sharks?”

Plawan frowned. “You can do that. I don’t talk to those bastards unless I have no choice.”

“Hm. I’ll do it for you, in honor of your dad being on his knees for those suits since he was a drunk.” You nodded, already having a plan of when to do it.

It wasn’t a shock that Plawan had developed a phobia over loan sharks. He practically froze up whenever they walked into the complex. Everyone living at the complex in someway owed debt to the same woman. After the incident a year ago, the big ‘boss’ that left a mark on Plawan hadn’t come back.

You wondered why he even came. The lackeys were already terrifying to most of the residents. It got to a point where they even flinched at the sight of any man in a suit. Plawan now being one of those unfortunate people.

He couldn’t even wear a suit for his father’s funeral. Though it wasn’t like the bastard deserved it. After his death, he managed to rack up a debt of 1,299,700 baht, an added 120,000 balance.

Just to think you and Plawan were almost out of those scumbags clutches. If only his father didn’t make his debt default to Plawan.

Plawan yawned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I think I’m going to go to bed, Hia. I’m tired.”

“Course. Want me to stay the night or go to my room?”

“You can go. I wanna be alone.”

You hummed, comfortingly patting his shoulder. As you got up, you grabbed the urn from the floor and walked out, closing the door behind you. The urn was heavy in your arm as you walked downstairs to the third floor.

Your free hand reached into your back pocket, fishing for your keys when a yell caught your attention. You looked behind yourself only to get slammed into as a man pushed past you. The urn’s lid popped open and fell to the ground, remains beginning to coat the concrete.

“Khun!” You called after the man, snarling. “Watch where you’re going!”

“Move!”

A deep voice yelled. You were harshly pushed onto the ground as three loan sharks chased after the man. The urn shattered beneath you, the shards cutting into your skin. You hissed at the pain and immediately pulled away, blood and human remains now coating you.

“Seriously…” you whispered to yourself, dusting off the ashes. Your left hand’s palm was cut open, dripping blood onto the ground. You quickly tried to wipe the ashes off the hand so the wound wouldn’t get infected. “Those suits.. no respect.. should’ve thrown this stupid asshole at them.”

As you continued cursing out Plawan’s father’s ashes, footsteps echoed behind you. You glanced behind yourself to see a man dressed in a white button up and black slacks. Another man stood behind him, dressed oddly casual in comparison.

The casual man, dressed in a black wife beater and jean pants, stared you down, “who are you?” He asked, his eyes narrowing at you suspiciously. “Did you just move in?”

You glared at the man, shocked at his audacity to use casual speech in reference to you, “Hey, it’s ‘Khun’ not ‘mung.’ Why should I tell you anyway? You’re not the landlord.”

“What did you just say?” The man growled, looking ready to cross over to you when the other man held his hand up. Like a dog, the man stopped in his tracks.

“Huh? Are you his mutt?” You couldn’t help but whisper, moving to stand up.

“Hope,” the other man said, ignoring what you said, “make sure they catch him.”

“But—” Hope muttered, his glare focused solely on you. He didn’t want to let you disrespect him without any consequences.

“It wasn’t a suggestion.”

That shut Hope up immediately. He slightly bowed his head and immediately walked away, leaving you with the other man. You raised an eyebrow—wondering if it would be smart to even talk to this man after seeing how easily he commanded another.

You glanced down at the mess around you, sighing. The cut in your hand burned. You had the ashes of a deadbeat coating your clothing, you were pretty sure you could even taste a bit of it.

“You’re not in debt.” The man suddenly said, catching your attention.

“Huh?” You whispered, glancing up at him.

“I know everyone who lives in this complex. You’re not in debt, so why do you live here?”

“Oh. You’re a loan shark.” You rolled your eyes, no longer interested in figuring the guy out. “No, I’m not in debt. So you don’t scare me. Just go focus on getting your money.”

“I don’t scare you?” He asked, tilting his head slightly. You got a good look at him and was almost disappointed. A good looking guy being a loan shark, a shame. His black hair looked silky smooth, probably soft to the touch. A strong nose and almond eyes that were naturally scrutinizing you without even moving.

It was as if his neutral face was scary, no, scary felt juvenile to describe his neutral face. It was unsettling.

As if he couldn’t emote.

The thought of him smiling sent shivers down your spine.

You stepped back. Sure, he had no reason to do anything to you. But loan sharks weren’t exactly known for being law abiding citizens. And this one didn’t seem like a lackey at all. He seemed to be someone of higher status. Only an idiot would mess with someone like that.

“As you can see,” you whispered, waving at your soiled clothing. “I need to get cleaned up. Excuse me.”

His eyes flickered down to your clothing. They slowly trailed up your entire body to your face, staring at you as if he was taking you in. You felt like a mouse, staring at a cat was its tail slowly began to sway, their pupils dilating.

If you stayed here any longer, you were sure you would be eaten alive.

You quickly turned around and tried to keep a brisk pace while walking away.

“You’re staying here for someone.”

Your body froze.

“Plawan Nakhun Laedeke.”

It felt as if time was frozen. He knew Plawan’s full name.

“His father recently died. The service was today, if my memory serves me well. Shame the ashes met a fate on the dirty ground.”

You glanced back at the man, fighting the urge to punch him right in the face. “What? Are you threatening me?” You walked right back over to him, your fists clutching on your sides.

He didn’t flinch even as you got close to him, his hands still resting in his pockets. “Move out. Only residents in debt to Khun Lily stay here.”

“No.” You answered without a second thought. “I’d be a fool to leave Plawan with someone like you and your mutts.”

“You may think staying close helps, but you weren’t able to him save a year ago, were you?”

You blinked, staring up at the man in shock. The dots connected immediately as you subconsciously stepped back. It was him. The boss that ordered Plawan’s humiliation. Anger bubbled up inside you—your past fear all gone at the thought of finally getting revenge for Plawan.

“No. I’m not leaving, I’m staying right here. You’ll have to drive me out,” you said, glaring at the monster in front of you. With a shaky hand, your voice threatening to crack, you pressed your bloody hand right on his crisp white shirt.

His eyes immediately glanced down at your hand. You took a deep breath, leaning in closer as you dragged your hand down his chest. Blood coated the shirt, soiling it with blood and ashes.

“I’m not one to back down.” You whispered, pulling your hand away. “Try to learn more about me, try to make me scared of you, none of it’ll work. I’ll stay by Plawan’s side until the day I die.”

You quickly took a large step backwards, eyes wide as you tried thinking about what you just did. What you just said. Needing to get away, you only shook your head and walked away—leaving the broken urn and ashes of a deadbeat on the floor.

“Saint,” Hope sighed, walking up the stairs. His face was twisted in anger as he wiped off blood that coated his cheek. “I managed to get him—not sure if he’s still alive though.”

Saint kept his gaze in your retreating back, taking note of which direction you went. He looked back at Hope and hummed. “So long as you got the money.”

“Mhm, of—woah, woah, what the hell happened to your shirt?” Hope blinked in shock, seeing the bloody hand print that was on Saint’s shirt.

“Hm,” Saint reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “My first gift from a new plaything. You’ll start collecting money from Plawan Nakhun Laedeke.”

“Huh, Plawan? I thought Drake was handling him.”

Saint only had to give Hope a look before the man quickly nodded. He hummed and began typing in his phone. “Don’t just collect the debt, get close to him. I need to know information about that friend he keeps around.”

Hope nodded. “Okay. What happened to your last one, bored already?”

A slight chuckle left Saint’s lips as he began walking downstairs, not waiting to see if Hope would follow. Everyone followed him.

“You could say that.”

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

Plawan sighed, staring at the bucket of ice in front of him. The sound of music was beginning to bother him. Why did P’Janine like playing English rock music on Sunday’s? She was a bit too eccentric for his liking. The loud instruments were begging to give him a headache.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose as he finally grabbed the scooper, shoveling some ice into the glass nearby him. The patrons were talking amongst themselves behind him—speaking louder so they could each other over the music.

“Here, call me if you want more.” Plawan said, giving a faint smile as he handed the drink over.

After another hour or so, the music finally wined down to some American R&B. Plawan sighed in relief. A few patrons began leaving—it being a Sunday night after all.

“See ya, Plawan!”

“Bye.” He nodded towards the door, not making effort to look over.

“Plawan,” Janine came over, a grin on her lips. “I think I might close a little early. There’s hardly anyone here. You can start cleaning up. If anyone walks in tell them we’re closing.”

“Okay.” He waved her off, just happy to make it home quick. His phone rang just as he began putting away the bottles. It was you. “Hello, Hia? Need something?”

“What do you want for dinner?” Your voice was cheery. “I’m stopping by this Chinese shop that recently opened up. It’s the real deal, I can make a traditional dinner that my mom taught me.”

Plawan hummed. “Okay. Anything is okay.”

“Hm, okay. What time are you getting home? Should I do my apartment or yours?”

“Let’s—”

“Scotch whisky.”

Plawan frowned, looking back to see a man near the bar. The man placed his empty glass on the hardwood as he stared at Plawan. Every bone in Plawan’s body immediately stiffened.

“Excuse me?” Plawan managed to mutter, staring at the man in confusion.

The man pointed at the bottle in Plawan’s hand, “before you put it away, pour me some.”

“What happened, Wan?”

Your voice suddenly cut through, gaining Plawan’s attention. He turned his back to the man and sighed slightly, calming his nerves.

“It’s okay, Hia (Name). I’m at work, I’m supposed to get off at 11 pm. It’s only a thirty minute walk back to the apartment. P’Janine should be in her office.” He breathed out.

You were silent for a second. “Okay. 11:30 pm. No later than that. Meet me at my apartment.”

Plawan hung up the call and stuffed his phone back into his pocket. He debated what he should say to the man but decided to just to satisfy him. With a shaky breath, he slowly turned back to face the stranger. His footsteps felt heavy as he walked over and poured a generous amount in the man’s glass.

“It’s quite dark in here.” The man suddenly said as Plawan kneeled down to put the bottle in the cabinet. “Does the owner like it dark? I can hardly see your face.”

“I..” Plawan coughed, standing up as he kept his gaze down, switching to polite speech. “I don’t think it’s necessary to see the bartender’s face. If that’s all, I’ll settle your tab. We’re closing early tonight.”

“I heard. But there’s no need to settle a tab. Just put it under Khun Lily’s checking.”

Plawan only nodded. The man was a loan shark. Only a loan shark would say that… but usually one of higher standing. Plawan began to busy himself, feeling the man watch his every move.

“It’s interesting. From what the others described you as, you aren’t like anything I imagined. Or really remember.” The man downed his drink, resting his glass on the hardwood with a particularly heavy force. Plawan flinched from the sound, his body freezing.

“What did they say, you would fight with us sometimes. You were often held back by that friend of yours. Did one little visit from my boss put you in your place?” He laughed as he pushed away the bar.

Plawan quickly moved to the other side of the bar, checking the stock, mentally taking note of which liquor that needed to be replenished. Foot steps behind him caught his attention as the overhead lights were suddenly turned on.

“Wha—?”

A hand grabbed his shoulder and roughly spun him around, slamming into the wall behind him. The bottles shook and clinked against each other. One slid right off its shelving and came tumbling down. It shattered on the ground, somehow able to drown out the music.

With the lights finally on, Plawan was able to get a good look at the man in front of him. Messy black hair with fox like eyes. He had a single earring in his right ear. Compared to the other loan sharks, he looked like a delinquent—different to the type of style she usually wanted her men to have.

Did being a higher up means you didn’t have to follow the uniform?

“He really did fuck you up.” The man laughed, staring at the scar on Plawan’s face. His hand slowly reached out to grab his chin. Plawan quickly looked away—shame and embarrassment pooling in his stomach.

Janine was nice enough to keep the lights low whenever he worked his shift. The patrons were smart enough to not question it. To think he’d be getting made fun of like a kid in high school by a loan shark.

The man scoffed, harshly gripping Plawan’s chin as he forced him to look at him. “Are you five? Do you plan on hiding in the dark for the rest of your life? What, feeling self pity for yourself?”

Plawan glared at the man but it hardly packed any punch. He was all out of anger by now. Because the man was right, Plawan did pity himself. Only someone like him would get stuck with a dead father who drowned him in debt over liquor and gambling.

“I want to see you.” The man suddenly said, his free hand coming to rest right near Plawan’s head. Plawan blinked as he tried to ask what the man was insinuating but he was shushed by the tight grip moving to his jaw. “It must’ve been, ages since I last saw you. You don’t remember me at all?”

Plawan frowned, reaching his free hand to press against the man’s chest. He tried to push him away with as much strength as possible but the man hardly budged.

The man let out a breathless sigh, his gaze felt as if he was drowning Plawan. He was staring at Plawan with a sort of fondness that he wasn’t used to. Maybe you would stare at him lovingly sometimes but it was family like.

This… This was filled with tenderness and a type of warmth Plawan didn’t think was possible for someone like him.

Plawan stiffened as the man’s hand slowly loosened its grip on his jaw, his thumb pressing against his lips. He pressed down on his bottom lip, parting them open. Plawan stared up at the man in shock—wondering what type of humiliation was this supposed to be.

“I want you, Plawan. Even with the burn marks on your arms.” He leaned down and captured Plawan’s lips into a searing kiss. Plawan’s hands tightened their grip on the man’s shirt as his eyes widen.

How’d he—?

The kiss was hungry, as if the man was kissing Plawan like he’d never get to ever again. Plawan reached up and tightly squeezed the man’s nose, gasping when his lips were finally free.

The man cursed, rubbing the tip of his nose as he slightly glared at Plawan. But it hardly felt scary—just a glare you’d give a loved one after they slightly pissed you off.

“Plawan—”

“P’Hope?” Plawan cut him off, knowing there was only two people in the world who knew about his burn marks.

You….

And his ex-boyfriend.

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

“Where is he?” You frowned, watching the clock on your phone. It was reaching 11:20 pm. It couldn’t really take thirty minutes to walk back home.

You were sitting at the small water fountain in the center of the complex. The complex used to be more luxurious until the original owner crossed paths with Lily. After that, it went downhill. At least that’s what people that have lived here for over thirty years attest.

You only moved here for Plawan. Your family wasn’t rich or even comfortable by any means. They just never got into debt by pure luck. You knew many people who unfortunately fell for loan sharks for medical debt, house loans, and other financial crisis.

To say your parents didn’t want you to move here was an understatement. But you’d do anything for Plawan. Your mom joked that he was practically your son, even if you were only two years older than him.

It was the least you could do for him, at least that’s how you thought about it.

You tapped away at your phone—debating if it’d be smart to call him again. Loan sharks wouldn’t usually follow you to work unless you leave them no choice. But they didn’t follow their own rules half of the time.

“Waiting for someone?”

An immediate frown pulled in your lips at that voice. You hadn’t seen him for over a month now—almost believing you imagined the whole situation.

“Why are you here?” You managed to whisper, still not able to look him in the eye. “Collecting late night debt?”

The man only hummed as he walked over to you, sitting down on the edge of the fountain. You immediately scooted over. He let out a humorless chuckle. Great, you certainly showed him that you didn’t fear him at all.

“(Name) Piniwat.”

“Scary, you know my name now. Should I search for yours now too?”

“Saint.”

You scoffed. “Your parents were funny giving you that name.”

“They were no saints themselves.”

You rolled your eyes and checked your phone again. “Where’s your lackeys?” The time read 11:28 pm.

“Why, did you want an audience?”

“Audience?” You finally looked over at Saint, seeing him look straight ahead as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He was calm as he lit it up with a lighter—leaving you to just stare at him in confusion.

Whatever goes on in that man’s head wasn’t something you wanted to really learn more about it. It must be like opening a Pandora’s box.

Seeing no point in entertaining him any longer, you moved to stand up only for his hand to grab the back of your collar. A gasp left your lips as you stared at him shock.

One minute you were staring at him—the next, you were underwater.

His left hand held your collar, the right gripped your neck. Your hand dropped your phone onto the ground as you immediately gripped at his arms and shoulders. They travelled frantically across his body.

You took a deep breath just as he brought you back up. Your chest heaved as you greedily took in as much air your lungs could bear. Saint stared down at you, his cigarette between his lips. Smoke blew from his nose as he let out a slight chuckle.

“You look good wet.” He said just as he dunked you back into the fountain.

Your legs flailed, sneakers scrapping against the concrete as you dug your nails into his arms. You tried to keep your lips closed to prevent yourself from drowning but it was easier said than done.

He pulled you out with just one hand, tightly grasping your t-shirt. His gaze was neutral as he watched you gasp for air.

“I’ll give you one more chance,” his voice didn’t waver as he kneeled down close, your nose bumping into his. “Leave or I’ll have my fun with you.”

You gritted your teeth, mustering your best glare. Your body was shivering now due to the cool air that swirled around you. “I’ll never abandon Plawan.”

Saint leaned away, pulling the cigarette away from his mouth. He blew out a puff a smoke and sighed. The cigarette fell to the floor as he stepped on it with his loafers.

“You’re already more fun than he was.” He said.

Water filled your lungs. This time his hand was pushing down at your neck, applying pressure. You couldn’t think straight and began panicking. Your body shook and flailed against his as you essentially fought for your life.

The thought of being murdered in a fountain that hadn’t been cleaned in years was an embarrassing thought.

But it was less than the fear of leaving Plawan alone with someone as sick and twisted as Saint.

Just as it felt like you were losing the fight, you were harshly pulled out. Your t-shirt had tore from the force of his strength. It was an old thing—no wonder it tore so easily. Your chest was fully free to the cool air as you coughed and heaved.

A hand cradled your head, holding it high just as you felt yourself being lifted up. You coughed, spitting out water and spit onto your chest. Your eyes struggled to stay open as footsteps filled your head.

You took another greedy gasp for air, resting your head against the solid wall you were pressed against. It felt warm. You could’ve sworn you were hearing a heartbeat. The rhythmic sound of a beating heart brought a sense of peace.

Your hand shakily pressed against the wall, your finger beginning to tap in harmony with the beating.

“Wan…” You whispered as your body officially lost the battle against the fatigue.

“High school sweethearts? Hm. If it works, it works. Whatever you do with Plawan is none of my concern—so long as you do your work. Do I have him? Mhm, I took him for a swim, he didn’t disappoint.”

Don’t be too harsh? If he breaks too early then it’ll be his fault. Did you get a copy of his key? No, I’m not at the complex. Why would I willingly stay there? Am I keeping him here?”

Can’t say. He’s currently listening in. If you’re waiting until I fall asleep—no need. The door can’t be unlocked without a key.”

Saint ended the phone call, watching as you quickly burrowed yourself underneath the comforter. He couldn’t help but smirk slightly. Were you stupid? Possibly.

He carelessly tossed his phone onto the nightstand beside him and got up from the chair. He had brought you back here after you fainted. His apartment. It wasn’t lavish by any means but it was decorated with furniture that only someone with money could afford.

The bed slowly dipped as Saint leaned onto the bed, hovering over you. He stared at you before pulling down the comforter, enjoying the surprised look on your face.

Your eyes were wide—body curled into yourself. But even then, he could tell that you had a growing anger in your eyes. Good, you would be fun.

“Did you collect any useful information?” Saint asked, sitting down on the bed. His hand slowly moving to brush your hair. “Unfortunately for you, your movement quickened at the mention of Plawan. He really is your weakness.”

You mustered a glare, moving to sit up. “Don’t touch me. It’s not a weakness to care about someone.”

Saint hummed, he moved his hand away. His eyes flickered to your neck. “It’s lightweight.”

“Huh?” You glanced down before touching your neck, noticing a collar was there. Your fingers tried to tug underneath it but it was as if it was stuck to your skin. “What—what the hell is this?”

“Don’t speak so loudly—it’s 3 am.” He reached over and pushed your hands away, looping his finger around a metallic item hanging off the collar. “Skin tight, you can hardly feel it. Does it scare you?”

“Take it off.”

“Hm. The padlock is small, to break it, you’d have to be careful to not accidentally cut yourself.” He continued, ignoring your words. “Though, if I find you with it off,” his voice lowered as his hand gripped your hair, pulling you in close harshly. “I’ll dispose of you.”

Saint released his grip on you, glancing back at his phone once it began to ring. You coughed slightly and rubbed the back of your head. He was insane—to think he actually collared you like a dog. You were his mutt, just like that Hope guy.

“Hm? He wants to talk?”

You flinched when he tapped your cheek, glancing over to see him hold up his phone. He lazily shook his phone when you didn’t make any attempt to grab it. Deciding to keep him as calm as possible—you grabbed the phone.

“Hia?”

“Plawan?!” You yelled, a wide grin immediately spreading on your lips. “Where are you? Are you okay? Did you make it home?”

“Mhm. I’m okay. I got home by midnight… you weren’t at the fountain.” Plawan sighed slightly. “I’m sorry. I dragged you into this mess—he has you, right?”

You glanced over at Saint, seeing him tilt his head at your gaze. He looked unfazed by your eyes. You quickly looked away. “It’s ok. I can handle myself. Who are you with? They aren’t bothering you, yea?”

“Plawan is the safest he can be right now. Hope wouldn’t hurt his little boyfriend,” Saint suddenly chimed in. “Oh, of course, unless I tell him to. Maybe then you should be worried.”

“You…” You glared at Saint, wanting nothing more to strangle him to death. “Little boyfriend? Did you sell Plawan into—” the thought made you sick to your stomach that you couldn’t even finish it.

“Hia! It’s not like that.” Plawan quickly placated you. “I know Khun Hope.”

“Khun Hope?” A voice said, startling Plawan. “I’m suddenly Khun Hope?”

You frowned. That voice sounded familiar. “That mutt guy?” You whispered, hearing Plawan say something to Hope that you couldn’t decipher.

“I’m ok, Hia (Name). There was a pearl on the ground that I came across earlier. Before I came home I saw a black bird and this guy selling pig meat so late at night, weird right?”

“Mhm.” Pearl, Nok, and Muu. You let out a slight sigh in relief. Those three would be able to watch that mutt for you. Until you found a way out at least. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow. Tell that mutt that if you have any new scars I’ll kill him.”

Plawan laughed slightly. “Okay. Do you want shrimp for dinner?”

Gung. “Yea. Make sure to buy it in the morning. It gets sold out quickly.”

You sighed just as the phone call ended. It hardly did anything to bring you any sense of relief but it was better than nothing.

Saint hummed beside you. “Tomorrow? You think you’ll be going home tomorrow?”

“Yes. Do I have to ask?”

“You enjoy acting like a brat,” Saint said, taking his phone from your hand. “Fine. You can go home tomorrow. It’s like aftercare.”

“Aftercare?” You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Just let me go to bed.” You moved to lay back down when Saint gripped your arm.

“I’m interested in you.”

You blinked, staring at Saint with a confused expression. “Wha, What do you mean interested?”

Saint gazed down at your arm, his grip loosening as he moved down to your wrist. He gripped your wrist and pulled it close to his face. His thumb pressing down onto the edge of your palm.

“I’m interested in seeing how you’ll react to pain. Interested in why you risked everything for one boy. The way the blood flows through your veins.”

“I’m not a science experiment.” You tried to pull your hand away but his grip only tightened.

“Mhm. More like a toy. I’ll enjoy you until you break.”

“Then you’ll be dealing with me until you get bored.”

Saint looked away from your wrist. He reached over and grasped your shirt. You flinched and wondered what he could be doing when he pulled the already tattered shirt further apart.

You tried pulling away again as he harshly pushed you onto the bed, moving to hover over you. His bangs almost tickled your forehead. His eyes stared down at you—he was silent as he seemingly took in your face.

“Even in submission,” he whispered, releasing your shirt, his hand resting on your collarbone. “You glare at me.” His hand slowly tightened its grip before shooting up, grasping your neck.

A choked gasp left you. He mad no effort to tighten his grip. His gaze simply watching your reaction.

“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of being scared.” You grunted out.

Saint hummed, releasing your hand as he reached into his pants pocket. “It’s good that you don’t. Then it wouldn’t be fun.” Your eyes narrowed at the moment just as he pulled out a switchblade.

Any feeling of defiance was long gone. Your eyes widen in terror as you began thrashing underneath him. Your hands pushing at his chest, your legs kicking and trying to help you use your lower body to toss him off.

The thought of the knife touching your skin terrified you to death. A slight wet whimper left your throat. You were awaiting the cool blade to touch your skin. Until you noticed he had stopped moving.

You slowly opened your eyes, having not realized they had closed. His hair tickled your nose as he stared down at you. The knife was no where to be found. His hand was empty. The only thing you received was a slight calculated smirk on his lips.

“Thought so.” He said, reaching up to wipe away your tears with his thumb. You hadn’t even noticed that you were crying. “You’re scared deep down.”

“What is wrong with you?” You managed to grit out, your voice shaky.

“Many things. Though if I told you,” he leaned down, his breath tickling your ear. “I’d have to kill you. I’m still Khun Lily’s mutt, that’s what you call us, right?”

You watched as he pulled away. A mutt? Saint didn’t say anything else, getting up and began to taking off his suit.

“What do you mean?”

“What I said.” Saint bluntly said, tossing his tie on the chair. “What, do you really think I call the shots here?” For the first time since you’ve seen him, his face actually contorted into a human expression. One eyebrow rose, eyes wider, a jester like grin on his lips.

He turned his back to you, slipping off his button up. Your eyes widen at the sight—scars, burn marks, and something that resembled a whip, coated his back. They were healed but a few looked recent.

“You’re my toy for a reason.” He said, turning over to face you after having his pajama shirt on. “I’m Khun Lily’s toy, it’s only fair I get to have my own to relieve some stress. I think I’m quite nicer than how she treats her own.”

