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hexonthepeach · 7 months

Text

perfume - k.dy

pairing: f4!nct doyoung x fem!reader (past johnny x reader mentions)

genre: hana yori dango/boys over flowers/meteor garden/f4 thailand reverse harem au (mild allusions and characterization only)

warnings:

bully-to-friends-to-lovers, established relationship, polyamory, dom!doyoung, glucose father adjacent, scent kink, control over food consumption/bathing (for scent kink purposes only), gratuitous use of the l-word by anti-romantics, angst/feelings, flashbacks and history

🔞 edging, cockwarming, orgasm denial, oral (m/f receiving), passionate sex, rough sex, spanking, creampie, bukkake, consensual negotiated kink (degradation, somnophilia), anal play (f receiving)

wordcount: 20k

author's note: this is a doyoung-centered continuation of my ongoing F4 au. it can stand on it's own but i recommend reading Dive for more context. Doyoung's role in the F4 is Sojirou Nishikado/So Yijung/Ximen/Kavin (playboy control freak) so this fic incorporates elements of his secondary romance within the original/adaptations, now with y/n.

read on AO3

fic headers / dividers credit to @ saradika + please do not repost

Freshman year, Kocher International.

Head down in your books at lunch, trying so hard to escape scrutiny from above, you pretend to be no one.

It shouldn't be hard to be nobody, otherwise ignored and immune to whatever social contract deliberates your life. In a better world you'd be invisible. It's a superpower you'd wish for much more over the usual playground answers of super speed or control of the weather.

Let me be unobserved, you'd thought. Let me open a door and not worry about a bucket full of dirty mop water falling on my head or the inevitable posting of a grainy video of it, posted in a Telegram channel to fulfill some checklist made up by bored, rich monsters.

Your four-generation-behind phone with its cracked screen proved useful in some regards; you never heard about these public pillories until some kind stranger sent you a screenshot of them, usually in the context of whatever plans they'd made to torture you again.

Every notification is already a pain, driving splintered glass into the pads of your fingers. Just now you're reading a text message from your father asking you to pick up more cheap instant noodles from the convenience store on your walk home to round out whatever scraps he's picked up from the local restaurant your mother bussed tables and cleaned dishes at when she needed extra money.

"Why is Saint Kim watching you?" your friend asks across the table. She's been looking up at the room this entire time, unable to give you even a moment of her attention or assistance to finish the English homework you'd been working on. You'd been rushing all day to finish it before afternoon class, after a late morning of delivery driving for your family's drycleaning business.

"Are you sure it's not the Devil?" you ask, parsing through the lines of a book you'd bought secondhand, trying to match verse for verse.

"No," she says, shaking her head when you finally look up. "Don't react. He's coming this way."

"Shit," you say under your breath, eyes flicking to your untouched lunch. "I need you to leave now. Take these trays and dump them and I'll meet you outside of 4th. If I make it."

You don't look up from your book as you mutter, but you follow her path and her hesitancy as she internally debates whether to heed your warning or watch from a safe distance.

Your handwriting becomes a scrawl of nonsense you have to cross out in sharp lines. You begin the verse again, holding your breath as you will your entire body and mind back to a manufactured calm.

If you can't be invisible, you can at least play your role. You're copacetic by the time you see the tips of polished black wingtips beside you, before you hear the Saint clear his throat.

“Y/N.”

He drops a familiar, school-mandated clear cosmetics bag next to your ratty backpack. The already embarrassing stash of tampons and old chapstick has a new bounty including a "used" pregnancy test stick with a second line drawn in with pink gel pen jumbled into its contents.

"You left this . . ." he says, not finishing the sentence to indicate where he'd found it. You immediately hear a titter. Your flock of spectators is growing by the second and the useful idiot at its center seems wholly unconcerned.

"Thanks," you say, not bothering to look up or to even hide the bag. You keep writing, blindly, the English words just rounded shapes flowing from your shaking hand.

Their kind fed off attention, your only defense is to starve them of it.

The Saint clears his throat, again. Apparently he’s not just unconcerned, he’s also unwilling to leave.

"Aren't you grateful Doie found it before someone else did?" You don’t have to look up to know it's Miranda who’s asked, glimpsing her manicure as she picks up your bag, green gems shining on perfectly-tipped nails.

"Oh this must not be hers. I didn't think she could afford this."

You think she might be diving into the stash for one of the Lilies' pointed additions but no–you watch in horror as she plucks out the bottle of perfume you'd been carrying with you since your parents had gifted you a single, tiny box last Christmas.

"Chanel?" she says, laughing. "No wonder you smell like my grandma."

"Probably a knock-off," another of the Lilies says. Ginger, by the sound of her grating voice. Her handwriting on the board in homeroom listing out your abortions is as familiar as the pink gel pen script on the extra large foil condom with xoxo slut written on it staring at you through the plastic.

"Definitely a knock-off. You have a nose, don't you, Doie?"

You look up, finally, at Saint Kim. He's alone for once–the other one, the Devil Kim that shadows him is still up on the second level, leaning on the railing over his shoulder. You watch the Saint’s small mouth turn into a moue of distaste, nose wrinkling at the proffered bottle.

"Authentic," he says, capping it before offering it back to you. Your field of vision is obstructed by that veined, pale hand–fingernails as perfectly groomed as the rich girls who surround him.

You reach up to take your most prized possession back only to find he doesn't let go, holding tight when you try to pluck it from his fingers.

"You should know . . . " he says, sniffing slightly.

You look up at him with alarm blazing in your eyes. Every word Kim Doyoung says to you writes your next damnation. You should ignore him, run, anything–but you can't look away once you've met his assessing gaze, his tall frame limned in the fluorescent cafeteria lights like he's carrying his own personal halo.

Even seeing him at a distance every day can't depreciate how ethereally handsome he is. You know better than to swoon at that elegant face, night-black hair pushed away from his forehead. Beneath his family’s charities and his PR-scripted concern you know he’s just another ungodly creation birthed of nepotism and curated genes.

He leans in, carefully, musical voice a whisper.

"You should know it doesn't suit you."

The laughter that follows is deafening.

No, you think. He's just as soulless as the rest of them.

“What do you mean actually sleep?" you ask, coyly, unbuttoning your romper. "Like after we . . . ?"

"I've managed 6 hours of sleep in 36 hours, y/n–” Doyoung seems to hesitate, dark eyebrows raising, hand pushing his hair back from his pale forehead. He snaps his laptop closed, at last, shoving it to the farthest edge of the bedside table.

No–you think–not hesitation.

Frustration.

You've seen this man before.

All work and no play made Saint Kim into a Prince of Hell. He'd spent the first 8 hours of your date day half-present–the other in the 4 hours of sleep he's gotten since some crisis at his family’s headquarters in London that usurped your vacation.

A whole 2 days in which he hasn't held you at all. His rules, his chance, but you can't help but wonder what has him so clenched that he's barely even touched you since your date began at 6 am Bangkok time.

You'd taken two extra strength melatonin and slept like the dead, anticipating his early-riser schedule. Only you and God had to know you'd fallen asleep next to your day tour fit ready to be fucked in it.

You’d made yourself so pretty only to find him in the kitchen hunched over his phone, laptop softly pinging with notifications. Doyoung had still been dressed in the clothes you'd seen him in the night before, ending his conference call to laser in on you hovering in the kitchen.

"Are you upset?" Doyoung asked.

"No," you'd lied, pushing the piece of paper he'd left the staff on the counter, his English handwriting crisp and formal. "What’s this?"

"We have a few dietary restrictions today," he’d said.

"Are you saying I am what I eat?" You’d asked, taking a bite of a plump strawberry. "Is this some kind of prep?"

"It's for the date," he'd said, resigned. "Just be patient with me."

Then he'd smiled, disarming you with a casualness you hadn’t seen on him in a long time, rubbing his eyes blearily under his thick glasses.

"Can we go back to sleep?"

And so you'd settled into his grasp on your made bed, scrolling Insta and waiting for the inevitable alarm–which turned out just to be Jungwoo delivering two iced Americanos in some gambit of checking your progress.

"Missed the floating market opening?" Jungwoo asked, eyebrows raised at the sight of Doyoung face first in a pillow.

You'd silently mouthed your thanks, leaving the drinks to sweat on the bedside table as you changed into your second outfit of the day, occasionally drifting in to check on your sleeping beauty.

It was a rare delight to have him so vulnerable beside you, blanket rucked up beneath his chin and his white teeth visible past the sweet curves of his mouth. Without consciousness your partner for the day is just Kim Doyoung, the gentler side of the same creature who you knew would often choose a couch to watch serial television with you over a day trip if you wanted it.

But this was different.

Now instead of using his precious time to fulfill what you'd felt promised in his casual brushes against your back when you'd finally traveled out, or the way he'd stroked your leg at brunch under the table (every bite chosen by him, of course), you're being railroaded into lying still while he sleeps.

Again.

You continue undressing, letting him drink in the sight of the lingerie set he’d left in your room. You knew it was custom made by the way it lifted each curve he’d already had access to, tailored for you as if every millimeter of your body was to account for.

Doyoung's cheeks are hollowed, lip chewed. He pulls his glasses down and regards you even more as you continue to undress yourself.

"You do know what the word 'nap' means, don't you?"

"I'm not the one who hasn't slept," you say. "At least let me get comfortable."

His stare pierces into you as you turn around, stripping for utility rather than give him a show he clearly hasn’t earned. You check yourself in the floor-length mirror beside the bathroom, viewing yourself through his eyes as you pluck the lace over your curves to sit just right.

“Do you like it?” you ask.

You may as well be speaking to the floor when you turn around, finding him buried in the pillows only by the dark fall of his hair.

“You can’t be that tired,” you say.

You're used to taking a late afternoon siesta in peak summer but you're far too excited to even consider sleep right now. For one, it's sweltering–windows open to allow the noises of hawkers and traffic not far off to drift in.

Second, you've never been more turned on in your life.

You can still feel the tingling in your toes from when he’d slipped his hand up under the hem of your shorts, teasing at the velvety smooth skin on your inner thigh as you tried not to choke on your mimosa.

You make your way to the bed languidly, crawling up the thick white duvet with a teasing smile.

"Just stay on your side of the bed, please," Doyoung says.

"Oh," you say, collapsing on top of the covers beside him. "Well you're no fun."

"And you're impatient and uncouth," he retorts in a way that makes you wonder if he really means it.

"Will you at least hold onto me?"

"Too hot." He rolls on his back, flapping his half-buttoned shirt in the breeze from the fans. You sigh dramatically, collapsing into the pillows in the middle of the bed.

"You should get naked, then.” You say. “Don't be modest on my account."

He opens one eye to glare at you, finding you relaxed and inviting beside him. His throat bobs, gaze flicking to the ceiling.

"That year of celibacy really took a toll on you, didn't it? Two hours. Indulge me."

"Please, sir," you whisper. "I've been such a good girl."

It had been a stipulation of the F4’s latest deal–24 hours for you to recover from your first night before the gauntlet began. Doyoung had been more than strict about the terms, leaving you your own set of instructions including–not surprisingly–not touching yourself.

Under normal circumstances you wouldn’t think about masturbation constantly, at all hours of the day. He may as well have told you to try not to think about a white bear for how powerful the intrusive thought had taken over since then.

"You'll get your reward. Later," he says. He's an impassable wall, stretched out beside you, so you content yourself with staring at his profile. Even under these oppressive circumstances you appreciate the light dusting of freckles on his cheek brought out by the sun, the dark lashes dusting his cheeks over the slight bluish marks of sleep deprivation.

"Yes, sir."

It only takes a few minutes for him to snap at you again.

"Stop that,"

"Stop what?"

"Getting so handsy."

You hadn’t even realized your hand had drifted over the plane of his belly under his white shirt, too absorbed with watching the muscles in his cheek spasm as you inched nearer.

"Can I help it when you're right there?" you ask. "I thought this was your–"

Doyoung rolls you before you can slither any closer, pressing your back into the sheets with his hands on your wrists, knees digging into your thighs.

If the intention was to get you to stop being uncomfortably turned on it has the opposite effect: you let out a moan of pleasure, legs twisting together for friction. He slams them shut between his own, groin pressed into yours.

He's as hard as you hoped, and you lift up into him to let him know you know it.

"If you don't behave I'll have to cancel this," he warns directly in your ear, sounding as choked as you feel. "I thought you were already trained."

"Trained to fight back," you correct, pressing against him with your own strength.

"That's not trained," he says, lifting up. "I'll blame your lack of experience and experienced partners. Nothing we can't work on. Until then you'll follow my rules or I pull you from the game. Understood?"

You let a few beats pass, accepting there's no way out and you don't have anything to throw back at him.

"Yes, sir," you pout.

"Now that's a good girl," he says.

Just as quickly as you were taken down you're let go, inhaling deeply now that you're not being pressed into the soft bed.

"You really don't want to play with me before you sleep?" you ask, brushing your lips against his chin as he crouches over you. You’d be a liar if you didn’t say you enjoyed the way his nostrils flare a bit, working his pink bottom lip between his teeth. Whatever arbitrary rules he’d set for your time together you can tell he’s at least regretting it right now, stiff length brushing against your bare leg as you lift your knee to test it.

“Are you trying to make me punish you?” he asks, voice husky.

"I thought you liked it when I was a brat," you say, cocking your head.

Doyoung sighs, eyes half-lidded. "I do. But not when you're using it to avoid intimacy."

Your throat clenches, a hard knot forming in it you can't seem to swallow as your face gets even hotter.

“What are you talking about?” you ask.

“I think you know what I mean,” he continues. “It’s not like we both don’t have a habit of using sex as a distraction from anything emotionally challenging.”

You gape up at him in disbelief.

Of course you’d never been able to hide that aspect of your last relationship with him when he’d often been right outside the door. All of the F4 knew how many times your arguments with he-who-should-not-be-named-especially-not-while-in-bed-with-his-best-friend had ended in you shutting him up by any means necessary. Not that you didn’t enjoy it at the time–but rather you understood it wasn’t the most healthy template for a relationship.

"I thought this wasn't going to be about feelings," you blurt out.

“Proving my point.”

Doyoung tsks, tapping your cheek with his fingers–nowhere near a slap but just as effective, soothing the spot with his thumb. Soon he’s brushing your tears away when they inevitably spring up and you have to turn to hide their seep into the mass of pillows.

"If I wanted therapy I wouldn't be here, Kim Doyoung," you say, trying to bury your face in the piles of soft down.

“Shh, silly girl,” He gently pulls you out from hiding, soothing you with a warm kiss against your forehead when you stop struggling and let him hold you, releasing that surge of emotion and writing it off to hormones and the sting of rejection.

“You know I’m speaking to myself here, too,” he states softly. “Bear with me, I’m learning.”

"Do you even really like me?" you ask, face pressed into his chest.

It’s horrible to admit this specific insecurity but you can’t help it. Being abandoned multiple times in your life when you’d finally, finally let your walls down would damage anyone’s trust. You’d hoped this day with him would be easy and carefree and light, not dimmed by the shadows of your anti-romantic histories.

"I adore you, actually." He settles partially on top of you, leg wrapped over yours as he props himself up on his elbow. "Which is why I want to start this right. You wanted the F4 boyfriend experience. This is mine."

"Last I checked you’ve never seriously dated anyone," you groan, sniffling.

"Last I checked, neither have you."

Well, that connects. You swallow your fears, relaxing into the cage of his embrace, retreating a little from the vulnerability of being exposed.

"What kind of girlfriend experience were you expecting, then?"

A lazy smile gusts across his features. You can't help but find it a bit sinister after being handled so indelicately.

“I don’t always know what’s going on in that empty little head of yours." He accompanies his statement with a brush of his thumb across your flushed cheek, tracing your semi-parted lips in a way that sends sparks down to your core.

"I’d like to stop guessing and actually get you to let me treat you the way you want to be treated. Have you ever asked yourself what you want?"

You panic a little, considering his words. Living with disappointment had made this question a hard one to even consider.

"I just want a good time. Isn't that what you want, too?"

Doyoung seems to ignore your ask, drifting into a relaxed state against the pillows. His hand traces the hairline at your temple. "You know I worry about you. All the time, actually.”

His voice is lower, a little wistful, and it’s doing just as much as the slight brushes of his fingertips to make you throb all over again. A lack of sleep must have made him delusional, you think. This is not the Kim Doyoung you know.

“You’re always thinking of how to take care of the people around you, I think you’ve forgotten how to relax and let other people take care of you.”

"Is that why you're always involving yourself in my business?" you ask, matching his tone in how breathless you are. You expect a quip, not the sincerity written on his face when he swoops in to press a gentle kiss against your lips, too fleeting to be anything but sweet and sincere.

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do all this time? It certainly wasn’t just to get into your pants. I want you. All of you.”

You're taken aback by his honesty. You'd always suspected his constant meddling in your affairs came from a place of interest but you'd never wanted to give him too much of a response–maybe a little afraid his fickle nature and fear of commitment would mean he’d give up on your friendship, too.

Another thing you knew about Saint Kim: he had a tendency to run like a frightened rabbit at the first sign of emotional neediness in his partners. You'd never given him reason to believe you expected anything from him, but you'd also stopped fighting him on giving you what he desired to give.

It wasn’t just presents or expensive experiences, of course. He’d found out quickly those weren’t welcome without some cajoling. No–his art was in knowing what you needed even before you realized it, nudging it across your path.

You’d figured out his deviousness after the umpteenth time someone was charitable at your little florist shop part time job, offering to fix your scooter in exchange for a nice arrangement for a proposal. As soon as you’d seen the fully restored bike outside and the customer didn’t return your texts you’d called Doyoung, completely unsurprised to find he was at the coffee shop next door, waiting to pick up his flowers.

“Stop being so nice to me,” you’d said. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

“What makes you think I’m giving you charity,” he’d responded, dropping a department store bag and your own custom coffee order on the counter. “You’ll wear this when I come to pick you up tonight at closing, including the jewelry and perfume. I need you to play your part again. The flowers are a consolation for the heart we’re breaking.”

He’d enlisted you as his defacto “new girlfriend” for the more difficult separations, and though you’d gotten your share of a glass of expensive wine thrown in your face more often than he ever experienced it (his type always went after the easier target) it wasn’t like he didn’t have a replacement dress ready and a nice dinner waiting after you’d cleaned off the Chateau Lafitte Rothschild.

You have to face the fact that no matter how many times he’d treated you like his girlfriend, you’d never actually expected him to want you to be one.

“I’ve waited a very long time for this, Y/N. Which is why I want our first time together–alone," he adds quickly. "–To be special."

It's difficult to believe him but you're spellbound all the same, watching pink dust his cheeks and his ears turn a shade darker as he most likely realizes how ridiculous it is considering him fucking you senseless the other night with the help of two other men.

But you can empathize with his anxiety. Yesterday's Thai massage he'd arranged had helped you work out the flight or fight of anticipating being alone with him. It’s back now, but different. The way he's looking at you makes you feel infinitely naked, infinitely unlocked.

"What do you mean special?" you ask, wary, hoping to see some glimmer of uncertainty or falsehood in his gaze. You want to believe it's a lie or just some artful prank, trying to ignore your heart flip-flopping in your chest.

It’s a mistake to let him see you squirm considering it’s Doyoung’s drug of choice–his lips twist into another menacing grin as he plays with the charm on your necklace. Another of his little gifts.

"Do you think you can handle it?" Doyoung asks, dripping self-satisfaction. “Or are you going to chicken out on me?”

You turn over so he can't see your expression, realizing he’s throwing your own words from the night before right back at you.

"I haven’t decided if I want to date you, yet,” you say.

"Maybe not," he says. "But you'll have to pardon me for wanting to show you this good time you supposedly want while also treating you decently. Unless we're no longer friends?"

"We are," you say, biting your lip, "even if you enjoy torturing me."

"Torture?" He laughs, breathy.

"Metaphorically speaking."

"You have no idea, do you?" You can feel the edge of his glasses as he bites the place where your clavicle connects to your shoulder, his hand snaking around your bare middle.

"You could show me," you invite, mid-gasp, as your body responds to his long-awaited touch. His fingers are almost cool in contrast to the heat in the room, tracing circles in your skin that have you squirming.

"Is that a challenge?" he asks.

Why not?

"We don't have to have sex," you offer. "Maybe you could just–"

"Shh," he says, fingers skimming lower. "My terms. Are you going to stay quiet for me?"

You nod into the comforter, breath hitching as he touches you through the thin layer of your underwear, veined hand flexing as he molds the damp fabric to your body. It's such a delicate pressure but he's already memorized your shape, index finger sinking into your folds, gently rubbing a ring around your throbbing clit.

You're sticky and swelling with each pass, entranced by how good he is at teasing you, cherishing the way he sucks in his breath when he pushes into the indent of your hole.

“Doie,” you whine, leaning back into him, trying to get him to kiss you as he laughs into your hair.

“Quiet,” he reminds you, kissing your cheek and teasing the seat of your underwear where they're soaked the most. "You want to take these off?"

You shake your head, sensing it would be too easy of you to give in.

"That wasn't a question," he says, tugging down the band, leaving them trapped tight around your thighs. "I don't want you to wear them until I tell you that you can."

You feel your core clench at the way his voice cracks, his fingers sliding back up to slowly and delicately draw a thread of moisture from your bared slit. You whine a little when he stops touching you, bringing his fingertip to your lips.

"Taste it."

You let your mouth fall open, let him run it over your tongue, beginning from the middle and swirling over it.

"Describe it," he murmurs. "If I like your answer, maybe I'll indulge you more."

"Salt," you say, immediately.

He tugs your hair, making you meet his eyes.

"Have I taught you anything? I want specific notes. Flavors."

You're transported back to the time he'd taken you to your first (and last) wine tasting. Spitting into a bucket and being lectured about body and tannins and soil conditions was the last thing you'd wanted to do after an hours-long trip to a vineyard but you'd indulged him, allowed one glass of what he considered the only drinkable wine on the premises.

An unrefined palette, he'd called you.

"Fruity and floral," you make up. "A nice lingering finish. Want a taste?"

He looks down at you behind his glasses, equal parts amused and unimpressed. "Did you use the soap I asked you to?"

Your brain glitches at that. Had you? You'd been in such a rush to go out–

You gasp when he palms your breast, squeezing the meat of it through the breathable fabric of your matching bra.

"I'll take that as a no," he says. "I guess you're not ready."

He rolls off of you, leaving you in a lurch as you realize your legs are locked together by your underwear. You move to remove them, taking off your bra as well to avoid the awkwardness of being partially dressed.

By the time you're done you realize he's on his back, the hand that had been stroking you buried in his loose khakis.

"What are you doing?" you ask, more than a little pissed off at the sight of him masturbating as if you aren't ready and willing to assist beside him.

"Getting ready for our date. You can watch. No touching." He cracks an eye to look at you before closing it again. "Either of us."

"Are you edging me, Kim Doyoung?" Your menacing tone is entirely natural.

He hums a bit, working himself at a more punishing pace, knuckles peeking out from under his boxer briefs with each full pass over his length.

"Can't even look at me? Afraid you'll lose control?" You sidle down on the bed, beside his tensed thigh. You can smell a bit of the ozone on him from a morning in the sun, your knees knocking into his calves when you move over him.

"I don't trust you," he says, voice deeper than you've ever heard it.

"Is it touching if you finish on my face?" you ask when he finally blinks up at your presence, hovering over him with your breasts dangerously close to his clothed thighs.

"Absolutely not."

"Not touching–"

"Just. Watch," he orders.

He pulls himself free from his pants, surprising you with how dark and weeping his tip is as his thumb encircles it. Pools of white precum spatter on his lean, pale belly, your head dipping dangerously close–

"I said watch." He grabs at your hair, denied when you bend up again, showing him your dirty tongue.

