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p1psqueaks · 14 days ago

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LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — FIRST “I LOVE YOU”

ZAYNE

You don’t even remember what they said when they called your name.

Something about courage. About leadership. About the recent mission and how it “wouldn’t have succeeded without your tactical intuition.” The applause was loud, the flash of the holo-cameras brighter than it needed to be. You smiled. You shook hands. You took the crystal-etched plaque from the Director with practiced grace.

But the only thing you really remember is looking toward the crowd and finding him.

Zayne, standing near the back — like he always does. Not trying to be seen, not demanding attention. Just watching you with that steady look of his. Calm. Quiet. Proud.

When you finally get off the stage, people swarm you. Congratulating you. Slapping your back. Toasting to you. It blurs into a dizzy, golden haze.

But when you turn around, he’s already there.

“You looked incredibly awkward up there,” Zayne says, folding his arms, mouth twitching in that almost-smile he pretends not to have.

You laugh. “Thanks. I was going for ‘confident and composed.’”

“Mm. Landed somewhere between ‘deer in headlights’ and ‘trying not to pass out.’ Still — impressive.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s pounding — not from nerves anymore, but from him. From the way he’s here, quietly orbiting your world like he always does. Constant. Solid. Yours, even if the words haven’t been said yet.

You hold up the plaque between you. “They gave me this. Probably to keep me from blowing up another hallway during recon.”

He quirks a brow. “You’ve only blown up one hallway. That’s below average.”

You laugh again — a little breathless this time. And then you really look at him.

He’s in that dark jacket he saves for formal events, sleeves rolled just enough to still be himself. His hair is slightly mussed, like he got here in a rush and didn’t bother fixing it. But his eyes — they’re steady. Warm.

And suddenly, the weight of the night hits you. The missions. The near-misses. The days you weren’t sure you’d make it home. The nights you did, and he was always there. Even if he never said much, even if he never needed to.

You reach for his hand — the one still at his side — and curl your fingers around his.

“Zayne.”

He tilts his head, just slightly. “Hmm?”

“I love you.”

It’s soft. Real. No fanfare, no ceremony. Just you, saying the one thing that’s been stuck in your chest since long before tonight.

Zayne’s breath catches — so small, you almost miss it. His hand tightens around yours.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just searches your face like he’s committing every inch of it to memory.

“I was wondering when you’d say it,” he says finally, voice low, a touch raspy.

Your heart skips. “You knew?”

“I had a guess,” he says, dry. “But I’m a doctor. I wait for confirmation before drawing conclusions.”

You laugh — full this time, warmth rising through your ribs. “You’re impossible.”

He steps in closer, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“I love you too,” he says, steady as stone. “Always have. Even before I figured out what to do with it.”

You breathe out shakily, letting your forehead rest lightly against his.

“I’m glad it’s you,” you whisper. “That you’re here.”

He exhales — slow, grounding. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

XAVIER

You don’t remember running. Just the sound of the collapsing metal above you, the warning sirens blaring, the flicker of Xavier’s hand grabbing yours and not letting go.

The dust is still settling around you, the transport’s back hatch sealed, the hum of hyperspeed kicking in just behind your ribs.

You’re alive. Barely.

Your lungs burn. Your legs shake. And you can’t seem to stop gripping Xavier’s arm like if you let go, the whole world might fall apart again.

He’s sitting across from you, equally disheveled — hair mussed, clothes scorched in places, a smear of black across his cheekbone. He’s blinking hard, like he’s trying to believe it too. That you both made it.

Then he meets your eyes. And everything inside you cracks wide open.

“I love you.”

You don’t mean to say it. Not like this. Not with adrenaline still screaming through your veins and the taste of smoke in your mouth. But the words tumble out anyway, desperate and trembling and real.

Xavier goes very still.

His eyes go wide, and for a second, you swear he stops breathing.

“I—uh—what?”

You let out a shaky laugh. “I said I love you.”

He blinks. Again. Slowly. Like the words are still echoing around his head and he’s trying to make sense of them.

“You just almost died,” he says, his voice somewhere between disbelief and panic. “We both almost died. You’re in shock. You’re—are you concussed?”

You reach out and touch his wrist, grounding both of you. “I’m not. I meant it.”

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him a live wire and asked him to hold it still. He opens his mouth. Closes it again.

Then, softly: “You love me?”

You nod. “I know I said it at the worst possible time, but it’s been sitting in my chest for weeks and I couldn’t—I didn’t want to wait anymore. Not after… that.”

He exhales. Quiet. A little stunned.

His eyes flick down, like he’s trying to hide the smile threatening the corner of his mouth — as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. “You love me,” he says again, like he’s testing the words out in the air. “You. Love me.”

He shifts, rubs the back of his neck, then lets out a breathy, awkward laugh. “God, I… I had this whole plan. For when I told you. It involved music. Candles. Charts.”

“Charts?” you echo, laughing despite yourself.

“I panicked, okay? I like structure,” he mutters, eyes darting anywhere but at you.

You reach out and cup his cheek, thumb brushing that smudge of dirt like it’s something sacred.

“You don’t need charts. Just tell me how you feel.”

He leans into your touch. Swallows once.

“I love you,” he says, like it’s the most terrifying, incredible thing he’s ever admitted. “You scare the hell out of me in the best possible way.”

Your breath catches.

He lets out another laugh — softer now. “I was going to wait for the perfect moment. But if today taught me anything, it’s that waiting is overrated.”

You both fall quiet then, the tension of the mission slowly unraveling between the warmth of your palms, the beat of your shared breath.

You survived.

You said it.

He said it back

RAFAYEL

You don’t plan to say it.

It’s one of those things that lives in the back of your throat for days, maybe weeks—simmering just under the surface. But then he does something small and completely ridiculous: he tries to carry three canvases at once while holding a half-eaten croissant between his teeth, muttering about “creative vision” like the disaster he is.

And you love him. So much it hurts.

He doesn’t notice you watching him from the doorway until he drops one canvas, catches it mid-fall with a flourish, and turns to you like he meant to perform the whole mess.

“Did you see that?” he says, puffing out his chest like a cat that just knocked over an antique vase and wants praise for the sound it made.

You raise an eyebrow. “You almost decapitated yourself with a paintbrush.”

He gasps, placing a hand to his chest like you’ve wounded him. “How dare you. That was an elegant recovery. Graceful. Artistic, even.”

You bite your lip. Smile. Shake your head. And then you say it.

“I love you.”

The room stills.

Rafayel stops mid-stride, croissant still in hand, but now hanging uselessly by his side like he’s forgotten what it is.

His expression flickers through at least four emotions: surprise, awe, terror, and something dangerously close to tenderness. Then—

“Oh no,” he says, deadly serious. “No, no, no. You don’t get to just drop that on me like it’s nothing. I’m wearing my studio clothes. I’m not emotionally moisturized. My defenses are down.”

You blink. “I—what?”

“I had crumbs on my mouth,” he says dramatically, pointing to his lips. “Crumbs! That’s the first time you say it? When I look like a tragic, starving artist cliché?!”

He paces. Actually paces.

“I should’ve been leaning on a balcony,” he continues. “Maybe holding a rose. There should’ve been music. A sunset. Something cinematic!”

You just laugh.

“I mean it,” you say again, stepping toward him, heart in your throat. “Rafayel. I love you.”

He stops pacing.

And then — so softly you almost miss it — he says, “Say it one more time. Please.”

You do. You say it like it’s truth carved into stone. “I love you.”

He exhales. Slowly. Like your words knocked the air out of him and he's only just relearning how to breathe.

Then he tosses the croissant onto a table like it’s offended him and closes the space between you in two long steps. His hands cradle your face — warm, stained faintly with paint, trembling just slightly.

“You really mean it,” he murmurs, voice lower now. Raw.

“I do.”

He lets out a laugh that’s almost a sob. “Oh, you absolute menace. You realize I’m never going to be normal about this again, right? I’m going to be unbearable.”

You grin. “You already are.”

Rafayel grins back, something shining bright behind his eyes, and leans in until his lips brush yours.

“Good,” he whispers. “Then we’re perfectly matched.”

And when he kisses you, it’s every bit the drama he was begging for. Like the world’s ending. Like he’s waited lifetimes to earn the words you finally gave him.

SYLUS

The lights are low, casting a warm golden wash across the apartment. The city glows outside the window, stars blurring into neon — distant, quiet, irrelevant.

Inside, everything feels still.

Sylus leans back against the couch, legs stretched out, wine glass dangling lazily from his fingers. There’s a record playing softly in the background — something slow and smoky, a little old-fashioned. Fitting.

You’re curled up beside him, your feet tucked under his thigh, a half-empty bowl of popcorn between you. The movie playing is long forgotten. He’s watching you instead.

“You’re not paying attention,” you murmur, nudging him with your elbow.

He smirks without shame. “Why would I? I’ve got something far more interesting right here.”

You roll your eyes — but your heart skips, just like it always does when he looks at you like that. Like you’re the only thing in the world worth noticing.

“You’re impossible,” you say, smiling despite yourself.

“And yet you keep inviting me over. Strange.” He tilts his head, cocky and amused. “Maybe you’re the problem.”

You toss a kernel at his chest. He catches it midair — of course he does — and pops it into his mouth, smug as ever.

But then you fall quiet. The kind of silence that settles only when you feel safe. Known. Home.

Sylus must sense the shift, because he turns toward you more fully. “Kitten,” he says, softer now. “You okay?”

You nod, eyes on your lap. Then, without looking up, you speak.

“I love you.”

The words hang in the air. Gentle. Vulnerable. No grand theatrics. Just the truth, spoken like a heartbeat — small, steady, alive.

For once, Sylus doesn’t have a quip ready.

You look up, and his usual smirk has gone soft around the edges — like he’s not entirely sure he heard you right, or maybe like he did and it caught him off guard anyway.

“Oh?” he says after a beat, voice low, teasing — but his eyes say something else. Something tender. Wrecked, even.

You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t start.”

He chuckles, and now the smirk returns — but it’s slower this time. Less about being smug and more about holding something sacred in his hands.

“I knew you did,” he says. “You’ve been looking at me like that for weeks.”

You laugh, half shy, half exasperated. “You knew?”

“I always know,” he says, leaning in closer, voice dropping to that husky whisper that always undoes you. “But hearing it… that’s something else.”

He cups your cheek, his thumb brushing beneath your eye like he’s memorizing you in this moment. “Say it again.”

You breathe out, eyes never leaving his. “I love you.”

He kisses you then — not rough or rushed, not teasing. Just slow, deep, reverent. The kind of kiss that says, I’ve wanted this forever.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and his voice is nothing but truth.

“I love you too,” he says, confident and sure. “I’ve been in love with you from the moment I first gazed upon you.”

You close your eyes, overwhelmed by how soft he is beneath all that sharpness. How lucky you are to be the one who gets to see it.

“Guess we’re both the problem,” you whisper

CALEB

Caleb’s lying on the floor, one leg propped up on the couch, surrounded by snack wrappers and a half-finished board game he insisted you two “absolutely had to master tonight.”

He’s telling some ridiculous story — something about a mission that ended with him accidentally setting off a glitter bomb in a debrief room. He’s laughing as he tells it, hands flying, eyes bright. You’ve heard him talk like this a hundred times, maybe more.

But something’s different tonight.

Maybe it’s the way he looked when he first walked in, face flushed from the cold, hoodie pulled over his messy hair. Maybe it’s the way his voice softened when he asked if you’d been sleeping enough, if you’d eaten. Maybe it’s the quiet underneath his laughter — like part of him is always reaching for light, even when it’s heavy.

Whatever it is, it’s sitting in your chest now. Heavy. Full.

You watch him laugh and think: I love you.

And then, before you can second-guess it, you say it out loud.

“I love you.”

The words drop into the room like a held breath finally released.

Caleb stops mid-sentence. He doesn’t freeze dramatically — doesn’t make a joke, or tease, or wiggle his eyebrows the way he usually does when you catch him off guard.

He just blinks up at you, surprised but... soft.

“You do?” he asks, voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

You nod. “I didn’t mean to blurt it out. It just… I couldn’t hold it in anymore.”

He sits up, slow. Not panicked. Just careful. Like he’s holding something fragile in his hands.

“You know,” he says, with a little smile, “I always thought if this moment happened, I’d turn it into a bit. Say something cheesy, maybe faint for dramatic effect.”

You laugh under your breath. “You still can.”

“Mm… nah,” he murmurs. “Not this time.”

He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His grin has faded into something deeper — the kind of expression he rarely lets anyone see. Not loud. Not showy. Just real.

“I’ve wanted to tell you for a while,” he says. “But I didn’t want to say it first. Not because I didn’t mean it — I do — but because I thought if you didn’t feel the same, it’d… ruin everything.”

Your breath catches.

“I love you too,” he says, and it’s not flashy or dramatic. It’s soft and steady and full of feeling. “So much it makes everything else feel kind of ridiculous.”

He laughs then — not because it’s funny, but because he doesn’t know what else to do with the weight of how much he means it.

You crawl over, sitting beside him on the floor, and he leans into your side immediately. Warm. Familiar. His fingers brush yours and stay.

“Hey,” he says, nudging you with his shoulder. “Wanna do something crazy?”

You glance at him, amused. “What?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Just thought I’d ask. But now that I’ve got you all flustered, I can say this instead—”

He turns to face you fully, eyes bright and earnest.

“Thank you,” he says. “For loving me first. That means more than I know how to say.”

You squeeze his hand. “You don’t have to. I already know.”

And somehow, sitting there in the mess of the evening, with half-eaten chips and game pieces between you, it feels like the most romantic thing in the world.

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nanamiskentos · 6 months ago

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(JUST MEET ME AT THE) APT! — gojo satoru minors dni. art by chitrartum on twt.

welcome to the christmas tour ! take a seat in section (a) and let the show begin !

prologue. → your ex, that sleazy and no-good scumbag won't stop posting tacky mirror selfies on instagram, arm around his fellow cheater-in-crime. so, christmas eve finds you morose in a dodgy dive bar. why not tumble back into bed with that random, gorgeous stranger you just met?

want to try sitting somewhere else ? take a look at the ticket chart again !

pairing. gojo satoru x afab!reader

warnings+. never drive, no matter how little alcohol is in you folks!!! never!!! making out, creampiè, hooking up with a stranger, ovèrstimulation, mildly rough sèx, gojo won't tell you what his job is

word count. 9.4k! song inspiration. apt — rosé & bruno mars

a/n. reader lowkey a hater, i love vanilla vodka eggnog </3 i said i was gonna post on 02/12 and i kept my word, literally rushed to finished this before my clinical exams in the cardiac ward 😭😭😭😭😭😭 hope y'all stay healthy. your future surgeons are writing gojo smut on tumblr.com

mp3. don't you want me like i want you, baby? don't you need me like i need you now? sleep tomorrow, but tonight, go crazy. all you gotta do is meet me at the apartment (아파트) !

you think your friends would kill you if they knew this was how you were spending christmas eve. not at some glittering holiday party, nor tucked away in a snow-dusted cabin. but here, holed up in a dimly lit bar with an atmosphere so questionable it should come with a warning label alongside a health and safety audit.

the place had charm, if your definition of charm included scuffed floors, a jukebox stuck on 'last christmas' and a string of blinking lights that looked like they'd been thrown at the walls rather than hung. still, you'd swiped a couple of minty candy canes from a jar near the door, which felt like a win.

your phone sat resolutely off in your bag. self-preservation. no instagram, and no tacky mirror selfies from your scumbag ex with the same smirk he'd worn a month ago when you caught him cheating. with someone who had always been 'just a friend, babe!' you weren't keen to let that ruin the rest of the night, though if you were being honest, you had already let it ruin a good chunk of the month.

"another christmas vodka...sour, please," you squint at the messy chalkboard above the bar, where the christmas specials were scrawled in what would barely pass for handwriting.

the bartender gave a single, surly nod. he looked as though he'd rather be anywhere but here, preferably somewhere free of customers nursing post-breakup bitterness like a fine wine.

and so, you found yourself staring at the tall glass now sitting in front of you, studying the rosemary sprig that swayed lazily in the translucent red liquid. a few cranberries bobbed among the ice cubes like they were on some tiny festive raft.

"woah, that one's way too strong for me."

the voice interrupts your private session of wallowing. you turn your head, slowly, to take in the culprit. he-who-hath-disturbed-the-peace. a man sitting close enough to be annoying, but not close enough to invade your personal space.

it takes you a moment to process the stranger, mostly because of the brain freeze from your ill-timed gulp.

"i mean, it's not bad," you shrug, hoping to sound neutral enough that he leaves you be. but then because you just can't leave well enough alone, you gesture at the specials board, "better than...that, at least."

you jab a finger at the chalk-scrawled abomination: vanilla & peppermint vodka eggnog.

the man frowns, a sharp but somehow charming movement that's overshadowed by the dim lights, "hey, i ordered that one."

you blink like a startled bovine, before breaking into a laugh, "my bad. i'm sure it's really fuckin' delicious."

the stranger chuckles too, a soft and low sound that seems more genuine that it has any right to be, "i hope so. otherwise, this is gonna be a long night."

the man finally shifts, casting aside the dim shadows that lay over him, into the blinking string lights. broad shoulders framed by a dark, tailored jacket that hugs him like a second skin. his hair, startlingly white, was pushed back by — wait, was that a blindfold?

you stare longer than you should have, trying to piece the odd sight together. a cosplay? a k-pop idol wannabe, hoping to get recruited for the next bts tour? perhaps, he was blind, hard of sight? you start to open your mouth, wondering how to phrase the intrusive and awkward questions, but he beats you to it.

"i can see you just fine, y'know," he says, his tone laced with amusement.

your cheeks burn at the realisation that he's caught you gawking shamelessly. so you quickly turn back to your drink, suddenly very interested in the cranberries floating in the glass.

the bartender returns, sliding the stranger's drink onto the counter with an audible clink. it was the most obnoxious cocktail that you'd ever seen. a martini glass filled with frothy, pale liquid and crowned with a cinnamon stick that jutted out like the mast of some ridiculous holiday ship.

you watch, mildly horrified, as the man picks up the glass and downs half of it in one confident gulp. he sets it down a satisfied sigh, and a smack of his glossy lips, and you wrinkle your nose involuntarily at the sight.

"i swear it's good," he says with a laugh, catching your expression. his grin is wide, playful. and you find yourself smiling back despite your sour, gloomy mood.

he has a nice smile, you note. not forced nor smug, but genuine. framed by pale pink lips that curl up in an easy, natural way. it was strange though, to look at someone without seeing their eyes.

"i'm gojo, by the way," he offers, his voice smooth and lightly amused once more, as if he'd caught you studying him again.

your gaze drops to his hands, long and slender, tracing the rim of the martini glass. something about the way they move — elegant and deliberate, hold your attention a moment too long for propriety. you quickly snap your focus back to his face, "what brings you here, gojo?"

gojo shrugs, and you can almost imagine him rolling his eyes beneath the blindfold, though you doubt his ire is directed at you, "work, i guess. or maybe i just got bored of going to work."

"they're working you hard, yeah?" you ask, trying for sympathy. employers loved squeezing their workers dry during the holidays. your own boss was proof enough of that, running the office like a sweatshop for santa's unpaid elf labour.

"something like that," gojo says with a scoff, the corners of his mouth quirking up again, "what about you? what brings you here? it's christmas eve, isn't it?"

you sigh, the weight of gauche embarrassment suddenly pressing down as the words spill out before you can stop them, "my ex-boyfriend cheated on me."

gojo's lip curls, the kind of expression that balances perfectly between pity and disgust, "that sucks," he offers. profound and wise, you have to agree as he continues, "you jus' find out or something?"

the question makes you cheeks heat, and you fiddle with the edge of your drink, "no, i've known all month." you gesture vaguely towards your purse, where your phone sat like an unsealed pandora's box, "but he posted...on instagram. and stuff. i'm still, y'know, getting over it."

gojo makes a thoughtful clicking noise with his tongue, "ah, see, i don't do social media. but that sounds rough."

you let out a weak huff, "yeah, well...now i just feel like a loser. my friends told me to go out and have fun, and here i am..." you trail off, downing the rest of your cranberry vodka in a single, decisive gulp. the sting hits your throat, sharp and sour, and you grimace at the burn.

gojo frowns slightly, leaning in just enough that you can hear how his voice softens, "i don't think you're a loser." the sincerity in his tone catches you off guard, pulling your gaze back to him, "it's fair to wallow."

his words hang in the air, and you find yourself smiling, albeit thinly, "that's...really nice of you to say."

gojo hums thoughtfully, "i meant it, i promise. but i can't exactly say i've been there, never really dated anyone."

you blink, openly gaping at the man, "really? you're joking."

it was hard to wrap your head around that. even with the odd blindfold, everything about him screamed 'pounce-worthy'. the broad frame, the charming smile, the striking white hair that looked like it belonged in a kérastase commercial.

gojo laughs at your incredulous expression, "same old work and stuff," he explains with a casual shrug. then his grin fades, tone shifting just enough for you wonder why that feels as though the clouds have covered the light of the moon outside, "always got in the way."

"at least you never had to deal with a breakup," you offer, trying to find some weak, silver lining.

gojo frowns, his pale complexion now tinged with a faint red flush that even the dim bar lights couldn't disguise. was he really that much of a lightweight, or was the eggnog's amaretto content deceptively boozy?

he sighs dramatically, "a friend once left me outside a kfc in shinjuku. then he became a murderer and a cult leader. that felt like a breakup."

"huh," you murmur, staring at the man with a mixture of amusement and faint alarm, wondering if you'd seen any cult leaders on the evening news lately. no, nothing save for the occasional incorrect weather report, a friendly good-looking priest running some scam association, and news reports about an octopus that could predict the lottery, "that's - well, okay..."

you couldn't quite tell if he was joking or not, but gojo seems to shake himself free of the odd reverie. he's running his hand through his shock of white hair, and his grin has returned, slower and a touch softer, "still, your ex must've been crazy. letting go of a pretty girl like you?"

the words land with surprising weight, considering they come from a stranger in a sleazy bar, but it leaves you momentarily stunned. you can feel a blush rising to your cheeks, your heart doing an embarrassing little flip before you manage to get a grip on yourself.

"wow," you laugh, feigning composure as you sip the last remnants of your drink, "smooth."

gojo's smile is wider now, "hah, i call it like i see it," and his lips now curl upwards as he leans in, "and i'm serious. if i had someone like you..."

you laugh again, but this time it's far more unsteady. you wonder if the cranberry vodka is playing with your head, "big words for someone who's never dated. should i be impressed, gojo?"

gojo's chuckle is a deep sound that vibrates in his chest, "i know a good thing when i see it. you don' need to date to know what you want. and i think i want you."

your stomach does a little flip, and you feel all rationality being pounded out of you just from staring at his unfairly gorgeous hands rest on sturdy thighs, "you do flattery well, i'll give you that."

"oh, i don't know about that," gojo says, fiddling with the stem of his glass, "but what'dya say we get out of here? how about my place?"

you blink slowly, and you're aware that your heart (and...nether regions) have already composed an answer before your mind has, "what if you're a serial killer? you're not about to silent night, deadly night me, are you? you haven't killed someone have you?"

for a moment, the man stills but then gojo leans back, "smart girl. asking the right questions. but no, i can at least promise that i'm not a criminal."

you hesitate just for a beat, the words lingering on your tongue, before you let out a breath and shrug, "fine. where's your place?"

"azabu," gojo replies without missing a beat, his tone smooth, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

you gape once more, blinking as you try to process the information. azabu? as in tokyo's ritziest neighbourhood, where a one-bedroom apartment could cost you more than most people's yearly salary? the kind of place where the floors are made of marble, and everyone's shoes are more expensive than your entire wardrobe?

gojo, ridiculously handsome despite looking like a circus runaway, too charming for his own good, and not the type you'd expect to find in a cheap downtown dive bar. definitely not on a christmas eve, at least.

for a split second, you wonder how a man like him even ended up in a place like this. maybe it's some kind of self-imposed penance. or he likes to keep things low-key when he's pretending not to be rich? maybe he's looking to cosplay a succession character?

whatever it is, it's working. not only does gojo have a face carved from marble, now you've got a solid ticket into seeing what a neighbourhood for the top one percent really looks like beyond it's wealthy exterior. maybe, you'll bring back a souvenir.

you wonder whether there's a group of small emotions standing around inside your head, inside-out style. glaring at you as if you're incapable of making good and rational decisions.

well fuck that, you gather yourself and shrug off the small wave of nerves, and loop your purse strap around your finger, "alright," you say, "let's get out of here then."

you don't miss at how the adam apple of gojo's throat bobs for a second, before he downs the rest of his drink in one go, "let's get outta here then."

you follow him out into the cold, your breath fogging in front of you as you try to focus, but the man is tall, like ridiculously so. but when you reach the curb, he turns to face you again, a frown marring his face.

"so, i have a small confession."

i changed my mind and i find you repulsive.

i was paid by your ex to do this, and now i've done enough to get my money.

i'm a serial killer.

you don't know which possibility is worse, "huh, a confession? what is it now?"

gojo chuckles, lifting a hand to the back of his neck, as though he's about to spill a dark secret into the night air, "i don't have a car."

"you've got to me kidding me. how'd you even get down here?"

gojo shrugs, a casual and almost lazy movement. and you feel your gaze lingering on his shoulders. broad, impossibly wide, the dark jacket hugging him in all the right places, like it was tailor-made to showcase just how much he filled it out.

"someone dropped me off. ages ago," like it was the most normal and rational explanation in the world.

your own laugh is short, a little disbelieving, but you pull your silver keys from your purse, "well, i guess i'll have to drive then. but what would you have done if i hadn't been here to save the day?"

gojo steps to the side, opening your own car door for you with a small flourish and exaggerated bow that makes your heart jolt again, "probably teleport back home. maybe fly, since the skies look clear."

what a weird guy. hot, but weird. he seems like the type to dress up with a fake beard and show up as gandalf at the next lord of the rings fan convention.

in the driver's seat beside him, you catch yourself staring too long. your gaze slipping over a model's jawline, the white of his hair being held up by the blindfold. even his vaguely expensive scent is disorienting, pleasant like pine and blackcurrant. but it's also hard not to be amused when he's furrowing teeth into plush pink lips out of concentration, pressing an address into your cracked gps screen.

well, merry christmas to you.

gojo's place is well...how do you say this? gorgeous doesn't quite begin to cover it. he leads you into the building with the ease of someone who knows every inch of it, tossing a casual smile over his shoulder as he swipes a key card to unlock the private elevator, "i tend to move around a bit. or stay in different places. keeps life exciting, don't you think?"

you step into the elevator alongside him, the polished mirrors reflecting the soft glow of gold accents and sleek, modern lines. his hand hovers over the control panel before he presses the button for the top floor. of course, it's the penthouse.

"you move around a lot?" you ask, arching an eyebrow, "what, like a restless billionaire or something?"

gojo smiles, leaning casually against the steel as the elevator begins its smooth ascent, "now you're exaggerating."

the elevator finally dings, and gojo steps aside, offering an exaggerated bow as he gestures for you to exit, "after you, my fair maiden."

you almost scoff at the ridiculousness of it, but there's something so endearing and charming about how he pulls it off, especially when paired with the unfair symmetry of his face.

floor to ceiling windows dominate the far wall, revealing a jaw dropping panorama of tokyo's skyline. the city stretches out in a glittering sea of lights, with the tokyo tower glowing a golden exclamation point against the velvet night sky. the interior is just as impressive, with polished wood floors that gleam in the warm light and a glass dining table that sits beneath a sculptural chandelier. that same faint scent of blackberry and pine lingers in the air, heady almost.

behind you, gojo strolls with an easy and languid grace, tossing his jacket onto an artisan leather armchair. beneath it, his sky blue dress shirt clings just right and rolled up to reveal forearms faintly dusted with pale hair. you think you've momentarily forgotten how words work, and you avert your gaze quickly. though not before catching the faint smile on his lips.

"not bad, huh?" gojo says, heading to the open kitchen as though he's unaware of the effect he's having on a rational and sensible mind such as yourself, "it's no dive bar, but i'll do."

you shake your head, bewildered. trying to process how someone you met in a dingy bar could live somewhere that looks like it belongs in architectural digest. even down to the odd, ancient looking pieces that scatter the wide living room. weird looking artifacts of some sort. maybe he's also a collector? go figure.

"not bad?" you repeat, incredulous, "gojo, this place is incredible."

the man laughs, opening a sleek fridge to grab a bottle of water, "i have good taste," he says with mock modesty, his tone teasing as long fingers twist off the cap, "and a thing for gorgeous views. though, between you and me, i'm not great with heights. ironic, i suppose. paying a fortune for a view i'd rather not get too close to."

he waves a hand vaguely towards the windows, the blindfold still firmly in place.

"so, what's the deal? did you win the lottery, or inherit a fortune. or are you some kinda secret agent who moonlights as a barfly?"

gojo lifts the bottle in mock toast, "let's just say i'm very good at what i do."

you arch a brow, crossing your arms and ignoring the warm flush creeping up your neck, "and what exactly is that?"

"oh, you know. standard stuff. international intrigue, thwarting evil creatures. i even saved a kitten from a tree the other day."

"right, because nothing screams the next member of the avengers like eggnog in a seedy bar."

gojo leans casually against the counter, "even the avengers need a holiday drink now and then. don't knock it." but then he gestures towards the sleek couch, "wait, you can make yourself comfortable, y'know. i'd hate for my guest to think i'm a terrible host."

"terrible host? no, but a mystery man —"

before you can finish, your foot catches on something hard, and you stumble forward with an undignified yelp. gojo reacts instantly, how does he move that fast, and his arm is shooting out to steady you. but glorious gravity and magnificent momentum has other plans.

both of you crash onto the couch, and you find yourself sprawled unceremoniously across his lap. gojo's laugh rumbles low in his chest, and you can feel the warmth of it underneath your palms as you steady yourself, "well, that's one way to get comfortable," he murmurs, voice teasing as his large hand lingers lightly on the curve of your waist.

you prop yourself up slightly, cheeks burning, and glance back at the offending object. your brows knit together when you spot what looks suspiciously like a katana gleaming under the soft light.

"did i just trip on a — hey, what the hell is that?"

gojo interrupts, smoothly extending a long leg to nudge that suspicious object under the nearby coffee table before you can finish, "nothing important," he says breezily, the motion so quick you almost think you imagined it.

his focus shifts back to you, almost guilty, but his fingers are pressing divots into the fabric of your top, "now, where were we? hi."

you blink, caught off guard by how strange it is to feel the searing heat of someone's gaze underneath a blindfold, impossibly intent, "hi yourself," you manage.

for a moment, neither you nor the gorgeous man under you move, and the world feels strangely airless.

but your fingers twitch against the fine linen of his shirt. and before you can second-guess yourself, you reach your hand up to the edge of the silk fabric over his face and you ask, "can i take this off?"

gojo tilts his head, like it's a genuine consideration and you catch the faintest flicker of hesitation. it's fleeting, replaced by a crooked smile as he nods, "go ahead, sweetheart."

your hand rests lightly on the silk, hesitant for only a second before tracing its way to the back of his head. your fingers brush through impossibly soft strands of white hair, and his breath hitches when you find the knot tied neatly to the base of his skull.

you wonder what manner of man gojo is, letting himself be stitched undone by a stranger. but with care, you undo the knot, working deftly and clutching the fabric as you pull the blindfold away.

the blindfold slips free, and for a moment, you're certain you've forgotten how to breathe. bright, piercing blue eyes. framed by thick white lashes blink up at you. the intensity of such an unearthly gaze is softened by something more vulnerable, almost shy. nervous even.

"wow," you murmur without thinking, the word spilling out as gojo's expression shifts, an unguarded openness replacing the playful smirk that you've seen all evening.

your earlier assessment echoes in your mind: k-pop reject wannabe. the recent memory now feels like quite the injustice, a careless slight against a face that defies easy description. each detail of his face is striking, as if some divine hand had taken special care to sculpt him from the fabric of time and space itself.

gojo seems to sense your analysis, and you're sure that he's parted his lips to speak, but whatever he was about to say falters. that faint flush, pale-red like vermillion watercolour bleeding across a canvas, blooms across his cheeks. gojo's hazy gaze flickers for a second, and it sends a thrill through you. he's affected by this, by you.

it's hard to resist the slow smile that curves your lips, light and playful if only to mask the way your own heart is racing, "are you seriously shy now, gojo?"

gojo's expression shifts again almost immediately, as if that subtle invulnerability has been replaced by something sharper, almost indignant. he sits up a little straighter, the movement making you acutely aware of how the hard planes of his body feel beneath you.