Saint sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He began to unbuckle his pants. You couldn’t help but watch. There were the same marks littered all over his legs. The sight made you question the rest of his body.

Compared to the other loan sharks, Saint wore a button up that covered his neck. You didn’t get to see his arms as he changed—too focused on the shocking sight of his back. Was there scars all over him?

Just how dangerous was Khun Lily?

“I get it.” You said, watching Saint. “You’re already damaged goods so you just want to make others hurt just like you. What, do you don’t feel lonely, huh?”

Saint didn’t say anything, continuing on with his routine. He diligently put away the knives that were hidden in his pants, jacket, tie, socks, and shoes in a drawer. You were uncomfortable at the fact he could hide so many so easily.

You scowled at the lack of reaction. Just because you were technically under his thumb right now didn’t mean you couldn’t push back. You slipped out of the bed and walked over to where he was.

“I should’ve known that some loan sharks might’ve had their own debts. How much do you owe her? More than Plawan’s debt? Since you essentially sold your body to her.”

No reaction. You almost pouted.

Saint began folding his pants and shirt, placing them on the chair. You groaned in frustration and reached over, roughly pulling his shoulder. He looked back at you with a slightly raised eyebrow as you began pushing him back against the wall.

“I’m not the first person to say that, huh?” You asked, glaring up at him. “Others must call you a whore behind your back—”

“Is this your attempt at provoking me?”

“You know the answer.”

Saint hummed, crossing his arms across his chest. “I’ll give you this—no one has ever been brave enough to say that to my face.”

“I have more than just words.” You said. Your hand moved up to hold the back of his head as you pulled him into a kiss. Saint immediately uncrossed his arms and gripped your shoulders. Without much effort, he pushed you away.

You stared up at him in confusion. “What? Isn’t this what you wanted out of a toy? Sexual pleasure? Is it not fun if it’s not forced onto me?”

Saint glowered at you. “I don’t have sex with toys.” He harshly gripped your face, pushing you with just one hand. You gripped his hand as you glared at him, forced to move back towards the bed. “Sex is pointless. When I could gain satisfaction from seeing you plead for your life.”

Sex is pointless? You blinked, the cogs in your brain turning.

He’s a virgin.

“Was I your first kiss?” You muttered, fighting the urge to smirk if he wasn’t squeezing your face.

Saint scoffed, pushing you down on the bed. “Why, would that make you happy?”

You grunted at the force. His answer was all you really needed as you smirked up at him. You leaned further back on the bed, purposely spreading your legs to allow your shorts to ride up.

“More than happy.” You whispered, catching his gaze flickering down your thighs. But any slight of arousal you thought he would show was nowhere to be seen. He almost looked bored at the sight as he simply shook his head and walked off to the bathroom.

You had a plan to survive Saint and get him and the other loan sharks off Plawan’s back.

You’d get him to fall for you.

Or at the very least, get him obsessed with you.

Shouldn’t be hard enough… right?

lol. Plot twist? Don’t worry, he’s gonna get freaky later. Just wanted to do a little set up. If yall liked Plawan’s PoV, I’ll add a bit more next time, but I’ll make sure he doesn’t take over you. Ask to be tagged for part 2

ps. Nok, Muu, and Gung is the word for bird, pig, and shrimp in Thai. These can also be someone’s nickname. Pearl is already mentioned. But Plawan is basically hinting that Nok, Muu, and Pearl (residents at the complex) saw Plawan get home and know that Hope is with him, meaning they’ll keep an eye out. Him telling Gung is for part 2~

Tag list: @carnalcrows @chill-guy-but-cooler @the-ultimate-librarian @mello-life25 @kiiyoooo @ofclyde @smellwell @tomoeroi @castocipher @iwishtobeacrow @tehyunnie @remdayz @love-kha1 @rhetorical-conscience @star-3214 @mooncarvers-world @cherry-blossoms-187 @secretivemessenger @yuzuukix @bensontrechic @anchoredphoenix @ning1e @m00n-b4b3

[cbeargyu]

跡継ぎの妻 – the heir’s wife

summary: you marry a stranger in silk—his lips stained with blood and tradition. what starts as a marriage of convenience between a yakuza heir and a public figure spirals into something neither of you were prepared for: protection that tastes like devotion, duty twisted with longing, and kisses that come too late to be innocent. in a world where bullets speak louder than hearts, love might be the most dangerous vow of all.

pairing: yakuza heir!yuta x model fem!reader

genre: mafia/yakuza au, arranged marriage, slow burn, angst, romance, family legacy, redemption arc, forbidden desire, emotional healing, found family, power couple dynamic, smut-heavy, character-driven.

warnings: blood, gun use, mentions of injury, dom/sub dynamics, power play, mature themes, violence, blood, weapons, grief, guilt, trauma processing, complex power dynamics, yakuza activity, arranged marriage, emotional manipulation, emotional dependency, toxic loyalty, gender roles, tattoos/irezumi, canon-typical violence, knife imagery, psychological tension, mention of lingerie photos, political manipulation, clan dynamics, betrayal, male dominance themes (non-toxic), smut in later chapters.

wc: 12,1k

notes: hellooo!! i'm so excited because i seriously loved the idea for this fic and i spent two whole days writing it nonstop hahaha💀 i have to confess that the story had so much potential that i ended up preparing a second chapter and an epilogue🥹 also, i'm taking the chance to celebrate hitting 1k followers!!🥳🎉 i'll be posting them soon so stay tuned!! leave a comment if you want to be added to the taglist 👇 thank you all so, so much for your support, i seriously adore you 😭🫶🏻 thank you for loving and enjoying my fics, i put so much love into them for you and it makes me so happy to know that you like them 🩷🩷

part ii. epilogue

taglist: special dedication to this anon.

@beestvng @bamtor1sss

osaka, japan — summer, 1995.

the streets of osaka never slept. even at midnight, they pulsed with a quiet rhythm — the flicker of neon lights, the hum of motorcycles in alleyways, the unspoken codes exchanged between men in tailored suits with tattoos hidden beneath white shirts. it was a city built on layers of tradition and violence, elegance and blood.

at the heart of it all stood nakamoto yuta.

he wasn’t supposed to be the head of the kansai syndicate. not yet. at twenty-eight, he was too young, too bold, too unpredictable in the eyes of the elders. but when his uncle — the revered oyabun — was assassinated in a dispute gone wrong, the family needed a name to rally behind. yuta had the bloodline. the legacy. and the audacity to wear the crown before it was polished for him.

his rise had been swift and ruthless.

they called him "the camellia snake" — beautiful, dangerous, impossible to read. he smiled with his mouth, not with his eyes. where his uncle led with honor and hierarchy, yuta ruled with precision and power. under him, the organization evolved. businesses bloomed. territories expanded. and those who doubted him learned to fear him.

but fear didn’t keep the police away.

by march, a whisper reached his ear: one of his shell companies — a modeling agency, ironically — had been flagged for financial inconsistencies. anonymous money transfers. duplicate bank accounts. income without origin. nothing damning yet, but close. too close. if the audit moved forward, questions would come. and yuta, for all his brilliance, had no clean answers.

the police weren’t idiots. they’d been watching. too young, too rich, too many homes, too many cars, too many women. they knew. they just needed a crack in the mirror.

“get married,” takuya said.

his second-in-command. older, level-headed. loyal since the days they’d fought with knives in parking lots. “marry a girl with a clean record. a civilian. preferably someone local. someone easy to explain.”

yuta stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “you want me to lie to the japanese government?”

takuya lit a cigarette, eyes narrowing through the smoke. “you’ve lied to worse.”

“i can handle this,” yuta muttered. “negotiate. bribe. threaten. same as always.”

but takuya didn’t flinch. “not this time. they’re smarter. they want to bury you, yuta. not just investigate you. a wife changes the story. you become a man protecting a family, not a criminal building an empire.”

he hated how logical it sounded.

it wasn’t about love. it wasn’t even about appearances. it was about strategy — the illusion of normalcy. the illusion that nakamoto yuta, feared oyabun of the kansai underground, was just a young man in love with his wife, running a few successful businesses to keep food on the table.

he refused, at first. of course he did. he didn’t do relationships, let alone legal ones. but then came the call — a low-level member, breathless, talking about his cousin. “she’s perfect,” he said. “twenty-three. a model. new in the industry. she needs exposure. you need a wife. she’ll agree if you ask.”

yuta didn’t answer. not immediately.

but that night, alone in his penthouse, staring out at the osaka skyline, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

a marriage of convenience. temporary. strategic. two strangers helping each other survive.

he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious.

he’d be lying if he said the idea didn’t thrill him.

the studio smells like cigarettes and desperation masked with luxury perfume — the kind of place that pretends to be high fashion but rots from the inside. you’re standing in the middle of it, arms crossed over the thin silk robe they threw on you, jaw set like stone, fire smoldering in your eyes.

“i said no,” you bite, voice sharp enough to draw blood. “i’m not posing in fucking lingerie.”

people freeze. assistants pause mid-step, makeup artists exchange wary glances, and the photographer pretends to adjust his lens to avoid the tension thickening the air like fog. but they’re all waiting — for your manager to handle you.

hitoshi exhales the way someone does when they’re trying not to scream. “we already talked about this,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. “it’s just lace. it’s not porn.”

you arch an eyebrow, slow, deliberate — the kind of look that used to make men melt and now makes them pray. “lace?” you echo with venom. “what part of ‘lace’ makes it okay to be half-naked on a cheap set so some sweaty assholes can jerk off to the catalog later?”

he flinches. good. but he doesn’t back down — you’ll give him that. he’s known you long enough to know you’re a storm, but he still walks into the rain.

“you signed a contract,” he reminds you, the words clipped and quiet. “we don’t have the money for legal shit, y/n. not now.”

you hate him for being right. hate the pit in your stomach, the taste of swallowing your pride. but most of all, you hate this world — the one where your beauty opens doors only to lead you into cages. you clench your jaw until it aches.

“fine,” you snap. “but if i see one of those photos on some sleazy magazine, i swear to god, hitoshi, i’ll make sure everyone in that room regrets being born.”

no one dares to breathe.

fifteen minutes later, you’re on set in nothing but black lace and stockings. your heels click against the floor as you move — slow, poised, deadly. you don’t pose, you dominate. your eyes burn through the camera lens like a challenge. they want sexy? they’ll get it. but not soft. not sweet. nothing about you is for free.

the next set is red. sheer bra, matching panties, white heels. you hate it. hate the way they look at you like you're a product. hate the heat under your skin that isn’t from the lights. you don’t even know where these photos will end up. probably sold to men with thick wallets and no self-control. the thought makes your stomach twist.

by the time you leave, your throat’s dry, your body aches, and your pride feels scraped raw. you slam the door of hitoshi’s beat-up toyota and fold your arms, staring out the window like it owes you something.

he doesn’t say anything. he knows better.

you came to osaka with nothing but a suitcase and fire in your blood. your parents were farmers in a dead-end village near nara — small, quiet, and too slow for someone like you. you always knew you were different. prettier. sharper. when the boys confessed their love at school, when the village chose you for beauty pageants, when you learned that your smile could buy things, you understood one thing: you were made for more.

so you left. for the city. for a future with lights and power and your name in people’s mouths. you stayed with your aunt — kind, clueless — and her son riku, who was trouble dressed in denim and secondhand cologne. only twenty-one and already tangled in shadows.

you never asked where the bruises on his knuckles came from. didn’t ask about the money he brought home, or the whispers on the phone late at night. his life wasn’t yours.

but that night changed everything.

you’d just slipped under your futon, the smell of setting powder and studio sweat still clinging to your hair. your body ached. your pride ached worse. you weren’t even sure what this was all for anymore — modeling? fame? the slow grind of selling yourself in pieces?

the knock at your door startled you.

sharp. insistent. not loud, but not calm either.

you sat up, frowning, crawling over to the sliding door and opening it just enough to peek out.

riku stood there. panting. pale. eyes wild.

“we need to talk,” he said.

your spine stiffened. you stared him down, unimpressed.

“what did you do?”

“nothing,” he lied too quickly. “just... just hear me out, okay?”

you didn’t move. your body was still. cold. waiting.

“someone wants to meet you,” he continued. “it’s important. serious. could change everything.”

you narrowed your eyes. “if this is about some fucking hostess job, i swear to god—”

“it’s not that,” he snapped. “this is... different. big. maybe dangerous.”

your stomach turned. not from fear — you don’t do fear — but from something colder. something real.

you didn’t say yes. not yet. but something shifted that night. something irreversible.

and you knew, deep down, that whatever was coming… it wouldn’t be something you could control.

not this time.

the room smelled of smoke, incense, and old leather — thick with heat from the summer bleeding through the cracked windowpanes. the shoji doors were shut, sealing the quiet inside, broken only by the soft sound of ice shifting in a glass and the subtle drag of a lighter sparking flame.

takuya stood with arms crossed, the rigid set of his shoulders mirrored in the furrow of his brow. yuta sat behind a lacquered black desk, half-shadowed by the golden glow of the hanging lamp above him. his red hair, slightly tousled, shimmered in the dim light — a harsh contrast to the dark ink crawling up his neck and arms, vanishing beneath the crisp sleeves of his black silk shirt, buttoned down just enough to glimpse the coils of dragons etched across his collarbones.

“we’re being watched,” takuya said, low and direct. “again.”

yuta didn’t look surprised. he never did.

he reached for the sake bottle near his elbow, poured into the small cup with graceful fingers tattooed in black kanji. the designs slithered with meaning, oaths made in blood. he drank slowly, as if considering the weight of every word that came next.

“and your genius solution,” he said, voice rough but eerily calm, “is for me to get married.”

before takuya could answer, riku stepped forward, his palms already sweating, his jacket too big, like a boy playing adult. he held something clutched in both hands — crumpled magazine pages, ripped roughly at the edges.

“not just anyone,” riku said, unfolding them with exaggerated care. “her.”

he laid them on the desk like an offering. photos of you — stretched in lace, seductive, sharp-eyed and radiant. black set first, your gaze commanding, then red — a different flavor of temptation. hair voluminous and curled, thighs wrapped in stockings, eyes cold and untouched. it wasn’t just sex appeal. it was danger wrapped in satin.

takuya blinked, barely disguising his surprise. he leaned forward slightly to examine the photos.

“where did you get these?” he asked.

“they’re from a catalog,” riku admitted, his voice too eager. “she just shot them a week ago. she’s my cousin. moved here from a town near nara, lives with my mom and me. she’s... she’s the most beautiful girl back home. people used to say she was blessed by the fox spirits. twenty-three, smart, proud... she’s probably still a virgin.”

yuta’s head turned — slow, deliberate.

his eyes, dark as a crow’s wing and twice as sharp, pinned riku like a nail to the floor.

“probably?” he echoed, voice like a blade.

riku swallowed, color draining from his face. “i... i just meant she’s not... she’s not like the others. she’s not easy.”

“watch your mouth,” yuta said, softly, but it landed heavier than a gunshot. riku bowed his head.

takuya cleared his throat and straightened his spine.

“i don’t think this is a joke,” he said. “the tip came from above the osaka division. someone’s pulling strings beyond our usual channels. if they open a formal audit, we’re fucked. this girl — a marriage — it makes you untouchable. at least for now. appearances matter. even in this world.”

yuta didn’t answer right away. he leaned back, eyes never leaving the photos, but unreadable behind the icy calm he wore like a second skin. the only movement was his thumb running across the edge of the page — just once — over the curve of your hip.

“and if she doesn’t agree?” he asked.

“she will,” riku blurted, then shrank under takuya’s glare. “i mean... she doesn’t know yet. but she will. she’s ambitious. proud as hell, yeah, but smart. she’ll see the opportunity.”

yuta tilted his head slightly.

“opportunity,” he repeated.

there was a silence then — long and thick. the kind that made men sweat and regret.

outside, a cicada screamed in the heat.

finally, yuta reached again for the sake. filled the cup. brought it to his lips.

“bring her tomorrow,” he said, setting it down. “at dusk.”

he looked up then — first at takuya, then at riku.

“and tell her to wear white.”

takuya nodded once. riku, visibly relieved, almost stumbled backward in his rush to bow.

as they left the room, the door sliding shut behind them, yuta looked back down at the photo still sitting on his desk. his fingers hovered over the image of you — red lace, pale thigh, that scowl on your face like you were ready to burn the world if it ever tried to touch you the wrong way.

he smiled — slow, dangerous.

“white,” he murmured to no one, then leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if trying to see the shape of fate through the plaster cracks.

the car wasn’t riku’s.

you knew it the second you saw it — black, polished, long, too luxurious for someone who still owed his mother rent. it looked like something out of a movie, the kind where people died halfway through and the boss never smiled.

you frowned as you slid into the passenger seat, the leather cold against your thighs, the hem of your short white dress riding up just enough to make you tug it down with nervous fingers.

“riku,” you asked, casting him a sidelong glance, “whose car is this?”

he didn’t meet your eyes. just gripped the wheel tighter, the metal of his cheap watch catching the evening sun.

“i’ll explain when we get there,” he said.

“you sound like someone in trouble.”

he didn’t laugh. that was your first clue.

the streets blurred past — familiar for a while, then increasingly foreign. houses turned to alleys, alleys to shadowed roads, until you found yourselves in a part of town you'd never even noticed on the map. old-fashioned, silent, wealthy in the kind of way that kept its secrets buried deep.

“ever heard of the nakamotos?” riku asked, voice low.

you shook your head. “no. who are they?”

he exhaled, like the name alone weighed something in his lungs.

“they’re... old blood. powerful. my uncle used to say they ran osaka before politicians even had names. people think they’re just a legend. but they’re not.”

“you’re talking about the mafia.”

“i’m talking about something older than that,” he corrected. “this isn’t like the shit you see in movies. they don’t wear suits and flash money in clubs. they wear silence. control. fear.”

you opened your mouth to ask him what the hell you were doing here when the car slowed.

he turned into a narrow stone path, flanked by perfectly trimmed hedges and lanterns that hadn’t lit up yet. at the end stood a traditional japanese house — wide, quiet, beautiful... and terrifying. the kind of place that wasn’t a home, but a domain.

the wooden gates opened without a word. two men stood guard — massive, bald, shirtless under their haori coats, with black ink swirling over their arms like sacred maps. their eyes followed the car without blinking.

your stomach tightened.

you knew those tattoos. old-style irezumi. yakuza.

riku parked, shifted the car into neutral. before you could ask anything, the door beside you swung open and his hand wrapped around your arm.

“come on,” he said, voice softer now. “and... don’t say anything unless spoken to.”

you stumbled out, the white heels you’d chosen digging slightly into the stone pathway before he hissed, “shoes off.”

quickly, you slipped them off, your bare feet meeting the cool wood of the engawa. your dress clung to your skin — tight, delicate, lace-trimmed with a little bow between your breasts. thin straps barely held it up, and the ruffled hem danced halfway down your thighs. it wasn’t the kind of thing you wore to meet strangers. especially not dangerous ones.

especially not him.

your curls spilled down your shoulders like a waterfall, wild and untamed. you felt their eyes on you — the men lounging inside, smoking in silence, watching you pass like a prize being paraded.

riku walked ahead, brought you before a closed shoji door, and then — without a word — dropped to his knees.

you blinked. “riku—”

he grabbed your wrist and tugged you down beside him.

“kneel,” he whispered.

your heart thudded hard as your knees touched the tatami.

the air inside felt heavier. sacred. strange.

riku cleared his throat. “nakamoto-san... i’ve brought her.”

a pause.

then a voice — low, smooth, commanding.

“enter.”

the doors slid open.

and there he was.

seated cross-legged behind a desk, bathed in golden light, red hair glinting like fire under the lamp. tattoos peeked out from the open collar of his black shirt, curling over the base of his throat like serpents. his eyes were the first thing you noticed — black, deep, emotionless. like looking into the sea at midnight.

he didn’t stand. didn’t smile. didn’t offer a single greeting.

he just looked at you.

like you were something being weighed.

and you — still on your knees, barefoot, trembling slightly in your white nightdress — felt it.

something shift.

like the world you knew had just ended at the doorstep, and whatever lay beyond was his to shape.

the room was quiet.

no clocks ticking, no voices murmuring beyond the walls. just the sound of your own breathing, unsteady and too loud in your ears, and the faint crackle of incense burning somewhere in the corner — sandalwood, rich and smoky.

he hadn’t said anything.

yuta sat there like a statue carved from shadow and fire, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to the elbows, revealing more of that swirling ink that marked him as untouchable. the tattoos weren’t flashy; they were traditional — dragons and chrysanthemums, waves crashing across his forearms like they were alive. his hair, a deep blood-red, was slicked back slightly, letting you see the clean, sharp line of his jaw, the slight scar on his brow, the disinterest in his eyes.

he looked at you like a man who didn’t waste time.

like someone used to getting exactly what he wanted.

and right now, his eyes were on you.

you sat on your knees, legs folded neatly under you just like riku had instructed. your white dress — thin, ribbed cotton that hugged your curves — felt suddenly far too revealing. the lace along the neckline dipped just low enough to expose a teasing amount of cleavage, delicate and feminine. a tiny satin bow rested between your breasts, and the hem of the dress stopped a few inches below your hips, ruffled and sheer at the edge. the room was warm, but your skin prickled.

your golden choker gleamed in the soft light, a simple band resting at the base of your throat like a brand.

and yuta noticed.

his gaze flicked to it, then back to your eyes.

you swallowed hard.

“you wore white,” he finally said, voice quiet but firm — the kind that made people listen the first time. “good.”

you glanced at riku, who kept his head bowed.

“stand,” yuta said.

your breath caught.

he wasn’t talking to riku.

you.

he meant you.

with shaky hands, you rose slowly, careful not to trip over the hem. your bare feet touched the cool tatami as you stood in front of him — exposed, nervous, but refusing to shrink.

yuta’s eyes roamed, slow and unapologetic. he took his time, letting the silence stretch as his gaze slid down your body — over the slope of your shoulders, the soft lines of your thighs, the little tremble in your fingers.

when his eyes finally returned to yours, something shifted in them. barely.

interest.

“turn around,” he said.

your cheeks flushed, but you obeyed.

you turned — slowly — letting him see the dip of your back, the way the thin straps clung to your skin, the curve of your ass under the short white dress. the silence behind you was heavy, and though he said nothing, you could feel his stare like heat down your spine.

then:

“enough.”

you turned back, your eyes meeting his once more. his expression hadn’t changed. unreadable. unreadable and yet so incredibly present, like he was already taking possession of something without needing to lift a finger.

“how old are you?” he asked.

“twenty-three,” you replied quietly.

his gaze narrowed slightly.

“virgin?”

your heart dropped. riku visibly tensed beside you, but didn’t say a word.

you didn’t answer.

yuta arched a brow.

“i asked you a question.”

you hesitated, voice barely above a whisper.

“yes.”

a pause.

yuta leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers wrapping around a ceramic cup of sake, lifting it to his lips. he drank slowly. thoughtfully. then set it down with a soft clink.

“good,” he murmured.

you didn’t know what that meant.

but you could feel it — your fate shifting under your feet.

“leave us,” he said.

just as riku began to bow his head to excuse himself, yuta raised his hand with a single flick of his fingers.

“call takuya,” he said, not taking his eyes off you.

riku froze for a second — like he’d forgotten something crucial. “yes, sir,” he mumbled, then bowed quickly and disappeared behind the sliding door.

and now you were alone.

alone with nakamoto yuta.

his eyes were darker now, more focused. he didn’t smile. didn’t move.

“come closer,” he said.

and something in you — something curious, frightened, and strangely drawn — obeyed.

as soon as the door slid shut behind riku, you exhaled, but it came out shaky — barely holding together the storm brewing inside you.

you turned toward yuta, cheeks burning. “what the hell was that question?” you blurted, voice tight and sharp, almost cracking.

he didn’t flinch.

he didn’t apologize either.

he simply looked at you like he was watching a child throw a harmless tantrum.

“i needed to know,” he said coolly, fingers tapping once against the rim of his sake cup. “that information changes things.”

your eyebrows shot up. “changes what?”

“your value,” he said, flat and emotionless.

the words hit you like a slap.

you blinked at him, stunned. “i’m not... some kind of—”

“i didn’t say you were,” he interrupted, still calm. still infuriatingly unbothered. “but where you’re going, who you’ll be playing... details matter.”

you pressed your lips together, heart pounding. his gaze was steady, unwavering. there was no cruelty in his tone — but also no softness. just facts. just business.

like you were already part of the machine.

“you’re here for a reason,” he said, sitting forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze locked on yours. “riku says you’re smart. obedient. pretty enough to catch a man’s attention, but not enough to be seen as a threat.”

you almost flinched again. almost.

he noticed.

“don’t take it personally,” he added. “the role needs someone forgettable. invisible, at first glance. someone no one would look at twice — until it’s too late.”

you didn’t know if that was a compliment or an insult.

you were still kneeling, toes curled into the tatami, your white satin dress clinging lightly to your thighs. the hem brushed against your skin every time you shifted, your bare shoulders cold beneath the dim lantern light. the gold choker around your neck felt heavier now, like a chain instead of an accessory.

you finally turned to look at him. “are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

yuta leaned back in his seat, the tattoos along his forearms catching the light where the sleeves of his dark yukata had slipped. he looked at you like he was reading something only he could see.

“there’s pressure from the police. not just local. national,” he said. “they’re watching us. they want to bring me down.”

you blinked. “so... what does that have to do with me?”

his voice didn’t change. still cold. still even.