He groans, fingers clenching air. "You were put on this earth to test me, weren't you?"

Still, he doesn't break his attention on the way you roll the drops you'd licked from his clean skin in your mouth, swallowing once you've fully enjoyed the taste.

"A little sweet you say," teasing him. "Drinking pineapple juice?"

"Brat," Doyoung says, but he's almost gone–eyes dark with desire, gently gripping your skull as you continue to ease in.

You're a master at following his lead, blowing a breath over the spot you'd licked, and then his length until his movements slow, cherishing the way you hold your mouth over his cock.

"If you can't give me what I want, then at least give me a taste," you say, sticking out your tongue in offering. You love the way he responds to the sight, needy and losing it when you hold eye contact, drilling into him.

"No," he echoes, weakly. He's too smart to push into your open mouth, instead driving his hips up to fuck his fist as you watch his glasses slide down his nose, eyes clenching shut.

"You're no fun," you say. "Just a little swallow can't hurt?"

"No. Don't want to ruin it," he says cryptically, making a choked noise as you brush his fingers with your nose and he has to pull you away.

"I promise you it . . . It will be worth it," he manages. His jaw clenches as his movements relax, finally in control of you both.

"It better be," you say.

You lower your lashes as your eyes flick between his cock and his face, stretching out your tongue to the point that drool begins to drip down your chin, splashing on his whitened knuckles and the tight stretch of his balls peeking out from his underwear. He bites his lip, breath holding as he starts to spiral.

The first thick rope of white rockets up his half-bared chest. Soon he's spurting even more, cum reaching his rucked up shirt, a little getting on his glasses.

He's so out of it he doesn't fight as you wrest out of his limp hold. You clean up the sticky mess on his skin with your tongue, his abdominal muscles twitching under the light flicks and drags.

"Want to give me some notes?" you ask, straddling him without resting any weight down, taking off his glasses. This time when you move to kiss him he rises weakly to meet you, lips parting to accept what you haven't swallowed.

In truth, he tastes wonderful. Coffee, a little menthol from toothpaste and a hint of the watermelon you'd shared earlier mix beneath the coat of his spend.

He licks into your mouth until you moan, your body throbbing with unfulfilled pleasure. You follow him as he sinks back into the pillows, enjoying having him at your disposal, your core leaving wet trails on his thigh when you brush against the fabric.

"I'm going to wait until you're asleep and use you if you don't help me get off," you threaten, pressing soft kisses to his slack face. It’s no use. Doyoung has passed out again, lower teeth visible as he snores softly, forehead sheened with drying sweat.

Fuck it, you think.

You ooze off of him to take your second cold shower of the day, and maybe get acquainted with one of the fancy showerheads in his massive walk-in while you use his special soap.

It's not–technically–touching yourself.

Your mystery destination isn't an unknown–it's in every tourist booklet and blog you'd skimmed before your trip, thinking you'd be on your own to find a good spot to traverse to. But it still takes your breath away the moment the car door opens in the sprawl of motorbikes and delivery trucks and Doyoung takes your hand to pull you into Paradise.

Pak Khlong Talat is a bustle of energy well after dark, the time you know its treasures are delivered fresh and unbloomed, wrapped in newspaper and steeped in crushed ice. For as far as you can see the market sprawls along Chak Phet road, but even more overwhelming than the sights and sounds is the scent.

Jasmine, roses, lavender. Thousands upon thousands of blooms strung up and tended to by night owl vendors, delicate arrangements hand-sewed by artisans streetside into garlands so well-crafted Doyoung has to tug you to keep you moving, onwards to some other unspoken destination.

"I was worried you might hate flowers after working with them for so long. I take it you like it?" he asks, indulging you when you ask if you can take his picture at a particularly lovely hang of garlands, the purple-blue light perfect for the film you'd loaded into your father's old camera. Photography had never been your craft, but after your dad had passed you'd made an effort to capture more of your memories, cherishing what you'd taken for granted before.

“It’s perfect,” you say, admiring him through the viewfinder. "But can you look like you're having fun?"

Your model is stiff, mouth a moue as he checks the street for other observers or a possible collision with a laden handcart.

"Fun?" Doyoung asks, and you snap his picture on the offbeat, enjoying his look of surprise.

“Like you've taken your date to one of the most romantic places on earth, after buttering her up with a night cruise of Chao Praya and finally letting her eat real food."

He sniffs at a fall of marigolds, a smug look on his face that you commit to film, right before he sneezes.

"For the record, we're eating after this. Som tam hardly counts as a meal, I just didn’t want that drink going to your head."

You're shepherded through the vast warehouse of the main market, to an adjacent street, and into a non-descript building painted in a funereal white.

"Are we even allowed to be here?" you ask, once the key code is entered and you enter the strange business.

"I called in a favor," he says, taking your hand, leading you up a metal staircase past a simple storefront of dried blooms and shelves laden with boxes and bottles alike.

An apothecary? An alchemist's shop? The purpose of the space eludes you.

"An atelier," Doyoung explains. "One of the most sought out in the world."

There's the distant hum of the city outside and a central air you're unused to in this climate but the upstairs is quiet–by all accounts either an office or a laboratory, or a mixture of both. The central working area is a chaotic but organized space filled with tables of glassware and dried floral arrangements contrasting potted orchids, small beakers of coffee beans littered amidst rows of labeled brown bottles.

"So this is how they make perfume," you say, inspecting a stoppered bottle labeled "Gerianol 10%".

"Not just any perfume. The best. Here." Doyoung leads you to a much less cluttered workstation, the desk arranged with the lights still on, a note detailing some instruction you can barely read before he slips it into the pocket of his slim-tailored pants. Beneath it is a notebook, scrawled with a perfect cursive English you recognize from the cards he’d included in boxes or bags whenever he’d bothered to claim their contents.

"Sit," he instructs. You think he means the comfortable chair but before you can sit down he presses you to the desk, caging you in.

"Sit," he repeats, hands on your hips through your slinky skirt, lifting you to the bench. You scoot back, carefully, the white blooms of some exotic flower brushing against your cheek until he can move the vase a careful distance.

"Do you understand what we’re doing here?"

You can't possibly know what he means, eye level with the graceful column of his neck and his exposed collarbone beneath his translucent button-down, drowning in the melange of scents but most especially his clean, neutral cologne.

"No," you say, honestly, heart beating fast.

He picks up a corked flask from some kind of metal scale, dipping a thin thread of paper into it to waft it a fair distance from your nose.

"Before we came here--before you even agreed to this trip–I sent instructions to my friend for a specialty blend of their creation. It took quite a bit of back-and-forth–I even visited here last month to take a private class and make sure we prepared the base and middle to your standards."

"For me?"

You feel dizzy, reaching out to take the sample and smell it again, his hand capturing your own before you can bring it too close to your nose. He wafts it for you, expectant as you absorb the details.

Indeed, it smells divine–exactly the kind of warm, bright notes that make your heart feel at ease. There’s something floral and citrus worked in, not too heavy, the finish leaving you with an impression of a lazy summer afternoon.

“It’s beautiful,” you say. “Did you make this to match what you knew I liked?”

"Yes.” Doyoung exhales, looking almost sheepish. "I had some references. That cheap shampoo you never stop buying, the Lush exfoliator with the orange blossom, even–" he shudders a bit– "that awful Chanel you doused yourself in, in high-school."

"Coco Mademoiselle," you say. "It's been years since I–"

"It didn't suit you," he says, standing up to sample another bottle from the neat row.

Something dawns on you, a distant memory locking into place.

"It was you," you gasp in realization. "You're the one who got rid of it. I should have known when you tried to give me that bottle of Jo Malone–"

“It had already turned. You need to store your scents away from direct light.”

“It was a keepsake!” There were very few possessions from your youth that you’d been able to hold onto–not only because your parents had been barely able to afford your school uniforms, much less gifts. What little you’d had was lost when your house was destroyed by the men your father owed money to, this small thing neglected in the destruction.

“It didn't suit you because it wasn't made for you," he continues. "You wore it because you thought it would make you fit in, when you should have made what you wore wear you–"

"Please, stop."

You have to bite your lip to the point of pain, remembering how excited you'd been to unwrap that tiny bit of luxury your parents had saved up to buy you, your mother sure the brand name would save you from another day of humiliation. You didn’t have the heart to tell them that the cutout ad from the magazine on your wall was for the model, not the actual perfume, but you felt loved by the gesture all the same.

Hundreds of thousands of won an ounce for it to only turn on your skin, well before afternoons spent on the basketball court under the thankless sun. That memento had aged from pink to a sickly rose unused on your cosmetic shelf, a totem from a time when you imagined yourself belonging. Before it had disappeared, like so many other things.

You can't remember the last time you'd worn anything, had never even gone near that section of a department store after the humiliation of being made fun of for smelling cheap.

“My dad skipped lunches and my mom worked double shifts to get that for Christmas my first year in Kocher,” you say. “Mira was the brand ambassador for that campaign, you know.”

Mira had been your idol even before you won the scholarship she’d established to attend Kocher. Perfect, beautiful, but most of all the first girl in their sphere to show you genuine kindness.

"It must be so easy for you," you say, wiping your face. You rarely cried these days but that memory was particularly painful, a reminder of how often you’d assumed Doyoung found you just as offensive. Not just your scent, you thought, but you.

Something to be tolerated. Below his regard.

"Whatever you want, you can have. Whatever you don't like, you can get rid of. I'm sorry, I don't live in your world. I can’t just throw something away when it’s not useful."

"No," he says, quietly, abandoning his explanation. "That was thoughtless of me. I can replace it–"

“Can you?” You glare up at him. “Is this what you really want? To dress me up like your perfect doll and feed me from your hand so I’m more able to suit you?

Doyoung looks like he's going to be ill, every design in his head unraveling before your eyes. You’d feel sorry for him if you didn't know this was a lesson worth imparting.

"Don't ever offer to replace what you don’t know the true value of," you say, voice trembling.

There's a weighted silence as he considers his next words. You still haven't slipped away from him, choosing to hold your ground. How many times had you been forced to be the antagonist in some fruitless class warfare, unresolved? But then you also had a habit of finding battles in peacetime.

You pluck the newest scent strip from his frozen hand and waft it between you, at the designated distance.

“Thank god this smells nothing like it,” you murmur. You offer him a wry smile, anger fading. “I couldn’t stand it.”

You feel Doyoung’s relief as he collapses against you, forehead against your hair as his arms wrap tight around your middle. You relax after a bit, cheek pressed to his collarbone as you breathe in his unique scent–a little like fresh laundry left out in the sun.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “All these promises and plans and stupid details and at the end of the day I really . . . Don't know what I'm doing."

"I really don’t know what you’re doing, either," you say. "But I like that you try.”

"You do?" The hope in his voice makes your iciness melt a bit. You let your hands twine around his neck, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease with the gesture.

“I know it’s not easy for me to admit but I do appreciate everything you do for me, Doie,” you say.

He doesn’t respond in words but you savor the shift in his demeanor, like a weight has been lifted from him. You think even he didn’t know it was there. You ignore the glassiness in his eyes when he pulls back, choosing to look at his notes instead.

“Are these all the ingredients?” you ask, working out a few of the more familiar words. “What’s op–?”

“First things first,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. "Did you touch yourself?"

"No," you say, surprised by the shift. "I followed your instructions. No products with scents. No underwear."

You spread your thighs to make your point. His hands hike your skirt up, over the breadth of skin to your hips and then to the curl of your belly, his breath hitching as he finds you already glossy.

It had been a bit of a gambit considering your riverside excursion but he'd allowed you a lemongrass-based repellent–the scent of which is still clinging to your bare skin as he kneels down to press a kiss to where his fingers had traced earlier.

You jerk a bit, conscientious of the workspace as he spreads you, just that light touch making your nipples harden beneath your thin shirt and bra.

“Are we allowed to–”

“Shh. Relax and try not to spill anything,” he interrupts, breath cooling your wetness. “I just need some inspiration.”

“What?”

"You’re so good already," he says into your sex, spreading you so he can lightly tongue at your skin. “Perfect little flower just for me.”

After waiting so long, you're torn between begging and shoving his teasing licks away, hand threading through his raven hair as the notebook slips from your hand.

"Kim Doyoung–” you gasp as he spears his tongue through your upper folds, nose nudging the sensitive bud. “–if this is another round of teasing I will murd–”

You yelp as he hunches down to wrap your legs around his shoulders, hands re-occupied by exposing you as you try to stay upright.

“Don’t worry. You can come like this. I want to know if you taste different after.”

You don't know what he means until his mouth closes over your clit, sucking just right. You jolt, pinched on the meat of your thigh until you can relax again, making little mewls as he rolls his thumbs alongside the point of contact.

“I want you inside of me,” you beg, feeling that fluttering sensation that heralds a build-up. “I wanted to come with you inside me.”

“Soon. Just need to be good while I sample you.”

“Sample?” Your hand sinks into his hair in panic, tugging, but Doyoung is too lost alternating between suckling at your sex and palpating you with a circling thumb, his beautiful hands gripping your thighs to keep you spread.

“Drip for me, first.”

“I don't think I can–”

“You giving up already?” Doyoung scoffs, smirking up at you with reddened lips, tongue-tip darting against your clit. Every brush of soft muscle makes you spasm a bit, belly tightening unfulfilled.

You shake your head, panting. “I just . . . Doie I want you inside me.”

“You can relax and take it,” he says, tongue wrapping around your labia, sucking slightly. Your head is buzzing, every stray thought removed by his exploration of you.

“Relax. If you don't I'll just have to try until you're begging for me to stop.”

“No, please, Doie. I'll be good,” you plead. “Just . . . need something inside. Hurts so bad being empty.”

“Hand me a pipette.”

“What?”

“The one that looks like an eyedropper,” he says, hand open to accept like he’s performing surgery. You fight to find the right glassware with his mouth still on you, efforts more focused and intense as your legs tense with each hit. You find the rubber-stoppered glass cylinder, stomach dropping.

“Is this safe?” You ask, gripping his mussed hair tighter when he pulls away for a moment.

“If you hold still, yes,” he taunts. You seize when you first feel the tip slip inside you. The glass is cool but warms to your body heat quickly, too slim to feel anything.

“Good girl,” he says. “You’re even pushing this out, you must be so tight.”

“I am. Too tight,” you groan. “Please don’t tease me anymore.”

He ignores you, focusing on his work, pulling the instrument free when he’s satisfied.

“Not bad,” he says, dropping it on the desk beside you before he’s back on his knees with his nose buried in your cunt. “Bet you can do better than that.”

“No, please, I need you–”

“Then drip for me,” he laughs into your leg, tracing the wetness down the crease in your thigh. You tense your hold on the desk’s edge when you feel his tongue prod at your entrance, muscle breaching your hole to lick into you. He makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat that has you plummeting just as he resumes stroking your clit through the slippery coat of your arousal.

Finally, you think, feeling the advent of tears for how wound tight you are, how desperate you are to feel him give you just one more point of contact with the ache inside.

“Oh god, don’t stop, please don’t stop,” you repeat, the noises obscene as he drinks you in, other hand on your hip to hold you against his face. It’s not even the stimulation that makes you begin to come but the audible groan he releases as he feels you quake against his mouth, heels snagging on his shirt when the first wave breaks and those little tics inside you turn into powerful contractions around his tongue-tip taking everything you can give him.

He keeps licking you even when you’re begging for him to stop, nose tracing down to catch a stray drop from the back of your knee with a playful dart of his tongue.

“Was it worth it?” you ask, folding over him as he wipes his mouth clean in your drenched skirt. You know it’s just the start but you already feel wrung out and feather-light, wicking away the sweat that’s beaded on your own face despite the cool, dry air of the room.

“Hmm?” he hums a bit, disentangling to stand up and hold your face in his hands. His pupils are blown, sweat beading on his temples, but he looks as satisfied as you hoped he would be, your arousal drying on his slender features.

“All the prep,” you say. “Isn’t that why–do I taste as good as you expected after all that?”

Doyoung looks down on you, amused. Already you feel like you’re heating up again, with how his dark eyes flit to your mouth and back up again.

“You think I prefer you prepped?” he asks, angling his head down besides yours to whisper in your ear. “The next time I eat that perfect little pussy of yours I want it to be filthy.”

He traces the lobe with his teeth for good measure, pulling another moan out of you. “I’ll even make sure to wait until the other two have a go at you, first.”

You feel your heartbeat stutter as he presses his lips to your pulse point, tongue darting past his lips to dab at the sweat there.

“No, precious, I wanted to make sure the perfume we make tonight matches all of you.” Doyoung’s nose brushes your ear as he breathes in your scent. “Every time I wear it I’m going to remember the way you sounded when you first came for me and me only.”

The promise of it has you feeling a different kind of heat, dizzying for how much you want it to last past this night.

“Fuck,” you whisper explosively, eyes clenched shut to stay fixed upright, fisting the thin material of his collar as he pulls you from the countertop and against the hard planes of his body. “I need you. Now. Please.”

“I like hearing you say that,” he chuckles a bit. “But I’m going to make you earn it. You can wait a little longer. You made me wait years, after all.”

You let him guide you into his lap, in the chair, pushed into the desk as he opens the notebook to another page. And another, until you take over and explore it for yourself. In the dim golden light from the street outside you catch glimpses of colors and drawings, notes written of impressions and memories you’d all but forgotten in your haze of grief these past few years.

There’s even photographs taped to some of the pages–ones you know well by the fact that they’d been taken on your camera. Doyoung didn’t have Jaehyun’s artistic training but he did have an eye for capturing candid moments.

November, your first year of college. You’re standing in the first snow of the season, catching flakes on your tongue. You can still feel the burn of them, hear the murmur of the city dulled in a fresh blanket of white and taste the roasted yam you’d eaten, tossing it in your mittened hands until it was cool enough to peel.

Doyoung’s shoulder is off-kilter beside yours, unable to capture himself in the frame for all his long reach. The peek of the striped scarf you’d knitted for him in gray and blue is all that’s visible of him under his peacoat, the mismatched weave of it captured even in this poor exposure.

“Base note: cedarwood,” you read, carefully, eyes hazing a bit with emotion. Evergreen.

“I still have it, you know,” he murmurs against your temple. “I only stopped wearing it because it started unraveling.”

“I’d make you another but I quit knitting after making three scarves,” you say, wryly. “Well two and a half, actually, I ran out of yarn on Jungwoo’s and made him a hat instead.”

“I thought you were just trying to get him to hide that ridiculous military haircut,” Doyoung muses. “Keep going or we’ll be here all night.”

“Now you’re impatient?” you ask, cementing your flirtation by shifting in his lap. You can’t ignore the feeling of his erection folded against the curve of your ass, or the way he grunts when you find a better seat with it nestled between your thighs.

“Sometimes I forget you were put on this planet to vex me,” he says. You’re lifted up by the waist, a hand on your lower back the moment you’ve found the desk for support, face above the book.

“Why don’t you try reading until I’m satisfied you know exactly what you’re getting?”

You don’t fight him, elbows bent as he rucks up your skirt. You feel your face grow warm with blood as you find yourself exposed to him again, locked in by his legs and his groping touch reaching up beneath your shirt.

"Base notes: amber and–" you have to fight to keep your voice steady as he swats your exposed curves, hard enough to sting.

"Ambergris,” he corrects, voice fried with delight.

“Ambergris,” you repeat. “And white musk."

"Good. And?"

"Bisabol–" you begin, corrected with another slap on your ass that hits, hard, glass jingling on the table.

"Did you jump ahead?" He asks, knowing full well your eyes are swimming with tears.

"No sir," you say. “I didn’t think that was a real word.”

"Opoponax." He says, reaching over you to grab a bottle, dropping a thick oil on you and rubbing it into your bruising skin. "Also known as sweet myrrh. Go ahead. Keep reading."

"Source: distilled from resin from ancient groves in Somalia, bought in Mogadishu from a local orchard, all profits to fund schools and clinics for women displaced by civil war."

"Do you believe this to be a charitable effort?" He asks, hand spreading over your buttocks. You think he might be referring more to your arrangement than whatever is written on the page.

"No," you say. Your history and political know-how might be lacking but you've seen the wrong side of kindness. "It sounds like what people write to make themselves feel better about exploitation."

"Clever girl," he answers. You feel his nose brush against your skin, testing the mingling of scent with it. "Keep going."

You turn the page, swallowing back your protests. This spread is rich with text and color, a veritable garden bursting from the page. You fix on the first entry in the upper corner, bracing yourself for another faux pas.

"Heart notes: Turkish rose," you say. "What is this, poetry?"

"Aren’t you familiar with it?"

You shake your head, lips pursed in delight at the scrawl of English. “No.”

You let out a gasp as he bites the flesh nearer your back, the sting of it surely leaving a mark by the way the pain lingers.

"Read it," he says, dipping over you for another bottle. “You’ll remember.”

"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows," you dictate, stumbling over every word and yet never punished for it. Instead Doyoung lets a steady drip of the bottle fall down the back of your leg to your knee, his fingers bringing up the rest to mix what he's already poured on you.

"Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine."

You end your recitation in a whisper, leather binding and paper gripped in your fingers as he massages the oil gently into your tingling skin, careful to avoid where your legs are locked together in arousal. You're heady with scent and sensation, awaiting some reminder that this isn't just a strange dream you’ve wandered into.

"There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, lulled in these flowers with dances and delight," he finishes for you as he paints the rest up your spine beneath your shirt. You let him ministrate on your body as the words settle, as time recedes and you face a version of your youth you’re not sure isn’t just fiction.

That book beside you, the first time he’d spoken to, long forgotten.

“Midsummer’s Night Dream,” you say, turning to face him again, settling between his thighs as he fails to meet your gaze. You lift his face with your fingers, cheeks indented by your gentle hold. “You remembered that, too?”

“It was the first time you ever looked at me,” he says. “And it felt like you saw right through me.”

No, you’re not dreaming. You’re the architect of this moment just as much as he’ll claim to be a cursory observer if confronted on it.

You take in his mismatched eyes–one folding a little more than the other when he smiles at you ruefully. Those freckles you’d never really spent time examining, a happy accident of the time he’d spent with you in the sun. His fingers catching yours for a moment when you weren’t paying attention.

But most of all, the haunted cast where he’d lost sleep managing someone else’s problems. When he’d still been worrying about yours.

“You’re always thinking of how to take care of the people around you, I think you’ve forgotten how to relax and let other people take care of you.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I don’t think I ever really saw you until now.”

“What didn’t you see?” he asks, expectantly.

Six years of his careful distance from you, that coldness and disinterest just another mask for someone who was as raw and vulnerable and real as you if you managed to pry open their shell. His tendency towards control, towards the knife’s slice of cutting you so cleanly from his life no one would know your name unless he spoke it aloud.

There wasn’t another human being in their right mind who’d last that test, your only grace being that he’d thought you were untouchable. His best friend’s girlfriend, of course. But beyond that, one of his best friends.

No, one of his only friends.

“What didn’t you see?”

It wouldn’t require money or taste or a family name to bring Saint Kim down to earth. Just time and small acts of resistance, like the beautiful shell remnants you’d spilled into his hands on that last trip to Maui together, when it had still been the five of you. Each ground down to a small disc with a perfect spiral at its center, a reminder of the beauty remaining in broken things.

You place the notebook in his hands, curling your fingers around his. The pages it’s opened to are sparsely constructed, besides the photographs nestled between. Only you two know what’s there, buried in black sands and blue waters. You can see his handwriting falter where he’s written the notes for this moment in your shared history, sketches of those shells, and flowers.

A single photograph of you watching the others playing in the surf, his shadow cutting across the stretch of your legs.

Top notes: Jasmine for sensuality.

Orange Blossom for innocence.

Plumeria, for admiration. a new beginning . . .

