#and he's unapologetic about it. there's something to like about that | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kikufufuku · 1 day ago

Text

‘cause sometimes when i look in her eyes

pairing: gojo satoru x reader

tags: angst, happy ending, satosugu is real, mei mei is in here lol, yearner(?) gojo, mild swearing, spoilers

wc: 6.2k

You know the way Satoru smiles, the way he clings to you in the early morning light, the way he says your name like a promise. He kisses your forehead like it’s sacred. Wraps around you like vines seeking the morning light. You are loved — fully, shamelessly, with a kind of desperate joy only Satoru can give.

Gojo Satoru loves you.

But some ghosts don’t leave.

He loves you.

But some ghosts don’t leave.

And sometimes, when his eyes find yours, you wonder if he’s really seeing you — or someone who came before.

You love Gojo Satoru with all your heart.

You love how whenever he genuinely smiles, those small dimples at the corners of his mouth poke out — it’s how you know it’s real, how you know it’s him. You love how his impossibly blue eyes light up even more the moment they find yours, like you’re the only person in a room full of stars. How his voice softens, just slightly, when he says your name.

He’ll curl around you in bed like a vine seeking the sun, his limbs tangling with yours until you can’t tell where he ends and you begin. He mumbles nonsense into your neck, breath warm, hands roaming absentmindedly across your skin. He’s so clingy. Satoru is shameless, unbothered, and unapologetically needy.

If you try to leave the bed too early, he’ll trap you with a sleepy arm and mutter, “Five more minutes. Just five.” Spoiler: it’s never just five. If you walk ahead of him in public, he’ll sneak up behind you and sling his arms over your shoulders like a human scarf. Sometimes, he just hugs you out of nowhere — no words, no warning — as if he remembered how much he loves you all at once and had to do something about it. He also has to put a hand on your waist everytime you go out, or intertwining your hands together, or even walking with his chest pressed against your back, his chin resting gently on your head, arms loosely wrapped around you as if the world could disappear and he’d still be content.

Yet you wouldn’t trade him for anything. You love him so much you could write a goddamn book about it but also worry about how words can’t really fathom how much you love him.

But sometimes, loving him feels like trying to catch sunlight with your bare hands. No matter how close you are, there are always parts of him you can’t reach. The parts that belong to the past. Someone haunts you more than any other. It also haunts him, you laugh.

“Baby! I’m home!” The door creaked open and Satoru’s voice floated in, as warm and easy as ever. “I have something to tell you! I bought you the pastries you like, by the way, Yuuta wants to video call you from Africa!”

You smiled to yourself, padding barefoot down the warm wooden floors of the apartment, the soft pat of your steps lost beneath the gentle rustling of the breeze through the half-open window. Your hair was pulled into a loose half-bun—messy, a little lopsided, and honestly, you hadn’t really cared.

Yuuta, you smile. He’s been away training in Africa for three months now. You weren’t a sorcerer, not even close, but Satoru had made sure you understood his world. Enough to care, enough to be a part of it. Enough to love him with your whole heart, even if his world scared you.

Satoru stepped into view, his bandages on his neck making you see the beauty of his blue eyes. His white hair a little tousled from the wind. The second he saw you, his voice faltered just a fraction.

“There you are.”

His gaze flicked to your hair. Lingered.

You faltered. You noticed.

Of course you noticed. Satoru knew you like the back of his hand and in return, you knew him as well. You knew his features, feelings, habits—you know him like the very air you breathe—and that’s how you noticed. It wasn’t much. Just the faint stillness in him, the pause too long to be casual. Like he was seeing something else for a moment.

You reached up instinctively, fingers brushing the knot at the back of your head. “It’s just for today,” you said, lightly. “Do I not look pretty?”

He exaggeratedly made a face in disbelief in response, stepping forward to press a kiss to your forehead. But you noticed something again. The way his arms wrapped around your waist like he was grounding himself. The way his fingers almost, almost touched your hair, then changed direction.

“Are you crazy?! You’re beautiful, baby,” he murmurs on your forehead, “I think you’d look even more beautiful bald, though–“

You reach up and tightly pull on his hair.

“I’ll make you bald!”

“Ouch– I’m sorry—“

“I’ll make you sorry!”

“Let go, baby—“

He laughed, breathless and boyish, eyes crinkling as your fingers tugged just hard enough to make him yelp. He leaned into it anyway, forehead against yours, his grin pressing dimples into his cheeks. Those dimples you loved so much. Adored.

And still, your heart ached. Because as you looked into his eyes in that moment, in that closeness, you saw it again. The flicker. That fleeting, almost imperceptible shift in his eyes, like a ghost brushing against the edges of the present. It was the way his gaze faltered for just a beat too long, as if something behind your face pulled him elsewhere—someone.

He blinked, and it was gone, replaced with affection, his thumb brushing your cheek as if to say I’m here, I love you, I choose you.

“Wanna go on a date tomorrow? I have some free time,” Satoru stares at you, a small smile gracing his lips as you look into his eyes.

Right. Right. What are you even saying? It’s been 3 years since you met Satoru, and he’s shown you what it meant to be loved, fully and unconditionally. He loves you like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Like it’s breathing.

Satoru is the kind of man who kisses you too long when you’re running late to your office, who holds your hand in a crowd like it’s a lifeline. He remembers the tiniest things — how you take your coffee, the way you hum when you’re folding laundry, the exact tilt of your voice when you’re about to cry.

He makes you feel like you’re the only one he sees. The world could end and as long as you’re still standing, he’d call it a good day. You know that. God, you know this. You know he’ll always come to you after his missions.

“Of course, ‘Toru.” You hum, instinctively leaning into his fingers. “Do you really have free time?”

“Hah! You know me so well, baby. Nah. I’ve got some paperwork left to do but oh well, Ijichi can handle it.”

“But the higher ups–“

“Ya think I give a fuck about them, hmm? I’ve told you this for years now. They can’t do shit about me.”

“Well–“

“You’re all that matters, so shh, and let me take care of you.”

So why? Your thoughts flicker — uninvited, unshakable — to a black-haired man, captured in photographs tucked behind the folds of Satoru’s shirts.

As if grief could be pressed flat and hidden between cotton and memory.

You and Satoru sat on a worn wooden bench, one that creaked faintly under your weight, nestled between rows of trees just beginning to hint at autumn. The air carried the faintest chill, but his arm around your shoulder kept you warm, grounding you with a gentle pressure that spoke louder than words ever could.

You weren’t talking. Not because you didn’t have anything to say, but because the silence between you had long since turned into something comfortable. Satoru’s head was tilted back, his white lashes catching the light, face tilted up toward the sky like he was trying to memorize the way it looked when he didn’t have the world on his back. You watched him from the corner of your eye. His features were soft, almost young like this — like the weight of everything he’s lost had eased off just enough for him to breathe.

He ditched the bandages today and if you leaned close enough, you could count the shiny sparkles residing inside his eyes. Satoru was truly beautiful.

You loved him most in moments like this. When he wasn’t being the strongest. When he was just your Satoru — quiet, human, and maybe just a little fragile beneath all that brightness. Not that you don’t love him any less when he’s the strongest, but you prefer times like these where he looks human despite his out of this world appearance.

I wish I could carry your burdens with you, you think, even if it’s a little foolish. How could you, a civilian, even understand the weight of what’s on his shoulders? Maybe someone on par with his abilities can. Still, you let yourself foolishly hope.

“You’re so beautiful, Satoru.” You softly whisper.

“Hm?” he hums, turning fully to face you.

And then he hits you with that smile of his. The corner of his lips curl upwards into that full, unrestrained grin that makes your heart skip in a way nothing ever could. The same grin that wants you to just grab the back of his head and smash his lips onto yours. The kind that makes your knees buckle.

You feel the heat bloom across your cheeks, too quick, too obvious. You try to turn your face away but he’s already there.

His long fingers cup your cheeks, gentle yet firm as he squishes them slightly, leaning in so close that you can feel his breath fan across your lips.

“I’m beautiful?” he coos with mock innocence, his tone dipped in teasing affection. “You’re much more beautiful, baby.”

“Mmphh—!” you muffle in protest, squirming under his touch.

“I love you, you know?” he grins, and before you can respond, you smack his chest, laughing as he releases your cheeks and pulls you into his side.

“Really now?” you challenge, raising an eyebrow. “Even more than your sweets?”

He gasps in mock betrayal. “Nah—”

“Gojo Satoru!”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” he laughs, burying his face into the crook of your neck, muffling his words there. “I’m just kidding, baby. You know I love you so much that I’d be actually willing to quit my sweets if you told me, ya know? But please don’t. For my sanity. To be honest, I need sweets and I need you. Although I love you more.”

“I get it,” you giggle at his ramble.

“I’m serious,” he says, dramatically groaning in your neck. “I need sweets… but I need you more. And..” you feel his smirk, “I love you the most.”

You roll your eyes, combing the back of his hair with your fingers. “I get it.”

“Say it right now.” He detaches himself away from you and pouts.

“Say what?” You act oblivious.

“I love you,” he says, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“I love you,” he leans into you and presses a kiss on your cheeks, “I love you,” a kiss on your eyelids, “I love you,” a kiss on the corner of your mouth. “I love you,” a kiss on your jawline.

“Stop! ‘Toru—“

“I’m not stopping until you say it back,” he murmurs against your neck, voice low and lips brushing your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

You’re just about to give in — your fingers tightening on the hem of his jacket — when a voice cuts through the moment like a knife slicing through silk.

“Well, well. Don’t let me interrupt.”

You both turn your heads.

There she stands, tall and elegant, her long hair tied neatly into a braid behind her back and front, an amused smirk playing on her lips. A frown tugs at your lips, tilting your head. You don’t think you’ve met her. Surely you’d remember an appearance like hers. Although.. You glance at Satoru and see recognition flicker in his eyes. A jujutsu sorcerer, perhaps?

Her fingers are loosely clasped around a boy’s hand — a younger teen, maybe thirteen or so. He glances at you with curious, guarded eyes and it makes you sit up straighter, blinking at the sudden intrusion

Well this is embarrassing.. There’s a child.

Satoru sighs dramatically, though the faint trace of laughter still dances on his lips. He leans away from you and instead leans back on the bench, although he puts his arm around your shoulder and forces you to lean on him.

“Mei Mei,” he groans. “Really?”

“I was just passing by,” she says, all too innocently. “Didn’t realize you’d be so… occupied.”

You notice the way she eyes the way Satoru’s arm is still wrapped protectively around your shoulder, then her gaze flicks back to you. It lingers, sharp and knowing.

“I see you’ve finally moved on,” she says, tone airy but her smirk sharpening slightly. “Took you long enough.”

“I can see some resemblance,” The woman supposedly named Mei Mei adds after a beat, cocking her head slightly.

What? You tense.

The words don’t hurt, not exactly. But they lodge somewhere deep in your chest. Suddenly, something flashes in your eyes and you’re back to where you were yesterday. Overthinking.

Satoru doesn’t say anything. You glance up at him, expecting the usual witty comeback — a playful jab, a cocky grin. But he’s quiet. His jaw is tight, lips pressed into a thin line. Not sad. Just… distant. You wonder if he’s in this moment with you or he have suddenly flung himself into the past.

“Let’s go,” the child whines and you blink. Mei Mei blinks, before laughing. She doesn’t spare the both of you a goodbye, only a glance before she smiles at the boy holding her hand and follows him as he leads the way.

You stared down at your hands in your lap. You didn’t ask who she was talking about. You already knew. You knew the name she didn’t say. Satoru still wasn’t saying anything. You close your eyes to try and stop the tears from pouring out.

You try not to wonder if the resemblance was what made him fall in love with you in the first place.

(Tomorrow, you let your tears freely fall as you answer your phone.

“Suguru?” Satoru’s slurred voice fills your ears, the thrum of loud music behind him. “Miss… hm… Come pick me up…”

You pick him up. You know he doesn’t do well with alcohol.)

It’s late. The kind of late where the world feels paused. The streetlights flickering outside, the rain a soft hush against the windows, and the room wrapped in a blanket of dim blue shadows. You lie tangled with Satoru in the center of the bed, his body pressed against yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if there’s even an inch of space between you.

You haven’t really slept. For some reason, thoughts keep consuming your head, spiraling you into a deep, deep circle of overthinking. It’s not just Satoru, really. It’s also about your work and how you’d really love to get a promotion but you know that’s not happening soon since you keep running late because someone refuses to let go of you and wants to hog all your attention. Really though, you don’t have it in you to decline and complain as he presses his soft lips onto yours. His lips — warm, lazy, possessive in the way only Satoru can be — make it impossible to say no.

Your mind drifts next to your family, wondering how they’re doing. You think about your parents. Your siblings. You wonder if they’re asleep now, if they know how much you love them even when you don’t say it enough. You think about your friends, those same people who you haven’t seen in a long time and you make a mental note to tell Satoru you’ll be meeting up with them in a few days time.

But then your thoughts… flicker.

You think about him.

Not because you want to, but because sometimes it’s impossible not to. Because when you love someone like Satoru — fully, deeply, with all the parts of yourself — you also end up loving the pieces he lost.

Suguru, you hum absentmindedly, rubbing circles on Satoru’s waist. You never really met him. In truth, you never met him at all.

You weren’t part of Satoru’s past then. Not during his highschool years, when he and Suguru were inseparable, when the world still made sense to them in the way it only can when you’re young and invincible. I'm the strongest, Satoru would say. You wonder if that was once, “we’re the strongest.” You didn’t see the way they laughed between missions, or how they fought back to back, moving like they were made to exist beside one another.

Even though he never directly said it, you knew. You knew him and Satoru had some sort of relationship.

“You still act like a lovesick fool,” Shoko drawled, flicking ash off the edge of the porch. “It’s cute. Though you were even worse with Suguru.”

You remember meeting Shoko for the first time inside the campus. You didn't even know who Suguru was at that time. You shrugged it off, thinking Suguru was just an ex.

You’d laugh at it now. Just an ex? God, he was so much more.

It’s not like you were insecure. That’s what you told yourself.

You weren’t jealous of Suguru — how could you be? He was gone, and Satoru had mourned him in your arms, sobbing so violently you were afraid his ribs might crack under the weight of it. You remembered the way he clung to you like he was drowning, stuttering out the words I had to kill him, I had to, I didn’t want to, I didn’t… over and over until his voice broke. Until yours did, too.

A gut-wrenching, soul-shattering sob cracked the air open.

“Satoru—” You dropped beside him, arms open, and he collapsed into them like he had nothing left holding him together.

“I—I had to—” His voice fractured, and you wavered because what happened, and how did your usually strong Satoru turn like this? A sobbing mess? Each syllable breaking against your skin as he buried his face in your shoulder. “I had to—I had to—There was no other choice—“

He was clinging to you like he was afraid you’d vanish. Fists gripping your shirt, fingers curling desperately around your body like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

“I didn’t want to,” he choked. “I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to.”

You just held him.

You didn’t say it was okay—because it wasn’t. You didn’t tell him to calm down—because he couldn’t. You just let him cry. Let him fall to pieces in your arms, let his guilt, his grief, his pain pour out in uncontrollable waves.

His whole body trembled against you.

“I loved him,” he whispered. “God—I love him. And I killed him. I killed him, I— Suguru— Fuck, I thought I-I could do it. Without feeling anything—It’s been years—a decade— but, still—“

You wrapped your arms tighter around him, pressing his head to your chest, rocking him slightly, gently, like you would a child.

“I’m here,” you whispered, over and over. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You loved Satoru more than anything. You really did. That’s why the thoughts hurt so much.

Because sometimes you wondered if he closed his eyes, did he see you? Or did he see someone else wearing your face?

You knew what you were feeling. It was fear.

Fear that even with all the love you poured into him — in the mornings you woke up tangled together, in the way you memorized how he loved his sweets, in the way you kissed his dimple reverently — that it still wouldn’t be enough. That he didn’t love you because of who you were, but because of who you reminded him of.

That maybe, without meaning to, he projected Suguru onto you. In the way your hair falls on certain days. In the way you stared too long at the rain. In the way you curled into him like he was something sacred. You’d catch it sometimes — the flicker in his eyes when he looked at you, like the lines between past and present blurred for just a second too long.

You hated yourself for thinking it.

You hated that it made you feel like a placeholder for a ghost.

You close your eyes, trying to silence the madness that was forming inside your thoughts when you feel it — his lips shift, pressing the faintest kiss against your neck. Not intentional. Not teasing. Just… soft.

And then, a whisper. Barely audible.

“…Suguru.”

Your body goes still.

Your eyes open, blinking slowly in the dark as your breath catches in your throat. He doesn’t move, doesn’t wake. His mouth lingers against your neck, and the name still hangs in the air like it belongs there — like he’s whispered it a thousand times in dreams he never tells you about. Fuck, you think as tears well up in your eyes.

Because what were you supposed to think? You wanted nothing but to bawl, to slap, to cry into his arms. To yell that that it’s hurting you. It hurts, Goddamnit! That you don’t want that stupid fucking name associated with you anymore.

Satoru shifts a little behind you, unconsciously tugging you closer, as if your body is the only anchor he has left. His breath evens out again, lips still brushing the base of your neck. Asleep. Dreaming. Somewhere far away from here.

Are you dreaming of him, Satoru?

The days blur.

You’re more tired now, honestly. It’s not the kind of tired sleep fixes. The kind of tiredness that sits inside your chest, humming like a dull ache. Like a secret no one is supposed to know.

You’re still doing all the same things — smiling when he kisses you goodbye, laughing at his dumb jokes, even holding his hand when the world seems too heavy. But it’s starting to feel like a performance. Like you’re playing a part that was never really written for you.

You force yourself to stand still. To remind yourself that he loves you, but it isn’t easy. It really isn’t.

Sometimes, when the silence between you stretches too long, when your thoughts get too loud, you wonder if maybe it would hurt less to let go.

Maybe you should break up with him. With Satoru.

You imagine it — telling him it’s over. Watching his expression shift. Would he be surprised? Would he even try to fight for you? Would he finally be relieved to stop pretending?

But you pause because you really don’t want to. If you break up with him, it’s like giving a victory to Suguru. Sure, it’s petty. But you don’t care at this point.

Let me have Satoru please. In this lifetime.

You don’t bother thinking in all other lifetimes, because you’ve already deluded yourself that they’re soulmates in every single universe there is. That in every reality, every timeline, every twist of the stars, it was always them.

And this time… this one and only time… something, someone, interfered.