“if i marry a civilian woman — someone clean, untouched by our business — it changes the narrative. i stop being the yakuza heir. i become a husband. a man trying to build a quiet life.”

you stared at him.

“you want to marry me.”

“i need to,” he corrected.

“and you expect me to just—”

before you could reply, a soft knock echoed from the other side of the room.

“enter,” yuta called.

the sliding door opened quietly, and in stepped a man in his mid-thirties, sharp as a blade in both posture and gaze. he wore a dark suit with no tie, and even though his arms were hidden, you could still feel the same kind of power rolling off him as the men outside.

“this is takuya,” yuta said without looking at him. “the one who came up with the plan.”

takuya bowed briefly, his eyes scanning you once. no reaction. just cold calculation.

“pleasure,” he said flatly, then got straight to it. “we're currently facing heat from law enforcement. not just the division — higher up. there's a task force building a case. they’re using the press, community outreach, whatever they can. they want to paint yakuza like common criminals. it’s not just raids anymore. they’re aiming for image. public perception.”

you swallowed.

takuya continued, unfazed. “they need something scandalous to latch onto. something to justify pushing deeper. but if we give them a distraction — a different narrative — the pressure dies.”

he looked you in the eye now.

“a marriage,” he said. “to a local girl. innocent. untouched by crime. beautiful, with roots in a quiet town. the kind of story the papers love. the kind of woman that turns a red-haired, tattooed leader into a ‘reformed’ man.”

your heart skipped a beat.

“you want me to marry him?”

yuta’s silence confirmed it before either of them spoke.

“the marriage will be legal,” he said, bluntly. “we’re filing the papers through a lawyer we trust. it’ll hold weight. that’s the point.”

your breath caught.

“we need legitimacy,” takuya went on. “you’re the key to that. the girl from the countryside. beautiful. clean. no record. no history. the media will eat it up — especially when they realize you’re marrying someone like him.”

you looked down, at your dress — soft white, with lace trim over the chest and a satin bow between your breasts. the kind of thing that screamed innocence. riku had made you wear it. said it was yuta’s favorite color on women.

your cheeks burned.

“and what do i get?”

“money, comfort, protection,” takuya said immediately. “you’ll live in comfort. you’ll be kept safe. no one will touch you. not the police. not enemies. not even our own men without permission.”

his gaze hardened. “money. more than your village’s mayor makes in a year. and attention. the kind you can use.”

you glanced at yuta, who was watching you with unreadable eyes. the flames of the oil lamp caught the glint of the gold chain around your neck and the soft shine of your white satin dress, making you look even more delicate — and out of place.

you were barefoot, knees pressing into the tatami, curls spilling down your back like ink on silk.

“so... i’m supposed to pretend to be your wife,” you said, eyes locked on yuta now. “while you do what, exactly?”

he finally spoke again.

“live,” he said. “lead. and make them believe i’ve changed.”

you weren’t sure if it was insane or brilliant.

but deep down, something about the idea — the promise of safety, of being wanted in such a specific, strategic way — pulled at a place inside you that you weren’t ready to name yet.

you didn’t look at takuya when he bowed out, only waited until the door slid shut behind him. silence fell again, thick like smoke in your lungs. you hated it — being spoken about like an asset. like a pawn on some expensive chessboard. like a clean little civilian girl they could dress in white and parade in front of the press.

you crossed your arms.

“you’re a fucking piece of work,” you said, eyes locked on him. “you don’t even ask. you just... tell me i’m getting married. to you. like i’m supposed to be flattered.”

yuta tilted his head. his eyes — those cruel, unreadable eyes — didn’t move from yours.

“if you weren’t angry,” he said slowly, “i’d be disappointed.”

“what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“it means i don’t need a quiet, obedient wife,” he said. “i need someone with fire. someone who doesn’t flinch when men like me enter a room.”

you scoffed. “so you want a wife or a weapon?”

he smirked — just barely. almost not at all.

“both.”

you stood, not bothering to hide the defiance in your posture. your dress flowed around your legs as you stepped closer, barefoot, jaw tight.

“i come from a farm in fucking wakayama,” you snapped. “my parents grow vegetables and wake up before the sun. i crawled out of that life by sheer force of will. i didn’t come to osaka to be anyone’s doll.”

he watched you with an unnerving calm. your temper didn’t faze him. if anything, he seemed... intrigued.

“then don’t be a doll,” he said. “be the woman who stood next to the devil and didn’t blink.”

your chest rose and fell. the white choker around your neck suddenly felt suffocating.

“and what do you get out of this?” you asked. “besides a pretty distraction.”

“peace,” he replied, finishing his sake. “for now.”

you stared at him, still furious — but your fury no longer felt out of place. it felt... necessary. expected. wanted.

he stood slowly, and you couldn’t help but notice the curve of muscle beneath the dark fabric of his yukata, the tattoos peeking out over his chest and wrists like whispered warnings. like stories he didn’t need to tell with words.

he came closer, and stopped just short of your space.

“tomorrow,” he said. “we’ll register the marriage. we’ll make it real.”

your heart thudded — not with fear, but with something heavier. something hotter.

“wear white again.”

“you’re a controlling asshole,” you muttered.

he leaned in, just enough that you could feel the ghost of his breath against your temple.

“good. you’re learning.”

you didn't sleep the night before.

not from fear — you weren’t some trembling girl marrying her first crush. it was the sheer weight of it. the permanence. the fact that when you woke up the next morning, you would legally belong to the red-haired devil with tattoos snaking across his chest. the one who barely flinched when you cussed at him, who told you to wear white like it was some kind of silent power game.

riku arrived at dawn in a black car — another luxurious model that reeked of expensive leather and cigarettes. in the back seat was a garment bag, pristine and white, and a lacquered box wrapped in silk.

“these are from yuta,” he said, handing both over carefully. “he said to wear the western one for the ceremony.”

you pulled the zipper down.

the wedding gown inside looked like it had stepped out of a bridal magazine. dramatic off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, pearl buttons down the back, and a full, billowing skirt that would swallow your legs whole. the lace was delicate, vintage, almost royal. your fingers hesitated at the embroidery.

“jesus christ,” you muttered. “this must’ve cost a fortune.”

“probably did.” riku rubbed the back of his neck. “he doesn’t half-ass anything.”

you didn’t respond, only moved to open the silk-wrapped box next. inside: a traditional shiromuku kimono — heavy white silk with detailed cranes and chrysanthemums embroidered in silver thread. beneath it, folded with exact care, was a note in black ink.

you’ll wear this tonight. we need photos for the papers. — n. yuta

you rolled your eyes and slammed the lid shut.

the ceremony was held at a historic ryotei garden estate outside osaka. the kind of place used for tea ceremonies and old-money weddings. white lanterns floated on the koi pond, and flower arrangements shaped like clouds lined the stone walkway leading to the altar.

your heels clicked sharply against the path, dress trailing behind like a whisper. makeup perfect, lashes heavy, lips painted a soft cherry red. around your neck, a thin golden choker — delicate, expensive-looking, chosen by someone with taste. your hair was still curled and loose, spilling down your back in waves like the night before.

you held your head high. eyes straight ahead.

the photographers swarmed the entrance. local reporters lined the gate. and there he was — standing at the altar in a black montsuki haori, crimson hair tied loosely back, tattoos just barely visible where the robe dipped at the collar. yuta nakamoto looked like a villain out of a storybook. untouched. untouchable.

you stopped beside him, and only nodded once.

he didn’t smile. didn’t blink.

only said, “you look beautiful,” without moving his lips too much.

“you better,” you muttered, “after dropping this much cash.”

the ceremony was both legal and traditional. papers signed first, in front of witnesses — then the vows, recited with low, steady voices. you said them with a precision that almost sounded sarcastic. yuta repeated his in a tone that made the back of your neck tingle. like he was promising more than the words on the paper.

when the priest announced the kiss, you almost flinched. but the cameras were already flashing.

you turned.

you placed a hand on his chest.

and you pulled him in — slow, confident, unflinching. lips pressed to his with calculated pressure, just enough to look like passion, just enough to keep your pride intact.

he didn’t pull away. his mouth stayed still for a second longer than necessary. enough to make you feel heat bloom low in your stomach.

you stepped back first. wiped the edge of your lip with a fingertip. smirked like a queen who always won.

the reporters clapped. someone whistled. riku looked like he wanted to throw up.

you didn’t look at yuta again until after the ceremony, when he leaned in close during the photo op and said under his breath, “i knew you’d make it look good.”

you didn’t answer.

but part of you hated how your heartbeat stuttered anyway.

the reception was held back at the traditional house — the one you'd visited with riku only the day before. everything felt familiar, but colder now. more official. more yours.

the room smelled of sake, tobacco, and incense. a soft string quartet played somewhere in the background, a luxury reserved only for special occasions in this part of the country. long tables were filled with men in black suits, most of them tattooed beneath the fabric, their voices low and respectful. the atmosphere wasn’t celebratory — it was ceremonial. serious. like the birth of a deal.

you sat beside yuta on a low wooden bench, legs tucked beneath your heavy white kimono, the weight of the fabric grounding you. yuta had changed into a darker formal haori — simple, elegant, his hair still tied back, a few strands falling around his face. you tried not to glance at him too often. he didn’t speak much, only nodded at greetings, poured you a cup of tea when the cameras weren’t looking.

the group photo was taken near the engawa, under a blossom tree, everyone lined up behind you both — riku awkwardly stiff behind you, takuya beside him with arms crossed, unreadable. yuta’s hand rested lightly on your knee for the shot. your posture was perfect. expression unreadable.

then came the second photo — just the two of you. you stood side by side on the engawa, backs straight. he tilted his head just slightly toward you, eyes calm. you didn’t lean into him. not yet. but your hands brushed once.

you hated that your skin remembered it.

later that night, in the room they had prepared for you both — a wide, clean space with tatami floors and a low table still holding untouched tea — you sat at the edge of the futon, kimono folded neatly beside you, hair pinned up. your western dress had been carefully stored away. the silence stretched between you and yuta like a tight wire.

he stood by the window, back to you, sleeves rolled up slightly to reveal part of the ink on his forearm.

“you should tell your parents,” he said suddenly, voice calm. “so they don’t hear it from someone else.”

you blinked. “i will. but it’s not that easy.”

he turned slightly toward you. “why not?”

you gave him a tight smile. “you forget where i’m from, city boy. that town barely has working lights. my parents don’t have a landline.”

he paused. then, slowly, walked to a small desk in the corner and pulled out a set of paper, brush, and ink.

“write a letter. i’ll send someone to deliver it in person.”

that startled you more than anything.

“…seriously?”

“i don’t joke about family,” he said, gaze steady. “especially now.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. instead, you took the paper and sat cross-legged to write. your fingers trembled slightly at the start, but you found the words. told them you were safe. told them you were married. left out the politics.

you left out the man standing by the window again, quiet as a ghost.

after you sealed the envelope, yuta finally stepped closer. but he didn’t reach for you. didn’t touch you.

“you’ll sleep here,” he said, voice low. “i’ll take the room next door. just for tonight.”

you looked up at him, surprised.

“what, not going to consummate the deal?” you asked dryly.

his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. “you’re not a deal.”

you held his gaze a second too long. then turned away.

“…thanks,” you muttered.

he paused by the door, then added, “you looked strong today. people noticed.”

you snorted. “damn right they did.”

he left without another word.

you lay back, eyes wide open. married. protected. still you.

and for some reason, that scared you more than anything else.

you woke up to the smell of garlic and soy sauce.

it was a gentle aroma, not overwhelming, but enough to stir you from sleep as sunlight trickled through the wooden blinds. you stretched beneath the soft, white sheets, the unfamiliar futon beneath you barely creaking. your limbs were heavy with yesterday’s weight — the ceremony, the stares, the quiet glances exchanged in front of too many eyes.

slipping out of bed, you pulled the red silk robe from the edge of the futon, tying it lazily around your waist. it clung to you with that subtle sheen, smooth against your bare legs. your hair, still slightly tousled from sleep, was swept into a loose bun, a few strands curling at your nape. barefoot, you padded quietly down the hallway.

you found the chef in the kitchen — a tall, polite man with graying hair tied at the nape. he bowed when he saw you.

“good morning, miss. breakfast will be ready shortly.”

you blinked at the formality, then cleared your throat. “where’s yuta?”

he didn’t look up from the pot he was stirring. “the young master is in his office.”

of course he is.

you murmured a quiet thank you before turning and making your way down the same corridor from last night — where yuta had disappeared into quiet work and you had gone to bed alone.

you knocked once. no answer. you slid the door open.

yuta was seated behind a long wooden desk, papers laid out in front of him, a cigarette resting on a small tray by his elbow. he glanced up when he saw you — and something in his gaze caught, like a moment of surprise he didn’t know how to mask.

you were barely dressed for conversation. the robe hugged your waist too perfectly, a flash of your leg peeking out as you shifted your weight. your lashes curled softly above your half-lidded stare, arms crossed beneath your chest. you didn’t try to hide how comfortable you looked. or how dangerous that made you seem.

“i need to make a call,” you said simply. “it’s important.”

he nodded once, motioning toward the landline on the sideboard.

“go ahead.”

you paused. “can i have privacy?”

that earned you a look — half amusement, half disbelief. then, without a word, he stood and walked past you, sliding the door closed behind him.

as soon as the click echoed in the room, you exhaled. you opened the small leather agenda you always kept in your bag — fingers flipping to the back page where hitoshi’s number was scribbled in your handwriting.

you dialed. it rang twice.

“y/n?”

his voice was frantic, breathless. “where the hell have you been? i’ve been trying to reach you for days—i even came by your aunt's house. it’s empty. what the fuck is going on?”

you bit your lip. “…i got married.”

silence.

then—

“WHAT?”

you pulled the phone slightly away from your ear.

“what do you mean married? married to who?! when? are you even—y/n, are you conscious of what you’re doing?! you have a career, a whole future about to start. you can't just—”

you cut him off gently. “look at the news, hitoshi. or tomorrow’s papers. the answer’s there.”

“but—why?!”

you leaned against the wall, voice calm. “because it was necessary.”

he was pacing. you could hear it in the rhythm of his breath. “y/n, you have contracts. endorsement deals pending. you know what the clauses say—you’re supposed to be single.”

you sighed. “don’t worry about the money. that’s not a problem anymore.”

his voice dropped. “what does that even mean?”

you didn’t answer that.

instead, you softened. “i’ll explain in person. let’s meet soon, yeah?”

after a beat, he agreed. you hung up quietly.

then, without turning, you said, “you can come back in.”

the door slid open slowly.

yuta stepped inside, eyes lingering on your silhouette — the curve of your hip, the smooth dip of your shoulder beneath the robe. your nails, painted white, contrasted sharply with the red fabric as you crossed your arms. you looked the part now. a dangerous, elegant wife. someone who belonged in a room like this — and maybe even someone who could command it.

his voice was lower this time. unreadable.

“who’s hitoshi?”

you raised an eyebrow. “what, jealous already?”

his jaw tightened. “just answer.”

“he’s my manager,” you said firmly. “and i needed to let him know about this situation.”

“you seemed close.”

“don’t start,” you warned, stepping forward, your tone sharp, impatient. “not everyone in my life is someone you need to size up. especially not him.”

he stared at you a moment longer.

and then, quietly — like it surprised even him — he said,

“…you look like you were made for this.”

you didn’t reply.

but you didn’t look away either.

you ate breakfast with your legs crossed under the wooden table, the silk of your red robe brushing softly against your thighs. the chef had prepared grilled fish, miso soup, rice, and a delicate tamagoyaki roll — a traditional spread that felt both luxurious and grounded, like something too refined for a newlywed girl still adjusting to this new life. you picked at your food in silence while the staff moved quietly around you.

yuta joined you ten minutes later, dressed in a dark pinstriped yukata, his sleeves loose, the scent of cologne and cigarettes lingering faintly as he sat across from you. he didn’t say much. didn’t need to. the silence between you wasn’t cold — not quite — but it felt suspended, like a string pulled tight between two people who hadn’t decided what this thing between them was going to be.

you finished eating first. he watched you dab at your lips with the napkin, watched the subtle way you moved, always confident, always so sure of your space in the room. you weren’t the type to wilt, not even under a house full of men who whispered your name like a warning.

“i’ll be in my office,” he murmured as he stood.

you only nodded.

the days passed with a strange kind of rhythm. mornings were quiet — breakfast, then long hours where you wandered the compound’s grounds or stayed in your room, reading, journaling, waiting. there were training sessions in the garden, men bowing to yuta like he was a god, and you saw it clearly now — what kind of man he really was. the way they followed him. the way even takuya never questioned a command. you were living in the center of something vast and ancient and quietly violent, and yet… you didn’t feel afraid.

not really.

yuta treated you with distance, but not cruelty. he gave you space, but not indifference. and in the quiet moments — a shared glance at dinner, the brush of his fingers when handing you a cup of tea — there was something else, something harder to define. tension, yes. desire, maybe. but also… possession. like he was slowly convincing himself that you weren’t just here for the show.

you noticed it most when riku came to inform you of your meeting with hitoshi.

“i’ll drive you there,” he said, pulling keys from his coat pocket. he led you outside to where a glossy black toyota century sat gleaming beneath the trees — a 1994 model, clearly imported with care. it looked like power and old money. when the door opened for you, you slipped inside with practiced ease, dressed in a simple black fitted skirt and a white blouse, minimal makeup, but still polished.

yuta stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching.

“she said he’s her manager,” takuya said from behind him, tone casual. he was smoking again, the end of the cigarette glowing orange in the dusk. “why are you so tense?”

yuta didn’t answer at first. his gaze stayed locked on the vehicle, unmoving.

takuya smirked. “don’t tell me it’s jealousy. i thought this was just a business arrangement.”

yuta’s jaw flexed.

“it’s not that.”

“hm,” takuya exhaled. “then what is it?”

“i’m a man,” yuta said simply, his voice low and firm. “and she belongs to me now. any man would hate the idea of someone else touching what’s his.”

takuya gave a short, quiet laugh. “you’re not very good at pretending, you know.”

the car pulled away.

inside, you kept your eyes forward, legs crossed, fingers resting lightly on the leather seat.

“are you nervous?” riku asked, his voice softer than usual.

“no,” you said simply. “but he might be.”

the meeting spot was a quiet café tucked in a side street near the train station. it was almost empty — just a few people scattered inside. you stepped out of the car and walked in like you owned the place.

hitoshi stood as soon as he saw you.

his expression was pure disbelief.

you sat down without a word.

“…you really went and did it,” he said eventually. “you married someone. just like that.”

“i told you,” you said, tilting your head. “you could’ve checked the papers.”

“oh, i did. believe me, i did.” he ran a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. “but nothing in those headlines explains why. or who. they only say that you married into the nakamoto family, and if you think i don’t know what that means—”

“you’re overreacting.”

“am i?” he leaned forward. “y/n, do you have any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into? these men aren’t just businessmen. they’re criminals. this… this is dangerous.”

you met his gaze evenly.

“i’m safe.”

he scoffed. “he’s got you brainwashed already.”

“hitoshi—”

“no,” he cut in. “you can’t just throw your career away for this. you had a film audition next month. a music contract on the table. i worked for those.”

your voice dropped. “i didn’t ask you to.”

his face froze.

you leaned back slowly, expression unreadable.

“you’re good at your job,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly. “but you don’t own me.”

he stared at you. your tone was cool, sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk. it was the version of you he rarely saw — the version you hid beneath stage smiles and rehearsed charm. the version that came out when you were pushed.

he sat back.

“…so, what now?” he asked. “you going to disappear into his shadow forever?”

you smiled faintly.

“i don’t disappear, hitoshi.”

he watched you for a long moment.

“…i want you to be happy,” he said finally, quieter now. “but i just hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”

“i do.”

he nodded.

then, reluctantly, “i’ll wait for you to call.”

you stood, and he didn’t try to follow.

when you returned to the car, riku opened the door for you again. the ride back was silent. you stared out the window, your reflection ghosting across the glass.

yuta was waiting when you arrived.

he didn’t speak right away.

but his eyes moved slowly over your figure — your blouse now slightly unbuttoned from the heat, the black skirt hugging your hips, your heels clicking softly against the wooden floor as you stepped inside. your hair was tied in a neat twist. you looked untouched. but not untouchable.

“how was it?” he asked at last.

“expected,” you said.

he didn’t respond.

so you turned, arms crossed, leveling him with a look.

“don’t look at me like that.”

his brow lifted. “like what?”

“like you think he’s more than what he is.”

“and what is he?”

you tilted your chin.

“not your problem.”

the corner of his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. not quite anything.

he stepped forward until you could smell his cologne again, feel the weight of his presence wrapping around you like gravity. you didn’t move.

“you’re mine,” he said simply, his voice low, almost soft. “whatever this started as… it doesn’t change that.”

you met his eyes without flinching.

“then act like it.”

you stepped past him, your heels clicking down the hallway like a challenge.

he watched you go — and for the first time in days, he didn’t know whether to follow or fall harder.

the soft knock on the door came just as you were adjusting the strap of your black dress in front of the mirror. the fabric clung to your body like it had been molded for you, emphasizing every curve, every subtle sway of your hips. lips painted red, a delicate gold chain around your neck, hair styled effortlessly to frame your cheekbones—you were the picture of elegance. the kind of elegance that didn't ask for attention, but demanded it nonetheless. when you opened the door, yuta stood there, his dark eyes sweeping over you with an unreadable expression. the faintest smirk curled on his lips.

“you’re ready,” he said, his voice deep, smooth like aged whiskey.

you nodded. “always.”

it was the first time you stood beside him like that—visibly, publicly, as his wife. the police visit had been scheduled days ago, supposedly a routine check. they had heard whispers, rumors about illegal movement, weapons, maybe more. but when the door opened to reveal you—immaculate, poised, clean as paper—their tone shifted. and when they saw the documents, the legal marriage certificate, your name listed as the new owner of multiple boutiques and cosmetic shops around the city, they exchanged glances.

“mrs. nakamoto?” the inspector had asked, uncertain, skeptical even.

you nodded politely. “yes. is there a problem?”

he glanced at the paper again, then at yuta, who remained calm, arms crossed, watching the interaction in silence. eventually, they left. the marriage had erased all suspicion, at least for now. your spotless reputation had become a shield, and yuta had used it like a blade.

that night, as you stood alone on the engawa of the traditional house—the same one you were brought to the first time—watching the moon dip behind the clouds, something inside you felt hollow. it wasn’t about the marriage. it wasn’t about the danger. it was the way he hadn’t come home.

you didn’t want to admit it, but his absence gnawed at your nerves. the house felt too quiet, too still. the shadows stretched in strange ways. your heartbeat was louder than the wind rattling the trees. you remained near the front, robe tied tightly around your waist, sandal-clad feet tapping restlessly against the wooden floor.

a screech of tires shattered the silence.

your body tensed, instinctively stepping toward the door. “yuta?” you called out, voice unsure.

“don’t turn on the lights,” he growled from the darkness, his voice uneven. strained. almost guttural.

you froze, your breath caught. “what—what happened?”

his silhouette appeared under the dim light of the porch. he stumbled, one hand pressed hard to his side, the other braced against the wall. he was bleeding. thick, dark liquid was spreading across his shirt, staining it in ominous blotches.

“yuta—oh my god.” you rushed forward, catching him as he lost balance. your arms wrapped around him, struggling to hold up his weight. something warm and wet seeped through your robe, making your skin crawl.

“it’s fine—just... just a scratch,” he muttered, clearly lying.

“shut up,” you hissed. your fingers trembled as you pressed them against the open wound. blood poured out over your hands, slippery and terrifying. you couldn’t see clearly. your head spun. you were shaking, overwhelmed, but you weren’t going to let him die here.

you pulled off your robe, leaving yourself in nothing but your underwear, and pressed the fabric hard against his abdomen. “stay with me, do you hear me? stay the fuck with me.”

his eyes moved to you, barely focused. but they lingered. his bloodied fingers brushed your arm, slow, reverent. “you look like a damn goddess,” he whispered, his breath hitching.

“you’re delirious,” you snapped, voice cracking.

you bolted into his office, found the notebook with contacts, and dialed takuya with shaky fingers. “it’s bad,” you said as soon as he picked up. “he’s hurt—stabbed—bleeding. hurry, please.”

minutes later, engines roared into the driveway. several men stormed inside. one, enormous, bald and covered in tattoos, barked orders. “get him in the car. now!”

you stood frozen, blood staining your legs, your stomach, your hands. you hadn’t even realized you were crying until takuya’s hand cupped your shoulder. “he’s gonna be fine. it’s not his first time.”

your head snapped toward him, anger flashing through your tears. “what the fuck is that supposed to mean? like that makes it okay?”

he sighed. “you married a yakuza boss, sweetheart. this... this is the life.”

they carried yuta out on a stretcher, still conscious, his eyes locked on you until the car doors slammed shut.

you ran to your room, changed into the nearest jeans and a sweatshirt, your skin sticky, heart pounding, nerves frayed. you were supposed to be used to this. you weren’t. you never would be.

but you’d made a choice. and for better or worse, this was your world now.

“you’re not coming with us,” takuya said firmly, standing between you and the door like a wall. “we don’t know if it’s safe. the ones who did this could still be out there.”

you clenched your jaw. “i don’t care.”

he sighed, exasperated. “you should. if something happens to you, he’ll lose his fucking mind. he’s already half-dead—don’t give him another reason to bleed out.”

just then, another man stepped inside the house, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black coat soaked at the hem. his eyes flicked briefly to you—blood still crusted on your arms—before turning to takuya.