You recognize the creamy yellow-white flower he’d tucked behind your left ear when you’d fallen asleep beside him. A non-native plant to the island, you’d learned, worn to indicate one was taken. A weed, like you, now prized as a treasure.

“What didn’t you see?”

You pull back to look at him, giving him yourself without reservation.

“That I think you love me . . .” you say. “. . . Like I think I love you, too.”

He looks up at you, astounded, the chair beneath him creaking as he collapses.

For once you regret being beside him when you’d heard the same words spoken to him by other people, pulled into their lives without you ever remembering their names. The difference between you, you once believed, was that they didn’t mean it.

Now, you understand, they just never knew the true cost of losing him.

You watch him collect himself, running a hand back through his hair and curling into his seat, memories forgotten in his lap, bedamned. You’re sure the engines of Hell are running hot for the way he can’t even look at you right now.

He needs a way out, you think. You’d rather be drowned in other women’s wine poured over your head than be on the receiving end of his disregard again, the script already constructed in your mind before you’d found you had the nerve to sleep with him.

"You can be honest with me,” you say. “Tell me it's been fun but you're not interested in a relationship.”

“What?” Doyoung is just as confused as when you’d told him you loved him, as honest as you’ve been in both sentiments.

“Your family will never approve of me. I’m just another fling you happened to take a more lasting interest in. It’s better this way. Cut me off, forget about me and move on.”

It's his turn to balk. You expect his pre-programmed response. Saint Kim's gospel for turning down the interested but uninteresting party: deflect, dissuade, detach.

“No,” he says, face draining of color.

“It’s okay,” you say. “I can handle it. Really. We can still be friends.”

“No,” he repeats, more forcefully.

“What do you mean, no?” you ask. “Isn’t that how this always ends?”

“You stupid girl,” he says, grabbing your face in his hands so you can’t escape, making you look into his warm gaze.

"Don’t you get it? This was always about feelings.”

When his lips crush against yours you don't have to speak to respond, catching his head so you’re not suffocated by the raw emotion you can feel in every movement. You return each kiss until the breath is out of your lungs, until you're drowning in his scent as he forces you back onto the desk.

You’re impatient to feel him, everywhere, aware you’re ripping buttons as you open his shirt to gain access to his smooth chest, trailing kisses as far down as you can go, still unable to escape his tongue sliding over yours.

“I wasn’t going to do this here, like this, but fuck it,” he says once he’s free, fumbling with his belt as he holds you to pepper your face and neck in a steady reminder of his affection. “I need you.”

“I need you, too,” you echo wholeheartedly, helping free him out of his clothing, pulling his length to where you’re still slick with oils and cum and ready for him. God, you think you’ve never been more ready to break around him, to show him what he’s brought out of you with this game.

“Please don’t make me wait anymore,” you whisper.

You watch his face, breath held and heart stuttering as he sinks into you slowly, both of you gasping at the way your heat resists each measure of his continuous thrust. It feels like he’s barely in you when he stops, making you moan in dismay.

“Doie, please,” you say, trying and failing to wrap your legs around his slender hips to capture him deeper. You’re half out of your mind with that burning weight inside you remaining still.

“Say it,” he says, taking off your shirt to have access to your skin. He pulls down your bra, nipples tugged between his fingers as he assaults your neck with his tongue and teeth.

“It’s special,” you choke out. “Thank you, please–”

“Say it,” he corrects, twitching inside you but not moving an inch more. He curls down to nip at your breast above the lace, sucking a mark into the softest part. “Without the ‘I think’.”

“No,” you resist, realizing what he’s asking too late. Your nails sink into his half-bared shoulder, head rolling against his. “You don’t get to torture me for that.”

“Don’t chicken out on me now.” Doyoung laughs against your cheek, hand splaying around your hip to still your squirming. “I can do this as long as it takes.”

He thrusts, just a little more, making you cry out in desperation as the contents of the desk tinkle behind you.

“Fuck,” you breathe. “You think I love you?”

“So, so close.” He pulls out, rocking into you again to feel the seize of your entire body when you anticipate just how far he’ll go before denying you. A little more, at least, and you can feel how much it’s taking for him, see the strain in his body as he holds back.

“You love me,” you tease, this time not a question, no you think. “Saint Kim loves me.”

He sheathes himself in you fully, gripping your nape to kiss you as you clench involuntarily around him, protests in the back of your throat muffled by his tongue sliding across yours. He tugs at your bottom lip when he breaks free, fully smiling now like he isn’t buried completely in your cunt just warming himself instead of chasing his own bliss.

“What did you call me?” he asks, leaning over you to retrieve something.

You take advantage of his distraction to snake a hand between you, slipping beneath your skirt before it’s grabbed, tight, and brought up to his lips.

“Don’t cheat,” he says, wrapping your fingers around the cap of a bottle.

“You never heard anyone call you that?” you murmur, opening it.

You smell spring flowers and delicate citrus before it’s taken away, set aside when you nibble and suck at his sensitive ear to make him twitch, hands drifting across his ticklish belly down to his hipbones. He reads your intent again, stopping whatever silly task he’s doing beside you to lift your wrists to his shoulders.

“The name is a little ironic, isn’t it?” you say, squeezing him experimentally with your thighs as you stroke his nape with your nails. You flex other muscles too–earning the grunt he makes as he feels you squeeze around his girth.

He angles your head, pressing something wet and soft to where your pulse flutters in your neck. You’re immediately permeated with a light, airy, sweetness, the different scents revealed like a melody that ends in that richer, warmer scent from earlier.

“Is that my perfume?” you ask.

“An anointment,” he says, blowing across your skin to dry it and sending a shiver down your spine to where your bodies are locked together, that fullness and muted pleasure of him radiating down to your toes.

“I do seem to have a demon inside of me,” you sigh into his neck as you rest your head against his shoulder. “Do they do that in exorcisms?”

“Blessings,” he corrects, adjusting with another grunt. “We’ll find out if it worked in about an hour.”

“An hour?” you grumble. “You think you can keep torturing me that long?”

“I think I gave you the key to your own cage,” he says, checking his watch. “About five minutes ago. Does it feel like longer?”

You mumble something into his rumpled collar, making him laugh beneath you. Even just that tiny movement has you involuntarily gripping him, abdomen clenched.

“What’s that?”

“I’llsayitifyoumakemecome,” you repeat, embarrassed enough to hide your face in the crook of his neck again.

“You think this is a negotiation, Y/N?” Doyoung’s hands are back on your breasts, thumbing the areola in slow circles that are very much a reminder of his touch earlier on your throbbing clit. You whimper, trying to stay still so he doesn’t figure out that if he continues to do that you might have a chance–

“You trying to make me come squeezing me like that?” he asks, breath ragged. “That seems like a quick way to end this.”

“You . . . you could just fuck me,” you wheeze, feeling the way he teases your pebbled, hard nipple with lighter brushes, his mouth quirked where it’s pressed to your forehead.

“What if I want to make love to you, instead?” he asks. He inhales sharply at your body’s response.

“Fuck, you liked me saying that, didn’t you?”

You nod, unable to speak, holding onto him in desperation as the combination of his words and soft strokes make you melt into the pleasure of every small motion of him inside you. You realize he’s unconsciously pushing into you, too, unable to keep his hips from pressing into yours.

Overstimulation is making you hyperaware of the scratch of his unzipped jeans against your burning thighs, the random brush of his open belt against your belly. Time seems to disappear as he holds you quietly, letting you soak up the fragrant, radiating warm reality of him.

“I can wait all night for it,” he threatens, even just his lower register making you quiver a little around him. “Count every time you twitch and moan on me until you break.”

You’d felt him flag a little while he worked but now he’s fuller inside you, stretching you wide as he twitches to life. It’s even hotter than all of this build-up, you think, knowing he can act a menace but that the idea of you surrendering to him is what’s really getting him off.

Of course, you think, mentally steeling yourself like you’re preparing for war. In a way this is something like it, up against as formidable a foe as he is.

“Doie,” you whisper, threading your hands in his hair as you nuzzle for his lips, kissing him softly and intimately, like it’s your first time. “When did you know?”

“What?” He goes a little rigid against you, unable to hide his rapid heartbeat with how close you’re pressed to him. You blink up at him, expectantly.

“When did you first know you loved me? Really?”

He smiles, shyly, but you see the hint of anxiety on his features beneath his arousal. There it is, you think, having to hide your own satisfaction.

“Is this a trick question?” he asks, warily, eyelashes half-lowered.

“Not if I know the answer,” you say, smoothing his kiss-swollen lips with a touch. “I don’t think it’s in that book, either.”

“Really?” He’s intrigued, a tentative rock of his hips against you making you dizzy. “Tell me.”

You shake your head, just as playful.

“I’ll tell you later,” you say. “After.”

He sighs explosively, nose wrinkling. “You don’t know.”

“Want to bet?” you ask. It’s always a little thrilling seeing Doyoung presented with an opportunity he can’t resist. He fumbles for the notebook beside you, almost slipping out of you when he has to reach even farther for a pen.

“Write it down,” he says, smug as a cat who’s caught something small and easily toyed with.

“Only if you do, too,” you say.

His answer is a pained sound of agreement, adjusting himself against the desk.

“No peeking,” you say, flipping to a page in the back.

“Wait,” he says, grabbing the book before the nib of the nice pen touches the creamy paper. “What are the terms?”

You ponder for a moment, feeling a grin slide onto your lips. “Doesn’t our perfume need a name? Whoever is right, gets to name it.”

You can practically taste his delight as he leans in to kiss you, forcing you to pull your page closer to you. You make him wait, filling the blank space as best you can with detail as he fidgets between your legs, sending small shocks of pleasure through you both.

“Thank you,” he says in earnest once you’ve handed him it open to a new leaf, his hand and the notebook shaking a little as he tries to write mid-air, finally resting it awkwardly atop your head in order to scrawl out his own answer.

“My eyes are closed, Kim Doyoung.”

“You’re a cheat,” he says, shushing you with an added thrust of his hips.

You settle back on your elbows, already enjoying your victory as you feel the tiny pressure of his handwriting, hear the scratches of his sketch. You're more emboldened than ever when the leather binding snaps shut.

“Now tell me,” you say, looking up at him coyly.

“Can’t I just show you–”

You snatch the book from him, turning to your entry. Then, to his horror, you rip your page free and fold it shut, tucking it into the pocket of his open shirt.

“Tomorrow morning,” you say. “You had 24 hours, right? I’ll give you my answer tomorrow morning.”

Doyoung looks as if he’s tasted something sour. “You won’t tell me.”

“I’ll tell you that you won,” you say, looking down at his page. You trace the fresh ink with care, admiring his tight script and explanation. “February to April? How could I have guessed an entire season?”

“Did you at least guess the year?” he asks, looking a little better for your affirmation of his win.

You nod, finally feeling the discomfort of your position and resting your head against his warm chest. There’s nothing awkward about being wrapped around him like this, the late hour and strange, still space making it easier to forget the world outside.

“Hard to forget,” you say. “I thought for sure I’d never see you again after that winter holiday.”

Another break with Johnny, of course–but this one had been your choice. You’d finally felt the crushing weight of two years of contempt from the people around him, the Suh family matriarch at the center of it all, doing everything in her power to crush not only you but the people you loved.

And then, when you’d needed him the most, Kim Doyoung had walked away from you, too.

“I didn’t think I’d see you, either,” he sighs. “It was the first time in a long time you weren’t with us. With me. And it was my fault for pushing you away when you were just trying to–”

“It’s in the past now,” you cut him short with a finger pressed to his lips.

The memory is painful, still–and you don’t want to sully this moment with it. You appreciate that even in his roundabout admission there’s a clear understanding for all you’d been through. You’d hoped he remembered that time from the past, when you’d first peered between the cracks in his carefully-manufactured facade.

Now you could be sure of what it meant to him. You feel like your own walls are crumbling, the light shining through.

“So you chose the period of time when we didn’t speak to one another, at all?” you muse. “Not just one day?”

“You know what they say. Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he says. “You were on my mind every minute and every hour of those three and a half months.”

He pauses, sigh warm against your brow. “I couldn’t tell you when I knew, for sure. I certainly couldn’t admit it, then, even to myself. But sometime then, I realized I cared more about you than a friend.”

You’d never doubted he was capable of it, never doubted it might be true. But hearing him admit it, now you know why he wants to hear it from you, too.

“Say it,” you say.

He finally looks at you again, tired but alight with amusement.

“You first,” he says.

“Who knew three simple words would be so difficult for Saint Kim?” you tease him.

“Alright. Come here,” he motions, slipping out of you with a shared groan. He pulls you to a couch under the shuttered window, settling down and forcing you to straddle him. In this position he can’t stop you from immediately taking all of him, his eyelids fluttering when you bottom out.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmurs.

“You’re not going to last,” you laugh, delighted by the way his nose scrunches when you clench around him.

“Says the girl who’s sucking me in like you never want me to leave.” He grabs on to your hips to roll them against his own, fingers tightening when you wriggle against him. “You’re gonna say it first even if I have to fuck it out of you.”

“Whoever comes first, then?” you offer.

“I can live with that,” he sighs, head resting back on the couch.

You rock on your knees slowly, satisfaction warming you throughout as you force him all the way inside you. You let him hear how he makes you feel, pleading sounds and whispers every time he hits that place in your upper walls, curved inside of you perfectly. It doesn’t matter if you're in control you can’t help but hunt down that lovely rush of pleasure in your belly, twining your arms around his shoulders to steady yourself.

“Good girl,” Doyoung praises, watching you in awe through half-lidded eyes. “You’re so beautiful. I always wanted to know what it would look like when you lost yourself with me.”

His words make you shiver, brushing his lips until he holds you against his mouth to show you how he likes it, less exploratory and more confident. It’s maddening how good he is at this, making you feel every single sweep of his tongue across yours, hand on your neck keeping you from escaping.

“Don’t you want to–” you protest as he helps you to lay flat on your back across the length of the wide loveseat, settling between your thighs.

“Oh god, Doie,” you whimper when he takes over, finally, finally, beginning to fuck you. It’s just as slow but at least he penetrates you fully before pulling out almost all the way, shoulders quaking as he holds himself up.

“Promise me you'll let me dote on you for the rest of your life,” he says, not waiting for your response before driving into you again. His movements are barely controlled, grunts escaping the back of his throat when his hips snap into yours again.

“I promise,” you hold onto him, back arching off the cushion to meet him, blissed out in the relief of each, careful stroke against your fluttering walls. That crescendo is happening whether you want it to or not, every overworked knot of muscle threatening to snap loose.

“Promise me that no matter who you fuck you’ll always let me treat you right,” he says, voice breaking. “You’ll let me show you how I feel even when I can’t say it.”

“Yes, Doie. Yes.” You pull down on his shoulders, trying to move for you both, kissing his jaw and throat.

“Stop fighting me and take it,” he says, moving more easily with the thick coat of your cum, establishing a gentle rhythm.

His voice has always made it hard for you to pay attention to anything else but he abuses that power now, murmuring guidance into your neck that has you tightening around him as he fucks you deep and slow.

“That’s my girl,” he praises. “You’re taking me so well. Take all of me.”

You feel shivers up and down your body, nipples hardening tight as they brush against his chest, his hair tickling your forehead as he blindly kisses and licks at your mouth and chin.

You’d thought he’d be concentrating on something else in his head to keep from losing himself but instead it’s you who's floating, breath captured in your lungs when he adjusts on top of you to pin your hips down, pressing your leg wide to bury himself to the hilt.

“You feel so perfect. I could really do this all night, you know,” he smirks down at you from where he’s supported on his elbow. “Is that what you want?”

“No, fuck, please,” you whine. There’s no thoughts in your head besides just how much you want that ache inside of your cunt to melt into real pleasure.

“You want me to stop?” he asks, feeling how you begin to pulse around him as he swirls his hips up into that most sensitive part of you, his flat belly grinding into your clit. You gasp, leg locking around his, helping him work you apart.

“No no no,” you beg, face hot. “Just . . . just kiss me through it, please.”

Doyoung’s smile grows wider. “Say what you already told me.”

You twist your head against the cushion, earning his hand on your jaw as he makes you look at him while you break, kissing you between panting breaths. His confidence is written in the cocksure grin remaining on his mouth, more cruel when he bites at your bottom lip, hard, before licking the pain away.

“Say it,” he breathes, slowing down on purpose.

“I . . . ah,” you cry out, “I love . . . please don’t stop.”

“What’s that?” he asks, pace punishingly slow. Your legs lose feeling, vibrations starting in the back of your thighs and tremoring down to your feet.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” you repeat, nearly tipping off the edge, “I’m coming, I’m finally–”

He slows down right as you hit that crest, making you cry out in frustration.

“Doie, I’ll kill you–”

“Say it,” he says into your lips, pulling out–too far–

“Iloveyou,” you exhale, seizing around him in time to your wildly beating heart.

“Louder.” He slams into you again, merciless.

“I love you, you stupid bastard,” you say, hanging on to his shoulders. “I love you!”

“Good enough,” he says, drilling into you until he can feel you break, orgasm sustained through the painful pressure of him losing himself in your throbbing heat, finding your mouth again, finally, to silence the repeated mantra on your tongue.

You kiss him fiercely, unloading everything words aren’t enough for, legs tied around his waist to keep him locked inside you until he’s fighting back, fucking you so hard the sound of it fills the quiet room.

“I love you,” you repeat a final time for him, just to watch the way it makes him break, jaw slackening when he loses control, finally.

He stutters into his own orgasm, teeth scraping against your locked lips, forehead pressed into yours as he empties inside you for what feels like forever, finally collapsing on top of you with a whimper when his arms give out and he’s as limp as his cock inside you.

You scrape your nails across his scalp, soothing him. You don’t mind his weight, or the way you’re still pressed together with sweat and your combined spend.

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” he rasps, eyes dazed as he looks up at you.

“No,” you say, shaking your head tightly. “Not for me, at least.”

“You’re not mad?”

You know he means his inability to say the magic words but you crack a smile, just as pleased with yourself.

“About the bet?” you ask. “No.”

Oh, it’s delicious seeing realization dawn on his face, little glimmers of surprise and horror bubbling up from his afterglow.

“Fuck,” he says. You’re grateful he doesn’t deny it, rolling to the side in defeat.

“Who told you? ‘Woo?”

You laugh softly, rolling over to pin him down with your leg, trapping him against the back of the couch.

“You did, right now,” you say, relishing having him where you want him. “I had a hunch. And I know you, you’d never beg for someone to say something during sex–”

“I didn’t beg,” he corrects, grimacing.

“What was it? The first one to get me to say it? Bonus points if it’s on your cock?”

“Ah, well,” he says, perking up despite the fist pressed to his forehead in embarrassment. “Then you don’t know.”

“I’ll find out soon enough, Jaehyun wouldn’t–”

“You’re really not mad?” he asks, painfully reticent as you pull his hand away from his face and twine your fingers together.

“Not if it means I can use it as leverage,” you say, kissing his knuckles.

That doesn’t seem to surprise him, at all.

“Good girl,” he says. “What do you want?”

A few years ago, give or take

You’re a little too happy, an awful fact considering how much he'd missed seeing you this way.

Lately you’ve been sleepwalking through your life, all those tiny fractures and bruises finally having the time to mend–but healing is a painful process in itself. Doyoung had returned from his family’s formal Chuseok gathering in Singapore, eager to check in on you after receiving sparing responses from you via text.

You didn’t have a friend he could check in with instead any longer–not after that one girl had fled the country, the other ghosting you after their father was mysteriously laid off from a company he well knew did business with Suh International.

He’s worried about you long before that, terrified that one last straw would break you even if by all indications you were strong enough to take it. After you’d had Johnny arrested and solicited a no-contact order you’d cut your ex off completely, moving to a tiny apartment far from where you’d grown up, changing your number.

Only Jungwoo knew about it, and it was he who’d reluctantly offered your whereabouts to him after a few glasses of whiskey in their usual club.

“She asked me to keep her info on lockdown. Got that hacker kid, what’s his name–Haechan? Wiped her socials off the map, so he can’t find her. He did good but you know Suh.”

Doyoung nods. They hadn’t seen him in a few weeks, probably because the idiot was combing through every civic office and apartment building in the city. Hell, he’d probably driven around until he found her by sight alone, knowing that animal wouldn’t rest until he knew her whereabouts, as stubborn about chasing her down as he was about refusing the F4’s help.

“His mother called me to ask if the place he bought in cash was for her,” Doyoung says, knocking back his drink as he receives a text, heart sinking that it's not you. “Did you help him buy it for her?”

Jungwoo sighs. “No. I just got her rent halved with some coercion, you know? But then he goes and buys a unit in the same building with whatever stash he thought the Old Tiger didn’t know about.”

The Devil Kim leans back, long legs akimbo as he gestures towards the server for a refill. “He’s waiting for her to go back to Chicago before he moves in. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“I did not,” Doyoung affirms, turning away from the group of women at the bar sending looks towards their private table. “Let’s plan for when Madam Suh leaves. I can have her pull him into the London offices, considering he’s failing his courses.”

“Stone cold,” Jungwoo says, smirking. “Glad I’m not on your shit list.”

“Just don’t fuck with her,” Doyoung says. “Or fuck her.”

Jungwoo laughs into his glass. “Even I’m not that stupid.”

He’d thought he wasn’t, either.

Not until you’d called a few days later, your speech a little slurred. He couldn’t have told you if what he was doing was important even if he was in a meeting, showing up to find you picking at a bowl of bar snacks in what he thought might be one of the nicer bars in your shitty part of town. Not as shitty as your old neighborhood, but it wasn’t a competition.

“Saint Kim,” you’d heralded him, raising an empty glass still smelling of watermelon and hibiscus.

“You shouldn’t be drinking alone, here,” he’d said.

You were dressed in one of your few nice outfits, a little on the revealing side for his tastes, but those had been Johnny’s you’d conformed to–animal print and thin straps, tastefully tasteless.

“I wasn’t,” you say, hiccuping. “Alone.”

For the first time in a long time fear spikes his blood pressure into overgear. Were you drugged? Was he going to have to fend off another predator who'd found you vulnerable?

You deserved the chance to move on but there was a real threat in what would happen to anyone who approached you without their permission. Johnny’s, yes, always, but the F4 had also agreed to look out for you well before your last incident at a club.

“Who?”

“She left,” you say. He feels instant relief, reaching out to adjust the thin coverup slipping off your bare shoulder.

“You make a new friend?”

You shake your head. “She’s nice. Met her in one of the ikebana classes work is paying for. Thought we were hitting it off but I must have said something dumb because she ran out of here, fast.”

You look up at him cautiously, too inebriated to realize he can recognize a set-up before it begins.

“You didn’t just talk about your ex, did you?” he asks, settling beside you at the bar. He orders something less ridiculous than whatever you'd been drinking, while you scroll through an Instagram feed, finger trembling over the screen.

You look up at him, color-stained lips curving in an easy smile. “You want to see what we’re working on?”

Doyoung finds himself looking through a grid that is immediately obvious is not yours. His mouth goes dry, seeing rows of beautifully-staged floral centerpieces, the backgrounds as familiar as the back of his hand. You don’t seem to notice, going to the user’s story and tapping in vain to find the picture she’d posted.

“She deleted it already. Huh. Well, she texted me the picture–”

“Stop.” Doyoung places his hand over yours, his palm damp from the immediate flood of adrenaline.

“So you do know Mona,” you say. You look up at him, expectantly, eyes glassy with the brand of hopefulness and naked curiosity he’s seen you charm everyone else around you with before.

“She’s the one, isn’t she?”

Doyoung pulls cash from his pocket, not caring how much he puts down except that he’s sure it’s enough to cover the amount he’d like to drown himself in right now. Enough to go blind and burn out the phantom of that face he’d put behind him years ago.