This was the lifetime where Suguru lost. Where fate split them apart. Where maybe, just maybe, Suguru let you borrow Satoru. Just for a while. The thought sits bitter on your tongue.

I’m sorry. I’m selfish. I love Satoru, too.

More than you, the bitter side of you hisses.

“Baby? What’s wrong? You’ve been spacing out?” Satoru’s voice is soft, his hand reaching over to brush a stray hair from your face. His touch is gentle, comforting, and all too familiar. “Ya don’t like the movie? You wanna move to our room?

You blink, quickly pasting on a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “No, it’s fine. I was just… thinking. I’m okay.”

He doesn’t believe you. You know it instantly.

His gaze lingers too long, too quiet. The flicker of doubt flashes behind those clear blue eyes, and then it settles into something heavier. Concern, maybe. Doubt? Also possible.

Satoru blinks before he whispers your name. He says it slowly, voice dipping low. You know that tone. He’s serious now and he wants you to listen to him. “That wasn’t just ‘thinking’. You looked like you were somewhere far away.”

“I said I’m fine,” you answer, more firmly this time. You try to laugh, to make light of it. “You’re overthinking, ‘Toru.”

But Satoru doesn’t laugh.

He doesn’t even smile.

Instead, he presses pause on the movie and shifts on the couch, turning his whole body to face you. His knee brushes yours. “No. Don’t do that.”

You blink. “Do what?”

“Lie to me,” he says, quiet but sharp. “Don’t lie and smile at me like I can’t tell when something’s eating you alive.”

That gets you. It always does. The way he cuts through your walls like they were never there to begin with. It’s just a given fact, you realize. Satoru really knows you like the back of his hand. You open your mouth to deflect, to say something casual, but he reaches for your hand and holds it firmly in his.

“You’ve been somewhere else lately,” he murmurs. “And you think I don’t notice, but I do. You don’t laugh the same. You don’t hold me the same. You’ve been distant. You’re trying to act the same but you and I both know that something has changed. So tell me, what is it?”

Your throat closes up.

You look away. “It’s nothing.” I don’t want to tell you. What if you realize after I'm telling you everything that, yeah, I’m not actually enough and you’d leave me?

“It’s not nothing,” he says, and suddenly he sounds tired. Scared. “So please. Don’t keep shutting me out. I can take it, whatever it is. Just don’t pretend like everything’s okay when it’s clearly not.”

You stare at your intertwined hands. His thumb brushes over your knuckles like he’s grounding you. And still, you can’t speak.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I love you so much that it’s killing me. I need to know. Please.”

Gojo Satoru never begged. You know he never pleads with anyone. So, as he whispers ‘please’, your eyes sting.

And the words just… fall.

“I feel like I’m not enough for you.”

The words are barely above a whisper, but they land between you like thunder.

Satoru stills.

You force yourself to glance up and he has his face paused in a certain expression, like he’s in disbelief that you even said that. It’s somewhat funny and if you were a little happier right now, you would’ve laughed. But you’re not, so when his mouth opens and his features twist, you immediately bring your gaze down and open your mouth.

“I know you love me,” you continue, quietly, carefully, like every word might crack your chest open wider. “I know you do. But sometimes… sometimes it feels like I’m not the one you want to love.”

A long silence.

And then—your voice cracks.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” you inhale. “No matter how far you run. No matter how many years go by or how many times you kiss me goodnight or whisper that you love me, it’s still him.”

Your throat closes. You swallow the lump, but the tears come anyway.

“And I hate it. I hate that I can’t be mad at you for it. I hate that I still hold you every night, hoping maybe one day you’ll finally forget how he looked when he smiled at you. I hate that I feel like I’m just a placeholder in this story that never really belonged to me.”

Satoru’s grip tightens, like he’s trying to keep you from slipping through his fingers. You don’t fight it, but you don’t lean in, either.

“I didn’t come into your life to compete with a ghost,” you whisper, finally looking at his expression. He looks pale. He looks heartbroken. He doesn’t look like the strongest, but of course. You like him more this way. He seems more like Satoru. “But I’ve been doing it every day. And it’s eating me alive.”

You see it: the guilt, the grief, the sorrow, the love.. All of it is tangled within his eyes. His eyes shed with tears and although you want nothing more but to wipe them off, hug him in your arms and whisper nothing but love, you stand your ground,

“You talk in your sleep sometimes,” you continue, broken and small. “You say his name like it’s still the safest place you’ve ever known. And maybe it is. Maybe I was stupid to think I could ever change that. I know you see him when you look at me. God— every time I wear my hair up, I know you see him. That’s why I hate it. You know?”

“I love you,” you tell him. “Satoru, I love you so much. But I’m so tired, ‘Toru. I’m tired of pretending that you see me when you look at me. It’s a ridiculous fucking sentence but I know—“ you choke, “You see him instead of me.”

Did all the pretending help you forget?

“And I get it, okay? I do. Suguru was your best friend. Maybe more. Maybe the love of your life. You don’t talk about it, but you don’t have to. I see it every time you flinch when someone says his name. I see it when you look at the rain too long. When you fall asleep clinging to me like you’re afraid the past will pull you under again.”

“I’m not asking you to forget him. I could never ask you that. I just—” You inhale shakily. “I want to know that you’re here with me. Really here. Not stuck in a a place where I’m just someone else’s shadow.”

Satoru is still holding your hand. But now his is shaking, too.

“I’m sorry,” you say, almost in a whisper. “I’m sorry I’m selfish. I just… want to be enough.”

The silence that follows is so heavy it almost cracks the room in two.

And then, he moves.

He cups your face gently with both hands, like he’s holding something fragile. His eyes are glassy, red-rimmed, and full of guilt. “You are,” he says, voice raw. “You are enough. You’re more than enough.”

Tears slip down your cheeks, and he wipes it off.

“I love you,” he says. This time it’s firm. “Not because you look like him. Not because you remind me of anything. I love you. Gods, I love you so much. You’re the whole reason on to why I’m trying to— fuck,” he chokes, “To make this world a better place. To make this world a better place for you to live in. You’re the whole reason why I still want to live, to continue. You are my everything,”

“Are you saying that to me, Satoru?” Your voice cracks. “Or to Suguru?”

He flinches.

Not dramatically, but enough. Enough for you to know the question hit home. Enough to break your heart a little more. You take that as acceptance. There’s really no winning, huh? When will you ever win? Did you ever win within these past 3 years?

His thumbs stop moving. His hands stay on your face, but his gaze drops, like he can’t bear to look at you now. Or maybe it’s himself he can’t face. Or maybe it’s Suguru who he can’t face, staring at him right now. You’re staring at him.

You think he won’t say anything. You think maybe this is it, he still loves him. Acceptance washed over you but then he unravels. Quietly, brokenly, his voice comes.

“I don’t know when I started doing that.”

You blink.

He doesn’t look at you. Not yet. “Blurring the lines,” he says, breath shaking. “Letting the past creep into everything I built with you. Sometimes I see a ghost in the corner of the room, and I let him sit there. I let him stay. I didn’t realize it made you feel like you weren’t real. Like you were second.”

You look down, your lip trembling.

“I messed up,” he continues, and this time, his voice cracks. “I messed up so bad, and I hate myself for it. I never wanted to make you feel like… like you were standing in for someone else. Because you’re not. You never were.”

“I loved Suguru,” he says, softer, like a confession. Although you know, you knew, you can’t help but flinch at the harsh truth. “He was my best friend, my other half. We were the strongest. He was my.. lover. Losing him… it tore me apart. It shattered something in me I didn’t think could be fixed.”

Satoru finally looks at you. Really looks at you. And his expression is everything—regret, pain, love. So much love it almost hurts.

“I’m an idiot,” he says. “I got so used to hurting that I forgot how to be loved without guilt. Because I didn’t think I was allowed to be happy again. And then you came along—” He laughs softly, bitterly, tears falling now. “You, with your stubborn heart and your soft hands. You loved me like I was worth saving. You made me feel like I could actually belong in this world again.”

You’re both crying, and neither of you lets go.

“And I clung to you,” he says, “but I kept clinging to him, too. And that was wrong. I should’ve let go. Not of my memories, not of the grief, but of the part of me that still thought I had to keep choosing between the past and the present.”

“You,” he trembles, and the word is breathless. Gentle. Full of awe. “You are something else entirely.”

He lets out a shaky laugh, tears still clinging to his lashes.

“You’re peace. You’re warmth. You’re what I never thought I’d deserve after everything I’ve done, after everything I’ve lost. You see all the broken parts of me and you still… you still love me. And that terrifies me.”

His hands tremble as they cup your cheeks. “You’re not a replacement. You’re the only one. You are the love I never thought I’d find. The love I chose. Every single day. Even when I didn’t know how to show it.”

Your shoulders shake with silent sobs.

“I don’t see him when I look at you,” he says, voice raw. “I see you. The person who stayed. The person who listens when I fall apart at midnight. The person who makes me fall asleep, when you know damn well I can’t. The person who makes me laugh like I haven’t in years. The person who makes me feel like I’m just.. Satoru. Not the strongest everyone knows. You make me feel me, damn it.”

“I’m sorry,” Satoru says, voice trembling. “I’m sorry if I ever looked at you and saw him. If my grief bled into us in ways I didn’t notice… if I ever made you feel like you were standing in his shadow.”

He pauses, eyes glistening, the weight of his guilt crackling in the silence between you.

“I swear I never meant to. But I know intent doesn’t erase impact. And I hate that I made you feel like you weren’t enough, when you’ve been the only thing that’s ever made me feel whole.”

His fingers tighten against your cheeks, almost reverent. “I wake up next to you and it feels like I’ve finally come home. When I hold you, I don’t feel like I’m drowning. I feel like I’m alive.”

His voice breaks. “You’re not the after. You’re the only. There is no one else in this world, in this lifetime, in any lifetime, that I want to build something with except you.”

Satoru leans in until your noses are touching, “I loved him,” he whispers, “but I’m in love with you.”

And that’s when you finally lean in.

It’s not a desperate kiss. Not the kind that comes from panic or passion or trying to forget something. It’s slow. Gentle. Like both of you are trying to say everything you couldn’t before without words. His lips press against yours with a kind of aching reverence, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he holds you too tightly — but terrified you’ll slip away if he doesn’t.

His hand cradles the back of your neck, pulling you in just a little closer. Your fingers tangle in his shirt, gripping like you’re anchoring yourself to this moment. To him.

And when he exhales against your mouth, you feel it — the relief, the apology, the love. It pours out of him in waves.

He kisses you like you’re the present. Like you’re the future. Not a replacement. Tears fall again, down to your cheeks and to your lips together. He moans in your mouth as he tastes the saltiness of your tears. You wish the saltiness of your tears could convey everything you’re feeling. Everything you felt.

“I love you,” he whispers against your lips.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispers against your lips.

“You’re the only one I want,” he whispers against your lips.

“I love you… I’ll show you.” he whispers against your lips.

“I’ll do better.”

You let yourself believe in him.

(Later that night, Satoru’s hugging you, unconsciously kissing the side of your neck. You’ve been here before, and your body goes tense on instinct. Like a bruise being touched.

But instead of whispering the ghost of the past, he murmurs you.

He whispers your name, eyes shut.

“I love you.. Mm.. only.. you.”

You fall asleep peacefully.)

masterlist authors note comments, reblogs, asks r appreciated!

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo x reader #jjk #jjk fluff #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #(🍡) mochi works #getou suguru x reader #geto suguru #jjk comfort #jjk angst #satosugu #gojo x getou #gojo x geto

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cherrywriterrr · 2 days ago

Text

closer than before

exbf!rafe x reader

warnings: MDNI (18+), language, obsessive thoughts, toxic dynamic, rough sensuality, emotional manipulation, post-breakup tension, voyeuristic undertones, dark yearning, physical proximity

you don’t even know he’s there until the breeze hits your back.

it’s subtle at first—like the air shifted. like your skin knows something you don’t yet. but when your body tenses and your fingers twitch just slightly on the rim of your drink, you know.

you don’t have to look.

you know it’s him.

you always fucking know when it’s him.

you turn. and there he is.

leaning on the wall just beyond the hazy blue lights of the party, half in shadow, one boot crossed over the other, drink in hand, that cruel mouth twitching like he’s holding back a smile he doesn’t deserve to wear.

he’s staring. unapologetically.

like he always did.

rafe fucking cameron.

the ex you still dream about. the ghost of a boy who never really left.

“you gonna stand there and gawk,” you call, voice low, taunting, “or you gonna keep following me around like a psycho?”

his lips twitch.

“why not both?” he mutters, sipping. “you look good. not better than when you were mine, but—good.”

you scoff, turning back toward the kitchen. your pulse is thudding now. it shouldn’t be. it shouldn’t still feel like this.

he follows you.

of course he does.

you try to ignore how close he stands when he leans down next to your ear, breath hot and slow.

“you see that guy you were talkin’ to earlier?”

“i see a lotta guys,” you lie.

he clicks his tongue, head tilting.

“yeah? did they make you laugh like i did? did they hold your hand under tables, squeeze your thigh when you got nervous? did they know when you were lyin’?cummin’?”

you hate him.

you fucking hate him. because every word he says makes your body remember.

the way he used to look at you like you were his last breath.

the way he’d say your name with a rasp and a command.

“don’t flatter yourself, cameron.”

you feel his smirk before you see it.

“you keep sayin’ my name like that and i’m gonna think you want me to do something about it.”

you turn sharply, chest brushing his.

your face is tilted up, his is angled down, and for one sick second— you forget everything.

the breakup. the screaming. the way he used to lose it if another guy so much as glanced at you. the slamming doors. the way you sobbed in his truck when he told you you ruined him.

“you don’t get to want me now,” you whisper.

he leans closer. close enough to smell your perfume. close enough for your nose to brush his.

“i never stopped,” he says. low. violent. like a confession.

your breath catches. his hand ghosts over your waist. doesn’t touch. just… hovers.

“every time you post somethin’, i save it. zoom in. fuck, i shouldn’t tell you that,” he laughs to himself. bitter. “but you said i don’t get to want you. and i do. i want you in ways that’d make god blush.”

“you’re sick,” you mutter.

“probably. i liked it better when you liked it, too.”

you shove him away—not hard—but just enough to breathe.

“we broke up, rafe. you don’t get to say shit like that anymore.”

he stares. that stare that strips you down without ever moving. the kind that used to burn when it was soft—now it’s sharper. darker.

“but you let me get this close.”

he steps forward.

you step back.

he steps again.

“you could’ve left this party when you saw me, but you didn’t,” he continues. “you want to pretend you’re over me? then why haven’t you told me to fuck off?”

you stare at him. something twists in your gut.

you’re not sure if it’s anger or hunger.

both.

“fuck off,” you say.

he smiles“liar.”

his hand reaches up—he almost touches your face—but pulls back like it burns.

“you think i haven’t tried?” he rasps. “to forget? i went on dates. fucked strangers. tried gettin’ drunk enough to not see your face in every damn girl. didn’t work.”

you say nothing.

“you haunted me. haunt me. and you like it.”

you do.

you do like it. you hate yourself for it.

“if you think this is some tragic love story where you get to break in and make me yours again—”

“i don’t wanna make you mine again.”

you blink. he leans in.

“i wanna ruin you first.”

your lips part. your pulse pounds.

“then i’ll make you mine.”

a pause. a breath.

a look so blistering it could crack concrete.

“i should walk away,” you whisper.

“you won’t,” he murmurs, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. his fingers graze your cheekbone. “you like it when i go crazy for you.”

you do. you really, really do.

taglist<- ->more

tags: 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @k4yr14 @iconiccolo @viqtoria @qversazex @devoutedlover

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multifandomslxt · 2 days ago

Text

CRE·SCEN·DO

MDNI

MINORS GO AWAY

Pairing: Pianist!Jaehyun x reader

Synopsis: quiet, haunting, and dangerously talented. a man carved from silence and precision. Jeong Jaehyun, the world-renowned pianist, lived by structure. Lived by discipline.

loud in all the ways that mattered. She played like she was trying to bleed. A mess of passion, pain, and poetry. No titles. No training. Just the ache of a girl who used music to escape. To survive.

They were a slow-burning harmony of restraint and desire, grasping onto the black and white keys...trying not to unravel. Every note pulled them closer and closer until they reached their climax. The crescendo.

Word count: 8.5k

WARNING: Smut, angst, yearning, mentions of abuse and scars, mentions of death and grief, choking, spitting, hair pulling, he eats her out on top of the piano, crying, begging, literal definition of until the paint starts to peel off the wall.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This work contains guide songs. Basically, songs I use to set the tone for a scene. You don't have to listen to them, but the experience would definitely be better if you listen as you read for each specific part. Enjoy!!! @andysorbit @sharonxdevi @calibabii21

A piano is an extension of the pianist.How you play it reflects how you feel about your music and the relationship you have with it.

Your grandfather was a talent his generation both mocked and adored. They praised him for his brilliance but laughed at his outlandish way of playing.

A sudden pianissimo where it didn’t belong. A staccato attack on notes meant to be tied. He had a habit of doing things suddenly. He liked the attention. He liked the shock.

So imagine no one’s surprise when He suddenly died at his old piano. Well… no one’s but yours.

A stress-induced heart attack, the doctors had said.

“Hmph,” you huffed, as tears stung the back of your eyes. Of course the only family you ever truly had would go out like that. And deep down, you knew… he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

He died doing what he loved—Playing. Composing. Being unapologetically himself.

His funeral was today

And you couldn’t even bring yourself to sit at the church piano when the priest asked you to.

But here you stood now, alone in his studio. Staring at the last piece he played before he died.

Beethoven’s Für Elise.

A lump formed in your throat. He hated that piece. But you loved it.

“You’re a child prodigy, sweetheart!” he’d always say. Lies. At seven, you were a terrible player. But he’d clap like you’d just performed at Carnegie Hall.

It was the first piece you ever played together.

“Two on a bench, one heart between the notes.” He’d say.

You ran your hand along the worn wood of the piano. Something heavy settled in your stomach.

You never handled strong emotions well.

“Most gifted people don’t.” His eyes would twinkle with understanding.

But now, you took a seat at the bench and inhaled.

“Go on, sweetheart. You can do it,” he’d whisper every time you sat down to play something new.

Your fingers twitched. Für Elise stared back at you. The memory of his voice echoed:

“It doesn’t matter if the piece is happy, sweetheart. If you play it with sadness, people will feel it. It’s not about the notes. It’s about what you pour into them. Feel it. Then play it.”