“send a team,” the man said coldly. “find the ones responsible. they laid hands on the boss—i want heads rolling before sunrise.”

your heart skipped. the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. these men didn’t play. and neither did you.

takuya stepped aside, distracted by his phone. in that split second, you slipped past him and out the door.

your legs carried you before your fear could stop you. you flagged the first car outside and ordered the driver to take you to the hospital. he hesitated at first, but the blood on your body, the tremble in your voice, and the fire in your eyes convinced him otherwise.

the ride felt endless. your thoughts spiraled. images of yuta, pale and breathless, leaning on you like he had nothing left to give. the way his blood soaked your robe. his whisper: you look like a damn goddess. you pressed your hand to your chest, trying to steady your breathing, but it only made you more aware of the ache blooming inside.

the hospital was surrounded—unmarked cars parked along the curb, men in black stationed near the entrance like statues. you walked past them, eyes forward, not daring to look weak. no one stopped you. maybe they recognized you. maybe they just knew better.

when you reached the emergency wing, takuya was already there. he turned sharply when he saw you, brows drawn tight.

“you don’t fucking listen.”

“and you don’t get to keep me away from him,” you snapped. “i’m his wife, remember?”

he hesitated.

“where is he?” you demanded.

after a long pause, he pointed down the hall.

room 304.

you stepped in quietly. the lights were dim, the room cold and too clean. yuta lay in the bed, shirtless, wrapped in gauze, an IV attached to his arm. bruises spread like ink under his skin, and the bandage around his abdomen was already faintly stained.

he looked up when he heard the door click. his lashes fluttered, expression softening as he saw you.

“you’re here.”

“of course i’m here,” you said, voice cracking. “i wasn’t going to let you go through this alone.”

his head rolled slightly on the pillow. “told you not to come.”

you approached slowly, sitting at the edge of the bed. your fingers brushed his, and his hand immediately gripped yours, tight, desperate.

“they’re looking for them,” you whispered. “the ones who did this.”

he hummed. “i figured.”

you stared at him, really stared. even beaten and bruised, he was still beautiful. painfully so. his lips were cracked, his hair damp with sweat, and yet when he looked at you like that—like you were the only light in the room—something shifted in your chest.

“you could’ve died,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“i didn’t.”

“you’re not invincible, yuta.”

his thumb traced your knuckle, slow and deliberate. “i’ve survived worse.”

“doesn’t mean i want to watch you do it again.”

he blinked slowly. “are you worried about me?”

you looked away, ashamed by how quickly your throat closed up. “of course i fucking am.”

a silence settled between you, charged and heavy. then, softly, he tugged your hand.

“come here.”

you hesitated, then shifted closer until you sat beside his torso. his free arm moved, gently pulling you down, guiding your head to his shoulder. you melted into him, careful of the bandages, heart thudding wildly in your chest.

“you smell like blood,” he murmured against your temple.

“your blood.”

he exhaled, a sound between a laugh and a groan. “you shouldn’t have come.”

“shut up,” you whispered. “i couldn’t stay away.”

his hand slid up your back, slow and warm, fingers curling lightly at the nape of your neck. it wasn’t sexual—not yet—but it was intimate in a way that made your skin burn.

“you’re shaking,” he said, voice low.

“i’m not,” you lied.

he tilted his head slightly, enough to catch your eyes. “you were scared.”

you didn’t deny it.

then, so softly you almost missed it, he said, “i’m sorry.”

it knocked the breath out of you. not just because it was rare, but because it sounded real. raw. like he meant it.

you buried your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of saline and blood and yuta. “just... don’t make me lose you.”

his fingers tightened against your spine. “you won’t.”

and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. you just lay there—his body battered, yours tense, your heartbeats syncing in the quiet. his touch grew bolder, fingertips tracing the line of your waist where the sweatshirt had ridden up. not enough to be indecent, just enough to remind you that you were both alive, still tethered to this moment.

his lips brushed your forehead.

“thank you,” he whispered. “for disobeying.”

the days passed slowly, quietly, like smoke curling in still air. yuta remained in the hospital, recovering from the attack—each morning his color improved, each night you still woke up drenched in cold sweat, the memory of his blood staining your hands refusing to leave you.

you visited him every day, sometimes for hours, sometimes just to bring him something sweet from the bakery he liked. he hated the hospital food. tastes like regret, he’d mumbled once, wincing at the scrambled eggs.

you would laugh. he liked hearing your laugh. said it sounded like it didn’t belong in a world like his. too soft. too clean.

on the third morning, you received a call from hitoshi.

“i know it’s sudden,” he said, voice crackling with low urgency, “but they need you for the ad. the set’s already built. we’re behind schedule.”

you hesitated, looking over your shoulder at the clock. 8:42 a.m. visiting hours started at nine.

“it’s the commercial,” he added, softer this time. “the one with the energy drink. the ‘neon burn’ campaign.”

you exhaled, one hand gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. “i’ll be there.”

the shoot was loud, hectic, and full of neon lighting. they’d dressed you in a vibrant 80s-inspired athletic bodysuit—electric purple, turquoise, and hot pink, with high-cut sides. mesh leggings hugged your thighs, and scrunched leg warmers clung to your ankles. your hair was teased and pinned high, lips painted with a glossy coral shade, eyes framed by metallic blue shadow.

it was absurd.

and yet you killed it.

even with your heart split in two, you danced, posed, ran down the fake gym set and delivered your lines with energy that felt impossible to fake. the crew clapped. the director smiled. hitoshi looked almost proud.

but you heard them. behind the camera, behind the mirrors.

isn’t that the girl who married a nakamoto?

she’s still working? i thought she’d go into hiding after that shooting...

you didn’t flinch. not once. your back stayed straight, chin tilted, eyes cold and far away. you’d learned that from yuta—how to carry chaos like it was perfume on your skin.

when the shoot wrapped, you slid into hitoshi’s car, pulling off your earrings and tossing them into your bag.

“take me to the hospital,” you said quietly.

he didn’t argue, but he didn’t hide the concern in his tone either.

“you keep walking into fire,” he muttered, one hand on the wheel. “one of these days, you’ll get burned.”

you turned to look out the window, slipping on your sunglasses. “then i guess i’ll burn.”

by the time you arrived at the hospital, the sun had reached its peak. you wore a soft beige set—trousers that hugged your hips, a cropped blazer, and low nude heels. your makeup was subtle, elegant, and your dark glasses concealed the weariness in your eyes.

no one stopped you. they knew you by now.

room 304.

you entered without knocking.

yuta was sitting up in bed, finishing the last bite of toast. he wore a plain black shirt, one of the ones you brought from home, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, bandages still visible underneath. he looked better. less pale. a little annoyed.

“what’s with the shades?” he asked, swallowing.

you took them off and placed them on the windowsill. “blinding lights. needed protection.”

he eyed you, amused. “you look like you walked out of a magazine.”

you shrugged. “it was the commercial shoot. energy drink. eighties gymcore fantasy.”

“so you wore... what, a fluorescent leotard?”

“and leg warmers. don’t forget the leg warmers.”

he smirked. “should’ve been there.”

you smiled faintly, then crossed the room, pulling the chair closer to his bed. he watched you in silence, a hand resting loosely on his stomach.

“you okay?” you asked softly.

“better,” he said. “doc says maybe two more days.”

you nodded, fingers curling slightly over your knees.

“you really went to work in the middle of all this?” he asked, voice low.

“i didn’t want to,” you admitted. “but i needed to remember i still exist outside of this. outside of... bleeding walls and bodyguards and hospital beds.”

he looked at you, really looked. something in his eyes flickered—guilt, maybe. or admiration.

“i heard the crew talking,” you continued. “they think i’m crazy. marrying into this family. being seen with your name wrapped around my finger.”

“they’re not wrong,” he muttered.

you reached into your purse, pulling out a folded napkin. “i brought you something.”

he raised an eyebrow.

you handed him a pastry, soft and still warm. almond filling. his favorite.

“see?” you said, a little teasing. “not a complete mistake.”

he chuckled, biting into it. his shoulders relaxed. for a moment, he looked like any other man—wounded but human, soft around the edges.

“i missed this,” he said suddenly, voice quieter. “us. when it’s... normal.”

“this isn’t normal,” you whispered, eyes flicking to the IV, to the faint red stains on the gauze at his waist.

“no,” he agreed. “but it’s ours.”

you felt something catch in your chest.

“you scared me, yuta,” you said. “that night. i thought—i thought you were going to die in my arms.”

he swallowed. “i know.”

you reached for his hand. he let you.

“and it made me realize... it’s not just about the blood. or the danger. it’s you. it’s always been you.”

he stared at you for a long time, as if trying to memorize your face in this moment—sunlight casting gold along your cheekbones, shadows pooling at your collarbone.

“you were shaking,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “you wrapped your robe around me like it was the only thing holding me together.”

“it was.”

he leaned forward, slow, careful. his face inches from yours.

“i’ve had men take bullets for me. i’ve had people beg to die in my name. but no one’s ever looked at me the way you did that night.”

you exhaled shakily, heart hammering.

“how did i look at you?” you asked.

“like i was worth saving.”

you swallowed hard.

his fingers slid under your chin, tilting your face toward him. you saw the softness in his gaze war with the fire in his touch, that unspoken hunger blooming between you like a bruise. his lips brushed yours—not quite a kiss, not yet—but the weight of it stole the air from your lungs.

“i’m not letting you go,” he whispered. “not now. not after that.”

you didn’t reply.

you didn’t need to.

you just leaned in, lips brushing his again, as if sealing a quiet, dangerous promise.

he came home just as the cicadas began their evening song, the sky burning orange behind the high walls of the estate.

the front gates creaked open, and the commands were already lined up along the stone path, kneeling, backs straight, heads bowed in perfect silence.

the black car door opened. yuta stepped out slowly, his movements still deliberate, recovering. he wore a dark yukata, fabric loose at the collar, bandages still hidden beneath the folds. the sound of his geta against the stone echoed like a heartbeat.

“welcome home, young master,” they murmured in unison.

one of the higher officers stepped forward. “the men who orchestrated the attack have been dealt with. the one responsible… was eliminated last night.”

yuta said nothing at first. his eyes closed, head dipping just slightly, as if acknowledging not just the words but the weight of everything they carried.

you watched from the genkan, leaning lightly against the doorframe, arms crossed. your orange summer dress caught the dying light, soft fabric clinging to the curve of your hips, fluttering just below your knees. your hair was down, loose and warm like the air, and you felt his gaze linger on you even through his exhaustion.

you didn’t say anything. neither did he.

you didn’t have to.

he passed by you slowly, the smell of sandalwood and blood and quiet victory still clinging to him.

the house returned to stillness once he disappeared down the hall toward his room.

later, you stood barefoot in the kitchen, elbows propped on the counter, chatting aimlessly with the chef. he was old, bored, fond of telling stories that made no sense and pretending to hate you even though you knew he liked your company.

“you’re hovering again,” he muttered, chopping scallions. “what, worried i’ll poison him?”

“i just want it done right.”

“it is done right.”

“then let me take it.”

“you don’t need to—”

“he’s my husband,” you said sharply, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. “i’ll take it.”

he blinked at you, then snorted. “possessive little thing.”

“i’m just not decorative,” you said, grabbing the tray.

on the wooden surface, you laid everything carefully: a bowl of miso soup, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, and a small porcelain cup of green tea. nothing too heavy—he still hadn’t regained all his strength. you added a folded cloth napkin and a pair of dark chopsticks.

the corridor was quiet when you made your way toward his room. the sliding door stood closed, warm light flickering through the paper panels. a couple of his men were stationed outside, standing stiff as statues. they glanced at you as you knelt gently before the door.

“yuta” you said softly. “i’m coming in.”

their eyes widened slightly—you hadn’t waited for permission.

inside, yuta sat reclined on his futon, his yukata slightly loosened, revealing the smooth, pale line of his collarbone. his head rested on his hand, elbow propped on a cushion. he was absently tossing a temari ball into the air and catching it with lazy precision, the silk threads glinting in the warm lamplight.

when you entered, he caught the ball midair and raised a brow.

“is this what i get for nearly dying?” he said, voice rough but amused. “a pretty wife and a home-cooked meal?”

you stood, holding the tray. “don’t get used to it.”

“but i like this version of you.”

“the barefoot maid version?”

“the worried wife version.”

you walked over and set the tray in front of him. “you’ll be serving yourself the moment you can stand without wobbling.”

he chuckled low in his chest. “you’re all thorns tonight.”

you sat beside him on the tatami, tucking your legs under your body. he reached for the bowl of soup, pausing to inhale the scent.

“this smells like my mother’s,” he murmured.

you looked over. “really?”

“mm. not exact. hers was saltier. but close enough that it stings.”

your voice softened. “was she strict?”

he took a sip of tea before answering. “no. not with me. she was tired by the time i came along. my sister got most of her anger. i got the leftovers.”

“you don’t talk about them much,” you said, careful not to pry.

he rested the cup on the tray. “there’s not much to say. my parents are gone. my sister left years ago. changed her name. ran away from the family.”

“where did she go?”

“fukushima, maybe. i’m not sure anymore. she hasn’t contacted me since…” he paused. “six years.”

you went quiet. the weight of that silence filled the room, not heavy—but sharp, like the moment before a storm.

“sorry,” you said. “i didn’t mean to—”

“it doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, glancing at you. “i don’t need her.”

he picked up a piece of fish, chewing slowly before he added, “i have you now.”

you looked at him. his voice wasn’t teasing. there was no smirk, no game behind his words. just truth.

you smiled, faint but genuine. “we’re not really a family though, are we?”

he didn’t flinch.

“maybe not yet,” he said. “but marriages evolve. even the fake ones.”

you scoffed lightly, looking away. “you really think this can become something real?”

he shrugged, finishing his tea. “i’ve seen stranger things.”

you let the quiet settle between you again. somewhere outside, a wind chime jingled in the warm breeze.

you stood, brushing your dress down over your thighs. “i’ll let you rest.”

“you could stay.”

you looked over your shoulder.

he wasn’t smiling now.

just watching you, the temari ball still between his fingers.

“stay,” he repeated, softer. “we don’t have to talk. just sit.”

you hesitated, then walked back and sat near his futon, close enough that his hand brushed against the hem of your dress.

he didn’t move it.

neither did you.

you stayed like that until the tea cooled, until his breath evened out into sleep, until you felt the strange ache of something tender begin to bloom—soft, patient, dangerous.

you didn’t dare give it a name.

not yet.

[jackthebard]

Ok I normally don't comment on things like this, but I HAVE to share the beef that I have with my sophomore year (I was about 15, for our international audiences) Introduction to Electronics teacher.

For the record: I still know this person's name. I can find them on facebook. I have since gone into teaching, myself, and I often think about reaching out to her and dropping her a message saying "Hey. Thank you for teaching me how NOT to be a teacher, you miserable" I'm not going to finish that on Tunglr.fuck.

I made an off-color joke at the start of the year, and she made it personal. She kept on messing with my grades, practically insulting me in the middle of class, and it got to the point where I had to ask my dad for help.

Just to give you a bit of an idea where my dad and I were at in our relationship: At this point in time, he would later tell me that there were moments he wanted to kill me with his own hands. We did not have a good relationship, but I was so A-type brained at the time and wanted to do so well in school that I was willing to ask my dad for assistance even though we were on the rocks. Retrospectively, I think this was what started to mend our relationship.

He helped me with an assignment, and I turned it in. When it was returned, I got 5 points... out of 50.

I returned home on the verge of tears because I was wondering what I had done wrong, how I had messed up. My mother took a look at me, a look at the assignment, and a look at my dad. We all knew how messed up things had been with this teacher, and my parents were daggers drawn against her because she had been screwing me over so bad.

My mother said, "Honey. You're going to have to go into that parent-teacher conference, otherwise she is not going to come out of it alive." Mom was about to be on the news.

So the day of the PTC comes by and I'm sitting in the room with the dean of students, this miserable fucking termagant of a teacher, and my dad is running a little late.

He shows up in his United States Air Force dress blues, captain's insignia proudly displayed on his shoulder, his cover tucked under one arm alongside a blue folder (Dad always said "Important shit goes into the blue folder"). He walks in and sits down. Says hi to me, greets the dean, nothing to the teacher.

He opens the folder and pulls out my homework, slides it across the table and says "Show me where this is wrong."

This rancid bitch, wearing shorts and a t-shirt in contrast to a man in LITERAL MILITARY DRESS, says "I don't think I need to. I'm certified to teach this field, and I'm an expert in Electrical Engineering. If I say the homework is wrong, then it's wrong."

Dad pauses. Reaches back into his folder. Pulls out another piece of paper. Slides it across the table.

"I am," my old man says, "A NASA certified Electronics Technician. I did this assignment with him. If you are not able to produce a matching level of certification or show me where this is wrong, you have two options: Either you fix my son's grade, or I will have your job."

She changed the assignment to 50/50.

But she still didn't pass up an opportunity to throw me under the bus when she was legally allowed to get away with it.

Anyways! Fuck that bitch, may her pillow always be warm, her meals always be unsatisfying, and may she get stood up on every date she goes on.

does everyone have a teacher that they still have beef with/ hold a grudge against today??

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Pairing: Mafia Ateez OT8x Reader

Warnings: smut, fluff, angst, poly ateez, violence and weapons, mafia ateez, organized crime, parental death and grieving process, bullying, possessive and controlling behavior,

Summary: When Y/n Ricci is forced to marry Kim Hongjoong—leader of the notorious ATEEZ organization and one of eight men who cruelly abandoned her seven years ago—she finds herself trapped in their heavily guarded compound with the ghosts of her past. As she navigates the dangerous world of mafia politics and her own wounded heart, Y/n discovers that all eight powerful, irresistible men still harbor deep feelings for her, suggesting an unconventional solution to their shared dilemma. But before she can consider forgiving them, let alone loving them again, she must uncover the dark secret that tore them apart—a truth that could either heal their fractured bonds or destroy them all completely.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

18+ only- No Minors

Chapter 1: Ice in your Veins

The crystal decanter shattered against the wall, sending shards of glass and amber liquid cascading across your father's office.

"You've lost your goddamn mind!" you shouted, your chest heaving with each ragged breath. "An arranged marriage? What century do you think we're living in?"

Your father, Don Ricci, didn't even flinch. He simply stared at you with those cold, calculating eyes—the same eyes that had ordered countless men to their deaths. The same eyes you'd inherited.

"Y/n," he said, his voice steady and low. "You've always known this day would come."

"Known? Known?" you spat the word like venom. "I never agreed to be some bargaining chip in your twisted game of power."

He sighed, rising from his leather chair to pour himself another drink from a second decanter—as if he'd anticipated your outburst. Of course he had. Your father always seemed to know what cards would be played before they were even dealt.

"This isn't a game, cara mia. It's survival." He swirled the amber liquid, watching it catch the light. "The Ricci family needs this alliance."

"Then make it with guns and money like you always do," you hissed. "Not with your daughter's life."

"The Kim family has always been our ally. Hongjoong's father and I have been friends since before you were born," he said, his expression softening slightly with nostalgia. "But times are changing. The old alliances need to be... reinforced."

"So call him up for dinner like you used to! Remember those Sunday gatherings with all the families?" Your voice cracked. "You don't need to sell your daughter to maintain a friendship!"

Your father's eyes narrowed. "This isn't just about friendship, Y/n. This is about survival. The Russo family is encroaching on all our territories. Together, our families are stronger."

You laughed bitterly. "So you're afraid of them? The great Don Ricci, trembling before—" You froze mid-sentence, the full implications hitting you. "Wait. Kim? As in Kim Hongjoong? That Hongjoong?"

Your father's eyes met yours, a flicker of understanding passing through them. "Yes. The same boy you used to run around with. You and those eight boys were inseparable once—until they weren't."

The name hit you like a physical blow. You gripped the edge of his desk to steady yourself, memories flooding back in a dizzying rush—laughter shared under summer stars, secrets whispered in the darkness, and then... nothing. Seven years of nothing.

"No," you whispered. "Anyone but him."

Your father watched you carefully, more perceptive than you'd given him credit for. "I thought you'd be pleased. You were close once, all of you. The sons of my most trusted allies." He paused, studying your reaction. 

You turned away, unwilling to let him see the pain in your eyes. "Apparently we weren’t as close as I thought."

"I don’t have the energy for you tonight," he sighed. "This alliance is necessary. The Kim, Park, Jeong, Kang, Choi, Song, and Jung families—we've controlled this city for generations. Now we need to ensure it stays that way for generations to come."

"How considerate of you," you sneered, finding your voice again. "And I suppose Hongjoong has already agreed to this?"

"He has. In fact, it was his father who proposed it."

Something sharp and painful twisted in your chest. So that's how it was. The boy who had once sworn he would always protect you had agreed to make you a prisoner in your own life.

"Did you ever stop to wonder," you asked quietly, dangerously, "why they all disappeared from my life? Why your 'trusted allies' sons suddenly wanted nothing to do with me?"

Your father's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. "The world we live in is complicated, Y/n. Boys become men. Priorities shift."

"Bullshit," you spat. "Something happened. Something you're not telling me."

Don Ricci set down his glass with deliberate care. "What I know is that we need this alliance, and Hongjoong is willing. That's all that matters now."

* * *

Across the city, Hongjoong stood at the window of his penthouse office, staring out at the glittering skyline. Behind him, Seonghwa watched his leader carefully, noting the tension in his shoulders.

"You told Don Ricci you'd marry his daughter," Seonghwa said, not a question but a statement.

Hongjoong didn't turn. "I did what was necessary for the family."

"And what about Y/n?" Seonghwa asked, his voice carefully neutral. "Do you think she'll agree?"

A bitter smile crossed Hongjoong's face. "Y/n doesn't have any more choice in this than I do." 

Seonghwa stepped closer, lowering his voice though they were alone. "She doesn't know why we left. What we did to protect her."

"And she never will," Hongjoong said sharply, finally turning to face his consigliere. His eyes were hard, resolved. "That was the agreement. We stay away, she stays safe. And now..."

"Now you're bringing her back into our world," Seonghwa finished for him.

Hongjoong's hand tightened around the tumbler of whiskey he held. "Her father's losing control. The Russo family is closing in. If we don't step in now, she'll be caught in the crossfire regardless."

"Our fathers always intended for the families to unite this way," Seonghwa mused. "It was discussed even when we were children."

"But none of them could have predicted what happened seven years ago," Hongjoong replied grimly.

"And what will you tell her? After seven years of silence?"

Hongjoong downed the rest of his drink in one swift motion. "Nothing. The past stays buried."

"She won't accept that," Seonghwa warned. "You know how she is."

A flash of something—perhaps pain, perhaps fondness—crossed Hongjoong's face. "Yes," he said quietly. "I remember exactly how she is."

* * *

You paced your bedroom like a caged animal, anger burning through your veins. The door was locked—not by your father's order but by your own hand. You needed space to think, to breathe, to process the bomb that had just been dropped on your life.

Hongjoong. After all this time.

You grabbed the nearest object—a porcelain figurine—and hurled it at the wall, taking grim satisfaction in watching it shatter. It didn't help, but at least it was something.

Seven years ago, they had been your everything—Hongjoong and the others. More than friends, they had been your chosen family, your confidants, your safety in a world where your last name made you both royalty and target. The sons of your father's closest allies and business partners, you'd grown up together in the sheltered world of mafia royalty. And then one day, without warning or explanation, they were gone. No calls. No messages. Nothing but cold silence and empty promises.

And now Hongjoong had the audacity to agree to marry you? Like you were nothing more than a business transaction?

You grabbed your phone, scrolling to a number you'd never deleted but never called. Your thumb hovered over it.

A soft knock at your door interrupted your thoughts.

"Miss Y/n?" It was Paolo, your father's most trusted bodyguard. "Your father wants you downstairs. The Kim and Park families have arrived to discuss the arrangements."

You froze, your heart stuttering in your chest. "Already? They're here now?"

"Yes, miss. Your father says you have ten minutes to make yourself presentable."

You wanted to scream, to throw something else, to lock yourself in and refuse to come out. But you were a Ricci. And Riccis didn't hide.

"Tell my father I'll be down," you called back, your voice steadier than you felt.

As Paolo's footsteps faded away, you caught your reflection in the mirror. Wild eyes, flushed cheeks, hair tumbling in disarray around your shoulders. You looked dangerous, unhinged.

Perfect.

If Hongjoong thought he could waltz back into your life and claim you like a prize, he was about to learn a painful lesson. You might be forced into this marriage, but you'd be damned if you made it easy for him.

You reached for your closet, pulling out a black dress that hugged every curve, cut just low enough to be a distraction, just high enough to maintain the appearance of respect. You applied your makeup with deliberate precision—red lips, smoky eyes, sharp enough to cut.

Armor, in its own way.

Ten minutes later, you descended the grand staircase of your family home, each step measured and deliberate. You could hear voices from the main drawing room—your father's deep rumble, and then another voice that sent a jolt through your system.

Hongjoong.

You paused outside the door, steadying yourself with one deep breath, and then another. You weren't that heartbroken teenage girl anymore. You were Y/n Ricci, daughter of one of the most feared men in the city. And you were about to face the ghosts of your past.

With one final steadying breath, you pushed open the door and stepped inside, your eyes immediately finding his across the room.

Time seemed to stop as your gaze locked with Hongjoong's for the first time in seven years.

The room fell silent as you stepped inside. 

Five men turned to look at you—your father, his consigliere Antonio, and three figures from your past. Mr. Kim and his son Hongjoong stood near the fireplace, while Seonghwa lingered slightly behind them, ever the faithful shadow.

"Ah, Y/n," your father's voice broke the silence. "Come greet our guests."