“Put your coat on,” he says. “I’m driving you home.”

“But I’m not–”

“Now,” Doyoung says, grabbing your wrist. He’s barely ever touched you in the years that you’ve been friends, and it sickens him when he feels you freeze in fear and confusion, that trauma response buried so deeply it's in your bones.

He wants to be kind, he wants to be patient with you. He just doesn’t have it in him to be anything to you right now.

“What’s wrong, Do–?”

“We’re leaving,” he says, dragging you out into the bitter cold evening, the streets slick with sleet, your heels catching on the pavement as you stumble in his wake.

“Stop,” you yell at his back, trying to yank your arm free from where he’s bruising your skin with whitened knuckles. “You’re hurting me–”

“You’ll live,” he says, pulling you to where he’s parked his car, the engine roaring to life the moment you manage to close your door. He can barely look at you, realizing too late that your crestfallen expression is making him more upset than the lightning strike of seeing her name again.

“You didn’t ask my address,” you say, quietly, met with his silence as he drives much more dangerously than the weather permits. He's forced to speak with you once he's slammed the brakes at an intersection, red light shading you through the windshield.

“Tell me one thing,” he says. “Did you try to set us up by having me come there?”

You’re petulantly silent now, an answer in itself.

“Answer me,” he orders, hands gripping the wheel.

“I thought you’d want to–”

“Do you think we have the kind of relationship where you can just do whatever you want and get away with it?” Doyoung’s voice is calm but he sees you flinch at his words and tone, your shoulders moving under your jacket as you begin to quietly cry.

It drives him deeper into anger, hitting the gas with a roar of the engine the instant the light turns green.

“You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself for this one, Y/N,” he says, already regretting every word tumbling out of his mouth. “You fucked up.”

“I just thought you could both have some closure after that–”

The car jerks as he brakes in the side lane of the service road, cars roaring past them honking their horns. Your sobs are barely audible over the idling engine and the blink of the hazards he turns on while he tries to find calm, your face turned away from him.

“You thought that interfering in other people’s personal lives would make you feel better,” he says. “No wonder you don’t have any real friends.”

Out of the corner of his eye he can see your full body shakes still, can feel as that armor encasement you’d put together piece-by-piece over years of dealing with loveless reality falls back into place. And, years later–no, even hours later–he’ll remember how at the time he was stupid enough to think it was the right thing to say.

You needed a reality check, he’d thought. A reminder that all the wishes and hopes in the world wouldn’t change the bleak architecture of it, uncaring by design and much easier to navigate without them. That moving on was the only path to this idiot’s dream of closure, something you knew nothing about for how often you’d let them pull you back into their world, blinded by sunk-cost and loneliness.

All the things he wished he believed for himself, but without the benefit of your optimism.

“Fuck you, Kim Doyoung,” you say, opening the car door and slamming it shut without so much as a glance behind you. He’d waited to make sure you reached the nearest bus stop before driving off, calling Jungwoo to let him know you were here–crying in the cold.

He'd seen you in passing.

His best friend knew a lie when he’d heard it, most especially from him.

He wouldn't hear from you again until spring.

Kim Doyoung can’t sleep.

He’s not allowed to.

He can’t move either, arm going numb beneath your curled body, your breathing finally easing for the dozenth time since his trial began. You have horrible sleep habits–kicking off the covers, stealing the pillows–but tonight you’ve passed out with that same bone-deep tiredness he’d felt earlier, face beatific in the slivers of light piercing through the slatted shades.

It’s close to dawn, he thinks, the cacophony of insects and birds outside transitioning from a quiet chorus to a full orchestral suite. Soon it will be too loud to sleep deeply.

“Y/N?” he whispers, tentatively, not daring to move.

You don’t respond, relief rushing through him. It’s not that he’s desperate to join you in slumber but that he’s waited for you to finally surrender to REM. He needed you down.

And you needed it, too.

He’d negotiated with Jaehyun when you’d been in the shower, earlier, sacrificing precious moments of shared time exploring your skin and the new taste of you under the water to supplicate himself to his best friend and worst enemy in this moment.

“It’s a charter,” Jaehyun said, blinking sleep from his eyes but awake enough to be angry. “You’re not finding another one short term.”

“I emailed you the tickets. Cattle car but first class, at least,” he says. “Jungwoo agreed to give you his day, he doesn’t want to take her out until after dark, anyway. You can sleep in tomorrow.”

“Fine.” Jaehyun had slammed the door shut in his face, but he hadn’t missed the budding smile on his friend’s face. At least one person was rooting for him.

That’s how he’d earned another morning with you. As always, making up for lost time.

You’re half out of the covers, one leg sprawled over the duvet as you sleep. You’d put on one of his softer button-downs, inhaling the smell of it after he tried to steal it back.

“Please let me wear you,” you said. “I want to dream about you.”

Being around you like this is more comfortable than he imagined, as if you’re being slotted into a position he didn’t even know there was an existing space for. He’s woken up to women in his bed but you’re the first who’s ever asked him for this, particular experience.

“I used to have this fantasy, you know, whenever we crashed at your apartment.” He’d watched you go sheepish recalling, dates omitted for a reason. “Sometimes I’d lie there and touch myself thinking about you crawling into that guest bed–maybe a little drunk or you’d forget which room. Or maybe, you just wanted me to think that. I’d be awake but I’d pretend to be asleep while you . . . used me.”

He experiments by tracing his fingertips up your bare leg, the peek of your lace underwear beneath the hem of his shirt maddening for how it curves into the crest of your ass, presented for him. A treat dangled before him, the command to partake only that you wanted him to make it slow–you wanted to wake to it.

He sucks a breath in, erection in his sweatpants hard against the band already from just watching his sleeping beauty. He finds every mark on your leg, every fine hair, thanking Heaven above you aren’t overly sensitive or ticklish like he is when his hand slips beneath his shirt to your belly.

He slots himself against you, carefully, as if adjusting in his sleep. He has to wait for your breathing to even out again, slipping his free hand up to your breasts.

“Used you? Did you not get off in this scenario?”

“I mean, yes. But it’s mostly about you. You wouldn’t say anything at all, you’d just fuck me full of your cum and then you’d leave me leaking it on your sheets and go back to your room. Or sometimes I’d crawl in your bed, if you were alone, and you’d cover my mouth so the others couldn’t hear it. And the next day it would be like nothing happened, you wouldn’t even bother to ask how I’d slept.”

He loved how much of a slut you were, when you felt comfortable enough to share that side with someone. Johnny had certainly never appreciated the subtleties of your nature–too blinded by adoration to even consider degrading you on purpose.

No, Doyoung had known for awhile you pushed the boundaries with him to see if he’d break.

Your nipples harden even though he’s barely handling them, discovering what shape your breasts make in repose as he tries desperately not to rut into the swell of your ass. Warming himself in you earlier had been one of the hardest challenges he’d faced but it had been worth it to learn you inside and out, to know how to make you grip his cock with that delicious little cunt of yours with just a kiss or a word that pleased you.

You don’t wake but he knows he’s gotten through to that little lizard brain of yours when your legs rub together unconsciously, pushing back into him so his cock is settled between your buttocks. The friction from the lace is like the proverbial pea under a mattress–rubbing against his cock through the layers, catching on the veins and scraping the underside of his cockhead.

It’s already a nice ache, one he ignores as he adjusts to better continue plucking and teasing at your body beneath your shirt, until you’re used to his touch enough to truly fall back under, once more.

You're so vulnerable, completely at his mercy as he brings his hand down to test the patch of moisture growing in the fabric, that lace sticky with your dreams of him.

Use you, he thinks. You have no idea what he wants.

Doyoung can play with the fantasy of you crawling into your boyfriend’s best friend’s bed while he’s passed out in the other room, determined to be punished for waking a sleeping monster . . . but it’s not what he's fantasizing about now.

He takes time in stroking you, a single finger digging in between your lips through the fabric, listening intently for your breathing to change. You sigh, one of those full exhales one does in their deep sleep, but you arc back a little, into his touch, leg falling forward crooked so you’re a little more spread.

Doyoung wishes he could move down there and use his nose to push you apart instead of his hand but that’s not your fantasy–not this time. You didn’t want him to spoil you anymore, completely underestimating his love for it. True, he didn’t often eat other girls out, too personal or just too much of a chore to figure out what they liked, but you weren’t ever going to be with him and not come from that first.

Just the thought of tying you up so he can spend hours fucking you on his tongue is making his cock pulse, too hard to be ignored. He quietly pulls down the drawstring of his sleepwear, freeing himself so he can replace his finger with the much wider tip of his cock, biting back a groan as he rubs into that damp, soft lace he’d known would suit you the moment he’d touched it in the display box brought to his private buying room.

You'd never know he’d already fucked himself with it before ever giving it to you, that errant fantasy of touching you finally realized as you whimper a little in your sleep at the soft push of him between your legs. He finds where your clit is getting just as swollen as the rest of you, bouncing against warmth and the promise of unspooling that need with his help, again.

Just his precious little cocksleeve, spoiled and worshiped, showing your gratitude by begging for it even when you’re unconscious. He tests the waters of the scenario by slowly pulling the seat of your underwear to the side, easing in between the fabric and your folds.

You twitch against him, sheets rustling. He holds still, cock jumping and balls tightening with a little anxiety.

He only has this one chance.

Outside in the dark and quiet of the house sleeps the man everyone knows you’re really with, the one who doesn’t have to fight for an I love you to pass your lips. You’d never understood what it felt like watching you climb into Jaehyun’s lap whenever the whim took you, pretending you didn’t know what it did to him or the other two of them watching you.

Your breathing is shallow and your hand flexes a bit, against the pillow, but that’s it. Within a minute he’s grown more confident that you’re still asleep.

He reaches over you, pressing the pads of two fingers against the front of your underwear while he slips a little deeper between your legs, eyes almost rolling back in his head at the contrast between the satiny slide of you and the rougher cling of your panties. It’s a relief as he loses himself to it, rutting from the back while he applies constant pressure to your bud.

“Mmm.” You make a soft noise, but he doesn’t pull free, choosing instead to keep a hypnotizingly steady pace fucking against you. Your hips twitch against him, seeking out more contact, but he doesn’t rush–pressing his head against the back of yours and melding with you in the softness of the pillows and sheets.

You’re so wet you’re soaking his pants, everything he collects tickling down to his balls pressed into your ass. He’s going to stuff your mouth with his fingers, when you finally open it, make you gag on them while he fills you full from behind.

You moan now, voice syrupy with sleep. He doesn’t care if you’re still down, not with you gently pushing back, trying to get release.

Not yet, you little harlot, he thinks, hips going still again. He’s burning at the wait, your cunt continuing to glide against him as you act out whatever is going on in your dreams, the movement making him insane for how closely it adheres to his desire to have taken you back when you were innocent, his little virgin weed learning what her body wanted, seeking it out in his bed.

“Treat me like one of the girls you don’t really like. Use me.”

Such an unending fantasy of yours that he never wanted you, almost sweet for how dumb you are–or just willfully ignorant. He’s always liked the second one better–your little game played out that you were one of them. Dressed in that school uniform, kicking your skinned knees, sucking on a piece of candy while four college-age idiots hid their bathing-suited boners under their robes, fighting or fucking around in front of you so you could keep up that precious little illusion of immunity.

“Johnny,” you murmur in your sleep.

It should make his blood run cold but as with all twisted-up and tangled desires it only makes him feel ignited, pulse pounding in his head. You’re still asleep and thinking of someone else, someone not even in this house, the guilt of it passing over him faster than a cloud on a breezy day.

He rocks back into you, this time pulling out enough that he can find your soft hole, already tight again–the only part of your body not relaxed as he forces his way past the flutter of your opening, cockhead sensitive enough to sense the more textured g-spot where he knows you’ll come fast and easy if he fucks into it.

“Shh,” he says, finally trailing his mouth against your jaw, pushing into you softly. “Go back to sleep, baby.”

“Mmhmm,” you reply, nuzzling into the pillow, curling into him. He pushes a knee between your legs, folding you into the bed beneath him as he begins to fuck you, finally taking you for himself and himself alone.

You’re so warm inside, body adjusting to take him easily for how boneless you are, kitten-like mewls muffled by the pillow. It turns him on hearing the edge of pain there, the way you struggle when he pulls your underwear up so tight it sticks between your folds, clit rubbing against it the way he’d stroked himself to completion with it tied tight around his cock.

“Stay quiet or I’ll stuff your mouth full instead,” he whispers against your shoulder, feeling as always a little stupid but losing that internal cringe when you choke on a moan.

“Is that what my little slut was dreaming about? Gagging to tears on another man’s cock?”

He feels you tense at a bit at the suggestion, letting him use you in spite of the rougher handling.

“That’s right. You said another man’s name in your sleep. Do you think that's acceptable?”

You shake your head, whimpering.

“Such a whore you can't keep track of who's dick is inside of you. Tell me, who's fucking you right now?”

“Doie,” you say, music to his ears. He'd always hated the nickname until you started using it. You were the only one–you were always the only one who made his chest burn with unsated desire when you said his name.

“Who owns this tight little pussy?”

“You do,” you gasp out.

“Are you going to forget me? Maybe I need to fuck you so hard you only think of me when you spread your legs for another man.”

Doyoung feels electric at how easily you begin to crumble with just a few words, squeezing his dick so tight when he says something you like, even more when he makes it hurt.

“Sleepy baby going to let me stuff every one of your holes until I’ve had enough? Use you like my own little doll?”

You nod, no longer capable of speaking except in a plaintive moan when he leaves you to shuck off his pants and pull down your ruined panties, pillow pulled beneath your belly to force your ass up. In this position he can drill into you deeper, burying you into the mattress with each thrust.

“That’s what you get for crawling in here,” he says, fingers digging bruises into your hips to hold you down. “Keep your mouth shut and take it.”

The pleading, almost scared noises you're making have him hard and pulsing, two steps away from coming himself but in no hurry to. He pulls your hair to bring your head back, shoving his fingers in your mouth.

“You like that?” Your cunt can't hide it, sucking him in. “Get them wet for me.”

You drool over his knuckles, gagging as he fucks your mouth with them in an awkward rhythm to his merciless rutting. He spits into his hand when he's satisfied, fingers swirling around the tight rim of your ass so quickly it makes you buck.

“Don't scream,” he murmurs, giving you two fingers at once. You make a noise through the pillow you're biting, gripping him tight. He's gentler with this, slowing, letting you adjust to take him.

“This is my favorite, right here,” he groans. “Feeling my cock inside you with my fingers. I'd fuck this tight little ass again but I want to feel you come like this.”

He begins to stroke you harder, deeper, wet and sticky when his balls slap against your abused cunt. He keeps his fingers buried in you, scissoring you open as you take it.

“Come for me, Y/N, grip me good so I can fill that pretty mouth of yours.”

It's a beautiful feeling when you begin to throb, contractions in your ring of muscle letting him know when you hit your peak. He fights the tingling in his balls, the urge to come with you painful for how long he's been holding it back.

He talks you through it, instead.

“Such a good little hole,” he says. “You're coming so hard, baby, can feel it so well.”

You moan, loud, as you break, loosening almost immediately, flooding him with sweet, hot warmth. He makes sure the last of those tics is gone before pulling out.

“Roll over,” he says, straddling you with a hand on the headboard, delighted by the sight of your flushed face and starry eyes. You already know what to do, tongue lolling and uvula exposed as he guides himself into your mouth, soft tongue swirling around his tip.

God help him he's been thinking about this since yesterday, pushing deep enough to gag but not choke, fucking your mouth and the hot tightness of your throat when he hits it. It’s the sight more than anything that drives him to spill hot white ropes of cum into your mouth, pulling out to milk the last few splashes on your parted lips and delighting at the sight of you licking them with your spend-covered tongue.

“You’re so perfect,” he says, dropping down and kissing you, finally, tongues stroking each other until you finally pull free to breathe, blinking up sleepily at him.

“You do taste different,” you tease.

“I taste like you,” he says, pressing soft kisses all over your face. “My sweet, sweet girl.”

“Did you like that?” you murmur.

“I loved–” he pauses, watching the smile spread on your wet lips.

“I love you, you know,” he finishes. You reach around his neck, comforting him out of instinct, but he doesn’t need it.

“I love you,” he repeats, testing the words on his tongue now that they've flown out so easily, the tightness in his chest easing as you rise up to kiss him.

“It's beautiful to hear you say it,” you say. “But you're right, I know.”

“I think I even know the exact time and date,” you say, reaching between you into the pocket of your shirt to pull out that torn and folded art paper scrawled with your words and an amateurish sketch.

Tomorrow morning . . .

[Unknown number] [Tomorrow morning April 13th dawn is at 6:17] [I have something to show you. Meet me on the roof of the East Wind Hotel]

Doyoung looks at the text message again, hand hanging over the railing of a dance floor, conversation with the woman by his side forgotten. With the blur of a late night and a trip to a different hotel room, with a different woman, he'd almost missed it.

Probably one of the innumerable flings he's had, Jungwoo recruiting him to get every last lick of enjoyment out of Seoul before he enlisted. His friend snatches the phone from his hand.

“No business,” Jungwoo slurs, eyes bloodshot as he focuses on the text. “I thought you weren't working hospitality anymore.”

“It's not . . .” There's something nagging at him, like a bird pecking at his skull in time to the drone of the EM, the buzz of conversation. A sense of deja vu so strong he's forced to cycle on it.

“Pfft. I know you don't bring girls back to your kingdom,” Jungwoo says. “Stop working and party.”

Doyoung doesn't know why he feels compelled to see the cryptic message through, doesn't know why he races across town at 5 am, reeking of whiskey and another woman’s perfume, doing his best to sober up as the designated driver talks about the change in weather, the cherry blossoms in full bloom outside the window.

The morning commute is already surging and the destination central to the city so by the time he makes it he's out of breath from running two blocks away from a jam, head pounding.

“ . . . restricted for non-guests,” someone is saying, voice recognizable as an intern he knows from his leadership program, still stuck on night front desk duty.

“I just need a few minutes, please. I need to take a picture–” He'd recognize that voice in a hundred years if he hadn't heard it, not just a hundred days.

“What's going on here?”

You freeze, shoulders stiffening as you turn to face him. Not much has changed–a new haircut, same ratty old sneakers–but you look different. No longer a ghost, but just as untouchable for the skittish way you hold when he approaches, only the barest relief on your beautiful features.

You don't smile, don't even say hello.

You're scared of him, again, just that thought making him spiral.

“You came,” you say, exhaling. “We need to hurry. We need to get to the roof.”

Doyoung turns to the staff. “Is the roof access still shut down?”

“Stair access only, sir.”

Your eyes go wide at the interchange, something like embarrassment passing over your features as you begin to laugh.

“Of course this is your hotel,” you state, smacking yourself on the forehead. “Of course, why didn't I think to check that. God, I'm an idiot.”

“We didn’t change the name when we acquired the chain so it would be unlikely for you to have guessed that,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“There's no time and it's easier just to show you. We need to get to the roof, now,” you say, grabbing his wrist and tugging on it towards the stairs.

“Y/N,” he says, holding you fixed and pointing at the elevator. “We can take it up as far as we need to.”

You're still laughing maniacally twenty floors up. “I was going to cry if I had to go up another flight of stairs.”

“Are you really taking pictures?” He asks, gesturing at your camera.

“No, but I started carrying it the first time someone called the police on me thinking I was going to jump,” you giggle, wiping away tears. He feels delirious from lack of sleep, so maybe you are, too, but it doesn't seem to be the case as you spring out the doors, forcing him to guide you when you're lost in the executive suite hallways.

“I managed to sneak in last time, otherwise I wouldn't have gotten this far. I'm glad you came just in time, I think they were going to kick me out.”

He's surprised at how easily things have snapped back into place between you, no mention of anything that's happened as you race up the stairwell to the roof access.

“Will you tell me–”

“Oh thank god,” you say once your through the heavy doors and collapsed on the green helipad, growing impatient when he props the door open out of habit. He's been up here many times, nothing remarkable about the space besides the legacy sign on top, view crowded by other buildings at varying levels.

“Stand here,” you say, pushing him into place, turning him by the arms. “Do you see it?”

“I don't even know what I'm looking for,” he says, beginning to grow annoyed.

“Look over there, at the People's Bank. Relax your eyes, it will only take a minute.”

He feels increasingly foolish but he does what you ask, cool morning breeze clearing his muddled head. The sky is washed in a pink and blue haze, the sun cresting the more mountainous region of the city behind you to bathe the city in solid gold.

“There,” you breathe, letting out a little sigh.

“What?” All he can see is a few birds passing over the vista of crowded advertisements and neon.

“Do you see the light?” you ask.

“There's tons of lights–” he begins, cut short by the blinding catch of the sun's reflection on one of the characters, then another. He spells it out slowly, guided by your hand holding his to each one.

The bank: Sa.

The next building over, also burning brighter with the touch of the sun: Rang.

Then an advertisement that has been up long enough most of the original message is lost. Hae.

“How did you find this?” he asks, knowing it would be impossible for him to have ever seen this without knowing the trick of the light.

“I didn't find it. Well I did–I had to search some buildings for it.”

Later he'll find out you climbed close to fifty flights of stairs in the last two months, had spent every waking moment not working or in school breaking into buildings before sunrise to find that exact spot, forever amused at the thought you hadn’t checked his family's flagship hotel first.

“You don't remember getting the same message from someone else?” you ask. “I was worried you wouldn't come, again.”

Again. Something tugs the memory up from the oubliette he'd locked it into, Mona teasing him about sleeping in and missing their appointment.

Mona.

His stomach falls, checking back behind him at the door as if that particular ghost will return to haunt him.

“She's not here. I wasn't trying to set you up,” you say, recognizing the dismay he can't hide. “Honestly. And I know whatever closure you find is yours and yours alone. You were right about that, too, I'm sorry.”

You twist your hands in front of you, suddenly overwhelmed with anxiety. “I did this for me. Because I wanted to know what she tried to tell you, even if she couldn't say it aloud.”

You don't look at him, can't in order to continue. Doyoung feels like a live wire, exposed, two months of painful loneliness and a lifetime's worth of avoidance of this fact all surging through him in this moment.

As much as he would prefer to leave he's not going to run like he did back then, when he'd ignored the hard parts to pretend like a friendship wasn't something more. Not with the stakes of losing this one.

“You once told me you were just friends, even if you couldn't be one anymore for her after you realized you loved her. How it broke you to be with someone you couldn't be with, who wanted something different.”

“Now you know. She didn't want to stay one, either,” you say. You look up at him nervously, regaining your confidence.

“I just wanted you to know that you were loved, Kim Doyoung. You still are.”

You turn away towards the door, pretending not to have seen the tears dripping down his face under his glasses. He ignores them, too, not knowing what to say or do to make sure you never leave him again.

The spot never mattered to him, the word and it's confession forgotten in time. What changed that day was having you in front of him after so long, the way you were a reflection of him so many years ago, fighting to be by the side of someone who didn't know how to love you back, the right way.

He'd promised himself than that even if he couldn't say it, he'd show you.

“Thank you for coming. I'm sorry for interfering with your life, but that’s what friends do.”

You'd almost made it to the stairs when he'd wrapped around you from behind, the first ever time he'd held you in an embrace, unsurprised to find you shaking like a leaf as he rested a wet cheek against your hair.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “Thank you.”

You relax a little, squeezing his hand. In that small gesture everything is reset, everything is okay again. They won't talk about this for the next few years, even when Jungwoo asks how you'd come back into their lives so suddenly and without any indication that things had changed.

But they had. Deeply.

“You can make it up to me by buying me breakfast,” you say, smiling up at him, wiping his cheek with your sleeve. “We have a lot to catch up on.”

“Did I win?” you ask.