"shy? no," gojo says, his voice steady but edged with some need to defend his honour, "i just...don't usually do this. that's all."

there's a sincerity in his words, an almost begrudging honesty that takes you by surprise. you tilt your head, as your murmur, "i don't either."

before you can second-guess yourself, you tilt your head down. pressing your lips to gojo's in a featherlight kiss. his taste is intoxicating, honey and sweet grapes mingling with a hint of that ridiculous vanilla drink from earlier. you pull back almost as quickly as you leaned in, testing the waters.

but your breath catches when you see that the blue of his eyes has deepened, darkened. and his lips, pink-blush and slightly parted, form a quiet and stunned oh!

"cool," gojo manages, his voice rougher than you expected, and you bite back a laugh as you watch him swallow hard.

"huh, cool?" you echo, your amusement bubbling over, "that's it? that's all you've got?"

gojo's grip on your waist tightens, and his hands are now splayed over your spine. anchoring you to him, as his mouth curves into something sly, though his flushed cheeks betray his composure, "compliments to the chef?"

you shift slightly, pressing more of your weight firmly into his lap. though not yet close enough to situate yourself over his groin, delighting in the way gojo's blush spreads down his neck, staining his skin a shade reminiscent of ripe berries swirling in cream.

you can feel gojo's attention as much as you can see it, how his own gaze lingers, deliberate and unhurried. taking you like a masterpiece that deserves more than a cursory glance. the hand that had been steady on your back shifts, his fingers threading through your hair. he watches as the strands slip and fall beneath his touch.

"thought you said you wanted me, gojo," you tease, though you're certain your voice is betraying the way your pulse is doing its best impression of the macarena in your jugular, "are y'gonna do something or not?"

gojo's gaze snaps back to you, a flicker of something far more intense passing through those impossibly blue eyes. full of hunger, need even. the hand in your hair slides away, only to settle at your jaw. it's warm and steady, his thumb brushing slightly over the plush of your bottom lip.

"i do want you," gojo says, his voice low and steady and maddeningly genuine, "want you to kiss me again. and again. as many times as you want until i forget my own name."

"gojo —"

"satoru," he interrupts, his voice cracking slightly, stripped of any previous swagger. it's unsteady and raw, affected in a way that excites you. sends a dark heat curling low between your thighs, "you can call me that."

"satoru," you repeat softly, letting the syllables fall from your lips, unfurling in the most hazy way.

something within the man shifts. his hand tightens on your waist, dragging you closer in a way that punches the air from your lungs. right over -

oh. the thick, curve of his erection straining against slacks that probably cost more than your monthly salary. it's deliberate, almost desparate at how the invisible thread snapped inside him. unravelled the careful composure he's been clinging to until now.

"go on," gojo murmurs, his voice dark with need, "kiss me again, please."

you lean closer, eyes flickering to his lips, and your pulse roaring in your ears, "who would i be to deny you any wish, satoru?" the words come out more reverent that you'd expected, as if your entire world has been tilted off its axis.

and then you kiss him, hard. desparate. as if his lips are your birthright, a homeland to claim. and gojo's kissing you back, carrying a sweetness that seems both foreign and familiar. in an instant, the weight of another man, a dreary haze in your past, vanishes. gojo is suddenly everything you didn't know you needed, vibrant and electrifying.

"let me know if it's too much," gojo breathes against your lips, his voice shaky as if he's trying to tether himself to the earth. but your kiss deepens, frantic and unrestrained. his mouth moves against yours with a hunger that sends sparks down your spine, and you suddenly realise you quite like the taste of vanilla when it's dripping from his open kisses.

you pull away, for every human needs air. but the sight before you has you clenching your thighs desperately around the bulge where you sit atop. gojo's gaze is heavy, full of that desparate longing that makes your chest ache. his lips are swollen, a soft cherry hue from your kisses. and strands of white hair fall over his blue eyes.

"look what you've done to me, fuck. miss you already," gojo murmurs, and before you can respond, he surges forward, hands pressing against your face with the intensity of a storm. one hand reaches to find the nape of your neck, letting you surrender to the heat of this touch.

you crave more, so much more from gojo, who's taking you in like you're his last breath, his final indulgance. it's as if he's found a new devotion in you, ready to worship you at the alter of your false godhood. but before you can part your mouth to tell him exactly what you and where, gojo's hands are already sneaking under your top, brushing against the trembling skin of your torso.

his teeth are biting down on your lip, leaving you dizzy. and gasping, and so damp in your panties as the fabric of your top is peeled away, and you're left shivering, fighting against the cold of the december air. you find yourself pressing harder into the warmth of his chest, letting the swell of your chest press flat against him.

"shoulda' turned the heat on before we came in," gojo murmurs, breathless as his lips hover a mere centimetre away from yours, "got nothin' to worry about, sweetheart. i'll keep you warm."

"didn't t-think i'd spend christmas eve like this," you gasp, your head lolling to the side as gojo presses open-mouthed kisses to the soft arc of your neck, sensitive even to the cool air.

"no?" gojo's reply is breathy, almost frantic as if he's fumbling in the heat of the moment and has little grasp over the words tumbling out of his mouth, "neither did i. but this? b-better than any fuckin' mission they could've sent me on."

you cock your head, feeling the heat of his clothed cock underneath your thighs, "m-mission, huh? what are you talking about - mmph!" but the rest of the question never escapes your lips for it's swallowed up by another one of gojo's candied kisses.

his rough hands work deftly, finding the clasp of your bra with ease. a pretty crimson thing, almost sheer as it caught the light. and in the centre, a tiny satin bow sat like the final touch on a perfectly wrapped gift. you had only worn it half-heartedly earlier in the morning, some forced christmas cheer for your dreary day ahead.

the look on gojo's face was anything but composed, staring at your cupped tits like you'd knocked the air out of him and his chest rose and fall as though he were remembering how to breathe. in a single fluid motion, your bra is unhooked. the faint metallic click barely audible over the pounding in your chest and he's tossing it aside with a casual flick, his focus entirely on you.

you find yourself mesmerised by his eyes, those swirling pools of blue that seem to have stolen fragments of the sky itself, clouds brushed into cerulean depths with strokes of syrupy smoothness. they're breathtaking, but the thought shatters as gojo's canines graze the flesh of your breasts, a sharp and teasing nip that pulls a gasp from your lips. leaves you rocking sharply against his erection, making him throw his head back, ragged.

the playful string blooms into a flush of heat, and gojo's at it again, his mouth working to leave faint red marks in its wake. you squeal, half in surprise and half in helpless laughter (and entirely in a lusty haze) but gojo only pulls back enough to murmur, "what? can't help myself."

but then he peers at you abruptly, his lips parted as he catches his breath, "wait. do you wanna —?" and gojo tilts his snowy hair towards the shadowy doorway that leads out of the living room, the implication clear even through his panting.

you nod, breathless, "yeah, jus' help me up."

without hesitation, a strong arm slides around your waist, and before you know it, you're being swept into a semi-bridal carry, and your head is resting against the fabric of his dress shirt. not a bad feeling, one you could get used to.

at the doorway, gojo lets out a low 'shit!', nudging the door open with his foot. the faint sound of clattering follows as he kicks something out of the way. you glance down from your entirely too comfortable vantage point, spotting a smattering of cheap tinsel, all glittering in metallic silver and gold, tangled with round baubles that glisten faintly under the dim light.

some have little smears of glue, and uneven glitter patches, as if crafted by unsteady hands, but with earnest effort.

"you big on christmas or something?" you tease, delighting in how the tips of his ears light up like nose of a famous reindeer.

gojo freezes for a moment, almost sheepish as he clears a path, clearly trying to look as macho as possible as he gingerly pushes aside a string of green lights, "made those for my students," he mutters, "thought they'd like them in the classroom tomorrow."

your laugh grows louder, and gojo's brows furrow, his tone growing defensive, "it's a nice surprise for the classroom!"

"i'm not making fun of you!" you insist, leaning up to press a gentle, soothing kiss to the hollow of his collarbone, "it's sweet. i think it's really nice, actually. wait, you're a teacher?"

gojo's mouth quirks up in a faint smile, "something like that," he says cryptically, finally clearing a decent and hazard-free path into a sleek, and clean bedroom. it's all modern space, all clean lines in shades of cream and white, and navy.

gojo sets you down gently, and the plush fabric cradles you as your back lands on fresh linen. and for a quiet, tender moment, you're both caught in the stillness. gojo kneels at the edge of the bed, his hands resting lightly on each of your thighs as if he's anchoring himself there.

his gaze is steady, content, maybe even adoring in a way that feels too intimate for someone who you barely know. there's a warmth in his expression, like he's savouring the sight of you, searching for something — and he's found exactly what he's hoped for.

almost without thinking, you lift a hand, cupping the sides of his face. his skin is warm beneath your palm, soft with the faintest hint of pale stubble that seems to fade into his skin. the moment your hands makes contact, gojo leans into your touch instinctively, his white lashes fluttering closed.

"hey, 'toru," you murmur softly, "y'still with me?"

gojo's eyes snap open at the sound of that, sharp and bright, as if the nickname itself has sparked a challenge in him. a low and almost frustrated sound escapes from the back of his throat, and he presses a feather-light kiss to the inside of your knee.

you don't miss at how his teeth sink into his bottom lip again, worrying and working the plush flesh like he's trying to steady himself. spreading your weeping thighs aside, as his gaze is fixed on something. intense, unwavering. the sheer focus of it making heat creep up your neck.

at how he must be staring hungrily at damp, sheer red fabric that clings to the outline of your cunt. at how it must shimmer almost translucently now, the sticky slick of your arousal enhancing the gloss, making your panties glisten under the light.

you're feeling an unfamiliar kind of shy under the weight of his attention, at how he must see how the fabric clings closely to your puffy, swollen folds — the delicate weave exposing the shape of your taut pussy, practically weeping for his touch.

you needn't have asked, for gojo was already diving into deliver.

he's gliding his index finger over your dripping pussy, letting the tangy syrup sink onto his fingers, leaning in to press a sweet, almost innocent kiss to your clothed cunt, "she seems desperate for me, don'tcha think, heh?"

the sound of the fabric ripping is sharp and wet, a squelching and almost fleshy tone, a sound that's both soft and sharp to the blood rushing between your ears. a strained tear of your beautiful panties, leaving cool air to gently leave a kiss of its own upon your cunt.

you gape at him, a bit too stunned to find coherent words, "hey, what the f-fuck! those were like super expensive!"

gojo rolls his eyes, the kind of look that has a bit too much attitude for someone who's practically begging on his knees for a taste of you, "don't get all huffy on me, sweetheart. 'm gonna buy you more, is tha' alright?"

"i'll r-remember that, satoru," you murmur, giving a sharp tug at his white strands, "you gon' have to give me your number now."

gojo shudders, the muscles in his back rippling underneath his tight shirt, "was already gonna," and he's back to pressing soft, kitten licks to your now exposed folds, small circles over your throbbing clit.

you buck your canting hips closer to the heat of his mouth, to where the pink tip of his teasing tongue peeks out of a pretty mouth, "satoru, c'mon. can't you just, fuck—"

you sharply cry out as he presses his mouth forward, a sudden surge of heat jolting through you. burying himself deep, his nose brushing against the sweet, syrup that coats your pussy, and the rhythmic, wet movements of his tongue send shivers through your entire being.

"mhm, jus' as sweet as you look, baby," gojo gasps, swirling and flicking his tongue, teasing you with every deliberate patter of the muscle near your winking entrance. so messy, slick and you're not sure where he ends and you begin as it all glides together carnally.

gojo seems languidly tipsy, just from munching through the gloss of your cunt, far more intoxicated from your taste than any cheap christmas liquor. he alternates between pushing his tongue past the ring of your tight walls, and then wrapping his lips around the searing pulse of your clit, leaving your hips shaking and dragging over his mouth, smearing yourself over his chin.

you're fisting delicate white locks with fierce urgency, and he hisses and then chuckles into your pussy, "tch! ease up there for me, yeah? jus' move your hips like you were doin' before," and you comply, angling yourself better so he can flatten his tongue against your folds, jaw grinding deeper into you "hah, yeah, just like that."

"taking good care of you though, aren't i? wait, say it. say that 'm making you feel good," and he's bullying a long finger into your gummy walls, clingy and sopping, "say 'm making you feel better than a-anyone ever has," and you just mewl as your arousal must surely be dripping down his forearms, staining the cuffed sleeve of his shirt as he takes your sweet juices down his throat.

there's stars beginning to twinkle at the edge of your vision, and you know you must be close, for your heart is practically dancing a heavy beat against your ribcage, and you suddenly push his mouth away, watching as a clear strand of spit or your slick forms a taut bridge between his mouth and your folds.

"w-wait, satoru, s-stop."

gojo's head lifts, eyes blinking as if coming out of a faze. but then, like a switch, something sharp flickers behind his gaze and concern floods in. his thin brows furrow slightly, glossy lips parting as he reaches out, as if to steady your hips, "you okay, sweetheart? what's wrong?"

your heart stutters, pounding so loudly you're sure he can hear it. you try to steady your breathing, but the tremour in your fingertips betray you as they gently slide through your hair, the silky strands tangling around your hand.

"nothin' wrong, 'toru. but i was gonna cum," and gojo's face, still flushed and soft with arousal, splits into a shy, amused grin.

"hah, i know. that's what i wanted," he's close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath hitting your aching cunt, but you shake your head again.

"feels unfair, wanna see you too. wan' you to cum in me,"

you watch, almost in awe, as a low and guttural sound escapes gojo satoru, raw and unfiltered. gojo runs his tongue over his lips, his eyes dark with something dangerously close to hunger.

"you sure?" and his voice is hoarse, unsure despite his roaming gaze. you nod, your hands digging into his shoulder, tugging at the crisp fabric of his dress shirt, desparate to feel the warmth of his skin underneath.

his shaky laugh of disbelief only makes you more aroused, whining for him to hurry up, and before you know it, he's standing up, towering over your boneless form on the sheets.

"how could i deny you anything?" he murmurs, echoing your earlier words. gojo's hands reach for the hem, the fabric shifting as he pulls it over his head, revealing a milky expanse of toned skin, smooth and taut over a set of abs that should easily land him on a gq list.

his waist is slender, defined in all the right places, and the soft taper of muscles make your breath catch. but the soft white trail of hair that reaches under his waistband makes your cunt clench.

"y'seem happy with the view, don'tcha?" gojo's voice is teasing, the cocky smirk tugging at his lips, but you can hear the impatience threading his tone now too. he's not as in control as he lets on, his hands now making quick work of his belt, leaving your mouth dry when he finally pushes his black boxers down.

you should have known that his cock would be as pretty and unfairly gorgeous as the rest of him. he's circling the strawberry-red tip, glowering and throbbing, right over your gathered slick, coating it and smacking the mushroom head in a thwack! over your poor clit, leaving you jolting as he laughs and leans down to kiss you sweetly once more.

"jus' look at me, yeah?" his drawl is slow, lazy and so ruined. at the first inch of his throbbing cock that slips through your walls, he looks utterly undone. a mess of sharp edges softened by something far more primal and raw.

gojo's head tips back, exposing the elegant line of his neck as the moonlight cascades over you, "hey, sweetheart, 's not too much, yeah?"

hazy blue eyes bore into you, and for a brief moment, in the time it takes for the lightning to strike the earth, you swear that his eyes glow. almost radiant and jewel-like, with cerulean fractals shimmering as if they're emitting life of their own. perhaps its simply the electrifying stretch of inches that's rendering you to hallucinate, whining as your nails find purchase in milky skin and rippling shoulders.

"i-it's big, 'toru," you pant, feeling him almost shudder at the clipped name again, as he grips the base of his cock to bully the final inch in, sighing in contentment as he finally bottoms out, with a wet pop!

gojo looks feral like this, heaving a breath through his mouth as though the air is being taken from him from every second he spends stretching you out on his fat shaft, "hah, 'm glad, i'm so glad i met you tonight, sweetheart. fuck, fuck, y'feel i-incredible."

he's pushing your thighs further back, running his hands over the plush skin, leaving bruising red prints that won't disappear tomorrow as you moan, wanton into his open mouth, letting gojo run his lips down your jaw and into the curve of your neck.

you're practically now folded in half under the bulk of his weight, feeling stars collide in absolutely astrophysical ways, impaled further on the long and thick length of his cock, "in so deep, s-satoru."

seems that gojo is a man of little mercy, for he seems only all the more invigorated by your squeals, drawing his torso back to watch the hypnotic smack of skin on skin, of your slick and creamy froth creating fresh rings over his pistoning cock.

he's entirely out of control, as you feel your body go limp from the pleasure shooting through every nerve and pore.

depraved.

you don't realise you might have let that slip out loud, so dizzy in your cockdrunk haze because gojo's suddenly ramming himself roughly in you, as though he was desperate to have his cock kiss your cervix, to feel for every divot and nook of your cunt's walls.

"d-depraved, hah. people call me, fuck, p-people call me a lotta things, sweetheart," and gojo's so good with it, letting your pussy have not even one moment to take reprieve, having you feel each vein and bulge of his cock, "but depraved is n-new."

the hand that was dancing over your thighs flies to your swollen, aching clit. practically glistening for his attention, and his attention you did receive, "right, t-there! 'toru, mmph!" you're trying to splay your legs wider, giving his quick hand more room to swirl tight circles where you needed him most.

your double-vision gaze lingers on the ripple of his muscles, the way his arms flex and shift as he seems intent on angling you just right for him to drill his cock over and over, at some freakish and feverish pace, "y'so good, gojo," you purr, and your nails curl against his arms, pressing just enough to leave tiny crescents in his skin, the faint dampness of his exertion clinging to him, "s-so strong!"

something shifts. the glow is back, electric blue flooding his eyes like crackling storm clouds. it's almost unnerving, this unearthly brightness, as if he's some ancient god wrapped up in human skin, and you've just stumbled into a divine revelation.

gojo stills for the briefest moment, the thick head of his cock snagging on your puffy folds as he draws himself almost entirely out. the absence of motion makes you whine, an airy and impatient sound escaping your throat. that hesitation feels like a tease, like a string that's been pulled so taut, before he finally dives forward, capturing your mouth in a messy, heated kiss. sloppy in its disregard.

"s-so strong, huh?" gojo's voice is rough, shaky, as though he's trying to centre himself but your tight pussy holds him in hypnotic sway, "y-you think so? think i'm the strongest?" his lips brush yours as he speaks, and there's something almost boyish and charming in the way that he seems to be fishing for a compliment, despite the low heat in his voice.

you pull back from his wet, spit-stringed lips. just enough to wrap your hands around his neck and push him closer, deeper into you as he gutturally groans, "if i s-say yes, are y'gonna keep showing off?"

gojo's laugh is short, breathless, "y-yeah, wanna see?"

he makes quick work of pushing himself back into you, pumping himself so far in that your slick must be painting and sopping the white hairs at the base of his cock almost translucent, "o-oh my god, 'toru, fuck, oh my god!" the stretch has your head spinning, as if the skies are parting above you, and you're melodramatically left to see the light of divinity as gojo bucks his hips harshly into you. as if he's too far gone, needs to prove himself to you with a good fuck.

"you h-have to say it," gojo stutters, his words tumbling out so quickly, like rough gravel, "say it, fuck, c'mon. say i'm — say i'm the s-strongest. you have to, hnghh, god. please, jus' agree, okay?" his voice is cracking, that cocky veneer entirely shattered under the weight of his rambling desperation as he practically rummages through your sopping insides, "y-you feel it right, i mean, you can feel me — i mean."

a high whine escapes your throat as his pace becomes almost olympian, and you wonder faintly how you haven't managed to sprain a muscle or break a bone yet, how he hasn't managed to shatter something with the sheer pace and force of how gojo satoru fucks, "hah, 'toru. i'm —"

"close? g-god, i hope so. 's what i want. nothing, like n-nothing feels better than this right?" his words are falling out of him in a messy, pussydrunk rush, his eyes flickering between your face and down to where your pussy lips are bulged around his shaft, "so good, right? the b-best thing you've ever —"

you truthfully don't even hear the rest of his words, blood absolutely roaring and rearing in your ears, your ribcage as you feel the tight coil snap, letting out short, slurred snaps of his name when you cum. as he doesn't quite let up on smacking his hips right against your ass, "s-satoru, 's getting s-sensitive, oh, fuck. fuck!"

he's suddenly whining, with pleading and erratic blue eyes chasing after you, sloppily pushing down so he can gasp and pant into your open mouth, before capturing you in a heart-stopping kiss as he finally gets milked dry by your pulsing and fluttering walls. in awe of how creamy white is practically leaking out of you, dripping a stringy trail over the flesh of your thighs.

you're agape at how utterly fucked he looks right now, though you're certain you do not look much better as fat tears prick at your eyes, streaming past your ears from the overstimulation, "s-still fillin' me up, 'toru. god, do ya always cum this much?"

at first, you don't even get a response from gojo who just sinks his teeth into the juncture of your neck, almost as if he's trying not to cry out, but then he's back to circling your clit with a rough hand, "makin' me sound like some kinda whore, s-sweetheart. 'n and i told you. don't do this m-much."

and now he's slowing down, pleasurably painful bucks of his hips keeping glossy, white seed in you. ensuring that it coats your entire entrance, "an' it's not my fault that she," and here, he gives your clit a small smack! grinning like a madman, "n-not my fault that she's so, hah, addictive."

each tight circle of his hand on your clit sends you hurtling into yet another orgasm, one that has you begging gojo for mercy, repreive, for more. an orgasm that has him whispering the sweetest nothings into your ear, "d-don't worry, gotcha like this. gonna let you rest n-now, jus' gotta relax for me."

by the time he's slipping his still somehow hard cock out of your creamed cunt, you can feel exhaustions heavy and caring hands caress you, rendering your body limp and boneless. your eyes heavy and hazy, but you can feel a soft ghost of gojo's kiss over the shell of your ear, "h-hope y'still here in the morning, sweetheart. don't leave, yeah?"

the morning sunlight filters through the blinds, and despite the ache in your limbs that cricks your bones, you drag yourself out of bed. christmas day, after all. you've thrown on gojo's dress shirt from last night, snug enough to flutter around your hips, but oversized enough around the shoulders to let you drown in it.

it's cozy though, and even the chilly air feels refreshing against the warmth clinging to you. gojo is still sound asleep, and you had smiled at how he took little puffs of air as he was passed flat out in bed. but you always like to be up early on christmas, and there's something about the holiday that makes you feel like you need to earn the right to nap later.

you wander around the bedroom for a bit, stretching your legs as your muscle protest in earnest. eventually, you decide to make your way to that kitchen. breakfast, right.

it seems like a good idea, especially considering the last thing in your stomach was a questionably sour vodka. so you pull open the fridge, expecting something befitting of this apartment. perhaps a slab of wagyu beef, a tin of caviar, a thick block of pistachio-cream dubai chocolate. you'd even settle for sushi.

instead, you're left staring back at a stack of candy canes, some strawberry yoghurt, a carton of milk and some fast food wrappers. despite your protesting stomach, a deep amusement washes over you. it doesn't surprise you that gojo would have a fridge stocked with food you'd find at a child's birthday party and a greasy diner.

still, breakfast is in order and because you can't help it, you pull out a candy cane and start unwrapping it. you're just about take a bite when you hear the unmistakable pad of footsteps. you turn, face to face with someone who would clearly not be out of place on a vogue covershoot.

gojo hasn't tossed on a shirt, and the sunlight filters over his chiselled physique before your sight is stolen by the loose sheet wrapped around his waist. delicious. you try to snap your gaze back to his face, but it's hard to not track your gaze down his torso, like a cat eyeing a particularly irresistible sunbeam.

"good morning to you too," gojo says, a grin curling his lips, "what are you doing?" his voice is still thick with interrupted sleep, laced with a morning rasp that forces you to ground yourself and stop falling prey to the god, eros and his machinations.

"breakfast, 'm starving."

"don't bother," gojo says, shaking his head, "we can go somewhere nice for breakfast. like real, actual food. don't think you want half-eaten yoghurt."

you nod enthusiastically, mind turning back to the peeling seal of the strawberry yoghurt with a spoon sticking out of it. but then, something else catches your mind's attention. a little curiosity piques, one that you cannot help but ask him.

"wait," you begin, snapping your teeth around the saccharine mint of the candy cane, "y'know what's crazy. like, i swear your eyes glowed last night. not even in a silly compliment way, but like electricity. i thought i was like, losing it.'

you expect gojo to brush it off with a wink, or maybe laugh it off like you're just teasing him. but instead, the man's face shifts, that cocky smile faltering for the briefest moment. it's gone so fast that you think you almost imagined it. but why does he look...almost guilty?

before you can process that, you realised you've leaned yourself over the counter, and in your absent-mindedness, your elbow presses a button on the answering machine. a small beep, and suddenly, a voice blares through the room,

"hey, gojo-sensei!" comes a high-pitched, distinctly teenage voice, an excited boy who sounds a little crackly over the speaker, "so, we found this grade one curse yesterday...and uh, we totally got rid of it. we were gon' call you, but you didn't pick up. but i almost got my arm torn off. wait, no! that sounds dramatic, i got shoko to look at it anyway. so what we're all wondering right is that we don't have to hand in any homework now right? as like reparations?"

the voice crackles off, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. you stand there, absolutely dumbstruck, staring at the answering machine like it's about to burst into flames or start singing christmas carols.

gojo, meanwhile, has the most awkward look on his face, clearly caught between embarrassment...and what? panic, amusement?

"satoru, what the fuck?"

he looks at you for a moment, but instead of speaking, he lets out a long and exasperated sigh before pulling out one of the counter chairs, "you're gonna want to sit down for this one, sweetheart."

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almadelsur · 7 months ago

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💋 The Secrets One Keeps

summary: You're in love with jj but he's with kie, so in moments of pure desperation you often find yourself turning to the person he hates the most...rafe

warnings: some good old angsty pining, very very slight smut if you squint, fem!reader, one or two uses of y/n, plz let me know if I missed anything

a/n: SHE'S BACKKKK, so I've decided to completely reformat and re-post this fic with a few tweaks and editing considering i first wrote this like 3 years ago, and yes for those of you who have been asking, I fully intend to finallly continue this fic....more info on that later ;)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・

JJ’s eyes change the moment Kiara steps into any room. Immediately his presence is ripped away from your immediate atmosphere, popping the little bubble you'd spent all afternoon crafting as he sprung up to greet the olive-skinned enigma that captured his affections.

“Kie!” The joy in his tone was incomparable to anything he’d directed at anybody else. Nothing could draw out such happiness from the blonde. You hated that about her.

In an attempt at self-defense, your brain shut itself off. Shielding you from processing the scene in front of you, your emotions ran cold like cement pouring down and across your neurons. It was the only way you could survive such a beating to your heart.

You figured that by distancing yourself mentally, you wouldn’t have to raise suspicion and distance yourself physically. In reality, you knew the real reasoning was your inability to stay away from JJ but the facade helped you cope.

“Hey J” she embraced him and his body relaxed around her as if she was the only source of his happiness. The only way he’d find alleviation from what he perceived as a shitty life being through her. “Sorry I’m late my parents had me running like crazy at the wreck today.”

Scattered greetings filled the air from the rest of the pogues, yet you could only focus on the way his eyes fixated on her like she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Here come sit baby” he offered her the seat he had just previously been place holding. What you thought had been quality time with your best friend, presented itself to you now as momentary attention to pass the time until his actual desire arrived.

Settling herself down and offering you a wide smile, her shoulder bumped against yours gently as a sign of acknowledgment.

“Hey dude” she directed at you, but you didn’t reply. You just couldn’t bring yourself to pretend. Not today anyway. Instead, you offered her a small smile, it was minimal but it was the best you could do under the circumstances.

“Yo" A crumpled tissue paper flew at your head, jj attempting to refocus your attention on him, "didn’t you say you were gonna get some water or something?” He spoke up, the scheme evident in his tone.

“um yeah I guess” You lifted yourself up and took a few steps before jj used the opportunity to slump himself down where you had been sat and sprawled his arms across his girlfriend’s shoulders.

“snooze ya loose sucker” he joked as he turned to Kiara to start up some mindless conversation. Leaving you behind in the dust.

Your teeth gritted as you focused on making your way to the kitchen hoping the distance from the scene unfolding would lift the iron grip on your heart.

You made the fatal mistake of glancing back and you were met with the image of jj nuzzling up to kiara in a picturesque display of love. The lump building at the base of your throat indicated that it was your time to get the hell out of there before you broke down in front of everyone.

“Shit guys, y’know what I just realized I gotta go” You spoke quickly, your tone matching your pace as you rushed to the exit of the chateau.

“You’re still coming to the party later though right?” John B asked, not tearing his eyes away from the screen in front of him.

“Mhm yeah sure” you opened the door ready to depart.

“Shit I forgot about that! Me and jj are gonna be late, we got dinner at the wreck tonight.” kiara added as you stepped out, unable to control the escape of a rogue tear.

“Date night babyyyy” You heard JJ cheer before you slammed the door behind you.

“Is Y/N okay? She seemed a bit off.” Kie nudged JJ as she questioned.

JJ furrowed his eyebrows momentarily. Glancing out the window, he saw you jog away from the house, and a brief flash of worry flashed through his mind. As quick as it came, it dissipated. He shook his head figuring that if there had been something wrong, he’d have been the first to know.

“Nah she’s okay don't worry.” he offered to kie.

Boy was he mistaken.

——————————————————————

“Fuuuck me” you moaned out, sinking into him one last time. You were hot, sweaty, and heaving as you pulled him out of you.

“I thought I just did” Rafe taunted leaning back to lie down, arms crossed behind his head causing his taut abdomen to flex.

You scrambled off the bed, picking up your garments and shoving them back on your body forcefully.

“What, no pillow talk?” He tried again.

“Rafe..” you trailed off. Whenever you’d finish fucking, you’d struggle to even look at him. The self-hatred flooded your body as soon as the orgasm poured out.

“Hey you called me” he eyed you intently but you knew he didn’t actually care. To rafe cameron everything was just a game. At this point it was pretty much common knowledge. “In fact” he moved closer to you so that he could speak directly into your ear “It’s always you that calls me.”

“Don’t be a dick” you stood up and eyed your heels contemplating whether you could face the walk back in them. “You know it makes me feel like shit.” It might have sounded brutal but that’s how things were with rafe.

“Yeah, it’s like you punctuate your orgasms with self-hate.”

“I'm a pogue, rafe.” You argued back as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“So? Kooks and pogues can fuck you know.” You couldn’t comprehend why you were even having this conversation. Why now, why tonight.

“Yeah maybe, not you though.” You didn’t want to tell him the reason explicitly.

“I fuck pogues.”

“You fuck anyone.” The words came out almost instantly and without thinking, yet rafe took no offense.

“Exactly so what’s the issue?”

“The issue is, rafe.” You paused trying to find the words without actually having to say the words. “The issue is that if my friends found out they’d hate me, probably more than I already hate myself.”

He just chuckled, the look in his eyes changing as he figured you out.

“What's funny?” You challenged.

“You don’t have to bullshit me princess.” He looked up at you with a devilish glint in his eye. “You just don’t want jj knowing about your little escapades huh?” Bingo.

“He’s with Kiara.” You shrugged him off.

“Uh huh, you like him but you can’t have him.” Every word he spoke striking a nerve deep within you. “So you’re fucking me to fuck him over.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” You grabbed your heels and shoved them on, wincing as you buckled them up.

“Don’t I?” He threw his joggers on lazily as he stood, the level dynamics changing significantly. The older boy towered over you. “Where are they tonight?”

“Back at John B’s, we had a little get-together.” You crossed your arms. More often than not you usually called rafe after a few drinks left you feeling lonely. “Sorry, your invite must have gotten lost in the mail.” You attempted to jab at him with sarcasm yet he clearly held the upper hand with his line of questioning.

“So all of them are there now?” He stepped towards you.

“Mhm,” You lied.

“Even jj?” Moving closer until your neck was craned upwards to meet his eyes.

Taking your silence as an answer, he reached up and ran his palms across your upper arms, prompting you to uncross them.

“He was uh- him and kie should be getting there soon” You mumbled.

“So would i be wrong in guessing, that might have prompted your call then?” You let yourself be guided by his movements leaning your neck further back as his hand trailed up to your jawbone.

“rafe…” you called out insignificantly.