So what were you feeling?

Grief. Sadness. Anger. Loneliness. Desperation.

Could Für Elise carry all that?

You didn’t know.

But your fingers moved on their own. And for the first time in almost two months…you let the first tear fall.

It hurt. it hurt so fucking bad.

He was gone. The only one who ever truly cared for you… was gone. And your only release? The music that killed him.

“I assume you’re the granddaughter he liked to brag about?”

You whipped around at the sound of a new voice. You hadn’t even realized someone else was in the room.

You didn’t trust your voice, so you just nodded.

Standing there was a tall, posh-looking man— Black turtleneck, black slacks, and leather shoes. Too polished for a place this sacred and raw.

“I’m Jaehyun, a friend of your grandfather” he stretched his hand offering a handshake

You stood up form the bench and shook his hand

“I know who you are” Your voice came out scratchy and strained.

Everyone who was interested in classical music and pianos knew who The Jeong Jaehyun was.

He was an actual child prodigy who actually played at Carnegie hall.

His name was worth more than gold in the industry.

But-

“Good. I heard your playing out there, and I know it is not the most appropriate time to say this, but your attempt at Für Elise was horrible.”

-Everyone also knew he was a conceited little prick.

Too prim and far too proper.

Which is why it surprised you when he said He was a ‘friend’ of your grandfather.

“I’m not a professional” You informed him

He nodded as if grateful that you really weren’t

“Grandpa taught me how to play”

He paused for a moment and his gaze shifted to the piano behind you.

He clenched his jaw and whispered “I can tell”

But it wasn’t in a rude tone…it sounded almost

Envious.

A Few Months Later

Grief had stopped screaming.

It just sat with you now—quiet and heavy—like a coat you didn’t take off, even in the heat.

You didn’t go back to the piano much.

Not because you didn’t want to.

But because it still smelled like him. Sounded like him. It felt like holding hands with a ghost.

You stood in front of your mirror, smoothing out your dress and releasing a big breath.

Your friend’s voice had been light when she invited you.

“It’s just a community fundraiser. Small, casual. They’ll have music, snacks, people who don’t take themselves too seriously.”

You almost said no. But then she added:

“They’re naming the practice room after your grandpa.”

So you said yes. For him. Because he would’ve liked that.

The room was cramped but warm. People laughed, bumped shoulders, sipped boxed juice and clapped after every shaky performance.

The piano was far too close to the speakers and had three sticky keys.

It was perfect.

You stood near the back, arms folded, letting the noise wrap around your silence.

“We’ve got a final performance tonight,” the MC said, with a lilt of surprise. “Please welcome… Jeong Jaehyun?”

Your blood ran cold.

You looked up.

And there he was.

Still pristine. Still poised. Still unreadable.

His eyes met yours across the room. Just once.

No smile. No nod. Just that silent look that said I remember you.

He sat.

You didn’t breathe.

His fingers moved like water—every note clean, every phrase controlled.

And then you recognized it.

Your grandfather’s piece.

Your lungs tightened.

It was the one he never finished. The one he used to hum around the house with a pencil between his teeth. The one he said would never be “perfect,” and didn’t need to be.

But Jaehyun’s version… was perfect.

Painfully so.

Polished into something unrecognizable. All the grief sanded away.

It was beautiful. But it wasn’t your grandfather.

It wasn’t messy. It didn’t stumble. It didn’t cry.

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. The ache came rushing back, not loud, but raw.

Your fingers twitched. You could almost hear your grandfather’s voice:

“Feel it first, sweetheart. Then play it.”

But Jaehyun hadn’t felt it.

He had played it like it was a performance.

Not a memory.

When he finished, the crowd clapped softly. Grateful. Polite.

You didn’t move.

He looked at you again.

Longer this time.

There was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

Not regret. Not pride.

Just… silence.

Almost like he knew he’d played it wrong.

Not technically, But emotionally.

And that was worse.

Jaehyun rose smoothly from the piano bench, his expression unreadable as he nodded once toward the crowd. No flourish, no bow…just quiet, controlled grace. He disappeared backstage before anyone could ask for an encore.

You stood frozen for a moment, chest tight, eyes burning.

How could he play it so… pristine? So distant? Like it was just another song to master, not a heart laid bare?

Your friends approached softly, sensing the storm behind your silence.

“You okay?” Joy asked gently.

You forced a smile, nodding as you wrapped your arms around yourself.

“I’m gonna get some fresh air,” you said quietly.

“if you don’t see me come back, I’m gone”

They nodded, understanding.

You said your goodbyes, voice steady but your mind racing with a tangle of grief and anger.

Walking out of the room, the weight of the music pressed down on you—beautiful, but empty.

Outside, the night air hit your face.

You breathed it in.

You didn’t know when the grief would loosen its grip. But tonight… tonight it was louder than ever.

Jaehyun stepped into the night, his movements measured, almost detached. He saw you standing there, tense and tight.

He stopped a few feet away. His voice was low, clipped. “You’re angry.”

You didn’t turn. “Why do you play it like that? So perfect. So cold.”

He said nothing for a beat. Then, without looking at you, “Because that’s how it’s done.”

Your voice rose, sharp with grief and rage. “It’s not just about the music. It’s about him. About what he meant.”

Jaehyun’s jaw tightened. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flicked toward you for a moment — no warmth, no softness. “I’m not here to comfort you.”

You finally faced him, bitterness raw. “Then why’re you here?”

“Because I feel like I need to be.” His tone was flat, dismissive. “I’m not here to play for your feelings.”

You clenched your fists, pain and envy mixing in your chest. “I’m starting to hate you.”

He gave a short, humourless laugh. “Good.”

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving the cold night and your anger swirling behind him.

TWO WEEKS LATER

One of the scariest things about being a celebrity was that people always kept tabs on you. Your meals, your latest purchases, your favourite stores... even your current location.

“OMG!! I just saw Jaehyun entering Smith’s Hall… he must be practicing for a concert or something 😭😭😭” — Twitter user @yuno_wifey, 12 minutes ago

You hadn’t meant to care. But something about the way he played music rubbed you the wrong way.

Too perfect, too calculated. It didn’t sit right with you.

So here you were, standing in front of Smith’s Hall, determined to figure out the truth. Because there was no way in hell he’d had a real friendship with your grandfather. Not with the way he played.

You stepped through the massive double doors and froze. It smelled like polished wood and silence — heavy, suffocating. It didn’t feel like a space made for passion or practice. It felt like a performance prison.

The velvet chairs and glossy décor practically screamed no mistakes and no funny business.

“Grandpa would’ve hated this,” you muttered.

“He did.” The voice cut through the quiet, sharp and unmistakable.

You turned — and there he was. Jaehyun. The man claiming to be your grandfather’s friend.

He looked at you for a long moment. “How did you know I was here?”

He wasn’t surprised you were here.

Like he’d been waiting for you to show up.

How odd.

“Twitter,” you said simply.

He gave a small nod — and in true Jaehyun fashion, just turned and walked into a smaller room off to the side.

Naturally, you followed. Why? Because you needed to know. Something.

The room was small and stripped of pretense — cold, but more real than the grand hall. It suited him more than the main stage ever could.

You lingered in the doorway. “I have a question for you.”

He didn’t respond. So you asked it anyway.

“Why do you even play?”

The door closed softly behind you.

Jaehyun sat at the grand piano, back to you, fingers lightly resting on the keys, his posture infuriatingly perfect.

For weeks, ever since he played your grandfather’s piece with that cold, surgical precision, you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. About the way his music felt like a fortress. And what it would mean if someone broke through.

“Let me play for you,” you said. Quiet. Steady. But your heart pounded hard.

Still, he didn’t turn. Just the faint shift of his clothes — a barely-there movement.

You stepped closer. “I want to show you how it feels. The way I feel.”

Nothing.

But you still moved towards him.

You sat beside him. The bench was cold. He was close — closer than you expected — and his cologne lingered in the air between you. You could feel his attention, even if he wouldn’t meet your eyes.

You placed your fingers on the keys. They trembled.

Then, slowly, painfully, you began to play.

It wasn’t smooth. You cracked, faltered, stumbled. But this wasn’t about perfection. It was about everything inside you that hurt and screamed and longed.

The tension in the room grew thick, electric. Jaehyun’s hands twitched. His jaw clenched.

Then, for the briefest moment, his eyes flicked toward you — sharp, unreadable. You caught it. Or maybe you imagined it.

Still, you played on. Grief. Anger. Yearning. You poured it all into the notes.

When you finally stopped, the silence was deafening.

He stood and moved behind you.

Your breath hitched.

He didn’t say a word. But as he walked away, something shifted.

Like gravity had changed. Like he’d noticed.

Like he saw you.

“Well then…”

You stood, brushing invisible dust from your jeans, the ache in your chest blooming wider now that it was quiet again. The room, dim and cold, suddenly felt too still.

You turned toward the door, ready to leave it all behind — him, the questions, the music that wouldn’t stop following you.

But then you heard it. Footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate.

You froze.

Jaehyun stepped back into the room, his expression unreadable, but his hand — his hand clutched a sheet of music, crisp and marked with notes like scars.

He didn’t speak right away. Just walked past you, calm and silent, and set the paper on the music stand.

Then he turned to you, eyes meeting yours. For once, he didn’t look through you — he looked at you.

“Play this,” he said. His voice was low, but there was something sharp beneath it. A dare. A demand.

You blinked at the sheet. It was unfamiliar — complex, full of unexpected pauses, chaotic chords, and moments of painful softness.

“Did you write this?” you asked cautiously.

His eyes didn’t flinch. “Play it. As is.”

You hesitated. “What even is this?”

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes shining with just enough vulnerability for you believe him. “It’s how I feel.”

Your heart dropped a little.

It wasn’t just notes. It was his grief. His confusion. The storm beneath that polished surface.

You glanced at the sheet again. “No changes?”

“No changes.”

The piano waited, sleek and heavy like a secret. You sat slowly, eyes scanning the first few bars. It wasn’t easy. It wasn't pretty. It wasn’t supposed to be.

You exhaled.

Then you played.

The first few measures stuttered under your fingers, awkward and sharp. But then something shifted — the music pulled you in, unfamiliar yet familiar, like reading someone’s diary and realizing it’s written in your own handwriting.

Anger laced the rhythm. Grief haunted the rests. And in the middle of it all was longing — raw and so loud it nearly drowned you.

When you stopped, the silence hit like a wave. You didn’t dare look up.

But then Jaehyun spoke — quiet, almost gentle.

“You didn’t change a single note.”

You looked at him. His expression had softened, but barely.

“Neither did you,” you said softly.

A flicker of something passed through his eyes — pride? Sadness? Relief?

He nodded once, and this time, when he turned to leave, he paused at the door.

“Come back tomorrow.”

You didn’t answer. But he already knew you would.

THE NEXT DAY

The cramped practice room smelled faintly of old wood and cold metal. A step down from the hall — smaller, rougher — but more honest. The kind of space where truth had nowhere to hide.

The low hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows on the dusty floor. You sat at the grand piano, Jaehyun’s sheet music in front of you — a different one from the night before. Your fingers hovered above the keys, eyes closed, breath held, as the final note died in the air.

Behind you, Jaehyun stood still — tall, silent, watching.

Then his voice sliced through the quiet. Smooth. Controlled. But heavy, like a cello bow drawn too tightly.

“Is that all you’ve got to give me?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a judgment.

You didn’t turn around. The words burned into your back.

“You play with no respect,” he continued. “You fumble around and play what you feel is right. Music is about structure. Discipline. Intent.”

You rose slowly, spine straightening, turning to face him. The air between you grew hotter — too close, too charged.

“And yet…” you said softly, your voice holding steel, “Beethoven was deaf.”

He blinked.

“He couldn’t hear a single note, but he composed music that made the world feel everything.”

You took a step closer, the distance shrinking. “I play by feel because music is meant to feel. It’s meant to speak the things we’re too afraid to say out loud.”

He scoffed — short, sharp, dismissive.

But you weren’t done.

“I feel sorry for you,” you whispered, your voice dipped in sorrow, not spite. “Your musicality must be like a sheet filled with long rests and pianissimo… so quiet, so careful, it forgets how to breathe.”

You turned back to the piano. Your fingers hovered, not yet touching, but longing.

“How can I play in a way that doesn’t speak to the audience?” “Music is memory. It’s future. It’s pain and love and grief — all tangled in the silence between notes.”

Your voice cracked slightly, a fracture in your otherwise defiant melody.

“We feel when the music is void. So how can I give them a pianissimo when what they need is a fortissimo?”

The air stilled. Heavy. A long silence. Four silent beats.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Then, Jaehyun’s voice struck, hard — sharp like staccato.

“You don’t decide what they need,” he snapped, eyes narrowing.

“Beethoven does. Chopin. Schumann.” “You didn’t write it. Play it as written.”

He stepped forward, shoulders tense, fists clenched.

“Your stubbornness is the reason you cannot play like you’re supposed to.”

His voice cracked — just a hairline fracture, but it was there. The first real break.

“All that bleeding,” he bit out, breathing shallow now, “makes it hard to see the notes.”

You froze.

His chest rose and fell faster. And just for a second — a sliver of time — you saw it.

His eyes glistened.

Not with anger.

But with grief.

Real. Raw. Human.

“Now sit,” he said, barely above a whisper, “and play it. As is.”

It wasn’t a shout. But it roared through the room louder than any crescendo.

And for that one fleeting moment — like a grace note buried in the melody — you saw what he’d tried so hard to bury:

He understood you. He was grieving, too. And somewhere along the way, he’d been taught that emotions had no place in the music. That only the notes mattered. Not the story. Not the ache. Not the fire building in his chest.

But you saw it now — loud and clear — A crescendo, rising. Raging. Waiting for someone to call it music.

The silence after his words lingered, draping itself over the room like one of the velvet curtains in the main hall.

Your hands clenched at your sides. The weight of his command hung heavy in your chest.

You sat down again, jaw tight. The same sheet music stared up at you — perfectly aligned notes that felt like shackles. You hated how beautiful it was. Hated how it demanded order when all you had left was chaos.

Then... you heard him move.

Soft footsteps on the old wood floor.

He didn't leave.

Jaehyun came around the bench — slowly, deliberately — and placed something on the music stand.

Another page. Another song.

His fingers lingered at the edge of the paper for a beat too long. You glanced up. He was already watching you.

Something swirling in his eyes,

Was that…desire?

What could he possibly want?

Waltz No. 2.

“Play this,” he said, low and breathless, like it had taken something out of him.

Your eyes widened just slightly. The piece was infamous. Beautiful. Torturous.

Without waiting for your response, he moved beside you and slid onto the bench — too close. The space between your bodies vanished like a held breath.

Your arm brushed his, and it was electricity — but no one flinched.

“Start with the left hand,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder would break the spell. “I’ll take the right.”

The waltz began — slowly, cautiously — your fingers pressing the minor notes, his dancing on top with aching grace. The melody curled around the room, haunted and wistful, like a memory trying to return.

Your hands moved like shadows across the keys — almost touching, almost crossing.

But not yet.

You could feel him beside you. The heat radiating off his skin. The way he breathed like the music was the only thing keeping him alive.

And then...

His pinky grazed yours.

Barely a brush. But it sent a jolt through you — like the music had turned to fire.

He didn’t look at you.

He just played on, like nothing happened. But his playing changed — just slightly.

It grew heavier. Slower. Seductive. Like he was daring you to feel it too.

Your fingers stumbled for half a beat. He noticed. You knew he did.

Still, you didn’t stop.

You found the rhythm again — swaying in time with him, with the pulse of the song, with the growing storm between you.

Then his hand crossed over yours — reaching for the high notes.

His wrist brushed the back of your palm, deliberately slow. The friction seared.

And still, he didn’t look.

He didn't have to.

The air between you buzzed with the kind of tension that only silence and sound together could make. Like restraint holding back something wild.

You kept playing.

And then — he moved his hand beneath yours this time, supporting the chord as your fingers floated above his.

You felt his knuckles. Warm. Calloused. Real.

“Stop trying to outrun the song,” he said softly. “Let it catch you.”

Your breath hitched.

His hand lingered under yours, just long enough to make you forget what you were playing.

“Do you feel it now?” he asked softly, his breath tickling your ear.

You clenched your thighsand nodded, eyes still on the keys.

“I do.”

And when your pinky brushed his again — this time, you didn’t pull away.

The music slowed. Grew heavier. Every note was an inhale. Every rest, an exhale. And in the space between it all — where no sound lived — something bloomed.

Want. Restraint. Fear. Longing.

You didn’t speak.

Because the waltz said everything.

And somewhere between your fingers grazing and the swell of the final note — you realized:

Jaehyun hadn’t just come to play. He’d come to bleed, too.

Together.

You could see it clearly now.

He was caged.

He was messy.

And he was wounded.

Your hands were still resting together on the keys, breath shallow, hearts louder than the silence.

Jaehyun pulled away first — but not far.

He stood slowly, like something heavy was coming undone in him. His jaw flexed, the way it always did when he was trying to stay cold.

But he wasn’t cold anymore.

Not after that.

“I shouldn’t have said those things,” he murmured, eyes not quite meeting yours.

You didn’t answer.

He turned his back to you, fingers flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them now that they weren’t hiding him anymore.

“I…” His voice caught, like he hadn’t spoken a real feeling in years. “I was taught that if you let the music feel too much… it’ll destroy you.”

Your breath hitched — barely. But he heard it.

He kept going.

“My first teacher…” He laughed, hollow and without humor. “He believed expression was filth. That it distracted from purity.”

He looked down at his hands — beautiful, scarred hands.

“I used to think he was right. That control was everything. That perfection was the only thing worth reaching for.”

“and then I met your grandfather and…”

He finally looked at you.

“he showed me what it was like to be free again.”

His eyes pooled with unshed tears.

Tears of grief.

Of guilt.

“And then I heard you playing after his burial…it sounded so much like him. And it made me angry.”

You stiffened, but he stepped closer, slowly.

“It made me angry because I remembered.”

His voice was raw now, stripped of all polish.

“I remembered what it felt like to love a piece. To lose yourself in it. To want to scream through the keys. To want to play until your fingers bled because it was the only way to get it all out.”

He was in front of you now. His hair slightly covering his eyes, cheeks flushed and lips slightly parted.

He was close.

So fucking close your skin felt hot.

You craved him— You knew you did.

He was close enough for his voice to be a vibration in your ribcage.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Not just for the words. Not just for the coldness.