You moved forward with practiced grace, your heels clicking against the marble floor like a ticking bomb. Your eyes remained fixed on Hongjoong, cataloging the changes seven years had brought. Gone was the boy with bright eyes and an easy smile. In his place stood a man, sharp-edged and dangerous, dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit. His hair, once a wild mop, was now styled with deliberate precision, dark strands falling just above eyes that watched you with maddening impassivity.

"Mr. Kim," you greeted Hongjoong's father first, extending your hand with a polite smile. "It's been too long."

The older man took your hand, his grip firm. 

"Y/n. You've grown into a beautiful young woman." His eyes crinkled with what seemed like genuine warmth. "Your mother would be proud."

You kept your smile in place, though the mention of your mother sent a familiar pang through your chest. "Thank you."

Then you turned to Hongjoong, letting your smile cool several degrees. "Mr. Kim," you said again, the formal address a deliberate reminder of the distance between you now.

Hongjoong stepped forward, taking your offered hand. His touch sent an unwelcome jolt of electricity up your arm—a physical betrayal you refused to acknowledge.

"Miss Ricci," he replied, his voice deeper than you remembered. "A pleasure to see you again."

"Is it?" you asked, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "I wouldn't have guessed, given the circumstances."

Hongjoong's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—perhaps surprise at your directness. "The circumstances are... complex."

"They always are in our world, aren't they?" You withdrew your hand from his grasp, turning to the third visitor. "Mr. Park. I see you're still following Hongjoong around like a loyal puppy. Some things never change."

Seonghwa's lips twitched slightly—not in anger, but what almost looked like appreciation for your barb. "Miss Ricci. Sharp as ever."

"One of us has to be," you replied coolly.

There was a time when you would have greeted these men differently—when Hongjoong would have been "Joongie" and Seonghwa would have been "Hwa." When you would have thrown your arms around them without hesitation, your laughter filling the room. But that time was long gone, buried under seven years of silence and unanswered questions.

Your father cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should sit and discuss the arrangements."

"An excellent suggestion," Mr. Kim said, gesturing toward the seating area.

You took a seat in a high-backed chair, crossing your legs elegantly as the men arranged themselves on the surrounding sofas. Hongjoong sat directly across from you, his dark eyes never leaving your face.

"As we've discussed," your father began, "the marriage will take place in three months' time. This will give us adequate opportunity to prepare and to announce the union to our associates."

"Three months?" you interjected, your voice carrying a dangerous edge. "How generous of you to give me a whole season to prepare for my own wedding."

Your father shot you a warning look, but Mr. Kim merely chuckled. "Your daughter has your spirit, Don Ricci."

"Sometimes too much of it," your father muttered.

Hongjoong leaned forward slightly. "Three months is standard for arrangements of this nature. It allows for proper preparations while not delaying the benefits of our alliance."

"Benefits," you repeated, the word dripping with disdain. "How romantic. Tell me, Hongjoong, do you always discuss marriage in terms of profit margins and strategic advantages?"

A muscle in Hongjoong's jaw twitched. "In our position, romance is a luxury few can afford."

"And yet here I am, being auctioned off like a prized mare. Quite the luxury indeed."

"Y/n," your father warned.

But Hongjoong raised a hand. "It's alright. Y/n has every right to express her... reservations."

"How magnanimous of you," you said with a saccharine smile. "Granting me permission to have feelings about my own life."

Hongjoong's eyes narrowed slightly, but you caught it—the briefest twitch at the corner of his mouth, a ghost of the smile you once knew so well. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, but you'd seen it. Somewhere beneath that cold exterior, your words had reached him.

"Perhaps," Seonghwa suggested smoothly, "Miss Ricci would like some time to discuss the arrangement privately with Hongjoong. After all, they will be spending their lives together. Some initial conversation might ease the transition."

Your father nodded. "An excellent idea. Y/n, why don't you show Hongjoong to the garden? Antonio and I have some additional matters to discuss with Mr. Kim and Seonghwa."

It wasn't a request. You stood, smoothing down your dress. "Of course. This way, Mr. Kim."

You led Hongjoong through the double doors and into the hallway, your back straight, your steps measured. Neither of you spoke as you walked through the house and out to the garden—the same garden where you had all played as children, where secrets had been shared and promises made. Promises that had ultimately meant nothing.

Once outside, you turned to face him, crossing your arms. "Well? Shall we discuss flower arrangements and honeymoon destinations? Or would you prefer to skip straight to dividing up territories and body counts?"

Hongjoong didn't rise to the bait. He stood with his hands in his pockets, the evening breeze ruffling his perfectly styled hair. For a moment, in the fading light, he looked almost like the boy you'd known.

"You've changed," he said finally.

"Did you expect me to stay frozen in time?" you asked. "The same naive girl waiting for her friends to return?"

"No," he admitted. "But I didn't expect... this."

"This?"

"This version of you. Cold. Hard." His eyes traveled over you, lingering on your face. "Beautiful in a way that cuts."

You refused to let his words affect you. "We all become what we need to survive. You taught me that lesson quite effectively."

"I suppose I did," he murmured, moving past you to look out at the garden. "Do you remember when we used to sneak out here at night? All of us?"

"I remember a lot of things," you said flatly. "None of them relevant to our current situation."

Hongjoong turned back to you, his expression unreadable. "Is that how you want to play this, Y/n? Pretending the past never happened?"

"Isn't that exactly what you did?" you shot back, unable to keep the edge from your voice. "Seven years, Hongjoong. Seven years without a word. And now you want to reminisce like old friends?"

Something flashed in his eyes—pain, perhaps, or regret. But it was quickly masked by that infuriating control. "You're right. The past is irrelevant. What matters is our future arrangement."

"Arrangement," you repeated. "Not marriage. Not partnership. Arrangement."

"Would you prefer I lie to you? Dress this up as something it's not?"

"I would prefer not to be traded like a commodity," you snapped. "But since that ship has sailed, I'd at least like to know why you agreed to this. What possible benefit could you gain from marrying someone who clearly despises you?"

Hongjoong stepped closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, more complex. "Maybe I enjoy a challenge."

You let out a harsh laugh. "Is that what I am to you? A challenge to be conquered?"

"No," he said, his voice suddenly serious. "You're much more dangerous than that."

Before you could respond, he reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with unexpected gentleness. The casual intimacy of the gesture stole the breath from your lungs.

"Our fathers have made their decision," he said quietly. "We can fight it and make ourselves miserable, or we can find a way to make it work."

You stepped back, breaking the spell of his proximity. "And how exactly do you suggest we do that? Start fresh? Pretend you and the others didn't rip my heart out and stomp on it?"

A flash of guilt crossed his features. "I don't expect you to forget. Or forgive. But for both our sakes, we need to find a way forward."

"There is no 'we,' Hongjoong. There's you and your precious family, and there's me, doing what I must to survive—just as I've done since you all abandoned me."

Hongjoong's jaw tightened. "You know nothing about what happened."

"Whose fault is that?" you challenged.

For a moment, it seemed like he might actually tell you something—anything—to explain the past. But then his expression closed off again, the wall between you solidifying.

"Some things are better left buried," he said finally.

You laughed, the sound brittle in the evening air. "How convenient for you."

Hongjoong studied you for a long moment, his dark eyes taking in every detail of your face. "You know, despite everything, that fire in you—it's still there. They couldn't take that away."

"They?"

But he was already turning away. "We should go back inside. They'll be waiting."

As you followed him back toward the house, you couldn't help but wonder who "they" were, and what exactly Hongjoong thought had been taken from you. But one thing was certain—beneath his cold, controlled exterior, the boy you once knew still existed. You'd seen it in that fleeting almost-smile, heard it in the softness that had crept into his voice when he spoke of the past.

And that realization was far more dangerous than his indifference could ever be.

Taglist: @paramedicnerd004, @miracle-sol

[ssweeterthanfiction]

Greek Getaway!

harry castillo x fashion intern fem!reader content warnings: fluff, a TINY bit of smut at the end, age gap (reader is in late twenties, harry is in forties) summary: a vacation with your billionaire boyfriend wc: 3.8k

masterlist.

You’re exhausted by the time you unlock the penthouse door.

Your shoes are already in your hand, one strap broken, and your makeup has melted somewhere between the subway and the elevator. Your bag slips off your shoulder the second you step inside.

And then, before you can even exhale, you smell something.

Something warm. Garlic. Herbs. Olive oil.

You barely have time to register it when...

“Mi vida,” Harry’s voice greets you from somewhere near the kitchen. “I was about two minutes away from coming to track you down.”

You blink. You must look absolutely wrecked because his brow creases the second he sees you.

You try to speak, some kind of apology for being late or not answering his last text, but then Harry is already walking over, sliding a hand around your waist and leaning down to kiss your forehead.

“You’re tired,” he says softly.

“I look like a fashion intern who got sent to coffee duty in the rain.”

“You look like a goddess who’s overworked and underappreciated.” He kisses your temple again, then your cheek. “But lucky for you, I’m a very generous man.”

You laugh, head resting against his chest. “Did you order something?”

“I cooked. And I have a surprise for you.” His lips graze your ear, and he pulls back just enough to grin. “Come on. Close your eyes.”

“…Is it a new purse?”

“No purses, but if you want another I'll happily buy you it,” he says with a soft chuckle. “Promise. Just trust me.”

With your heels still dangling from your fingers and your shoulders sagging from the week you’ve had, you close your eyes. You hear him walk around you—there’s a soft rustle, the sound of a switch, and then his warm hands gently guide you forward.

"Okay," he says, stopping you at the edge of the living room. “You can open them now.”

You blink a few times.

And then your mouth drops open.

On the coffee table sits an itinerary, two first-class boarding passes, and a leather travel journal. A small bowl of olives and feta cheese rests beside a chilled bottle of wine. A book you’ve been eyeing—about ancient Greek fashion trends—is tucked under it all with a gold ribbon wrapped around the cover.

“We leave Friday,” Harry says, watching your reaction carefully.

You don’t respond at first.

You just stare. Then you look at him. Then the tickets. Then him again.

“Greece?” you ask quietly.

His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you in closer. “Ten days. No emails. No calls from your nightmare of a supervisor. Just us, the sea, and a suite with your name on it.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’ve never been more serious.”

You throw your arms around his neck so fast he stumbles a little backward, laughing against your shoulder as you pepper his jaw with kisses.

“I love you,” you mumble into his neck.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But say it again when we're in Greece, sí?”

The sun isn’t even fully up yet when you shoot out of bed, chest tight, your brain already racing.

Okay. Passport. Toiletries. Swimsuits. Did I pack my black heels? Shit, I didn’t email my supervisor. Did I set my out-of-office?

You’re halfway to the closet in one of Harry’s old dress shirts, panic-walking, when a sleepy voice cuts through the quiet.

“Mi amor…what are you doing?”

You turn to find him still in bed, the sheets low on his hips, hair mussed, watching you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the world.

“I- sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just need to finish packing. And check the tickets. And my skincare is still in the bathroom. And I think I forgot to-”

“Stop,” he says gently, sitting up. “Come here.”

“I...Harry...”

“Come here.”

You grumble something under your breath but obey, climbing onto the bed reluctantly. He pulls you into his lap, strong arms wrapping around you, warm and slow and grounding.

“Baby,” he says, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “I already packed your bags.”

You blink. “What?”

“Everything’s in the foyer. New luggage, cream leather, matches the shoes I got you. Your passport’s in your purse. Your skincare’s already packed. Out-of-office email sent.” Another kiss, this one to your jaw. “I even bought you new bathing suits. The red one with the gold ring you were eyeing? It’s folded between three pairs of sunglasses I had overnighted.”

You pull back just enough to look at him.

“You bought me sunglasses?”

“I bought you Greece,” he says smugly. “The sunglasses were just a bonus.”

Despite the panic still simmering behind your eyes, a small laugh slips out. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m efficient. And madly in love with you.”

You let your forehead rest against his, finally allowing yourself to breathe.

“What about the airport?” you mumble. “Security? We’re going to hit traffic. What if we-”

“Car’s downstairs. The driver’s early. Don't worry about TSA or any airport stuff, let me worry about that.”

You blink again. “Who are you?”

He grins, leaning in for a soft, slow kiss. “Someone who hates seeing you stress. Now go brush your teeth, come back here for five more minutes of cuddling, and then we’ll go on the best vacation of your life.”

You sigh dramatically, draping yourself over him.

“Fine..."

He chuckles and kisses your shoulder. “Just let me take care of everything baby.”

You’ve never been in this part of JFK.

There are no long lines. No screaming toddlers. No buzz of flight numbers crackling over intercoms. Here, everything is quiet. Elegant. Every surface gleams. Every scent is subtle, fresh citrus, expensive cologne, and warm espresso drifting from the sleek lounge bar nearby.

Harry rests a hand on the small of your back as you step inside the private terminal, effortlessly guiding you past security with a nod to the staff. The agents don’t ask for your ID. They just smile at him like they know him. Like they’ve known him.

Because they do.

“This isn’t even the lounge,” you whisper, heels softly clicking against polished marble. “This is just the entrance?”

Harry laughs low, brushing your hair behind your ear. “You’re adorable when you’re shocked.”

“I’m not shocked,” you mumble, eyes glued to the towering floral arrangement near the check-in desk. “I’m…digesting.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek. “Wait until you see the jet.”

You reach the private lounge and freeze. Plush velvet seating. Soft instrumental jazz. A breakfast spread that looks catered by a Michelin-star chef. There’s a Hermes throw draped casually over the arm of one of the couches. And a tray with your favorite pastry and a cappuccino already waiting, your name written in delicate script on a place card.

“You did not have that brought out for me,” you say, half-laughing.

“I did,” he says, already loosening the cuffs of his cream button-down and settling onto the couch like he owns the building.

You blink. “Harry, this is insane.”

He looks up from his phone and pats the seat beside him. “No, baby. This is standard.”

You sit beside him slowly, dazed, taking the cappuccino like it’s a fragile artifact. “So…this is what it’s like to fly with you?”

“This is what it’s like to date me.”

You look at him. His expression is unreadable for a beat, somewhere between teasing and completely serious.

He breaks the silence by tugging your legs gently across his lap, massaging your ankle with one hand. “I know you’re not used to this.”

“I really, really am not.”

He leans in, voice quiet. “But you’ll get used to it. If you let me take care of you.”

You study him. His sharp jawline. The steady confidence. The hint of concern in his eyes, like maybe he’s not sure if all of this is too much. If he’s too much.

You shift closer and rest your head on his shoulder. “I think I’m okay with that.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, lips lingering.

A few minutes later, an attendant appears, polished and polite. “Mr. Castillo? We’re ready for boarding. Would you like to walk out now?”

He nods and glances down at you. “Ready for your chariot?”

“You mean the jet?”

“Yes the jet. One of three.”

You blink, slipping your hand into his as he helps you up. “Of course you have three jets...”

The tarmac is quiet.

You can hear the gentle hum of the engines in the distance, the warm wind brushing past your legs as you follow Harry across the runway. He walks like this is nothing—tailored, crisp linen shirt fluttering slightly, hand resting protectively on the small of your back. You, however, feel like you’ve just stepped into a scene from a dream you never let yourself have.

The jet comes into view, and your breath catches.

It’s not flashy. It’s stunning. Cream exterior, gleaming gold accents, the “Castillo” name discreetly painted near the steps. A flight attendant stands waiting at the base of the staircase, smiling warmly.

Harry gives you a look, half smug, half sweet.

You swat his arm. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely,” he murmurs, and offers his hand as you take the first step. “Watch your step, mi vida.”

Inside, the cabin is glowing in the early morning light.

Cream and beige leather seats, real wood paneling, soft gold light fixtures. A queen-sized bed tucked into the back with a cashmere blanket folded neatly at the edge. A built-in espresso machine, a small tray with chocolate-covered almonds and fresh fruit. The air smells like bergamot and something you can’t place—maybe Harry’s cologne, maybe just money.

You pause, completely still in the aisle, blinking.

“Is this real?”

Harry steps behind you, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

“Very.”

You turn toward him, overwhelmed. “It has a bed.”

“Of course it has a bed. It’s a twelve-hour flight.”

“You bought me pajamas, didn’t you?”

He smirks. “Check the drawer next to the bed.”

You move, still barefoot from security, padding toward the bed and opening the drawer. Silk. The softest navy blue slip you’ve ever seen, your initials stitched discreetly into the hem.

You blink back at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

He shrugs. “Comfort is important.”

You curl into one of the plush leather seats while Harry disappears into the back to speak with the pilot. When he returns, the plane is already taxiing. He sits beside you, tugs your legs into his lap, and hands you a glass of champagne.

“Are you sure I’m not dreaming?” you whisper, swirling the flute.

“Positive.”

The next few hours pass in a blur of luxury and warmth.

Harry shows you how to recline your seat back, you sip espresso while he reads a novel in Spanish beside you, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing circles into your thigh. At one point, he feeds you strawberries dipped in honey. At another, you climb into bed and nap with your face pressed to his chest while the clouds pass outside the window.

You’re half-dozing, curled up in the silk pajamas he packed for you, and Harry has you lying across his lap again, this time on the jet’s bed. He’s gently combing his fingers through your hair, careful not to tug, careful not to wake you fully.

“You know,” he murmurs quietly, almost to himself, “when I bought this jet, I imagined using it for meetings, quick flights, boring things.”

You hum sleepily.

He leans down and presses a kiss to your temple.

“But now you’re in my bed, on my jet, wearing pajamas I had monogrammed for you, and I suddenly care a lot less about boardrooms.”

You smile into his chest. “So I’m your favorite investment?”

“The only one I’ll never want to cash out.”

You wake up later—disoriented, warm, and blinking in soft gold light. The silk pajamas are clinging gently to your skin. Harry’s fingers are still stroking your hair, slow and rhythmic.

“We’re somewhere over the Atlantic,” he says softly. “You’ve been out for three hours.”

You hum. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You looked peaceful.”

You glance up at him. “How much longer?”

“Seven hours.”

“Good. Plenty of time to make out on your fancy jet.”

Harry huffs a laugh, deep and warm. “Is that what you plan to do with the time I spent organizing a gourmet in-flight lunch?”

“Do I get both?”

He leans down, brushing his lips against your forehead. “You get everything.”

The jet door opens to a rush of warm, sun-kissed air.

It smells like salt and citrus and something earthy. The kind of air that makes you exhale without realizing you’ve been holding your breath.

Harry squeezes your hand gently as you descend the stairs. “Welcome to Greece, mi vida.”

A sleek black car is already waiting on the tarmac. The driver gives Harry a polite nod but hands him the keys. Of course. Harry prefers to drive.

He opens your door before you can touch the handle.

The roads wind gently away from the coast, olive groves on either side, small bursts of bougainvillea climbing over stone fences. You lean your head back against the leather seat.

Harry’s driving with one hand, sunglasses low on his nose, shirt collar open just enough to show the tan beginning to deepen on his skin.

He glances at you as you stare out the window, enchanted. “Tired?”

“Not anymore.”

You rest a hand on his thigh. His thumb brushes slow circles against the inside of your knee.

“Is the villa close?” you ask quietly.

Harry smiles, eyes back on the road. “You’ll know when you see it.”

And then, just like magic, it appears.

The gates are discreet but grand, vines curling around the stone pillars. A long gravel drive opens to a view that could break your heart: cliffs rolling down into the Aegean, sun spilling across pale terraces and tall cypress trees. The villa sits like a secret—modern but sunwashed, soft tan stone and white linen curtains fluttering from open windows.

It doesn’t look like a vacation rental.

It looks like a fantasy.

Harry parks the car with practiced ease and gets out, jogging around to open your door. He holds out a hand, and when you take it, he tugs you close for a kiss, warm and unhurried, right there in the driveway.

“I could get used to this,” you whisper against his lips.

“You should,” he says simply. “This place is ours for the week.”

You blink. “You mean we rented it?”

“I mean I own it.”

“…Harry.”

He laughs. “What? I bought it years ago. It’s underused.”

You shake your head and let him lead you up the stone steps. Inside, the air is cooler, touched by sea breeze. The walls are smooth, white stucco. A bowl of fresh figs sits on the kitchen counter. You spot a private pool through the glass doors and what looks like a private staircase leading straight to the beach below.

You turn to look at him—mouth parted, breath shallow.

He’s watching you carefully.

“Too much?” he asks softly.

“No,” you say, stepping into him, curling your fingers into the collar of his shirt. “It’s perfect.”

He kisses you again, slower this time.

“I want you to feel like you can breathe here,” he murmurs. “No expectations. No deadlines. Just rest. Me. This view.”

You nod against him.

You don’t need the view, though.

You’ve got Harry.

The villa feels like it was made just for the two of you.

You walk barefoot through each room, your fingers trailing over smooth stone countertops and pale wood beams, sun filtering through gauzy curtains. The living space opens into an airy kitchen and then to a hallway that leads to a bedroom so breathtaking it almost doesn’t feel real—arched windows, silk pillow cases, a bed big enough to lose yourselves in.

Harry walks behind you, occasionally pointing things out in his low, rich voice.

“That staircase leads straight down to a private beach,” he says, motioning toward a little stone path tucked into the side of the property. “And the guest house is through the olive trees over there. But we won’t need it.”

You glance back at him with a playful smile. “No guests?”

He raises a brow. “Not unless you’re planning on inviting someone.”

You shake your head, giggling. “Nope. I want you all to myself.”

“Good,” he murmurs.

You spend the afternoon wandering in and out of rooms, discovering sun-warmed terraces, hidden lounge chairs, and little alcoves that smell like rosemary and fresh linen.

And then the sky starts to turn gold.

You slip into the pool just as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. The water is warm, glowing with the last remnants of daylight.

Harry joins you in navy swim trunks, lazy and relaxed, hair tousled by the breeze. He swims up behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, and pulls you gently against him.

You lean back into his chest. “This feels like a dream.”

“It’s real,” he says, kissing your shoulder. “All of it.”

The two of you float in silence, the water cradling you while the sky melts into shades of pink, orange, and lavender. His hands stay on your hips. His lips find the side of your neck. And for once, time doesn’t feel like it’s racing.

Later, Harry insists on cooking.

He opens a bottle of wine, rolls his sleeves up, and starts chopping fresh herbs like he’s done it a thousand times. The kitchen fills with the scent of garlic, tomatoes, lemon zest.

You sit at the island in one of his oversized button-downs, watching him.

“You know,” you tease, “I thought you would've just had a private chef on standby.”

“I am the private chef tonight,” he says, tossing you a wink. “And I only cook for you.”

The food is incredible—simple, fresh, perfect. Pasta tossed with olive oil and basil. Grilled shrimp with lemon. He pours you more wine before you can ask.

The sun’s fully set now. A few lanterns flicker around the terrace. The sound of the sea hums low in the background.

After dinner, you find yourself standing on the villa’s highest balcony, arms wrapped around your own waist, looking out at the dark horizon.

It’s quiet. Gentle. Magic.

You don’t even hear him step up behind you—but you feel him the second his hands touch your sides, gliding slowly around your waist until they meet at your stomach. His chin rests on your shoulder. His body curves into yours.

“You belong here,” Harry says softly, his voice deep and steady in your ear. “In this life. With me.”

You exhale shakily, your hands covering his.

“I don’t always feel like I do.”

“Well, you do now,” he says simply. “This villa. This view. The wine, the sea, the bed behind us. It’s all yours. Because you’re mine.”

You turn in his arms and press your forehead against his chest.

“You make me feel like I’m not pretending.”

He tilts your chin up, kissing you gently. “There’s nothing pretend about this.”

The stars begin to come out.

And in his arms, you believe it.

You don’t go back inside right away.

You stay on the balcony, wrapped in Harry’s arms, long after the stars appear—just swaying slightly, your bare feet against warm stone, the wind catching the hem of his shirt you’re wearing.

Eventually, he kisses your cheek and murmurs, “Come swim with me again.”

The pool at night is even more breathtaking.

Lanterns glow from the corners of the terrace, casting a warm shimmer across the water. You strip down to your underwear and slip in without a word. Harry follows, slow and unhurried, the moonlight catching on his skin.

You float toward each other like it’s instinct.

His hands find your waist underwater, fingertips brushing your ribs as you hook your arms around his neck.

“Hi,” you whisper, smiling softly.

“Hi,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours. “You’re glowing.”

You hum. “That’s just the villa lighting.”

“No, that’s you. You always do this to me.”

He kisses you, deeper, slower. The kind of kiss that makes your knees weak even in water. The kind that makes you forget the rest of the world exists.

His lips trail down your neck, your collarbone, his fingers gripping your thighs underwater before he lifts you, effortlessly, to sit on the edge of the pool. The cool night air brushes your damp skin, and he follows you up—mouth finding your stomach, your hip, the inside of your thigh.

“Let me take care of you,” he says against your skin. “Just relax for me, mi amor.”

You do.

And he does.

He takes his time, worshipping you slowly, thoroughly, until your back arches and your breath catches and your fingers knot in his damp curls. When you’re spent and trembling, he kisses your knee, then your lips, and lifts you into his arms.

“Bed,” he murmurs.

He lays you on the bed like you’re made of glass.

Your skin is still damp, your heart still fluttering, and you reach for him without hesitation.

Harry covers your body with his, kissing you again, this time deeper. His hands cup your face, his lips trailing down your jaw.

When he pushes into you, it’s slow, like a promise. He whispers things you can’t fully hear, too far gone, but you feel them in how he touches you. His hips move with a steady rhythm, one hand braced by your head, the other tangled with yours.

“You feel like heaven,” he breathes against your mouth.

You moan softly, legs tightening around him.