He leaned in and pressed his lips against your neck, right over where he could feel your pulse, and pressed down.

You couldn’t help the gasp that left your mouth. Because as much as your heart belonged to jj, rafe was just so fucking good at raising your temperature.

“Round two?” He mumbled against your neck.

“Yeah..” you attempted yet it came out as a whisper. He grabbed you swiftly and lifted you, moving you across the room and throwing you down onto his bed, crawling on top of you in a predatory manner as he did so. As your back hit the bed, the ringing of your phone brought you back from the haze he had you under.

“Wait rafe stop stop” you pushed him off and grabbed the screeching mobile, pressing it up to your ear. “Hello?”

“Dude, where are you?” The sound of jj’s voice came through over the pumping sound of music and party chatter. “Me and Kie just got back and John B says no one’s seen you for like over an hour.”

“Oh I’m uh, I had to go do something for my mom” The lie pouring out of your mouth caused rafe to chuckle which was of course met by a slap from you signaling for him to be quiet.

“Oh well, when are you getting back? I have to tell you about this date. You’re gonna be so proud of me I actually think I’m ready to tell Kie I love her” you screwed your eyes shut as he spoke.

“Yeah I- you know what I can’t make it back my mom needs me to stay and help out but uh I’ll see you tomorrow or something.” You hung up before he could even reply, throwing your phone down uncaring of its state.

“What’s wrong? They getting hitched?” Rafe spoke up from behind you.

You turned to Rafe, the fire in your veins pushing your arms to grab him, roughly pulling him back onto you.

“Just shut up and fuck me rafe.”

And fuck you he did.

——————————————————————

The next morning you woke up to the sight of rafe’s bare back. Not much of a cuddler, you figured.

Quietly you pushed the covers off and began to dress yourself back up. As you got to your shoes you sighed and shook your head, as if there was any way in hell you were going to walk home in heels. You scooped up your shoes and your now-cracked phone shaking your head, slightly ashamed at your outburst.

Without even a second glance at the sleeping body you were leaving behind, you made your way over to the door. As you turned the knob and stepped out to leave, a husky voice spoke up.

“I’ll keep my ringer on for you babe.”

You rolled your eyes looking back at him, “Fuck you rafe.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m counting on.” He didn’t even open his eyes as he answered, instead just rustling around in the bed and turning to the other side, once again facing his back to you.

You scoffed as you exited. Your internal rant clouded your vision, body on autopilot with an excellent self-navigation of the Cameron house from the countless times you’d made this exit.

“Y/N?” The gentle voice wiped your thoughts clean as the shock stilled you dead in your tracks, slowly turning to come face to face with none other than Sarah.

“Sarah” you drawled out. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s my house?” Her head was cocked to the side, equally shocked to see you.

“No I just mean- I thought you were spending the night at John B’s.” You forced the small talk, avoiding the topic of why you were here, sneaking out at 8 in the morning.

“He had to work today, did you spend the night here?” She glanced up at the door of rafe’s bedroom.

“Umm-“ There had only been two other instances where you had been at a complete loss for words. The day jj told you he and Kiara were dating, the morning after your first sexual encounter with rafe, and now this.

“Are you sleeping with my brother?!” She whisper-shouted, eyes wide as the realization hit her. Busted.

“No?”

“Oh my god!” She grabbed you by the wrist and dragged you to her room, slamming the door as soon as you were both inside. “How long has this been going on?!” Her tone was loud and her hands wild as she interrogated you.

“Just a little under a year.” You sat on her bed and looked at your lap as you spoke. Reminiscent of a child being scolded.

“A year?! Oh my god!” She repeated. “Who knows about this?!”

With that, you looked up at her desperately. “No one. No one knows so please don’t tell them.” You didn’t have to name names for her to know who you were referring to.

“Are you two like” she paused “together?” She scrunched her nose up, disgusted at the thought of her bully of an older brother dating anyone.

“No god no. It’s just sex” you were just as uncomfortable as Sarah was, having to tell her about boning her older brother.

“Disgusting.” She turned away from you with her arms crossed, looking out the window.

“Look I’m not proud of it okay? Just-“ You sighed “Just please don’t tell anyone” pleading again.

Sarah let out a long sigh and uncrossed her arms. She walked over to you and joined you on the bed, her eyes showing concern mixed with something you couldn’t quite place your finger on.

“I thought you were into jj” she spoke softly, there it was. Pity.

“Yeah well, jj is with kie and instead of sitting around wallowing in self-pity, I decided to do something about it.” As the words left your mouth, you realized how weak the explanation was.

“So you just use rafe to bang the jj out of you.”

“It’s not like Rafe cares, if anything he’s also using me.” You tried to reason.

“I don’t doubt that. But I mean, that’s- It’s not healthy, you’ll never move on if you don’t actually process your emotio-“

“Look Sarah, I don’t need to do any of that shit okay? What I have here works, when I fu- when I’m with rafe, I don’t think about jj.” Tears began to swell in your eyes “Sleeping with rafe helps me forget about everything, even if it’s only for a little while he uh- he makes me feel good.” To an extent, there was truth behind your words, while you and rafe fucked the rest of the world went away. It was only after, that the crippling self-hatred hit you along with the return of your immense feelings for jj.

Sarah shuffled over and threw her arm around you. “That’s not good for you, it’s just momentary. It’s easy and it's a cycle, you’re never going to get better going down this path. Especially not with rafe.”

“Rafe he’s- he’s not that bad.”

“Yes he is. But i bet it gives you satisfaction fucking him knowing jj hates him. Feels like revenge right?” She’d always been so perceptive your Sarah, you hated how she could see right through you.

Tears ran down your cheek silently. “You’re not gonna tell anyone right?” You sniffled.

She gave you one of those classic salt-of-the-earth Sarah Cameron smiles, the kinda smile that would light up any room she walked into. “Takin' it to the grave babe.”

A loud beeping caused both your heads to whip towards the window. “Shit, I completely forgot I was supposed to go on the HMS with pope and jj, we were gonna chill there until John B and Kie finished work.” She rose to her feet and extended an arm towards you. “Wanna come? Or we could drop you home if you’re not up for it.”

With a sigh you took her hand and pulled yourself up, walking beside her as you mentally prepped yourself to face the blonde you desperately pined for.

“Well rise and shine campers.” jj yelled out of the window of the drivers seat.

“Y/N! Where you been dude? you totally bailed last night.” Pope was next to speak as you and Sarah filed into the Twinkie. As JJ began to drive you avoided any form of eye contact in his general direction.

“I had to go help my mom out, blackout at mine again.” You didn’t even look at pope either, instead focusing your attention on the blur of trees and houses pacing by the window as JJ sped down the winding roads.

“Isn’t that what you were wearing last night?” pope, observant as always, pointed out.

“Uh yeah, I didn’t really get any time to change cause…”

“I called her last night when I got home, I was so drunk I don’t think I was ready to stop the party.” Sarah covered for you.

“Yeah I wrapped up helping my mom out and then this one calls me talkin bout a sleepover or something so I didn’t exactly have much time to change.”

Thankfully pope had lost interest as soon as he had asked the question, otherwise, your overcompensating ass would have been caught out straight away. You always had to add to the lie until you felt like you had sold it completely.

Keeping your eyes trained on the outside meant that jj’s frown directed at you through the windscreen mirror went completely undetected. He always knew whenever there was something up with you and right there and then he knew something definitely was.

“Hey, you okay?” He didn’t need to address you explicitly for you to know he was talking to you.

“Yeah just tired.” You shrugged him off in an attempt to distance yourself from him yet again.

He knew you were lying but he didn’t understand why, you never lied to each other. Apart from John B, the pair of you were closer to each other than with anybody else in the group. You’d been best friends since kindergarten, and since then you’d sworn 3 things to each other.

1- You’d always share your snacks.

2-You’d always be best friends even if you argued.

3- You would never ever lie or keep secrets from each other.

Of course, as the both of you grew older the rules became more and more lax. The snack sharing was limited only to when you felt nice enough and sometimes you’d go for days without making up if you had argued particularly badly. Having kept two friendship-breaking secrets from him, the childhood rules seemed pretty insignificant by now.

“Mhm,” he responded, flickering his eyes between you and the road. “Are we taking you home to change first?”

“Yeah, I don’t know if I’ll join you guys afterward though.” You chewed down on your nail anxiously as the tension from being in the same space as jj paired with the guilt from having fucked rafe prior, suffocated you.

JJ made a face as he focused on the road, something was wrong with you and he’d be dammed if he wasn’t going to put his everything into finding out what that was.

#back on my shit #jj Maybank #Rafe Cameron #jj maybank x reader #rafe cameron x reader #love triangle #obx #outer banks #outer banks fic #jj maybank angst #jj maybank smut #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron angst #jj maybank x you #rafe cameron x you #tsok #the secrets one keeps

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gojover · 1 month ago

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the one who knows | mydeimos.

summary ⇢ phainon was no fool. he’d seen the way mydei looks at you, and—being the good, charitable, loyal friend he is—he was determined to help mydei win you over. alternatively, five times phainon tried to ease mydei’s heart, and one time he didn’t have to.

pairing ⇢ mydei x fem!reader contains ⇢ fluff, 5+1 things, friends to lovers!au, phainon in his matchmaking era—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! word count ⇢ 4.6k | art credit ⇢ ma_mori74 on x

V. MARMOREAL MARKET.

It had taken Phainon ten minutes to convince Mydei to join him for a walk. Ten minutes that, if Mydei had had his way, he could’ve spent sparring with some of the Okheman soldiers instead. But Aglaea had thought it was a wonderful idea and that the Chrysos Heirs could all do with a bit of a break, and so, Phainon had hauled Mydei by the arm and dragged him out of his chambers.

“No one—not even the prince of Castrum Kremnos—can refuse an order given by Lady Aglaea,” Phainon reasoned. “Don’t look so glum, my friend! We’ll head to the bakery first, and buy a basket full of those golden honeycakes you like so much.”

“I don’t like them that much,” Mydei muttered, his brows furrowed low as they walked through the sun-warmed square, passing beneath a colonnade dusted in peach blossoms. His cape, lined with embroidered laurels, swayed with the rigid force of his stride. He marched even when he was on a break.

Phainon only smiled. “Forgive me, Your Stoicism. I must’ve mistaken the way you inhale three of them in one go for something resembling pleasure.”

He caught the faint twitch of Mydei’s mouth, but didn’t comment. The sun crept higher as they wound through the marble streets of Okhema. Vendors called out in sing-song voices, peddling pomegranates, olive oil, and silk dyed the colour of dusk. The marketplace smelled of fig jam and roasted almonds, with the faint scent of incense wafting from a nearby shrine. Children laughed somewhere behind them, chasing each other in between the columns.

It was a wonderful day to spend outside—but none of that mattered to the warrior from Aedes Elysiae.

No, Phainon had only one goal today. A mission, as sacred as any undertaken by the Chrysos Heirs: to help Mydei get over himself and talk to the person he so obviously liked.

Despite his scowl, Mydei’s pace slowed when they neared the familiar bend in the road where pale stone gave way to ochre tiles and the air always smelled faintly like cardamom and burnt sugar. Phainon didn’t miss it. He turned his head, grinning in the way of a conspirator up to no good.

“There,” he said, pointing ahead. “The sanctuary of your soul. The oven-borne paradise of your most secret cravings.”

Mydei rolled his eyes but didn’t correct him. His scrutiny had already slipped towards the storefront. Phainon followed his gaze and spotted you through the open arch of the bakery’s awning, standing behind the counter with your sleeves rolled up and and your cheeks dusted in flour.

You were frowning over a tray of pastries, fussing over their arrangement. When a breeze swept through the open market street, a lock of hair fell loose from the knot at your neck, and you pushed it back absently with the back of your wrist.

Phainon had eyes, too. But more importantly, he had sense—and he’d seen the way Mydei looked at you when he thought no one was looking. He looked at you with a stubborn sort of reverence, like someone studying a scripture and attempting to understand the words.

Well. That wouldn’t do.

“Look at that.” Phainon slowed and clapped a hand to Mydei’s back. “The bakery’s survived another day without you looming over it like a stormcloud.”

“We’re here for pastries,” said Mydei.

“You’re here for pastries,” Phainon corrected. “I think I’ll go admire the fruit stand across the square. Alone. Without my imposing, sword-wielding companion towering beside me.”

“Phainon—”

But Phainon was already backing away, hands clasped behind his back, whistling some song that Mydei was sure was some great, romantic ballad. Mydei let out a slow breath. He adjusted the drape of his cape, then approached the stall.

You looked up when his shadow crossed the counter.

“Oh,” you said, straightening. “You’re here.”

His gaze dropped quickly. “Phainon wanted pastries.”

Your smile came a second later, soft and uncertain. “Well, lucky him,” you said. “They’re fresh. I just pulled them out of the oven.”

He nodded. Then, realising you were waiting for him to say something else, cleared his throat and tried again. “They smell good.”

“Thank you.”

There was silence, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Mydei shifted from one foot to the other. He thought about what Phainon would say in this situation. Probably something clever. Something witty. Something that would fluster both you and him if it were to slip past his lips. You reached for a basket and began lining it with a square of waxed linen.

“How many would you like today?” you asked. “Six? Or—”

Mydei hesitated. “Seven.”

“Seven?” you repeated, looking up at him.

“Just…” He nodded again, firm now. “In case Phainon drops one.”

You laughed—a quiet, breathy sound, like you hadn’t meant for it to escape. You looked away quickly, but he caught the way your smile lingered at the corner of your mouth.

“I’ll pack eight,” you said under your breath.

Mydei blinked. “That’s—”

“In case you drop one,” you added, looking up again, a little more confident. “Or in case you decide you like them more than you’re letting on.”

He stared at you for a moment. Then—quietly—he said, “I already do.”

You froze for half a heartbeat, hands stilling over the basket. A faint flush crept into your cheeks. Instead of answering, you focused on arranging the honeycakes, carefully and methodically placing them in neat rows.

Mydei shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable. He didn’t know why he said that. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do now that he had.

Phainon’s voice saved him.

“Have the Titans blessed this day with the sweet scent of ambrosia and gaucheness?” he declared. He draped himself over the edge of the counter, eyes dancing. “Tell me, Y/N—have you discovered a way to bake silence into your pastries? Because my dear friend here seems to have swallowed his vocabulary.”

You covered your laugh with your hand. “Don’t tease him.”

“Would I ever?” Phainon said, looking as innocent as a fox in a henhouse. “I’m simply here to collect our spoils and drag this poor, tongue-tied soldier off to see the rest of Okhema before sunset.”

You handed him the basket with a faint smile, then turned back to Mydei.

“Come by again,” you said quietly. “If you want.”

“I will,” Mydei said stiffly.

You smiled in farewell as they turned to go. Mydei didn’t look back—but his fingers brushed the edge of the basket where you’d tied the ribbon, and he didn’t let go until Phainon took it from him.

“Well?” Phainon said as they walked. “Anything you’d like to say?”

“...She added extra.”

Phainon’s eyes gleamed. “And you managed to remain calm! Incredible. At this rate, you might even ask her to dinner by the next century.”

“Don’t push it,” the Kremnoan grumbled.

“Oh, I plan to.”

IV. GARDEN OF LIFE.

Phainon hadn’t meant to stumble into the Garden of Life with Mydei again—but when they cut through the southern colonnade, they saw a few members from the Council of Elders crowding the forum steps, arguing over something trivial with Aglaea and Tribbie. It was a situation neither he nor Mydei wanted to deal with, and so, they took the longer route and let the scent of citrus and blooming oleander guide their way.

He didn’t mind. It was a pretty place. Calm, and peaceful, with a few straggler Chimeras who were slacking off work hiding behind the laurels.

What he did mind, however, was the way Mydei froze beside him, his entire frame tensing like a drawn bow.

Phainon followed his gaze, and—ah. Of course.

You were there, kneeling by the pond at the garden’s centre, sleeves rolled up and hands dusted with soil. You were tucking sprigs of rosemary into the earth next to the lilies, lips parted in concentration, a woven basket of herbs placed beside you. The sun caught the edge of your profile, golden and soft, and a smear of green streaked across your forearm.

Phainon blinked.

“Well,” he said, half-grinning, “fate certainly enjoys its comedy.”

Mydei didn’t reply. His jaw clenched once, twice, like he was recalibrating the entire concept of movement.

“I didn’t know she gardened,” said Phainon, crossing his arms over his chest. “How wonderfully poetic of her. Maybe she recites odes to every sprout. Maybe—”

“Deliverer,” Mydei said in warning. “Don’t start.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Phainon said, already walking ahead. “But since we’re both here, and you look like you might sprint in the opposite direction if left unsupervised, I’ll do the civil thing and say hello.”

Mydei grumbled something that sounded like traitor under his breath, but followed.

You looked up when their footsteps approached, blinking once before your expression lifted in slow, pleasant surprise.

“Hello,” you said. “You two again.”

Phainon pressed a hand to his heart. “You sound so thrilled.”

“We saw each other just three days ago,” you said, lips curving upwards. “I didn’t expect company.”

“Neither did we,” Phainon said, nudging Mydei forward a step. “We were merely passing through, but it felt as though Mnestia herself was summoning us.”

You looked at Mydei then—properly—and his shoulders visibly pulled tighter. “You’re not usually in this part of the city,” you said.

“I’m not,” he agreed.

Phainon supplied, “He didn’t know you’d be here.”

“But if he had?” you asked, raising a brow.

Mydei’s mouth opened. Closed.

“He might’ve worn nicer boots,” Phainon answered for him.

You laughed. Just once, but it was enough to make Mydei glance down, as though he was actually checking his boots, then quickly back up like he’d been caught.

“Do you help tend to the garden often?” he asked, surprisingly steadily.

“When I can,” you said. “My uncle oversees some of the Chimeras here. I bring him pastries sometimes.”

Mydei cleared his throat. “You have… dirt on your cheek.”

Your hand flew up and you swiped blindly.

“Other side,” he amended gently.

You blinked, then tried again, slower this time. He nodded. You smiled. “Thanks.”

The pause after was short but warm, filled with birdsong and the murmur of water in the stone channels. Phainon knew there was something—something blooming, something tentative. He rocked back on his heels and made a show of stretching.

“Okay, then,” he said, already backing away, “I think I’ll go find something blasphemous to do near the reflecting pools. You two—talk about dirt. Or gardening. Or destiny. I don’t care.”

“Phainon,” warned Mydei.

“Gone already,” he called, disappearing behind a laurel hedge. He found himself looking down at a pastel pink-coloured Chimera. It blinked up at him with wide eyes. He bent low and patted its head.

He could now hear the murmur of your voices, indistinct but undeniably warm. Your laughter came again, softer now, almost shy, and Mydei—Kephale help him—responded in kind.

It was rare, hearing that from him. So rare that Phainon stood there a moment longer than necessary, not to spy, but to witness. Something tender was taking root. A thread had been pulled taut between you, and it was holding.

He smiled to himself. Victory, he thought, is sweet and golden.

If he listened a little longer—just long enough to hear you say Mydei’s name again, and for Mydei to say yours in return—well. That was no crime.

III. OVERFLOWING BATH, MARMOREAL PALACE.

“Did you know, Mydei,” Phainon began, “that there is an ancient saying in Okhema that says: ‘You can lead a Dromas to water, but you can’t make him drink’? I think it applies to you.”

The bath chamber shimmered with steam, its marble walls veined with gold and silver, reflecting the soft glow of lanterns suspended from the domed ceiling. Water lapped gently against the edges of the vast pool, its surface disturbed only by the occasional ripple from the ornate fountains shaped like sea nymphs.

Phainon lounged in the water, submerged up to his chest, the heat loosening the knots in his shoulders. He tilted his head back, letting the steam envelop him, and then turned to regard Mydei, who sat rigidly on the opposite side, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on some indeterminate point on the far wall.

Mydei frowned. “I’m not a Dromas.”

“True,” Phainon conceded, “but the metaphor still stands. Here you are, in a bath designed for relaxation, yet you sit there as tense as a bowstring.”

“I find these indulgences… unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary? My dear prince, even the most stoic warrior needs respite. Or are you planning to wage war against relaxation itself?”

“I prefer to keep my guard up,” the Kremnoan grumbled.

“In a bathhouse?” Phainon raised an eyebrow. “Unless you suspect the loofahs of treachery, I think you’re safe.”

Mydei did not reply, so Phainon leaned back, letting the water buoy him, and said, “You know, she was asking about you.”

“Who?” Mydei’s gaze snapped to him.

“The pretty baker,” he answered. “You remember. The one with honey on her hands and sunlight in her hair. I visited Marmoreal Market again this morning. She makes exquisite milk pies, did you know?”

“Yes,” Mydei breathed out, and looked away, the tips of his ears reddening. “What did she say?”

“She wondered if the famously stoic prince ever smiles when he’s with others,” Phainon said, watching him closely. “I told her I’d seen it once, but it might’ve been a trick of the light.”

Mydei didn’t speak for a long time. The steam gathered on his eyelashes. His hands, resting on his knees, clenched, then relaxed.

“She shouldn’t ask things like that,” he said at last.

“Why not?”

“It implies something.”

“Yes,” Phainon said, amused. “It implies that she’s curious. About you.”

“That’s the problem,” Mydei replied. “She shouldn’t. I’ve done nothing to invite it.”

“You think attraction waits for an invitation? Mydei, please. You’re not a fortress. You can’t control who looks at you, or why.”

“I am heir to a kingdom where sentiment is seen as weakness,” the prince said. “I was raised to command, not to… to stay in gardens and smile at girls who bake bread.”

Phainon leaned forward, the water sloshing gently as he moved. “Yet, you stayed, and yet, you smiled.”

“It’s dangerous,” Mydei said, looking away. He looked troubled. “I wish I could tell her that. I may be immortal, but I won’t be here all the time, not if—not if fate has its way with me.”

“She isn’t asking for divinity, my friend,” said Phainon gently. “She’s only asking if you smile.”

Mydei’s gaze dropped to the water again. He didn’t answer, but his expression softened—imperceptibly, except to someone who’d known him long enough to notice.

After a while, Phainon leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Just something to think about, Mydei. No pressure. But if you do decide to bring her a flower sometime, may I suggest anything other than hemlock?”

Mydei scowled again and glared at the white-haired warrior. Phainon reached for a fig from the platter placed behind him and shrugged, eyes dancing with mirth. “Hks,” Mydei muttered, but his posture had eased—shoulders no longer braced like shields, hands no longer tense on his thighs. The prince looked away, but his expression had gone distant in a different sort of manner.

As if, perhaps, he was thinking about someone.

II. KEPHALE PLAZA.

Kephale Plaza was a marvel of architecture, its wide expanse paved with sun-kissed limestone that glowed warmly under the afternoon sun. The plaza was framed by colonnades of ivory marble, each column entwined with flowering vines that added bursts of colour to the pristine white.

Phainon wished he could say that he’d come here to marvel at the scenery. Unfortunately, Aglaea had received a report about a thief who was on the loose, filching bracelets and coin purses alike. Castorice was busy, and Tribbie, Trianne and Trinnon were otherwise occupied. That left Phainon, who, in truth, didn’t mind the assignment.

What he did mind, though, was the way he’d caught sight of you and Mydeimos walking together beneath the arch of blooming bougainvillaea and promptly forgotten what, exactly, he was meant to be watching for.

He loitered near one of the shaded stalls, pretending to inspect a display of carved wooden figurines, though he only caught every third word of the merchant’s well-practiced sales pitch. His attention was fixed on the way Mydei leaned towards you slightly, his usually unreadable expression tinged with something that might’ve been—Kephale help him—softness.

You were speaking quietly, gesturing with one hand as you walked, and Mydei nodded along, occasionally offering clipped replies. Even from a distance, Phainon could see that Mydei wasn’t just listening; he was listening—brows faintly drawn, head tilted in that particular way he reserved for things he wanted to understand but couldn’t quite name.

Phainon narrowed his eyes. This wouldn’t do.

With a slow inhale, he pushed off the marble column and approached. His footsteps were light, but he made no move to hide his arrival.

“Fancy seeing the two of you here,” he announced cheerfully, slipping into step beside you easily.

Mydei faltered, immediately shifting half a step away from you. “Phainon.”

You blinked up at him, surprised but not displeased. “I didn’t know you were on patrol today.”

Phainon shrugged. “Technically, yes. I’m in pursuit of a nefarious criminal. But more importantly, I’m here to rescue you from the silence this one—” he nodded at Mydei— “can’t seem to escape. He’s the definition of a man of few words.”

“We weren’t silent,” Mydei groused.

“No, no—I’m sure it was romantic!” Phainon acquiesced. “If Y/N here is into hulking, brooding men.”

You laughed which was, frankly, unacceptable, because you were supposed to laugh at Mydei’s jokes, not his. Mydei look exasperated, but his cheeks were dusted red, which Phainon considered a personal victory.

“Actually,” you said, smiling at Mydei, “he was telling me about the coastal patrols in Okhema. They’ve been—”

“—more diligent than usual,” Mydei interrupted quickly. “Nothing worth reporting.”

Phainon raised a brow. “Not even to your dear friend who has spent the past hour avoiding elderly vendors who insist I’d make a fine husband for their granddaughters?”

You looked like you were about to say something sympathetic, but he pressed on. “What I am interested in,” he said lightly, “is how long you’ve both been here, because if you saw anything suspicious—like, say, a person darting between stalls with more rings on their fingers than they started with—I could finally do something productive.”

“We just got her not long ago,” you said, shaking your head. “I haven’t seen anything strange.”

Mydei only said, “No.”

“Of course not,” Phainon sighed. “Well, since you’re here anyway, I suppose I’ll deputise the both of you. Consider this your invitation to join me in chasing shadows across the sunniest place in Okhema.”

“Are we being drafted into service?” you asked, smiling.

“Yes,” he said promptly. “It’s terribly official.”

Mydei looked like he might object, but you nudged him gently with your elbow. “Come on,” you murmured, and just like that, the faint stubborn line in his brow faded.

Phainon didn’t miss it.

As you began walking again—now with Phainon very deliberately between the two of you—he leaned closer to Mydei and said under his breath, “You know, if you plan to pine in silence for much longer, I’ll be forced to intervene.”

“I’m not pining,” Mydei muttered.

“Oh?” he said. “So you weren’t giving her a lecture about border patrols as a thinly veiled excuse to spend time with her?”

Mydeimos said nothing, which said everything.

“You’re terrible at this.” Phainon grinned. “Just so you know.”

“Good,” the prince said shortly. “Then you won’t give me advice.”

“On the contrary. I’ll give you too much of it.” He glanced over at you. You had paused ahead to admire a display of ornamental silks. “You don’t want to wait too long, Mydei,” he said quietly. “The world doesn’t always give you second chances.”

With that, he strode ahead, catching up with you and saying loudly, “Now, if I were a thief hiding in plain sight, I’d disguise myself as a merchant selling outrageously overpriced scarves. Shall we investigate?”

You rolled your eyes but let him lead you away with a grin. Behind you, Mydei stood still for a moment, his expression hard beneath the bright sun—then slowly, he moved to follow.

I. HALL OF RESPITE, MARMOREAL PALACE.

The Hall of Respite was aptly named—a haven tucked away in the southern wing of Marmoreal Palace, where golden afternoon light filtered through tall arched windows and dust motes danced lazily in the air like sleepy fireflies. Columns of white stone held up the ceiling, each one wrapped in trailing ivy and blooms enchanted to stay in perpetual spring. A small fountain burbled in the centre. Plush divans and velvet-cushioned lounges lined the walls, draped in silks the colour of champagne and cloud.

Phainon was draped across one such divan, a chilled goblet of pomegranate nectar balanced in one hand, the other idly stroking the embroidery of a nearby cushion. He looked every inch the picture of languid nobility—except that he was not—save for the fact that his gaze was locked on the entrance, waiting.

When Mydei finally entered, Phainon perked up immediately.

“I was beginning to think you’d taken up permanent residence in the training grounds,” he said by way of greeting.

“I was training,” Mydei replied, as if the comment had any need of clarification. He was still in his tunic, sweat-darkened at the collar, his hair slightly damp. Even his gait carried the stiffness of someone who had just disarmed three men in a row.

“Of course you were.” Phainon gestured to the chaise opposite him. “Sit down. Hydrate. Pretend, for a moment, that you’re not forged from granite.”

Mydei did not smile, but he complied, lowering himself onto the edge of the chaise.

Phainon said, “I ran into Y/N earlier.”

“Oh?”

“She was near the reflecting pools,” he went on. “Feeding crumbs to that flock of silver-throated sparrows. You know the ones. She was humming, too, a sweet little tune—something old, sounded Kremnoan.”

Mydei’s eyes flickered. “Her mother used to sing to her in Kremnoan. She told me that, once.”

“Did she now?” Phainon blinked, momentarily wrong-footed.

“She said she doesn’t remember the words, only the melody. And how warm her mother’s voice was. Like a hearth fire.”

“She told you that?”

“Yes.”

“She also said that she was thinking of asking me to accompany her to the festival next week,” Phainon said, attempting to recover. “Something about needing a partner for the moonlight procession.”

He glanced sideways, hoping to catch a glimpse of jealousy.

But Mydei only tilted his head, thoughtful. “She would enjoy that.”

“...Would she?”

“Yes,” said Mydei, softly. “She likes the sound of drums, and the lanterns—she called them tiny captive stars. She’d probably spend half the night asking about the legends behind the constellations.”

“You know her very well.”

“She listens when you speak,” the prince said, as though that answered everything. “Not because she’s curious—though she is—but because she values what you have to say. That’s rare, and so I try to do the same for her.”

A breath of silence passed between them. Phainon blinked.

“She also makes that face when she’s trying not to laugh,” Mydei added suddenly, and there was a hint of fondness in his voice. “One side of her mouth curls first.”

“Wow,” said Phainon, trying to disguise the dryness in his throat with a sip of his drink, “aren’t you just the veritable poet.”

Mydei said nothing, but the corners of his mouth lifted in that almost-smile he so rarely offered.

Phainon sat back with a sigh, glaring up at the ceiling. “Remind me never to try and make you jealous again. It’s bad for my pride.”

“You tried to make me jealous?” asked Mydei, sounding genuinely surprised.

The warrior groaned. “Forget it.”

“I do think she’d prefer your company to mine at the festival,” Mydei said, standing to leave. “You could always offer her a poem, too. She might keep it.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“I’ve been told,” he said, and with a nod, Mydei strode out of the Hall, leaving Phainon staring at his back, utterly defeated.

The fountain continued to burble. Somewhere in the gardens beyond, a sparrow sang.

O. PATH OF PARTING.

The Path of Parting curved like a river of stone through the eastern gardens, its flagstones pale and smooth from centuries of reverent steps. It was said that this was where lovers, friends, and comrades once walked when farewells had to be made—with flowers blooming along either side, as if to soften the grief. Today, the air was still and fragrant, golden with sunlight, and the blossoms were at their brightest: starblush vines spilling from trellises, yellow cypress roses nodding in the breeze.

Phainon hadn’t meant to take this route. He’d been wandering—well, brooding, if he were honest with himself—thinking vaguely about nothing and everything.

He rounded a bend and stopped dead.

There, further up the path, you and Mydei walked side-by-side.

You moved in that unconsciously mirrored way people did when they’d grown too close not to. Your shoulders tilted towards his just slightly. His hand hovered near yours by instinct. Your voice—he could hear it, low and laughing—drew out the kind of smile from Mydei that Phainon had never seen once with the Chrysos Heirs or the sparring ring.

He watched as you leaned in to whisper something. Mydei’s reply was inaudible, but whatever he said made you laugh softly, eyes shining.

Mydei reached up, unthinking, to pull a stray petal from your hair, his fingertips brushing over your temple with the kind of tenderness that could only come from a hundred small moments before this one.

Phainon stood rooted. “Oh,” he said aloud.

He hadn’t meant to say it, but the realisation bloomed sharp and fast, like a candlewick catching light.

Oh.

This wasn’t something that had just begun. It was something that had always been—quiet and steady, like the tide, like the stars shifting across the sky one inch at a time.

Phainon felt something between awe and exasperation fizz inside his chest.

“Gods,” he muttered. “I’m an idiot.”

He’d spent all this time trying to provoke a reaction from Mydei—jealousy, flustered affection, anything—when Mydei had already won the war without even playing the game.

And you? You hadn’t been some wistful maybe, some distant crush. You’d chosen him. You loved him.