But for every time he tried to crush the thing that made you… you.

“For the first time in years,” he said, voice trembling, “I heard music again. Not notes. Not time signatures. Music.”

His hand lifted — hesitated — then brushed your cheek. Featherlight. Like he wasn’t sure he had permission to touch something so alive.

“You made me feel something I wasn’t ready for.”

A pause.

His voice dropped to almost nothing.

“And I think that terrifies me.”

The room was quiet. But not empty.

It was full of unsaid things. Of years lost. Of notes held too long and silences that finally cracked.

You could still feel the echo of the waltz between your ribs. You knew he could too.

And when his forehead rested lightly against yours — not a kiss, not yet — just the soft ache of closeness…You realized he wasn’t asking for forgiveness.

He was offering surrender.

“The way you played…It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t clean. But it… ached in all the right places. I could feel the grief in the minor shifts. The joy in the accidentals. The love in the spaces you let breathe.”

His brows furrowed, as if he couldn’t believe what he was saying aloud.

“That kind of playing—what you did—it takes more courage than anything I’ve ever learned. And I was too much of a coward to say that.”

He looked down, then up again, slowly.

“I’m sorry, not just for the things I said in that room. I’m sorry for not respecting what he taught you. For thinking that kind of music was less than.”

His voice dropped to a whisper, barely hanging in the air between you.

“I think your grandfather would’ve been proud.”

You blinked — once, twice — but the sting was there.

And Jaehyun saw it.

He didn’t move closer this time. He let the silence settle, let your heart catch up.

But then, when your gaze didn’t waver… he did.

He reached out, carefully, fingers ghosting over yours on the piano — like he was asking to join your world, not take it.

And when your pinkies brushed — barely there, but electric — his voice came again.

“I don’t want to be the reason your music hesitates.”

Another beat.

“I want to learn how to feel again.”

His voice cracked like an old string pulled too tight.

“And if you’ll let me… I want to learn from you.”

You stared at him — this man made of marble and bruised melody — and for the first time, you saw the boy beneath the training.

The man who never got to cry when the music begged him to.

You took his fully in yours and gave a tight reassuring squeeze

“Okay”

LESSONS: FEELING IN MUSIC

Week One - Touch

He sat beside you stiffly, spine straight, jaw locked. His eyes kept flicking down to his hands like they were foreign to him. You watched the tension crawl across his shoulders — the way his fingers hovered just above the keys, twitching, uncertain. Like pressing a note might make something inside him snap.

“Don’t think,” you whispered. “Just play.”

His breath hitched. He glanced at you, wide-eyed — like he wanted to believe you, but didn’t know how.

“I don’t know how to not think.”

You placed your hand over his. His entire body stilled. Your touch was soft — but it landed like lightning. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, hard.

“Then stop trying to get it right. Start trying to feel it.”

You guided his hand down, gently. His fingers pressed the chord, trembling slightly beneath yours.

“You’re trembling,” you said softly.

He didn’t meet your eyes.

“I’m not used to this,” he breathed, voice rough.

You tilted your head.

“To being… touched like this.”

There it was — vulnerability cracked open on his face. His brows drew in, lashes fluttering once before he looked at you with an expression that sat somewhere between awe and fear.

You smiled gently. Too gently.

“Like what?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“Like you want me to unravel.”

Week Two - Language of the Hands

You stood behind him now, your presence warm against his back. Your fingers rested lightly on his shoulders — grounding, not gripping. And still — he flinched. Shoulders tensed. Breath caught.

“Relax.”

“I can’t,” he said, barely above a whisper.

His voice trembled — not from fear, but restraint. Like he knew that if he let go even an inch, everything would spill.

So you let your hands drift downward. Slowly. Deliberately. Over his arms. Over every ridge of muscle that tightened beneath your fingers. He inhaled sharply through his nose — a quiet sound, but telling.

Then you leaned in, your lips barely grazing the shell of his ear.

“You don’t have to earn softness. Just accept it.”

He shuddered. Not from cold. From you.

His eyes squeezed shut, expression flickering into something raw.

“You do that on purpose,” he muttered, jaw clenched.

“What?”

He turned just enough for you to see his face in profile — the flush creeping up his neck, the storm in his eyes.

“Say things like that. Touch me like that. And then act like you didn’t just ruin me.”

Week Three - Eye Contact

You were across the room demonstrating something — posture, maybe. Dynamics. You weren’t even playing anything difficult.

But when you glanced back—

He wasn’t watching your hands.

His eyes were locked on your mouth. His lips parted, slightly, like the sight alone had undone him.

“What?”

He blinked. Slow. Like he hadn’t even realized he’d been caught.

And then — a faint, knowing smirk.

“You teach like you kiss.”

You froze mid-gesture. The corner of your mouth twitched upward in disbelief.

“Excuse me?”

His gaze dropped to your mouth again — deliberately.

“With intention,” he said. “But like you don’t even realize it’s seductive.”

You dropped a chord. He chuckled — low, amused, infatuated.

Month Two - Composition and Confession

He handed you the sheet. His fingers brushed yours, and you felt the heat from his skin even after he pulled away. You skimmed the notes. Your brows lifted.

“You wrote this?” you asked, tone soft.

He nodded once, but didn’t speak.

“It sounds… alive.”

Still, silence.

You looked up.

He was already looking at you — not nervous, but exposed. Like he was waiting for you to see him between the lines.

“Did you write it thinking of something?” you asked.

His throat moved. He clenched his jaw before answering.

“Someone.”

You blinked.

Then carefully, you pressed your fingers to the keys. The melody bloomed into the air — vulnerable, tender, aching.

And when you glanced up mid-phrase — he was watching you with his whole chest open. Eyes wide. Hands in his lap. Breathing shallow.

“Is this how you see me?”

His voice broke when he answered.

“No,” he said. “That’s how you make me feel.”

Month Three — Practicing in the Dark

The room was quiet — save for the faint hum of city noise outside and the distant ticking of the wall clock. The glow from the lamp painted the walls in soft gold. Shadows flickered like breath.

Your knees brushed. Neither of you moved.

He leaned forward to turn the page, and your hands collided.

He didn’t pull away.

“You ruin me a little more every time you touch the keys.”

You turned your head slowly.

He was already watching you.

His eyes were shadowed, not just by the low lamplight, but by something deeper. Something breaking. Something baring its teeth and begging.

“I want to know what your music would sound like,” he murmured, voice frayed at the edges, “if you played it for me. Just me. Like I was your secret.”

Your breath stilled in your throat.

You tried to speak, but all you managed was a dry whisper. “Why?”

He leaned closer

So close his words trembled against your lips like a prayer he was too afraid to finish.

“Because I think…” He swallowed. “I think I’d finally understand how love sounds.”

You blinked. “W-what?”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. Just looked at you like he was standing on the edge of something high and holy.

“I want you,” he said, and it wasn’t a confession… it was a surrender.

“Not just the way you play. Not just the way you look at me when I finally get it right.”

His voice cracked and he didn’t try to hide it.

“I want every version of you. Every messy, brilliant, soft, cruel, breathtaking part.”

He looked down, like the words were too heavy to carry while meeting your eyes.

Then, barely above a whisper

“Please…” His hand hovered near yours, not touching. “Use me however you want. Ruin me. Teach me. Just… need me. Like I need you.”

You stared at him, stunned.

The air between you was thick… like if you moved too fast, you’d tear straight through the tension and unravel both of you.

Exposing you and how you really felt about him.

He’d said it.

Not just the words, but everything underneath them.

The need.

The ache.

The silent confession he’d been wearing like a second skin since the first time you touched his hand on the keys.

And you couldn’t look away.

His eyes were still cast down, like he regretted giving himself away. Like he was bracing for rejection.

you couldn’t let him sit in that.

Not when you felt it too.

Even if it meant he was going to find about the times you climaxed thinking of how his fingers would feel inside you.

How he would feel inside you.

You couldn’t just sit and watch him like this…

Not when you’d been pretending it was just practice when your hands lingered too long, when your voice dipped low, when your eyes met his and stayed there.

You stood slowly.

His gaze flicked up — hopeful, hesitant.

You walked to the piano, heart hammering, then looked over your shoulder.

“Come here,” you whispered desperately

He didn’t move at first, just stared like he didn’t trust what he heard.

“I want to show you,” you said again, quieter this time. “How you make me feel.”

That made him rise…slow, reverent — like he was walking toward a chapel instead of a girl who made his hands shake just by speaking.

You turned away from him, not because you were unsure — but because you felt everything too much. His gaze. His nearness. The promise you were about to make with no sheet music in front of you.

You slid onto the top of the piano, legs crossed delicately at the ankles, dress slipping up as you shifted — not indecent, not bold — but intentional. A silent statement: look at me. really look.

Your hands trembled slightly as they came to rest on your lap.

You still didn’t look at him.

Couldn’t.

The air was molasses — thick, slow, heavy with things unsaid.

You heard the way his breath hitched.

“Why can’t you look at me?” he asked, voice rough and strained, like he knew what was about to happen.

“Because if I do,” you whispered, “I’ll forget how to speak in music. And that’s the only language I’m brave in right now.”

A pause.

Then his steps, soft, but as he came closer you realize they were also sure.

You felt his fingers brush your ankle. Just a ghost of a touch. Reverent. Worshipful.

Your breath stuttered.

“Then play,” he murmured, eyes now level with yours, “and let me hear what you can’t say, baby.”

And you did.

Not with the piano.

But with the way your knees parted — just enough for him to step into the space that had always belonged to him.

The way your trembling fingers found his chest — the place where sound lived when he didn’t know how to speak.

A composition of silence.

A symphony of skin and want and reverence.

And when your eyes met his — wide, glassy, burning with something too big for language — he looked at you like a man who had just found God in a song he never knew he needed.

Slowly, your hand reached for his.

Guided it.

Brought it to the place where your heart was beating the loudest…not in your chest, but between your hips.

“Feel it,” you breathed, voice breaking. “Feel what you do to me.”

His fingers trembled.

So did yours.

“I don’t just want you, Jae.” Your voice cracked like a confession in a church pew. “I crave you.”

You blinked, and tears clung to your lashes.

Because you’d never said anything more honest in your life.

He leaned in closer as his fingers circled your clothed clit painfully slow

He didn’t take his eyes away from your face…not even when you started to move your hips in a way to give you more pleasure.

It was like he wanted this specific version of you permanently painted in the forefront and back of his mind.

Eyes memorizing every curve, scar and feature of your face.

The way our lips parted as you let out short gasps and whines

The quiet “Please” that left you mouth more than once

And he definitely didn’t look away when you took his other scarred hand and kissed his scars.

His eyes widened a fraction…like he wanted to see all of you before you disappeared

Poor thing…

You weren’t going anywhere…not anymore

You were done running.

You saw the moment his eyes flicked to something more darker

Sinister almost…

You swirled your tongue around his finger painting it with your saliva

Your licked right down to the web of his fingers before you flattened your tongue licking all the way back up to his finger tip.

You rubbed his finger all over you lips and chin.

He quickly grabbed your chin hooking his wet index under and pressing his thumb against your bottom lip

Forcing you to really look at him

“You’re playing a very dangerous fucking chord Y/n” his voice ripped from his chest

Brutish

animalistic

His breath ghosted your lips — close enough to taste, far enough to ache.

You could feel the war in him. The pull. The restraint. The part of him that wanted to devour you... and the part that refused to touch what he didn’t think he deserved.

So you leaned in first.

Not a kiss.

Just a brush.

Your nose to his. Your lips barely grazing — just enough to feel how soft his were.

Is it possible to be addicted to something you never had?

He exhaled like you’d punched the air out of him. A shaky, broken sound.

“Don’t,” he begged, voice wrecked. “Don’t kiss me unless you mean it.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes — and God, he looked destroyed. Brows drawn. Lips parted. Eyes glassy, like he was holding back an ocean.

You wanted to drown in it.

“I do,” you whispered. “I’ve never meant anything more.”

And then you kissed him.

Fully.

Softly.

Like you weren’t afraid of his edges.

His hand shot to your waist — not possessive, just desperate — as if he needed to hold you there or he’d fall. His other hand cradled the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair like it was instinct.

He kissed you like a secret he’d kept his whole life.

Like he was scared you’d disappear if he opened his eyes.

You felt it in every tremble of his mouth,

Every exhale into your skin Every barely-there whimper he didn’t mean to make.

And when he finally pulled back, breathless, lips swollen and pink from the pressure, his forehead dropped to yours again.

Eyes still closed.

“You feel like music,” he rasped. “And I’ve been deaf my whole damn life.”

Desperate. Consuming. Worshipful.

He kissed like the hunger had been building for weeks and this was his first taste of relief. Except… it wasn’t relief. It was ignition. A match to every unspoken need that had ever passed between you.

You felt it in your spine.

The fire.

Like a burning Symphony

The kiss wasn’t perfect. It was too open, too wet, too full of gasped breaths and shaken moans. But God, it was real.

“You don’t get it, do you?”

You blinked, dazed, flushed. “What?”

His eyes were shining — not with tears, but with something deeper. A soul cracked open.

“You’ve already ruined me for anything and anyone else.”

He choked on his breath. One hand gripped your waist. The other cradled your jaw like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

“And I let you in. I wanted you to fucking wreck me…Because for the first time in my life, breaking doesn’t feel like the end.”

You inhaled sharply, heart pounding like a warning you were ready to ignore.

“It feels like becoming.”

Your mouth parted — a whimper barely forming.

He leaned closer.

“So let me become yours.” “Let me fall apart in your hands, and I swear—” “I’ll spend the rest of my life learning how to make you feel wanted.”

His lips brushed yours again, softer this time. Torturous.

“Say yes,” he whispered. “Say yes, and I’ll worship every inch of you like you’re the only thing that’s ever saved me.”

Yes.

But you didn’t just want to say it

You wanted to scream it

To breathe it

To become it

You wanted him to wreck you. To pull you apart and break you into pieces

You wanted him to use you as the ink to write his new piece.

You wanted him to touch you like you were fragile, then love you like you’d be the easiest thing to break again.

You didn’t want his tenderness...not now

You wanted truth.

All of it.

His hands. His mouth. His heart. His need

You wanted him to transform you.

Your hands trembled as they slid down his chest, fisting in the fabric of his shirt like you

Could anchor yourself to the heat of him.

“Please…” Your voice craked

Not for fear.

From need

“Please don’t hold back.”

He stilled.

Brows drawn tight. Jaw clenched so hard you hear the pressure an building crescendo in his silence. His eyes searched yours, as if he was waiting for some signal- some final permission to let go of the restraint that chained him.

You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and whispered like a vow

“I want you to ruin me.”

His breath hitched

A gasp disguised as a growl.

“I want you to use me. However you need, however you ache to.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him

“I don’t want soft.”

“I don’t want careful.”

A tear spilled over, warm and desperate as it slipped down your cheek.

“I want to feel everything you’ve been holding back.”

Your hands guided his to your waist.

“I want to feel how much you’ve wanted me.”

“I want you to lose yourself in me.”

You exhaled, trembling.

“Please…let me be the thing that unravels you.”

That undid him.

Because that was the truth wasn’t it?

You wanted the storm inside him. The part he tried to cage. The part that wanted to leave bruises in the shape of worship.

“Touch me like I’m the only thing that’s ever made you feel alive.”

You watched his pupils blow wide—lust, reverence, wreckage.

And then, in a voice that sounded more like a promise than a plea:

“Break me, Jae.”

In a flash he pushed to you down to lay you flat on top of the piano.

Feet still dangling at the end…with him standing in between

In slow torturous movements he lowered his body and knelt between your legs

You felt his hot breath on your inner thighs.

He knelt between your thighs like a sinner before an altar — except this time, you were the god he worshipped.

His breath kissed your skin, hot and reverent, leaving goosebumps. His hands slid up the backs of your thighs, slow, certain, like he’d imagined this a thousand times and didn’t rush now that it was real.

You whimpered — not from impatience, but from the unbearable pressure of being seen.

He looked up at you.

Not just your body. You.

And what you saw in his eyes nearly unravelled you:

Hunger. Need. A kind of awe that felt like it could swallow you whole.

“You really want to be the thing that breaks me?” he rasped, voice shredded by emotion. “Because that’s what this is, isn’t it?”

You nodded, lips parted, barely breathing.

He pressed his forehead to your stomach. Exhaled like he was praying. Or trying not to fall apart.

“Then let me fall apart in your hands,” he murmured. “Let me give you everything. All of me.”

You reached for him, shaking, desperate.

“Then take it,” you whispered. “Take all of me.”

He hooked his fingers on the waistband of your panties and pulled them down.

“Keep your legs open and your eyes on me.” Simple instructions that you knew would be hard to follow.

Wasting no time his mouth was on you, licking and sucking where he needed to

Your hand gripped his hair pulling and tugging causing his to moan and groan.

You felt dazed.

Your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“Fuck Jae” You bawled--tears freely running down your cheeks

His hands hooked under your thighs and dragged you closer, even as your body instinctively tried to flee the overwhelming pleasure.

He detached his lips form you momentarily and looked up.

Eyes wild , hair tussled and lips glistening.

“Don’t fucking move” His eyes pierced yours.

You let out a breathy cry.

“Do you fucking hear me y/n? don’t fucking move”

You simply nodded. Too dizzy to use your voice.

Satisfied with your answer he continued to devour you

Piece by fucking piece

But even after you came

Even after you kept your eyes on him and your legs open-- though difficult

Even after your juices were dripping of the edge of the piano onto the keys

Even after your pussy was too sensitive and swollen , he still wasn’t satsifed.

“Jae, please…can’t… take anymore” you could barley speak above a whisper,

Your throat was raw from the constant screaming he caused.

“I know you’re tired baby but I’m not done” His voice was so gentle as if he was sympathizing with you. But his eyes didn’t dim a bit.

Still dark

Still needing

Still hungry.

Slowly, he stood and helped you sit up. His hand found your cheek, stroking it with a tenderness that made you lean into his touch. Your eyes fluttered shut, breath catching — you were exactly where you wanted to be.

Then you felt it. The warmth of his lips leaving soft, reverent kisses — from your forehead, to your nose, down to your chin. Each one a vow, a worship, a claim.

His voice came next, low and sinful against your ear.

“How many do you think you can take?”

You kept your eyes closed, body humming, head spinning. “…Huh?” you breathed, already half undone.

Suddenly his hand gripped your neck slightly choking you

“How many more orgasms can you give me baby?”