“You’re mine,” he says, almost reverent. “All of this. You.”

Your body trembles again, clinging to him as your breath shatters against his neck.

He follows with a groan, low, ragged, undone.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Just rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in.

Later, you’re tucked into his chest, fresh sheets under you, hair still damp, the sliding glass doors open just enough to let the sea breeze in.

Harry’s fingers are tracing lazy circles on your spine.

“You okay?” he asks, voice warm and quiet.

“More than.”

He kisses your forehead, lips lingering.

“You looked out at that view tonight like you were waiting for it to disappear,” he murmurs.

You swallow. “I guess part of me still doesn’t believe this is real.”

Harry cups your jaw and gently guides your face up to meet his.

“It is,” he says. “I’m real. This is real. And I’ll keep reminding you until you believe it.”

You nod softly, curling closer into him, eyes fluttering shut.

“Don’t let me wake up,” you whisper sleepily.

“I won’t,” he says. “Sleep, baby. You’re safe.”

The waves crash in the distance.

The moonlight spills across your skin.

And in Harry’s arms, you finally let yourself drift.

A/N: this is most likely gonna be a 2 part thing! but only if u guys want it to be ofc!!!

[smileysuh]

choices

🌙 starring. Johnny Suh & Lee Haechan & Jung Jaehyun x afab!Reader 

🔮 preview. Everything feels so good- you don’t even know where to focus. Being touched by two of your best friends while the third watches is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. There’s something building inside of you, call it lust or love- regardless, it’s undeniable, and to make matters worse, it’s all-consuming too. 

tw/cw. Unprotected sex, cam girl reader, mentions of alcohol/drugs/porn, masturbation, use of sex toys, multiple reader orgasms, oral (both m/f recieving), blow job, pussy eating, overstim, multiple sex positions, dirty talk, praise, size kink, choking, spanking, etc… I pet names: (hers) Squeak.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 9.7k 

🍭 aus. Uni au, non idol au, best friends to lovers, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. This was originally a Pentagon fic from 2022, but that was three and half years ago so I revamped it for this month’s NCT fic :) I put a lot of effort into this fic when it came out, I always liked the story and the way the dynamic flowed, and the NCT fandom is so much larger than the Pentagon one, so I figured why not

“What are you thinking about?” Johnny asks as he takes a seat next to you. You make room for your large friend by lifting your legs off the couch, allowing him to slip under them.

His warm hands find your calves and he brings them to settle in his lap while you both get comfortable on the couch that Haechan has been hauling around since his last year of high school, when he’d won it during a drunken game of beer pong with Lee Taeyong, who was very flustered when he lost and had to actually cough up the couch.

You grin at the memory, pushing your body against the fuzzy blanket that covers the dark leather couch much of the time- Taeyong hadn’t bought the expensive sofa with the intention of it becoming a part-time bed for teenage boys, too lazy to get up after playing video games at all hours.

Haechan has made the stiff, leather couch comfortable with layers of blankets and pillows, and over the years, countless people have worn it down. 

“This couch,” you breathe, leaning your head to the side against the cushion. 

“How high are you?” Johnny laughs, his hand moving to find your foot, where he runs a finger along your heel. The brief contact causes you to jolt yourself away from the mischievous man, who had rolled into your life around the same time Haechan and Jaehyun had, in tenth grade.

The four of you had all been sent to some preppy teenager summer camp. Jaehyun, Haechan, and Johnny had all bonded immediately, and the three were easygoing enough to welcome you wholeheartedly into the festivities of newfound friendship.

What had started off as a ‘year abroad’ for the man from Chicago had turned into him moving to Korea full time, and the four of you have been inseparable ever since, even going to the same university now. 

“For real,” Johnny says gruffly, grabbing your foot to pull it back into his lap before running a ring-clad hand through his tousled locks. “What are you thinking about?”

“Something stupid,” you sigh, cocking your head and studying him. “You?”

Your friend shrugs, flashing you a grin that you’ve come to love so much. “Something stupid.”

“You two really need to work on your social skills,” Haechan sighs, having caught the tail end of your brief interaction.

He collapses on the couch, and you quickly pull your legs to your chest in an effort not to get crushed during Haechan’s process of forcing himself between you and Johnny.

The youngest of your three male friends has a red cup in each hand, and he holds them out expectantly.

“Who needs social skills when we have you and Jaehyun?” you smile, accepting one of the drinks and taking a sip- only to scrunch your face up in disgust. “What is in this?”

Haechan shrugs, leaning back against the couch with a lazy grin. “I confiscated it from Doyoung” 

“No wonder it tastes so bad-” You hold the cup out to Haechan, and he reluctantly accepts it. “Doyoung makes the most stupid yet strong drinks of all of us. Someone really needs to teach him how to actually make a cocktail.”

“He has to find the energy to deal with us crazies somehow,” Johnny chuckles, sniffing his own cup and swirling the contents inside before taking a test sip. 

“Speaking of crazies,” you stretch your arms over your head, looking out at the room, “where’s Jaehyun?”

“Haven’t seen him in a while,” Haechan says, arms finding the back of the couch while he looks around, the cup held by long fingers now resting just by your shoulder.

“Didn’t he go off with that pretty girl in the glitter shirt?” Johnny asks.

“Maybe.” Haechan cocks his head, eyes narrowing. “Was she his ‘go to’ tonight?”

“Must be,” Johnny responds quickly. “He didn’t invite the other one.”

You sigh, finding the whole thing to be a little crazy.

Being best friends with three dudes has a lot of positives- but listening to them detail their fuck schedules and fuck buddies is not one of them. 

“Stop being so grumpy.” Haechan shoves you, and you realize you’ve been wearing your feelings on your sleeve for everyone to see. 

“I’m not being grumpy,” you insist, but you can’t wipe the expression of distaste from your face.

“You are. You hate Jaehyun and his fuck buddies.”

“I just- I just don’t get why the three of you are so into hookup culture,” you sigh. “I mean- what's the point?”

“The point is getting your dick wet, Squeak,” Johnny chuckles, and the nickname makes your skin heat.

They’ve tried a number of pet names for you over the years, but Pip Squeak has been the only one that’s truly stuck- and it’s no wonder. It’s completely fitting. You stick out like a tiny little nugget next to your three male friends. 

“She doesn’t need to get her dick wet,” Haechan rolls his eyes, a mischievous grin breaking onto his face a moment later. “She’s already as wet as can be.”

“Haechan!” You and Johnny both react at the same time, your foot kicking at Haechan’s lap while Johnny shoves him, and the obviously tipsy man simply giggles, taking the physical onslaught with a shit eating smile. 

“Why are we fighting Haechan?” Comes a tired voice, and Jaehyun tosses his body onto the couch, landing half on top of all three of you with his head in your lap.

“Haechan’s being a bad boy,” you respond, fingers finding Jaehyun’s soft, dark hair immediately, a habit you’d picked up years ago.

“Am not!” Haechan insists. “Tell me I'm wrong.”

You sigh loudly, rolling your eyes while Johnny chuckles.

“I’m missing something,” Jaehyun says from your lap, looking up at you with those pretty eyes of his, “tell me?” 

“All I said was that Y/N doesn't need to look for fuck buddies to get her dick wet because she’s already wet as shit,” Haechan states factually, which, to be fair, is a complete recount of what he’d said.

“And you know this for a fact?” Jaehyun teases, looking at his friend with an expression of smug disbelief.

“Well-” Haechan visibly shrinks, his shoulders slumping, his skin brightening with pretty pinks. “I mean-”

“For a moment there, I thought I'd missed a massive milestone in you guys' friendship,” Jaehyun says, letting out a sigh of relief as he gets comfortable in your lap again. He turns onto his side so he can nuzzle his face against your thighs, which he’s declared countless times to be the best pillows in the whole universe. “If the two of you started hooking up, I think the world would have to end.”

“It wouldn’t be that crazy,” Haechan fires back immediately, and his ears turn an even brighter red.

“It would be crazy that out of the three of us, she’d choose you,” Johnny says smoothly.

Haechan holds up a hand as if he’s going to hit his friend, and Johnny stiffens in his seat, his carefree expression turning stern in an instant. “It’s my birthday we’re celebrating right now,” he reminds his younger friend. “Show some respect.”

Haechan groans but lets his hand fall to his lap again. 

You’ve never met a trio of guys so centered around their birthdays.

These three are constantly utilizing their positions, whether it’s by Johnny expecting respect as the ‘oldest’, or Haechan playing baby.

“I think she’d choose me,” Jaehyun says in an almost wistful manner from your lap, turning to look up at you so he can reach a hand to play with your hair.

You think it’s interesting to be talking about this, especially since this very question has been on your mind so frequently as of late. It had been on your mind when Johnny first sat down, and now here it is again.

“She’s not choosing you, Jaehyun,” Johnny scoffs. “She hates your hookup culture.”

“My hookup culture?” Jaehyun laughs, lifting his head so he’s able to look at Johnny by his feet. “Says you!”

“How did I ever become friends with three man sluts?” you sigh teasingly, shaking your head at your constant companions, who erupt into chaos. 

“You love us,” Johnny insists, while Jaehyun defends his behaviour, and Haechan pretends to look scandalized at the notion of being a ‘man slut’. 

The bickering subsides when Doyoung’s voice bellows “Haechan!” from somewhere else in the house, and your foursome dissipates quickly thereafter.

You find your way to Jungwoo, who is trying his best to be helpful in the kitchen as the festivities wind down.

It’s just the core group of friends left in the mock frat house now, and before you know it, everyone is in the kitchen. Conversation is easy, and another hour ticks by before Doyoung finally pushes off from where he’s standing by a wall to announce he’s heading home. 

There’s a brief discussion over cars and who is sober enough to drive, and once his friends are accounted for, Doyoung turns to you. “Do you need a ride home?”

“She’s staying here,” Haechan says before you can answer, his arms wrapping around you tightly. It’s not uncommon for you to sleep over at the ‘mojo dojo casa man house’, as Haechan had dubbed it when they moved in. In fact, last year, you’d spent pretty much the entire summer here before the university term had started up again.

“As always,” Doyoung sighs as he puts his shoes on by the door, eyes assessing you and your three best friends. “Be careful with her.”

It’s a lasting joke in the friend group that everyone is waiting for Haechan to accidentally sit on you and break you- or maybe for Johnny to hug you a little too hard one day- 

“No promises,” Haechan grins happily, tightening his embrace around you until it borders on being painful. 

You can’t stand him sometimes.

You love him so much.

“Call me if they’re too demanding and you need an escape,” Doyoung warns you, earning some irritated sounds from your friends, who are eager to have you to themselves.

“She’s ours,” Jaehyun insists, arms wrapping around you so you’re now sandwiched between him and Haechan. 

Doyoung rolls his eyes as the final person in your group slides up against your back, resting his chin on top of your head. “We’ll take care of her,” Johnny promises.

You’re truly trapped now. 

The moment the door is closed behind Doyoung, sealing you in with your best friends, Jaehyun and Haechan jump into action. The younger of the two grabs your arm, dragging you towards the living room, while Jaehyun mirrors the motion on your opposite side, in the direction of the kitchen. 

Johnny tightens his grip on your waist, making it clear he’s not intent on moving. 

“What’s the plan?” The man behind you asks.

“Movie,” Haechan states.

“More drinks first,” Jaehyun insists.

“What do you think, Squeak?” Johnny’s fingers press gently into the skin of your hips, and you can feel the warmth of him through your thin shirt, his heart beating steadily at your back. 

You hate it when he makes you choose between activities. Why do you always have to be the Haechan and Jaehyun tie breaker? 

“I don’t care.”

“Movies,” Haechan states again, pulling on your arm.

Jaehyun tugs your other side. “Drinks first.” 

Johnny sighs. “I’ll go choose a movie with Haechan, and you two can make us drinks. But make it something good, okay? I need to get the Doyoung mix taste out of my mouth.”

“No promises,” Jaehyun grins, pulling you away from Haechan successfully this time.

Johnny catches your eye, and you laugh, a silent agreement to do your best to keep Jaehyun under control in the booze department. 

“You,” Jaehyun grabs at your waist when you reach the kitchen, “go here.” He lifts you up and sets you onto the countertop. “And I’ll make the drinks.” He smiles up at you, and you laugh at how cute he gets when he’s tipsy.

“Did you really need me to come help you then?”

“It’s really helpful for you to sit there and tell me I'm the best bartender in the house.”

“Like that’s a hard title to win,” you roll your eyes.

Haechan can’t cook (or do anything of the sort) to save his life, and Johnny- well, Johnny has a taste for cheap beer, which disqualifies him immediately from the race. 

You have to admit, Jaehyun moves like a professional. He glides from cupboard to counter, grabbing glasses and setting them up next to you. You watch the way his body moves, muscles visible with each motion, and when he shakes one of the drinks, you have to tear your eyes from his biceps.

He might be the leanest of your three friends, but he’s still much taller than you, and most women, for that matter. 

You’re so busy watching Jaehyun’s back that you don’t realize he’s paused his fluid motions. He turns, and you see he’s put an apron on- the one that says ‘kiss the chef’. Jungwoo had bought it for Johnny for Secret Santa one year in an effort to get Johnny to agree to barbecue more often. 

You cock a brow at your best friend as he slips between your legs, hands finding the counter on either side of your hips. “So?” He grins. “You gonna kiss the chef or what?”

You laugh. “Not sure you even qualify as a chef when you just said you’re a bartender.” But you grab his chin all the same, forcing Jaehyun to the side so you can plant your lips on his cheek. 

Jaehyun’s smiling when you let him go, appearing satisfied, and he returns to his drink making.

Within minutes, he has all four orders ready to go, and he carries a tray to the living room with you in tow. 

As Jaehyun sets the tray down, Haechan quickly reads the apron, stands, and sighs. “Well, if you insist.” He grabs Jaehyun and presses his lips to his cheek, much like you had.

Jaehyun recoils with disgust, shoving Haechan, only to be attacked on the other side by Johnny, who manages to get a kiss placed right below Jaehyun’s ear that has him shivering and jumping back, hiding behind you. “Save me, Squeak!” 

“You wore the apron!” Haechan laughs, and you know he leaps at any opportunity to terrorize his friends. 

“Just drink your drinks,” Jaehyun groans, taking off the piece of fabric that had just cost him another 2 of his 9 Jaehyun Cat Lives- you’ve seen him receive a sneak attack kiss from at least Jungwoo, and you’re pretty sure Taeyong as well, so you wonder how many Jaehyun Cat Lives are even left. 

“Remember when I sat next to you earlier?” Johnny says in your ear, arms wrapping around you as he pulls you down onto the couch. “And asked you what you were thinking?”

“Something stupid.”

“Yeah.” Johnny lets you get seated next to him, but he keeps an arm around you, eyes briefly moving to Jaehyun and Haechan, who are bickering about the movie on the other side of the couch. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

You laugh.

The man from Chicago grins, but there’s something serious in his eyes. “I’ll go first if you want.” His voice is softer this time, and the tone of the discussion has shifted entirely. 

“Johnny-”

“I was thinking about how good you look tonight.”

“Johnny-” Your voice is something near a whimper. You’re shocked and left speechless at the turn of events that have just been orchestrated by your best friend. He’s told you how pretty you are before, but there’s something about the way he’s saying it now- it’s different.

“Your turn,” he says, one large hand finding your thigh, smoothing up and down the denim that covers you from him. “What were you thinking about?”

You can’t tell him that you were thinking about him, Haechan and Jaehyun- that you were trying, for the billionth time, to decide which of the three you prefer the most- because if you were going to potentially ruin things with the other two, you want to know you are doing it with the right one-

But no matter how many times you’ve run it through your brain, you’ve come up empty-handed. Unable to choose. 

How do you say that to him?

“What are you two talking about?” Jaehyun’s voice is your saving grace, and he puts the drink he’d made for you into your hands. “She looks like she’s seen a ghost.”

“I just told her what we were all thinking,” Johnny shrugs.

“Liar. I was not thinking,” Haechan states, turning to look at you as he takes a deep breath. “What wasn’t I thinking?”

“That she looks good tonight,” Johnny says. 

However, when Johnny says it, he says it in a tone that’s friendly. 

He doesn’t say it as he had a few seconds ago, with a voice that was low and seductive. 

You can’t believe him.

“It is a nice outfit,” Jaehyun agrees lightheartedly, leaning back against the couch and propping his feet up on the coffee table in front of you.

“Okay, but hear me out.” Haechan sits up in his seat, his hands hovering as if he’s going to say something profound- “I always thought-” a pause, taken to ponder, big eyes blinking, “outfits like that are meant to be ripped off in like, an hour? Two hours- tops. How are you still wearing that?”

You all groan, but Johnny’s grip around you tightens. “He does have a point,” Johnny says. “Do you want to change into a hoodie and some sweatpants?”

You roll your eyes. “Are we all going to ignore the fact that he practically said I look like-”

“A pretty little whore,” Jaehyun interrupts you with a grin, his dimples perky amidst his alcohol blushed cheeks. “It’s okay, you look like that a lot of the time.” 

You stare at Jaehyun with shock for a moment, and then you look at Johnny, confidence flooding through your body. If they’re going to call you a pretty little whore, and touch your thighs, and be like this- well, you can play too.

“The stupid thing I was thinking about earlier was who out of the three of you I want to fuck the most, or at least, who I’d risk it all for.”

Johnny meets your gaze with an intense look of his own, and he licks his lips. “Go on,” he prompts, voice hoarse and sexy. “Who’d you pick?”

“I wasn’t able to pick. I never am,” you respond, turning sideways in your corner section of the couch, facing your body towards the three insanely handsome men you call best friends. 

Haechan is looking at you with wide eyes, jaw dropped, and Jaehyun is sitting perfectly still, and Johnny is meeting your gaze straight on, with an intensity unlike anything you’ve ever seen.

You swallow thickly. “Do you guys want to hear a dirty little secret?”

Johnny’s hand squeezes your thigh, and it’s Haechan who mumbles a whiny, “Yes.”

“Since I’m never able to pick-” you reach out, tracing a finger across Johnny’s collarbone, still hidden by his shirt, “I usually just end up imagining all three of you, and end up even more confused than when I started.”

“Well,” Johnny grabs you by the waist and easily pulls you to be straddling his lap. Dark eyes gaze up into yours. “I think we can help you figure it out.”

He leans in, and just as he’s about to kiss you, you tilt your head, his lips making contact with your cheek.

Johnny groans, fingers digging into your hips, and you laugh. “Come on, you know I can’t just risk all our friendships like this-”

“Why not?” Jaehyun moves closer, a hand reaching up to grab the back of your head, forcing you to look at him.

“Because what if I like all three of you the same?” you ask, looking past Jaehyun’s shoulder at Haechan, who is seated farthest from you on the couch, and is now being all but blocked out. 

“Then you like all three of us,” Johnny says, his hands applying pressure to your hips, forcing you down so you can feel how hard he is against your core. Even with both your pants in the way, you can tell he’s turned on, and it only makes you wetter. You stop a groan just as it’s about to escape your lips.

“I told you,” you breathe as Jaehyun releases his hold on your neck so you can look at the man under you again, “I’m not into your hookup culture.”

“This isn’t just going to be a hookup, and we all know it,” Johnny tells you, leaning up to have access to you again, only for you to turn your cheek at the last moment, repeating your behaviour from before. 

“Have any of you even had a foursome?” you question, and you’re pretty sure the answer is no. If they had, you’re sure you would have heard about it. 

“No, but it won’t be much different from a threesome,” Jaehyun muses, his fingers dancing up and down your arm, eyes taking in your form with a glimmer of darkness that you identify as lust.

He’s never looked at you like this before... at least, not that you’ve noticed.

“Says the guy literally excluding dude number three,” you laugh, meeting Haechan’s dumbstruck gaze again. “What do you think, Hyuck?”

“I think-” the youngest man coughs, clearing his throat. “I think we should take this to the bedroom where there’s more space.”

“Good idea.” Johnny stands abruptly, and you grab his shoulders to steady yourself, his hands slipping down to your ass, effectively holding you up while you cling to his front like a koala bear. 

“Hey!” You turn to nip at Johnny’s ear gently with your teeth, the biggest scolding you can do in this position. “I haven’t even said yes yet.”

“Sure you haven't,” Johnny breathes, continuing through the house towards the bedrooms. 

Jaehyun and Haechan are following close behind, and they walk shoulder to shoulder. You let your eyes take in their differences. There’s Haechan with his mischievous expressions and all black aesthetic- then there’s Jaehyun, looking as ethereal and statuesque as always. 

“You guys really think this won’t ruin anything?” you ask, letting your anxieties truly show as Johnny steps over the threshold into his room.

“How could it ruin anything?” Johnny retorts, placing you onto his bed before straightening to look down at you.

“It could ruin everything,” you frown. “What if one of you gets jealous-”

“Jaehyun?” 

“Yes, Johnny?”

“Are you going to get jealous if I fuck her brains out?”

“No.” A pause, then; “Hey, Haechan, are you going to get jealous?”

“Nope.”

“See?” Johnny grins down at you, and you groan, grabbing one of his pillows and covering your face with it. 

“You’re not getting it-” you whine, removing the pillow after a moment. 

“Then explain why you’re so worried.” Johnny reaches down and grabs one of your socks, pulling it off your foot even as you try to kick him away- he’s always going after your ticklish spots and you are not interested in him being a freaking tickle sadist right now. 

“I’m worried, because you say it’s not going to be a hookup, but then you also say that you can all apparently promise not to catch feels and get jealous-”

“Who promised not to catch feels?” Now it’s Jaehyun snatching at your foot to remove your second sock, and you’re left kicking at the three men at the end of the bed with bare feet. 

“Our little Pip Squeak doesn’t get it,” Johnny tuts with a grin. “Haechan, explain things to her.”

Your gaze moves to the youngest man in the room. He’s off center, on Jaehyun’s right side, and he’s watching you with an oddly pure expression. 

Haechan rubs the back of his neck, cocking his head at you. “You’re not the only one who’s thought about all this stuff,” he says. “The three of us- we’ve talked about this sort of thing happening-”

“You have?” you ask in shock, this being the first time you’ve ever heard of this.

“Of course we have Squeak,” Jaehyun says, using your distracted state to grab at you, striking faster than a snake, and getting your ankle in a harsh grip that he uses to drag you down the bed towards them.

“And we all agreed,” Johnny explains, “that whoever you choose, the other two won't get upset.”

“And now that we know you want all of us-” Jaehyun has dragged you all the way to the foot of the bed, and he releases your ankle in favour of latching onto the rolled cuff of your jeans, tugging gently. “What’s there to be upset about?”

“Besides,” Johnny lets out a small chuckle, “Haechan’s already been telling girls who hit on him at bars that he’s dating you so they back off. He’s a little more committed to you than Jaehyun or I can afford to be without knowing you return the feelings.”

Your eyes shift to Haechan again, and you notice how the redness has returned to his ears. He’s looking down at the floor, and your heart swells with emotion.

You look between your best friends, “So you three-” 

“Have been hopelessly in love with you for years, Squeak.” Johnny finishes for you. “So let us take care of you. And don't be worried about the consequences. There are none.”

“Are you sure about that?” You cock a brow. “I think if Doyoung finds out about this, he might have a heart attack.”

“Like I said, only good outcomes,” Johnny chuckles, then he holds out a hand for you. “Come here.” You reach for him, and Johnny easily pulls you to your feet, bringing you close until you’re chest to chest. “Let us help you learn not to worry so much, hmm?”

One of his hands comes to cup your face, thumb brushing across your cheekbone lovingly. Johnny looks down at you with dark eyes that have stars in them, and you let out a breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding. 

You trust Johnny, and you trust Jaehyun, and Haechan. 

With one final ‘please, Lord Jesus or whoever is up in the sky- please let this not end badly,’ you feel a surge of adrenaline run through you, and it gives you the courage to lurch onto your tiptoes, throw your arms around the back of Johnny’s neck. You press your lips to his for the very first time, and it’s as if a wave of electricity runs through your entire body.

Johnny’s hands immediately slip down to your waist, and he tugs you closer, kissing you back. He captures your lower lip between his own, suckling on it for a moment before letting his teeth drag against you, earning a small sound that rises out of your chest before you can even stop it.

Johnny grins against your lips briefly before kissing you harder, prompting you to open your mouth and allow his tongue to glide across your teeth. His hand slips down from your waist to your ass, giving you a delicious squeeze-

And then two new hands are grabbing your hips, forcibly making you turn, taking Johnny with you. Someone presses against your back, and it’s easy for you to guess who it is. 

Jaehyun’s fingers dig into your hips, pulling your lower body away from Johnny and back towards the new man behind you. Jaehyun grinds against you, his lips finding your neck and sending a shiver through your body at the new, unexpected contact. 

You find yourself reaching behind you, finding Jaehyun’s hair and lacing your fingers through it, tugging gently and earning a groan that reverberates against your throat. 

Jaehyun’s teeth graze your jugular and Johnny breaks your kiss in favour of going at the other side of your neck, one of his hands grabbing at your jaw and pushing up, giving both men more space as they suck little love bites into your skin. 

Now that your mouth isn’t covered with Johnny’s, your sounds slip out unhindered, little whimpers of delight that earn growls of interest from the men all but claiming your throat - your very breath - as theirs. 

Then you remember the youngest man missing from this equation, and his name tumbles from your lips. “Haechan-”

Johnny's knuckles darkly against your throat, and then he adjusts the grip, still pushing at your chin, so he can insert two fingers into your mouth. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?” Johnny asks, nipping at your earlobe. “Saying Haechan’s name while Jaehyun and I worship you like this.”