Phainon drew a breath, long and slow, and stepped backwards, letting the ivy shadows swallow him. He didn’t interrupt. Not this time. Instead, he turned on his heel, hands shoved into the pockets of his cloak, and started back towards the palace with a huff and a half-laugh.

“Five times I tried,” he murmured to himself. “Five. And not once did it occur to me that they were already—” He waved a hand in the air, at no one. “Of course they were.”

He glanced up at the sky, as though expecting the Titans to be laughing, too.

“I hope he writes you sonnets,” he said aloud, mostly to the wind. “I hope you make him eat too many honeycakes and teach him how to dance.”

Phainon was smiling now, rueful but fond.

“Stars above,” he sighed. “You were never going to pick me, were you?”

He walked on, leaving behind the sweet scent of the flowers and the sun warming his back.

a/n ⇢ the names of the various places are actual locations taken from the okhema map, though their descriptions have been changed to fit the story. thank you to @lotusteabag for beta reading and making the gorgeous header for this fic! thank you for reading!

#honkai star rail #mydei #mydei x reader #mydei fluff #mydei x you #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail fluff #honkai star rail x you #hsr x reader #hsr fluff #hsr x you #mydeimos x reader #mydeimos fluff #mydeimos x you #honkai: star rail #hsr #mydeimos #hsr mydei

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prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue · 2 months ago

Text

Lone Warrior pt.2

summary :reader is put into emergency foster care after a tragedy , despite living with the Wayne family for a bit , reader takes it upon herself to move away and start anew since she clearly wasn't welcomed , after many years have passed Damian finally joins the family and after a particular spat w his father he finds himself in reader's room and an interest in them has sparked.

a/n : tysm for the love on the first post hope u enjoy !!33

part 1 , part 3

" Y/n ?" Damian asks as he turns to Alfred , his face morphs into a mask of confusion . He has resided in his father's mansion for three years, and never has he heard of someone by that name ever being mentioned . He stared at Alfred curiously as he shuffled through the door and steeled himself to sit on the dusty bed .

Another reason that bewildered Damian to the core - he knew Alfred personally tended and cleaned all of Wayne Manor regardless if a space was used often or not so for this room to be neglected in this state itches at his mind .

" Y/n is one of your older adopted siblings Master Damian." Alfred begins . Damian huffs - ' Seriously, another charity case his father had to take pity on ? ' he thinks as his mind grew bored - the initial interest being lost . " Y/n was adopted around the time Master Jason had passed, and before Master Drake joined us," Alfred continued , paying no heed to Damian's uninterested look.

He rolls his eyes , " That's nothing special, Pennyworth. Besides, where are they if they're my supposed adopted sibling ?" Damian asks pointedly . Alfred goes silent for a few moments , wringing his worn hands together as he looks everywhere but at Damian .

" We do not know where Master Y/N is " he finishes - voice going soft . Damian quirks up an eyebrow, " Thats insane Pennyworth surely we have an inkling where they are - hell, we know where Jason is whenever he's being all pissy and distant !!" Damian exclaims .

" Master Damian , Master Y/N left when she was 14 without saying anything to anyone," Alfred explains as he stares at your bed with a face of longing . Silence draws out between them - Damian is too shocked to say anything . " Did father not bother to look for them ?" He asks carefully.

Another beat of awkward silence passes between them before Alfred answers with a quiet ' no ' . Nothing is said between them again for a while . " Why " Damian questions in disbelief - it's too uncharacteristic of his father to simply forget one of his own children - he is batman - batman always has a plan for everything - always thinks of possibilities- always solves anomalies - so why hadn't father cared enough about this ? About you ?

" I am afraid Master Name and Master Bruce never clicked seeing as ...they never once conversed for the scarce years she lived with us " Alfred shakily answers - it as if the thought of you haunts him deeply - maybe you do - maybe you do haunt the old man after all in his eyes you were the only normal child he had the pleasure of raising in Bruce's ward.

Damian says nothing , just walks around the room until he stops at an old portrait of a young girl - what he presumes a younger you . It's worn down from the years and pile of dust . Damian takes a good look at you , notes your dead eyes - dead eyes that reflect indifference to the world around you with hints of pain and endless suffering burrow within . Your hair is loosely tied behind with a ribbon behind . You are noticeably not smiling , even when you hold a giant ice cream cone in your hands - just a dead pan look staring back at him.

His hand caresses the portrait with care - he wonders what you are like . ' Were you someone kind ?' . ' Someone who takes and cares only for themselves? ' . 'Were you a born genius or hard worker type ? ' . 'A hero or maybe a villain ? ' . ' Were you a go with the flow person or practical?' .

' Why were you so unheard of ? ' , ' Why hadn't Father , Grayson, or Drake told him about you ?' So many questions he wants to demand but all left unanswered . " Tell me about them, Pennyworth." Damian demands , turning around to look at the old man .

Pennyworth sighs as he runs his hands along the sheets , " They were quiet - not the awkward type of quiet , the observing type - they didn't say much about themselves - only briefly mentioned her parents and life before . She was an incredible student , straight A's and incredibly independent .....in fact - I've never had to clean up Master Y/N because she insisted I hadn't because of my elderly age ....... she loved gardening and making little water fountains for the strays and the birds that used to come by . She loved apple tarts and loved to swim, but if K recalled properly , she hated whenever people talked about Arkham Asylum . " Alfrdd recounts.

Damian takes it all in - you sound complex - an enigma , sound so unlike himself and his siblings but alike at the same time . " Why did they hate Arkham Asylum?" He asks , intrigued . ' Were you close to Tood ?' , ' Had something happened to you for you to be there ?'.

" She never said - just ... expressed how inhumane Arkham Asylum is, " he finishes . Silence passes between them as Damian ponders on the response . " I must leave now Master Damian to prepare dinner," Alfred excuses himself as he leaves the room promptly.

Damian pays him no mind , eyes glued to your portrait with determination. There is something inside him that prompts him to take it - a siren call begging him to find you and if he's learnt anything in life - he knows it's best not to ignore a gut feeling .

With determination , Damian swipes your portrait, hiding it in his pocket before leaving .

Y/N sits on a rooftop , overlooking the vast skyline of distant skyscrapers . Each moment is precise as she she carefully tracks her target, leaving a store . Y/N uses the advantage of the setting sun's bright light to align her sniper's magnification on the target's neck . - A perfect disguise as the target wouldn't see her coming unless he wants to risk his eyesight .

The gun of the sniper is pressed against her cheek while her trained hand rests on the trigger as she patiently awaits the perfect moment . The target fishes out his phone and begins to converse while walking past an open dumpster - here, she carefully takes point and shoots .

She watches with a muted look as her target halts in their actions , blood spills from his head as he falls dumbly into the dumpster . " Great job agent 15 , a job well executed," a voice buzzes through her earpiece . Y/N tucks her sniper back into its discreet brief case before answering, " Thank you, agent 17 , permission to clock out for today's mission ?" Y/N asks into her intercom , the sun setting behind her in a beautiful arch as the wind blows past her .

" Permission granted , please return to base 15 " agent 17's motherly voice chimes in before cutting out . Y/N takes a good look at the setting sun - thoughts of her mother and father come to her mind - she wishes - she wishes she can cradle them both and comfort them with the knowledge that their daughter is putting a stop to crime but she knows it's wishful thinking - she knows mothers far too insane and father has long forgotten her but still - she's determined to prevent what's happened to her , happen to another person. Determined to save an innocent life from walking down the road she has .

With that , Y/N looks back at the setting sun's one last time before jumping off the rooftop and disappearing into the evening's abyss .

Damian sits in front of the bat computer as he busily types away . The batcomputer scans through hundreds of possible pictures of what Y/N would be grown up to look like now , another monitor is combing through the internet archives trying to find any presence of her .

He groans in frustration as a monitor displays another 'error' - ' how can a computer capable of decrypting alien tech be so incapable and useless when it comes to finding a missing person?' Damian thinks as he runs another program.

He leans back in the seat - exhausted and tired , it has been three hours and he has yet to find anything about you - not even your old school records, not even your own birth - it's like you were seamlessly erased from the earth and it does nothing but fuel his intrigue and nagging gut feeling to find you.

' Were you trafficked?' , ' Were you murdered and thrown away to rot in a ditch?' , ' Or used in some illegal organ transfer ?' So many thoughts course through his mind violently like a tornado.

He silently curses Bruce and Pennyworth in his mind -' how can they possibly allow a 14 year old girl to run away ? ' . ' What made her run away in the first place ?' . So many questions but no answers .

Damian was suddenly ripped out of his dilemma when a monitor began to go off . His head eagerly whipped towards it - almost snapping his neck at the pace . There on the screen , displayed a blurry security footage of a figure leaping off a building and disappearing into an alleyway along with your portrait from earlier - a 40% guaranteed match as the software compares both hair properties and the blurry closeups of your faces .

Damian's eyes widened in eagerness as he enlarged the footage and immediately ran it through software to find the footage's location . He feels his heart beat rapidly - this could be it - he could have found you ! - he might actually have done something, not even batman could do. Pride and accomplishment swell within him as he watches the loading screen complete and there - his answer to all his past questions display as bright as day , ' Russia ,Rostov-on-Don ' .

" Russia ?" He murmurs a bit confused . ' How did a 14 year old girl get to Russia of all places ?' He questions . He looks back at the blurry footage of what might be your figure leaping off the building and disappearing into an alleyway . Whatever the reason is , he is going to find out - he is going to take this sliver of hope and find you himself ." I am coming for you, sister," Damian declares as he promptly begins his preparations for Russia.

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incorrect quotes

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rafesangelita · 2 months ago

Note

hiii lovely ♡ i absolutely adore your writing. could i req something with rafe throat training bambi or sheep!reader? i can’t get that thought out of my head and would luv to see your take on it

warnings: oral (m. receiving), hair pulling, dacryphilia, praise, face fucking, unintentional overstimulation

“i don’t think i can do it!” you blinked your teary eyes up at the man above you, your lips shining with his spit from your earlier ministrations. “m’gonna help you, doll, you don’t have to be a crybaby about it.” he teased, thumbing at the stray tear that managed to roll down your cheek. you’ve been sat between rafe’s thighs for going on ten minutes now, his cock standing tall and mean against his stomach as he stroked himself lazily. “actually you could keep crying if you want.. ‘swear that’s turning me on right now.” he grinned when he saw you swallow thickly, your cheeks heating at his words.

rafe studied you for a few moments before speaking up again. “come on, you gonna let me show you? or are you just gonna sit there and look pretty?” you shook your head hesitantly, sighing through your nose before scooting in closer to him. threading your fingers in your lap, rafe leaned down and pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “don’t worry, you know i’ll take care of you.” he whispered. cupping your face and bringing your mouth to the aching tip of his cock. you parted your lips, your tongue skimming the underside of his length as he groaned.

“we’ll start easy right now, yeah?” humming in agreement, rafe gathered your hair in a makeshift ponytail so he wouldn’t miss a single detail of your face. you suckled on the head, your eyelashes dusting the tops of your cheeks as you swirled your tongue around him, your tummy erupting in a fit of butterflies when he moaned quietly. “shit—” he hissed, “that feels so good, baby, i could cum just like this..” he praised you, his head rolling to the side. you continued until rafe pushed you down, your jaw falling slack as you took him further into your mouth. “fuck, you’re doing great..”

your eyebrows knitted together as a shiver ran down your spine, a slight mix of both panic and encouragement coursing through you with the more of him that you fit. as if sensing your unease, rafe paused, making sure you were okay. “can you take more?” the deep baritone of his voice made you rub your thighs together, a small gasp emitting from your mouth as he pulled you off. “yes,” you brought up a tentative hand, wrapping it around his base, “wanna make you cum.” your voice came out barely above a whisper, a smug grin taking over rafe’s features as he watched your spit run down his cock.

“do that again, but in your hand this time.” you let a trail of spit drip from your lips to your palm, rafe cursing at the sight. stroking him the way he had instructed you to do before, it wasn’t long before his tip was kissing the back of your throat, your fingers digging into his skin as he thrusted in and out of your mouth. ignoring the sting from his grip on your hair, heavy tears rolled down your cheeks as obscene noises filled the room, the sounds of your muffled moans and rafe’s grunts bouncing off of the walls. “ah, fuck!” he sped up, your head pounding as you struggled to get in a full breath.

rafe could feel the coil in his stomach tighten with each second that passed, the band threatening to snap at any moment. “oh my god, please don’t fucking stop—” rafe’s chest caved in as he leaned forward, pulling you down until your nose hit his pubic bone, his high hitting him with a force that made his bottom lip tremble. you felt the thick ropes of hot cum fill your throat, your jaw burning with tension as rafe floated on cloud nine, his abs constricting as you milked him dry. “okay, okay..” he attempted to pull you off but you didn’t hear him.

“b-baby!” he shuddered, wincing slightly as overstimulation set in. “y/n!” he groaned, finally managing to pull you away. you took a sharp breath, your chest rising and falling as you watched rafe come down from his high. “holy shit, were you trying to kill me?!” he asked incredulously. “did i do it good?” you rasped, peering up at him curiously as he blinked. rafe looked down at you, shaking his head. “too good.” he sighed, pulling you up from the floor and tugging at the hem of your shirt, “your turn.”

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cosmosluckycharms · 2 months ago

Text

Bug Like Angel

The adults are talking

Damian couldn't understand why Bruce and Dick were so obsessed all of a sudden.

They were obsessed.

with you.

If it wasn't for your little tantrum making you storm out of the house, no one would've noticed you leaving.

And he knew Jason and Tim thought the same.

The day you were forced here Dick had insisted that they'd talk to you.

The first day you came, Dick interrupted him taking care of Batcow to tell him to invite you to hang out.

During movie night, it was obvious your mind was somewhere else.

He just didn't understand why they had to interact with you, you were okay with just living with Miguel, why were you forced to be with them?

He decided to investigate further.

He made his way to the kitchen, passing by the hallway.

He noticed the newly placed pictures of you.

They were very clearly from your and your friend's social media, he recognized them from when he stalked stumbled upon you and your friend's socials.

In one photo in which Miguel was next to you, he was edited out, leaving an awkward space next to you.

As he got closer to the kitchen, he could hear you and Dick arguing.

He looked over the corner of the doorway in order to not get caught by either of you.

Your spidey senses went slightly off at that, but you ignored it, assuming it was coming from Dick.

Dick held the guitar, which was coated in stickers "Who's is this?"

You glared at him and put your hands on your hips "It's my friend's."

Dick raised an eyebrow at that "why did he even come here yesterday?"

"nunya." you tried reaching for the guitar, only for him to put it in the air, making it impossible for you to grab it

"c'mon birdie, I know you can do better than that!" Dick teased, swaying the guitar back and forth

"Don't call me that." you jumped to try and reach it and accidentally hit the counter, which made a stack of books hit the vase, domino-style.

Which in turn made a vase start to fall.

Stupid spidey-luck.

Before Damian could process it, the vase hit him on the head and shattered.

"watch it!" Damian exclaimed.

You and dick turned your heads to look at him.

You watched as Dick opened his mouth to speak, and quickly took your chance.

You kicked the back of his knees, which made him fall, and grabbed the guitar swiftly.

"bitch." you walked away, holding the guitar triumphantly

Dick sat down in shock for a moment before checking up on Damian.

"Are you alright?" Dick helped Damian up from the floor.

Damian dusted himself off "I'm fine."

Dick kept talking to him, but his voice faded out as Damian got an idea.

if he couldn't tell why Dick and Bruce were obsessed with you, he'll go straight to the source.

Damian burst into your room.

You were blasting music while journaling.

It was then he took a look at your clothes.

You were wearing an outfit he distinctly remembers you not owning.

You were wearing a red sweater, one that showed up in one of your friend's social media posts.

After a minute or two of awkward silence, you finally spoke up. "do you need anything?"

"you hurt me. Apologize." he crossed his arms in a sort of way that reminded you of Bruce

"alright. I'm sorry. Happy?" you stared at him blankly

"I'll forgive you if we socialize together." he had a poker face on, but you could tell he was slightly nervous.

You closed your journal "All alright, I'll hang out with you."

Damian looked confused like he didn't expect you to agree so fast

"I'm bored anyways, might as well. Where do you wanna go?" you got up from your bed and leaned against the wall, staring at Damian.

"Well, if you insist on this, we could go out to shop," Damian smirked

You stretched and started making your way towards your closet "All alright, just give me like 30 minutes to get ready.

"He made his way out your door.

You took a good 10 minutes choosing an outfit before deciding on one you wore once when you went to Peni's birthday, along with a friendship bracelet she made you.

You got started on your hair and makeup, not caring about the time you were taking.

You knew Damian was very punctual about time, but you didn't care.

As you were mid-way through, the door banged open and Damian barged in.

"hurry up." he glared at you

"hold on, I'm almost done." you lied

He grew impatient and started looking around your room. You couldn't fully blame him; it's a household full of detectives, obviously, they were all nosey.

He looked at one of your walls, which had a lot of pictures of you and your friends.

In one of them, you were carrying a sleeping girl. She looked around his age and was wearing a sweater of yours. Her black short hair was braided, like how yours was in the picture.

In another frame, you and all your friends were at a birthday party. He assumed it was yours, the way you had a party hat on and everyone was around you.

In some pictures you weren't even in them.

There was a couple where they were centered around a blonde-haired girl and a boy with the biggest doe eyes.

In one picture, you were all playing in a band someplace where Bruce would never let you step foot in.

"Those are my friends," you spoke, still doing your hair "I feel like you'd get along with them."

"TT as if." he scoffed, moving onto a jewelry box on the side of your vanity.

He opened it and saw a lot of themed jewelry, mostly based on spider people.

Some weren't themed, like a pair of earrings he was now holding in his hands.

You spoke up, still sitting at the vanity "Oh Can you pass me those? I feel like it's gonna complete my outfit."

He walked up to you and handed you the earrings and watched as you put them on.

Something in the corner of his eye caught his attention.

A bunch of crochet plushes on your bed.

They were themed, yet again.

You saw him staring at them"They were based on some people I know. If you want I can ask Gwen to make you one?"

Damian looked at you, slightly confused "Why would I need a plush? That is highly immature. especially since-"

You cut him off. "if this is about them being spider people I could ask her to make a robin plush."

Damian nodded at you, in a way that was so serious it made you chuckle.

Damian was growing impatient. You were taking a long time to get ready.

He walked up to you "Are you done?" he was cartoonishly thumping the floor with his foot like a certain cartoon rabbit.

"Almost, I swear!" you grabbed the perfume on your vanity and sprayed yourself.

Damian was standing next to where you were sitting, and you took that as a sign to put some of your perfume on him.

As soon as you did, he started having a coughing fit.

"what was that?!" he kept coughing and trying to wave the smell away.

You tilted your head in confusion "I thought you wanted some?"

"why would I want some of your perfume?!" his coughing fit slowed down, he was obviously dramatizing it

"oh c'mon, it wasn't that serious!" you got up and grabbed your keys.

You started making your way out your door before remembering you didn't have your purse, which had your phone and wallet.

"Dami," you said in a sing-songy voice "could you grab my purse? It's on my nightstand."

He made sure you didn't see his smile at the nickname as he made his way to your nightstand and took note of the picture frame next to your bed.

It was of all your friends + you huddled up together. You all had a birthday hat on and you had a sash that said "birthday girl".

He knew it was probably from the same birthday he saw in another picture frame earlier.

He grabbed your bag and handed it to you, relieved he was finally gonna make his way to the mall with you.

You guys made your way to the parking garage with all the cars anyone could ask for.

You picked a car, one of which you bought yourself and picked out with Miguel.

It was your favorite color.

"All alright Damian, I'll grab the car seat for you." you joked and tried to look as serious as possible

"wait what?" he watched as you went into the trunk and grabbed a princess car seat fit for a toddler.

You bought it a while ago for car rides with Mayday.

"Alright, get on." you pat the car seat, indicating for Damian to get on.

Damian pouted "I'm much too old for that"

"Are you sure? The car seat says it works until the kid is 8, you're 7 so it's fine." you tried to hide your smirk

Damian glared at you, obviously annoyed. "I am not 7! I'm 14!"

"right....." it was getting harder for you to not laugh

"I'm serious!" his voice cracked midway through the sentence, making you burst out laughing.

His face turned a little red "It's not funny!"

"You're right, I'm sorry." you were trying to calm yourself down, only to laugh out loud really loud again.

Damian tried to suppress his laughter as well, only to let out a chuckle.

"get in loser, we're going shopping." you sat down in the driver's seat and he sat down in the passenger seat.

It was silent for a moment...until you looked at Damian and started laughing for no reason.

Damian looked around confused "What's so funny?"

You tried to calm yourself down and failed "I don't know!"

You only stopped when Alfred heard what sounded to him like a hyena laughing, and went to check out the garage.

As soon as he heard the laughter coming from the car, he made his way to your windows.

As soon as you noticed him, you stopped laughing.

"master damian and mistress Y/N, where are you going?"

You glared at him, annoyed. "out to do errands."

"May I tag along? I too have errands to run. I have to-" You cut him off by pulling up the window and turning on your music.

You could see Alfred trying to talk to you, but you just put on your sunglasses and drove out.

Damian was shocked, he couldn't believe you would do that.

You blasted your music and sang and danced along, to him it felt like a scene straight out of a girly 2000s movie.

He noticed how your keys had an Araña-themed keychain.

The fuzzy dice on the driver's mirror.

The bedazzled steering wheel.

There was some trash on the floor of the passenger seat.

He could see that in the backseats there was a coloring book and random stray crayons.

The car door next to him had a bunch of stickers everywhere.

In the back seat, there was half a broken drumstick.

There was a broken guitar string somehow tied up in a bow and left on the other seat.

There were random traces of paint everywhere.

"why is it so dirty in here?" he looked at you, slightly concerned about how you were driving so well despite putting on lipgloss at the same time.

"I wouldn't call it dirty, it's just chaos. Controlled chaos." you put away your lipgloss and kept driving "Put in a new CD, I'm bored of this album."

He reached into the glove compartment and immediately noticed a ton of snacks falling out of the compartment.

"oh yeah, just ignore that. I keep those just in case," you said

"In case of what?" Damian asked, still somewhat shocked at the amount of snacks and drinks that somehow fit in there

"in case anyone wants some. If you want you can have some. There are some vegan options in there, I think." you pulled out a mascara tube and started doing your lashes.

Damian then pulled out a bag of veggie chips and started eating them.

"well? are you going to get the CD or not?" you questioned, nudging him playfully.

"I can't see them." he pointed out

You waved your hand at him "You have to dig in deep, you'll find it somewhere."

He hesitated before digging and trying to look for it.

Inside he found:

A portable DVD player, a bunch of DVDs, at least 16 business cards from random small businesses, 7 types of nail polish, 2 iPods, an iPad, 4 random band shirts, a deflated soccer ball, an empty wallet, 6 different chargers (4 of which were broken beyond repair), 5 lipglosses, 2 friendship bracelets, and finally some CDs.

"how does all of this fit in this tiny compartment?" he looked at you, concerned yet again.

"hammerspace." you said, casually

Damian looked at you blankly "What?"

"don't even worry about it." you went back to driving.

He pulled out a random one and handed it to you.

"oh, awesome! I love this album!" you placed it in the CD player.

"Why do you even use CDs? I'm sure Father could get you a new car with a working music player." Damian said, putting everything back in the glove compartment.

"I like it better like this. This car has memories and I've owned some of those cd's since I was in elementary. I just think they're neat!" you took a sip of a random drink you found in your car.

Damian raised an eyebrow at that. He didn't remember you bringing that into the car.

"I found this random water bottle here. It's either me or Margos, and it's probably 4 weeks old," you said, as if you read his mind.

you took another sip. "on second thought, this is probably Gwens."

Everything was a mess.

Yet he felt so at home.

When you guys finally got to the mall, you got to work on your errands.

You grabbed your crumpled-up paper shopping list "Alright, first we need to go to a craft store."

"Why do we need to go to a craft store?" he asked, still eating the veggie chips from earlier

"Because," you grabbed a shopping cart "I need to grab a couple of things."

As you guys made it to the crafts store, you got an idea.

"Damian," you pointed to the cart "get in the cart."

"What?" he raised an eyebrow

"get in." you smiled

"Are you serious? I can't do that!" he argued

You put your hands on your hips "I don't care. Get in the cart."

"I will not! This is foolish behavior!" he stomped

You ignored him and picked him up like a cat and placed him in the cart.

You ignored his protests and kept shopping.

After a minute or two he calmed down.

You went to the art aisle and didn't know what supplies to get Miles.

"it was a good thing I brought you, I know basically nothing about what types of markers there are." You handed Damian two options.

"well don't know, I don't use those types of materials." he handed them back

"shit. Well, I'll just get all of them." you put one of each type of marker and strolled away, cart in hand.

You made your way to the sticker aisle and immediately put a ton of stickers in the cart as well.

"Why do you need so many?" Damian asked, picking up one of the sticker packs which was Vocaloid-themed.

"Because you can never have too many stickers!" you put more in the cart and strolled away again.

By the time you got to the checkout aisle, all the things you bought made you look like one of the people from the math problems.

The cashier looked at you a bit crazy but stopped when he saw you pull out a black card.

As soon as you both made your way out the door, you dragged Damian towards a music store.

You picked out some more CDs for you and some albums for your friends.

a Babymetal album for Peni, a Frank Ocean one for Miles, the Ramones one for Hobie, Daisy and the Scouts for Gwen, and a Sza album for Margo.

You dragged Damian to other stores, most of which he hated.

To cheer him up, you decided to take him to a store you knew most 14-year-old boys liked.

A comic book store.

"Damian look at these!" you handed him an invincible comic

"TT. they're just books." he put it back in its place.

You scoffed and kept looking at the comics

"Oh my gosh! They have a limited edition Gwenpool comic! I've been looking for this everywhere!" you held it up in the air dramatically

You could tell he was pretending to be unamused. He kept looking around.You placed your Gwenpool comic in the cart

"Is this an X-Men comic? I've seen Miles read them, he says they're good."

You saw Damian perk up immediately and grab it out of your hands.

Usually, you'd be upset at his bad manners, but he looked at the comic with such childlike wonder he looked 7 years old again.

Sure, back when both of you were younger he'd threaten you and go out of his way to ignore you, but who didn't?You felt a weird sort of nostalgia.

You shook that thought away and kept looking at the comics.

By the time you guys left the bookstore, you guys had a lifetime supply of manga and comics.

"Okay, we should head back to the manor."

"it's still early? It's not even lunchtime?"

"you need your naptime, you keep yawning"

"I am not," he said, suppressing a yawn

You held his hand while making your way to the car, a force of habit from holding Peni's.

He stared at your hands" Why are you holding my hand?"

You chuckled, letting go "Sorry, force of habit."

He ignored how he missed that small sign of affection.

You both put your things in the trunk. You guys ran out of space and had to put some things in the backseat.

You guys sat down and you played your music.

After a couple of moments, Damian fell asleep.

When you guys finally got to the manor, Damian was half asleep, pretending to be fully asleep.

You smiled and started grabbing all the bags.

You picked him up and carried him out of the passenger seat princess-style and made your way to his room, ignoring Alfred trying to ask about your day.

You ran into Alfred the cat, remembering how you completely forgot he existed.

The last time you saw him, you were around 14 and Damian taught him to avoid you.

Despite how many times you'd try to pet the cat, it'd run away.

You continued to place Damian in his bed and tuck him in.

You kissed him on the forehead, accidentally leaving a lipgloss stain.

You started placing down the bags full of the things he bought, not realizing you accidentally left one of your bags in his room.

You walked out of his room, not noticing his small smile.

Now he understood why dick and Bruce liked you.

You were in your room putting your things away.

You were also putting the things you bought for your friends into gift bags.

It took a while for you to notice you were missing your Gwenpool comics and the manga you bought for Peni.

By the time you noticed, Damian barged into your room yet again.

"you forgot something." he handed you the bag, it had the things you were looking for.

"oh thank you!" you skimmed through the comic, taking in the new book smell.

He hopped onto your bed and looked at one of the plushes on your bed.

It was different from the other ones, which were all different variations of spider people, this one was a red robot.

It sort of reminded him of the robots from Evangelion.

He rolled around in your bed for a bit before sitting up.

He was bored.

You spoke up, finishing up folding your laundry "We should do something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Oh my gosh! We should go picnicking!"

"what."

"we can cook and bake! I'm kinda hungry anyways."

"..fine."

You guys made your way to the kitchen, you grabbed your cookbook.

It was badly covered in glitter and decorated like a burn book.

As soon as you placed it down on the counter, Damian looked at you confused.

"what is it?" you asked, opening the book.

"why is it covered in glitter?"

"can a girl not be filled with joy and whimsy?"

"fair enough."

"I have an idea! We both make dishes and share them at the park."

"okay?"

Damian then started making his meal, and you made one of your own.

After an hour or two, you both had everything prepared.

You made a few drinks and meals for you and Damian. You also packed some chips just incase he didn't want the food you made.

You both got in your car and left for the park

You lay on the blanket, admiring the bright blue sky.

You pointed to a random cloud "that cloud kind of looks like a butt."

"You're childish." he laid down next to you.

"what do you think it looks like then?" you asked

"...I think it looks like a cat." he pointed out

You laughed "There's no way you see that."

A moment of silence passed through and Damian thought back to the moment with you and Alfred.

Lately, you have been acting strangely rude to him.

"Why don't you like Pennyworth?"

"what do you mean?" you asked, sitting up

"what has he done for you to treat him like that?" he sat up as well

You wanted to tell him.

You wanted to tell him about all those nights you spent sobbing to him asking why no one loved you.

You wanted to tell him about how he'd always defend the people that hurt you.

You wanted to tell him about how you could tell that he only pitied you, and didn't care.

You wanted to tell him about how you knew since the beginning he never cared about you.

You wanted to tell him about Julia, Alfred's daughter, and how he abandoned her.

You decided to stay quiet about those things.

You guys had just now started to get along, it'd be strange of you to randomly dump all your problems onto him.

"I just have a bad feeling about him," you replied

"That's all? No support to that claim or anything?"

"I mean, I am a spider-person, most of us have great intuition."

"you do?"

"yeah!"

It went silent and you decided to change the topic. You didn't wanna keep talking about Alfred

"Well, we should start eating now, right?" you asked, pulling out some Dal you had prepared earlier.

Damian pulled out some dolma he had also made.

You took a bite out of the food you prepared "This Dal is so bomb. Look, try it!"

"no. I have no idea what you could done to that food," he said, backing away from the food as if it was going to bite him

"oh, c'mon! its not that bad. look, I'll eat some so you know it's good." you took another bite of it, basically melting at the taste.

"here comes the choo choo train. Choo choo" You brought a piece to his mouth

"stop this madness at once!" he snatched the piece out of your hand and looked at it.

He hesitated before taking a bite.

"TT. This is acceptable, I suppose."

You smiled and picked him up, "he's alive! he's alive! The food didn't kill him!" Everyone around you started staring at you.

Damian tried to shut up your yelling by putting a hand over your mouth and failed.

You let him down and started laughing.

"You're embarrassing me!" he said, trying to cover up his reddened face.

After a moment of comfortable silence, he spoke up "I'm shocked you can cook."

You gasped dramatically and flopped onto the ground, holding your heart as if you were dying "You're so mean."

Damian took another bite of his dolma "Where did you learn to cook that?"

"Pav and his auntie showed me, it took a lot of trial and error but now I basically know it like the back of my hand." you sat up and took a bite of his food.

He glared at you, but you knew it had a playful undertone.

"I think I burned down his kitchen at least twice. I love his auntie." you took a sip of your drink, which was a horchata.

He looked at your drink "What's that?"

"This is horchata, I learned it from Miguel. He taught me, it's pretty good, have a sip." you handed him your drink

He hesitated a little less than last time

".. I suppose it's fine."

"Prince Damian liking my cooking? It's a miracle!" you clapped and he hit you on the shoulder, making you fall dramatically yet again.

While you both were talking, a brunette little boy came up to you both.

He looked no older than 5, and he had tears in his big black eyes.

He came up to you "Hi, I am Elijah, and I can't find my mommy. She said not to talk to strangers but I don't know what to do!"

He started bawling his eyes out, and in an attempt to calm him down, you handed him a juice box.

"Look, we'll help you find your mom, okay?" you stood up and picked up Ellijah on your hip.

Elijah was starting to calm down.

That was until Damian glared at Elijah, making him cry even harder.

You glared back at Damian, knowing that this was gonna make it harder to find his mom.

You had to make him stop crying, stat.

So, you did the only thing you knew worked for you. The things your friends did when you cried.