Your eyes popped open at the change in his tone. From gentle… to commanding. From worship… to something animalistic. Something feral.

His grip tightened just enough to make your breath hitch. He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw as he spoke.

“You begged me to ruin you,” he rasped. His voice was dark, low, wrecked with restraint. “So tell me—how far are you willing to break for me?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out—just a desperate, choked sound that only made him smirk. A sound that told him everything he needed to know.

“You want my tenderness?” He dragged his thumb across your bottom lip. “Or do you want to feel what it’s like when I lose control?”

You whimpered.

“I’ll give you both,” he whispered like a vow. “But once I start—there’s no going back.”

His unoccupied hand massages your breast

“how many more”

Your eyes roll and you moan as he pinches your nipple

“Y/N!” His voice snaps you out of your trance

“Open your fucking mouth and answer me”

Your breath ragged “I—I’m not sure.”

His hand left your breast and travelled downward to your still swollen and sensitive pussy

Fingers dancing around your entrance

He leaned towards your lips and whispered

“Then let’s find out”

In one swift motion two of his fingers push into you at an achingly slow pace

Your hips buck trying to draw more pleasure from him

“More” you whimpered

You knew your body was crashing but you were greedy.

So fucking greedy

His fingers start to over at a faster pace curling just right making you feel like falling

“Fuckkk” Jaehyun moaned looking down at his fingers.

You were dripping around them, slick coating his fingers and falling in soft drops onto the floor.

“You’re fucking perfect” He says in admiration

His eyes were on you now, still hungry but glistening with so much awe it made you feel overwhelmed

Everything felt heightened

And he still didn’t let up

Fingers still drawing all he can out of you

“Jae, I’m gonna cum” you gripped his arm trying to slow his pace

“Cum then” he stilled pummelled his finger into you over and over

You grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into you

“Slow downnn” you begged as hot tears streamed down your cheeks

“One more” He says

“Just one more baby…then I can fuck you to sleep” He looks up at you and smiles, popping his dimple.

You let out a broken, shameless moan—raw, wrecked, and real

“Jae! Pleaseee” You moan

Your scream split the air—loud enough to leave your ears ringing, your body shaking under the force of it

“Let it all go baby”

And you did.

All over his hand and shirt…

All over the sheets of music

All over the fucking piano

Your chest heaved as you took quick breaths

Slowly Jaehyun pulls his fingers out of you making you flinch at the loss of contact

He bites his lip as he stares at you raising his wet fingers to your mouth

“Open up for me”

You open your mouth and wait

Shockingly, he does something unexpected

Something that makes you feel feral

He spat into your waiting mouth, watching with dark hunger as you took it—no hesitation, no shame.

“Swallow” he says

And you did. Licking your lips after.

He smiles revealing his dimple.

You could tell he liked what he told you…no questions asked.

“Good fucking girl” he praises.

“Now get on your knees for me baby.”

-------------------------------

74 notes · View notes

shariasweet · 8 hours ago

Note

could you write something with experienced best friend jake eating out shy inexperienced reader with lots of praise pleaseee 🥹

s.jaeyun x f reader

𝓦c ::: est -1k 𐙚 𝓢harinote ::: sorry this took so long nonnie :((( 𐙚 warnin𝓰.ᐟ ::: freidns to ??? · oral (f) · fingering (f) · slight humping · pet-names · f.ᐟreader

through snotty noses and awkward haircuts... secondary-school heartbreaks and the absolute hell that was midterms and exams—you and jake grew up practically sewn at the hip.

your moms practically raised you together... spending after school at his place and lounging around at yours on the weekends.

you'd been brought up just the same and yet jake had always been much more outspoken. way louder and certainly way more confident.

even now, with the two of you sitting together on your apartment's couch—jake's voice was loud. it was thick, laced with that australian drawl that never seemed to leave no matter how old the two of you got.

"she's crazy, y/n. i swear... i mean, we hooked up once. well—if you can even call it that." frustrated, he ran a hand through his hair.

you nodded along, listening as he whined about the last girl he'd slept around with. “i gave her head like once…” he pouted, fingers tapping against his thigh. “maybe twice... i can’t remember, the point is—”

you zoned out.

you're not a prude... or shy, or a virgin.

but that's another thing… whereas jake was more... unapologetically loud about his habits, you preferred keeping the more intimate moments tucked away and to yourself. that’s the way it’d always been: he’d always say what he felt… what he wanted, how he wanted it—meanwhile, you always kept things to yourself. especially the more private, personal things...

he slumped deeper into the couch, lips quirking lazily. “has anyone ever gone down on you?”

you startled, snapping out of your zoned-out daze as you turned to face him with wide eyes. “what?” “have you ever let anyone eat you out?” he repeated himself as if changing the wording would somehow make his question more casual and less insane.

“jake—” you pinched the bridge of your nose, sighing. if you didn't know him, you'd wonder how he could ask you such a thing with a straight face. “no. i mean... no, i haven’t.” he blinked at you. for once, stunned, silent.

“...you want me to?”

those four words were what set everything into place: him crawling toward you as your breath caught in your chest, gently cupping your jaw as he kissed you like you were made of glass.

"fuck," jake grunted against the curve of your jaw, lips trailing lower and lower. "you're sure about this, right?" he looked up at you from where his head laid on your stomach. his voice was softer now—his usually playful demenour completely serious. "sure as i'll ever be..." you shyly nodded.

"hey," he said gently, taking your hand and placing it in his hair. "don't be nervous, y/n. y’know me. i’ll take good care of you, yeah? promise. i just... ‘wanna make you feel good."

you looked away, melting as heat crept up your face.

"y-yeah... i know. just... just hurry up, do it already."

he laughed beneath his breath and sank even lower into the cushions, settling between your thighs. "i’ll take these off now," he murmured, fingers ghosting over your short’s waistband. you nodded just as he hooked his thumbs beneath the elastic, but he paused. "use your words. please."

his voice cracked a little—he needed you to say that this was okay. "take them off..." you whispered.

and he did. the fabric pooled around your ankles, leaving your pantie-clad core exposed. "now what..?" you mumbled, pout forming on your lips when you caught the way he was staring. he tilted his head, grinning. "cute." he chuckled, eyeing the little hearts on your underwear. you didn’t have time to respond before his nose was pressed against your cunt through the cotton, breathing you in.

"j-jake—"

he didn’t stop, just nudged his nose against your clit, teasing with soft inhales and gentle pressure. "breathe, y/n." he tapped your thigh, reminding you to let go. "you’re all tense." you sucked in, inhaling felt like air being knocked into your lungs.

"good girl," he murmured, biting at the waistband and slowly tugging your panties down with his teeth. "so fucking pretty down here..." he added in awe. "o-oh fuck," you whispered, embarrassment creeping up on you again. you tried to hide your face, but jake reached up quickly, catching your wrist. "don’t hide from me, baby. ‘wanna see all of you. you’re so fucking beautiful, yeah?." his breath was hot against your skin, each breath fanned against your sticky core.

his tongue darted out, licking a fat stripe up your cunt. one hand grasping your hip, the other keeping your thighs parted. "shit," he hummed into you, the vibrations making your back arch. "ah! jake... fuck, this feels so... s-so weird—"

"yeah?" he grinned, mouth glistening. "good weird or bad weird?"

"g-good..." you gasped, gripping his hair. "feels really good."

"that’s what i needed to hear, baby," he smiled, lips wrapping around your clit, suckling gently, letting go with a pop just to bury his tongue deep inside you. he groaned feeling your thighs cage around his head. "you taste so fucking sweet.” he humped into the couch, your taste giving him pure bliss. “how has no one done this before... jesus christ, baby."

the funny feeling in your stomach only grew with each lick at your cunt. your grip tightened in his hair, tugging at his scalp. "i-i think i’m clo—agh! close..." you huffed, hips stuttering.

"yeah?" he groaned, dragging his tongue upward and replacing it with two fingers, sliding them in deep, and curling them until you jolted. his tongue circled your clit as he murmured, "give it to me, baby. c’mon... be good for me. ‘lemme feel you fall apart."

"ohmygodohmygod! jake, oh my—" your words spilled out in an incoherent string as your orgasm hit you. hard. his fingers didn’t stop, coaxing it out… pulling every last bit of pleasure from you until your body finally relaxed.

when your eyes blinked open, the first thing you saw was jake laying on your thigh, chin soaked in slick. an approving expression etched itself into his face. "you’ve got a little something..." you mumbled breathlessly, gesturing to his chin. he grinned, flicking his tongue out to lap at the corner of his mouth.

"did i get it?" you laughed, cheeks burning. "Maybe." he shifted up slightly, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

"if i were her," you murmured, still out of it, "i’d be crazy too, hah… once would've been all it took."

"you're joking, right?" he leaned down again. "i'm not stopping at once with you."

#shariasweet ༉‧₊˚.#enha smut #enhypen smut #enha hard hours #enha hard thoughts #enhypen hard hours #enhypen hard thoughts #sim jake smut #jake smut #sim jaeyun smut #jaeyun smut #jake hard hours #jake hard thoughts #sim jaeyun hard hours #sim jaeyun hard thoughts #jaeyun hard hours

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winniexsturn1olo · 3 days ago

Text

Soft in the smoke

warning: drugs, dealer!Chris, clingy!chris

Summary: At a house party buzzing with noise and strangers, you only care about finding one person: Chris. High and soft around the edges, Chris isn’t his usual sharp self tonight—he’s clingy, sweet, and impossibly warm. Wrapped up in his oversized hoodie and smoke, he pulls you into his orbit like he’s been waiting for you all night. In a house full of chaos, Chris just wants to hold onto something real—and tonight, that’s you.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧

The party's loud—too loud—but somehow it still feels like background noise. Bass-heavy music thumps through the floorboards, making the whole house feel like it’s breathing in slow, drunken waves. People are packed wall to wall, some dancing, some yelling over the music, some slumped on couches like melted wax. You navigate through the mess like you’ve done it a hundred times before, but your eyes keep flicking around for one person.

Chris.

You find him in the den, tucked into the corner of an oversized couch, legs folded beneath him like a kid. He’s got a blunt in one hand and his phone in the other, but he’s not looking at either. He’s just staring across the room, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, curls a little too messy, eyes glassy with a dazed sort of warmth.

When he sees you, something in him lights up—slow but real, like a sunrise that only shows for you.

“There you are,” he says, voice low and sweet, a little slurred from the high. “I was literally just thinking about you.”

You smirk. “Yeah? What were you thinking?”

He scoots over instantly, patting the spot beside him like it's been yours all night. “That you were taking way too long,” he whines softly, pulling you down next to him the second you’re within reach. “I missed you. Like, a lot.”

You laugh, but he’s already wrapping an arm around your waist, dragging you against him like he needs the contact to stay upright. His head falls onto your shoulder with a dramatic little sigh, blunt still burning between his fingers.

“You’re clingy when you’re high,” you tease, glancing down at him.

Chris just hums, unapologetic. “I’m clingy because I like you. The high just makes it harder to play it cool.”

He’s warm and smells like strawberries and weed, that sweet, sharp scent that’s always followed him. His hoodie sleeves are too long, half covering his hands, and he nuzzles against your neck like he’s trying to burrow into your skin.

“Also,” he murmurs, voice muffled against you, “this party sucks unless you’re here. Like, I was thinking of leaving, but then I was like, what if they come? What if they show up and I miss them? That would’ve ruined my whole night.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say softly, but your heart is melting in your chest. He’s too honest like this—no filters, no slick dealer charm. Just Chris, high and wrapped around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

He lifts his head a little, eyes half-lidded and sleepy. “You smell nice. You always smell nice.”

You laugh again, quieter this time. “You’re literally the softest drug dealer in the world.”

“I’m a multifaceted individual,” he counters with a small grin. “I sell weed and I like cuddles. Balance.”

He offers you the blunt with a flick of his fingers, and when you take it, he tugs the sleeve of your jacket over your hand like he’s tucking you in. No reason. Just soft touches because he can.

“Stay here with me?” he asks, voice small now. “Just for a while?”

You nod before he even finishes the question.

And for a while, the party fades away—the music, the shouting, the haze of smoke and neon. It’s just you and Chris, tucked into a corner of the chaos, sharing quiet warmth and strawberry smoke.

a/n: i loved making this! also this won't be series x

#christopher sturniolo #chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #sturniolo fandom #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo x reader #nick sturniolo #sturniolo smut #matthew sturniolo

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vin-taege · 2 days ago

Note

Hey, I've been reading a lot of your fics recently and ugh they're so good, I love them!

If possible I'd love to request a Chishiya x reader fic or headcanons where the reader is just as smart as Chishiya and how he would react to it :)

Thank you so much if you take this on, and if not thank you for reading this anyway <3

Have a great day/night!

𖥔˚ Chishiya x Smart!MC Headcannons 𖥔˚

Summary: Chishiya doesn't know if he loves or hates your sharp wit

Genre: pure fluff

I honestly see him being so pissy about it at first

like he's been The Diamonds Guy at the Beach for so long, who's this newcomer threatening his title?

Probably would delude himself at first into thinking that you're just scraping by with pure luck

Everything changes when he first gets grouped in a game with you

It was a classic escape room under clubs

As usually, he thinks everyone but him is an idiot and he sighs a little to himself because he thinks he'll be the only one working on the problems

Absolutely gobsmacked when you breeze through the stages, figuring out the answer to the last room just a few minutes before he did

The thing that really irks him is how you're almost the complete opposite of him

If he was cocky about his intellect, you were more on the quiet side

When you were debating what solution was better, you said something that hurt his ego just a teensy bit

"Chishiya... that's the most implausible thing I've ever heard. Are you sure that's the right way to do it?"

"YES I'M SURE, I'M ALWAYS SURE," he had wanted to scream out, immediately defensive

because this man has never second-guessed himself until that moment

spoiler alert: he was wrong, but you never shoved it in his face or brought it up

this would then start a long-winded, one-sided rivalry with him

he wants to be put in games with you just to prove that he's still more superior

and this causes a domino effect of him trying so hard to out-smart you that he ends up overthinking and fucking the answers up, which then only further frustrates him

you, on the other hand, thinks that he's kinda cute, with his unapologetic stares and lips permanently drawn into a thin line

one time, Kuina teased him about getting replaced as The Diamonds Guy and he shut down the entire day

WOULD NOT TALK TO ANYONE

You meet him in one of the common rooms and cheerily greet him only to be met with a silent "You're ruining my life"

The more he plays games with you though, the more he opens up to banter

"That's honestly such a shit thought process"

"A shit thought process if you don't use your full brain, ___."

ALMOST ALWAYS, you are right

Lowkey turns him on

He likes seeing you take charge during clubs games, or when you explain how you figure out the answers in diamonds games.

Would never admit it out loud, but god he loves it when you boss him around even though he initially complains about it

getting humbled would definitely give him the knee-jerk reaction of "fight," first, but overtime, he's going to grow to like you

I mean, who else would be on his wave-length?

Eventually, you'll be added to the alliance friend group with Kuina

Not to anyone's surprise, you've been talking to Kuina before Chishiya warmed up to you anyway

OUGHHH hate sex is gonna be insane with him

He's gonna be so visceral because of all that envy and you're going to be so chill about it, thinking that he just really wants you

he actually does, just doesn't want to admit it

#alice in borderland imagines #aib headcanons #chishiya headcanons #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya alice in borderland #chishiya x reader #aib chishiya #aib imagines #imawa no kuni no alice #alice in borderland x reader #alice in borderland #chishiya imagine #aib x reader #chishiya shuntaro x reader #asks #requested

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reijisteacup · 1 day ago

Note

This might sound so odd but HEREE ME OUT 😭🙏🙏

Could you do a male reader that lowk is just listens to very loud music and kinda dgaf x reiji smut?? If you don’t write smut that’s fine lol

ouuuuu mama likes and anon you bet your BOTTOM DOLLAR I WRITE SMUT

================================================================================================

The bass shakes the walls.

You’re sprawled out on the ornate chaise lounge in one of the many forgotten parlors of the Sakamaki manor, headphones around your neck, music still blasting. It's not even good etiquette-killing rock — it's some grimy, distorted techno that practically screams rebellion. You don’t flinch when the door creaks open. “Is there a reason,” comes that voice — sharp, cultured, absolutely dripping with contempt — “that I can hear your vulgar music two rooms away? Or are you simply incapable of recognizing what volume control is?” You tip your head back to look at Reiji upside down, your smirk lazy and unapologetic. “Nah. I like the acoustics in here. Real crisp.” He glares. You hold eye contact as your thumb presses the volume up.

BOOM. BOOM. THRUM.

Reiji’s eyes flash crimson. “I have tolerated many things,” he hisses, walking toward you with dangerous grace, “but your blatant disrespect ends tonight.” You shrug. “Then do something about it, Mr. Discipline.” You barely register movement before you're pinned to the couch, Reiji’s gloved hand gripping your jaw, the other hand plucking your music player and crushing it in his fist.

Crunch.

“Well, shit,” you mutter, still smirking. “That was my good playlist.” “Such filth doesn’t deserve preservation.” His body is pressed against yours now, straddling your hips like this is some sort of punishment. But the heat in his breath betrays him. “You act out like a child begging for discipline,” he growls near your ear. “Is that it? Are you so desperate for attention you’ll debase yourself for it?” You grind your hips up with a cocky chuckle. “Nah, I just think it’s hot when your eye twitches.” He stills. For a moment, the room is silent — save for your heavy breathing and the faint echo of leftover bass. Then Reiji snaps.

=====================================================================================================

Teeth clash. His glasses fog. He yanks at your collar like it offended him, buttons flying, mouth bruising yours with impatient hunger. His thigh shoves between your legs and you groan into his lips as he grinds it up hard, pinning your hips. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he hisses against your mouth, breath ragged. “To be punished like a common delinquent?” You lick his lip, all teeth and grin. “Finally speaking my language, Teach.” He slaps your thigh — sharp, not cruel — and you moan at the contact, loving the scandalized flash in his eyes. His hand wraps around your throat next, not tight, just commanding. “You are utterly shameless…” “And you’re hard,” you counter, rolling your hips up. “Guess we both like shame, huh?” Even in his lust, he’s methodical — lips dragging down your throat, stopping at your pulse with a growl. He bites, not deep enough to turn you, but enough to mark you. Territorial. Your moan is wrecked, hips jerking up as he ruts against you through layers of clothing, slow and controlled while you’re falling apart. “Do not come,” he commands, voice low, breath fanning your bitten skin. You almost do just from that. “Reiji—” “No. You’ve been nothing but disobedient tonight. You’ll come when I say. If I say.” He grinds deeper, making your vision blur. You’re panting, swearing, legs shaking under him as his thigh keeps the friction high and torturous, his hand on your throat and mouth trailing from your collarbone to your lips again. You can’t decide if you want to kiss him or curse him. “You’ll regret challenging me,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “But for now…” His hips thrust one final time, making you whimper.