Doyoung can only laugh, giddy, as you burrow into his side to smother him in kisses and teasing. You were put on this earth to challenge him, after all–always right there to match him in stubbornness and competition.

He presses his nose to your neck, inhaling the remnants of the scent you'd made together, one bottle for each, though you didn't have to know his formula was just a bit different.

“‘Tomorrow Morning’ has a nice ring to it, I suppose. It lingers well.”

“It was my answer, actually. I needed to see if I could break Saint Kim's vow of romantic abstinence before I made up my mind,” you say, smug as you move to get up. “Glad you were able to find out before your time was–”

You shriek as he pulls you down again, pinning you to the bed.

“I still have a few hours,” he says, voice dangerous. “I'd like to hear you say it again.”

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strawberry-cow-smut · 8 months

Text

"It's always been there."

Character: Gojo Satoru, Jujutsu Kaisen

Reader: Gender Neutral

Exploring: First Meeting, Love at First Sight, First Date, Relationship Moments, Gaslighting (about small and inconsequential things), Awkward Moments, Lots of Fluff

Gojo Satoru is known for his boyish demeanor; full of fun, laughter, and a playfulness that rivals any other. Sure, he's possibly the most powerful sorcerer to have ever existed in the written memory of mankind and likely the closest thing to an actual god that humanity currently has on its side, but none of that really changes anything; at least when you look at him.

Satoru is like a mischievous cat. He'll mess with your hair and move essential items onto higher shelves then hide the stepladder just so you have to come ask him for help. He'll lurk around corners just to "casually" walk out just as you're coming around them to cause a crash of bodies in which he can ever-so-heroically save you from "certain death". To put it frankly, he's an asshole (affectionate).

But he's your asshole.

Gojo Satoru asked you out back when you were both in middle school. He'd decided to walk a different path on his way to the local convenience store after class had ended. For you, on the other hand, this path was your chosen way home from your own middle school.

It was a cold spring and the cherry blossoms had yet to bloom; decorating the landscape with trees that vaguely resembled themselves after the first powder of a chilly winter season. Some buds had already fallen and were floating their way down the stream next to his path.

He remembers seeing your reflection in the water of the river first, then moments later being awestruck as your figure popped out from a corner and began heading towards him. Normally, Satoru wouldn't think much of a person walking towards him, but something about you just had his heart in shambles the moment he laid eyes on you.

Is it really all that unusual for a middle schooler to hear wedding bells when he's barely even gotten over the idea of cooties?

The distance between you two was closing at a slow yet steady pace. He'd been frozen in place since the moment you'd appeared, but you hadn't stopped walking at all. Once you were roughly six or seven meters away, he couldn't hold himself back any longer.

"HEY!"

The sudden yell caught you off guard; bringing your own body's movements to a grinding halt.

"DO YOU WANT TO GO OUT SOMETIME?"

With a boyish smile and bright eyes, Satoru stared eagerly, waiting for an answer. Sure, the delivery wasn't the most impressive, nor had you ever seen this kid before in your life, but what did you have to lose?

"No."

Apparently, your dignity.

Not giving him another second of your time, you turned tail and walked away, leaving him frozen in the same spot, with a much sadder posture.

Satoru stayed still for a few minutes, processing what just happened and what he'd just done. What he'd just done was make an absolute fool of himself and blow what possibly could have been his only chance with you. He wasn't about to give up so easily, though.

For the next month and a half (or forty-three days, to be precise), Satoru walked that same route every single day at the same time, even on days when he didn't feel like heading to the convenience store, just hoping to see you again.

You, on the other hand, purposely walked a different path in hopes of avoiding a weird white-haired kid with a tendency to yell out his unfounded love confessions. On the forty-third day, you incorrectly decided it was safe to return to your normal path, and encountered the doofus once more.

Once again, he was awestruck. He did wait for you to approach a bit closer this time, though. Once you had passed by and were a few steps behind him, he stuttered out his name, accompanied with a rather charming voice crack. You muttered your own in response, and he lit up. He jogged a bit to catch up with you, abandoning his trip to the convenience store in favor of a conversation with you.

In all honesty, he was a bit of a pest. He was loud and a bit obnoxious with hardly any regard for personal space, but something about this weird kid with his sights on you seemed oddly right; maybe not a good idea, but right all the same. Reluctantly, you conceded and agreed to meet him for a movie after class next week.

Your first date wasn't all that great. He was so amped up about the idea of seeing you that he'd practically yelled every sentence he spoke. Whenever he awkwardly attempted to hold your hand, he'd squeeze a bit too tight.

But still, he'd opened the door for you, bought both the tickets and popcorn, made sure you had the best seats in the theater, and had tried his best to manage both the date and his enthusiasm.

Oh god, his enthusiasm.

You'd arrived to your first date exactly when you said you would, but Satoru had already been standing outside the theater gates for two hours before the movie would even start. He'd visited two different flower shops on his way there, trying to decide which ones were the perfect ones to get for a first date, then ultimately decided holding flowers during a movie wouldn't be all that comfortable and forgetting about that idea altogether.

He didn't plan on you ever knowing that, wanting to seem as cool as possible in front of his crush, but the box office cashier made sure to tell you all about it. Of course, Satoru was bright red by the time they'd finished, but so were you. It was a new feeling to have someone be so excited to see you, and even more new to know they'd been thinking of you so intensely beforehand.

Before you two parted after the movie, you did mention an ice cream shop you'd be at that Saturday. Despite all his annoyances, they were still charming annoyances; and he'd earned a second date.

Throughout the years, you two would go on hundreds of other dates where his annoyances would make themselves known time and time again, each of them becoming endearing and something you'd almost look forward to.

He'd tell you there's a cool bird outside to get you to turn your head, then steal a bite off your plate when you weren't looking. When you'd invite him over, he'd open your sock drawer the moment you left him unattended and would switch around all the paired socks with others that were very obviously not their mate. He'd leave cute notes that said "I love you" or something similar in places you'd undoubtedly find them: your glovebox, your dresser, the kitchen counter, inside the fridge; although they'd always have a silly little poorly drawn penis in the bottom right corner. He'd reenact the famous "Long Live the King" scene from The Lion King with your stuffed animals then flop back in your bed, claiming to be the only thing you need to snuggle at night.

With all this in mind, it's truly a wonder how willing you were to trust him when he started gaslighting you.

It started small, and it certainly wasn't intentional the first time. As far as you know, the first instance was when you noticed a large stash of your favorite snack sitting in your shared pantry. Not wanting to lose his cool like he'd done so many times before, Satoru played dumb and acted like he hadn't ever seen the snack before in his entire life. You held firmly to your suspicion that he had something to do with the tiny mountain on the shelf, but it's not like it mattered, nor could you prove anything... and you did really like the snack, so you just shrugged it off and went with it; genuinely considering the possibility that you'd forgotten accumulating so many treats for yourself.

He really didn't think it'd be that easy to convince you. He turned the situation over in his head a few times that night, thinking about what your gullibility meant for the future of your relationship, but he didn't see many downsides; at least with how he planned to take advantage of it.

"Yes dear, the TV was always that big. No, it certainly didn't grow overnight. Are you imagining things?"

"Oh, you really like the fabric of our bedsheets? It's your favorite texture? What do you mean they're new? Oh, Honey, we've had these sheets forever and you're just now telling me about this?"

"You haven't worn that outfit in a while. What do you mean you've never seen it before? It was always in the back of your closet. It was just behind that old shirt you stole from me when we first moved in together. Yeah. You mentioned it was your dream outfit, but you've always had that."

"No, a jeweler didn't call today. You must be going crazy. I didn't even hear the phone ring and I've been home all day long. You're so silly."

One morning, the sun started shining a bit brighter than usual, or at least it appeared to since Satoru had forgotten to close the window before bed last night. He said he would before he laid down to sleep, but apparently forgot to keep his promise. While you slept peacefully. he'd been up the majority of the night. He'd been stirring about the house the entire night; sitting in every chair, making a thousand Google searches, playing Jenga by himself, and debating on whether or not to crawl into bed with you. Eventually, he would give into this little desire, but not before tending to another small task first. Satoru completed his little task before climbing into his side of the bed and snuggling up to you as per his usual.

You woke the following morning with the sun's rays leaping through your window and assaulting your face as it rose on the horizon. The arm around your waist kept you cemented in place. As you attempted to roll over to escape the warmth of another day, tired grumbles sounded from the face hidden from the same criminal in the small of your back.

"Five more minutes."

Given how he towered over you in both strength and stubbornness, you sighed and gave in to his grumbling without much of a fight. If you're going to be stuck here, you might as well make the most of it, right? Five minutes for him can at least mean four more for you too. As you lay your head back down on your pillow, a sudden and bright sparkle from your bedsheets caught your eye.

What the hell could that be?

In your sleep-drunken state, you attempted to reach out and grab the object, only to realize the shimmering object moved at the same pace as your fingertips... or did it?

The mysterious twinkle seemed to be attached to your hand; your left ring finger to be precise.

The extra heft was surely noticeable once you'd awakened enough to gain some form of higher thinking. There is absolutely not a single logical reason as to why this giant ring, almost gaudy in its presentation and glittering enough to make oncoming cars swerve, would be on your finger. Sure, Satoru had made some jokes in the past, but you swore he'd never proposed to you.

He stirs and grumbles again, obviously disturbed by your refusal to lay back down.

"Satoru? What's this?" you inquire without breaking your gaze at the ring. Satoru sits up slightly and yawns; blinking a few times before waking up enough to respond properly.

"... Oh! I know this one! It's a ring!"

Wow. So intelligent.

"Of course it's a ring, dumbass. What's it doing on my hand?"

"It's your engagement ring, silly. Don't you remember? I proposed like a month ago."

"......... Are you sure you did that?"

"Absolutely positive. Never been more sure of anything in my life."

"I think I'd remember something like that."

"Hmm... I don't know if you would. You've been forgetting a lot of things lately. Good thing I can remember it enough for both of us. We were in that cafe you like with those cute plants on the windowsill and it was snowing outside. You ordered a hot chocolate in their signature seasonal Santa mug and I had my glass of steamed apple juice to go with it. I got down on one knee and you said yes before I even had a chance to ask the question. It was so cute how eager you were." Satoru took a deep sigh and gave your body a slight squeeze, burying his face in the small of your back once more.

You're immediately calling "bullshit" in your head, but the slight tremble in his breathing makes you go along with it this time, fully understanding exactly what he's trying to do. With a sigh, you lay back down as well, rolling over to face him and cup his cheeks. Looking into his cerulean eyes, you give a soft smile and a gentle peck on his lips.

"I'm so glad you remember. I'm sorry I don't, but maybe you can do it again so I can remember this time?"

Satoru froze for a moment; taking the time to think through his next words carefully.

"Of course, my love." He cupped your cheek with one of his large hands and pressed his nose to your own; bright eyes peering directly into your soul.