"..do you want a piggyback ride?"

That shut up Ellijah really quickly.

After the piggyback ride, you put him down and decided to keep chatting with Elijah.

Damian spaced out both of you talking in order to not get too mad that your time together was being interrupted.

That was until Elijah insulted Damian.

"he's a butthead!" he pointed at Damian

"if you don’t shut it, I’m going to give you a new set of holes to breathe out of." Damian said glaring at Elijah again.

"Damian," you said sternly, bringing Elijah closer to you just in case.

After half an hour his mom finally came."oh I'm so glad I found him!" his mom said, hugging Ellijah close

"Mommy!" Elijah hugged her back, making you smile.

"oh I have to pay you back!" the woman spoke, pulling out a wad of cash from her wallet

"no thank you, ma'am, I'm fine I swear," you said, refusing

"no, I insist!" she tried handing it to you, only for you to push it away.

You backed off a little "It's completely free! he's a sweet guy!"

The woman finally gave up "Do you babysit?"

"Sometimes, yeah! Do you need my business card?" you started pulling one out of your purse

You guys fell into conversation, and Damian was growing impatient.

After another 30 minutes, you both packed up everything and went home.

The car ride was silent, unlike the other times when it was filled with laughter, chatting, and music.

Once you both got to the manor, you spoke up "What was that about?!"

Damian flinched at your sudden anger "What was what about?"

"Why did you threaten a 5-year-old?" you looked him in the eyes

He crossed his arms "he insulted me."

"he called you a buttface." You pointed out

"I stand by my point," Damian said

You put your hands on your hips "Why did you get so mad over a kid? he doesn't even know his numbers!"

"I don't see your point," Damian argued

"youre insuffuerable! I get why everyone calls you a demon." you grew angrier by the second.

"You an annoyance!" Damian stomped"why are you so stubborn, Peni?!" you yelled.

You both froze at the mention of her name.

You awkwardly made your way to your room, avoiding Damian's eyes.

You didn't notice how despite his angry face, there was a tint of sadness in his eyes.

you were in your room, processing what happened after a nice everything shower.

you were doing your skincare when you got a call from Noir.

"hey doll, do you mind taking care of peni for a bit?"

"of course! did anything happen?" you said, putting the call on speaker

"no, its just that peni's been asking to hang out with you for quite a while. plus, it'd be less worrying to go out on patrol and not be scared for her." in the backround, you could make out the sound of peni getting her things ready

"No problem, peni's an angel! what time will you be getting here?"

"is 15 minutes fine?"

"of course! is it a sleepover or just like a hangout?"

"sleepover."

"alright, ill see you both later."

you spent the next 15 minutes putting on your pjs and getting everything ready.

you prepared snacks and a movie night.

you were so ready for her to come over!

15 minutes had gone by when you heard the doorbell ring.

you ran through the dark, haunted looking walls.you pushed back Dick, who was also trying to get to the door.

"I'll get it!" you basically slammed yourself against the door.

you quickly recovered and opened the door.

"Noir!" you noticed how peni wasnt next to him like she usually was "wheres peni?"

"shes getting her stuff from the car."

"thats fine, come in!" you invited him in

"thanks."

alfred and noir made conversation, and you didnt notice damian basically stalking you all

you saw through the window that peni was on her way in. you jumped from your seat on the floor you will never be worthy enough for the family couch and opened the door for her.you spun peni into a hug

"Hi angel!"

Peni laughed, smiling at how tightly ypu were hugging her.

you didnt notice damian sneaking into your room.

As soon as he got there, he ran to your plushies.

Uour stupid plushies.

He pulled out his katana and started ripping them.

He had no idea why he'd done it, he just wanted to.

He made sure to focus on the Miguel plush, he was so mad that man took you away from them.

by the time you got back to your room with Peni not that far behind, you froze looking at the plusihies.

Damian didnt look guilty.

You dragged him away from the plushies, and dodging his kicks and punches as much as you could you scolded Damian "Why would you do that?"

he stayed silent, avoiding your eyes.

you slammed the door on his face and made your way to the plushies.

you held the now mangled miguel plush in your hands, and tried to not let out any tears.

Peni picked up your Miles plushie, which was now missing an eye and got an idea:

"I can probably fix this up, if youd like?"

"Actually?"

"Yeah! noir taught me how to sew a while ago."

She started fixing them and you finished setting up everything, still angry at Damian.

Why would he do this? He was the one who started all of this.everything started off great with him, what happened?

the more you thought of it, the more angry you got.

Meanwhile, Damian was in his room processing what he had done.

He didnt know why he did it exactly.

Could it be the jealousy?

Seeing you treat others that arent related to you like family?

Seeing you treat the little boy like the baby brother you never had?

Seeing you hold Peni and Peni not resisting?seeing how happy you were with her?

He's never felt so humiliated being kicked out of your room while companies over!

He had to apologize before peni could replace him before you hated him like you hated Alfred.

He made his way to your room and heard you and peni talking.

"She said i walk like a bitch, what does that even mean?!" a high pitched voice spoke, damian assumed came from the younger girl.

"Shes so annoying. i dont even know her and she sounds stupid." you said

"She is!" the high pitched voice spoke

Damian barged in.

He saw you painting peni's nails, and a movie playing in the background.

It was legally blonde, a movie he once caught Jason watching in his apartment.

an awkward silence passed by

You looked up at him "do you need something?"

"yes." he spoke up

"..well what is it?"

"i insist she leaves." Damian pointed to Peni

you quickly hid her behind you "She is not leaving."

"Y/n-" peni tried to interject, only to be cut off by you.

"Listen, damian, she isnt leaving. whatever you have to say, you can say it to my face."

"..Fine."he took a deep breath "i apologize." he muttered, ever so quietly.

"what was that?" you said, squatting down a bit to get to his level

"I apologize!" he put his head down in embarrassment

"Was that so hard?" You put you hands on your hipsyou took a deep breath "Okay, its whatever."

you continued "Im also sorry for getting so mad at you. and for calling you by Peni's name."

"You did what now?" Peni said, suprised.

"It's a long story." you started kicking damian out of your room.

The last thing he saw in your room was the now stitched up plushies.

As soon as he got out, you started talking to peni.

"Peni, please be careful around him."

Peni looked at you, confused "What do you mean?"

You opened a nail polish "He threatened a literal 5 year old."

Peni looked at you, bewildered "what?"

it was 3 in the morning when Peni got thirsty.

She knew that most likely, every one of your family members would be on patrol.

She started making her way out your room, making sure you didnt wake up.

Even though you were a heavy sleeper, she didnt wanna wake you up.

She knew her way around the manor, you've prevously hosted small get togethers with the spider-gang without anyone noticing.

As soon as she got to the kitchen, she noticed how damian was there.

She knew you had told her to be careful around him.

She tried sneaking around him, only for him to sneak up on her.

"Boo." Peni jumped at Damian scaring her.

"You scared me."

As she was about to yell at him, she felt something brush past her leg.

a little black and white cat.

"Awww, what a cutie!" She picked him up.

Damian was about to protest, knowing that alfred the cat usually would attack when picked up.

It caught him off guard how calm the cat was.

She put her hand out to him "I'm Peni."

He shook her hand "I know. Im Damian."

"He usually doesnt tolerate newcomers." He spoke

"Well, he can probably sense how i have a cat." Peni pet Alfred.

Damian's eyes lit up at her words "You do?"

"Yep! noir has a cat named Ding Ding, she's so sweet." Peni's eyes also lit up at being able to talk about it.

They both started talking about little cat facts, sitting on the kitchen floor.

They only stopped when they heard a certan voice.

"Can you guys shut up? It's literally 3 am." you rubbed your eyes, half asleep.

"Y-yeah, we'll be quiet, sorry." Peni prayed youd forget the warning you gave her to be careful around Damian.

You turned around to go back to bed, only to walk back when you remembered.

You started lightly scolding Peni about not hearing your warning, with Damian trying not to laugh.

Peni glared at Damian and spoke up "listen, im fully unharmed, see?"

You realised you were overreacting and took a deep breath. "youre right, im sorry. i just got all worried."

you quickly bear hugged her "Im so sorry angel, I wont do this again!"

"Y/n!" Peni laughed as quietly as she could.

"C'mon guys, lets head to bed." You picked them both up by the scruff of the neck, suprising Damian

"Put me down at once! Stop this nonsense!" He tried thrashing around.

He looked at Peni to see if she was doing the same thing, only to see her acting like this was normal between them.

You dropped Damian off at his room and brought peni to yours.

Damian ended up sneaking into your room an hour later

oh my god this is ass lmfao

if it feels rushed thats cause it was i was loosing motavation to finish this

im sososo sorry for the mistakes its like 3 am rn

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youthguk · 2 months ago

Text

Encore 2: Intermission

“Some scenes only happen when the lights go down.”

pairing: idol! jungkook x editor! reader

genre: smut, ex lovers, second chance au, angst with smut, toxic ex au

summary: You’ve worked too hard to become untouchable. He still knows exactly where to touch. After one night of stolen pleasure, you’re determined to walk away — but Jungkook isn’t ready to let you go again. Between silk sheets, half-spoken regrets, and a black-tie dinner where flirtation becomes revenge, your past and present spiral into something dangerous. It was supposed to be physical. But feelings don’t follow the script.

warnings: explicit sexual content (multiple scenes), oral (f + m), fingering, rimming (f receiving), protected sex, angst, unresolved feelings, toxic relationship tension, emotional breakdown

w.c: 10k

author's note: ugh, this part really broke me🖤 writing and creating stories takes a lot of time, and no matter how much i love doing this and jungkook, i would love your support and feedback 🖤

part 1 | part 2 (you're here) | final part 3

You stand in front of Seo In-kyung’s office door in borrowed heels and smudged eyeliner, praying your face doesn’t betray the night carved into your body.

The morning light bleeds through the glass walls like scrutiny. Her office is pristine — sharp angles, a curved leather chair behind a white marble desk, walls lined with editorial archives and thick matte prints. A minimalist arrangement of white orchids sits perfectly still in one corner, untouched by dust or emotion.

You knock.

“Come in.”

Her voice cuts through like the heel of a Louboutin.

You step inside, clutching your tablet too tightly. Your hair is pulled back — barely — in a low twist that you smoothed with shaking fingers in the backseat of a cab thirty minutes ago. Underneath the oversized Saint Laurent blazer, your dress is the same one from last night. You're hoping it passes as intentional. It doesn’t.

Seo In-kyung is already seated. Flawless. Impeccable. A navy Mugler blazer sharp enough to slit throats, heels lacquered, wrists bare. She doesn’t smile. She gestures to the chair opposite her without looking up.

You sit, spine straight. For a moment, silence.

“You really outdid yourself, Y/N.”

She’s flipping through a printed copy of the BTS campaign spread — full bleed photos, minimalist layouts, editorial perfection. The same layouts you stayed past midnight refining. The ones you pushed through legal, color, and styling approvals with nothing but caffeine and willpower.

She taps her manicured nail on the cover.

“This,” she says, “brought the entire industry back to us.”

You exhale. Just slightly. “Thank you, Director Seo.”

“Don’t thank me,” she says, eyes still scanning the page. “Thank your instinct. You were right to strip it down. No gimmicks. No clutter. Just tension.” She turns a page. “Even Jeon looked like a man worth remembering.”

You freeze. But she doesn’t elaborate. Just closes the folder, places it gently beside her, and finally looks at you.

You wish she hadn’t. Her gaze is cool. Calculating. The kind that scans and files away. You feel it — the mess behind your eyes. The mascara you didn't have time to fully erase. The faint redness at your mouth. The scent of a man that no water could completely wash off.

She leans back in her chair. “Fondo di Luce.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

Her fingers tap the marble. Once. Twice.

“It’s an international art and fashion initiative,” she says. “A luxury gala held annually at Villa Fioretta, Lake Como. Private guest list. Couture-only. Funded by Dante Seo’s Light Fund and Vogue’s European partners.” A pause. “And we’ve been invited.”

Your breath stirs.

“I want you to represent Vogue Korea,” she says.

Silence blooms between you. “Me?”

“Yes. You pitched this campaign. You shaped it. People in Milan want to meet the girl who made the cover go viral.”

You feel lightheaded. Not from panic this time — from the taste of possibility. Of respect. Of validation earned, not handed.

Your mouth opens to thank her but then she speaks again.

“Don’t get too comfortable.”

The room shifts. Your spine locks. Her gaze hardens. She doesn’t blink.

“I don’t tolerate editors who sleep with clients,” she says. Voice smooth. Flat. “It’s unprofessional. It’s disgusting. It makes us look like we earned our place on our backs.”

Your blood turns to ice.

“You, Y/N, are better than that. You’ve proven yourself. Your instincts are rare.” A pause. “It would be a shame to lose someone like you because she couldn’t keep her legs closed.”

You don’t breathe. You can’t. You nod once, eyes fixed on a nonexistent spot on her desk. She stands.

“That’ll be all.”

You rise mechanically. Thank her. Bow. And walk out of the office with your pulse screaming in your ears. The moment you step into the hallway, Kara is there. Perched by the espresso machine in the break corner, sipping an oat milk latte with glossy lips and smug silence. She doesn’t say anything.

Your fists clench. Your face burns. You want to tear the smugness off her face and throw it back at her in headlines.

Instead, you walk past her — heels echoing like threats — and your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You check it.

Unknown Number

Still quiet, hm? Should I send someone to pick up my jacket or do I get a kiss as collateral?

Buzz.

I’ll take the kiss.

Buzz.

…or both.

You delete the thread. Turn off your notifications. And get back to work.

You don’t cry in the hallway. You don’t clench your jaw, or turn on your heel, or demand Seo In-kyung look you in the eye when she delivers the kind of warning she never would’ve given to a man. You don’t remind her that half the board she answers to built their careers on affairs with photographers, designers, founders — powerful men who never had to answer for the women they fucked.

You just breathe.

Measured. Controlled. Counted down like pills in the morning. You walk back to your desk with your back straight, your heels clean against the tile, pretending you don’t feel the ghost of his hands still pressing into your hips. You can almost hear him still — that teasing, velvet-coated filth, low and smug against your skin. You hear it in the vibration of your phone every hour since sunrise. You hear it in Kara’s eyes every time they rake over you. You feel it in the way your own body responds when you close your eyes at night — when your fingers trail down beneath the sheets and it’s his name that sits between your teeth, no matter how hard you bite down.

You tell yourself it was just sex. A one-time indulgence. A lapse in judgment that began and ended in a penthouse no one else has to know about. You tell yourself it was closure — that there’s no gravity to the way he held your face in his hands like he still knew how to ruin you. That the ache still curling inside your chest is nothing but delayed shame.

But the problem is, it wasn’t just the sex.

It was the way he looked at you like five years hadn’t passed, like you weren’t a stranger in that room, like you were still the girl he used to know in a borrowed hoodie and scraped-up Nikes, standing in a dingy kitchen, editing your first column with red pen on a ten-thousand-won table. It was the way he kissed you with a hunger that felt older than his fame. It was the way he let you bite him, claw him, curse him — and still whispered “come back to me.”

And now you're here. Perfectly poised in the office you fought tooth and nail to climb into, barely holding yourself together while your editor-in-chief — a woman born with the title stitched into her spine — calls you brilliant and disposable in the same breath. She will never know what it feels like to be called a genius on Monday and a whore on Wednesday. To be handed praise with a choke chain wrapped around it. To have your best work reduced to who you might have let touch you after hours.

She can talk about dignity. She can afford to. You, on the other hand, know exactly how fragile power can be when it’s built from scratch.

✦✦✦

The message comes barely an hour after you walk out of Seo In-kyung’s office.

You didn’t even say goodbye.

You don’t open it. You don’t need to — the preview alone is enough to make your stomach twist. You swipe it away, fingers rigid, and tell yourself that it doesn’t mean anything. Not the message. Not the sender. Not the way your name still looks when it rolls off his voice, even in text.

That night, another one arrives.

Was it the blazer? Should’ve left you something softer.

You laugh, once. Quietly. Then delete it like it burned you. You don’t respond. You won’t. Because if you let yourself type anything — a word, a punctuation mark, the space before a breath — you won’t stop. And you’ve worked too hard, pulled yourself too far out of the wreckage, to let one night drag you back into the ruin you barely crawled out of.

But the texts don’t stop.

Sometimes they’re careless. Teasing. Written like he’s still in your bed with your thighs pressed against his hips and your nails in his back. Other times, they’re sharp with weight, like he doesn’t know which version of himself you’ll tolerate — the boy who left you, or the man trying to come back.

You never reply. But you read every word.

And at night, when the world finally stops demanding your time and your poise and your reputation, when the silence of your apartment feels too loud to ignore — you remember how he touched you. You remember how it felt to let go of everything for one hour, one night, one man who once shattered you so completely that you forgot what it meant to breathe without him.

You touch yourself like it means nothing. But it’s his voice you hear when your fingers slip lower. It’s his mouth you imagine when you bite your own shoulder to muffle the sounds. It’s his hand around your throat when you finish — sharp and soft at once — and it’s his name that almost slips out, pressed against the inside of your teeth like a secret you’re still ashamed of wanting.

You don’t look at your phone after that. You tell yourself it was just sex, you’re smarter now.He’s just another mistake in a long line of things you’ve learned how to survive.

And when another message arrives — two days later, right as you're finalizing your flight details for the gala in Lake Como — you don’t even read it.

You just close your eyes, and try not to remember how he looked at you when he came.

✦✦✦

You arrive at Incheon International two hours before your flight, slipping through security behind oversized sunglasses and an air of quiet efficiency. The blazer you’re wearing is Dior this time — borrowed from the archive rack, boxy at the shoulders, sleek across your hips. Beneath it: a slate-gray satin blouse tucked into wide-leg ivory trousers, pressed razor-sharp. You look like someone who’s going to Lake Como for work, not for war.

It isn’t until you reach the boarding gate that you see the line of black masks, tailored airport coats, and hush-voiced assistants clustered like chess pieces around Gate A7.

BTS.

Of course.

Your stomach doesn’t sink. It knots — tight, controlled, slow — like the warning of turbulence long before the plane leaves the ground.

You keep walking, silent, graceful, aware of every click of your heels on the polished floor. You don’t let yourself search for him. You don’t have to. You feel him before you see him — a presence that presses against your awareness like heat against skin, impossible to ignore.

It isn’t until you’re lowering yourself into your business class seat, reaching for the strap of your carry-on, that you finally glance up — and meet his eyes.

Row 2. Aisle seat. Black mask, black cap, rings on both hands. And staring at you like he hasn’t blinked in days. You look away.

The plane boards slowly. Assistants murmur. Photographers keep their cameras off. The boys move like shadows, trained to blend, to disappear behind the shape of fame. You keep your posture perfect, legs crossed at the ankle, your tablet open with your flight agenda already pulled up — even though you’ve read it three times.

He doesn’t approach until you're halfway into the sky.

You excuse yourself from your seat, nod politely at the stewardess, and head down the narrow aisle toward the lavatory — slow, deliberate steps in heels that whisper money and control. The tiny hallway near the restrooms is dim, quiet, muted beneath the drone of altitude and distance.

You don’t expect the hand on your wrist.

It’s not rough. But it’s firm — and you know that grip. You’ve felt it around your waist, your neck, your thighs. You turn slowly, breath already caught halfway between fury and something far more dangerous.

He's right there. Closer than he has any right to be in this narrow corridor with no eyes but yours and his. The door to the lavatory is behind you. His body blocks the path. His scent — soap, leather, the faint trace of your perfume still clinging to his jacket from days ago — wraps around you like memory.

You keep your voice cold.

“Do you seriously think now is the time?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you, face half-shadowed by the cap, eyes hungry in a way that makes you press your thighs tighter, just to feel something grounded.

Then, finally, he speaks — low, rough.

“I keep dreaming about the way you moaned my name.”

Your stomach tightens. You don’t blink. You lift your chin instead “That’s all it was. A dream.”

But his eyes drop — once — to your mouth, and then lower. “I remember the way your legs shook. That wasn’t dreaming.”

You inhale sharply, but your expression doesn’t change.

“You should go sit down.”

“Or what?” His voice dips lower. “You’ll pretend again you don’t want me to fuck you right here?”

His hand doesn’t move. His body doesn’t touch yours. But you feel every inch of him like a scream in your skin — heat, memory, friction.

You smile — slow and cutting. “I’ve learned how to control myself. You should try it sometime.”

His gaze flickers. Just slightly. Then he leans in — not enough to touch, but enough for you to feel his breath near your neck, his voice low and ruinous.

“I’m not the one squeezing my thighs together.”

You hate that he’s right. You hate that your heartbeat is in your throat, that your body is already lit from the inside out. You hate that you want to kiss him. Bite him. Tear him open. But you won’t. Because you’re not that girl anymore.

You step aside, brushing past him with a look that could frost steel, and say nothing as you return to your seat. You don’t check to see if he follows.

You don’t breathe again until you’re halfway through an article you can’t remember reading, with his gaze still burning a hole into the back of your neck from three rows behind.

✦✦✦

The wheels touch the tarmac just past four in the afternoon, and the landing is smoother than expected, the kind that glides into the runway with practiced quiet, as if even the aircraft has been told to behave. Outside the small window, the northern Italian sun pools in long, soft ribbons over the hills, stretching across the landscape like liquid gold, tinting everything it touches with the kind of warmth that doesn’t burn — only stuns.

You disembark without ceremony, your sunglasses still in place, your coat folded over one arm, and your expression carefully blank. The assistant from Vogue Italia is waiting beside the hangar — her posture perfect, clipboard in hand, dressed in cropped white linen and flat shoes that probably cost more than the flight. She greets you by name, with polite English and a smile that’s too curated to be real, then leads you across the quiet concourse, past shuttered photographers and a cluster of sleek black cars idling behind a discreet security perimeter.

Your name is listed on one of the placards. Y/N — Vogue Korea.

So is theirs. BTS.

You don't react — not outwardly. There is no visible shift in your posture, no flicker in your gaze. You’ve already taught your body how to lie better than your words ever could.

The assistant ushers you toward a waiting Mercedes, its interior cool and leather-scented, the seats butter-soft beneath the press of your thighs. A silver tray holds still water, a lemon wedge perched just so. Your phone buzzes once in your lap. You don't check it. Not yet.

The drive from the airport is postcard-perfect in a way that feels intentionally cruel — narrow country roads wrapped in vine-laced stone, the distant glimmer of Lake Como revealing itself in flashes between tall cypress trees and crumbling terracotta villas. Each bend in the road opens into a view more breathtaking than the last, until you almost forget where you're headed and why your chest has been tight since the gate at Incheon.

The car finally slows as it pulls through ornate wrought-iron gates that gleam with gold filigree under the light, winding up the long private drive that spills into the front courtyard of Villa Fioretta. The estate rises from the hill like it was carved directly out of the cliffside — all creamy limestone and tall shuttered windows, manicured terraces spilling over with ivy and white flowers, and delicate copper details that catch the dying sun like jewelry. It looks like something you’ve seen on a Vogue Italia cover in a past life, or maybe a perfume ad from the early 2000s, the kind where everything was just slightly out of reach, and nothing ever truly belonged to you.

As the driver comes around to open your door, you exhale once, slow and silent, and allow your face to settle into something calm and beautifully unreadable.

Inside, the villa is all elegance in hushed tones — soft marble beneath your heels, pale walls washed in ivory and cream, every piece of furniture chosen for quiet power rather than comfort. The concierge greets you by name and with reverence, offers you a key card embossed with the letter “F” in deep matte black, and explains with the expected level of practiced charm that you’ve been placed on the fifth floor, lake view, courtesy of Fondo di Luce, and that a welcome aperitivo will be served on the lower terrace shortly after six.

You nod, thank them, and enter the elevator with the same stillness you’ve been wearing since you boarded the flight. It’s not until the doors begin to close that he enters behind you.

You don't need to look to know it's him. The presence is immediate — heavy, hot, undeniable. His cologne clings to the air, low and sharp, the same one you woke up wearing four mornings ago in his bed, still tangled in his heat.

He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.

The silence in the elevator stretches, long and taut, the kind that drapes itself over the walls like velvet, pressing in on all sides. You keep your gaze forward, focused on the panel, the floor numbers blinking upward. You can feel him beside you — not touching, but close enough to undo you all over again if you let yourself lean even an inch in his direction.

The mirrored wall reflects the shape of him — rolled sleeves, black slacks, tattoos visible where the cuff is turned, sunglasses tucked into his collar like he never needed to hide. He’s looking at you. You don’t return it.

The elevator stops at five.

You step out first. The hallway is quiet, dimly lit, touched with the kind of warmth that money doesn’t have to brag about — just suggests. He follows.

Your room is halfway down the hall. You can hear the soft tread of his boots behind you, steady and measured, but it’s the silence between you that rattles louder than any footfall.

You stop at 506. Slot the card into the reader. The green light flashes. Still, you don’t turn.

"If you're going to say something stupid, Jungkook," you murmur, voice calm but edged, your hand resting on the doorframe like it might hold you steady, "don’t waste it here."

The door unlocks with a soft click. You step inside and let it close behind you without another word.

You never heard his footsteps retreat — which is exactly why your hands are still shaking when you set your bag down on the velvet bench at the end of the bed.

✦✦✦

The evening descends in a soft, golden hush, the lake catching the last streaks of sunlight and bending them into mirrored ribbons that stretch across the manicured garden lawns. The terrace is already glowing by the time you arrive — dozens of floating candles bobbing in the villa’s pool, crisp white tablecloths draped over stone tables, wine glasses catching firelight like they were designed to burn. Waiters move like shadows through the crowd, balancing trays of Campari spritzes and white truffle canapés, slipping between conversations spoken in Italian, French, and English laced with old-money vowels.

You’ve dressed for the kill.

The gown you chose is a strapless black number that ends just above your mid-thigh — sculpted to your body like it was designed for this exact kind of dusk, this exact kind of attention. The satin clings in all the places you used to hide and now let sharpen you. Your back is bare, your collarbone glistens with a soft sheen of skin-warmed perfume, and your heels are high enough to demand silence when you walk. The neckline dips low, the hem even lower, and there’s a part of you that knows—without even needing the confirmation—that if Jungkook looks at you tonight, it won’t be casual.

You tell yourself you wore it to feel powerful. You tell yourself that it’s just about proving a point.

But deep down, beneath all the polished rationality and strategic poise, you know it’s a lie. You wore it to tempt him. Or maybe to punish him. It’s hard to tell the difference anymore.

You glide through the terrace like you belong to it. Conversations flicker as you pass — Vogue Paris, L’Uomo, a few senior figures from Condé Nast and K-Media International — all familiar faces from the inner circle of fashion and luxury publishing. You smile, you nod, you take a glass of wine with the hand not gripping your clutch, and you keep moving.

He’s here. You haven’t seen him yet, but you feel him. You’ve felt him since the moment you walked in — like a change in air pressure, like heat blooming in places that should be cold. Each time a new shadow approaches, your chest coils tight, your gaze flicks once, and you brace yourself.

The first time you actually see him, he’s standing on the far end of the terrace near the balustrade, surrounded by three men in Tom Ford tuxedos and a woman from Vogue Italia who is laughing too easily at something he hasn’t said. His hair is pushed back, exposing the sharp line of his jaw, the silver hoop in his ear catching the light each time he turns slightly, and his shirt is unbuttoned just enough to make your mouth dry. He looks devastating. You don’t look twice.

You spend the next hour performing avoidance like an art. Each time he moves in your direction — and he does — you change course. A conversation with a photographer. A compliment to someone’s emerald earrings. A turn toward the pool just in time to keep a table between you. He’s watching. You know he is. And you never let yourself look back.

Until you meet Dante Seo.

He arrives like an entrance — tall, olive-toned skin that speaks of Italian summers and Seoul winters, his suit perfectly fitted in bone-white silk with a single black brooch gleaming on the lapel. His hair is dark and swept back with the ease of someone who doesn’t try hard and never has to. His smile is clean. Curated. Dangerous.

“You must be Vogue Korea,” he says as he offers his hand, eyes tracing over your form like he’s calculating how many men in the room already hate him for standing beside you. “No one told me you’d be this stunning. I’ll have to send my regrets to our editor-in-chief for not coming in her place.”

“Y/N,” you reply, slipping your hand into his. “Campaign editor. But I suppose the title doesn’t matter so long as I’m stunning.”

He laughs — low, indulgent — and motions to a pair of older executives hovering behind him.

“You all remember Jeon Jungkook, I’m sure?” Dante glances sideways, eyes sparkling. “The face of Vogue Korea’s revival, the star of the cover that’s been circulating Milan for two weeks straight.”

Your spine tenses.

“I think it’s fair to say Korea brought us something exceptional,” one woman offers, sipping from her wine. “He was brilliant. Magnetic. I hadn’t seen that kind of restraint from an editorial in years.”

“I think that was more the editor’s eye than the idol’s,” Dante says, looking directly at you now, one eyebrow lifted with the kind of mischief that always ends in trouble. “Tell me, Y/N. How did you convince a man like that to surrender so completely?”

You force a smile, swirl the wine in your glass, and answer coolly.

“Sometimes all it takes is silence.”

More laughter. More praise. More commentary on how sharp he looked, how he carried the shot, how Vogue Korea must be so proud. The room keeps saying his name. Over and over, like it means something, like it doesn’t still taste like sweat and regret and begging on your skin.

You excuse yourself twenty minutes later, your glass half-full and your teeth aching from how hard you’ve clenched your jaw.

The moment you step back into the villa’s interior, the noise blurs. You walk past the grand staircase, through the velvet-draped hall toward the elevator, your heels muffled against the thick cream carpet, your throat hot from wine and words you didn't say.

You don’t notice he’s following you until you reach your door. The moment you slide the keycard into the reader, he’s there.

One hand planted against the door beside your head, the other grazing your hip, his body closing the space so completely that all you can smell is him — clean, woodsy, sharp with the memory of what he did to you last time.

You turn slowly, your back brushing the wood. His breath is hot against your cheek, his voice low and intimate, like a confession laced with filth.

“Do you want me to say it?” he murmurs. “Do you want me to say I couldn’t stop staring at your thighs all night? That I imagined dragging this dress up your legs while the whole fucking party watched?”

Your body tightens. You keep your voice steady.

“Move.”

He leans in closer, lips brushing just beside your jaw.

“I saw how you avoided me. Like I was the one who begged. You think I don’t know you wore this dress for me?”

You swallow. Hard. His fingers trail lightly along the line of your jaw, down to your mouth, hovering there as if waiting for a tremble he already knows is coming.

“I could take you right here,” he whispers. “I could make you cry with my fingers before you even reach the bed.”

You hate the way your knees weaken. Hate the thrum building between your legs, the ache in your stomach, the heat spreading low and sharp like fire beneath your skin.

You should say no, open the door and disappear into the room and lock it behind you.

But when you meet his eyes — dark, hungry, full of something wild — you fumble the key, and he catches it with a smirk, sliding it into the lock like he’s been there a thousand times before.

And when the door opens, you step inside without a word. Not because you forgave him. Not because it means anything.

Only because your body stopped asking for permission the moment his mouth said your name.

✦✦✦

The door shuts behind you with a heavy, soundproofed click, and the moment it does, you feel it — the shift in air, the sharp electric drag of his presence right at your back.

You barely make it three steps into the suite before his hand circles your waist and drags you back against him. You don’t gasp, you don’t whimper, but your body tenses with something that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the ache that’s been clawing at your stomach since the moment he stared at you from across the terrace like he wanted to fuck you blind.

His mouth finds your shoulder first — soft, open, hot — pressing through the thin fabric of your dress, kissing along the slope of your neck while his other hand skims down the silk curve of your thigh. You smell wine on his breath, wood and heat and hunger, and he’s already hard against your ass, pressing into you like he can’t believe you’re real again.

“Fucking knew this dress was for me,” he breathes against your skin. “Knew it the second I saw you.”

You turn your face slightly, just enough to graze his jaw, your voice calm even as your blood roars beneath the surface.

“And what are you going to do about it?”

His grip tightens.

“This.”

He spins you — smooth, practiced, fast — and pins you against the suite wall, just beside the blackout-curtained window, one knee between your thighs, your heels barely catching grip on the polished wood floors. His hands are under your dress in a second, sliding up your thighs, growling when he feels just how little you wore beneath it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice low and guttural. “You didn’t wear anything for me?”

“Maybe I wore it for someone else,” you murmur, tilting your head, letting your lips brush his but never touching fully.