“You belong to me.”

===================================================================================================

The silence afterward was thick. The kind that settled after chaos. Your body trembled faintly from overstimulation, thighs sticky and breath still shallow, the red ribbon now undone and hanging loosely from your wrists like silk regret. Reiji didn’t speak at first. He retrieved his glasses from your chest with practiced grace, wiping a smudge off the lens with a crisp handkerchief he pulled from somewhere. That was Reiji — precise, immaculate, terrifyingly composed… even after he’d made you come so hard you forgot your own name for a second. He set his glasses back on, glanced down at you — flushed, dazed, smiling like a cocky bastard even in afterglow. “Tch… Idiotic creature,” he murmured, but his tone lacked venom. “You can’t even pretend to behave, can you?” You let out a tired laugh. “You didn’t seem to mind.” His gaze flicked down your form, eyes cooling. And then — unexpectedly — he reached out and cupped the side of your face. Not roughly. Not to grip, to punish, or to hold you still. Just to touch. “You were… beautiful,” he said, so softly you barely caught it. “Unruly. But beautiful.” Your heart did that stupid little flip — the one you usually covered up with snark or by turning your music louder. But here, wrapped in the warmth of his voice, you didn’t need to hide it. Reiji leaned down and kissed your temple, then your cheek, then your collarbone — slow, delicate, reverent. He cleaned you carefully, like you were a precious artifact: a warm towel summoned from thin air, gentle circles down your hips, between your thighs, over every reddened mark he left. When you hissed slightly, he paused, letting his fingers trail soothingly down your side. "Too much?" he asked, brushing hair from your face. You shook your head. “Just not used to the sweet side of the sadist.” “Hm.” He pressed a final kiss to your jaw. “Then consider this a privilege earned.” He pulled you into his lap, your face tucked into the crook of his neck. His scent was sharp, like clean parchment and crushed herbs, and his heartbeat — while unnaturally slow — was steady beneath your cheek. Reiji held you like he meant it. Not as a prize. Not as a mistake to fix. But as something chosen. “I may not tolerate your insolence,” he whispered against your hairline, “but I will never let harm come to you… even from myself.” And in that quiet moment, where music didn’t drown out your thoughts and Reiji didn’t bury his softness behind scolding, you realized he might actually mean it. You closed your eyes, nuzzled closer, and let yourself drift — wrapped in silk, in scent, in arms you didn’t expect to want around you.

And Reiji?

He didn’t let go.

#diabolik lovers #diabolik lovers fanfiction #ask me anything #x reader #relationship #ask response #smut #diabolik lovers reiji #male reader

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writtenbyadriana · 16 hours ago

Text

Cue the trouble

Summary: He came in late. Stayed too long. Smirked too much. Dean Winchester at my bar was never just a drink and a wink – he was the kind of trouble that leaned on the edge of the pool table and looked at you like sin was a game he planned to win. One deal. One game. One night. And I never stood a chance.

Warnings: smut, explicit sex content(18+), dirty talk, dominant partner (Dean), strong language (in a mostly light way), semi-public sex (closed bar), vaginal penetration, unprotected sex, fingering, aftercare, alcohol (moderate consumption, not intoxicated)

This fic contains the use of y/n and pet names (e.g., baby, sweetheart).

Words: 5280

Note: English isn't my first language.

-------------------------------------------------------

The air in the bar was thick with the scent of alcohol, smoke, and cheap perfume. Music droned softly from the speakers — some old-school rock — exactly the kind that suited this shabby joint. It was nearly midnight, most of the tables were empty, only a few regulars clung to their glasses like their lives depended on it. I wiped the counter with a damp cloth, even though it was already clean. Pure busywork.

Then he walked in.

I didn’t know his name. But he’d been here a few times before. And he had that look. That kind of grin that either drove women mad or made them melt. I wasn’t sure which type I was. Not yet.

His leather jacket shimmered faintly in the dim light, his gaze wandered through the bar — until it landed on me. I held his gaze. Not because I was especially brave, but because I couldn’t look away. There was something about him. Something dangerous. Something...seductive.

He sat down right at the bar, on the middle stool. Barely two steps away from me.

"Whiskey. Double. No ice," he said, with that deep, raspy voice that felt like a hand on the inside of your thigh.

I nodded, said nothing. Turned around to fix his drink, trying to get a grip on my thoughts. My eyes caught the mirror behind the bar, and I saw him watching me. Openly. Unapologetically. And without a trace of shame.

When I set the glass down in front of him, my fingers brushed his for a second. Accident or intention? I didn’t know. But my stomach clenched like someone had dropped ice into it.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he said, taking a sip.

I raised an eyebrow. "Just because you smile like a movie star doesn’t mean you get to call me that."

"But it helps," he said and smiled even wider.

I couldn’t help but smile back. Damn it.

He lowered his glass, the amber fire inside barely touched. His eyes were on me like a soft pressure — not unpleasant, but noticeable. I cleared a few empty glasses off the counter, pretending to be busy, but I could feel his gaze like warm breath on the back of my neck.

"If I’m not allowed to call you sweetheart," he began, his voice rough with amusement, "will you at least tell me your name?"

I looked at him. Carefully. Maybe a second too long. Most customers here didn’t care about my name. They just wanted their drinks. But him…he wanted more. Or he was damn convincing at pretending he did.

I bit my lower lip before answering. "y/n."

A fleeting smile tugged at his lips, soft and surprisingly honest.

"y/n,"he repeated, like he was tasting the name the same way he tasted his whiskey. “Fits. Strong. Unmistakable. And a little dangerous.”

I chuckled softly. "Dangerous, huh?"

"Oh yeah." He leaned in a bit closer, resting his forearm on the counter. "But in the good way."

A tingling sensation ran down my spine. I did my best not to show it — but inwardly cursed my warm cheeks.

"And you?" I asked. "Since we’re already at it."

"Dean," he said shortly, and offered me his hand over the counter almost ceremoniously, "Winchester."

I shook it. His hand was warm, rough, somehow familiar. I held it a moment longer than necessary before pulling away.

"So, Dean Winchester... what brings you to my bar every night? I assume it’s not the stale coffee or the broken jukebox."

A mischievous sparkle lit up in his eyes. "I keep hoping you’ll be here."

The words came so casually, so smoothly — and yet they didn’t feel rehearsed. They hit me like a well-aimed punch to the gut. I didn’t know if I should believe him. But I wanted to.

More than I cared to admit.

I leaned forward on both hands, just slightly. Just enough for his gaze to catch on the neckline of my shirt. The awareness sent a brief shiver across my skin.

"You’re really good at that whole charm act, huh?" I raised an eyebrow, my voice softer than I meant it to be.

"I just say what I see," he replied. "And what I see is... wow."

My heart did a small, unnecessary jump. I hated that. Or I should have. Because I wasn’t the kind of woman who melted at a crooked smile and broad shoulders.

But Dean was different.

It wasn’t just that he was good-looking — though God, he was. The tousled hair, that three-day stubble that made his jawline look even sharper. His eyes — green like moss after summer rain, and yet dark enough to lose yourself in. And those lips — soft enough to kiss, but with a hint of a smirk that could knock the ground right out from under you.

His body spoke the same language. Muscle beneath the leather of his jacket, which he’d carelessly slung over the back of the barstool when he came in, and under the cotton of his black T-shirt, framed by an olive-green shirt he wore open. Broad shoulders, large hands, relaxed posture. He moved like he knew exactly what he was doing with his body and what his body did to others.

I caught myself chewing on my lower lip. Again. Damn it, pull yourself together.

"You’re staring at me," he said quietly, amused.

I shrugged. "You’re kind of hard to ignore."

"Then don’t."

I let out a soft laugh. A sound that came out more nervous than I would’ve liked. To distract myself, I grabbed a cloth and wiped away a few water spots on the counter, though I barely registered them.

He sipped his whiskey, ran his tongue briefly over his lower lip. I saw it. I saw everything. And it burned hot through my veins.

"Tell me," I said as I leaned toward him again, "do you do this with every female bartender?"

"Only the special ones."

I snorted, but I felt my knees weaken slightly when he said it. Special. I didn’t know exactly what he meant by it, but my body was pretty sure he meant it.

I tried to keep working, to ignore him as best I could — to stay professional, at least in some way. But my skin tingled under his gaze, my thoughts grew sluggish, heavy — filled with images I really shouldn’t be entertaining while still in my apron, tongs in hand.

Dean hadn’t taken his eyes off me. Not once. He hadn’t left his spot for even a minute. He watched every move I made, every conversation I had with the other guests. Normally, that kind of thing would’ve creeped me out, and I would’ve already told him off. But with him, it wasn’t normal.

It didn’t bother me.

Not for a single second.

The bar had almost completely emptied out. Only one drunk was still snoring softly in one of the booths. I glanced at the clock above the shelf — almost two. Closing time. Time to kick Dean out.

Only...somehow I didn’t want to.

And somehow he didn’t want to leave, either.

"Dean," I said, placing my hands on my hips. My voice was as firm as I could manage, even though my heart felt entirely different. "The bar’s closing soon. You really need to go."

He raised his eyebrows and gave me that grin again — that damn charming one. But he made no move to follow my words. Damn it.

"My shift’s over. And you’re pretty much the last one here.” I gestured toward the empty tables and the almost-deserted room. “Time to go home."

Dean leaned back casually, elbows resting on the counter. His gaze sparkled. "Tell you what: how about you come with me?"

I swallowed and tried to look cool, the way I always did when uncertainty was written all over my face. "You’re pretty good at ignoring the word ‘no,’ huh?"

"Only when it comes to you." He winked.

Right then Derek, my coworker, stepped out of the kitchen, shaking his head. "You need backup, or is this running itself now?"

I grinned and shook my head. "I’ve got him under control. Thanks, Derek."

He chuckled softly, took a deep breath, and walked over to the drunk sleeping in the corner. "Alright then, I’m clocking out. Come on, old man." He gently shook the man’s shoulder, helped him to his feet, and guided him out into the cool night.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Suddenly, we were alone.

Dean looked at me, eyes full of anticipation and just a hint of mischief. And me? I knew this night was far from over.

I raised an eyebrow as my gaze drifted to the pool table. The wood gleamed dully under the dim light, the balls neatly racked in a triangle. The silence of the empty bar suddenly felt…different. Charged.

"How about a deal?" I asked, still trying to play it cool and casual — even though my heart was beating faster than it should.

Dean looked at me with interest, that faintly mocking grin tugging at his lips. "A deal? With you? Sounds good."

"Alright. If I win, you pay your tab and leave. If you win…" I let the sentence hang, watching as his pupils dilated just slightly.

"If I win, then…?" he asked, leaving it open. A challenge.

"Then I come with you. Just you and me. No whiskey, no bullshit." I tried to keep my tone cool, but there was a promise in my voice that scared me a little.

Dean let out a low laugh, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Sounds like the best damn deal I’ve made in my life."

I didn’t know exactly what he meant — and honestly, I didn’t want to. Instead, I untied my apron, tossed it carelessly onto the counter behind the bar, and walked confidently around to the pool table. Dean followed in silence, that wide grin still playing on his lips.

I grabbed the cues and handed him one.

"Ready to raise the stakes?"

He took the cue, his fingers brushing mine. "Never been readier."

The air between us thickened. Denser. The tension almost tangible. The night had only just begun.

I placed the balls in the rack, sliding them into place one by one. It was quiet in the bar — unnaturally quiet. The only sound was the heavy thud of my pulse in my ears. I felt his gaze on me. Hot. Heavy. Demanding. And I did nothing to avoid it.

Dean stood at the table, casually spinning the cue in his hand. His movements were smooth, confident — like he wasn’t just ready for the game, but for whatever came after.

"Ladies first," he said at last, with that half-mocking, half-dangerously-charming smile.

I gave a short nod, even though my hand trembled slightly as I picked up my cue. I bent over the table, searched for the right angle, tried to focus. But all I could feel was him. His presence. His scent — a mix of leather, whiskey, and something unnameably masculine that shot straight between my legs.

I took the shot. The balls scattered. None sank, but two landed close to the pockets. Not bad. Satisfied with the break, I straightened up and looked at Dean with a challenging glint in my eyes.

Dean smirked, winked, and leaned in for his shot. His torso flexed beneath his shirt as he lined up the cue ball. I could barely watch him without giving myself away. He wasn’t just attractive — he was strategically attractive. Every move, every gesture, was perfectly calculated for maximum impact.

With an easy stroke, he sank two balls straight into the pockets. Click. Clack. Precise. Almost casual. And of course, he looked good doing it. That damn body tension. The nonchalance. The way he straightened up and threw me a quick glance — mocking, challenging.

"Your turn," he said, and I could hear the grin in his voice.

I took a deep breath, stepped up to the table, and aimed for the next ball. The angle sucked — I’d have to go for a bank shot. Not exactly my strength, but whatever. I bent forward, focused. I could feel his gaze on my back. And when I took the shot, the ball rolled just shy of the pocket again.

"Not bad," he said behind me. "But you’ve got more in you."

I slowly straightened up and looked at him with a defiant spark. "Oh yeah? Gonna show me how it’s done, Winchester?"

He stepped closer. Much closer. So close I could almost feel his body brush mine. The heat radiating off him hit me like a wave. Then he was there. Right behind me. His chest against my back. His arm reaching out to adjust mine.

"You’re gripping it too tight," he murmured at my ear. His voice was rough, low, vibrating somewhere deep inside me.

His hand was over mine now — firm, warm, effortlessly confident. The other one moved to my hip, light but steady, and it was enough to throw me completely off balance — internally.

I felt his breath against my neck. Every syllable, every word, a whisper on my skin.

"You have to loosen up. Let it flow. Like this…" He guided my arms, our bodies moving in sync, my back leaning into his chest. I could feel him — hard, very real — pressing against my hip. There was no clearer signal, and still something inside me pulsed with the need for more.

I tried to breathe, but it was hard. The scent of his skin, the heat of his body, the way his voice burned into my nerves — it was too much. And not enough.

"Focus," he murmured.

"I can’t. Not when you touch me like that," I whispered — and it wasn’t an act.

He chuckled low, a dark sound that hit me harder than anything else so far. "Then I’m doing something right."

I straightened, turned to face him. Our faces were barely apart. I could see every line on his face — the fine creases at the corners of his eyes, the scar just above his lip that I suddenly wanted to trace with my tongue.

My voice came out hoarse. "The game’s not over yet."

"No," he said softly, eyes burning into mine. "But it’s about to get interesting."

He was right there. So close. So real. His gaze on me — dark, hot, full of unspoken promises.

"Told you,” he whispered, "there’s more where that came from." And this time, it was clear he wasn’t talking about pool.

I looked up at him, trying not to blink, not to flinch, not to show how badly I wanted him. But I knew, I’d already lost. He’d seen it. Felt it.

Dean lifted his hand slowly, as if worried I might pull away, but that was the last thing I wanted. His fingers brushed my cheek, rough from life but surprisingly gentle. They slid lower, grazed my neck, settled on my collarbone. I swallowed. Hard.

"You’re driving me crazy," he muttered, almost hoarse, like even he was caught off guard by how serious it sounded.

"Then I guess we’re even," I said, and my voice was darker than I expected.

He leaned in, slow — so damn slow — giving me time to say no, to step away, to run. I did none of those things. I stayed. Completely still. Completely ready.

When his lips finally touched mine, it was like something inside me detonated. No gentle testing, no careful softness. The kiss was hard, demanding, full of all the tension we’d been holding back. And I kissed him back with everything I had. Like I’d been waiting for him to finally take me.

His hands slid down my back, found my waist, pulled me against him. I felt him — hard, hot, ready — through the denim. My body responded instantly: a twitch deep inside, a quiet moan I couldn’t hold back.

"Tell me if you don’t want this," he murmured against my lips.

I let my fingers glide over his chest, feeling the contours of his muscles beneath the shirt, tugging at it – impatient, uncontrolled. I first pushed his open shirt off his shoulders, then he raised his arms so I could pull it over his head. I had to rise onto my tiptoes to do it, my sneakers squeaking softly against the floor. My gaze fell on his torso, the scars, the lines, the strength – God, I wanted to trace every single one of them with my tongue.

"If I don’t want this, I’m already dead," I gasped and pushed him back, toward the pool table.

He let me guide him, that grin on his face saying he knew exactly how much I wanted him right now. I pressed into him, kissed him again — deeper, rougher. My hips grinding into his, and he groaned — low and dark, hitting me right where I was already burning.

"Come here," he growled, and in one smooth motion, he lifted me onto the edge of the table.

I laughed breathlessly, surprised by the strength in his arms. "You’re really abusing this piece of furniture."

Dean shot me a promising wink, and I didn’t stop him. Whatever common sense I’d ever had had long since waved goodbye.

He stood between my parted legs, his hands on my thighs, slowly sliding upward. I could feel the heat burning under my skin, like electricity pulsing low in my belly. His eyes locked with mine — no rush, no hesitation, just that unmistakable desire that left me breathless.

His fingers slipped beneath my shirt, brushing over my waist before he pulled it up and over my head with deliberate control. My skin tingled under his gaze, now freely exploring every inch of me. I wasn’t wearing anything underneath — why would I, in this sweltering bar? And now he stood there, between my legs, looking at me like he’d already won. And hell, he had.

"Holy shit..." he murmured, his voice low, rough, hungry. "Look at you, baby."

The nickname hit me like a spark. Casual. Dirty. Sweet. His hands cupped my breasts, heavy and firm, like he needed to memorize the way they felt. His thumbs circled over my nipples, which tightened instantly — not just from the touch, but from the way he did it. Possessive. Demanding.

I let out a soft moan, arching into him. "Dean..."

"What is it, baby?" He grinned, letting his lips trail along my neck — kissing, nipping, sucking — until all I could feel was his heat. "You want something? Then say it."

His tongue traced along my neck, making me shiver. I didn’t feel weak — just taken. Desired. Almost cursed, with how completely he had me in that moment.

His hands slid lower, deftly unbuttoning my jeans. "Take them off," he said quietly, but firmly.