"My beloved dove, I have loved you with everything that I am, and, if you'll allow me, I'd be honored to love you with all that I will ever be for all eternity. For the rest of our lives, I want to wake up next to you, just like this, and hold you in my arms, just like this. Whether we're fighting the clock and rushing out of the house after another 'Just five more minutes' or taking it easy and sleeping in until noon, I want that to be our every day together. I want to stay with you as long as you'll let me, as close as you'll have me. When I'm with you, the days turn into hours and the hours into minutes and minutes into seconds. I fear that forever may not be long enough to truly show you how much I love you, so I'm afraid I'll have to cut my little speech short. What I'm really trying to say is... Will you marry me?"

~~~~~~~~~~~Author’s Note~~~~~~~~~

Happy holidays to @saintsugu!! I'm your Secret Santa! This one's written especially for you, Ezra! This is the first JJK piece I've written so it might seem a little funky, but I sincerely hope you enjoyed getting to experience this little love story with Gojo <3

Heart dividers made by @/cafekitsune

#gojo satoru #satoru gojo #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu gojo #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen anime #jjk gojo #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fluff #gojo fluff #gojo satoru fluff #satoru gojo fluff #strawberrycowsnuggles

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jinkookspencil · 1 year

Text

like couples do | knj

you run out of period products at dawn, and there's only one person who's up....

description/tags: namjoon drabble / fwb to lovers / fluff / but mentions the fact that namjoon and reader had unprotected sex (don't do this) and reader is relieved to get her period afterwards / so obviously mentions of period and blood / maybe a bit angsty? / been busy and been working on a request! but it's been a while since i wrote namjoon and, gosh, i love writing for him even though whatever comes to me for him is usually the most random bursts and ideas, like this one i thought of last night / let me know what you think <3

wc: ~1.6k words

Your gasp pulls you from heaven to hell.

Extracted from your dream, you’re out of the covers in a flash, dazed as you try to meet your reality. The room was sweltering despite autumn settling in and the fan whizzing away in your room as it always did. The sound you’d grown so accustomed to only made it harder to think, but you didn’t have to. The wet pools at your back and around your body suddenly made themselves known, with your black pajama top sticking to your sweaty skin. With a quick change into a tank top and a sip of cold water, you were ready to escape into a dreamland, far from the hellhole that had been your bedroom...

Only to be met with a small pool of a different kind when you pull away the blanket.

Fuck.

Quickly feeling between your thighs confirmed it - you bled through your shorts.

Well, at least it’s here, you think, your heart settling after days worrying about the sudden delay in your cycle. After all, Namjoon hadn’t used any protection…

It was hard to put away the mental image of him once you were in the bathroom, remembering that one time he had you propped up on the cabinet, but looking through it now, the panic returns. You were all out of pads and tampons.

This is why people have roommates. Or stupidly organized Virgo boyfriends, you think, cursing yourself while rummaging through every drawer, cupboard, and overnight bag without finding a single tampon for the evening.

The minutes spent on your phone were quick to squash any more of your hopes - the delivery service app had been shut down for the night after some seemingly catastrophic bug on their end, and your female friends who lived nearby hadn't answered your texts and calls, as expected at this time of day.

Reading the time on your phone, you knew one person who would definitely be up. The person who always showed up. The man worked ridiculous hours, following his ‘late-night creativity’… unless the universe really wanted to torture you and, for the very first time, he’d be asleep as well.

You consider running to the convenience store, double layering your bottoms with black fabrics, and taking a scooter... only for a stinging cramp to shock you at your lower back.

He had to answer.

to: joon 🌒[3:58am] - hi are you up?

to: joon🌒 [3:58am] - text asap please it’s urgent

to: y/n🍀 [4:01am] - yes i’m up. are you okay y/n?

to: y/n🍀 [4:01am] - i’m finally done with work for the night.

to: y/n🍀 [4:01am] - are you okay? i’ll call as soon as i’m out of the building.

to: joon🌒 [4:02am] - don’t call i’m embarrassed to say this to you out loud plus i'm in pain

to: joon 🌒 [4:02am] - can you get me some pads and tampons? i got my period (aka the pain) and i’m all out so….

to: joon🌒 [4:02am] - i need em and i can’t get em

to: y/n🍀 [4:03am] - y/n of course. phew i thought this was going in literally the complete opposite way considering…

to: y/n🍀 [4:03am] - anyways, aren’t we past embarrassment? never feel that when it comes to me please.

to: y/n🍀 [4:03am] - safe space just for us, remember?

to: joon🌒 [4:04am] - yes :) thanks joon

to: y/n🍀 [4:04am] - :) getting on my bike now. i’ll be there in 10.

to: y/n🍀 [4:04am] - the sky’s starting to change colors. look outside, pretty :) (1 image attached)

The knock, though expected, jolts you enough for your new bedsheet to spring away from your grasp once again. Frustrated, a groan escapes you as you walk to your front door, tightening the robe that covered your body and stained shorts.

“Sorry I’m late,” Namjoon giggles at the door, seeing your furrowed expression. “Oh, you’re most definitely on your period, huh?”

“Get in here and shut up,” you groan once more, letting him in. All too familiar with your place, he unpacks one of the bags in his hand, carefully displaying an array of period products on the nearest table.

“I’m surprised you didn’t send a photo and ask me to choose one,” you say, grabbing one of the boxes.

“I… I grabbed everything in the aisle without thinking. Shit, I should’ve sent a photo, right? Are these not good enough? Are they the wrong size? Will they fit your....? I can go to another convenience store,” he murmurs, head tilted down as he surveys the products before you.

“No, Namjoon, honey, the photo is just a thing boyfriends tend to do when they’re asked to get period products. You asked the same size and fit question, though,” you laugh before quickly realizing you compared his actions to that of a boyfriend. Something he most definitely was not.

“I lived in a dorm full of boys, how was I supposed to know?” he says, scratching his head.

“These are perfect, and I’m stocked for at least the next three months. Thank you, Joonie,” you say, squeezing his arm.

“Anytime, Y/N,” he replies quietly, pulling you closer to him so he can kiss your forehead. It only hits you both when your hand is rubbing at his back in his embrace, and it takes even longer to break away than it did to realize the situation.

Something shifts in Namjoon’s gaze when he sees you emerge from the bathroom in new pyjama shorts. “Cute PJ’s. I’m not used to seeing them on you for more than five seconds.”

“Enjoy the show, then,” you quip, plopping down next to him on the couch and extending your legs over his lap. You hadn’t really meant it as a command, but can’t help but smile catching the fact that Namjoon had obeyed. His fingers draw mindless circles at your ankles as his gaze travels upwards. Minutes are spent in silence, eyeing your thighs with intent before his eyes rest on your exposed clavicle. His circles stop, gripping your ankle and noting the undeniable rise and fall of your breathing and breasts, swollen and tender against your thin cotton tank top.

“Oh,” he finally says with a cough, breaking the silence and raising his brows. “I almost forgot. I thought you might need these.”

Leaning forward, Namjoon dumps the entire contents of the second plastic bag onto your hard coffee table. Small, colorful circles bounce off of it and onto the floor, long bars land with a thud, and instantly recognizable plastic packages are cushioned by its contents.

“Oh, Joon. I do. I do fucking need this,” you let out, almost as a moan. “You already know what I want.”

Smiling, he tears open a plastic packet of your favorite chocolate-flavored bread and another for himself. The time spent biting and savoring the pillowy snack was heavenly in the comfortable silence -save for the birds that begin to chirp from somewhere outside your window.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten the sticker,” you say, handing Namjoon the tiny square envelope in your now-empty plastic packaging. He’s quick to grab it from your hands, giddy to see whatever Pokemon character was inside.

"Take mine, too," he says, handing you his square, with an illustration of a pink, deer-like creature - not at all like the Pokemon he usually mentioned.

"Oh, she’s pretty!”

"Exactly..." he says. "Deerling, that's her name. She's a new favorite of mine, actually. Her colors change based on the different seasons in the year... and when she evolves, her deer form's antlers are basically how branches are decorated in nature: budding flowers and leaves for spring, greenery for summer, you get the picture. She's the only one that truly encapsulates the beauty of our world..."

"All that for a Pokemon? I'm jealous," you tease, but he doesn't laugh, quietly opening the envelope you'd handed to him.

“Yes!” he cheers. “I don’t have this one yet - Moltres. Ah, you really are my good luck charm, huh?"

"Am I? I guess you should keep me around, then, huh?" you say, leaning back on the couch and poking his shoulder.

"That's the plan," Namjoon says, his eyes still thoughtfully fixated on the sticker he fiddled with, but only for a moment. “Uhm… I… we… should probably get some sleep, huh? I should probably…go. Uhm, should I?”

“Do you want to go?” you ask, feeling a tightening in your chest at the thought. Just like all those nights in bed, it was too comfortable to remember that this wasn't your entire reality but stolen, secret time. Always, one found themselves reminding the other to snap back to reality. It was beautifully torturous, just as you two had liked it for so long… until it began to sink in that the beauty could stand on its own…. if only one of you had the courage.

“….No. No I don’t really want to go, Y/N. But if you want me to….”

“I don’t want you to,” you interrupt, nudging his fingertip with yours right over your knees until your hands are intertwined. “I mean someone has to help me fit that stupid sheet onto the bed... and you're quite familiar with my sheets."

“I am,” he smiles, nodding to himself and squeezing your hand with his.

“Then we can get in… and just go to sleep… or cuddle,” you wonder, feeling Namjoon's soft hand under yours.

“Like couples do?” Namjoon asks, finally meeting your gaze for the first time that night.

“Yeah… yeah, I’m thinking like couples do,” you whisper, your breath hitching on the words that spoke your once unthinkable, far-fetched desire while looking at it right in the eyes.

“Me too,” he smiles, bringing your hand up to kiss it and rest it at his dimples. “Like couples it is then.”

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mikareo · 11 months

Text

⌗ SNOWDROP ₊ ˖ ་. nagi seishiro x fem reader (5.4k)

⊹ ⠀⠀ it's the end of the world and he's possibly the most unprepared person alive…perhaps he can rely on the pretty girl with perfect aim who just so happened to save his life at the very last second. he’s never been in love but maybe this love could last…so long as the both of you stay alive.

contains; resident evil inspired, badass agent!reader, helpless civilian!nagi, zombie apocalypse, guns, knives, blood, gore, swearing, angst, fluffy flirting, love at first sight, major character death, reo cameo!!!!, cannibalism (zombies) author's note; this fic destroyed my sanity, but i hope u like it! there are parts that are so unserious asjkl just trust me that it's a good read and pt2 is gonna be fucking crazy

⋆⋆⋆⠀ ⠀ videogame au milestone collab masterlist !

This can’t be happening. There’s no way this is actually fucking happening right now.

He’s sprinting at full speed, his laces are barely tied, and the smoke in the air is surely clogging his lungs into a blackened pulp of nothingness. To be quite frank, Nagi would rather have those poisoned lungs than discover whatever the hell happened to his neighbors down the hall…because damn they look like they’re in some rough shape. With their sunken eyes, flaking skin, and very obvious urge to suddenly turn to cannibalism, that’s not really his vibe…but that’s a falling telephone pole! Holy shit that’s a falling telephone pole coming straight his way in 3…2…1. JUMP!

Whew, that was a close one. Good thing he’s tall!

The shift in humanity didn’t exactly happen overnight. It was actually just twenty minutes ago when his peace was so rudely interrupted. There he was, snuggled up in his gaming chair with a fresh bag of Cool Ranch Doritos opened and ready to meet his belly, when he finally beat the last level of his new favorite game; only to discover that those screams of terror and fear…yea those weren’t coming from his PC and his living room window is now a pile of ash. Nagi doesn’t think he’s ever seen so much red and yellow in his life, all of it becoming one big blur of flames that he somehow jumped through and landed on the street below— thankfully he lives on the ground floor, otherwise his body would join his couch in a pile of broken limbs. Damn, this is all such a hassle.

No one would be able to guess what it was that caused this chaos…okay, actually it’s not too out of this world; just a commercial jet falling from the sky with a monstrous thing (??) crawling out of the window onto the streets of Tokyo, whilst an oddly green gas dilutes the air.

Yeah, not too crazy— but just crazy enough to make even Nagi Seishiro, laziest man on earth, leave the comfort of his homely apartment to find his neighborhood in complete and utter chaos. He even saw his delivery man devouring the convenience store owner that always gives him an extra bonus off his nightly midnight snack. Man, he loved that guy. That’s a sight that’ll make him shudder for years to come; assuming he can stay alive for the next however many hours and days this newfound apocalypse is going to take.

Nagi thinks it’s been nearly an hour since he started running and he didn’t even know he had this much stamina in him. Maybe he’s secretly a superhuman or another one of the monsters the city has been consumed by— or perhaps his adrenaline rush is nearly infinite since he’s never utilized it in his entire life. He’s not sure of the logistics. He failed high school biology…and chemistry…and physics. There’s a reason why he turned to gaming and shied away from college. This thrill and rush isn’t meant for him. He’s a couch potato that wants to do nothing but rot and enjoy the satisfying ding Twitch gives him whenever he receives a new sub. His generation needs instant gratification…and right now? Well, he’s in desperate need of some water.

Hesitantly, Nagi rounds into the glass doors of the nearest and safest looking building he happens to see— which is luckily a convenience store similar to the one near his apartment. He’s more than surprised when the automatic doors open in a pinch and he’s able to enter with no difficulty. The store is somehow in little disarray, with its grocery items on the shelves in their rightful spots and few sparse bags of chips laying on the tile floor. However, what is in disarray is the pharmacy section. There are drugstore pills scattered everywhere. He can’t even tell what kind of medications were being scavenged in a clear panic for medical amenities, and highly doubts that whoever was searching for supplies was able to get any with the state the back of the store is in. The font on the labels is so small that Nagi, the man who stares at a screen all day, can’t decipher what they say; and he’s assuming that whoever was in here is long dead and gone. But then again…

…he’s never been the kind of guy who’s always right.

“I come in peace!” His voice is two octaves higher than it normally is. If this were a choir audition, he’d absolutely ace it. “I swear I just came for some water! Please don’t kill me, zombie, please!”

Both of his eyes are shut whilst he awaits his inevitable demise, assuming that the unknown presence in the room likely has an appetite for human organs. There were so many things he wanted to do with his life…like ride a hot air balloon? Actually, that would be really hot if he were that close to the sun. Surf in the Caribbean? Ew, he could get bit by a crab. Get a girlfriend? He can’t complain about that one, that would be very very nice.

Oh no, he’s already getting eaten…he can practically hear her imaginary laughter already.

“Really? Those are your last words?”

Zombies can talk?

Nagi fearfully inches one eye open to see the most gorgeous person he thinks he’s seen in his entire life. Sure, you look a little disheveled— with your soaked hair and dirt-crusted skin— but to him, you look like something out of his imagination. The female protagonist that he could only dream about campaigning with in a first-person-shooter game, and would later search for a worthy poster to stick on his wall. If love at first sight is real, then this is definitely it. The only issue? Your barrel is pointing straight at his face.

“You’re going to shoot me?” He exclaims, scrambling to back up but ultimately tripping on his own laces and landing on his ass. “Ah shit, that hurts.”

Elegantly, you rush to his side. “You have injuries?” With eyes scanning over every inch of his body, there’s genuine concern dripping from your tongue like honey. Your voice is like a melody, oh man. Nagi thinks he’s a goner— not because he could be eaten by zombies, but because he feels like he’d jump in front of a moving bus to protect you. Pfft, and some protection he’s doing, embarrassing himself like this…

“Nope, nothing’s hurt…” he mumbles, sitting up with an attempted nonchalant look on his face. “...only my ego.”

A small smile reveals itself before him and your eyes crinkle as you let out a little laugh, and instantly he’s almost more obsessed with you. It’s as if you’re some higher being that he was blessed to see on his final day on earth, with golden rays radiating from your skin and big irises that he could drown in. Perhaps if it weren’t the end of the world, the two of you could’ve walked to this store together— holding hands and speaking softly about your shared interests and passions— and he could make you laugh a million times and more…now that he’s really thinking about it, you’re the first girl he’s made laugh probably ever and he really wishes there wasn’t a menacing zombie apocalypse getting in the way of his beautiful fantasy.

“I’m assuming you’re alone?” You stand up, looking down at him.

Alone as in single or…

“You don’t have any family that you escaped with?”

…okay not alone as in single. Got it.

“It’s just me,” Nagi stands to his feet and is loving your shocked reaction to his towering height. “My family’s overseas right now, so I think they’re alright. I mean, I hope they’re alright. I don’t have any service to reach them, right now. My phone is down.”

You nod, reaching in your bag for something he can’t quite see. What he can see, though, is the massive shotgun strapped to your back and three large cartridges hanging from your belt— somehow you’re able to carry all that and four grenades, two handguns, and six rolls of bandages in that pack of yours, which you lay out for him so lovingly on the floor.

“Take what you need.” Oh hell, what has he gotten himself into?

As he backs up cautiously, realization dawns upon your face. “You’ve never done this before have you?”

“Is living through a zombie apocalypse a common experience?” His mouth is agape. “Yeah, sorry…can’t say this isn’t the first time for me.”

A sigh slips from your lips and you gather your things, packing everything into your bag except for a standard handgun. Nagi can feel his heartbeat picking up as you take three steps closer to him. One. Two. Three. He wishes you’d chosen to take a fourth— that way you’d be nose to nose, he’d get to see your beauty up close, and then memorize the curves and features of your face— which he’d surely never forget as he’d think about them morning, night, and day. He’d love to fantasize about you for hours but you have other plans, dropping said standard handgun into his palms.

“Just aim for the head, okay?”

Um. No. Not okay.

“I don’t really shoot real guns…” he rambles, attempting to get rid of the deadly weapon you’ve so casually given him. “I’m more of a lover, y’know? Talk things out instead of shooting things in between their eyes? I like digital zombies! Yeah, those guys are chill…love ‘em so much…please take this away from me.”

You shake your head, already on your way out of the door. “Nope, you’re coming with me.”

“Why?” If this were a video game, there’d be a massive exclamation point flashing above his head, along with a grave that he could crawl into instead of joining you on this suicide mission. Being six feet under sounds pretty nice right about now…but he’s sure that the look you’re giving him is more deadly than any threat outside. “I don’t think I’m going to be much help to you.”

“Nagi, is it?” You clarify, to which he nods. “There are only two choices right now, and I know we just met but I’d rather you live than die. You’re tall. Your height is going to give you a range advantage when we’re out there, and I can already tell that you have great spatial awareness…not many people would’ve noticed me in the shadows. You know this area far better than I do, and sure, you’ve never held a gun before, but you’ve got to fight to live.”

As your voice continues in a soft-spoken tone, he’s mesmerized. “I want you to live, and I’m going to make sure you do.”

He can feel himself nodding along to your words— his heart getting lighter by the second, perhaps out of adrenaline but he’s going to believe it’s love. He needs something to look forward to when this is all over, if this is ever over, and that something is the image of you and him on a date. With you looking stunning in your favorite outfit and him hopefully looking better than he does right now…clear skies with the cicadas shushing themselves so he doesn’t miss a single thing you say…enough money in his bank account to cover anything and everything you wish for…and the biggest bouquet of your favorite flowers that he can find. What are your favorite flowers?

“Can I ask you something before I say yes?” Nagi’s voice is sweet, seemingly comforting you as your shoulders drop from their automated offensive stance. You look a little curious, likely assuming that he’s going to ask you some tips on how to shoot a gun— which he probably should if he’s being honest with himself, but that’s an issue that isn’t as important as his current curiosity. “Do you have a favorite flower?”

With teeth shining at him, he’s blinded by the overwhelming beauty you send his way and for the second time, he makes you laugh.

“My favorite flower? You’re so strange.” Overcome with a fit of giggles, he thinks that this is your first time laughing at something a man said as well. “Why do you need to know that? Are you asking me out or something?”

“I am.” He states bluntly and your cheeks flush red.

There’s a minute of silence between the two of you and each second is more excruciating than the last. With a heavy clock ticking in his ear, telling him that he’s made a fool of himself as the hand inches more and more to the left; he’s counting down his probable rejection as he’s just shot his shot in the middle of the end of the world. What a stupid decision. He knows his timing could be better— could be a lot better actually— and there’s a part of him that regrets even attempting…but none of that matters, because you’re smiling.

Maybe he makes you just as nervous as you make him…

“Okay Nagi,” you grin and adjust the shotgun strap across your chest. “If we both survive this, I promise I’ll go out with you…but I have some high expectations. I want the most expensive flower arrangement money can buy.”

“And what kind of flowers are you wishing for, gorgeous?” His voice is a sexy whisper, and Nagi didn’t even know he could be so seductive.

You jokingly roll your eyes at the pet name and toss him one of your inactive grenades, which he catches with ease, urging him to follow you into the chaos— but not before you give him the answer he so desperately desires.

“Snowdrops.”

There are two things that Nagi has realized in the past thirty minutes.

1.) He’s a lot more athletic than he thought he was.

Running for a half an hour straight is something that he never imagined himself doing— especially considering that he’s never stepped one foot into a gym in his entire life. What he originally thought to be clumsiness, turns out to be raw strength untouched. You were right to assume that his lengthy limbs would do him some justice in the fight for his life, and he’s thankful for his towering height as he’s blocked falling debris from smacking you atop the head nearly five times now; though, he did miss a flying sneaker that happened to nail you straight in the nose. He’s trying his best, give him a break.

2.) You might be a figment of his imagination.

Sure, this idea is likely false as he definitely felt your weight when you were sent flying from a stray hand grenade and landed on top of him, but you just seem so perfect. Getting to know you has been a dream come to life— though making conversation while running for his life isn’t the easiest feat, he’s managing. Some of the things you’ve told him do seem to be made up, though. For instance, you were the culprit behind the plane crash and while he’d love to picture a sunsetting sky with the two of you floating in the breeze, you’re not going to be piloting that jet. However, he has to give you a break because he’s never flown anything other than pixelated aircrafts, especially aircrafts that contain a deadly monster oozing toxic gas that turns people into zombies. Yeah, he couldn’t quite believe that either.

“On your left!” The sound of your voice snaps him back into focus and he realizes there are four zombified citizens barreling your way. “I could use some help here!”

You definitely don’t need his help. For God’s sake you have a shotgun the size of your leg that’s already mowed down three of them and Nagi’s just barely getting used to the sound of the bang. So far he’s pretty much been useless if not for letting you know what’s coming up in the distance, and also being the absolute last resort solution— which is rare, but oh shit it’s happening right now! You’re out of shells! How exactly does he fire this thing again?

Shakily, he attempts to point his handgun in the direction of the lone zombie bounding towards you. “Deep breaths, Nagi! Focus and aim!” Your words of encouragement are appreciated, but ultimately useless as he desperately starts stray shooting.

“Fucking aim!” You’re losing your patience for him so fast, to which he tries his best to calm down and breathe.

In and out.

His heart rate begins to slow.

Breathe and concentrate.

His eyes become unclouded by his anxiety, and his vision clears.

Lock on.

He has a mark on the target.

With his pistol’s aim assist shining against the zombie’s forehead, he confidently fires a single bullet. It soars through the air, squealing in its flight, and he lets out a sigh of relief…a sigh that he exhaled far too early.

Aw shit, he missed.

You grunt, bracing yourself against his bullet that ricochets off of the nearby telephone pole and grazes your right arm. He has a clear view of the scarlet blood dripping down your elbow and onto the pavement, and his heart feels heavy. He’s so fucking useless that he’s injuring you. Nagi doesn’t think it’s even possible to be worse at flirting than him; he can’t imagine that there are many guys who are accidentally shooting the girl they like, yet here he is.

Thankfully, you being the badass agent you are, you’ve managed to reload your eleven shells of ammo in the time it took for him to fire one bullet— and you easily dissolve the zombie to bits and pieces.

“Your aim can use a little work.” You snort, brushing your fingers against the small wound.

He rips the sleeve of his t-shirt off and attempts to wrap it around your arm. This is what you’re supposed to do, right? The only training he’s had in the medical field is from that one surgeon simulator game he played in middle school, and to be completely honest, it was a pretty good game! However, he’s definitely doing something wrong because you place your hand over his and show him how to properly treat an open wound. Normally, Nagi would be embarrassed that he’s failing so miserably right now— but honestly, the only thing on his mind is how this is the first time you’ve held his hand. He can’t tell if there are butterflies in his stomach or if the smell of blood is triggering vomit. Hopefully the former.

It’s no surprise that your perceptive self notices his focus on your intertwined hands, to which you take the lead and insist on pushing forward. “As romantic as this is, we should find some shelter before we get eaten in the midst of making out.”

Oh?

“You want to make out with me?”

Oof that slap hurt. His priorities clearly don’t align with yours.

“Okay, okay.” Nagi holds his hands up in surrender before you can smack his chest for a second time, and he’s finally able to notice your surroundings. Since when was the Mikage Buildingright behind you? Hm…the imminent fear of death must have distracted him. “My best friend’s family owns this tower here. I promise it’s safe.”

Your gaze narrows at the wall of glass windows that are seemingly spotless. There isn’t a single crack, faulty line, or zombie-sized hole that’s visible to the naked eye and he feels a little swell of pride for Reo’s family. Yeah, that’s right! My best friend’s parent’s architects are great at making buildings! It finally seems like he’s had his first good idea of the night, and Nagi couldn’t be more proud. Progress is progress (even if he shot you in the process)!

“It looks good.” You nod in approval and begin cautiously making your way towards the doors.

While following closely behind, he watches your back and ensures that there’s no one on your trail; which isn’t difficult in the slightest. Most of the civilians have died by now and you’ve already cleared every undead in the area…without his help. He doesn’t know how he managed to be so lucky that he ended up with you, but he’s grateful for every second— and now that you’re finally in his familiar territory, he can finally show you what he’s worth.

“There’s an elevator up these steps.” Nagi leads you up the grand staircase, remembering how he lazily trotted down it yesterday after Reo tried, once again, to convince him to join his football club. “I think it’ll work, I know they have emergency systems and everything.”

“I don’t know, Nagi…” your voice trails off, something amiss about it. “I just have a weird feeling about this place.”

“I promise Reo’s family’s going to take care of us, they’re the best.” He deflects your concerns, trusting that his friend will pull through and have some crazy solution to save the world. There’s never been a time where he couldn't count on Reo and as soon as you reach the top of these steps, you’ll agree. The text he sent out asking for help is almost delivered, just a few more seconds and that blue line will slide all the way to the right and Reo will be right down the elevator as soon as possible. 3…2…1…sent! There! You’ll both be saved!

But if Reo’s on the top floor in his room…why did his ringtone ding just meters away?

There’s a corpse laying in front of the elevator doors, mangled and bruised. How did Nagi not notice it before? Was he too distracted thinking of his closest and only friend he’s ever had? No way. The security team must have destroyed all of the zombies in the building already, he’s sure Reo and the others are fine— but why does that body look so familiar?

No.

It can’t be him.

Three steps away.

There’s got to be some kind of mistake here. A prank right?

Two steps away.

He can’t be dead. His best friend can’t be dead!

One.

“No…” With his voice trembling, he stands over his best friend’s body. Reo’s violet hair is drenched in blood, seemingly resembling the color of a plum rather than the typical lavender hue. If it were a normal day, Nagi would laugh at the awful color— telling his partner in crime that the shade didn’t suit him in the slightest and Reo would laugh in annoyance, aiming a ball straight for the taller boy’s head…but this isn’t a normal day. This is the end of the world; and that beautiful lavender flower that Nagi associated with his teammate is wilting. It’s dying. It’s dead along with the heartbeat within it. Reo is dead.