His teeth graze your chin. “Don’t fucking test me tonight.”

“I thought you liked being tested.”

He laughs — dark, breathless — and you both know you’re seconds from snapping. His hands glide over your ass, gripping, kneading, dragging you harder against the bulge in his pants. You rock your hips back, just once, just to feel how badly he wants it.

And then you pull away. “Sit.”

His eyes flicker, and you see it — the surprise, the interest, the way his breath catches just slightly before he obeys. He backs up toward the edge of the king-sized bed and lowers himself slowly, legs spread, cock straining against the fabric of his tailored black trousers.

You follow him. Drop to your knees between his legs like it's a throne, not a man.

His eyes are already half-lidded, hands braced on his thighs, watching you as you reach for his belt with smooth, practiced fingers. You undo the buckle with no urgency, and when the leather slides through the loops, he hisses under his breath like it’s your mouth around him already.

When you reach into his boxers and pull him out, you exhale softly — not from surprise, not from awe, but from the rush that starts between your legs at the sheer weight of him in your palm. He’s hard. So hard it makes your mouth water. The tip’s flushed, leaking, pulsing against your skin.

He looks like he wants to say something — maybe a tease, maybe a curse — but the second your lips close over the head, all he does is moan. Long. Deep. Raw.

You don’t rush.

You swirl your tongue around the tip, one hand still stroking the base, the other flattening against his lower abdomen to keep him exactly where you want him. You suck slowly, carefully, letting your mouth shape around him like you’re molding heat out of gold. You glance up — and the sight of him nearly undoes you.

His head is thrown back, mouth parted, hands gripping the edge of the mattress now. The muscles in his thighs are shaking under your palms. When you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper, his hips jerk, his voice cracks.

“Fuck— Y/N… don’t… I’m gonna—”

You pull off with a wet pop, licking your lips like a threat.

“You’re gonna what?”

He opens his eyes, looks at you like you’re the devil himself, and chokes on a groan when you go down again — this time deeper, wetter, your tongue pressed under the shaft, saliva dripping down your hand. You let your mouth contour around him, let him feel every inch of heat and slick velvet you can give.

“Please,” he whispers, eyes clenched shut now. “Please don’t stop. Please—fuck—just like that—”

The begging shocks you. It makes your core throb, makes you grind your own thighs together as you take him deeper still, lips stretched wide around him, hand working what your mouth can’t reach. You love the way he sounds, the way he begs, the way this man — who fucked you like he owned you just days ago — is now unraveling in front of you with your name gasped like a prayer.

You pull off again, let your lips drag down the side of his cock, tongue licking up the vein, and you whisper:

“You taste better than I remember.”

He grabs your shoulders, dragging you up fast, lips crashing against yours like he’s trying to climb back into control.

“You’re going to fucking kill me,” he mutters, voice shaking. “Get on the bed. Now.”

You don’t resist. Because you want it too — filthy, breathless, and only getting darker from here.

He doesn’t let you move far — his hands are already on your thighs, on your waist, pushing you back until your legs hit the edge of the bed, and he shoves you down with a grip that’s firm but reverent. He follows immediately, kissing you deep, tongue filthy in your mouth, his taste mixed with the sharp salt of his own arousal. You moan into him, still breathless from the way he sounded minutes ago — the quiet begging, the desperation, the way he came undone just from your mouth.

But now he’s reclaiming the space.

He pulls away, eyes black, chest heaving. You barely register your own dress being pulled up, bunched around your waist, before he drops to his knees between your legs and drags your soaked thong down with both hands — slow, savoring the way the fabric clings to you, the wet string pulling along your folds.

“Fucking perfect,” he mutters, and you feel it in your spine — that growl, that tone, the sound of someone starving.

He spreads your legs wide, pushes your knees up, and leans in with no ceremony. His mouth finds your clit in the same breath as his fingers gripping your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed until you feel like you’re going to slide off entirely — right into the heat of his mouth. His tongue flicks once, then twice, then circles until your hips buck.

“You’ve missed this,” he says against your cunt. “This pussy remembers me.”

You try to argue. You try to speak. But your breath stutters when he sucks your clit into his mouth and moans like he’s tasting sugar.

Your hands fly to his hair, gripping the soft strands, anchoring yourself. You can’t stop the sounds that escape you now — soft, sharp gasps, your head falling back as he devours you, his mouth relentless and wet and so good you can’t think straight.

And then he slides lower.

At first it’s a tease — his tongue licking below, over the tight ring of muscle, making your thighs twitch. But then he spreads you wider, his thumbs parting your ass, and before you can process it, his mouth is there, licking into you with slow, filthy indulgence.

You moan — loud, uncontrolled, broken — and your entire body tries to lift off the bed. He holds you down.

“Jungkook—” It’s the first time you’ve said his name like that tonight, and it cracks at the edges. “What the fuck—”

He doesn’t stop.

He eats your ass like he’s done it before, like he’s memorized you, like he owns the right to taste every inch of you. His hands slide up your thighs, gripping hard enough to bruise, and when his tongue drags back up to your clit again, your vision blurs.

And in the haze of your unraveling, one thought claws through everything: he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Your hips grind up into his mouth, chasing the friction, chasing the high. And when he slides two fingers into you — slow and deep — your back arches, your moan breaks apart, and your orgasm hits like a wave dragging you under.

He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling beneath him, thighs twitching, cunt fluttering around his fingers.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth is slick, his eyes feral, and he climbs back over you like a man who hasn’t eaten in days.

“You good?” he whispers, voice raw with pride.

You glare at him, chest still rising and falling, and mutter, “You’re disgusting.”

He smirks, kissing your collarbone, licking a stripe up your neck.

“And you’re wet.”

He’s on you before you can gather your thoughts — his body pressing you into the mattress, heavy and solid and far too familiar. His chest brushes yours, warm skin meeting your peaked nipples, and the friction makes you hiss between your teeth. You try to push him back, just enough to reassert something, anything — but he catches your wrist and pins it to the bed beside your head.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “Not when you’re this wet for me.”

You scowl, but it’s weak — half-hearted, half-turned-on, and he knows it.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

He leans in, licks into your mouth like he owns it, and then slides his cock slowly through your folds — hot, heavy, dragging along your slit until you’re whimpering despite yourself. You feel him reach for a condom, hear the crinkle of foil, and then his hips notch forward, the thick head of his cock pressing at your entrance.

“You still feel like fucking heaven,” he groans, and when he pushes in — slow, so slow — your nails dig into the sheets.

You gasp, head falling back against the pillows. He’s big. He always was, but this time it feels deeper, sharper, like every inch is a punishment you didn’t see coming.

“God—” you breathe, blinking up at the ceiling. “Why the fuck do you still feel this good?”

“Because your pussy remembers me,” he says through a ragged exhale, hips still rolling forward. “Because it’s mine.”

You clench around him at the word — mine — and hate how much it turns you on.

“You really think one night erases years?” you bite, trying to pull your voice together, but it’s breathy and cracked.

“No,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “But it reminds you.”

He bottoms out, and the sound you make is caught between a moan and a curse. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, trying to pull him deeper even as your pride screams at you to shove him off. He feels too good. It’s too hot. It’s everything you didn’t want to feel again, wrapped in silk and sweat and his goddamn voice.

He starts to move — slow and deep, every stroke dragging across every nerve ending you have.

“You’re clenching,” he growls in your ear, licking down the side of your neck. “You missed this. Missed me.”

“I missed being fucked,” you shoot back, voice shaking. “I could’ve found that anywhere.”

He snaps his hips once — hard — and your gasp betrays you. Your hands fly up to his back, nails digging in.

“You’re lying,” he pants. “You never let anyone fuck you like this. Never let them see you like this.”

You hate that he’s right. You hate that you’re already close again, already tightening around him like he’s the only man who’s ever made you come this hard.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you come,” he murmurs, brushing sweaty strands from your face. “Wanna feel it again. Wanna watch you break.”

You pull him closer, arch your back, and mutter into his neck:

“Then make me.”

That’s all it takes. He fucks you harder now — still deep, still deliberate, but with that edge of hunger he’s been holding back all night. His pelvis rubs your clit with every thrust, and when his hand slides between you, fingers circling your swollen nerves, you see stars.

You’re writhing now, moaning his name like a warning, and he’s kissing you through it, swallowing your sounds, your curses, your surrender.

And when you finally come — tight and fast and gasping — he moans something filthy into your mouth that you’re too far gone to understand. You feel him tense, feel the thick roll of his hips as he buries himself one last time, and then he’s groaning through clenched teeth, coming with your name against your lips.

For a moment, the room is nothing but breath and sweat and silence. Then you turn your face away. And the next wave starts building.

You should’ve gotten up. You should’ve pushed him off and walked into the bathroom, should’ve wrapped yourself in a robe and poured a glass of water and reminded yourself who you are now — not nineteen, not in love, not wrecked by the memory of a boy who never said goodbye.

But instead, you stay. Lying there, trembling in the aftermath of an orgasm that still echoes in your spine, your thighs slick and sore, your heartbeat pressed somewhere up in your throat.

Jungkook shifts beside you, his palm still on your stomach, his breath still hot against your shoulder. You can feel him stirring again, thick and half-hard between your legs, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re moving — rolling onto your side, facing away, pulling the sheet off your skin like you’ve surrendered to something you’ll never admit out loud.

He presses up behind you, his chest flush to your back, his mouth trailing down the slope of your shoulder with reverent hunger. One hand slides over your hip, gripping it as if anchoring himself to reality, the other skating down between your thighs to find you still soaked.

“Still dripping for me,” he mutters, voice hoarse with lust. “You love this.”

“I hate you,” you breathe.

“I know,” he whispers, pushing your legs apart. “That’s why you’re letting me do this again.”

You want to scream at him. You want to tell him to shut the fuck up, to get out, to stop twisting everything into something so ugly and true — but then the head of his cock is sliding between your folds, and your breath catches in your throat like betrayal.

He pushes in slowly, and the stretch burns — not painfully, but beautifully, the kind of fullness that makes your spine arch and your mouth fall open. His hand finds your throat from behind, just a gentle pressure under your jaw, guiding your gaze up to the full-length mirror across the room.

“Look.”

You shake your head.

“Look, Y/N.”

Your eyes flicker open. And what you see takes the last bit of air from your lungs. Your body — flushed and glistening, breasts bouncing gently with each slow thrust, his chest pressed to your back, his hand wrapped around your throat. His face — focused, wild, desperate. Yours — wrecked.

“Fuck,” he groans, picking up speed. “You look so fucking good like this.”

“Shut up,” you bite, but it’s weak, broken, your voice shaking.

He pulls out, slaps your ass once, then sinks back in deep. You whimper, your head falling forward, but he doesn’t let you look away.

“I want you to see what I do to you.”

You do. And that’s the problem. Because it’s not just the sex. It’s the way your mouth falls open when he rolls his hips just right; your nails claw the sheets when he says your name like a curse and a prayer. The way your eyes can’t lie in the mirror — how wrecked you are, how undone, how his.

“You’re just a dick to me,” you spit, desperate, cruel.

But he only groans and fucks you harder. “Then why are you dripping down my thighs?”

He reaches between your legs again, fingers finding your clit, circling fast and filthy, and your body convulses around him, your moans high and breathless. He fucks you through it, relentless now, slamming into you as your muscles clench around him.

The mirror fogs. Your eyes blur. And when you come again, it’s with his name on your tongue and your pride somewhere back in Seoul.

He follows moments later, hips stuttering, curses tumbling from his mouth as he spills into the condom with his forehead against your shoulder and your scent all over his skin.

The sound of your own heart, thudding against your ribs like a warning.

You pull away first. Walk into the bathroom without a word, leaving him in the bed where he just ruined you all over again.

✦✦✦

You take your time in the shower, as if hot water can rinse off regret. You wash his hands from your thighs, scrub the taste of him from your mouth. You tilt your head back and let the water hammer against your eyes until it’s impossible to tell what’s tears and what’s steam.

But none of it works. Because when you walk out of the bathroom wrapped in a robe that still smells faintly of jasmine, he’s still there. Shirtless. Sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them like he’s praying to something he stopped believing in a long time ago.

You walk to the desk in the corner, grab your phone, place it face-down, and then turn around — arms crossed, face unreadable.

“You should leave.”

He looks up. And he doesn’t move.

“Jungkook,” you repeat, slower now, sharper. “This doesn’t change anything.”

He rises, but he doesn’t close the space between you. His voice is low, frayed at the edges.

“Stop pretending it was just sex.”

You laugh — bitter, quiet, worn thin. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His jaw clenches. “You felt it too.”

“I felt your cock inside me,” you snap. “I thanked you for the orgasm. What else do you want?”

“That’s not what it was.”

“You’re right,” you say, folding your arms tighter. “It was nostalgia. A stupid, warm, familiar fuck. That’s all. It’s easy to miss someone when you’re lonely.”

He steps closer. “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to.”

There’s a pause. A thick, excruciating silence.

“You and I…” he says, softly now, like the words might shatter in his throat, “we were made for each other. Even our bodies—”

“Oh, right,” you cut in, vicious now, unable to hold it back. “You’d know. You’ve had so many to compare.”

His mouth opens. Closes. For once, he has no clever retort. You press forward, rage slipping between the cracks of your voice.

“How many, Jungkook? Since me? How many fans, idols, influencers, pretty things to fuck between tours? Don’t act like I was unforgettable when you replaced me every goddamn night.”

“I didn’t replace you,” he says — broken, breathless. “I was just trying to forget.”

“And did it work?”

“No.” His voice cracks. “No, it didn’t. I was stupid. I was young and insecure and fucking terrified. I hated myself for what I did. I still do.”

You shake your head slowly, tears stinging the corners of your eyes, the robe cinched too tightly around your waist now.

“You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to walk out when things get hard and come back years later with apologies and expect me to what— forgive you? Believe that you’ve changed?”

“I have changed.”

“Good for you.”

He takes a trembling breath. “I don’t want to be defined by the mistakes I made when I was twenty.”

You inhale sharply — then exhale through your teeth like it burns.

“You think I wasn’t twenty too?” Your voice rises, high and brittle. “You think I didn’t feel lost? I moved to Seoul with you. I started everything from scratch. My job. My name. My future. I met people too. Rich ones. Brilliant ones. Men who would’ve killed to touch me, to claim me, to give me the fucking world—”

He flinches.

“—but I never said yes. Because I wanted to go through it all with you. I was building something. A life. A career. A future. And I wanted you beside me.”

Tears fall now. Hot, fast. You don’t bother to wipe them.

“But you left,” you whisper. “No explanation. No closure. Just silence. Like I meant nothing.”

He takes a step toward you while you step back.

“You broke me,” you say, and your voice finally cracks — full and sharp and agonizing. “You left me alone in a city that already hated me. You made me beg for your attention without saying a word. And I still had to show up to work. Smile. Climb. Watch my dreams come true with no one beside me to see it.”

“I should’ve been there,” he chokes out, eyes shining now. “I was a coward. I didn’t deserve you then. But I want to be the man who does now. Please—please just give me a chance to prove it.”

You stare at him and your heart is breaking. But you shake your head.

“Every time I look at you,” you whisper, voice like shattered glass, “I see the version of myself you left behind. Nineteen. In love. Hopeful. And you stole her from me. You robbed my nineteen year self of her happy future.”

His lips part, trembling.

“I’ll never forgive you for that.”

He doesn’t move. Just stands there in the quiet of the room that still smells like sex and sweat and the bitter rot of everything they’ve broken again. His eyes are red-rimmed now, chest rising like it physically hurts to speak — and maybe it does.

“I love you.”

He says it softly, like the words themselves might vanish if he says them too loud. Like he doesn’t quite believe they’ll land.

Your lips part, barely. But you don’t answer. Not at first. You just stand there, arms wrapped tightly around your waist, robe clinging to damp skin, trying to shield yourself from a wound that’s already been split open at the seam.

“I never stopped,” he whispers, stepping closer, not enough to touch, but enough for you to feel the warmth of him, even now. “Even when I fucked up. Even when I disappeared. Even when I hated myself for it.”

You blink once. Your throat tightens. And then you speak — slowly, like every word is a blade you have to pull out of yourself to hand to him.

“No.”

He freezes.

“No, you didn’t love me then,” you say, voice low, calm, terrifying in its precision. “You loved how I made you feel. How I adored you. How I was yours when you wanted me, and gone when you didn’t.”

His breath hitches, but you go on.

“And now you’re doing it again. You’re confusing lust with love. Familiarity with fate. You’re looking at me and thinking this means something more than it does, because you want it to, because it makes you feel less guilty.”

“It does mean something,” he argues, stepping forward like he’s desperate to close the space. “You and me—”

You shake your head. “You don’t get to say that. Not anymore.”

He opens his mouth, but you lift your hand — not to strike, not to touch, just to stop him.

“I don’t believe you,” you say, and you mean it. “And even if I did… it’s too late.”

You turn then, slow and sharp, like your heart is finally made of steel instead of longing, and you gesture toward the door — toward the end of the night, the end of the echo, the end of whatever illusion he came here chasing.

He doesn’t move at first. But when he does, he doesn’t say anything else. Just walks to the door with quiet steps, like the weight of everything he never said is finally too much to carry.

The door opens and shuts behind him with a soft, final click.

And in the silence that follows, you don’t cry. You just stand there, still barefoot, still breathing, staring out across the lake through the glass windows as the lights of Villa Fioretta shimmer back at you in the dark.

And for the first time in years, you let yourself whisper the truth. He broke you. And you’re still not sure if you’ll ever recover.

✦✦✦

Villa Fioretta sparkles like something out of a Renaissance painting — golden lanterns swinging in the breeze, shadows stretching long over the polished marble as the evening unfolds with practiced luxury. The terrace for tonight’s formal dinner is carved into the cliffside, overlooking the dark silk of Lake Como, each table draped in white linen and framed with tumbling white roses. Candles flicker in crystal holders. Soft jazz rolls under the clink of silverware and laughter that never reaches the eyes.

You arrive later than planned.

Hair pinned. Makeup fresh. The kind of dress that breathes elegance from the front and vengeance from the back — low-cut, high-slit, sharp where it needs to be and soft where it shouldn’t. Midnight navy satin hugs your waist, drapes over your thighs, whispers down your legs with every step you take. On your ears: diamonds. Around your neck: a pearl choker — delicate, pointed, surgical.

No one would know that you didn’t sleep last night. Except maybe him.

Jungkook sees you before anyone else. Of course he does. He’s already seated when you arrive, across the long dinner table, dressed in black-on-black with his hair slicked back and his jaw clenched tight enough to crack. His eyes meet yours. Then drop. Then return. He doesn’t look away after that.

You let your gaze sweep past him like he’s any other guest — beneath you, behind you, not even worth remembering. Because tonight, you’re not here to feel. You’re here to make sure he does.

“Ah, Y/N.” Dante Seo stands when you’re led to your place, a slow grin blooming on his face like he’s waited the whole day for this exact moment. “You’re late.”

You slip into the chair beside him without apologizing. “I had to recover from a… long night.”

His eyes spark at that. You don’t let them linger.

Around you, the table is littered with people who make headlines for a living — stylists, designers, fashion house CEOs, cultural editors from every Vogue in the western hemisphere. BTS is here too — seated near the far end, spaced out perfectly so the illusion of randomness doesn’t look like security protocol.

You don’t look at them either. You focus on Dante’s hand as it grazes yours every time he reaches for his wine. You focus on the warmth of the candlelight on your collarbones. On the way people lean in when you speak.

“You truly spearheaded something magnificent,” the director of Vogue UK says, dabbing at her lips. “That October cover… everyone’s talking about it. Jungkook’s never looked so refined.”

“Or so raw,” someone else adds. “There’s something vulnerable in it. Almost like…”

“Like he was seen,” Dante finishes, smiling sideways at you. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

You sip your wine.

“That was my job,” you reply coolly. “To see him as something more than a headline.”

Your words hang between you, and Jungkook doesn’t speak even once.

But you feel him. Every time Dante laughs too loud. Every time Dante leans too close. Every time his hand brushes your thigh under the tablecloth and you don’t move it away. You feel Jungkook watching like it’s a punishment. And maybe it is.

Because he doesn’t look powerful now. He looks like a man barely holding himself together — knuckles white against the stem of his glass, jaw so tight you know it aches. And still… he says nothing.

Dinner ends slowly. Plates are cleared. Dessert is offered. Liqueur appears in tall, thin glasses, and conversations bloom into something silkier, messier. Looser.

Dante leans toward you again, the scent of spice and ambition warm against your cheek.

“I have a bottle I’d kill to open with you,” he murmurs. “Private cellar. Ten minutes. Just us.”

You smile without showing teeth. Your heart is thudding like betrayal behind your ribs. But you nod.

“Lead the way.”

You stand. And that’s when he stands too. Jungkook.

You pretend not to see him following, just a few paces behind, not fast, not loud — but steady.

The hallway is dim, the sconces casting long shadows across marble walls as you and Dante make your way toward the private wing. At the turn, Dante checks his phone — a call from someone downstairs. He excuses himself for a moment, promises to be right back.

And then you feel it — the heat behind you. A presence you’ve memorized in your bones.

He says nothing at first. Just breathes. Then, softly — like a ghost afraid to be exorcised, “You don’t have to do this just to hurt me.”

You turn, slow and sharp, and there he is — no stage, no audience, no press-ready expression. Just Jungkook. Tense. Broken. Bare.

“I’m not doing anything to you,” you reply. “I’m leaving.”

“With him?”

Your smile is tired. “He asked nicely.”

His voice drops, rough and unsteady. “He doesn’t know you.”

“No one does,” you whisper. “Not anymore.”

His eyes close for half a second — like that one cut sliced too deep.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, almost to himself. “You’re just angry. You’re trying to prove something.”

“I’m proving I can walk away from you now.”

Jungkook steps closer. Just one step. Barely enough to touch. His breath hits your collarbone.

“If you walk out with him right now… I’ll never stop thinking about it.”

You blink. But your voice doesn’t break this time.

“Then think about it.”

“Please,” he says — and it’s not performance, not charm, not strategy.

It’s desperation. Raw. Quiet. Real.

“Please don’t do this. Not like this.”

You hesitate. Just a second. But it’s enough to break you.

“Don’t ask me for anything,” you say, voice soft and surgical. “You already took everything that mattered.”

And when Dante reappears at the end of the hall, you turn without another word.

Your heels echo across the marble as you disappear down the corridor. You don’t look back.

Not even when Jungkook breaks in the silence behind you.

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kithtaehyung · 10 months ago

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minted (explicit) | myg

title: minted (explicit) pairing: street king!yoongi x street cart vendor!reader rating/genre: explicit (18+) ; angst , suspense , smut ; haegeum au , gang au summary: all you do is wake up, sell your fruit on the dusty streets below your flat, and go to sleep. but everything changes when a customer you always look forward to seeing turns out to be dangerous. really, really dangerous. note: again, this wasn't on the docket for 2024 until i saw one (1) mint yoongi edit on my pinterest feed💀 anyways, this is dedicated to hali @sailoryooons for ur belated bday, nary @joonary for being a cutie pie and letting me adopt the tangerine cart girl idea in general, and luce @minttangerines for ur url and for being a wonderful friend. love you all! warnings: this series may not be for everyone, language, violence, weapons (guns/knives/chopsticks/etc.), blood/wounds mentions, drugs, alcohol, murder, gang activity, poor reader is just trying to get through the day, mint!yoongi, haegeum!yoongi, tatted!yoongi, his eyebrow is pierced, tension, slow burn, choking, reader suffers from “my cabbages” levels of disaster, slight e2l, fight sequences, multiple future explicit scenes, yoongi deserves his own warning, chains but who is ever ever shocked, graphic depictions of violence drop date: august 5th, 2024, 9:03pm est word count: 9.4k aiyaaa✌ mood playlist: here

—

Ever since you could remember, gang activity in your town has run unchecked.

Anything goes. Rough fights out of nowhere, car chases busting streets, or even random delinquents snatching food on the run, dust kicking up onto stock they left behind.

And out of all the districts, yours is begrudgingly the second worst.

Why? You still aren’t completely sure. But you do know that the darkest is reserved for the underbelly that only slithers in rumors. A place in which you will never find yourself.

But you do wonder what must happen there to warrant the winning title because each day here is a battle to keep yourself afloat.

All you do is sell fruit. Why are you fighting for your life every week? Why can’t you exchange goods for money in peace? If you could compare it to the movies you grew up watching on an outdated television, it’s a grungy reflection of the wild west.

But through all the shit you’ve chosen to endure, at least one person is always kind enough to buy his wares and go.

And today is no different.

You still don’t know his name. But you yearn to. Because his hair is the color of magic and rebellion, and his tattoos really set off that bright mop of locks.

If those lethal, piercing eyes weren’t enough.

When he lifts three long digits, it takes all your strength to nod and get his purchase together. This is the part that never changes, either.

Just like always. One, three, or five fingers for tangerines. Never two, never four, and never any other fruits.

It’s charming, in a way. As if he’s more particular than most about what he wants—a trait elusive to many.

Like clockwork, you would hand his order over in thin plastic, and he would walk away to hitch a ride on a passing cart. Just like he does right now with a lazy gait, white tee billowing from his jeans.

Another day. Another exchange.

In the wavy heat of summer, you sigh. Wondering if anything is ever going to change, and if you would ever get to know more about your most frequent, most mysterious patron.

After a while, you do try talking to him.

Those looks of confusion slowly turn into little hums or grunts, then into single words that keep you going for days. Even though you rarely hear it, his voice is just as attractive as he is.

One day, you offer him a plantain, handing it over and telling him it’s on the house.

“Thanks,” he says amongst the clinks and conversations of the street, pocketing the food away.

When he does, you see a flash of black metal, and you already know what he’s carrying. You’re used to seeing all sorts of those around nowadays. In this district, you’d be shocked if he didn’t have an arsenal on his person while traveling through.

Besides. Even you have a couple collecting dust in your own flat, handed down by extended family but never used.

“If you ever need anything other than tangerines,” you start with a point to his pants, “Please buy those instead.”

He’s unmoving. Blinks are all you get so you have no choice but to explain,

“I’m so tired of eating them with everything.”

When he huffs in amusement, your heart flutters thrice. There’s no reason for a sheen of sweat and sticky mint locks to be so deadly.

“Then eat something else,” is all the stranger advises before walking off.

Well.

Even though you don’t have much of a choice, the guy does have a point. You wouldn’t be shocked in the slightest if his aim’s just as straightforward as his wit.

Once one exchange lasts longer than a sentence, the two of you start little conversations during his visits. Which prove more fatal than normal since he’d rest his tattoos on the top shelf of your cart.

From what you can make out, there are creatures stretching in beautiful teal and vivid orange, and even striking white on his other arm. They ripple so well with his veins, a canvas that sways and hypnotizes with every drum of his fingers.

You know what they symbolize, though it’s unique to have all of them together.

Taboo, even.

But you can’t hold back your admiration because of the sheer beauty. What would they feel like if you just…

“You always stare this long?”

Shit. “Oh, sorry. I just… I rarely see anyone’s ink up close.”

To your dismay, he takes his arm back. “I don’t have a lot of time today, princess.”

“Right, sorry. Hold on,” you respond, cringing hard at blurting two apologies in a ten second span.

Meanwhile, your way too handsome regular cocks a brow, clearly comfortable making you squirm as you hand over his bag.

Effortless. In your chaotic life, It’s almost intoxicating feeling someone this resolute in their whole demeanor. If only you could be so commanding and assured one day.

But here you stand instead, pretending to count fruit you one hundred percent know the stock of already. “Your art is really nice, by the way,” you admit to your inventory. “All the high-powers. I like what you picked.”

“Didn’t choose these.”

Ah. Way to assume things.

Raising your head, you make to apologize a third time.

But he’s already retreating with his tangerines, hand stuffed in a pocket and beautiful waves a little less vibrant than you recall.

“What.”

“I worry sometimes.”

His gaze lifts. “About me?”

“Yeah.”

You don’t know why you choose to say that of all things. But it’s honest. You always wonder about him and think about the weapon in his jeans. Does he use it? Does he ever need to?

Maybe you should pick up a hobby or two.

Fingers resting dangerously close, he asks with a tilt of his head, “What would you do, doll? If something happened to someone like me.”

Someone like him? What does that mean?

Great. Now you have even more to wonder about, as if he knew that was your exact predicament.

You stare, roaming along his arms before meeting his eyes—almost. “Find someone else to buy my tangerines.”

Huffing, his brows tick up with his mouth. “I respect that.” His attention doesn’t leave your face as he slowly takes his purchase. “See ya.”

“Bye,” you whisper back, watching him go. More thoughts and concerns bouncing around your mind in the sticky heat of midday.

These little nicknames he’s using also aren’t helping your issue in the slightest.

It starts when you hear shouting from a block down.

“Here they come!”

“Bunch of idiots this time.”

“What do you mean this time?”

Rough raiders this early? They should know it’s almost time for Dragon’s sweep. Bold.

After you hear the telltale yells, clanks, and bangs, your section of the street braces for impact.

And it swoops in like a whirlwind, ruffians tearing through, pillaging and stealing and swiping goods into thick woven baskets.

Baskets? The usual suspects always carry leather bags. You assume because of their sturdiness and inconspicuous nature, but what do you really know.

Here it goes again.

As your fruit is taken right from your cart, you sink to your toes, mourning the regular loss of your menu.

No use fighting. Like every other time, you all let it happen because there’s no point in trying to protect anything that isn’t valuable. Perishables and small homemade goods aren’t worth getting gutted over. Truly, the worst losses you suffer are when—

Your cart shifts violently before thieves topple it over, cracking one of your wheels and splitting the wooden boards in three places.

Springing to your feet, you douse the perpetrators in anger, “What the hell!”

“Oh, this was yours?” Someone chides while his cronies run past. “Thanks for the oranges, love!”

“They’re tangerines!” you correct at his retreating back, kicking your cart before yelping at your bad decision. “Damn it…”

Back to your knees you go. Head drooping, arms encircling, and disappointment pooling around like a shadow.

More shouts and feet in the road rampage through. Then it gets quieter. And quieter.

Then it’s done.

After silence swells in the wake of chaos, groans start making their way down the street.

“What’d they get from you this time,” you ask your neighbor, a charming old man selling anything from bowls to wide, round frying pans.

Looking over his little wreckage, he blinks hard. “They got my woks. Nothing as bad as yours. You okay?”

Walking over to help clean his mess up first, you bend down with a sigh, “I’ll be alright. But it still sucks.. My poor tangerines..”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not much to do about it now,” you resign, all your energy taken from you, too.

A little bit of time passes as you complete your usual round of help, though this raid was worse than others. As they all give their thanks, you keep thinking about how to make the whole situation better. Moreso for them than you because you’ve always been one of the least vulnerable ones on the block.

“You should find another place to sell, dear.”

In disagreement, you slip into a saddened smile. “I can’t leave you guys,” you explain to the lady you’re holding pails for. “Who will help clean everything up?”

“Don’t underestimate your elders now.”

“Fair,” you respond through a chuckle, handing her one of the metal buckets. “If only better protection was an option around here.”

“You know the rules,” another shop owner drones through lingering spices, “Dragon won’t protect us if it isn’t in their own interests.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. Every single raid that hasn’t coincided with a gang sweep goes overlooked. Even the city police don't bother coming down your street anymore, which is another issue in itself.

If only Tiger or Crane had been the high-powers in place instead.

At least they seem to be more fair.

After you finish helping, you finally venture back to your own cart, realizing that the trek is a lot further than you thought.

Did you really walk so far this time? The damage was dealt for much more than a block at this point.

Not like you need to sprint back, though. What’s left to steal? Everything you got swept into those woven containers.

Still so odd…

But not as odd as the sight that greets you on your return.

Because instead of seeing your wreckage of a cart tilted and abysmal, it’s upright and being mended.

By none other than your favorite set of hands.

What the hell? What’s he doing here? You quite literally have nothing to give so there’s no reason for him to spare a second at your broken stand.

Fast-walking, you hastily try to halt his help, “Oh, shit, you don’t have to—”

“Course I don’t.”

That shuts you up. In your split second of silence, you note with agony that his hair is messily tied in a minted bun. Are his sleeves bunched at his biceps, too? Great. What were you even telling him again?

Ah, yes. You were telling this mystery of a man that he doesn’t have to literally put your stand back together. “Seriously, I got it.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

“But it’s my cart, I don’t need your—”

With one look over his shoulder, your mouth snaps shut. And suddenly can’t move to argue again.

What the hell is up with today?