I obeyed. No resistance. No shame. I lifted my hips, letting Dean help me slide the annoying fabric down, then tossed it aside. I kicked off my sneakers, which hit the floor with a hollow thud. Now I sat there on the cold billiard table in nothing but my panties — but my body was on fire.

Dean stepped back, letting his eyes roam over me — slow, claiming, hungry. Then, finally, he unbuttoned his own jeans, easing them down just enough. I saw how hard he was, the outline straining beneath the fabric, and my mouth went dry.

"You’re already soaking, aren’t you?" His fingers brushed over the front of my panties, finding the damp spot instantly. I twitched under his touch. "Damn, you’re practically dripping for me…"

"Dean… please…" I didn’t even know exactly what I was begging for. Touch. Release. Everything.

He pulled my panties aside — just enough — to slide two fingers over my soaked heat. I shut my eyes and moaned, loud and helpless. He went straight for the most sensitive part of me, teasing in slow, deliberate circles, stroking… then deeper. He pushed inside — demanding, but never rough. Just… Dean.

"So fucking tight, baby…" he groaned, sliding his fingers in and out, quickly finding the rhythm that unraveled me. With his other hand, he kept working my clit, switching between gentle caresses and ruthless pressure. His mouth found my breast, lips enclosing, sucking, licking — everything at once. And I was gone.

I spread my legs wider, gasping, arching into him, letting myself be taken by his fingers, his mouth, his voice. All of him. Only him.

"Come on, baby," he whispered between kisses, his voice vibrating against my skin. “Come for me. Let me hear how sweet you scream when I fuck you with just my fingers."

His words hit me like a jolt of lightning, straight to my core. My muscles clenched, my fingers dug into the felt of the table, and my mouth formed his name — a choked, trembling moan that filled the room.

I came. Hard. Wild. Shaking. And he didn’t stop. Not right away. He let me ride it out, his fingers still moving inside me until I collapsed against his chest, breathless, spent — yet nowhere near done.

Dean kissed me — this time soft, almost tender — a stark contrast to the raw dominance from before.

Then he stood back up, slowly pushing his jeans and his underwear farther down, never breaking eye contact. My gaze followed, down to what was waiting for me — thick, hard, ready.

"Turn around," he ordered, voice low, but with that unmistakable edge that left no room for argument.

And me? I obeyed. Without hesitation. My body moved on instinct, driven by the hunger he’d lit inside me. I slid off the billiard table, turned, and braced myself against the velvet-covered surface, my upper body tilted forward, hips raised — exposed, open, ready.

I felt his eyes devouring every inch of me, tracing every curve, memorizing me. Then he stepped closer, pressing his hips to my ass. I felt him — bare now, hot and hard against my skin.

"Fuck, baby…" he growled. His hands slid over my back, down to my ass. He grabbed it, kneading, then let his fingers drift to the most sensitive spot between my legs.

"Tell me you want it," he murmured, his voice hot against my neck.

"I want it," I gasped. "Dean, please."

"Please what?"

"Fuck me."

A low, dark laugh rumbled from his chest. "I was gonna do that anyway."

He stepped back just enough to reach into the back pocket of his jeans and pull out a condom. His fingers tore the wrapper with practiced ease, and he rolled it on — tight, sure, ready.

Then he gripped himself, positioned at my entrance — and pushed in.

Slowly at first. Inch by inch. Hot, thick, and so much. I cried out, bit my lip, held onto the edge of the table for dear life. He filled me completely, thrusting deep, pausing only once he was fully inside.

"So tight… so warm… fuck, you’re perfect, baby."

Then he pulled back...and drove in again. Harder. Faster. And it began.

His hips slammed into me with relentless rhythm. Every thrust made me shake, gasp for air. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me against him, leaving no space between us. I heard everything — our bodies, skin slapping skin, my moans, his grunts — raw, real, unfiltered.

"This what you wanted, huh? Teasing me with those looks, that filthy mouth of yours…"

"Yes," I moaned. "I wanted it."

"Well now you’ve got it. All of it."

He grabbed my hair, pulled my head gently back, leaning over me. I felt his breath at my ear. "You feel so fucking good, baby. I could stay inside you forever."

A deep thrust tore a cry from my throat. I felt something coil tight inside me — again. So fast. So intense.

"Dean, I–"

"I know," he murmured. "Let it out. I wanna hear you come."

His hand slid between my thighs, fingers finding my clit, rubbing it in perfect sync with his thrusts. I lost myself. Again. And this time, even harder.

I came with a sound that drowned out even my own name. My body clenched, my legs shook, and Dean held me firm, kept fucking me through it, never letting go.

"Fuck, you’re so goddamn hot when you come…" he whispered, almost reverent.

He was close. I could feel it. His rhythm turned harder, faster, more desperate. But then he slowed.

My head had just dropped to the billiard table, my body still trembling, knees jelly-soft, when I felt his hands on me again.

Dean pulled out slowly, and a whimper of protest slipped from my lips. But before I could even voice it, he was turning me around, grabbing me like I weighed nothing, lifting me effortlessly.

"I’m not done with you, baby," he growled, his lips rough against my cheek. "Not even close."

I wrapped my arms around his neck instinctively, feeling his strength, his heat — his still rock-hard cock pressing against my stomach.

He set me down on the edge of the pool table. My legs dangled, but he stepped in immediately, forcing them apart, hooking them around his hips.

His eyes were dark with lust, pupils blown wide, that deep green almost swallowed by black. His hair was tousled, lips swollen from kisses, his body shining faintly in the dim bar light.

God, how can a man look like this — sweaty, breathless — and still be so fucking dangerously sexy?

He aligned himself with my entrance, rubbing along my slick folds, but didn’t push in. Not yet. Instead, he slid his fingers between my legs again, stroking through the wetness, spreading it. I flinched, overstimulated, but still desperate for more.

"So perfectly spread for me… you were made for this, weren’t you? For my cock."

"Dean…" It was a plea. A command. Everything at once.

"Hold on," he whispered.

I clung to his shoulders. And without another word, he thrust back into me. From the front, deep, raw, like he was claiming me completely now.

I was soaked, so open he slid in effortlessly. I cried out. The angle was different. Deeper. He reached places I’d forgotten.

Dean grabbed my hips, pulling me to meet every thrust. My breasts bounced with the motion, and his eyes drank in every inch of me. "Fuck… you’re unreal," he groaned.

His mouth found my neck, my collarbones, moving down between my breasts. I tangled my fingers in his hair, yanked him closer, kissed him— hungry, rough — teeth clashing, tongues tangling.

"Dean… more…"

He gave me that filthy grin. "You’ll get everything, baby."

He lifted one of my legs, threw it over his shoulder, and thrust even deeper. I screamed, grabbing the edge of the table behind me, nails scraping the wood.

The table rocked dangerously beneath us, squeaking with every slam of his hips. Our bodies collided — wet, hot, insatiable.

His gaze burned into me, his voice rough, filthy: "Come for me again."

I was right there. Again. Heat rippled under my skin, my core pulsed. I twitched, clung to him, his name spilling from my lips — and then I shattered.

My third orgasm tore through me like a storm. My walls clenched tight around him, and I came with a scream that blurred the line between ecstasy and madness.

Dean followed seconds later. His body went rigid, his moan deep and guttural. He thrust one last time, buried himself deep inside me, pressed flush against my body.

Silence. Breathless. Heavy.

Slowly, he let my leg slide off his shoulder and rested his head in the crook between my neck and shoulder. I felt his breath on my skin, his heart beating against my chest.

Then a low, rough sound in my ear. "Tell me, how the hell am I ever supposed to walk into a bar again without thinking about your damn pool table?"

I grinned, exhausted. "Then you better come here more often."

He lifted his head, grinned back. "Baby, I'm moving in."

It took a while for us both to catch our breath again. Our bodies were sweaty, exhausted, but satisfied — that deep, buzzing feeling when you’ve truly let everything go.

Dean still leaned his upper body against mine, our foreheads touching as his hands slowly glided over my hips — gentle now. Almost tender.

"You’re shaking," he murmured, kissing the tip of my nose.

"Are you surprised?" I snorted softly, a smile tugging at my lips. "I think I just reinvented myself three times over."

Dean laughed. That warm, scratchy laugh that vibrated straight into my stomach. "Three times? I feel like goddamn Casanova."

I nudged him lightly, smirking. "More like a stubborn stalker who just wouldn’t leave."

"Worth it, though."

With trembling legs, I slid off the edge of the table. Dean instinctively steadied me, his hands finding my waist like it was second nature. For a moment, we just held each other — body to body, no sex, just closeness.

Then he pulled away, turned, and walked — completely naked — behind the bar. I heard the crinkle of the condom, the soft clatter of the trash can.

"I definitely have to get here before Derek tomorrow, before he finds that used condom in the trash and starts asking questions," I said, running my fingers through my messy hair, trying to fix it.

Dean tossed the condom in and turned back to me with that trademark smug grin. "Then just tell him I saved your bar. Full commitment. And very professional... equipment."

I laughed, shaking my head. "You’re insane."

"And yet, you came under me – three times."

I playfully punched his shoulder. "Arrogant bastard."

"You love it."

Then came the great clothing hunt. My panties were under the table, my shirt dangling half off the cue rack.

"Great," I muttered, glancing around as I dressed. "If anyone checks the cameras tomorrow, I swear I’m gonna lose it."

Dean was just pulling on his shirt, which looked like it had had an orgasm of its own. "Just tell him it was a robbery. By a very handsome stranger."

I laughed — truly. Relaxed. Free.

Once we were both more or less dressed again, I stepped behind the bar, grabbed the key ring from under the counter, and started switching off the neon lights one by one. The humming stopped, the place fell into a cozy darkness, lit only by pale streaks from the streetlamps outside.

"You really lock up like a boss," Dean murmured as he leaned against the door, watching me.

"I am," I grinned. "Boss of chaos. Queen of cheap liquor and sinful nights."

He stepped closer, leaned down slightly until our faces were once again inches apart. "Sounds like you’re exactly my type."

"And you’re mine. Unfortunately." I rolled my eyes theatrically and nudged him toward the door with my hip.

I turned the key, the lock clicked. With one last glance back, I made sure everything was in order — the bar empty, the pool table a mess, but somehow…perfect.

"Come on, Casanova. Take me to your place. I can’t walk anymore, but I don’t want to sleep alone."

Dean grinned, slinging an arm around my shoulders. "You just had to say so, baby. I’ll carry you on my back if I have to."

And so we left the bar parking lot together, two silhouettes in the night. The lights were off. But the fire — that still burned.

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x ofc #jensen ackles #jensen fucking ackles #jensen ackles smut #dean winchester smut #dean smut #dean x reader #dean winchester × female reader #dean winchester × fem!reader #supernatural smut #supernatural #supernatural fanart #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fandom #spn smut #spnfandom #spn fanart

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whatsupsonnyboy · 2 days ago

Text

dBtMf | Joseph Quinn

PAIRING: Joseph Quinn x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Joe comes home to find you dancing in the kitchen, surrounded by music, warmth, and carefree joy. It's all about laughter, clumsy steps, and a track he doesn’t understand —but he understands one thing: he’s nuts about you.

wc: 1k

warning: fluff, this is just a bunch of fluff, Joe being a little clumsy and really into you ;)

a/n: I'm not really sure how many people are familiar with this kind of music, but let’s be honest—I love Bad Bunny, and his new album is incredible (seriously, give it a chance, I really recommend it). Anyway, I couldn’t stop imagining a scene like this, so… here it is. This one’s short—I hope you enjoy it. Remember this is not a series, but if you wanna read more of this Joe, you can find it here.

Feedback is welcomed <3

request are open | masterlist

The door clicked open.

Joe stepped inside, his keys still in hand, shoulders sagging from the weight of the day. The apartment smelled faintly of cumin and something sweeter—maybe caramelized onions, maybe toasted rice. It was warm inside, the kind of warmth that didn’t just touch your skin but seemed to settle somewhere behind your ribs.

He expected quiet. Maybe the hum of the fridge, maybe his own footsteps echoing across the hardwood. But instead, he heard it.

Music. Faint, at first—just the low pulse of a beat slipping through the apartment like a heartbeat. As he stepped deeper into the hall, the sound bloomed into something fuller, rhythmic, alive. A reggaetón track—Spanish lyrics he didn’t fully understand, layered over drums that moved like waves. There was a kind of ache to the melody, though, like nostalgia built into the rhythm. He wouldn’t have known the name of the song, or the artist, but he recognized the feeling behind it.

He paused, listening. Then he smiled.

From the kitchen, there was movement—your voice, lifted in song, a little off-key but full of heart. He moved quietly, drawn by the sound, until he reached the threshold and stopped.

You were there, barefoot on the kitchen tiles, a wooden spoon in one hand, your hips moving to the beat like it was second nature. There was a pot on the stove, something simmering low, and a cutting board on the counter littered with slivers of red and yellow pepper. You had a speaker tucked beside the spice rack, and the music poured from it, unapologetic and bright.

You didn’t see him at first.

He watched. Leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, that rare half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—the one he didn’t know he was wearing. There was something in the way you moved, how free you were in your own little world, how the music seemed to flow through you rather than just play around you. You spun—too fast—and the spoon flew from your hand, clattering to the floor.

You let out a yelp, laughing at yourself, and finally noticed him.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, cheeks already coloring. “How long have you been standing there?”

Joe lifted his hands, as if caught mid-crime. “A while. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You’re such a creep.” But you were smiling.

“I call it observational appreciation.”

You shook your head, bent to pick up the spoon, then glanced at him again. “You looked like you saw a ghost.”

“I saw you dancing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“And it was... impressive.” He grinned. “You’ve got moves.”

You pretended to consider this, then stepped toward the speaker and nudged the volume a notch higher. “Then come show me yours.”

His face shifted—instant panic. “No way. You know I can’t dance.”

You walked up to him, slow and deliberate, like it was part of the song. “I know. That’s why I’m inviting you.”

“That’s cruel.”

“It’s love,” you said, taking his hand.

He hesitated, still half-frozen with embarrassment, but he didn’t pull away. You placed his other hand on your waist and guided him gently, step by awkward step. It was clumsy at first. He bumped into your foot, swore under his breath, and muttered something about having two left feet.

But you were laughing. Not at him—never at him—but in that way you did when joy bubbled up without permission. And that’s what kept him trying.

You showed him the rhythm—not with words, but with the sway of your body. The music slowed, then picked up again, and you shifted into a different step, hips leading, hands light. He tried to follow. He failed. But he was watching you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

When he finally managed a decent turn, you whooped like he won the lottery. The rice was probably burning, the spoon was still on the floor, but none of it mattered.

Because right there, in the middle of the kitchen, with the music pouring around you like a spell, he kissed you.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t polished. It just happened—as natural as breathing, as inevitable as the beat itself.

And for the first time that day, he wasn’t thinking. He was just there. With you.

When you pulled apart, his forehead still resting against yours, he let out a soft laugh, like he couldn’t quite believe what just happened. Like you were some kind of small domestic miracle, smelling of sweet pepper and moving with rhythm in your feet.

“Okay,” he said then, with a crooked smile. “You have to tell me—what was this? What are we listening to?”

You blinked, surprised by the question. He never asked. Not about this. You had always shared a love for music—spent nights dissecting lyrics, arguing over which Arctic Monkeys album was the best, sending each other Pink Floyd deep cuts and trading favorite 1975 tracks like secrets. There was overlap, definitely. A shared language.

But this—this rhythm-heavy, sun-soaked, deeply yours kind of music—he had never really shown interest. Not out of dismissal, just... it never crossed his radar. The Latin and urban sounds you sometimes drifted into when you were cooking, cleaning, or just missing home—those had always been your world alone. Until now.

And there was something quietly disarming about the way he was looking at you, trying to understand a rhythm that was never written for him. Not because he suddenly loved the beat. But because you did.

“It’s Bad Bunny,” you said, almost shyly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s from his last album. The whole thing was kind of... nostalgic, I guess. Less party, more memory. Like, he is still doing reggaetón and trap and all that, but there is this undercurrent—like he is looking back at everything he had lived and trying to figure out what really mattered.”

Joe tilted his head, still watching you. Really watching. “Didn’t peg him for the reflective type.”

You laughed softly. “He surprises you, if you let him. It’s full of these little moments that felt almost private. Like he wasn’t just singing for a crowd—he was talking to someone he lost. Or maybe to a version of himself.”

He didn’t answer right away, just nodded slowly, processing. And you could tell—it wasn’t really about the album for him. It was about you, about hearing the things that moved you, the things that lived behind your eyes when you thought he wasn’t looking.

“Not really my usual vibe,” he said eventually.

“I know.” You smiled. “But you’re still here.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Because you are.”

#joseph quinn #eddie munson #joseph quinn x you #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn x y/n #joseph quinn fanfic #joseph quinn fanfiction #joseph quinn fluff #joseph quinn rpf #joe quinn #joe quinn x you #joe quinn x reader #joe quinn fanfic #joe quinn fanfiction #joe quinn fluff #sam warfare #emperor geta #eric a quiet place day one #johnny storm

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ysrjune · 10 hours ago

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Hi 👋 this is my first ask but I really love your Scott and Sam stories and I was wondering if you could do one of the Monroe twins but them liking the same girl? It’s totally fine if you don’t but I wanted to ask anyway! Ps. You’re a fantastic writer.

# WHATEVER MAKES YOU HAPPY. WHATEVER YOU WANT. //

a/n: thank you babe. I'm glad you like the twinsies 😋😋

Sam likes you because he thinks you're cooler than everyone else. You don't care about popularity or if anyone else approves your appearance or not. You aren't ashamed of your interests. You're unapologetically yourself, and he's into that. You also happen to be really nice to him, unlike a lot of other people. You compliment his makeup and his outfits - sometimes even ask what he's listening to if he has his headphones on. He loves it when you say that you're going to listen to that specific band he likes so you can figure out why he likes them so much.

Scott likes you mostly because you're so pretty and funny. He thinks it's attractive when a girl can take a jab from a guy and then make one back. You always share the treats you make as well. With both of them. Sometimes, you even make stuff specifically for each boy. Brownies (😜 if ykyk) for Sam and Candy for Scott (again, if ykyk.) Scott is such a fatass. He could eat anything and everything. So whenever you hang out with him, it always starts or ends with eating something.

So when the boys found out that they both like you, it wasn't pretty.