You moan around his fingers, blindly grabbing at Johnny’s belt to drag him closer. 

“You want him first, don’t you, Squeak?” Jaehyun hisses against your neck. “You always care about your baby boy first, isn’t that right?” He pulls his face away from your skin, and a moment later, his fingers are wrapping around your throat, squeezing. 

You moan around Johnny’s fingers, and he removes them from your mouth, both men giving you enough space to answer them.

“Yes,” you gasp, pushing your ass back against Jaehyun, “Haechan deserves it.”

Fingers squeeze your neck again, and Jaehyun’s lips brush by your ear when he asks, “And we don’t?”

You let out a groan when Johnny pushes his leg between your thighs, and it’s the first real contact on your core, sending shivers of pleasure through your body. “You two stole my socks.”

The men caging you in begin to laugh, and if you weren’t so distracted by their hands on you- their massive bodies locking you in between them- you might have laughed as well, but the most you can do is latch onto Johnny’s shoulders when he pushes his thigh up against you harder. 

“Fine,” Johnny says, voice low. His hand comes to cup your face, and you open your eyes to look up at him. “You can have Haechan first. But if you were anyone else- I’d make him wait.”

“Let's make him wait,” Jaehyun suggests behind you, and a moment later, he’s latching his lips onto your neck again, finding your sweet spot and exploiting it for the pretty gasps that immediately leave you.

“So you’re going to say no to her?” Johnny laughs, rubbing his nose against yours gently before kissing you with the same softness.

Behind you, Jaehyun groans, and you know he’s been defeated.

“How are we going to do this?” Jaehyun asks, and you realize nearly immediately that he’s not talking to you.

Johnny stops kissing you to consider it for a moment, even turning to look at the bed. Then he says, “Haechan sitting against the headboard, Squeak on his lap, you can be behind.”

“And you?” You grab the front of Johnny’s shirt, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“I’ll wait,” he assures you. “Someone has to tell these two which positions are going to work.”

“I know positions,” Jaehyun mutters behind you, making both you and Johnny laugh.

Jaehyun must not like being laughed at, because his hands grab your hips and he roughly turns you to face him, looking down at you with a dark gaze. “You think this is funny?” He grabs your face, nearly shaking with what looks to be repressed emotion, and all your laughter dies in your throat. “You have no idea how long we’ve-” he groans, unable to finish his sentence. 

“Then show me.”

He grabs your face with both hands, smashing his lips to yours.

If Johnny had been eager but collected, Jaehyun is the opposite side of the same coin, eager and extremely enthusiastic, his tongue clashing against yours immediately. His thumb presses against your cheekbone as he kisses you, and then his hands disappear for a moment, only for your shirt to be torn off your body.

Jaehyun’s lips move to your neck, and you let out a gasp, fingers threading in his hair while his mouth begins its descent.  His lips press sloppy kisses to your collarbones and then the swell of your breasts, one of his large hands splaying across the small of your back-

He grabs at the latch of your bra, and you whimper, body tingling with anticipation-

While Jaehyun undoes the clasp, a new set of hands finds your shoulders, pushing the straps of your bra down gently. Lips press butterfly kisses against the nape of your neck and your shoulders, a stark contrast to Jaehyun, who successfully gets your bra off and moves his attention to your breasts. 

“Fuck-” Jaehyun groans, cupping your left boob in his hand and kneading it while his tongue darts out to tease your other nipple- then he’s grabbing at your legs, lifting you up while the man behind you gets out of the way, allowing Jaehyun to toss you onto the bed, his body landing on top of yours. 

Jaehyun’s mouth continues its downward trajectory, and then his fingers are finding the waistband of your jeans, tugging roughly- only to allow the denim to fall back to your skin. Jaehyun looks up at you and you gnaw at your lower lip, your own hands moving to undo the button, then the zipper- and when you lift your hips, Jaehyun immediately follows through and helps you pull your jeans off. 

“You’re in for it now,” Johnny chuckles darkly, and your gaze shifts to the man from Chicago, who has moved to sit in his gaming chair and is facing the bed with an amused expression on his face. 

You don’t have to ask what Johnny is talking about.

It’s a running joke amongst your male friends that Jaehyun loves giving oral- it’s one of the things you’ve spent a lot of time fantasizing about, and now that he’s between your legs, he definitely delivers.

Jaehyun pushes your thighs up to your chest, letting out a soft groan when he brings his mouth to your panty-covered core. He places an open-mouthed kiss on your entrance, tongue pressing against the fabric of your underwear and making your legs twitch.

“Are you seriously going to tease her while we’re standing here waiting?” Haechan groans next to you, and you have to admit, you agree with his exasperated tone.

“I'm not forcing you to stand there and watch,” Jaehyun responds quickly, fingers hooking in your panties. When he pulls the fabric to the side, his breath fanning over your heated core. A shiver runs across your body, and your hands instinctively reach for his hair. 

“Jaehyun-” you whimper, voice betraying your need.

Your friend looks up at you with mischievous eyes and a grin, then he brings his face to your heat, dragging his tongue across your entrance teasingly. His hands adjust your legs, pushing them up against your chest harder, spreading you open as he places his entire mouth onto you, tongue pushing into your wet hole.

Your fingers tug at his hair, and you gasp, back arching. It feels like little shocks of happiness are scattering across your skin. 

The bed dips next to you, and then a familiar hand covers your breast, thumb brushing over your pebbled nipple, earning another sound of pleasure from deep within you. 

Haechan looks down at you, eyes full of focus, and your heart lurches in your chest. You grab your youngest lover boy, pulling him to your lips.

He’s surprised at first, but it only takes a moment for Haechan to start kissing you back, his body shifting as he shuffles closer, leaning half over you so he can kiss you harder while his fingers pinch at your nipple. 

Everything feels so good- you don’t even know where to focus. Being touched by two of your best friends while the third watches is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. There’s something building inside of you, call it lust or love- regardless, it’s undeniable, and to make matters worse, it’s all-consuming too. 

Jaehyun sucks at your clit, and you shiver, legs closing around his head as a sudden orgasm erupts through your body. You grab at Haechan’s shoulders, moaning desperately into his mouth while Jaehyun continues to lick and slurp at your entrance. Then, a moment later, two of his fingers push into you, and you think this must be the most wonderful feeling your body has ever felt.

Jaehyun’s digits curl up, and you can hear your pussy squelching even over the gasps and whimpers that are escaping you.

Haechan’s moved his kisses to your neck, and your noises of pleasure fill the space, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Jaehyun lets up when your legs truly begin to shake, and when he pulls away, your feet fall flat on the mattress, knees closing.

Haechan’s still working on your neck, one hand worshiping your breast, but after a moment, the hand begins to move downward. He drags his palm along the outside of your leg, up to your knee, then he applies a bit of pressure, prompting your thighs to open. 

Haechan adjusts above you, moving between your legs slowly. He gives you time to push him away, but the moment he’s pressing down against your core, your thighs tighten around his waist. 

“Haechan?” You blink up at him.

“Yeah?” His voice is shaky, as if he’s as confused about this turn of events as you are.

You push at his shoulders, and Haechan lets up, allowing you to roll, switching positions so you’re now on top of him. Your friend’s hands find your hips, and you grab at his shirt, prompting him to sit up so he can remove it easily. 

His lips find your breasts the moment he discards the fabric, and his fingers splay across your back, keeping you close while he moves his kisses up to your neck. He reaches your lips moments later, and you push on his shoulders, causing you both to fall back onto the bed, your hands pressed to his chest, which flexes beneath you. 

You roll your hips, and you can feel Haechan’s cock pressing up against his jeans. You avoid the obnoxious buckle on the belt that he’d found thrifting last December, you’d always known there was a reason you hated it, but have never been able to put your finger on it- now, you realize it’s because it makes Haechan’s crotch about as inviting as a chastity belt. 

“Off,” you mumble against your friend’s lips, reaching a hand between your bodies to tug at the belt buckle before releasing it. Haechan had the audacity to put the damned thing on, he can remove it too.

Large hands fumble, metal brushes your exposed abdomen and makes you shiver, Haechan kisses you deeper in response, managing to get the belt off with one hand while the other returns to cup your face. He’s pulling the leather band completely out of the rings of his pants and throwing it to the side a moment later, and as soon as it’s gone, your hands return to the waistband of his jeans. 

The two of you make quick work of undressing him, and before you know it, he’s bare in front of you, and you’re practically drooling at how big he is.

You lick your lips, kissing Haechan quickly, then begin your descent. He shivers when you kiss his abdomen, and your fingers wrap around his cock a moment later, earning another hiss, as well as a hand in your hair.

Haechan looks down at you and you meet his eyes, bringing your mouth to the head of his cock and kitten licking. The gorgeous man lets out a strangled gasp, throwing his head back into the pillows, hips lifting off the bed, and he releases his hold on your hair to grip the bed sheets. You humour the needy man, sinking your mouth onto his length, taking as much of him as you can.

A hand lands on your ass, surprising you and making you jolt, which sends Haechan into the back of your throat. You gag, pulling away from Haechan while your hand continues to pump him, and you look over your shoulder at Jaehyun. 

“I know you said you wanted him first.” The pretty man grabs a fistful of your hair, pulling you up and away from Haechan so your back is now to Jaehyun’s chest. He runs his tongue from your shoulder up to your ear, and you shiver at the cool stripe it leaves in its wake. “But what if I fuck you while you suck him off? There’s no reason you can’t take us both, hmm?”

You gnaw on your lower lip, nodding eagerly, and Jaehyun releases a deep chuckle of amusement. He lets you go, shoving your back down roughly, and you eagerly return to your task, mouth wrapping around Haechan once more.

You feel Jaehyun rip your panties at the waist, and you can’t bring yourself to care; taking them off completely would have required you to adjust positions, and it would have taken way too long. 

One of Jaehyun’s hands lands on the small of your back, and it glides down your spine while you feel him lining up with your entrance. He coats himself in your slick first, rutting against you but not pushing inside, and you groan around Haechan, toes curling with anticipation.

Jaehyun chuckles behind you, and then he thrusts into you all at once, both hands moving to grip your hips. “Try not to choke, sweetheart,” Jaehyun warns, and you just know he’s grinning like the complete asshole that he is-

His first thrust sends you forward suddenly, and you nearly gag, groaning at how quickly he’d almost made you fail his warning. You pull your mouth off of Haechan, fist pumping up and down his length while you suckle on the head, finding this less risky with Jaehyun behind you and at full energy. 

Haechan doesn’t seem to mind the change, and one of his hands comes down to cover yours, applying pressure that tells you to squeeze him harder. You follow through, and the man below you lets out a groan. 

The sound of praise goes straight to your core, and you feel yourself tighten around Jaehyun, who reacts with a laugh, then smacks you across your ass just enough to sting.

You whimper, a little shocked at just how much you’re enjoying Jaehyun being rough with you. An orgasm is building in the pit of your stomach, and you rest your head on Haechan’s thigh, eyes closing, allowing yourself to enjoy the feeling of Jaehyun fucking you silly with even more intensity. 

“She feels so good,” Jaehyun groans, and you whimper in response, adoring how he’s ignoring you and talking about you to the others like this.

“Don’t rub it in,” Johnny’s deep voice sends a tingle rushing through your entire being, you’d almost forgotten he was there.

Jaehyun simply laughs, and his hips rut into you faster and harder- you’d thought he’d be losing energy by now, not fucking you even better-

“Gonna cum for me, Squeak?” Jaehyun grabs your hair, and he hauls you up to his chest for the second time tonight. His hand moves to your throat to keep you where he wants you, and his strong forearm is like a security bar holding you up where it presses across your chest, allowing his other hand to grasp your breast roughly. 

You can’t respond, but you manage a nod, and Jaehyun’s amused laugh at the motion sends you over the edge. You throw your head back onto Jaehyun’s shoulder, pulse thumping loudly in your head from the way he’s cutting off your oxygen with the hand still on your throat.

You can feel him everywhere. 

Your fingers latch onto his wrist, not to pull him away, but to anchor yourself as waves of pleasure wash over your entire body. Jaehyun is steady behind you, and he works you through your orgasm with a pace that turns erratic as his own high becomes nearly too much for him to bear.

When he finally slows down, releasing your neck, you take a strangled breath. You feel a soft kiss to your shoulder, and then the roughness returns, with Jaehyun pushing you onto Haechan’s chest.

The maknae catches you, holding you close while you try to find your breath. But when you shift, and feel Haechan’s cock twitch with interest where it’s pressed between your bodies, you’re determined to pull yourself together and fuck all three of your friends. You can’t stop now.

Your hand forms a fist, and you push yourself up, looking down at Haechan. Then you lift your hips, grabbing your friend’s cock to guide him to your entrance. You sit down just as Haechan’s hands find your waist, a wide-eyed look on his face. 

He's big. Considering the fact that Haechan is the shortest of your three friends, you’re shocked at how thick he is. 

And with you sitting on top, he fills you completely

Your wet core flutters around the new intrusion, and you curse yourself for ever having thought prep with Jaehyun - who to be fair, had felt to be quite well endowed himself - would prepare you for Hyuck, who is spreading you open deliciously.

You press your palms flat to Haechan’s chest, and you lift yourself a few inches before sinking back onto his length, a whimper leaving your lips as your body adjusts. He feels so good splitting you open like this-

Haechan’s fingers press into your hips, lifting you slightly, only to slam you back down onto his cock, and you nearly wail from pleasure. He adjusts his feet on the bed behind you so he can thrust up into you better, and you find yourself becoming practically a rag doll for your friend below you, who manhandles you despite your top position. 

You don’t care that Haechan’s taken the power from you. Your mind goes blank, unable to think about anything other than how good he feels-

“Sit up and move to the headboard so you can lean against it.” Johnny’s voice interrupts your pleasure haze, and your eyes open when Haechan moves, following through with the instruction and dragging you with him. 

“Now you, Squeak,” a hand brushes by your shoulders, and you shiver, “turn around. Face away from Haechan for me.”

You do as you’re told, and two pairs of hands help you. They even ensure you sit back on Haechan’s cock, and he groans. You feel him press against your back, his hand snaking around your front to play with your clit, lips finding your shoulder.

Haechan’s legs are spread ever so slightly, and Johnny is kneeling there in front of you. 

In this position, it’s almost hard to look up at Johnny, and your hands press down into the bed, arms straight and holding you above Haechan’s knees while you grind back against him in something like reverse cowgirl.

The good thing is, you don’t have to look up at Johnny, and your eyes immediately lock on your target. Your hands move to undo Johnny’s pants- only for Haechan to push into you, making your balance falter, almost causing you to fall flat on your face- but you catch yourself at the last moment. 

Johnny laughs above you. “Our little chew toy,” he says fondly, beginning to undo his belt. “I'd love to hear you squeak, but I need your mouth for other things.”

He pushes his pants down, revealing the largest cock of all three of your friends. You’re practically drooling now, your core tightening around Haechan, who is still gently fucking up into you. 

Johnny guides himself to your lips, and you eagerly accept him, whimpering with delight when his hand finds your hair. He’s going to facefuck you while Haechan thrusts into you from behind in the reverse cowgirl Eiffel Tower hybrid position you’ve found yourself in, and you know it’s going to be absolutely delightful. 

You give yourself up completely to Johnny and Haechan, their little chew toy, and your whole body floods with pleasure from them using you. 

You hollow your cheeks around Johnny, and he fucks your mouth harder, cock hitting the back of your throat.

“Fuck!” Haechan groans loudly behind you. “She gets to fucking tight when you do that-”

“Then I'll do it again,” Johnny says simply from above you, and he continues to fuck your face, making sure to press into your throat a second time. 

Haechan moans even louder, fingers digging into your waist, confirmation that choking onJohnny’s cock makes your pussy squeeze like a vice grip.

He continues to fuck your face and you get lost in the sensation. Usually sucking cock isnt your favourite thing in the world, but in this position, time seems to slip away from you. 

“Can you just cum already?!” Johnny says, and you know by his tone that he’s speaking to the man behind you.

“No, you cum! I’m not cumming in this position!” Haechan argues back.

“The fuck you aren't!”

“I’m not,” Haechan says, voice something near a growl.

Johnny groans a moment later. “Guess it’s my turn,” He mutters, pulling out of your mouth suddenly.

You look up at him with teary eyes as he pumps his cock-

“Don’t cum on her, or in her mouth!” Haechan commands from behind you.

Three “what!?”’s ring through the room, one coming from yourself, but with another massive groan, Johnny follows through with even this ridiculous command, and Jaehyun tosses him a shirt in record time to use in lieu of your body. You all look at the fabric, realizing it’s Haechan’s- and Johnny explodes into his friend’s shirt with a laugh.

Haechan groans loudly, lifting you off of his cock and tossing you onto the bed next to him. He’s between your legs an instant later, pushing back into you as he captures your mouth with his own.

He fucks you fluidly, with a rhythm that’s just the right speed, and he fills you so perfectly-

You dig your fingers into Haechan’s shoulders, your orgasm washing over you like waves of warm sunshine. You bury your face against Haechan’s neck, whimpering while Haechan echoes your sounds with groans of his own.

One of his hands is on your hip, and he squeezes you gently there, rhythm faltering, thrusts becoming slower but harder, more intimate. 

You find yourself lacing your fingers in his silky hair, dragging his face from your shoulder so you can kiss him, losing yourself in his lips as your orgasm subsides and Haechan slows down to a standstill. 

Neither of you moves for a few seconds, simply breathing together, feeling each other’s hearts racing through your compressed chests. Then Haechan takes a deep breath and pushes himself off of you. 

“I’m going to the shower,” he announces. 

Johnny groans, following the younger man a moment later, and you’re left with Jaehyun.

Jaehyun has his sweat pants on, and he comes to sit on the end of the bed, fingers brushing against your ankle. You pull your leg away, looking down at him suspiciously. You don’t want to be tickled right now, and you definitely can’t go another round-

“Relax,” Jaehyun says with a laugh, shifting closer. He shows you a wet cloth in his hand. “With Johnny in the shower, there’s no way you’d get any water, and something tells me Haechan’s going to monopolize on space too,” he muses, bringing the warm fabric to the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “Let me take care of you.”

You take a deep breath and rest against the pillows, closing your eyes and spreading your legs for Jaehyun. You let out a whimper when he brushes by your clit, and then his lips press a gentle kiss to your inner knee as if to say ‘sorry’, then he proceeds with more caution. 

“Jaehyun?” 

“Hmm?” He nuzzles his cheek against your knee, finishing his work.

“What you guys said earlier, about being in love with me-”

“You think we didn’t mean it?” He pulls away from you, hands closing your knees. 

You open your eyes, worried you’ve upset him, but then Jaehyun is lying down next to you, covering you both in a blanket and adjusting your body to turn you into his little spoon.

He curls around you, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

Your heart melts for him, especially when his hand slips over your waist, sneaking down to the bed in search of your fingers, which he promptly finds and captures between his own.

“This just feels like a dream,” you sigh, closing your eyes, trying to enjoy being with Jaehyun in this way without overthinking it.

Jaehyun laughs against your shoulder, pressing more kisses onto your skin. “Well, I promise to be here in the morning when you wake up, and the morning after that, and the morning after that-”

You laugh, rolling your eyes at your friend, who nips at your earlobe. You shiver at the contact of his lips on the sensitive shell of your ear. “Where did you learn to be so rough?” you ask. “I knew you had a reputation in bed, but you’re usually a lot more gentle in real life, and that was-”

“Did you like it rough, Squeak?” He squeezes you tightly, lips trailing along your neck. 

“Yeah.” You let out a breathy sound, toes curling when he focuses on the sweet spot below your ear, and you can feel Jaehyun smiling against it a moment later.

“I’ve noticed you have a thing for pain,” Jaehyun says. “Sometimes, when I hug you too tight, you let out these little sounds-” You feel your skin heating, knowing exactly what he’s talking about, and Jaehyun chuckles, squeezing your hand. “And what can I say?” Jaehyun’s teeth graze your shoulder. “I'm nothing if not a giver in bed.” 

Your pussy throbs at his words, and you push your ass back against him.

Jaehyun lets go of your fingers, and then his hand finds your thigh, moving from the outside in, and gliding up to your core. “Let me give you another one?” he asks, kissing your shoulder.

“I can’t believe you two.” Johnny’s voice always seems to shock you, and you think you’ll have to get used to being intimate with one person while two others watch and can jump in at any moment- 

“How was your shower?” Jaehyun asks, his warm body leaving yours in favour of sitting up to stare at the man standing in the doorway. You mirror the motion, pulling Jaehyun’s blanket with you.

“Haechan’s been in there the whole time. He just finished.” Johnny’s eyes move to you. “Come on, Squeak.” 

“I’ll come when you and Johnny are done,” Jaehyun tells you, turning and grabbing your jaw to keep you still while he presses a kiss to your lips. He’s gone much too fast for your liking, letting you go with a grin before collapsing back into the pillows. “Oh-” He says as you crawl from the bed, his hand grabbing the fabric that’s still wrapped around you, “and leave the blanket.”

Johnny laughs, grabbing your hands and pulling you to your feet. The air is cold against your exposed skin, but Johnny is quick to pull you to his warm chest. He turns you so you’re facing away from the door, and then he steps forward, forcing you to move back, step by step, all the way to the bathroom. He does this sort of thing with you frequently, usually when you’re clothed, so you’re used to this wordless behaviour.

You bump into Haechan, literally, as he’s exiting the bathroom, and suddenly it’s two warm bodies pressed against your own. 

Haechan is still wet from the shower, and droplets of cold water land on you, making you squeal.

Both men chuckle, and you begin to giggle, pressing up to Johnny in an effort to escape Haechan from dripping onto you. Your best friend, like the dog he is, deliberately shakes his head out to coat you even more. 

Johnny shoves Haechan before he can get too much splattered on the two of you, and pushes past the younger man. He helps you to the shower first, then kicks off his sweatpants, joining you under the warm water. 

Neither of you says anything, but you’ve been at this comfort level in your friendship for years now, and have often shared pleasant silences in each other’s company. 

Jaehyun keeps his promise and shows up when Johnny leaves. He holds you close to his chest, sharing the warm water with you.

When you exit the shower, Jaehyun hands you a shirt and some boxers, an outfit you’ve worn during many impromptu sleepovers here.

“My bed is biggest,” Jaehyun says as you exit the bathroom, and you laugh, knowing full well that all three men have queen mattresses because they’d gotten them in some weird three-for-one closing sale in your first year of university-

“Jaehyun-” You turn to argue, but your best friend bends down, lifts you up by your thighs, and tosses you over his shoulder. When you say his name this time, it’s a scream, and it makes him laugh. 

It also earns a groan from Johnny’s room, and a moment later, he appears, following the thief. 

Jaehyun tosses you onto his bed, getting under the covers with you and regaining his spot as the big spoon. He tucks you close to his chest, letting out a contented sigh.  

Johnny claims your other side soon after, lying on his back, allowing you to tangle your legs with one of his.

Haechan is last in the room.

He takes one look at you, sees you’re all but monopolized on either side, and in one motion, he flops his body over all three of your tired, and completely unsuspecting forms. 

There’s an immediate commotion and struggle, and you’re too tired to do anything but laugh, closing your eyes and knowing that you’re safe with your three best friends in the entire world.

☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! Blast from the past, revamped and newly edited

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🔮 preview.  You may have bitten off a little more than you can chew by being in a four-person coupling with you at the center of it, but you’re not stupid. You’re never going to forgo ultimate pleasures for the sake of other people’s moral leanings.

cw/ tw.  Unprotected sex, threesome, foursome, eiffel tower, blow job oral, vouyerism, masturbation, cum kink, bukkake, dirty talk, praise, man handling, Johnny once again has the monster cock syndrom, etc…   I petnames. (hers) Squeak.

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.3k I teaser wc. 140

🌙 starring. Johnny & Jaehyun & Haechan x afab!Reader

bonus

“I still don’t like it,” Doyoung sighs, watching you chat with Mark Lee while Haechan and Johnny block you in.

Jungwoo simply shrugs. “I guess it’s not about you liking it or not. They seem happy.”

“Too happy,” Doyoung notes, eyes narrowing in on the way Johnny’s hand has slipped down to your ass.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Jungwoo scoffs. “I think you’re just jealous.”

“Me? Jealous?” Doyoung shakes his head and forces a laugh. “What’s there to be jealous about?”

“The fact that you’re in pre-med, so you’re super busy, and you have zero game and haven’t kissed a girl in like, months,” Jungwoo points out. 

Doyoung’s glare shifts to the younger man, and with a final scoff, he turns to leave.

Jungwoo doesn’t mind, in fact, the energy in the room immediately brightens with Doyoung’s departure.

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[inspired-lesson-plans]

Revisited &Revised

ELA or Social Emotional Learning, High School No specific learning standard.

Essential Question:

How come you aren't allowed to say certain words in school?

Do now:

Working alone or in small groups,

Students compile a list of all the words which, in your experience, you aren't allowed to use in school.

Each word should be written on an individual sticky note, with the first and last letters spaced apart by the appropriate number of underscores, like so:

F _ _ K

Class discussion:

Teacher reveals a display board with a big arrow on it, indicating a scale from "least inappropriate" to "most inappropriate".

After every student has had ample time to come up with as many as they can, they are called up to the board a few at a time to post their words where they think the words belong on the scale. Encourage students to justify their word placements, but do not let them say the words per se (since they're still in school).

Direct Instruction:

Note, most of this information is taken from Netflix's History of Swear Words (tpb link) and various episodes from the excellent podcast The Allusionist, but instead of doing pepper research I am simply writing from memory. There may be mistakes.