Forget all that. What’s he doing? At least you’re familiar with all the shop owners and vendors on your block, though you can’t say you wouldn’t do the same thing for someone you don’t know. But this guy has always been so standoffish and barely approachable. So how is he lending both hands to help you right now?

Whatever. If he’s gonna be as stubborn as this heat, you can be, too.

Scanning the area for scattered tools, you find a sun-warmed hammer and get to work, fixing one end of the cart while he works on the other. When you feel his gaze on your working shoulder, it takes massive strength to ignore him—even if you wanna know what his issue is and why he smells really, really good this afternoon.

Looks like you need more nails for this board to fit. When your eyes find a couple on the ground, you clinch a second piece between your teeth while hammering in the first.

Sounds stop at your side, but you wait until you pluck the metal nail from your mouth and stamp it in to look over.

Oh. He’s eyeing the hammer. Not you. Obviously.

You wordlessly hand it over, arm slicked with exertion. Because after the day you’ve had, you don’t feel like everything needs a spoken sentence attached.

It takes the guy a bit to take it from you, but when he does, he holds your stare. “Thanks.”

You simply nod, eyes sticking to him as he works on the tattier side wait it looks almost new. Better than it has in a very long time. Did he really get that much done in the time you were gone? There’s been great care taken during his repair if that’s the case.

Hmm. You finally learn something about your favorite customer. Maybe he’s just been a mechanic or carpenter this whole time?

Contemplative, you get up on sore legs to walk to your cooler—something thankfully missed by the rough raiders. Digging through the clinkage, you retrieve a local beer you recently procured from the restaurant across the street.

It’s not much. Absolute bottom shelf. But it’s all you got other than a few pieces of oni-coin, so he’s gonna have to deal with it.

When you offer the glass, your regular eyes it for a moment. More than enough time for you to get a good look at his striking floral top.

Well. Mechanic and carpenter are out of the question because that one piece of clothing looks more expensive than your entire apartment building.

Who even is this guy? Now you feel destitute handing him something so cheap.

Just when you think he’s gonna refuse, he takes the beer and smoothly shucks it open, suddenly making you wonder how a bracelet can do that and why it was so attractive.

God. You need to walk straight to the nearest inlet stream and dunk your head right in.

“Thank you,” you whisper, gulping at his full swigs. “You really didn’t have to do all this.”

“Got some time to kill,” he shrugs. Standing, the man takes another sip, peering along the street with sunlit eyes. With the bottle near his mouth, he murmurs, “You really need to set up somewhere else, doll. This street’s turning into a hot spot.”

Squinting up at the long lines of clothes and curtains floating in the breeze, you sigh at the building nearest. “I live close,” you sulk. “And this is the easiest place to get to.”

Those are excuses. Just tell him the real reason you won’t venture out and plop yourself somewhere more profitable. Well, maybe not all of the reasons, but the main one.

Leaning back on your cart, you stare at the loose dirt, swiping some with your shoes. “Maybe I’m just used to it at this point.”

He won’t respond. Or he’ll respond in his own way, which is mostly silence.

But a bright strand falls over his face before he hums, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Many people have warned you at this point. It’s basically your stubborn and spiteful nature that’s making you stay in the first place. Why would you move when you chose to be here? Why leave a place you actively choose to call home?

Fighting spirit quelled, you nod right to your stand as you count what’s salvageable. “I know, but I like it here.” When he lifts an unbelieving brow, you look away. “It’s true. But trust me, if there was a way to just make it all stop, I’d take it.”

He takes another swig, both of you looking into the street and watching things slowly get back to normal pace. Adults and kids alike are back to wandering around, buying what’s left and offering condolences.

“I’m not fixing another cart,” your patron turned repairman grunts, motioning to your wheel as he steps back. “So don’t fuck this one up.”

Huh? It wasn’t your fault! All the accidents and chaos that blow through aren’t something you can control oh he’s grinning. Why is he grinning? Why do you feel hot all over?

His teeth shine in daylight. “I’m messing with you.”

Ah.

This version of him is not good for you at all.

When he starts to walk away, you blurt out a quick, “Wait!”

Shit! Why did you do that? What are you possibly supposed to say right now? All you wanted was to see him a little longer… And while staring at his backside would be more than enough, you kinda wanted to actually talk.

What do you do? He stopped; he’s waiting.

And he looks impatient as hell.

Snapping into action, you round your cart and trot over, offering your name as if you didn’t just give up where you lived.

Then—without thinking—you ask for his with the most curious, innocent, “What’s yours?”

Silence has never been so booming.

In the dusty swirls of your street, you wait with a back that’s getting sweatier and colder with each passing second.

Was that not okay to ask? Did you fuck up with a single question?

Perfect. You just blew your one good thing about being out here. Wincing, you crush your words so hard you think your teeth will break into dust, drifting off into the very breeze wafting his striking locks.

After a condescending puff, he only smirks.

Then he takes one step. And another. And another.

The air around you melts, weighing on your shoulders while lighting them aflame all at once. It’s a feeling you can’t describe to anyone else, because they would just need to stand next to this man to believe it.

Checking to see if the street is clear, your best customer leans over. Slowly. Purposefully. “Yoongi,” he offers with a voice so handsome you’ll think about it for days. “But don’t fucking tell anyone.”

Oh.

Why did… you kinda like that?

Blinking, you swallow. “I won’t.”

This is when he’s supposed to just leave. He’d walk away, bag swinging with his strides. But ever keeping you on your sore toes, the man just chuckles low before rasping out the most devilish sentence in existence,

“Always took you for a good girl.”

Then he backs away, turning on his heel and leaving you a statue in the street.

Yoongi.

For a hardened soul, his name is so…

Tender.

For the next sixty days, you don’t get ransacked once.

But there’s also been no sight of Yoongi.

As the weeks trudge by, you can’t decide which outcome is worse.

The skies are magnificent today. But obviously at a molten price.

“Thank you for trying,” you say to a lovely wares owner before venturing back out into simmering streets. Exhaling, you wipe sweat from your brow, squinting before choosing to walk left or right.

Left seems promising.

You’ve been searching for hours now, perusing through shops, checking out vendors both nice and catty. But after a whole day’s search, you still haven’t found what you’re looking for.

It’s nothing urgent or pressing. But you would at least like to be prepared.

Since your initial mission is a bust, hopefully your next one makes up for it before you melt right into gravel and dirt.

Find a meal.

Walking along the busy roads, you pass a few options and keep them in mind, making sure to greet a fellow tangerine cart vendor with a smile. Hopefully they do well today.

A couple steps further, a giant cooler catches your eye. Seafood of all types lie inside along cubes of ice, and you weigh the pros and cons of smelling like fish just to have a cool head.

But before you can make any choices, the smell of spices and hearty soup softly pull your feet inside the restaurant nearby.

What’s here? Noodles? You’re always down for that. Apparently even in scorching weather.

After ordering, you take your seat at a random middle table in a chair facing the entrance.

Always facing the entrance.

Damn. You really need to accomplish what you set out to do. But sunset is fast approaching these days, and you aren’t anywhere close to home. All you have time for now is eating and heading out.

The service here is quick, at least. You’re already thanking the owner for sliding a bowl in front of your sweaty form.

With a head full of thoughts, you stare into nothing, stirring your noodles and waiting for the heat to die down.

Maybe you should’ve just walked a shorter distance and checked the shops you originally wanted to browse. If things went to plan, you could’ve been back by now, freshly showered and curling up on a worn down bed.

But instead, your feet are sore, your head is anything but washed, and you have to trek home empty-handed—on the first day off you’ve had in months.

Defeated, you sigh, going back to your bowl and watching sliced vegetables swirl in aromatic broth.

At least the food in this area seems good. And the fading decor really adds to the…

Ambiance.

Wait.

Dragons. A lot of them.

You can’t pull your eyes away from the crew walking in, bringing heat from the sweltering sun in their eyes and donning their telltale, striking teal.

But you can only kid yourself for so long because the one that truly has your gaze tethered is the man in front. The one you haven’t seen in weeks. The one looking right back at you with a visage so shadowed you feel like moving tables to let him pass.

…Yoongi?

His jacket. The colors.

He’s in Dragon?

Suddenly his hair makes terrifying sense.

As his guys stalk through, you swallow hard, not expecting to see him and having no earthly idea what to do with this harrowing information. There are so many thoughts overlapping each other that they all amalgamate into one huge batch of sludge.

Aren’t you smack dab in Crane territory? There’ve been white suits peppering the streets everywhere.

So what the hell is Dragon doing here?

From the slight confusion pinching his forehead, you know Yoongi didn’t expect to see you, either. Which makes it even weirder when he slowly takes your chopsticks right from your fingers.

Hold on, what—

“What are you—”

A lone, long digit over lips is the only response you get, silencing you immediately before you whip your head around to watch him rush past.

All of them waste no time tearing up the stairs, a myriad of blues blending with gritty paint and smoke.

And just like that, your reunion is over.

Home. You need to go home. Leave, leave, leave, because something is bound to be going down upstai—

A thud faintly shoots out into the staircase, and you spin around again in your chair, eyes snapping to the ceiling.

Shit.

Even though you’re on high alert, you realize with a quick sweep that no one else is noticing. Or moving. Or even paying attention to anything else but their own company.

Does no one else care about the commotion? Do hits happen in this area that often?

Mind running, you can’t decide what to do. Because even though Yoongi’s guys have plenty of weapons, he clearly had nothing since he needed to borrow your damn eating utensils.

Another crash rains dust on conversations around your shoulders, causing you to look up one last time.

Go home, go home, go home. In what universe would Yoongi himself ever need your help here?

With one more look at your noodles, you curl your lips before biting a side.

Already yelling at yourself for choosing to book it towards the back staircase.

Shit shit shit this is so stupid. This is probably the worst decision you’re gonna make in your life.

But your gut is churning thinking about Yoongi. Even a seasoned swordsman needs expertise to wield mere chopsticks and win.

Fuck, if you succeeded in your search today, you probably could’ve been a little more useful.

Swiping your own set of red from a nearby cup, you hightail it up, slowing as you round a corner and immediately hear multiple clangs and scuffles beyond the last turn.

Stop. You can go back. You can still turn around and go home.

An inhale.

Your feet propel you up and into a dark hall. As you slowly slide along the wall, your gut churns and churns. At a bang, you crouch with a skipped beat of your heart.

This is really, really dumb. But you can’t stop yourself and you have no clue why.

Nothing happens around you. So you keep going. With each careful slide of your foot, you get closer and closer to the noise.

Approaching the corner, you very slowly stick your head out for a peek.

And it’s pure commotion. Pure chaos. Holy shit, what is going on?

Fuck, there’s already a body lying limp on the floor meters away—

Your chopsticks. You wanna hurl.

But a man flies out of a room ahead before he grips and wrestles with another, and you reel yourself back to avoid being seen by either one.

Where is Yoongi? Is he okay? Did he leave already?

You give one more peek, scanning the long raucous corridor as swift as you can to see any sign of.. Mint.

He’s still here. How’s he just walking so nonchalant as his crew fucks shit up? Crap, he just went into a room and out of sight.

“Where’d they go?”

“Upstairs!”

Fuck, that was in the restaurant! Get up get up you have no choice but to hide now.

With pounding steps, you rush forward and book it, entering a large room to dive behind some steel shelving and large, woven baskets right as more Dragons come in behind with fists clenched.

Breathe. Steady. Calm the fuck down.

The grunts rush to the hallway to join the fray, and you wait in the now pungent solitude of your room. With only a still body to accompany you.

What do you do? What even can you do?

Just as nerves grip your stomach like a vice, Yoongi strides into the open area, heading right for the exit and not even sparing his kill a glance.

Go. Go now. Why can’t you move? Why aren’t your hands letting go of your cold confinement? It smells like death and blood and you need to leave with the only person you know—or don’t—so why can’t your feet just fucking—

Someone else slithers into the room. A man in brown with a knife. A knife, a knife, a knife he’s getting faster and Yoongi doesn’t hear him the guy is too quiet fuck! “Yoongi!”

It all happens before your brain can paint the bloody picture. Shooting out from your hiding spot, you race towards the assassin, slamming into their lanky build just in time.

Both of you topple to the ground, your target roaring in pain and twisting like hell to fight back fuck you didn’t get him how you needed to he’s got you—

Pain erupts in your hip as you’re grabbed, the room spinning as you’re thrown to the side and your ear hitting concrete right before chopsticks ping down. Thinking quick, you knee the guy as hard as you can, scrambling to finish the job because if you don’t, you’re gone gone gone.

“Bitch!” Your opponent clutches your shirt right as you reach for the nearest red pair, seizing your throat right as you grip and swing them around to stab the other side of his neck with a yell.

Luckiest timing of your life.

“Hng!” Fuck, he’s still holding down hard and choking, choking, squeezing. “Fuck you!”

Fight back. Keep the weapon inside he’s too strong finish him finish him.

Darkness. Ink drops in water. Your vision taints as your grip loosens, and you can only hope that Yoongi got away safe. He had to. At least you… Were able to do…

This one thing…

…

Oxygen and life rush back into your lungs, color burning through your esophagus as you gasp for sweet sweet air. Right as you come to, all you witness is the heavy heel of a boot twisting the forearm latched onto you.

And when the shoe leaves your vision. Lifeless eyes stare back.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck that was close. Oh god. You actually did it. Oh fuck.

Coughing, you rush up as you get tugged and pulled right against chains and embroidery, your ears ringing with a gravelly command and glass breaking in the nearby corridor,

“Don’t say my fuckin’ name so loud.”

“Excuse me?”

Yoongi roughly lets you go before pinning you with pure anger. Not to say thank you. Not to tell you any words of gratitude at all. The only other thing he finds the need to say is simply,

“You shouldn’t be up here.”

What the fuck. You just murdered someone for him and this is all you get? Eyes welling, you feel your body slick and sticky with crimson when you turn, coughing and spitting out regret before you wheeze, wheeze, wheeze, “That’s—that’s all you have to say?”

Dread swirls around your stomach like poison.

But the sternness from before completely vanishes as Yoongi lifts your chin. His eyes scan your throat and chest, and you rip your head away from his touch because he is not excused just yet.

“It’s not mine,” you snap, knowing exactly what he’s looking for and what you must look like to him. Dirty. Gross. Certainly a far image from the girl selling tangerines.

But your face is gently held again, and somehow this softer turn carries more strength to swivel you forward.

Why is Yoongi still looking? Now he’s holding your gaze as if he’s never seen you before. What’s that about? You’re still the same, the same, the same.

…Are you?

More crashes and shots are heard down the hall, and Yoongi snaps his head up in an instant.

God, you smell. You reek. Your nose is tainted and your hands even more so. There’s no way he’s gonna have anything to do with you now.

But you get the shock of the century when the man commands you to come along. “Let’s go.”

Absolutely not. This is all you got in you for a lifetime. “What? No, no, no. No way, I’m going home.”

“And they’ll follow you the whole way back.”

“I—I didn’t mean to—”

Shots ring out before grunts barrel out into the short hallway. All of them piling out from crevasses and hidden passages.

You give one more look at the two men now crumpled on the ground, bile rising up and threatening to spill.

“Tough shit, princess. You did, now live with it.”

Live with it. How poetic.

You were protecting him. You did what you had to do. But you have blood on your hands again and now Yoongi will see you as something else besides a fucking street vendor.

“Are you coming or not?”

You’re gonna puke your guts out.

With a stilted cry, you bend to snatch your weapons up yet again—gagging at the squelches and much deeper red—before following Yoongi’s long steps.

Your hands. They’re shaking so bad you can’t even pocket the chopsticks properly. But you finally get them down, crushing your palms and squeezing just to stop them from rattling.

When you wait behind Yoongi checking the corner, you turn around to make sure you aren’t being followed. And seeing the hallway still a moving mass of broken glass and hard swings, you think you’re safe.

The stairs feel so different on the way down. Is that because you feel completely changed? There’s no coming back from this. Another side of you died right alongside those two people upstairs.

No time to think about that. You have to follow his lead. And he’s slowing down why is he slowing down?

Oh. Normal. Be normal to not garner suspicion. You have to do the same.

Wait. You can’t go down there with a shirt full of stained evidence! Grabbing him and pulling back, you whisper, “Yoongi—”

His growl is so fierce your head spins, “What the fuck did I say about my n—”

“My clothes,” you panic. “I can’t.”

Yoongi gives you a quick look before gripping the duffle strap. Brows lowered, he grits out while dumping it, “Lose the shirt.”

“What?”

“Do it.”

“Where’d he go?”

“It’s gone!”

Your heads snap up before you lock eyes. And he doesn’t need to say anything to show you what he’s thinking behind those minted bangs.

As you hastily strip, your brain works in weird ways. Instead of processing how you very much need to hurry the fuck up, you lament the bra of choice today. And how sweaty you look. Because of course those are your thoughts of choice right now.

Something’s dumped on you before your shirt hits the ground, and you think about its warmth before you realize exactly what’s on your shoulders. “You sure?”

He’s already heading down. Oh god. You’re really putting this on shit shit shit.

You’re quick to slip into the material before checking for your chopsticks, rushing down the rest of the stairs to meet him. Nerves firing on all cylinders, you follow Yoongi out of the restaurant with a single, disturbing thought.

This is going too well.

But you’re passing tables, you’re walking by the fish display, don’t fucking sob you’re out in the street now.

Relax. You’re walking. His white tee is flawless and people have no clue you left a bloody shirt on a stairwell. Don’t fucking cry.

But suddenly.

Shouting erupts behind you both, just as a cop car rolls past the restaurant only to get surrounded.

And with one look back, your brain freezes. Right before Yoongi sounds a little too delighted to say something so foreboding,

“Looks like you’re in it now.”

Adrenaline spikes as you burst into motion. Hot summer air stings your lungs as legs propel you forward, with nothing in sight except for your partner in high crime.

Yoongi’s right.

You’re in it now.

And just like the delinquents that you despise, the two of you both kick up dust on the run.

You’re really doing this.

Holy shit, you’re really doing this and there’s no waking up, no jolting awake, no pinching yourself to know that it’s all a dream. The only thing pinching is your sides, fresh stings of karma with each heavy footstep through crowded streets, buildings, levels, wherever the fuck you go.

At least Yoongi is commanding as he leads you through the city—clearly from a heap of experience. Though rattled, you follow him with more adrenaline than questions. Because running is all you know. Run, run, run, escaping is your only objective and you cannot let up even once.

Your feet pelt down a staircase before you leap onto a disposal bin, impact denting as you follow Yoongi’s long strides across the colorful tops. Shouts and metal pings echo behind you as your chasers catch up, and you grit your teeth so hard they rattle as you jump to alley ground. “Fuck!”

Searing, searing pain rushes through your legs as you twist and wind through busy corridors, squeezing into the gaps Yoongi finds as he barrels in front.

“Get back here!”

“You fuckers!”

Who’s following you? Are they even Crane? You don’t see a shred of white on their clothes at all so are they working for some random guy Yoongi stole from?

When you watch him turn at the shouting, all thoughts vanish as your gut churns.

He’s grinning.

You just killed someone for him. And he probably has more blood on his hands than you can imagine.

And he’s… enjoying this?

You feel sick, mind blazing with a million red warning signs. How could you ever have had feelings for h—

You bounce off a passerby as you run, grunting at the sudden pain in your shoulder when another person rams into your back and topples you over, dirt scraping into your palms and knees.

Shit shit shit it’s so dusty on the ground and all you see are traveling shoes where are you? Where is he did he leave did he even see you fall? It’s too condensed here there’s no way he’s not taking the next chance to disappear.

Forget all of that, they’re coming. The chasers are coming and you see them see you down get up get up get up what the fuck get up now.

Ripping out a groan, you rush to your feet as soon as someone swoops in, bashing someone right behind you with someone’s crate of fruit.

Yoongi? He waited for you?

“Go!”

Both of you hightail it with you now in the lead, and your eyes buzz as you slip through holes in the crowd. Left, left, right, around, left again, between.

An intersection ahead. Yes. Lose everyone in the vehicle traffic or hitch a ride with a stranger. Fascinating how the survival tactics that spawn from your block develop in real time on the run.

Almost there, almost there, almost there—fuck!

Whiffing in front of your nose, a metal weapon smacks the ground at your toes.

Flailing, you dodge the next swing, ducking before you see a black duffle smack your assailant in the face.

Keep going. Finish him and get away. As Yoongi shifts left, you lunge forward, sending a swift punch to the guy’s ribs that hurt like hell goddamn oh fuck someone brought a knife!

“Yoongi!” Just as the surrounding civilians yell and clear out, you rush toward his aid before you’re tackled, air whooshing out of your lungs as your back pummels into gravel. Fuck fuck fuck this masked woman also has a dagger. A thick one. Don’t let her win don’t let her win hold on for dear fucking life.

Did you think you’d find yourself in a grudge match to keep metal from sinking into your chest today? No. Ever? Also no.

Your arms are shaking. Shots ring out. Sweat is your enemy. The street is in uproar. Where’s Yoongi did he hear you? Fuck, the metal tip is pricking you now this is—

Mercifully, your attacker yelps as something slams into her side, dark brown clothes crumpling before you’re hoisted upward and dragged back into the crowd.

“Let me go or I’ll kick your ass—”

“You good?”

Oh, it’s Yoongi. Again. Okay. Eyes swirling, you lock onto the gun held flush in his other hand before you nod. “I—I think so—”

“Then keep up.”

Winding between people, you’re only focused on getting away. But when you catch glimpses of him, he’s back to his glint. He’s exhilarated.

If only you were both doing anything else. If only you weren’t so queasy and guilty and loathing of your own self.

Right as you finally burst into bustling traffic, Yoongi boldly stops a taxi at its hood, motioning you to follow him inside.

Shocked but head reeling, you open the door closest to your sweaty legs and slide in.

And before you can even greet the shouting driver, Yoongi pulls you to his side and rushes something out in your ear,

“Kiss me.”

“I said get out!”

“What?”

“Come here.”

You’ve kissed before. Not many times, but enough to know that this man knows what the fuck he’s doing because you feel like your soul just abandoned you to exist in this car forever. You don’t know why this is happening or where this came from, but his lips feel as soft as his name and as deadly as the gun he’s pulling on your driver—

“Han Station,” he drawls, halting time and space. “Or your papers are burned by morning.”

Oh.

You were just… Oh.

Lips puffed and head swirling, you sit frozen in your spot, marinating in the realization that the best kiss of your life was a mere distraction. And as you watch Yoongi keep his aim straight, you assume he probably didn’t even think much of it, either.

“…I thought you looked familiar,” the driver slowly grits, hands gripping his wheel before he shakes his head. “You’re a little far from home.”

You think that’s all he’s gonna say. But his eyes are sharp in the rear view mirror, knowing a gun is pointed straight at his dome. “Aren’t you.”

What is he getting at you need to leave fast—

“Agust.”

…Huh?

Agust?

This is the first time you feel a heartbeat against your arm, and you hold a breath as Yoongi tightens his fingers on the gun.

When he doesn’t reply, the car fills to the brim with tension, and you feel crushed by its liquid weight.

Don’t you have to go? Aren’t you in a chase? Are you getting a little too hot?

When you go to slide to your own side of the car for some space, the hand around your shoulder squeezes.

And you’re more confused, exhausted, and thrown off than ever.

“Han Station,” is all Yoongi—Agust?—repeats, voice ice. “Now.”

To which the taxi driver stares, standing his ground until he breaks eye contact first to obey.

“Fuckin’ Dragons and their useless whores.”

Oh, fuck that.

Before you can lunge forward to outright strangle the man, Yoongi does something that has your eyes magnifying into saucers and hands shooting up to your mouth.

He fires the gun straight at the man’s thigh, yelps leaving both the driver's throat and yours holy fuck!

“You bastard—”

“You’ll live. Drive.”

“Fucking—fuck!”

The car shifts through traffic, swerving left and right and cutting off slower vehicles. When force smushes you closer into Yoongi’s side, you can’t help but notice how fit he is, and how calm he’s being despite the whole chase. Despite that spike in adrenaline. Despite blowing a hole in a stranger’s leg for six words.

He also feels really, really good against your side, but you can’t let that matter anytime soon. There’s absolutely no way you can let this dangerous man in, especially after this entire nightmare of a day.

So you swallow, trying to compartmentalize because you’ll reach insanity if you don’t.

Does anyone out there know you took a life minutes ago? Or hours ago? You just kissed a criminal five and a half minutes ago. Would they care about that, too?

The window is suddenly much more interesting than any of your wandering, slingshot thoughts.

Wait. It’s very pretty in this area, and you finally can tell some semblance of where you are. Because you only know of one part of the city that looks like this, and it’s deep in Crane territory.

Did you both really make it this far?

Carefully tended to, it’s a lot greener on the sidewalks, and more open on the roads. And it’s on one of these roads that you finally notice the sunset, gold accents shining on sleek street signs and the tops of buildings that seem much more at rest than you do.

Rest. Sleep. Home.

With the luck you’re having, it would be a miracle and a half to reach even one of the three.

Did you get followed? You don’t know how much longer you can run, so you really fucking hope not.

“Almost there,” Yoongi whispers, voice scratching your ear in the worst and best ways. “When we get out, move your ass.”

When you watch the wary, heavy breathing driver in his rear view mirror, you bite out, “I know how to get out of a car, thanks.”

“Just listen to me.”

“Why?”

“Do you trust me?”

“No.”

That came out quicker than you could stop it. But Yoongi only lets silence come between you before he squeezes your shoulder. When he speaks, you can hear how carved out his smirk is without even seeing it,

“Good girl.”

And you spoke the truth. It wouldn’t have come out so fast if it weren’t. But you know to at least follow his advice here because he’s kept you alive thus far. He didn’t need to drag you out and protect you the whole way, so it’s not like he would steer you wrong here. Right?

Right?

“Here,” Yoongi orders before the car slows to a stop.

That wasn’t so bad. You can get out normally now so why did Yoongi say—

Right as your foot hits ground, the taxi peels out, forcing you to throw yourself out of the side before the rest of your body leaves with it.

Fucking hell that hurt what the fuck was that for?

Dirt and dust coats your tongue before you do anything to spit it out. Saliva rushes from your glands as you cough and hack, all while feeling every muscle group in your body begging to not stand up.

But you feel rough, commanding hands on your arms. “You good?”

“Yeah—”

“Then get up. Get up.”

Straining and wincing like hell, you follow Yoongi’s lead yet again. Because you hear cars rolling up with bad intentions and that means you have to sprint again.

What the fuck did Yoongi steal? And how the hell are these guys still on your tail? Their resources have got to be as good as Crane’s and yet, they don’t feel the same at all.

You’re hobbling, but you’re going. You’re rushing. You’re going to get through this alive.

Instead of heading into the underground, you find yourself ascending a flight of steps. Rumbles and rattles hit your ears as you realize exactly what kind of station this is—one you haven’t seen anywhere in your district.

Han Station is a floating railway?

Holy shit, where are you?

Yoongi skids around a corner before you plant hard to stop yourself, only to see him clash with someone before something connects right with your stomach, and you crumple before you feel a solid hit to your head.

Oh.

The world spins and moves as you hear vibrations, slowed sounds that could be shouts. Gunshots? Or maybe songs? You don’t truly know but your head is aching—

Your arm rushes up to block something before your body follows, and you scream before gripping whatever you can and flipping a whole body forward.

Reality crashes back into your ears as you snap out of your head.

You haven’t had to do that maneuver in forever. Was muscle memory more than enough?

“Come on!”

Go. Go, follow him, both of you need to get to the rail shit it’s leaving!

The blaring reverberates through the air, pinging off metal and wheels screeching on the track lines as you bolt for the open doors.

Mid-stride, Yoongi swings to look at the people barreling up the stairs. “One more time: do you trust me?”

“No!”

“Good”—his hands grip your waist—“Jump!”

Head empty, you leap onto the railcar right as it starts to pick up speed, and you watch in horror as Yoongi empties his clip behind him until he can’t anymore.

“Yoo—” Fuck, what was his name? He seems to not prefer the one you call him and that has to be for good reason. What was it?

You’re leaving. He’s gritting his teeth while hitting the bottom of his gun but he needs to get up! What was his fucking name!

“Agust!”

Yoongi finally whips his head around, dashing to the end of the train and straining to carry the duffle.

He needs to launch it or leave it behind. There’s no way he’s not being weighed down so hard. “Here!” you yell, knowing that look is only reserved for people he doesn’t want to trust. It’s normal. But it still stings. “Hurry up!”

After one more second, he swings it around and flings, leaping onto the side handrail after you get blasted by the bag holy fuck that hurt.

He was running with this the whole time? No wonder his shoulders are so cut this is heavy.

Straining, you peek out into the wind, seeing Yoongi holding on and scooting along thin steprails towards your awaiting hands.

Shit, this is dangerous. Buildings and the city below fly by, and a parallel train whooshes and roars past as you finally tug him inside with shaky wheezes.

Just like that.

You made it out.

What the fuck. You did it. No one else was able to get onto the train. You’re safe for now.

Finally, finally, finally able to breathe.

But goddamn, you both stand out like blood on a blank page.

As you struggle to fully stand, you notice everyone else on the train—well-kept, carrying themselves in sleek linens and lush outfits, hair done beautifully and to perfection.

Which makes it unsurprising that plenty of them regard the pair of you with suspicion and morbid curiosity. While intrigue covers the one with an unfairly handsome face, zings of jealousy and judgment fire your way.

You feel so out of place. You are so out of place. But that doesn’t give anyone the right to look at you like filth. The words from the taxi driver pierce your brain again, and you feel rage and pain bubble up to your tongue,

“Anyone got something they wanna sa—”

But Yoongi does something that has your brain chemistry altering because he casually bends a knee in front of you while holding the top rail, forcing you back into the side of the train car and only seeing his jewelry.

When your eyes snap to his, he regards you before peering outside. “Stop,” he mutters. “You're causing a scene.”

“Me?” Oh, he has some nerve. “What did I do, you’re the one—”

“Quiet.”

Ridiculous. Huffing, you let disagreement tug your lips while joining him in watching the world go by.

Realizing with a pang that you are probably never getting back home. You’re never gonna see your favorite neighbor with his woks and caterpillar eyebrows. All the produce you were planning to sell will only succumb to mold and time.

Your tangerines…

When a tear falls, it glints in your reflection before quickly being swiped away.

No. Don’t do any of that here where people can see—where he can see. No one will know what the hell you just went through today. Be normal, strong, normal.

The ride lasts a little longer, with people coming and going during each stop. When there are seats open, neither you nor Yoongi move to take them. The two of you stay glued where you stand.

Silent, together, and covered in hidden blood.

The next stop seems to be in a quieter sector of the city. All around you are buildings you’ve never seen before stretching miles into the sky, and the streets are so neatly paved you’re convinced they’re fake.

“This is us,” Yoongi whispers, hand guiding your hip to move toward the doors.

Skin scorching under his touch, you can only nod.

Where are you now? Where are you getting off?

You both exit the train with a few others, and you watch with heightened curiosity as they carry satchels and wear shoes that look horribly uncomfortable. As you move down the steps, you keep craning your neck to take everything in, and more questions fill your head than answers.

But the truth remains even as you and Yoongi stop in front of your destination.

You cannot run anymore. Even if more of whoever those guys were showed up, you may just choose to sit down instead of take another stride. Besides, your body is still running a thousand steps even though you haven’t moved since getting on the train anyway. After today, the chase may never stop.

“We’ll stay here.”

We? Stay?

“Here? This place is…” You keep peering up and up, the top of the building so high your neck hurts. It’s so foreign and magical your only adjective is a quiet, “Nice.”

At your side, Yoongi seems annoyed when he asks, “Expect something different?”

“Yeah, like… I dunno, a secret lair or something.”

Air whooshes from his nostrils, but there’s a stark absence of a smile. Looking up at the building, too, he explains something that you’ve never heard of before,

“We’re in a grey zone. No one will follow us here.”

Right. Because that somehow makes sense to regular civilians like you. Because you are one, are one, are one. “Allegedly,” you scoff, not knowing what to believe anymore.

Yoongi pauses before heading up, and his agreement makes you look. “Allegedly.”

Mm.

After taking the tiny steps to the entrance, you wonder what he must be thinking bringing your haphazard look in tow.

Because he could’ve left you behind at any point in time. But he didn’t. What does that mean? Why is he keeping you alive and at his side?

While you’re taking in the opulent and vast lobby, Yoongi guides you toward the front desk, shifting the duffle on his shoulder.