“Nagi. I need you to step back slowly.” He spins to see you with your barrel aimed at Reo’s corpse, but he can’t seem to move. It’s almost as if he’s been stunned, frozen in place with frostbite cementing his legs to the granite floors, and mouth encased in ice. He’s so overwhelmed that he can’t even open his mouth to give you a warning that there’s something moving behind you. Why can’t he speak? He needs to tell you! However, right when his teeth quiet their jitter, you’re tackled to the ground with a loud pummel.

Immediately, gunshots ring out in the grand hall. You’re firing in every direction in an attempt to blast off your opponent, but this zombie is particularly agile and you don’t have much room to move with your large shotgun…looking back in retrospect, giving Nagi your only handgun wasn’t the greatest idea.

“C’mon!” Repeatedly, you call out to him, but he remains paralyzed in fear. “Stop being useless!”

He watches as you struggle to wrestle off the infected woman, grunting and groaning with every punch you deal to its face. The skin on her cheeks is almost a greyish shade, discolored and decaying with a potent smell that burns his nostrils. It’s hard to tell who’s who under the blanket of shadows she’s trapped you under, but occasionally he catches a glimpse of golden eyes that tell him the zombie is still alive.

Somehow, with your almost supernatural raw strength, you’re able to hook your thighs around the zombie’s neck— pinning it down to the pearly floors and trapping it beneath your weight. It claws and cries out, desperately trying to escape your grasp, and Nagi almost feels bad for it. Just a few hours ago, this woman had a life. A real life that she likely looked forward to living every day; and now she’s nothing but a brainless carnivore with cannibalistic intentions. She could’ve been a mother. There could be a little boy out there missing her and waiting for her to come home, tell him that he’s safe, and that everything is going to be alright. When was the last time Nagi talked to his own mother? Why does he deserve to live and this woman doesn’t? Why is he so special that he was saved, while the rest of Tokyo was left to rot?

It isn’t fair.

None of it is fair.

He doesn’t deserve to live. He doesn’t deserve to be here.

He’s taken his life for granted from the moment he learned to walk. Why should you be wasting your time trying to get him to safety when he’s nothing more than absolutely useless? He needs to help.

He needs to be brave…

…but he misses his chance once more.

Letting out a wailing scream, you muster up enough energy to crush the woman’s head between your thighs, and Nagi is splattered with blood and guts. He doesn’t know how you’re so strong— it’s almost eerie in a way— but he’s more concerned with the state of your well-being. The look of exhaustion in your eyes acts as a glaring sun against his icy posture, and his feet are thawed from the floor, rushing towards you in mere seconds.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he kneels on the ground before you and cups your face closely, “Hey— hey, don’t close your eyes. I’m right here. Please stay awake.” Nagi doesn’t think his voice has ever been so gentle nor has he ever felt this kind of worry for a girl before. Sure, he hasn’t known you for long, but he knows he can’t go on without you. You’re a team and a team sticks together. You can’t die right here! He’s not going to allow that!— but before he can lift you up like the knight in shining armour he wishes he could be, there’s a faint rustling behind him…a familiar rustling. Nagi knows that sound. He knows those movements. He’s heard them a million times and he’d be able to recognize them even in the midst of Shibuya Crossing in the busy hours.

Where did Reo’s body go?

Perhaps it dissolved or maybe it was kicked aside in the midst of your fight.

That has to be it, right? Where else could he be?

Nagi’s confusion is understandable. He’s thinking rationally given the circumstances and his heartbeat is somewhat steady. The mass of his body hovers over yours in a protective stance, like a dragon guarding a princess, and for once he appears to be confident. However, that confidence has been set aflame. He can feel his blood racing, burning through his veins in fear and distress, and he wishes he could simply rip his vitals from his skin to destroy the wretched emotions. The sight before him is something out of a horror movie…a horror movie where Nagi is the main character.

“Oh fuck.”

Reo leaps out of the shadows before Nagi can even react.

There’s a blur of hands and feet, hitting and kicking at each other, and the snow haired boy never knew he was this agile. Reo is clearly doing his best to hit Nagi’s vital arteries; to which he’s blocking each attack with his forearms. This is chaos. He doesn't even have a second to think for himself and consider the possibility of blasting Reo’s head off with his handgun. He can’t do that…this is his best friend!

As Nagi’s leg lines up to knock him off his feet, Reo lunges down and grabs a hold of it. In a panic, he attempts to shake his friend off— wiggling his leg up and down whilst reaching for his combat knife in his back pocket— and slices the skin in between Reo’s forearm and bicep…which is ultimately ineffective. Oh, shit he just got angrier! Growling, zombie-fied Reo clasps his hands around Nagi’s waist, lifting him off the ground with ease and throwing him into the elevator doors. The sound of his body slamming against the metal slab rings out, echoing in the grand foyer and deafening Nagi’s left ear. His breathing is heavy and he feels like he can’t get a single ounce of air in his lungs. Everything seems to be blurry, foggy with mist covering his irises as he attempts to see what’s right in front of him.

A carnivorous Reo…

…and an unconscious you.

It’s clear to him what’s going on. There are two outcomes to this horrific situation and whatever decision Nagi makes is going to impact the rest of his life.

1.) Let you go and join the afterlife with his best friend.

2.) Save you and never see his best friend again.

His heart is at war within himself. One side fighting for Reo, the boy he’s known for so long. The boy he’s laughed and cried with. The boy who knows everything about him. The boy who believed in him when no one else did…until you came along.

Just the thought of seeing your lifeless eyes, bloodied body, and severed limbs flips a switch inside him— and Nagi finally comes to realize what’s happening. This isn’t Reo. This shell of a man with a monstrous hunger isn’t his best friend. Reo is a ghost now. He doesn’t exist anymore and now his body is being possessed by the undead, or whatever zombies are. He can miss his friend all he wants, but that doesn’t change the fact that the thing creeping towards you is nothing but a stranger who knows all of Nagi’s secrets.

It’s time for him to fight to live.

As he swiftly stands and tackles Reo to the floor, a wave of memories flash before Nagi’s eyes.

The moment he first heard Reo’s voice. It was light and friendly. He had used a tone that Nagi hadn’t ever heard before, and although he had no interest in playing soccer, he still wanted to impress the popular boy— not because he wanted a higher status or a girlfriend, but because he knew this stranger needed a friend…and he really needed a friend, too.

His palms grip Reo’s throat, ripping him off of your body.

The first time Reo laughed at something he said. It wasn’t intended to be funny, but the plum-haired boy couldn’t help but burst into a fit of giggles and Nagi found himself laughing as well. Sitting in the school courtyard, side-by-side with crumbling onigiri falling from their mouths, there’s no doubt that they looked like two elementary schoolers finding humor in something obscurely immature— but despite that, it’s one of his fondest memories.

Reo struggles against Nagi’s weight, pinned to the floor with nowhere to run.

When he’d first shown him his concerningly large collection of video games, Reo hadn’t batted an eye. In fact, the very next day, Nagi received a friend request from him. Which seemed like a small act at the time, until he found out that Reo had gone to the tech store and purchased an entire PC set up just so he could be the Player 2 to Nagi’s Player 1. They were partners in both the real and virtual world— an unstoppable pair that won more tournaments as time went on— and Nagi will never clean out his xbox inventory filled with their trophies.

His finger grazes the trigger.

This is it.

No more memories.

It’s time to say goodbye.

In movies, when the protagonist has to kill their loved one, a single tear rolls down their cheek.

For Nagi, his face drowns in his cries.

“I’m sorry.”

He’s gone.

“I love you.”

Reo’s body dissolves into ash…

…then dust…

…then nothing.

“I’m so sorry.”

PART TWO COMING IN THE NEAR FUTURE (i’m a slow writer pls forgive me)

⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⊹₊｡ reblogs are greatly appreciated! ˚₊⊹

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mortalslit · 3 months

Text

Masterlist;

Video games: 🎬

Obey me!

Call Of Duty MW2

Genshin Impact

Honkai Star Rail

Twisted wonderland

What in Hell is Bad? (whb)

Anime: 🎬

Jujutsu Kaisen

Hell's paradise

Devilman crybaby

Link Click

Manga: 🖇️

Bungo stray dogs

Midnight Clubbing sex

Sayonara red Beryl

Love hug therapy

Therapy game

Senpai, this can't be love

Agents of the four seasons

Age Matters

Wotakoi

The dangerous Convenience store

Midnight delivery sex

Love and let die

Series: 🖇️

Virgin Pool

Horny hours

Highest Bidder

Oblivious Waters

Carnal Pleasures

Sluts Of Sorrow

Poisoned by four

Hunting Winters

Husband's Without Hope

Other;

Slytherin boys

Banners; @mieczyslawn, @sharmanswife

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madschiavelique · 1 year

Text

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ . ★ . ჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻

<< Click here if you want to go back to chapter 1

Choice B : Accept and take a shor tour of the surrounding area

content warnings : none word count : 1,7k masterlist of the fic : here.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ . ★ . ჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻

It has to be said that you don't know much about the city, just as you don't know anyone here apart from your caretaker. Getting closer to Hobie and becoming his friend would be really reassuring in such an unfamiliar environment.

What about the delivery men? Well, they'd leave your things with the concierge, who'd keep them safe until you got back. It's no big deal, maybe you could even ask Hobie to help you put your stuff back together.

"I'm in, " you confirm.

"OK, let's start with the most important thing."

So the first destination is the music store. Hobie obviously knows the salesman well. So you learn that he belongs to - or rather is a member of, given that he wants to detach himself from any affiliation whatsoever - a band. You find out a bit more about the group, how he's the lead guitarist and that his friend Gwen, who's also a student at your university, is the drummer.

The next destination is a small, inexpensive convenience store. He knows there's a mall not too far away, but since every temple of consumerism is to be avoided at all costs, he shows you this one. You take the opportunity to do a bit of shopping in his presence, just to fill your fridge and cupboards up a bit so you don't go hungry tonight and tomorrow morning.

You share a packet of biscuits as he shows you the bar where he and Gwen tend to perform. He greets the waiters, people seem to generally like him, although the looks he gets thrown his way aren't always appreciative. But of course these same glances go right over his head, he doesn't give a damn.

The visit continues, the two of you chatting and laughing. The sun covers you both in orange as you finally reach the front door of your building, observing it. It's obviously not your first time here, but you can't help but feel that this place is going to be your home.

"Are you free for the next five minutes?" you ask Hobie.

"I'm free for the rest of my life," he corrects, "but I'm available now if that's what you're asking."

You tell him about the plan to move your boxes upstairs, and he agrees. The relief of not having to go back and forth between all the floors runs way too many times travels through your arms, encouraging them to hold on for the few weights you'll have to carry.

You swipe your building badge over the sensor and enter the Hall. You knock on the concierge's door, and he opens it and smiles at you. He's a kindly old man with a smile that never leaves his face.

"Ah, there you are. I tried to hold back the delivery boys because I didn't know if you'd arrive at the same time as them, but I didn't manage it," he says with a little shrug.

"It doesn't matter," you assure him. "My friend here is going to help me bring it all up." Hobie gives a little wave.

Although your concierge is old, he doesn't seem in the least bit shocked or judgmental of Hobie's style.

"What a nice gesture on your part, young man," he smiles as he goes out and grabs his set of keys. "I've had the boxes placed in one of the cubbyholes.

He guides you to the storage area and opens it, revealing the six boxes that have been deposited in a narrow room.

"Here they are," he turns to you, "don't forget to come and see me when you've finished so I can close it again."

"Thank you very much," you say simply as you grab the first two stacked boxes, elevating them as best you can. "We won't take too long."

"Take all the time you need," he laughs as he walks away, "the building's not going anywhere soon."

So begins the little move of all your stuff.

You've managed to get everything upstairs, along with your groceries, and you're on the ground after all that effort. You hand him a bottle of water, still fresh from the shop.

"I can't thank you enough for your help," you breathe out as he takes a sip.

"Don't mention it, you're the least depreciating person I've met in a while."

The remark makes you smile.

"Well, that's not all, but I'm not going to stay long," he says as he stands up, rubbing his hands together as if to dust them off.

You take him back downstairs, you exchange numbers, and he says goodbye one last time before leaving. You tell the concierge that you've finished your little move, and head back upstairs to your flat. It's empty, and while you still have a bit of energy left, you decide to inflate your mattress.

You don't have an air pump, so you have to use your mouth. During your interminable, head-spinning puffing session, you think back over the day, your meeting with the teachers who seem to be really great, and the very pleasant late afternoon you've had...

Oh, but you haven't met your neighbour yet! Perhaps it's time you pay him a visit and introduce yourself.

You quickly finish inflating your mattress and get up. You have nothing to offer for your arrival, and hope that it won't spoil your meeting.

You check your appearance in the bathroom mirror, just to make sure you look presentable, and leave your flat to take just a few steps to the opposite landing.

You knock on the door. You wonder what kind of neighbour you're going to have; all you know is that it's a man who lives there.

There's no way it's going to be someone too old on these floors, which reassures you. If you ever invited someone to your flat, like friends for a simple party, not necessarily with loud music, he'd be more understanding.

Another student perhaps? It wasn't impossible, on the contrary. The rent here wasn't too expensive surprisingly, and it was well placed for the university. If your neighbour was indeed someone around your age or a student, that would be reassuring.

But the man who opened the door for you was neither, and your heart froze by a burn along with your whole body.

A man in his late twenties, with your head barely reaching his shoulders, opened the door. His brown hair, swaying between the wet and dry of the shower he'd finished two minutes ago, fell over his brown eyes, which looked at you quizzically.

His towel in hand, still rubbing his hair, gives you a glimpse not only of his contracted biceps, which must easily approach the size of your own head, but also of the veins running down the back of his hand.

When your eyes return to his, he is still waiting for you to explain the reason for your visit.

"Hello," you greet, pulling yourself together as your mind hurries to rearrange your heart in your chest instead of your eyes, you present yourself with your name before you add “I've just moved into the flat next door," you point to it with your thumb behind your shoulder, your door still open.

He suddenly seems to understand and opens his lips to nod an Ah.

"Welcome," he says, holding out his hand, "I'm Miguel O'Hara."

Miguel, then, you think. But your thoughts go blank as you grab his hand and squeeze, the size of it almost completely encompassing yours.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr O'Hara," you smile.

"Please, call me Miguel," he says, leaning against the doorway of his flat, crossing his arms.

Is it even human to have so much beauty and aura that attracts you? Is it because of your air session with the mattress that you feel this way, or is it the effect he gives you that makes your head spin and sends stars to the back of your skull ?

"Have you got it all arranged yet?" he questions, pointing to your door with his chin.

"No, no, I haven't," you sigh, "All I've got at the moment is a humble air mattress."

"No box spring?" he asks, frowning.

"No, I'm hoping for a proper mattress in a month's time, along with a chest of drawers and some shelves. Once the movers have put everything in place, it'll be a nice little craft day for me," you joke softly.

"If you need any help, I could help you put it all together," he offers.

You're slightly surprised, the kindness and politeness with which you're chatting putting you at ease. You wouldn't have expected such generosity when you first arrived here.

Decidedly, this educational renewal was perhaps the best decision you ever made in your life to cross paths with so many nice people.

"I don't want to be a bother," you say, wrinkling your nose.

"No, really, I insist," he smiles.

Your eyebrows raise slightly, and you smile not politely this time but sincerely.

"Very well then," you say, biting the inside of your cheek. "I don't know how to thank you for this."

"No te preocupes," he says, waving it off gracefully.

A beep and a buzz sound. Miguel pulls his mobile out of his pocket, and sighs, a sudden look of exasperation placed on his face.

"Duty calls. Speaking of which, can you give me your number? It'll be easier if you ever have a problem."

Two phone numbers in one day? That's a miracle.

"Of course," you say, taking the phone he's holding out to you and putting your contact on it.

Your fingers slightly graze each other, and the single feeling of it creates sparks in your hand.

You hand it back to him, he taps it, and a few seconds later you receive a simple "It's me.”

"I wonder who that could be," you joke as he smiles slightly and you save his number.

"It was nice to meet you," he says as he gives you one last wave, pronouncing your name with a smile on his lips, grabbing his door handle.

"Likewise, Miguel," you smile as you step back towards your door.

His door closes and you enter your flat.

You could only think of one thing: the way your name sounded from his lips.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ . ★ . ჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻

Common end >>

#madschiavelique ☾⋆｡☁︎ ﾟ #☁︎ ⋆₊ ⊹ oxytocin✦love ᥫ᭡

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currytantou · 2 months

Text

[translation] Mayonaka Danshi Meshi audio drama / s1ep1 CVs: Uchiyama Kouki & Itou Kento

do not repost or use my translations! link back if you want to share. partial screenshot it allowed but blatant copy/paste is prohibited

Also x-posted on my wordpress page

Watch/listen here

0:12 (sound of typing on keyboard) Email to the other side…done. Documents for tomorrow…done. (watch beeps) Oh! Just in time. Alright, then! (clicks mouse then gets up) Hashida is signing off! Good work everyone.

0:50 What’s for dinner tonight? (phone vibrates) Yes, it’s Hashida. Thank you for your patronage. Yes.. (footsteps receding) Oh, the quotation estimate? Yes. I can confirm that on my side. Is it urgent? I can get to it. I’ll send it to you soon so please wait a moment.

(phone beeps) Change of direction, huh? Well, that can’t be helped.

1:35 Shoot. That took longer than expected. Can I make it in time before the store closes? My fridge is pretty much empty. At this rate, I might have to settle with eating box lunch from the convenience store. Please, make it in time! No, I’ll make sure to make it!

Ahh, I can’t make it! What to have for dinner? Should I just compromise today? Nah, I’m in the mood for Japanese food thanks to what I had for lunch. I’m not giving up now. I’ve no other choice. I’ll have to detour and go to the supermarket on the other side of the river.

2:29 No way…. How is this possible? I went to three different supermarkets and the fact that each of them ran out of vegetables… I was stubborn and ended up wasting my time. Should’ve used my time for something more worthwhile if I knew this would happen. (sighs) No point regretting over the past. Sometimes, incidents like this happen. Convenience- nah, I’ll settle with instant noodles today.

3:12 Finally home. It’s quite late already. Hmm, postage and letters.. hm? A delivery, eh? I got stuff delivered to me… That’s quite a big box. Oh? It’s from grandma! Huh? Did I ask her something?

I’m back~ (walks with the box and then opens the door) Heigh-ho..! That was quite heavy. What did grandma send me? (tears the tape) These are..! Lotus root, burdock and carrot! And plenty more! Oh, great! This box is full with veggies from back home! Feels as if grandma saw through me today! Talk about timing. Hm? Hold on. (checks fridge) Chicken and konjac jelly. Alright! I got ‘em. I can do this! I can make grandma’s chikuzenni with these ingredients. I don’t have to give up on eating Japanese dish! Thanks, grandma.

Still, I haven’t had chikuzenni in a while since I left home. I hope I can pull this off. Anyway, I just gotta try.

5:20 (pot boiling) First, pre boil the konjac jelly. I should prepare the rest of the ingredients in the meantime. Right. I should first peel the skin off. Get the carrot and lotus root done smoothly with this peeler. (peels veggies) Taro’s skin is thick so I gotta use a knife instead. (sound of cutting against wooden cutting board. Next, burdock. Just washing ‘em with water is enough, I guess? (washes burdock) That’d do. Now, I gotta cut these guys up. (cuts)

Grandma did mention that cutting uniformly matters in stews. When they’re different, the ingredients don’t soak up the same amount of flavour. Good thing I remember that. (continues cutting) What’s left are taro and soaked shiitake. Bite size cut would do.

7:13 Alright. Time to cut these pre-boiled konjac jelly. Evenly cut the konjac…nah, maybe I should try shred it roughly with a spoon. The sections are rougher than when cut using a knife and apparently this way, they would soak the flavour even better…but oh well, I can’t wait to try it out.

(water runs) Also, grandma’s chikuzenni isn’t complete without this…ginger. Ginger really makes so much difference. I’m gonna shred this guy thinly. (sound of cutting against board) Whew. Pretty much done with the prep for now. Next is the chicken. (brings out pot)

Sesame oil goes inside the pot and heats it up. (switches on gas) Add chicken and stir fry until the colour changes. (pot sizzles)

8:47 I guess this would do..? Then, I just gotta add the veggies that I cut earlier into the pot. (sizzles) Stir them until everything is covered in oil. Hm! This fragrant sesame oil aroma! How appetizing. Hm. Looking good. Almost ready. Add the water from soaked shiitake, sake, mirin, soy sauce, sugar and finally, ba-bam! Thinly sliced ginger! Ugh! What am I doing? Alright. What’s left is to let it simmer well. Hm? I feel like I forgot something…? Oh, a lid! Gotta cover it with a lid. Without it, the flavour would be uneven.

(covers pot with a lid) That’d do. Hold on. I forgot the bean to garnish with at the end. I should boil some in the meantime. (sound of water running, metal pot and gas being turned on)

Hmm. About twenty minutes until it’s ready, eh? Right.. I made quite a huge serving. Maybe I should let Akira eat some. Bet he’s eating junk either way.

10:30 (pot boiling) Alright. About time it’s done. I wonder how it’d turn out? Whoa. Looks good. Salty-sweet aroma. This is the best! (turns off the stove)

(door opens then closes) Sudou: Yo~ Hashida: Oh, you’re here? Sudou: Hashi, this is not like back home. You better lock the door. Hashida: Oh, sorry. I forget sometimes. Well, not like I have anything worth stealing. Sudou: One thought he’s guarded but it’s the other way. Hashi, that side of you really never changes. Hashida: Really? I don’t think I am that unguarded. Sudou: Oh, whatever. That aside. That smells really good. Stew? Hashida: Correct. I made chikuzenni today. Using the recipe from my granny. Sudou: Wow, seriously? How delightful. Makes me feel excited. Hashida: You don’t look excited though. Well, that’s not important. I’m gonna garnish this so Akira, can you dish out the rice? Sudou: Okay~

(opens fridge) Hashida: I got some beer. You’re drinking? Sudou: Yeah. Bring ‘em out. Hashida: Hmph. Silly.

11:59 (arranges plates) Hashida: Alright. Now that everything’s ready. It’s time. Hashida & Sudou: Bon appetit.

(both started eating)

Hashida: Oh. The flavour soaked in nicely. Sudou: Hm. This is good. Hashida: I was right to tear the konjac with a spoon. They soak the flavour well and curl into a nice shape. Sudou: Hmm, that method is possible, eh? Actually, this really tastes like the one I had at Hashi’s grandma’s. That kinda makes me emotional. Hashida: Emotional? You’re exaggerating. Sudou: Nah, I mean it. Remember how Hashi’s family often feeds my younger brothers and I, since our pop’s always busy with work? So to me chikuzenni at Hashi’s place is what I consider a mom’s home cooking. Hashida: Oh, right. The only family I have is my grandma, after all. I suppose this meal is a mom’s home cooking. I’ve never thought of it that way. Sudou: You better appreciate her more. Hashida: I do! I mean, I don’t feel lacking despite the absence of parents. I’ve never felt lonely just because grandma’s the only family that I have. Hey, now! Don’t make me say something embarrassing! Sudou: Ah, I see. Hmm. I somehow get it. Hashida: Well, in other words, we should be thankful for the love from people around us. Sudou: Whoa. The way you worded it just screams old person. Hashida: Huh? Really? That was unintentional. But right, recently I do feel like I am an old man. Sudou: Hehe. Just kidding. If anything, you no longer seem immature. It’s crazy if you still act the same when you’re a brat. Hashida: I hope you’re right.

13:53 Sudou: Actually, having chikuzenni while talking about the past with you makes me feel like I just time slipped to when we’re kids. Hashida: Hehe! You’re right. We really played hard back then. It’s impressive how we didn’t get sick of it, even though we lived in the countryside. Sudou: Yeah. Oh, I’m recalling things. You’re quite popular among the girls since you’re casually nice to them. Hashida: Really? I think that’s normal. Sudou: How is that normal? Plenty of girls asked me to pass love letters to you. It was so annoying. Hashida: Ahh, that happened, eh? Heck, don’t be annoyed over something petty! Sudou: Nah, it was so annoying. You said you wanted to focus on the club and stuff. Turning them down half-assed. You’re making it awkward even for me too! How annoying. Hashida: You..! In that case, I’ve got something to say too! Did you forget how I had to let you sit on the back seat of my bicycle simply ‘cus you can’t ride it yourself? You can’t do that until 8th grade! There should be a limit to how unathletic one could be! Sudou: Not 8th. 7th grade! Hashida: Nah, you were in 8th grade! It’d be a problem if you still cannot cycle ‘cus we’re gonna commute to a further place in high school so I accompanied you to practice. Remember? Sudou: That was the 7th grade. Definitely not the 8th. Hashida: It’s not important! Sudou: It is. This involves my good name. Hashida: Heh. As always, you’re so oddly stubborn. Whatever. Uh, ah! Hey, Akira! You’re spilling so much! Gosh. Use this to wipe. You never grow out of it. Sudou: Oh, sorry. Hashida: I guess you can’t help when you stop focusing. But why can’t you control your mouth? You’re old enough, it’s about time you fix that habit. Sudou: Uh, you’re right. Hashida: Oh, almost out of beer. Should I bring more? Sudou: Hashi, I think you’re more like a ma than a pops…

Thanks for reading!!!!! I had this in draft since march lol :’) I translated this just because?? As a practice? Out of whim? lol anyways. This franchise is seriously underrated so pleaseee check it out. I doubt anyone translates this anyway so I did it. I hope this post let seiyuu fans who weren’t aware discover something new. So far, I’ve no plan to continue translating… (there’s four seasons. It’s hella long and I don’t think I can do this voluntarily) but commission is always welcomed!! ❤

#mayonaka danshi meshi #uchiyama kouki #itou kento #ito kento #seiyuu #curry translates

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kaiasky · 7 months

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alright so we're tasting the corn starch, as folks are wont to do. and its yuckynasty, and we really wish we had some water, right.

oh no problem, i say, it looks like theres a corner store right over there! ill go grab a bottle or two. and before anyone can protest, off i go! store time! store time!

but dear listener. this was no ordinary store. for u see, the inoffensively-named "dashmart" may have conjured images of a grab-and-go convenience store, when i arrived it quickly became clear what this was. which was that this was a ghost-kitchen-style pickup location for doordash delivery service grocery shopping. it is immediately clear this is a disaster because the delivery drivers are having to present their phone for pickup, get handed some bags, step aside and fiddle with their phones, then present them again, get a new bag, over and over.

i awkwardly sidle up to the window, point at the water bottles that i can see in the shelves behind the man at the pickup counter. "I know this is like, an app thing, but is there any chance I can just give you a $5 and buy a couple water bottles?" i know even before I ask the question that the answer will be no. of course not. i am at the inconvenience store.

fucking FINE, i will download your stupid fucking app. and make an account, and forgot-my-password, and paste the code into the code paster thing. hey wait why

the spinner boxes on the code inputs block the boxes. on the phone it is impossible to enter the code. you cant even see half of the number that you input.

fucking FINE. maybe the app is out of date. i promised it would be a quick jaunt and ive been gone 10 minutes by now. do i text these new friends "hello. this store is evil. i have not forgotten about you. i will return as soon as i can"? or is that weird. updating app. oh hey it works now, it's letting me input the new code. WRONG. "ERROR DETECTED: <some hex string>".

fucking god dammit. i can see the water bottle. i am holding a crisp fiver. which can be, exchanged, for goods. and services. fuck this shit. fuck everything that tech has ever touched. there is a water bottle 10 ft from where I stand and a man who would like to give it to me and neither of us can do this because some chucklefucks in silicon valley couldn't do javascript good.

i bottle up this annoyance. i rap on the window, hi hello i cannot seem to get the app or website to work. i know this is silly but. if i give you $5, can you order me two water bottles on the app,?

uhhh, the man says. there's a service fee, and also I'm not sure, I might get in trouble for accepting cash, just check your email and see if you got a code, or...

FUCK this shit, i realize. there is a Real Ass Gronchry Store naught but 4 blocks away. that will have real things like "shopping carts" and "checkout lines, or perhaps self checkout". if i had not bothered with your fucking APP i would be back at the park by now. ridiculous.

#kaia.mypost

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simzslayer · 5 months

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MODS DIRECTORY

(unfinished, completion in progress)

Utility mods (tuning mods that required for other mods to work)

Shared tuning required for lots of a.deep.indigo mods to work)

Shared Library (required for lots a.deep.indigo mods to work)

General pie menu (required for lots of a.deep.indigo mods to work)

P.S.O Shared library (required for lots of andirz mods)

Brazen Lotus Core Modules (The mod files here change in-game content so it works seamlessly with recipes, mods, and Brazen Delivery service)