"Dude, you only like her because she's pretty. You don't actually like her." Sam gives his brother a dirty look. "Oh my God, no, I don't. She's really nice and she's funny. Not like a lot of other girls, man." Scott scoffs and begins to change into his house clothes. "You ain't shit." Sam mumbles and lays down on his bed, finding a song to play in his headphones. "What the fuck did you just say? I ain't shit? Mother fucker, you ain't shit. You let yourself get bad grades, you're high all the time, and you're fucking stupid."

"I'm working on my grades, you know that!" Sam yells. "And don't act like you don't get high. Don't act like you're better than me. Hell, we're practically the same fucking person except the fact that everyone likes you better because I have a few interests that aren't considered 'normal'!" Sam expresses. "You, your friends, and so many other people that I don't even know make fun of me because I'm not a carbon copy of them! Just because I like to dress differently and like different genres of music doesn't mean I'm weird, but that's how you all treat it! Everyone but her."

"What? does she baby talk you and say: It's okay don't worry about them. The way you aren't like everyone else makes you special and unique!" Scott mocks your voice. "Shut up. If you really did like her, then you wouldn't be making fun of the way she sounds." Sam stands up from the bed. "Shut the fuck up, you can't tell me what I do and don't feel." Scott gets close to his brother. "Face it, man. she just feels bad for you. you're a nobody. And you'll always be a nobody."

All of the rage and bickering led to a fist fight. They both had hands on them. Big and strong, so they left each other beat up. Scott had more scratches than bruises since Sam had a few rings on. Their parents were so mad at them. "All this over a girl?!" Their dad yells. "You two are the stupidest boys ever! Scott, I thought you had a girlfriend? That.. that Cindy girl." Scott smirked and shook his head. "No, dad. Cindy is just a girl I make out with." His mom was offended by that. "Just a girl you make out with? I didn't raise you like this! My God.. Both of you are grounded. Forget making this girl you fought over, a girlfriend. I might as well send you boys to boot camp to straighten you up! Or Or.. is it even bootcamp?" She looks over at her husband, but before he could correct her, she yelled. "I DONT KNOW! BUT YOU BOYS ARE GETTING KN MY LAST. NERVE." She says frustratedly and leaves.

"Good grief, you two. Now she's probably going to be mad at me. See what you did?! Keep boot camp in mind cause I oughta be thinking about it." Their father says angrily and leaves the room, slamming the door shut. The boys look at each other with bad looks. "Sleep with one eye open, Scott. I'm gonna kill you." Sam grunts and moves over to his side of the room.

@bxbyysstuff @anakinstwinklebunny @lovethestarrs @valloos @anisangeldust @xo-yaaaaaasxo @anakinca @dollfilmz @alexlovesysrjune @sockiess @sythethecarrot @speaknow-sw @loveamira @alealuvshayden @mvst4far @prettiestmini @amiratheangel

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spitefulsatanfics · 12 hours ago

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💥 The Boys’ Kinks & Aftercare: What Makes Them Melt 💥 (Dean, Sam & Castiel x She/Her Reader)

🖋️ Written by: Little Devil ✨ Tones: Flirty, cozy, teasing, sensual, tender afterglow vibes

🌙🌿 Whispers in the dark, warmth in the silence — this is how they love you. 🌿🌙

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

✴️ Dean Winchester ✴️

What He Likes & How to Please Him: Dean’s that unapologetic classic alpha—but beneath the rugged veneer is a man who thrives on feeling deeply wanted and respected. He craves the electric tension of power play, but it’s all wrapped in trust and silent understanding. He loves when you take control, teasing him with boldness that catches him off guard. His kink? Dominance mixed with worship—he’s utterly addicted to hearing how good he makes you feel, especially when you’re gasping his name like a prayer, raw and unfiltered.

Favourite Position: Missionary—simple, direct, and utterly intimate. His hands clutch you close, eyes locked on yours, the unspoken connection pulsing between you. It’s a quiet storm, grounding and fierce all at once. But when the night calls for something wilder, Reverse Cowgirl steals the show, giving him a front-row seat to your confident rhythm and the way you own the moment.

Aftercare: Dean’s aftercare is a cosy fortress of quiet devotion. Soft fingertips brush your hair, low murmurs weaving comfort into your skin. He’ll wrap you in his worn leather jacket, even if it means melting in summer heat, because it’s about feeling safe in his arms. A beer might be cracked open, classic rock humming low as he holds you close, heartbeat syncing to yours until the world fades. A massage? If you ask, you’re officially his favourite person—no debate.

Drabble: His fingers glide slow and deliberate down your spine, each touch a promise. His eyes, dark with need and tenderness, never leave your face. When you breathe out his name, barely more than a whisper, a fire ignites in his chest—something fierce and protective. After, he pulls you closer, rubbing gentle circles on your back as his voice softens, “You good, baby? You okay?” Your nod brings a rare, full smile, and he presses a tender kiss to your forehead. “You’re mine. Always.” The words hang in the air like a vow, and you believe every one of them.

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

✴️ Sam Winchester ✴️

What He Likes & How to Please Him: Sam’s a gentle giant whose every touch is loaded with care. His pleasure blooms slowly—he savours the build-up, every breath, every shiver, every stolen moan. His kink? Tender restraint—silk scarves that whisper against your skin, the soft command to “stay” said with a voice thick with desire. He’s also a sucker for understated dirty talk—words that hang in the air between you, meaning layered beneath every syllable.

Favourite Position: Spooning, nestled so close you feel the warmth radiating off him. His hands explore every curve with reverence, every breath shared like a secret. It’s his sanctuary, safe and unshakeable. But for those deeper, soulful connections, missionary with slow, lingering eye contact is his ultimate—body and soul laid bare in perfect vulnerability.

Aftercare: Sam’s aftercare wraps you in a cocoon of emotional warmth. Soft words drip like honey as you melt under heavy blankets, the quiet punctuated only by shared breaths and the turning of pages if he’s reading aloud. He might bring you tea, fingers trailing lazy patterns over your skin as sleep steals over you. When anxiety claws, he’s the steady anchor holding you down, reminding you that here, now, you’re safe.

Drabble: Afterward, his hands cup your face with such reverence it steals your breath. His eyes, wide and luminous with tenderness, hold you like you’re the most fragile thing in existence. “You’re incredible,” he murmurs, voice low and sure, a balm for every doubt. Pulling you close, he wraps his arms like a fortress, his heartbeat steady against yours. “No rush. Just us.” In that moment, your world stills, and you drown in the safety only Sam can give.

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

✴️ Castiel ✴️

What He Likes & How to Please Him: Cas approaches love like a sacred ritual—no games, no noise, just pure presence. His kink? Worship—not only of your body but your soul, your scars, your power and fragility. He revels in the holiness of surrender, when you let him cradle you like a fragile light, when your control slips and he becomes guardian of your pleasure. Ritualistic slow touches, long, lingering kisses—they’re his prayers, his devotion made manifest.

Favorite Position: Face-to-face, hands intertwined, foreheads touching—a sanctuary where the world dissolves. Breaths mingle in perfect harmony; eyes lock in silent worship. Another favorite is when you sit on his lap, slow and deliberate, the electric stillness between you pulsing with unspoken devotion.

Aftercare: Cas’s aftercare feels like a benediction. Soft prayers whispered into your hair, hands glowing faintly with celestial grace as he soothes every ache, every lingering tension. Wrapped in his trench coat, he murmurs affirmations of love and strength, a promise bound in quiet faith. Sometimes, a lullaby drifts from his lips—a celestial song that lulls you toward peace, cradled in eternal warmth.

Drabble: His fingertip traces a gentle path over your cheek, eyes luminous pools of tenderness and awe. “You are a miracle,” he says, voice steady but brimming with reverence, “in your softness and your scars.” His hands glow with gentle warmth, seeping into your skin, unraveling every knot of pain. Held close in his arms, you close your eyes, surrendering to the quiet light. “I will stay with you,” he promises, voice low and unwavering. “Always.”

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

🌙🌿 The night folds you in, and these are the ways they show love—through touch, through presence, through the sacred quiet after the storm. 🌿🌙

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eatmyheartoutjpg · 2 days ago

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CHAMPION'S SPONSOR ;; You’re an uprising Formula 1 driver and Tony Stark takes interest in you, becoming your sponsor. Something forms along the way. MULTIPARTER.

05.30.25 Masterlist

“And that’s another win! Oh my God, they’ve done it!”

The TV roared in the background—the only sign of life in the otherwise still penthouse. Tony Stark stirred, half-awake, eyes squinting against the kaleidoscope of colors flashing across the screen.

Tony Stark stirred beneath a disheveled blanket, eyes flickering open with heavy eyelids. The couch, previously sleek and spotless, looked like it had survived a minor apocalypse—covered with wrinkled shirts, scattered tech gadgets, a shoe he didn’t recognize, and at least one overturned bottle of vintage scotch.

“Absolutely phenomenal! A rookie taking the World Championship twice––in their debut year!”

He groaned, dragging a hand across his face, pausing as his fingers met the rough edge of stubble. His skull throbbed in rhythm with the commentator’s excitement, and every breath scraped down his throat like sandpaper.

Last night had been... a lot. Tony had rented out an entire club in Monaco to celebrate nothing in particular. What followed was a blur of music, alcohol, camera flashes, and too many congratulations he didn’t remember earning. JARVIS had eventually gone rogue, ignored his protests, and called Happy to drag his sorry ass out before the paparazzi could get another front-page meltdown.

“What a sensational finish! Look at the pit crew—absolutely ecstatic!”

Tony winced. His vision finally adjusted as he blinked away the bleariness, zeroing in on the screen.

There you were.

Helmet off. Racing suit unzipped just enough to show the sweat glistening on your collarbone. Champagne rained down on you like confetti, sticking to your fireproof suit, which was splattered with brand logos, race numbers, and streaks of victory.

You stood there—beaming. Radiant. Not just with the glow of someone who had won. But someone who belonged on that podium. Young. Bold. Unapologetically magnetic.

And far too easy to look at.

Tony stared, motionless. There was a heat blooming in his chest—just beneath the hangover and poor decisions. Something tugged at him. Something unsettling.

“JARVIS,” he croaked, his voice gravel and regret. “Who’s that?”

“That is [Name], sir. Newly debuted Formula One driver for [Team] Racing. Their performance this season has broken multiple—”

Tony wasn’t listening. His head fell back against the cushion, the ceiling spinning softly above him.

His voice came out low, rough, but with that familiar Stark certainty—like the decision had already been made hours ago in some part of his brain that still worked.

“I like that one,” he muttered. “Send a sponsor invoice.”

There was a brief pause. JARVIS hesitated, the kind of silence that usually preceded logic trying to argue with impulse.

“Sir, you’ve never sponsored a—”

But Tony was already gone. Head tilted back, mouth slightly parted, chest rising in the slow rhythm of someone fully surrendered to unconsciousness.

The TV played on, commentators still gushing about lap times and historic victories.

And on the screen—you smiled, waving to the crowd, a bottle of champagne in one hand, helmet under your arm, future blazing ahead like an open track.

Tony wouldn’t remember this moment.

But something had already begun.

You were still soaked in champagne when you stepped back into the lounge, the room bursting into renewed cheers as soon as you crossed the threshold.

Your pit crew erupted, lifting their drinks, clapping you on the back, giving loud whoops like the celebration hadn’t already been going strong for the past hour.

Not that you blamed them.

A rookie in season with back-to-back championship wins? Record-shattering lap times? You were rewriting the rulebook—and they were part of it.

“[Name]!” someone shouted through the din, interrupting the celebration momentarily. “C’mere! You’ve got a big one.”

You turned, following the voice to the far end of the lounge where one of your team leads stood—an iPad in one hand, clipboard in the other, both looking equally important.

People parted for you instinctively, the kind of respect that had started only weeks ago but now moved through the room like gravity.

You still felt sticky—champagne clinging to your skin, suit damp and clinging in places you’d rather not think about. You hadn’t even gotten to drink any of it yourself.

Your team lead held the screen out to you, angling it just right. “Didn’t want to interrupt your moment out there. But I figured this is too big to ignore.”

The light of the tablet flared in your eyes for a second before it came into focus.

An email.

Timestamped almost to the second you’d stood atop the podium. Subject line: Stark Industries Sponsorship Inquiry.

You frowned, blinking at it like it might shift into something more reasonable. “A sponsorship... from Tony Stark?”

The words felt strange in your mouth—like you weren’t quite sure if they were real. The message was short. Direct. Classic Stark. No fanfare. Just intent.

“I want to sponsor [Name]. Make it happen.”

Your team lead grinned beside you, practically vibrating with excitement. “Can you believe it? That’s massive. Everyone’s going to be on board—hell, the board’s probably already prepping a reply.”

You shifted your weight, biting down on your instinct to give a quick yes or no. “He’s... a walking PR hazard.” You mumbled, looking away.

“Just... think about it. You’re hot right now, and this kind of backing?” He gave you a firm clap on the shoulders, you were reluctant to look at him again. “It’s game-changing! But you don’t have to decide tonight.”

You gave a stiff nod, lips pressed into a line. You didn’t like rushing decisions—especially not ones this loud.

He leaned in a bit closer, quieter now. “We’ll call you in tomorrow. Just keep your phone on, yeah?”

You didn’t answer right away.

You weren’t naïve. You knew you were valuable now—but you also knew better than to assume the world would bend for you. There were contracts. Sponsors. Quiet meetings in back rooms where your future might already be shifting without you in it.

So you just nodded again.

You’d earned your win. But everyone works together to ensure you can.

It was decided.

No debate. No vote. No room for your discomfort.

By morning, you were officially sponsored by Stark Industries.

The announcement came with tight smiles and firm handshakes from your team, like a sealed deal should somehow feel like a trophy.

You had questions—hell, you had concerns—but none of them made it past your lips. Not when the room was buzzing with excitement. Not when everyone around you was already envisioning the headlines.

Tony Stark. Billionaire, genius, unpredictable headline magnet. And your sponsor.

It was historic—his first sponsorship in Formula 1. People were already saying it was proof of your rising value, your unstoppable trajectory. Your name and Stark’s, side by side. That kind of press could launch you past the stratosphere.

And yet, your stomach twisted tighter with every passing hour.

The pressure was mounting. You could feel it in the way every eye lingered on you longer than before. The way your team suddenly deferred to PR departments and media outlets. The way meetings filled with confident people and curated smiles never quite eased the weight off your chest.

They all told you the same thing.

“This is good.” “This will elevate you.” “This proves you’re more than a rookie.”

You didn’t feel elevated. You felt exposed.

The official announcement would drop the following week. And with it, the first public meeting—you and Tony Stark, shaking hands for cameras, making history, becoming a spectacle.

Except there was one problem.

He wasn’t showing up.

The PR teams were still scrambling to lock down a date. Word kept coming in that Stark was “busy” or “off-grid” or simply “not responding.” Some thought the decision wasn’t even his to begin with. Maybe someone at Stark Industries saw an investment opportunity and fired off a sponsorship on his behalf.

But no one really believed that.

Everyone knew Tony Stark. The man didn’t do anything he didn’t want to. Especially not when his name was attached to it. If it was his call, it was impulsive. A whim. A move made at 2AM with too much liquor and too little context.

And that worried you more than anything.

You were a fresh face in a brutal sport, barely holding onto control of your own image. One wrong move, one scandal by association, and your career could evaporate faster than your champagne-soaked victory suit.

You weren’t just under a spotlight now.

You were under a microscope.

And somewhere out there, Tony Stark—the man who’d casually tied his name to yours—was dodging every effort to meet you.

LIVE NEWS: New Formula 1 World Champion, [Name], has been officially sponsored by Stark Industries. Watch the live, official statement here.

The words ran across every screen, every ticker, every headline.

And there you were. Standing center stage.

Your racing suit clung uncomfortably to your body—stiff from the heat of the lights and the fact that it wasn’t even a real race day. Just another staged performance. Behind you, a branded backdrop was plastered with the names of your sponsors—your team, the usual companies, and now, right in the center: Stark Industries, bold and unmistakable.

The cameras never stopped flashing. The sound of shutters clicked like rainfall.

You recited the lines you’d practiced in front of a mirror, coached to say them just right.

Thank you to the team. Thank you to Stark Industries. Thank you, Tony Stark.

The words left your mouth clean and professional, but felt foreign—like you were quoting someone else's press release.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. If they believed it, it was real enough.

Then, right on cue—of course—he showed up.

“Alright, alright, let’s cut it short.”

Tony Stark strode up the stairs, sunglasses on indoors, grinning like he owned the world. Because in a way, he did.

The camera flashes doubled in intensity the second he stepped into frame. You flinched instinctively. Stark didn’t. That’s when you understood the shades.

He walked right past the podium, right past you, never once making eye contact. The air shifted with his presence—fast, electric, and completely in his control.

Without looking, he reached for your mic and pulled it smoothly to his mouth.

“I’m proud to say Stark Industries is now a primary sponsor for [Name].”

That was it.

A pause stretched out awkwardly. Everyone expected more. A follow-up. A joke. A trademark Starkism.

Nothing.

Then, delayed cheers. Flashbulbs.

And with that, he casually tossed the mic behind him—literally tossed it—like it was a napkin he didn’t need anymore. You could hear the mic hit the ground with a loud noise.

Then he turned. Finally.

His smile faded slightly as he faced you directly. You mirrored the move, trained to go with the flow. To give the cameras what they wanted. PR trained you thoroughly.

He extended a hand.

You took it.

Your handshake was firm. Practiced. But the air between your palms was strangely charged.

No one else could see it, but through the tinted lenses, you caught his eyes. Focused. Calculating. Curious.

And something else.

Not admiration. Not arrogance. Just... awareness. Like he was trying to figure out what you were beneath the headlines.

The crowd roared again. The flashes washed everything in white.

You leaned in slightly, just enough for your voice to be drowned out by the noise.

“Thank you, Stark,” you murmured, eyes never leaving his. You weren’t sure if you were sincere, nor were you sure it sounded like it.

His lips twitched. Not a smile. Something sharper. Something unreadable.

“I’ll try not to ruin you,” he spoke back.

And then the moment was over.

The crowd kept cheering.

But suddenly, you couldn’t hear any of it.

A/N ;; So, a lot happened in my life. I got into a car crash in the middle of finals! But I am now in summer vacation mode and posting again! This will get more parts soon!

#marvel #marvel fanfiction #marvel cinematic universe #marvel movies #mcu #marvel x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #tony stark x reader #tony stark #tony stark imagine #tony stark x you #iron man #avengers #avengers x reader #avengers fanfiction

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