In the Western World, we have a lot of different ways of talking about inappropriate language. Cursing, cussing, swearing, making an oath, profanity, and most recently, "I don't want to get demonetized". As you can see, so-called "bad words" are usually those that would upset the gods and thus invite their retribution.

Odysseus paid the price for challenging Poseidon

The Bible says not to take the Lord's name in vain

YouTubers don't want to upset The Algorithm.

In Judaism, it's considered profane to ever utter the name of G-d. The reasons for this are complicated, but it basically comes down to the name being too sacred to be uttered under normal circumstances. He is usually referred to as Adonai (meaning My Lord), or Hashem (meaning The Name), as a stand-in for the textual YHVH name that I have never ever heard pronounced by any practicing Jew.

But this story really starts in medieval Europe. Christians in the second millennium CE were very, very concerned with Hell. This may feel weird coming from a modern perspective, where Christianity is mostly about finding God's love. Nah, this was a world lit only by fire. Mortal life was tragic, painful, and short; all you could do was hope for a good afterlife. That's why Medieval Christians were terrified by what felt like a very real threat of eternal punishment.

So try to imagine living with the knowledge that you, like everyone, is under the perpetual watch of an omnipotent God who might condemn (or "damn") someone's soul to eternal punishment because of something you said in anger. Hence, the script by a monk, complaining about the head of the monastery, self-censoring "damn" but unafraid to say "fuck".

This was a time when much less thought was given to impurities of the flesh, like sex and defecation. It's worth remembering that this was a time with no plumbing, so you either went into a pot (where the word potty comes from) and then threw it out the window, or you just went straight out the window in the first place.

By Shakespeare's time, it's clear that some words were never meant to be used in a public performance [citation needed]. There are many fun euphemisms (stand-in words), such as "zounds" standing in for "God's Wounds". But interestingly, we also see "forming the beast with two backs" as a colorful way of saying "two people having sex".

Speaking of which, do you think it's weird that Futurama named their second movie with a joke that's only funny if you read Othello?

The power of religious taboos waned as the Church's civil and political power waned. At the same time, sexual taboos had been growing in power. This reached its peak in the late 19th century with the peculiarly American belief that sexual activity drained one's vital force, and that sexual arousal was a base and bestial, not befitting the better bred and urbane (please look past the preponderance of prostitutes).

Ironically, by the 20th century, this very same taboo gave sexual language a kind of power, which made it very tempting to use those words... But please remember that this was also the first era of mass media. Radio, records, film, and finally television, allowed speech to be broadcast. And no broadcasting company would ever be seen as respectable if it were using such foul language. Especially in Hollywood, where the infamous Hays Code made it basically impossible to use any language that people would find insulting...until it didn't.

American culture had a major shift after the 1960s. There was a lot more cursing out loud. And the consequences didn't really happen. Music, movies, and eventually even television started cursing more and more until it just became part of casual language.

But there is one realm in which this language was never tolerated... advertisement. There has never been a "Coca Cola is the shit" ad campaign, even though it sounds like natural language today. Advertisers avoid anything that could be seen as offensive, because it could cause a loss in profits. It's really not that different from an ancient Grecian fearing to speak ill of the gods.

But this has become very strange in the age of TikTok. Fueled by advertisement revenue, online content platforms such as TikTok and YouTube are not particularly sensitive to most "traditional" swear words. But certain words (porn, pedophile, suicide, rape) which have always been safe to say even on network television, must now be partially censored or else replaced with euphemisms (corn, PDF file, unalive, grape), which remove all of the seriousness and perhaps even make it difficult to talk about them at all.

And there has even been one more wrinkle. Many people today believe that while it's not truly offensive to invoke sexual, religious, or ad-friendly taboos, it's actually offensive to use language that negatively targets minorities. What exactly this means is not widely agreed upon though, and it often reflects the politics of the individual. The word retard was once a polite term for individuals with developmental disabilities such as Down Syndrome, but the word started getting used more and more offensively to put people down, and now it is almost impossible to use the word politely. There is a case to be made that this word is actively harmful to some people and should never be used, but not everyone agrees.

This is a rich topic for discussion, and a teacher, let alone a class, could go on and on about it. So be careful to leave time for the following activities.

Modeled Activity:

Work with the class to rethink the "words inappropriate for school" display from the beginning of class (remember that? I didn't! I've been writing this thing for over a week now). Now that they know more about the history of offensive language, everyone should work together to refine a list of words that should absolutely not be allowed in class, followed by a list of words that generally shouldn't be used in class.

Higher Order Learning:

Instruct students to get in small groups, then create their own lists of what words are inappropriate for different social contexts, such as the following:

Home

Cafeteria / School-but-not-the-classroom

YouTube/TikTok

Places where there are kids younger than 10

The best notes written in manuscripts by medieval monks

Colophon: a statement at the end of a book containing the scribe or owner’s name, date of completion, or bitching about how hard it is to write a book in the dark ages

Oh, my hand

The parchment is very hairy

Thank God it will soon be dark

St. Patrick of Armagh, deliver me from writing

Now I’ve written the whole thing; for Christ’s sake give me a drink

Oh d fuckin abbot

Massive hangover

Whoever translated these Gospels did a very poor job

Cursed be the pesty cat that urinated over this book during the night

If someone else would like such a handsome book, come and look me up in Paris, across from the Notre Dame cathedral

I shall remember, O Christ, that I am writing of Thee, because I am wrecked today

Do not reproach me concerning the letters, the ink is bad and the parchment scanty and the day is dark

11 golden letters, 8 shilling each; 700 letters with double shafts, 7 shilling for each hundred; and 35 quires of text, each 16 leaves, at 3 shilling each. For such an amount I won’t write again

Here ends the second part of the title work of Brother Thomas Aquinas of the Dominican Order; very long, very verbose; and very tedious for the scribe; thank God, thank God, and again thank God

If anyone take away this book, let him die the death, let him be fried in a pan; let the falling sickness and fever seize him; let him be broken on the wheel, and hanged. Amen

[satorusweetheart]

cam girl! reader x gojo satoru

the private stream begins, and his pants are pooled around his ankles, his oozing cock fitted between his thick fingers. gojo strokes himself in anticipation, groaning when you finally pop up on his screen.

“hi satoru, thank you for being my top viewer.” your voice is dripping with honey, so sweet, so innocent. gojo thinks he's going to cum on the spot thinking about the way you say his name.

"you don't have to thank me, sweetheart," he says out loud, knowing you can't hear him. instead, he quickly types it into the chat, watching how your eyes light up when reading his message.

"do you wanna see what i have on? i wore it just for you." you tilt the camera down, revealing the matching set you're wearing. not to mention how you've paired them with stockings and a garter belt. gojo thinks he's ascended to heaven, and you only continue to make his head spin. "do you remember these? you bought them from my wish list."

you look so sexy baby. he types. you only giggle, thanking him for his compliment. your hands linger over your breasts, playing with them ever so slightly, and it makes his cock twitch. especially with the way you tug down the cup, popping your finger into your mouth and then swirling your digit against your perky nipples. you let out a soft moan, throwing your head back slightly.

although, you stop abruptly, looking straight into the camera, causing gojo's breath to hitch. his heart racing, waiting to see what you're going to do next.

"what's your favourite color?"

blue. he's very swift with his response, not missing a beat. you laugh softly. "well, i have just the thing for you, then."

you brought out a kinky little toy: a baby blue vibrator, the kind that simultaneously plunged into your pussy while also stimulating your clit. gojo only jerked himself off faster.

"do you like it?" fuck baby i love it.

bringing your legs up onto the chair you're sitting on, your clothed cunt is on full display while you gently pull those adorable panties to the side. gojo basks in the fact that you're literally dripping—and it's just for him.

stretching yourself out, the toy buzzes, and gojo feels himself loosing his sanity. you've become a moaning little mess, gushing over the vibrator. he imagines it as his cock, dipping into your sweet, sweet hole, his flushed tip bumping onto your cervix, suffocating in your gummy walls. he fucks his fists, phone shaking as he feels himself getting closer and closer.

you'd take my cock so well bb. he lets out a load groan, hearing the lewd sounds you're making, whispering how you'd love to ride him, how you want him buried deep inside you.

"im so close, satoru, please cum with me." you plead, voice trembling and toes curling.

yea bb im so fckn close

"i'm cumming, i'm cumming- fuck!" your body shakes, clenching around the baby blue toy. you scream out for him, panting excessively. that's when gojo comes undone.

he bites down on his t-shirt, the pace of his wrist is unrelenting until he, too, reaches the end. hot white ropes squirt from his tip, his shaft throbbing with bliss. he takes a minute to catch his breath

i came so fckn hard

i need to see u in person

fuck plz bb

you giggle playfully at his comments, leaning towards the camera. "i might have to take you up on that offer, since you're my biggest fan afterall."

[drfruitcake]

Mrs. Robinavitch

Michael Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Wife!Reader

Rating: Explicit/18+/MDNI (smut, language) Word count: ~3,300 Tags: reader insert, female reader, no use of y/n, married, established relationship, explicit sexual content, smut, workplace sex, workplace quickie, p in v sex, no beta

Summary: A new resident decides to flirt with you, oblivious to the fact that you're married to his senior attending. Your husband isn't a fan. Or, you and jealous Robby have a little workplace quickie.

Notes: Just a random little dose of silly workplace smut. Reader is a female ob/gyn but no age is established. Meant to take place a few years after S1.

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

The emergency department of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center bustles with its typical controlled chaos. It’s a Friday afternoon and you’d be lying if you said your mind isn’t on your weekend plans as you wander into the ER for a pregnancy case.

You smile at familiar faces as you make your way past the nurses’ station, offering a friendly wave at Trinity Santos and Dennis Whitaker before you dip inside Room 6.

“Who is that?” Gavin Meyer asks as he doesn’t bother to conceal his pitiful stare. He’s an R3 transfer in his first week at The Pitt. 

“Oh, that’s R-”

Gavin is too busy gawking after you to notice Trinity pinching Dennis’ arm behind the desk, stopping him from finishing his sentence.

“She’s an OB,” Trinity cuts in. 

“She’s stunning,” Gavin breathes. Dennis’ eyes go wide as Trinity bites back a snort. “Is she single?”

“She’s a little out of your league,” Trinity responds slowly.

“Oh, come on,” Gavin pleads. “The least you can do is introduce me. What if I get an OB case?”

“Introduce yourself,” Trinity answers. “She doesn’t bite… that I know of.” Dennis merely opens and closes his mouth, like a fish in moral despair.

Gavin’s posture straightens as the door to Room 6 reopens, but it’s Dr. Robby who emerges. 

“Everything good here?” he asks as he strides behind the central desk.

“All good,” Trinity answers with a chipper tone. “Just helping Meyers get acclimated to some of the faces around here.”

“Good,” Dr. Robby replies as he glances at Gavin. “Don’t be afraid to introduce yourself to people, get to know them. We’re all here to help.”

Dr. Robby doesn’t realize his words are going to bite him in about 20 seconds, when you emerge from Room 6 and make a beeline to the group at the desk.

“Hey,” you greet Trinity and Dennis. “How’s it going?”

“Hi,” Gavin immediately interjects with an outstretched hand. It catches you off guard, but you recover smoothly and offer him a kind smile. “I’m Dr. Meyer. R3.”

“Nice to meet you,” you say politely. “I’m Dr.-”

“Dr. Robby!” Samira Mohan appears from Trauma Room 1 with impeccable, albeit accidental, timing. “We need you in here! Whitaker, you too!”

“Come on.” Dennis motions for Gavin to follow him, leaving you with Trinity.

“New resident,” you muse as you watch them scurry away. “He’s cute.” Trinity lifts an eyebrow at you and you snort. “Oh please,” you add. “I promise I’m not interested. I’m a married woman, after all.”

You return upstairs to the birthing ward until you inevitably get called back down to the ER. This time, it’s for a newborn who had been discharged the previous day.

Gavin is alone when you pass the nurses’ desk to leave. You offer him a smile and a nod. 

“Hey, I didn’t get your name earlier,” he says quickly, stopping you in your tracks. You blink at him in confusion.

“The others didn’t tell you?” you ask with narrowed eyes. It's not that you assume everyone in the hospital knows you and your husband, but well, they do.

“No.”

“Oh,” you say as the realization settles. Fucking Santos. She’s done this before, but you can’t help but play along. You give Gavin your first name, intentionally omitting the last, and lean against the desk to strike up more conversation with him, at least until Trinity can return and break the bad news to Gavin. “So, what brings you to Pittsburgh?” you ask casually. “I assume you’re a transfer?”

“Transferred from Charlotte,” Gavin responds. “I help take care of my grandmother. Needed to be closer to her.”

“Ah, I see,” you say kindly. “I’m sure she’s glad to have you around. Are the two of you close?”

“We are,” Gavin says. “She’s the reason I got into medicine. She was a nurse.”

You catch his eyes flickering toward your left hand in search of a ring. You don’t wear yours at work – not because you want to appear single, but because you’d die if you lost the precious diamond ring you were gifted three years ago.

“That’s wonderful,” you offer, your eyes catching a glimpse of Dr. Robby, who has emerged from Trauma Room 2. The two of you lock eyes for a fleeting moment before you return your attention to Gavin. “I bet your grandmother’s so proud of you,” you continue.

“She is,” Gavin says happily. You can feel Robby’s gaze burning into the side of your head, but Gloria corners him before he can insert himself into your conversation with Gavin. From your spot by the desk, you watch from the corner of your eye in pure amusement while Robby and Gloria bicker about some administrative nonsense.

Meanwhile, Gavin turns up the charm. He leans closer to you as he speaks, eyes dancing over your features in clear interest.

“So, are you from Pittsburgh?” he asks.

You shake your head. “No, Cleveland,” you answer. “But I did my residency here and obviously never left.”

“I take it you like Pittsburgh then?”

You offer a smile and a shrug. “It’s pretty alright,” you answer. “The people here at the hospital are great and the city’s not so bad. Where did you grow up?”

“I grew up in Richmond, Virginia,” Gavin replies. “So I’m pretty new to Pittsburgh.”

Robby’s face is turning red. You can see his agitation swelling as Gloria prattles on. He crosses and uncrosses his arms impatiently, unable to suppress a grunt of annoyance.

“Well, welcome,” you continue, offering Gavin a gentle touch to the forearm. “I’m sure you’ll adjust and grow to love it here.”

“Would be better if I had someone to show me around,” Gavin says. He trails off and waits, eyes studying you for a reaction, begging you to take the bait. You know this game all too well. It’s not the first time a resident has flirted with you, and you secretly hope it won’t be the last. Not because you’re actually trying to flirt, nor are you even seeking attention; you merely enjoy the entertainment in an otherwise predictable environment. And you know others, like Trinity, need the amusement, too.

That’s why you flash Gavin a bright smile and feign surprise at his suggestion. “I’d be happy to show you some cool spots sometime,” you say just loud enough for people around the desk to hear. That includes Robby, Gloria, Perlah and Trinity.

“Really? That’d be great,” Gavin says, his eyes scanning yours for any sort of sign to indicate mutual interest.

You don’t dare look at Robby; you know better. But everyone else nearby is treating this like live theater, and they can see the tightness in his jaw, clenched so hard he might crack his teeth.

“Of course,” you tell Gavin innocently. “In fact, we could make it a group thing.” You try not to laugh as Gavin’s expression immediately falls, but you know you can't lead him on or give him the wrong idea. “A bunch of us here at the hospital have been trying to make plans to go out for months now. This would be as good a reason as any to actually put a plan in motion.”

“Oh,” Gavin says, his lips thinning in disappointment. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

“Awesome,” you say merrily. “Sounds like fun.”

“Dr. Meyer,” Robby’s voice cuts in. He’s finally managed to shrug off Gloria, who has turned her attention to a conversation with Dana. “Don’t you have any patients to check on?” Robby asks, his voice gruff.

“Oh, right,” Gavin says, clearly fearful of angering Robby. He sneaks a glance at you and smiles. “Hopefully I'll see you later.”

You wave after him before you finally dare to look Robby in the eyes. He peers at you from behind his glasses, but you can see a storm swarming in his irises.

“Everything alright, Dr. Robinavitch?” you ask innocently, tilting your head to the side as you gaze at him.

“Actually, no,” Robby answers curtly. “It seems people think the ER is a place to meet hot singles, considering all the flirting happening in front of me.”

You snort as you push off from the desk’s edge, preparing to retreat to the elevator. “I don’t see any hot singles,” you laugh as you turn your back. You stride toward the elevator, unaware that Robby has vacated the desk area to reach you in record time.

“Not so fast,” he growls in your ear as you jump in surprise. His fingers curl around your forearm as he redirects you from Elevator 2 toward a vacant bathroom. His eyes sweep over the corridor to ensure no one’s around before he nudges you into the bathroom.

“Real professional, Dr. Robinavitch,” you deadpan, crossing your arms as you peer up at him in annoyance while he turns the lock. You want to appear tough, but you also know you and Robby are probably a comical sight, given the way his tall, broad frame looms over you.

“You want to talk about professionalism?” he rasps with raised eyebrows. “You’re the one flirting with my residents in my ER.”

“I don’t flirt with residents,” you fire back, your lips parting in an amused smile. “They flirt with me.”

“You think this is funny?” Robby steps closer to you but you hold your ground and his gaze with conviction, daring him to act.

“I find it rather hilarious,” you muse. "You're jealous." Robby reaches swiftly, fisting a ball of your hair with his hand as he forces you backward. You realize he isn’t doing so for the power – he’s ensuring your head doesn’t smash against the wall behind you. Leave it to him to look out for your safety, even when he’s trying to assert his dominance.

“That resident is disrespecting me in my own ER,” Robby continues as he presses you against the wall. “And you’re the instigator.”

“Don’t blame me!” you laugh. “I didn’t ask him to develop a crush on me. I only just met the guy today.”

“He doesn’t seem to know who you are.”

“He knows what I do here.”

“But does he know you’re married?” Robby juts his hips forward through the last word for emphasis. You can feel your thigh muscles tense with arousal.

“No idea,” you quip with a shrug. “Our conversation hasn’t gone that far.”

“Seems like someone ought to mention it to him.”

“By all means, be my guest.”

“I will.” Robby continues to eye you and he can’t help but chuckle at your determined expression. “You love this, don’t you?”

“I do,” you admit cheekily. You snake your arms around his torso, your chin resting against his chest as you smile innocently upward at him. Robby presses a kiss to your forehead and returns the smile.

“You’re evil,” he rasps. 

“I’ll make it up to you later,” you coo.

“Later? No, babe. You’ll do it now.”

Your eyes widen as his words catch you off guard. It’s not like Robby to do something so forbidden inside the sanctity of his precious ER. But ever since you got married, he’s relaxed; he’s not so uptight, not as agitated and not nearly as miserable to be around. He’s returned to his former self, much to the relief of everyone who works with him. 

“Right now?” you repeat to ensure you heard him correctly.

“That’s what I said.” Robby leans in to press his lips to their favorite spot against your neck. Your eyes immediately fall shut as you inhale sharply, still surprised by Robby’s behavior. Sure, you’ve flirted and exchanged a suggestive touch every now and again, but you’ve never crossed the boundary of engaging in explicit activities at work. You’ve thought about it plenty of times, but you always assumed Robby was all business and no pleasure when it came to work, and you didn’t bother to challenge that.

Today, however, is clearly different. Because today, he can’t stand the sight of that pompous and obnoxious resident ogling you like the final piece of candy in the dish. Besides, Michael Robinavitch has never been one to back down from a challenge.

He kisses you slowly, to remind you that this is all rooted in love and adoration, despite his annoyance with Gavin’s behavior – and despite his desperation to remind you of your marital vows. Not that you need the reminder – you’d torch the world to ash and embers before you dared to risk your marriage.

“Awfully on edge today, are we?” you teased. 

“Awfully mouthy today, are we?” Robby retorts. You grin at him.

“You already know what this mouth can do.”

“Jesus Christ.”

You can feel his hard cock pressing against your stomach. But you can also feel your time alone running out. Your absence from the ER won’t be noticed – though you really should return to the birthing ward – but Robby’s will. You were one code blue from interruption.

Your hands find the belt of Robby’s cargo pants and you work quickly to free his cock from them. He lets out a low grunt as your hands wrap around him and stroke, though he’s already fully erect. You begin to sink to your knees, but his hand curls around your wrist to stop you.

“Later. You can do that later,” he rasps.

He steers you by the wrist toward the sink, where he stands behind you, his reflection’s gaze meeting yours in the mirror as he pins you against the cool porcelain. His eyes swarm with desire. He tugs your scrub bottoms to the floor and you can feel his fingers inch their way into the waistband of your panties. Before those also find the floor, Robby presses a trail of kisses down the back of your neck, ending at your shoulder. 

When he hooks an arm around you to press two fingers against your clit, he hisses in your ear as he feels how wet you are. You become spineless against him.

“Walking around my ER like that?” he says in your ear as he sinks his fingers inside you. “You’re bad.”

He supports himself with one hand flat against the wall as he uses the other to guide his cock inside you.

“Fuck, Michael,” you whine, but he stops to smirk at your reflection.

“You love this, don’t you?” he murmurs as he watches your teeth drag against your own bottom lip. You whimper in response, your walls clenching around him in a silent plea for more. He obliges you, filling you with his cock until it reaches the hilt. He groans at the tight heat that contrasts the cool bathroom.

He begins to thrust until you’re bent over the sink, fighting to stifle your broken moans. He keeps you upright with one arm, and as you sneak a glance at your own reflection, you realize you look absolutely pitiful – eyes glassy, cheeks flushed and lips parted as the man behind you turns you into a ruined, fucked out mess.

Your white knuckles match the porcelain as you grip the sides of the sink, the pressure inside your core mounting. 

“God, M-Michael,” you manage through a pathetic stutter. He drives his cock upward into your sweet spot until you’re gasping over how good it feels. You’re on the brink of a climax and Robby is watching it all unfold in the mirror. He stares back at you with such intensity, you have to look away.

Your back arches and you push your hips backward as Robby continues to drive into you, murmuring absolute filth in your ear. Your eyes flutter shut as you focus on the mounting release within your walls. When Robby’s stare searches for yours in the mirror, he sinks his fingers into your open mouth, eliciting an unsuspecting gasp.

“Open your eyes,” he demands. “I want you to watch me fuck you.”

It’s not an ask, and you nod silently in submission, his fingers still in your mouth. Robby groans at the vision before him in the mirror, which looks more like framed art to him; your bottom lip now raw and red from your teeth, your pleading eyes and shaking arms struggling to support you. It’s a portrait Robby’s committing to memory, a masterpiece he'll name Sin Incarnate.

Your legs are ready to give out but Robby’s now got both hands clutching your hips as he fucks you closer to your grand finale. Your whimpers chorus higher, threatening to breach the privacy of the bathroom door to passerby, but you’re too cock-drunk to care.

Robby rolls his hips until his thrusts become erratic, a sign you’ve come to recognize of his approaching climax. His eyes study yours in the mirror until he sees the familiar expression indicating your own orgasm.

“Come on,” he coaches you. “Come for me.”

You hum in response, tightening your cunt around his cock as it pounds against your front wall. 

“Oh, fuck,” you manage as it triggers your release. It starts with a sharp cry and ends with you slumped over the sink, desperate to prolong the final quivers within your walls. Robby thrusts so hard, your feet nearly lift off the floor, your final pulses coaxing his own completion.

He swears loudly as he comes, his hips pinning you against the sink while you watch his head tilt backward in the mirror. He spills inside you, your weak legs struggling to keep you standing while your thighs become slick.

When he’s done, Robby’s frame is no longer tense. He rests his chin on your shoulder, arms wrapping you in an embrace as his primal mood shifts to something much more docile. 

“You okay?” he asks. You nod, still recovering from your post-orgasm haze. Your eyelids are heavy as you peer back at him in the mirror and he smiles fondly at you.

“We should get back to work,” you note. “It’s probably chaos out there without you.”

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Robby replied before he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Except Meyer.”

“Cut him some slack,” you laugh as you both begin to redress. “He’s harmless.”

“He’s a punk.”

“He didn’t know we’re married.”

“Did you forget to mention your last name when you introduced yourself?”

“I may have… left it out,” you say as you flash Robby a sheepish smile. He checks himself in the mirror and shoots you a look as he moves to the door. 

“I'll make sure he knows exactly who you are.” He steps into the corridor and disappears as the door snaps shut. You make sure you’re presentable again before you emerge about two minutes later.

You mosey toward the central desk to check if there are any more OB cases before you head upstairs. Robby is standing there with Dana and Gavin.

“Hey you,” she says cheerily. “Heard you’ve got a fun weekend planned.”

You open your mouth to reply when someone calls, “Dr. Robinavitch!”

“Yeah?” you and Robby respond in unison as you both turn toward the source of the sound. It’s Trinity, who’s smiling smugly as she emerges from Room 1.

“Wait,” Gavin says, his eyes shifting back and forth between you and Robby until he studies you with a furrowed brow. “Your last name is Robinavitch, too?”

“Mmhmm,” you answer as Dana backs away slowly to avoid a laughing outburst.

“As in… Mrs. Robinavitch?”

“That’s me.”

Gavin’s mouth falls open as he looks between you and Robby in horror. Robby clears his throat and checks his watch.

“Well would you look at that,” Robby says. “It’s 4 o’clock and I’m off early today. I’m taking my wife to the Finger Lakes to celebrate our wedding anniversary.”

He drapes an arm over your shoulders and steers you from the desk, leaving Trinity and Dana in stitches and Gavin in crisis.