Brazen Lotus Core Harvestables (This is the foundation for all harvestables)

Brazen Lotus Core Food & Drinks (foundation for all Food & Drink mods)

The MC Command Center (deaderpool-mccc.com) (mod that adds greater control to your Sims 4 game experience and NPC story progression options.)

Gameplay mods

Golden Years (expands some gameplay options available to Elder Sims)

Basemental Drugs (A collection of functional drugs for The Sims 4. The harsh realities and negatives of prolonged drug use is a key feature of the mod)

In-depth Emotions (A simple tuning mod to give all EA in-game emotions four intensity stages for storytelling.)

Smarter Self-Care V18 (This mod allows your household Sims and NPCs to take better care of their needs and hobbies before getting uncomfortable from their motives going too low.)

Tiredness Mod (Dark Circles/ Eye Redness) (With this mod, Sims in GAMEPLAY mode can now get dark circles and eye redness based on their energy levels.)

Whim Overhaul (This is an overhaul of the EA want system which enhances the chances for family based wants and tunes down wants to buy new stuff. Special wants for: pregnancy, elder life stage, childhood phases, lifestyles, preferences, careers...)

Work from home mod (in game careers can now be played and don't have to be rabbit holes all the time)

All of Katie Mods titled ; the one with (basically adds modular interactions between sims with a conversation aspect to them that will pop up at the top right of your screen)

KiaraSims4 Actives careers (adds a bunch of new active careers, no rabbithole for meh)

KiaraSims4 Custom Events (all of them you never know when you might need them hehe)

Work interactions pie menu (adds more work interactions when you work from a computer like write emails to coworkers)

Social interactions (new custom realistic interactions)

Small mods

More Premade Holidays (adds more premade holidays. BG compatible)

Friends and family activities (phone option to go do rabbit hole activies)

More logical interactions (adds logic to blicblock, programming, adds crossword puzzle to phone and tablet)

More Resolutions (add 9 new resolution to new years holiday)

Simulation Is Not Free (Daycare, Proposing, City Living Invites, Hospital Birth, and After School Activities now cost money.)

Summer Camps (child and teen sims go to camp for a week during summer, rabbithole)

Steady Sit & Seat Any Sim (provide a relatively more "steady" sitting experience for your sims and others too)

Purchase Medecine from phone (All existing medicines from all packs and all known mods in a convenient pharmacy app and in the pharmacy kiosk of new generation.)

Simsim Online Store (buy lots of fun items from your phone, anywhere!)

Universal venue list (The only venue list you’ll ever need.)

Water Sources (This adds new functional objects for collecting and gathering water on lots that are Off-the-Grid)

Better CAS randomization (small tuning mod to lower the chance of using makeup and accessories in CAS randomizing Sims)

Sims Qualities V3 ("Sims Qualities" works like the Sims 2 personality, which is split into 5 scopes: activeness, cleanliness, niceness, outgoingness, and playfulness.)

Strength and Weakness Preferences (Each strength/weakness determines how fast a class of skill can be gained)

Instant CAS Story Preferences (This mod allows you to pick a newly made Sim’s initial skill levels, career levels, and graduated university degrees in the CAS preferences section)

FruitySim Phone Dating App (phone dating app based on affinities and desired relationship types! 🎉)

Helaene - Emotional Socials (This mod adds 60+ new social interactions which are dependent on your Sim's emotional state.)

PreferencesPlus (This mod provides dozens of new preferences (hobbies, interests, venues, outfits, personal, food types, drinks and flavors)

Better Autonomous Homework

Overrides

Map Replacement (Overrides the world maps to more detailed ones)

Coffee mug override (mug and latte art)

Offered rose (overrides the rose given in the give rose romantic interaction)

BG diner food retextures (overrides basegame diner redipes to look more realistic)

Phone case override (changes your sims phone for a more realistic one)

Gift override (change the box of the gift interaction for a cuter one, bg compatible)

Cleaning spray (lemon)

Breakfast food overhaul (retextured all base game breakfast food)

Scrub Father Sponge Replacement (Sims 4 Default Sponge Replacement)

Pizza Party Retexture Pack (pizza retextures)

Food Retexture Pack 3 (Lunches)

Food Retexture Pack 2 (Quick Meals)

Food Retexture Pack 1

Nap pose replacement

Selfie overrides (overrides poses for paired and solo selfies)

tau1tvec blood bag retexture

tau1tvec vibrant knitting

simkatu flower arrangement replacement

simkatu book cover def. replacements

Horse texture override

K-hippies overrides (I have terrain, walls, foundation, in-world items overrides. Depending on the world I play in, it is quite a heavy mod so I interchange depending on where I play in the worlds)

High School Cafeteria Override 🍎 (sims in High School order more realistic meals at lunch time)

More Cafe Foods - override GT add on

Ice Cream Shop Override - Highschool EP

ThrifTea ~ Bubble Tea Counter Override

Custom Events

Game Night Event (play board games with guests n stuff)

Food mods

Amellce Recipes (custom recipes)

Brazen Lotus Recipes

Finjing food starter kit (custom asian recipes)

Icemunmun recipes

Grannies Cookbook

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team-sanvich2 · 1 year

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Edit: updated image

Cosmetics from the workshop used:

spiked collar: Dogs of War by users void~ and Dica Dan

Chain around neck: Mommy's Little Monster by users WhyDo II Yikes, Pheディア, shinon, : )

This is my first ever post on this blog about my art, I hope you all enjoy it.

For a while, I had my own vision of certain characters of TF2, and while the game doesn't show that, I am still a firm believer that the RED and BLU teams have completely different personalities from each other, so I might start a series of drawings of my own version of the RED and BLU team, taking into consideration the comics, the videos made by valve, among other sources that will be credited when due.

Anyway, the story is under "read more"

Antonie, the BLU Scout, lived through most of his life in a wooden cabin in Alaska with his father, he had no idea of what happened to his mother, and his father never knew how to answer his question, all he had that was of her possession was a letter addressed to him of when he was left by the door of their house.

At 14 years old, to help out in the money department at home, as the cabin was slowly falling apart, the heater was hanging on for dear life and his father was working extra hours at night, the young boy went to the small town near the cabin, Kupreanof, and entered a small market place that hasn't had any products delivered to them in a week, Antonie takes the job of getting those supplies, with nothing but a baseball bat and his cold weather gear.

Once there, the problem made itself clear as day, a group of thieves had installed themselves in the facility, where the workers were being held hostage and no items were being delivered. Scout tried several times to sneak in, however, nothing seemed to work, either the thieves would see or hear him coming, or he could not find an entrance to infiltrate the place in the first place.

The time was running out and he had a payment to grab, so, as he ran out of options, he also ran and barged into the place, avoiding bullets and knocking some of the people out with the baseball bat, he grabbed one of the boxes that had the address of the mini market and with a sudden burst of adrenaline, Antonie made it to the small convenient store with the items, he received his payment and returned home with a big smile on his face.

For the rest of his time on this job, Antonie had developed his speed gracefully, the local delinquents never managed to catch him, either he was too fast, or he would run into the dense woods, where he had spent most of his time in his childhood, so he knew it like the back of his hand.

In one of these deliveries, at 21 years old, he had to deliver a package of some ammo to a storage facility on the outskirts near the water, even with his gut feeling telling him no, he needed the money. Once he arrived, the people waiting there were two women and his father.

The older woman called herself The administrator and told Antonie that he had formidable skills that could be used in a team she was building for BLU Corp, he would not only receive training on how to handle his "extra activities", but he would still do what he was doing but receive in double, and both he and his father would be living in more stable conditions, after all, two employees are better than one, getting the revelation of what his father was actually doing for a living.

BLU Corp had paid for the two men to fly to the base, which was also near the water and it was cold and very industrial, and thus, Antonie was now The Scout.

#Art Fortress 2 #BLU team #BLU Scout

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igotbulletproof-insomnia · 10 months

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Time Lord X TXT

This is basically me imagining if Hueningkai as a Time Lord, with Taehyun, Beomgyu, Yeonjun, and Soobin as his companions. A bit of crack treated seriously, if you will. As such this is written more as a summary/retelling, kind of scene-by-scene. I might write more. I might not. We’ll see.

So, we start with Taehyun and a slightly older male; he looks to be in his late twenties or early thirties. The two of them enter what looks like a medbay, and Taehyun is panicking. His demeanor is calm, he’s asking questions and offering solutions, but his hands are shaking and his words are coated in a thin layer of defeat. The older man is dying, and Taehyun can’t save him. But the older man smiles, bittersweet, and comforts Taehyun. He gives a brief explanation of regeneration, reassuring his friend that he’ll be the same person, just different. And then his skin is glowing, his features are morphing, and he’s changing in front of Taehyun’s eyes.

Now, we meet Yeonjun. He’s checking his socials, sharing his latest Youtube upload. He’s a mildly successful influencer with a sizeable following, but he doesn’t make enough money to live off of the internet alone. Accounts updated, Yeonjun checks the kitchen for food. His cousin, Beomgyu lays across the sofa, also scrolling social media. He whines about a friend of his who hasn’t had much time for him this semester. They shared almost all of their classes together, but it seemed like he just couldn’t be bothered to spend his free time together. Yeonjun listens while checking the cabinet and fridge. They’re all empty save for some spices and a nearly expired bottle of gochujang. He checks his bank account to see a few dollars, enough to ramen for the next few days until his ad revenue arrives.

On his way to the convenience store, a kid falls onto him. He’s giant, an almost stocky build and just as tall as Yeonjun, but a baby face, so it’s hard to place his age. Yeonjun thinks it’s safe to assume they’re in the same age group. So the kid seems to have passed out, which is probably why he crashed into Yeonjun. Yeonjun tries to wake him up, but he’s unresponsive. Yeonjun doesn’t exactly have money to pay for a cab right now, so he puts the kid on his back, buys a few fever tablets and enough ramen to last him and his cousins for the night, and takes the kid home.

Yeonjun passes by Taehyun, returning from the local pharmacy with an assortment of flu medicines and fever reducers. He doesn't know what he’s doing, is just getting off the phone with his mother, but he’s determined to nurse his Time Lord friend, Kai, back to health. He’s feeling confident about this task until he approaches the TARDIS, parked around the corner from a convenience store, to find the door open. Running inside, Taehyun finds the medbay is empty. He asks the ship to run a scan, hoping Kai has just wandered off somewhere else inside. Unfortunately for him, he gets a CCTV replay of Kai wandering out of the TARDIS, dazed and feverish.

Back home, Yeonjun unceremoniously drops the kid he found off onto the sofa. It’s late afternoon, going into early evening, so he calls his Jin-hyung and asks if he needs another delivery boy for the night. He starts to boil water for his ramen and agrees to come into the restaurant within the next hour. Soobin comes home and asks about the kid on his sofa. Immediately, he takes responsibility for his health, grabbing a wet towel to keep on his forehead and an icepack from the freezer. He tries to coax him awake to drink water; the kid becomes aware enough to not choke, but he’s still half asleep and can’t answer any questions. Yeonjun takes the opportunity to ask Soobin to watch over the kid while he goes to work. They talk about finances and bills for a moment, just communicating so that they’re on the same page and no one takes on a responsibility someone else already claimed.

Here, we cut to Beomgyu leaving a cafe with his friend, Jimin. The two of them say their goodbyes before he sees Taehyun, looking frustrated and lost. Taehyun is out searching for Kai, following a seldom-used sonic tool the Time Lord doesn’t normally bother with. He’s trying to use the setting to find a non-human/non-earthling, and, well, it’s working too well, if not efficiently. So the two of them continue tracking down what amounts to every intelligent, non-human life form within a certain radius, and it keeps leading them to every alien except for Kai. It’s chaotic, but fun. It’s clear the two of them have missed spending time together.

Yeonjun has been running deliveries for a while now. He drops an order off with a gruff looking man and picks up the returned dishes from the floor in front of the apartment door. In the process, he finds what looks like a small stuffed toy with a keyring around its wrist. He knocks on the door and asks the man inside if it belongs to him and receives a blank look in response. It was found between the dishes and the wall, so if the man won’t claim it, Yeonjun decides that he will. He grins at the cute trinket and attaches it to his own keyring, then clips the set to his belt. As he bikes off, the little bear seems to sigh with relief.

Taehyun and Beomgyu keep up their search for another hour or two. It’s getting darker and the aliens they’re running into are beginning to seem more and more threatening. They call it quits just when they run into a small group of aliens discussing a hostage and ransom situation they’ve set up, and how some human has gone and helped the being escape. The aliens are big, burly, humanoid and pissed, planning to sell said human on an intergalactic black market for interfering. Taehyun believes this is the lead they need to continue chasing, Kai’s name is written all over this scheme. However, it’s late and Beomgyu insists they go home to sleep. He’s tired and it won’t be easy to keep their wits if they’re falling asleep on themselves, even the aliens are retiring for the night. Reluctantly, Taehyun agrees, only because he interrupts his own argument with a yawn.

At home, the kid on the sofa is still asleep. Beomgyu startles at the sight, but ultimately shrugs off his hyungs’ antics. He checks his messages as he prepares for bed, and for once there’s a message from Taehyun, saying thanks for his help and setting a meeting time and place for their adventure in the morning. Beomgyu is giddy with the prospect of playing with his friend again in the morning. Yeonjun comes into the apartment soon after and checks on the kid, changing the cold towel on his forehead and exchanging the icepack under his back. Yeonjun shows off the little plush he found, and it’s noticeable to the audience that it’s posed differently from before. We get the sense that there is more to this little trinket than Yeonjun has picked up on, but before we can think too much more on that, we enter a new day. The keychain swings on Yeonjun’s belt once again, as he enters an older classmate’s studio.

Taehyung is a graduate fashion design student, but a senior undergrad for photography. Yeonjun often works as a model and “living doll” for this hyung when he has projects coming due, and today is no different. The two of them muse over some design sketches, and Yeonjun asks for feedback on his end-of-semester project. Yeonjun has a few outfit changes, modeling both “feminine” and “masculine” looks for Taehyung.

Meanwhile, Taehyun and Beomgyu meet at the apartment building where they overheard the suspicious conversation. Taehyun adjusts his tool to follow their biometric signature specifically. The aliens aren’t too far ahead, seeming to have just begun their day. In the daylight, their skin is a very pale orange, almost like someone with a weird tan, and their faces are reminiscent of a pug. Their clothes aren’t particularly strange, but seem almost pirate-like, the way the pants are baggy, the blouses billowy, and the jackets almost oversized. While they walk, Beomgyu asks Taehyun what happened to him over the past semester. They clearly still get along, and neither of them seem to hold any grudges, so why did they drift apart? Taehyun admits that he met a new friend, an alien who used a spaceship and time machine to take him on interesting adventures. Slowly, he just drifted away from his old friends and towards the alien. He stopped thinking about the few friends that he did have and gravitated towards his new friend. He didn’t realize he was hurting anyone when he pulled away. Beomgyu isn’t sure how to accept this explanation. On the one hand, it was all very exciting, so he understood Taehyun, but on the other hand… he was just told that he wasn’t supposed to care that Taehyun had all but disappeared from his life, that Taehyun didn’t find him interesting enough to keep his attention. The idea makes him want to punch his friend in his perfect nose, but before he can verbally express his frustration, Beomgyu realizes the aliens they followed seem to be zeroing in on one of the art buildings, the one Yeonjun is now exiting. Panicking, Beomgyu makes a split decision to distract the aliens from his cousin, drawing the attention to himself and Taehyun instead.

Chaos follows. Beomgyu is naturally loud and endearingly obnoxious, but he’s really making a nuisance of himself, the way he shouts insults and runs circles around the tan aliens. He tries to tackle one and whines about a bruise before running off, barely dodging a gold bangle and chain it tried to place on him. Yeonjun calls Beomgyu’s phone, warning him not to get himself killed playing too many games. Beomgyu claims he’s just acting for a videography student’s project. Taehyun laughs at the explanation and wonders why he didn’t just invite his best friend along on his adventures instead of avoiding him. The two of them manage to distract the aliens just long enough to lose sight of Yeonjun, which must have been Beomgyu’s plan all along, because when the aliens get bored and approach the fashion school, he lets them.

Yeonjun vlogs on his way home. He doesn’t do much, just records a conclusion to his day, having taken video of his time with Taehyung. He’s been recording the creation of his final project over the semester, hoping it might be a good video for the algorithm. His fashion and vlog videos seem to do pretty well. With the project on his mind, Yeonjun visits a fabric store to browse and maybe have some idea of what will be available when he’s ready to start. He attends an early afternoon class and bums lunch off of one of his friends. Across town, Yeonjun attends Hoseok’s dance class with Jungkook, another senior from school, and one of Taehyung’s photography classmates. All the while, the little bear doesn’t do a whole lot through the day, just peers curiously at the world around him, sneaks a bit of food from Yeonjun’s friends, and bounces along to the music during dance class.

Taehyun and Beomgyu feel like they’re running a wild goose chase across their corner of Seoul. The aliens don’t seem to have noticed their tail, but Taehyun is starting to feel a little hopeless. He should have been led to Kai by now, for sure. And yeah, this whole lost hostage situation feels like it’s worth his time, but what power does he have, really? He can’t accomplish anything without Kai. He doesn’t have the knowledge or the cleverness that his alien friend does when it comes to these sorts of things. When Taehyun expresses this, the two taking a small break for a late lunch of local street food, Beomgyu argues that he’s just not used to doing things on his own yet. He was clever enough to find a tool to track down non-humans, he knew enough to decide these aliens will lead him to Kai, so Taehyun will figure out how to save his friend when the time comes.

At the end of the day, Yeonjun returns home. Soobin has been taking care of the kid throughout the day and reports that there hasn’t been much of a change in his condition. The fever seems close to breaking, but he hasn’t woken for much more than a few sips of water every hour, and even then the kid barely makes the effort before passing out again. Yeonjun thanks his cousin and takes a shower. He checks social media again, uploads a few of the selfies he’s taken throughout the day, as well as a clip of the choreography he learned in class. He’s interacting with his followers when his front door bursts open and a trio of big, burly aliens snatch him up. They attach a cuff on his wrist and he goes stiff, unable to move. They find his keyset and retrieve the teddy bear trinket. One of them notices Kai and sniffs at him. “The Time Lord will bring us a hefty price too.”

When Taehyun and Beomgyu track our villains to the apartment building, Beomgyu is dismayed to see Yeonjun being dragged like a doll behind the big burly aliens, while Taehyun focuses on Kai, passed out in their arms. Beomgyu immediately runs inside to check on Soobin, worried he might have been caught in the crossfire of whatever happened in the apartment. Taehyun is torn between following Beomgyu into the apartment and rescuing Kai, but he still has no plan and feels better with Beomgyu by his side. He can always track down the aliens later, they have to be on this planet for a reason. Inside, they find Soobin is safe, napping in his bed through whatever altercation took place. Beomgyu is relieved, but overwhelmed -- Yeonjun has been kidnapped, the kid they were nursing is apparently a centuries old “traveler.” He takes a moment to scream into a pillow and sort his thoughts out, then decides to rescue his cousin. They gather a few things at the house, dense items that can serve as blunt force weapons, portable cell phone chargers in case of intergalactic travel, Yeonjun’s camera to record what happens, just in case things go south. Catching on, Taehyun wraps his hands with bandages, fingers sporting half of Yeonjun’s large ring collection. He doesn’t know what he’ll be able to do, knows that Kai likes to solve things non-violently when possible, but Taehyun is a squishy human who can’t regenerate, so if it’s a matter of using his fists or losing his life, he was going to make sure his fists hurt. Beomgyu locates his old boy scouts pocket knife. It was a trinket he packed by chance, had hardly used it beyond cutting open packages, but those alien guys are huge and he wasn’t above killing for his family. He just hoped it wouldn’t actually come to that.

Taehyun’s sonic tool leads the pair to another apartment building, one we recognise to be where Yeonjun found the small teddy bear being. They climb the stairs to the top floor, the previously bright white light dimming to a fuzzy soft yellow color. Taehyun stops at the top to determine a plan, and the pair argue; Beomgyu is more inclined to burst in and see what happens, while Taehyun prefers to have ideas prepared. However, when Beomgyu hears something like an initialization process, he shoves open the door -- heavier than it looks -- and finds himself in what seems to be a spaceship of sorts, not a hallway they expected. The room is dark and looks like a storage hull of sorts. Taehyun recognizes the various stages of aerial departure over the loudspeakers and panics. They have a lot less time to locate Kai and Yeonjun than they expected, less than five minutes if Taehyun remembers the sequence correctly.

So the pair run through the ship, doing their best to sneak around, but valuing speed over stealth. It doesn’t take terribly long to find the hostages -- a cell full with several species of beings stiff and standing like dolls, while Kai continues sleeping. Taehyun gives the sonic device to Beomgyu, who struggles to find the correct setting to unlock the ring keeping Yeonjun paralyzed. Taehyun kneels beside Kai, marveling at how young and small he looks now. The two of them could be classmates. He struggles to pull Kai onto his back. Kai might be younger and smaller now, but he’s still built solid. The speakers have announced a sixty-second countdown by the time Beomgyu finds the right setting and begins unlocking everyone’s cuffs. It’s at this point when Kai blinks, awake for the moment to praise Taehyun on a job well done. “Just make sure everyone gets home,” he says, then passes back out. Taehyun immediately feels the pressure of completing such a large task. There are at least ten other people here, not including his friends, and the spaceship might use an operating system Taehyun is familiar with, but he doesn’t know the ship model or the controls, let alone how to drive. Then there’s the group of aliens holding them hostage in the first place and Taehyun doesn’t even know how many there are! Sure, he came prepared for a fight, but he was only prepared to fight for as long as it took to get his friends and get back to the TARDIS. Which was also not an option because Taehyun for sure couldn’t steer that fancy ship if he asked it nicely.

“What do I even do?”

“There’s only five of them,” Yeonjun says.

“And if I free everyone, we’ll have a whole bunch of these things,” Beomgyu holds up Yeonjun’s ring. “Let’s cuff them.” He makes quick work of the rest of the hostages’ cuffs, collecting them between himself and Yeonjun

“Does anyone know what model ship this is?” Taehyun asks the group at large. “If we incapacitate those guys, could you steer yourselves home?”

“They stole this ship from me in the first place,” says someone with three pairs of eyes stacked atop one another and a vicious smile. “If you get me my ship back I’ll make sure everyone here gets home.”

Getting the cuffs on the kidnappers is easy, but not quick. The engines are at full roar and the countdown reaches ten before the last cuff is locked around a muscled arm and the ship secured. The original pilot aborts take off before thanking the boys for their help. They have their deputy -- someone called Fern with a long scar across their face -- take the thieves to the prison cells. The boys watch Fern press a couple of buttons on the cuffs, and the orange aliens shrink down to the size of a child’s “life-size” doll. Beomgyu blinks, excited at the display while it hits Yeonjun that his adorable keychain had never been a toy in the first place. Beomgyu vows to buy a new one for his cousin, but Yeonjun rejects the idea, heart broken and a little distrustful. What if it’s just another alien? Beomgyu looks down at his keyring, considering, but dismisses the idea. How likely would that happen twice?

So the three of them walk home, Kai still asleep on Taehyun’s back. It’s evening now, late enough that Taehyun might as well spend the night with them. Taehyun offers to buy takeout in return, and so the four of them are sitting on the apartment floor when Kai finally stretches and sits up, groaning over his good sleep. And Taehyun sits there staring because… Kai is adorable. He hadn’t been cute before -- the previous, middle-aged version of him and been stoic but kind, the Remus Lupin type if Taehyun could compare it to anyone. But this kid sat, drowning in his old clothes, pouting at having woken up. Even his pronunciation was cute. Taehyun couldn’t help the grin that found its place on his face.

“You,” he teases, “are a lot of trouble, do you know that?”

Kai blinks at him. “Oh. Was I?”

The two bicker until Kai drags the others into their fight.

“You found him,” Kai points vaguely in the direction of the cousins, “and he knew where I was!”

“I didn’t know who you were!” exclaims Beomgyu.

“Shhh,” Kai holds a finger up, only to get distracted by his clothes. He frowns, disliking how short the sleeves are, even while they pool at his elbow. He decides then that he needs to get back to his TARDIS. He wants to change clothes, and check his health since regenerating. His body feels the way it should, but it never hurts to be sure. Soobin offers to walk him wherever he’s going, and Kai tries to deny the offer, citing Taehyun as an adequate escort, but now Yeonjun’s insisting on making sure the two of them get to this ship in one piece and un-kidnapped, and Beomgyu insists on sticking with Yeonjun, so all five of them leave the apartment to walk Kai “home.”

“Home” looks like a storefront, next door to the convenience store the Choi cousins frequent. Yeonjun hadn’t paid attention to the dim lights and gated door when he passed the previous night, had only seen the sickly kid in a too-big sweater that fell into his arms. Kai pulls the door open with the gate and walks into the shop. The Chois frown, uncomfortable with where the night has led them. Taehyun easily follows, used to the various appearances of the TARDIS, and Beomgyu, trusting Taehyun trails after. Soobin and Yeonjun trade skeptical looks before entering the door last.

And the TARDIS is… not what they expect. They expected TARDIS to be a foreign word for “home,” and then expected to walk into an abandoned shop of some sort, complete with dusty floors and empty spaces. Instead, they find themselves in a very clean, very high-tech looking space. The walls are round and covered in a deep, bright blue, tile, similar to those used for sound proofing tile. Several sets of narrow staircases lead up to a balcony dotted with various lounge spaces, those walls covered with some sort of white square tile pattern over the blue. At the center of the room were several white tables, placed together to form a circle around a tall glass column. A holoscreen of sorts hovered above one of the tables, although the boys were all standing on the wrong side to attempt reading what it said. Kai stands in front of another screen, tapping and swiping away at whatever he reads there. Soon, each table has a holoscreen lit, numbers and readings scrolling too fast for any of them to read.

“So,” Kai begins, startling the Chois out of their awe. Taehyun seems to have disappeared somewhere further into the ship, through the dark doorway behind Kai, perhaps. “You’ve nursed me back to health. You rescued me. And now, you’ve walked me home. Thank you for taking care of me.” He bows, then turns back to his screens. He taps a few more times, swipes some shapes onto other screens, and then stops, sighing. The ship rumbles beneath his feet, and he feels safer, knowing that he’s in his ship and very little can get in without his permission. Kai suddenly seems much older than he looks. The lines of his shoulders don’t look like he’s just awoken from the great sleep he claimed.

“What did you do?”

Kai looks up and screams.

“Why are we shaking?” Yeonjun continues, eyes bugged, mouth pouting. He reaches for the nearest staircase, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process.

“What are you doing here?” asks Kai. He knows he dematerialized the ship, he wanted to let it hover somewhere in the time stream for a while, until he’s gone to the med bay and has checked on his companion. He knows he’s still exhausted from regenerating. His thoughts are still bouncing too fast in his head, he’s still in between two personalities, he isn’t thinking clearly. So when he finalized his destination, engaged the engines, and looked up, Kai didn't expect to still have four guests.

“We just walked you home,” says Soobin. “Where else would we be?”

“But I left you behind! We’re in flight! I just left your planet!”

“You didn’t, so bring us back!” Soobin argues.

“I can't, I just set her on autopilot!”

“Then unset it!”

Kai deflates. “She… really doesn’t like when I change my mind. We’ll be in flight for a while.”

“She?” asks Beomgyu. He’s the only one who doesn’t seem upset by the turn of events.

“I have a test next week!” cries Soobin, and it really does look like he’s on the verge of a panic attack. “I don’t have time to go gallivanting all over space, I need to be at home!”

“Oh!” Kai smiles, happy to offer a solution. “My TARDIS is also a time machine! I can get you home five minutes after we left, no problem. You’ll definitely be able to take your test.”

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