This place is gorgeous. Nothing like you’ve ever seen. How were they able to install a waterfall in a building? What kind of money does this so-called grey zone have?

Yoongi nods toward the concierge, who quickly nods back and scurries away and into a room.

If you weren’t so tired, you could probably make something of that exchange. But you are very much exhausted so frankly, you don’t give a shit right now.

Although. You do give a shit about the fingers suddenly interlacing with your own. As your hand is held, you shoot your best client a look so potent he stares back. “What now,” you snip, question low and dripping with distrust.

Unfazed, Yoongi slowly pulls you into his side, a steady hand coming up to wrap around your tired hips. So nonchalant, so lax, so confusing as he murmurs,

“Just wanted to.”

Your heart trips into the next beat.

On sore legs, you wait until the concierge comes back with a key, eyes swiping over you as if they finally noticed your existence. Which seems to perplex them as they hand over the metal device.

And Yoongi just takes it, not a word said before he directs you across the lobby to what look like elevators.

Even these look fancy as fuck. Wherever you are and whatever this place is, you feel even more out of place than on that judgy train.

A hotel worker bows before he motions to the opening doors. “Nice to see you again,” he murmurs to the ground, seemingly expecting the same non-response given to the front desk. “Would you like the usual, Mister—”

“No,” Yoongi clips him off. “Not this time.”

“Understood.”

Brows pinched, you’re starting to get a weird feeling.

How does everyone know Yoongi so well here? He said this was a grey zone, which you’d think would be akin to a neutral or non-threatening one. So why does it feel like he’s got this area on lock? Who exactly are you getting into an elevator with?

…Who exactly did you save?

Yoongi was right when he said you’re in it now. But faced with more questions surrounding him than anything or anyone else, you’re starting to wonder what pit of hell you dropped yourself into.

Especially after catching the look of utter panic from the serviceman.

Right before sliding doors shut the world out.

—

⟶ what do we feel! | 🥢 join the taglist 🥢 | masterlist

a/n: thank you all for being so patient as i work through this! it was originally supposed to be a oneshot, but i like, need characters to get to know and learn about one another before heading into spice lmao. I NEED PLOT OK. THERE WILL BE LOTS OF SMUT I PROMISE DSHFKDSF we just gotta get through the slow burn first >:)) a/n 2: if there's something you liked about this or a line/scene/whatever thing you enjoyed, feel free to let me know! feedback is never expected, but always appreciated. if the interest level is high, that adds motivation like no other. thank you all for reading! ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist ⇥ minted masterlist

#NEW YOONGI LETS GOOO #bts fic #bts imagines #bts reactions #yoongi fic #yoongi x you #yoongi x reader #yoongi angst #yoongi fluff #yoongi smut #bts smut #bts fanfic #*latest #ryenwrites #minted #*ryenfictalk #tw: violence #tw: blood #tw: murder

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verdantchan · 4 months ago

Text

Always You

Pairing: Best friend! Bangchan x Afab! Reader

Summary: It’s hard to enjoy a party when your best friend who you’ve been in love with for years turns up with his girlfriend…

Warnings: MDNI, dom!chan, sub!reader, possessive!chan, unprotected sex (don’t be like them) dirty talk, cum eating, multiple orgasms (f!rec) fingering (f!rec) mentions of mastubation, spitting (chan spits on it yk..) tummy bulge, creampie

Wc: 2.7k

a/n: did I write and edit it this in one sitting? yes I did,,, is this also my return to writing fics after 5 years bc I’m so attracted to chan idk what to do?? Also yes 🤪

‘‘Lixieee watch my drink, I nearly dropped it’’ You roll your eyes and smile at Felix as he practically jumps on you. His parties were always rowdy, especially when Jisung wormed his way into the planning. Colourful lights strewn around every pillar and doorway, countless bottles and cheesy red cups littering the granite countertops in the dorm kitchen, the air thick with smoke and the sickly sweet scent of liquor.

Part of you loved how committed the boys were to throwing the most stereotypical frat parties, the perfect way to unwind from the stress of uni life. You scan the room for that all too familiar face but find no sign of him, your shoulders dropping slightly, the disappointment in your chest too strong to ignore.

You and Chan had been best friends since you were 12, your parents pushing you together as an unlikely duo. You'd immediately become inseparable,spending every second with each other. People had always questioned your relationship, everyone thought you must be dating if you were so close, but you and Chan were just friends, at least that's what you convinced yourself it had to be.

You first started having feelings for Chan at 18, you were university freshmen starting the next big chapter of your lives together and you couldn't get him out of your head. His deep brown eyes that sparkled when he spoke about the things he loved, his soft curly black hair that you loved ruffling to annoy him and his dimples that became impossibly deep when he smiled. Being around him was both torture and comfort. Three years later and you were still completely in love with someone who views you as his best friend, nothing more. In other words, you're utterly fucked.

‘’Lix, have you seen Chan tonight? I thought he was coming’’ Felix still clinging to you in his tipsy state. His messy blonde hair slightly covering his eyes and freckle-dotted cheeks, a pink blush dusting his skin thanks to the many drinks he’d already knocked back.

‘’Nah not yet, he said he's coming later after his date’’ he slurs his words a little, all giggly and happy, not knowing the ache his words cause you. You hum in response, suddenly feeling less sociable than a few minutes ago.

‘’Ahhhhh speak of the devil’’ Felix laughs and nods toward the doorway, Chan's broad shoulders making it look tiny. His hand interlocked with hers, observing the room and briefly locking eyes with you before looking away.

Chan had been dating Euna for a few months, but it never got easier seeing them together.

They'd met in one of your classes, Euna was sweet, pretty and very popular with both the students and teachers. It hadn’t taken Chan too long to fall for her and spend less and less time with you. He swore nothing had changed between you two but you knew better. It wasn't long after they started dating that Chan began cancelling your plans because ‘Euna planned something’ or he ‘just couldn't make it that day’ You wanted to believe that it would all go back to the way it was soon enough but that day never came, Chan drifting further as time passed.

You missed his smile, the way he would make you laugh, the way he would bring you your favourite food when you were tired or upset. You thought that maybe one day you would be together, that Chan would see you as more than just his best friend. Sometimes it felt like more between you two.

He and Euna weave their way through the crowd, her trailing slightly behind, Chan looking back at her every so often with a smile, the sight of them making you nauseous though you wish it didn't. Chan lets go of her to pull Felix into a hug, Euna eyeing you awkwardly as the two of them catch up. Euna had never been rude to you, never made a snarky comment about you being friends with Chan, but she never really said much around you if you were honest.

‘’Your dress is super pretty’’ you squeak out attempting to break the silence between you two, She offers up a small thank you and a tight smile and turns to Chan as he pulls her into his side, his attention now on the two of you instead of the tipsy blonde Aussie

‘’Hey y/n’’ Chan smiles as he lets go of Euna and pulls you into a quick side hug, letting go as quickly as he’d pulled you in, his soft musky scent filling your senses. The four of you make small talk, Chan's eyes catching your own as Felix rambles to Euna about his current pc build. The air starts to feel suffocating, his glances making you feel trapped. You quickly make an excuse to leave, Chan's smile faltering as you excuse yourself from their conversation and disappear into the crowd of bodies.

It was impossible to think while Chan was standing there, his arms wrapped around Euna unapologetically. The jealousy burning more than the straight tequila sloshing around in your cup, you start to sway to the music begging yourself to forget about him and enjoy your night. You feel a pair of eyes follow your silhouette but you continue to drink and dance, the alcohol making its way through your system and drowning out every thought.

You feel a figure behind you grabbing your hips and swaying with you, turning your head to see the blurred outline of Hyunjin, his hair in his eyes, a pair of red sunglasses perched on his nose. You let yourself melt into him, you'd always found him attractive anyway. You and Hyunjin move together perfectly, his smooth movements guiding your own as he whispers the lyrics to the song in your ear, his plump lips catching your skin slightly. You finally move your eyes to Chan still feeling someone watching you, secretly wishing it was him. You’re met with a sharp glare, his eyes never leaving you and Hyunjin, his jaw locked in annoyance, you roll your eyes at him and turn around to face Hyunjin winding your arms around his slender neck.

You turn back to glance at Chan to find him charging your way, ripping you from your dance partner's embrace and towards the stairwell.

‘’Chan what the fuck are you doing?’’ you yell, trying to wriggle your wrist from his strong grip as he pulls you upstairs and into one of the empty bedrooms.

‘’What the fuck am I doing? What the fuck are YOU doing y/n? Grinding all over Hyunjin like that’’

‘’We are not doing this right now, why does it have anything to do with you, Chan? Why do you even care?’’ venom coating your words, attempting to open the door and leave but being stopped short when he stands in the way, eyes burning into yours. Chan had never been like this with you, what had gotten into him?

‘’What? Are you suddenly into Hyunjin?? We both know he's not right for you y/n’’ his eyebrows knitted in annoyance.

‘’And how would you know what's best for me Chan? We hardly talk anymore!’’ you run your fingers through your hair, easing the tension building up behind your eyes.

‘’Of course we still talk, you know i've been busy’’ he fires back, disregarding how much space really had built up between the two of you.

’Give it up Chan and go back to Euna, what I do with Hyunjin has fuck all to do with you’’ you can't deal with the confusion, why is he acting like he's jealous of you and Hyunjin? Why does it matter to him?

‘’’I’m your best friend y/n of course it has something to do with me, he's not right for you’’

‘’Oh my god get your head out of your ass chan, just like you said, you're my best friend not my boyfriend. You can date but I can't? I'm not gonna wait on you to notice me for the rest of my life’’ You turn your face away from him, your confidence and fire slipping as Chan studies you intensely, the room silent apart from your breathing.

‘’My god you’re an idiot’’ Chan mumbles before grabbing your chin and smashing his lips onto yours, you melt into the kiss at first before snapping out of it and pushing him away

Chan what are you doing?’’ You feel dizzy as you maintain your balance, your hands still pressed against his toned chest. your lungs heaving in time with the thud of the music coming from below.

‘’You really have no idea, do you? I’m fucking in love with you y/n, why do you think I even started dating Euna in the first place, I wanted to get over you, why else would I jump into a relationship with a girl I hardly knew??’’ The annoyance in his voice evident as he goes on, he runs his hand through his hair repeatedly, messy waves falling in his face.

You stare up at him stunned, your lips parted in surprise, he pulls you back in, his lips covering yours as he presses you into him with fervour. He deepens the kiss and walks you backwards, his hands pressing into your hips, his hold nothing like hyunjins. He pulls away his eyes searching yours for something, anything.

“Tell me to stop, if you don't want this I’ll walk away” his voice is breathy and pained, evident that the last thing he wanted was for you to say now.

You've waited too long for this, for him to need you, touch you. You know it's wrong, his girlfriend just a floor below but you’ve wanted and waited too much to stop and walk away, you can deal with your moral shortcomings tomorrow.

‘’Please, Chan’’ you whisper, desperate for him to touch you again, clenching your thighs together as heat pools in your lower stomach, your insides on fire for him. He watches how desperate you are for him, your answer clear.

‘’Fuck you’re perfect’’ you look at him pleadingly and he can't hold back anymore, he’d thought about you like this too many times to count, in dreams and when awake. When he can't sleep and he fucks his fist wishing it was you, how pretty your moans would sound as he rocked into you, how tight you'd be around him, how his cum would leak out of your fluttering hole. He was too far gone, a man possessed.

You gasp as he pushes you back on the bed, his weight pressing you into the mattress perfectly, he licks and nips at your jaw, his hand finding your soaked underwear under your skirt, circling your puffy clit through the slick fabric.

“You’re so wet for me baby, bet Hyunjin could never have this effect on you. Gonna fuck you so good you'll forget he exists’’ his words making you tingle, his fingers exactly where you need them.

‘’Only want you’’ Your voice comes out breathy and fucked out even though he’s barely touched you and it sends a rush of blood to Chan's already rock-solid cock, straining against the tight fabric of his black jeans.

He sinks two fingers into your tight pussy and you scream in pleasure and pain at the intrusion, his fingers so much thicker and longer than yours, the stretch taking your breath away

‘’Yeah be a good girl and take my fingers in that tight little cunt, I know you can’’ The way he whispers as your pussy stretches around his fingers and wet squelches echo through the room has you throwing your head back, Chans other hand finding your tits as he stretches you out for him. You shake as he moves his fingers in and out of you, the stretch now dissolved into intense pleasure. He can tell you're close, your eyes closed in pleasure as you sigh out his name.

‘’cum for me pretty, cum around my fingers’’ You moan his name over and over as he rubs your soaking clit and plunges his fingers into your sopping hole, your back arching in pleasure as he works you through your high. Shouting his name as you cum on his fingers. He pulls his fingers out, bringing them to his mouth and licking them clean. The sight alone already making you needy for more

‘’Need you so bad baby, need to feel you milk my cock’’ he breathes out as he undoes his belt, desperate to be inside of you. You spread your sticky thighs, your glistening pussy on full display for him. His cock springs free from its confines, his pink tip leaking down onto the rest of his thick veiny length. It was no surprise he had the prettiest cock you'd ever seen. He gives it a few pumps, slapping your clit with his bulbous tip, and you moan in pleasure at the sting.

‘’Take it, baby. Gonna stretch you out so good, gonna make you mine’’ his voice shaky as he presses into you, your pussy spasming around his hard length splitting you open, he slowly bottoms out with a moan stilling inside you. His cock making your stomach bulge with his size

‘’Fuckfuckfuckkkk you're still so tight, such a perfect pussy’’ his words coming out more like a mantra, the feeling of you around him making him pussydrunk. He fucks in and out of you grabbing your thighs, spreading you wider for him, watching where you’re joined as he takes you.

‘’talk to me baby girl, tell me how I make you feel’’

‘’Love it when you fuck me Channie, love your cock so much’’ your voice strained and whiny, writhing against the sheets as he sets a rough pace. He spits on your pussy, the liquid dripping down to where you meet, the sight only aiding his pleasure.

‘’Bet you thought about this huh? Thought about how good it would feel when I ruin you, hmm baby? Bet you’d touch this little clit thinking about how good I would fuck you?’’ His thrusts become sloppy as he nears his orgasm, his fingers coming to circle your clit. Your moans getting louder as you get close for the second time.

‘’Cum with me baby, wanna cum in this pussy, fill you up with my cum’’ his thrusts getting more erratic and desperate as you orgasm together. You scream his name, your nails digging into his toned back muscles. Chan stills as he spurts his hot release into you, his cum painting your insides a milky white. He collapses onto you, his muscled chest pressed against your fucked out form, both of you breathing heavily.

‘’Fuck you're mine, just mine’’ he whispers, his cock still inside you, both your release leaking out around his still hard dick..

‘’Yeah just yours, Channie’’ you breathe out dreamily, still coming down from your high

You both lay like that for a while, Chan's face tucked into your neck, leaving gentle kisses, his cock stiffening again inside of you, the party coming to an end downstairs. Things had happened so fast you hadn't realised Chan brought you to his own room, the purple lights giving his skin a lilac hue.

‘’Chan. What happens now?” You hesitate not wanting to ruin the moment, praying you didn't just fuck everything up with him with a simple question.

He sighs into your skin snuggling closer ‘’I meant it when I said you're mine y/n, Euna knows she and I are done, she knew I was in love with you. I want this, I want you’’ his voice soft and sleepy.

Your heart nearly explodes, ‘’I love you too Chan, I want you too’’ you kiss him passionately, his tongue fighting yours for dominance, smiling into the kiss as he begins moving inside you again. It feels like a dream and you can't believe he's in love with you too, that he wants you like you want him. Now you have him you'll never let him go, you have always been his, even if he didn't know it.

‘’It's always been you y/n’’

-ty for reading!! Alr working on more hehe

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wonryllis · 1 year ago

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✶ 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘𝒟𝐎𝐋𝐋? RICH BOY ENHYPEN PINNING AFTER YOU.

目录──────𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗘𝗟𝗬, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌.

𝓉𝗵𝗲 𝗪𝗢𝗥𝗟𝗗 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗘 ⋅ enhypen showing that you're not just one of the girls. wordcount total 2882 (approx 0.4k each) ⭑ CONTAINS— female!reader, fluff, suggestive, lots of swearing. % strongly recommend listening to ›› the respective songs while reading! jungwon's is inspired by ␥ kavin and kaning. ( THE ARCHIVE? ) PLS REBLOG ><

𝗟𝗘𝗘 𝗛𝗘𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗨𝗡𝗚

ぃ ⏤ now playing. HELLGIRL BY ARI ABDUL

"shit. you gotta wear this one, angel," heeseung groans in satisfaction, ignorant and indifferent to the fact that all the store employees could hear him, someone who never brings over girls to places like these, going insane over one. and the fact that you were unable to wrap your head around this situation just yet.

it was surreal and it was nerve wrecking. but heeseung was adamant that he needed you.

needed you to dress so fucking gorgeous and stand by his side as his date for the night while he paraded around greeting his parents' guests. showing them that he is capable of being committed by bringing along a partner for the first time ever. that's what he tells you—

"is this really fine?" you ask again, hands dusting over the sleek satin hugging your skin in a way that it tickled. heeseung stands up and strides overs to where you stand, arms sliding around your waist to pull you against him. "it's more than fine, absolutely stunning," leaning into your neck to leave kisses, "and so hot," right infront of everyone, no one daring to say a word to him, except you.

you who has been an exception to all his rules, you who has made him want to do things he has never wanted to before. you who has swept him off his feet.

you push against his chest in an attempt to stop him,"we'll be late, should go now," he hums in a low growl, lips nipping right against your ear before he pulls away with much exasperation almost unsated. clicking his tongue in annoyance for the staff to hurry the billing once he's done admiring you. unable to stand that anyone beside him see you dressed so pretty.

"just smile and follow my lead," heeseung tells you once you arrive at the venue. giving you an encouraging look as he instructs the valet to wait until you seem calm enough to step out. that's what he tells you— heart eyes and odd actions speaking for themselves. his hands find your waist when you finally walk up the stairs, breath shaky as you pass the entrance.

"relax angel, 'm right here, we can leave whenever you want," he kisses the side of your head, lips lightly touching your styled hair. never caring about who's looking and who's thinking what. if only you knew it too.

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗝𝗢𝗡𝗚𝗦𝗘𝗢𝗡𝗚

ぃ ⏤ now playing. STAY BY ARI ABDUL

"look behind you, princess," the voice incoming from your phone suddenly sounds too loud, paired with faint footsteps coming to a halt. jay's lips break into a wide smile when you turn around in an instant to look at him. your eyes following his hands holding an enormous bouquet of red roses, before you notice anything else.

before you notice the want in his eyes. the want for you.

"jay? i thought you were in— " you speak into the phone, eyes locked with his, but before you can finish he hangs up the call. approaching you with quick steps and immediately pulling you into a kiss. one that's short but deep enough to convey his feelings. "berlin? yeah, but i flew back for you," he breathes out against your lips.

"why?" "you know why love," his fingers twirl the hair falling into face, tucking them away and cupping your cheek as he gives you a smile before stepping away.

he waits for you to say something, to address his feelings but like always you avoid it and like always jay lets you. alas there will come a time when you would no longer be able to deny his love, so until then he will continue to show you all ways you own his heart in. his forever princess."what about that conference you were going to attend with your dad?" you ask, accepting his bouquet.

watching him with a soft giggle as he struggles to pull out a single rose and place it behind your ear. "don't worry about it," in a reassuring tone he leads you to his car. teasing you of a surprise each time you question where you are headed.

asking you to have your eyes closed while he leads you to the rooftop of a high-rise building owned by his family, illuminated by pretty lights and flowery wreaths, and a firework show worth a million.

all just for you.

to pose a smile on your face and to be the one to put it. to be the reason of your happiness and to be the person beside you in your best memories,"happy new year, princess," jay whispers into you ear as you open your eyes to see all of it. "jay this—" you gasp in a trance, gaze hooked on the sky while his is fixated in the way the fireworks shine against your pretty orbs and the gloss on your lips,"it's all for you,"

𝗦𝗜𝗠 𝗝𝗔𝗘𝗬𝗨𝗡

ぃ ⏤ now playing. MEDDLE ABOUT BY CHASE ATLANTIC

"you owe me. you can't keep avoiding me forever, doll," jake chuckles, noticing how you turn the other way after catching a glimpse of him. finding it adorable how you do everything you can to not cross paths with him.

leaving him no choice but to wait for you outside your university, leaning against his black lykan hypersport; attracting unwanted attention while his eyes only look for your cute panicked figure amidst the crowd.

"i told you it was a mistake—" you refute, throwing a glare at his smug face as he drives right beside you, following your every step, nonchalant about all the stares you both get as long as you agree to him taking you out. "get in the car," or the other way round, he's fine with both. frustrated and knowing you'd never be able to escape him, you decide to give in.

"you owe me lunch," jake grins as his eyes watch you get into the passenger seat just like the passenger princess you are.

his passenger princess. first and last in his beloved car.

"jake this— isn't this too—" your heart skips beats at the sight of the dock and the luxury cruise restaurant closing in, scared and nervous about how much you'd have to spend but jake just shushes you. getting out the car first and coming over to open the door for you; one hand holding yours and the other cushioning your head as you step out.

"just let me have your time and i'll let you off of staining my prada with coffee," he begs, afraid you'd walk out of here if he were to tell you the real reason. if he were to tell you that you have his heart and no matter what you do his feelings are not changing. if he were to tell you he wanted to take you out to all these places and spoil you rotten and occupy your mind like you occupy his.

if he were to tell you it was indeed not your fault for he bumped into you on purpose to find an excuse to talk to you.

"but—" jake shushes you again, fingers rubbing against your lips as he shakes his head before pulling out the chair for you and helping you sit properly,"don't think too much doll, just do as i say, please?" planning to keep you busy until the sun goes down so he can take you to for a ride on his yacht.

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗛𝗢𝗢𝗡

ぃ ⏤ now playing. BABYDOLL BY ARI ABDUL

"fuck baby, don't cry like that," sunghoon panics, his fingers grazing under your eyes to gently wipe the tears. afraid if he's not careful enough, he'll break you. "as much as i love the way you look so pretty like this, tears are not for someone like you," he has no idea how to soothe your frantically crying figure, slouched in the passenger seat against the expensive leather of his aston martin.

his hands fumble around in an attempt to think of ways he could just make you feel better and smile for him. those adorable crinkle of your eyes that have him whipped.

fuming each time he thinks of the moron who took that opportunity away from him by making you sad. he swears if he finds him, he'll beat the living daylights out of him. remind him not to linger anywhere around his girl.

sunghoon softly cups your cheek in his palm and leans in to kiss you, lips moving slow and sensual, "forget him, let me make you happy," he whispers into your mouth once he pulls away, foreheads touching and hands caressing your face lovingly. he makes sure your belt is secured before driving off to one of the luxury malls in the city, ones where you need to be of a certain level to enter.

a place you probably could never have the chance to enter if it weren't for him.

"my princess gotta shop her sadness out, hmm?" sunghoon coos as he stops outside the building, watching you gape in surprise, surprised himself that you are yet to realize just how much you mean to him.

"come on, i'll buy you whatever you lay your eyes on," he insists before you have the chance to deny him.

his hands rest at the back of your waist, leading you inside after handing his keys to the valet. dropping a soft kiss on your temple when you watch his vip card being inspected with a nervous breath of how elite this place has to be.

and knowing how new you must feel to all this, sunghoon pulls you closer with the intention of making it known that this is how it's gonna be from now, "get used to it, baby," you're not his yet but he's gonna treat you like you are. after all it's only a matter of time before it happens.

𝗞𝗜𝗠 𝗦𝗘𝗢𝗡𝗪𝗢𝗢

ぃ ⏤ now playing. GOOD GIRL BY THOMAS LAROSA

"good girl, you did a great job," sunoo pats your head teasingly amused at the confusion adorning your features. "sunoo, what were you doing there! you don't even have marketing?" the way you close in, demanding an explanation assures him that you indeed were affect by his presence, by the eye contact he held with you the entire time you were giving your presentation.

walking into the lecture hall in the middle of it as if he owned the place and taking a seat at a spot that directly put him in your line of sight. smirking, raising his brows and pushing his tongue against his cheeks to distract and annoy you.

"would you believe me if i said i came to see you?" his hands took ahold of your wrists playing with your fingers as he waited for you to answer.

"liar," you whisper, suddenly conscious of the implication behind his words and it makes him chuckle, of course what did he expect? you're hard to get, and perhaps that's the reason he feels so attracted, almost crazy over you.

like something he has to have, someone he has to have.

he takes a step closer, his varsity hat poking against the top of your head as his eyes bore into yours just the way they did inside earlier,"see? what do you want me to say then?" he whispers back, tone suddenly changing into a serious one. "you can't just enter any class like that," your innocent claim goes through him from one ear and falls through the other. how naive you are.

"i can if it's my dad's university," he can't help but chuckle at the expression on your face when you put the pieces together and realize it. all those times you came across him in places with strict attendance, it all made sense now.

"as adorably as you scold me, you're gonna see me everywhere you go," sunoo warns, leaning in impossibly close, lips hovering over yours,"you should stop fooling yourself baby,"

his hands move from your wrists to rest against the wall behind, voice dropping an octave,"and you should stop fooling around just because you can," you bite back, pressing your palm into his chest to push him back. "i'm fooling around because i want you, and i will have you," "you—" "we have a party this weekend at our summer villa, come with me?"

𝗬𝗔𝗡𝗚 𝗝𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗪𝗢𝗡

ぃ ⏤ now playing. SINNERS BY ARI ABDUL AND THOMAS LAROSA

"jungwon? what are you doing here? are you okay?" it makes jungwon happy to see you worrying about him, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pant as he watches you walk around the counter to his figure by the door. finding his cerulean blue chevrolet corvette 2lz parked in his usual spot, and him still dressed in the armani and hermès set you saw him in an hour ago when he dropped you off at your uncle's flower shop.

"mhm, just wanted to see my pretty girl again," he grins cockily once you realize there's nothing wrong and he's just trying playing around like always.

albeit to jungwon, it's never been a play and you have never been a toy.

this has been his way of showing you that you're not just another girl he's chasing after; because yang jungwon has never chased as opposed to what you think. and to harbour such deep and honest feelings that compel him to do what he has never done, that should have given you the hint by now. perhaps he'll just have to try a tad bit harder.

"how do you wear this?" he struts inside, passing by you to the space behind the counter you previously stood at, dangling a lone apron by his pinky and raising his brows at you, waiting. "your clothes will get dirty!" your attempts to curb him fall through for jungwon's persistence to stay with you holds like a strong wall, incapable of budging.

"i don't really care," jungwon's hands loop around the strings in a way that has the apron falling off making you giggle as you give in and just step in to help him,"idiot, that's not how you do it," you mumble.

and all he can think of is how he wants to be your idiot.

"how does this look? i think it looks so pretty on you," he says, putting a messy wreath on your head. to jungwon there's always flowers blooming everywhere you go, sweet scent overtaking all his scenes believing that's how you intoxicated him.

you slap away his hands in a shy chuckle that he doesn't understand, did he say something wrong? not aware and quite literally clueless of his own effect. by the time the sun sets down, you're asleep with your head down on the counter, facing him. and jungwon admires the way you looks so pretty, prettier than any flower.

𝗡𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗠𝗨𝗥𝗔 𝗥𝗜𝗞𝗜

ぃ ⏤ now playing. STUCKINMYBRAIN BY CHASE ATLANTIC

"riki?" oh. you're here? riki looks up at the sound of your footsteps getting closer, halting a metre away from him, like you always do, not too close, not too far and it drives him crazy. "what are you doing here?" you ask, confused to find him waiting outside your mundane apartment building with his out of place red ferrari sf90.

"uh, you left this in the car last time," he fumbles out a dior liquid blush, clearly brand new and a shade you have never used before.

"that's not mine," giggling, you walk over to the other side, opening the passenger seat door to fish out the gloss you actually did leave and waving it in the air to show him,"this is mine richboy," the soft sounds of laughter, your teasing voice.

his favorite thing in the world as of late.

you who has him smitten with infatuation, unable to get you off his mind no matter how much he tries. you who never gives him the answer he wants but never pushes him away either. you who makes him feel like a pathetic loser, you who makes him want to try as many times as he can to win your heart.

"it's a gift," he quickly improvises, wanting you to accept it, of getting a chance to give you something. "you're gifting me a blush?" you question and it throws him off, blush?,"wait, it's not a lipgloss— i, i had no idea, i have never—" riki swears, he really had no clue,"bought makeup?" he nods and it makes you burst into a fit of laughter again. it warms his heart, leaning against his car and watching you with eyes that speak volumes of his feelings.

feelings that anyone could notice, anyone but you.

he lets you revel in his silly naivety, content to know you are not longer sad as you were a few days ago.

"now this suits you pretty little face," he says once you seem to calm down, bewildered at his sudden compliment while he walks over to you.

cupping your face and caressing your cheeks,"so pretty," mumbling under his breath, loud enought to reach your ears,"it's boring when you cry, baby," his lips hover over your own as both of your heartbeats pick up in sync, breath getting caught up at the shift in the atmosphere. "let's go on a drive, we'll get you a bunch of pretty glosses to wear for me,"

TAGLIST ( open. ) @kangseulgithegreat @s00buwu @lilyuwon @pockyyasii @nctislifue @ashtxrie @miniature-tragedy @jayujus @brachives @thoughtsmeander2tumblingblindly @eeunoia @nxzz-skz @shawnyle @potato0579 @enhastolemyheart @ro-diaries @aaa-sia @okwonyo @snoopypupp @enhabooks @jjunae @criminalyun

#enhypen imagines #k-labels #SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME GET INSIDE HEESEUNG'S SCENARIO #the way i changed riki's part like five times ㅠㅠ #enhypen reactions #enhypen headcanons #enhypen drabbles #enhypen fluff #enhypen soft hours #enhypen soft thoughts #enhypen heeseung imagines #enhypen jay imagines #enhypen jake imagines #enhypen sunghoon imagines #enhypen sunoo imagines #enhypen jungwon imagines #enhypen niki imagines #divider by saradika graphics

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rockingbytheseaside · 1 year ago

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✦ You surprise them with terms of endearment in their language

(Or, pretending that Teyvat uses certain languages based on the regions.)

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Childe

✧ You don’t remember what prompted you to emit this word specifically, however, its occurrence was as natural as the auroras in the Snezhayan sky. During a typical day, when you were casually conversing with Pierro, you just replied with:

“Of course, just be careful, mel.” (honey)

It was out before you could register it, and you hoped he didn’t catch on. But it's known that nothing passes by the Jester unnoticed. Pierro’s gaze was uncharacteristically stunned, yet it softened the moment he turned to you.

“It’s been… centuries since you called me that.”

You averted your gaze away in shame, muttering a small apology. But the Director stepped closer to you, his gloved fingers brushing underneath your chin to look you tenderly in the eyes.

“No, no. I do not seek an apology. You often called me melimelum (honey apple) during our days of guilelessness. Go on. Utter these words for me once more. I must know whether you remember them as much as I do.”

Meeting his gaze, you stammered upon your words but managed to convey “mi mel” (my honey) for him again despite your coy disposition. The Jester smiled as if an eon-long frost had been melted off his heart. Thus, he leaned closer to relish your lips in his, whispering.

“That’s more like it, corculum (sweetheart). These words are always sweeter when uttered by your lips.”

✧ It is no one's surprise that you and Capitano participate in convivial challenges. Who else would match the harbinger’s fierce ambition for competition if it weren't for you, his partner? From duels, training, and games, to even… endearing nicknames. Yes, just loudly calling each other cute nicknames until the other gives up, in the privacy of your own home.

“You may be the strongest man in Tevyat, Capitano, but!” - you loudly proclaimed “I can still defeat you in a battle of wits.”

“Your words bring forth a challenge that I seek, my beloved. If you dare to challenge me, know that I will not back down.”

“Hmph!” - you crossed your arms, a triumphant smile already gracing your features. “My dear, sweet Captain. Don’t be so sure of yourself. It’s clear that I love you more.”

“Absurd,” - Capitano clenched his fists, his resolve is unshaken. “My love for you brings mountains to dust and the seas to dry. It is clear that I love you more.”

“Tsk, tsk. I can still express my love in a far wider range, geliebter (loved one).” - There it was. Your special attack as you spoke confidently back. “ You better not underestimate me.”

The Captain froze, his stance now rigid. Even through his pitch-black helmet, you could see you seized him off-guard. A word he has not heard in centuries, even more so, you put in the effort to pronounce it correctly. The Harbinger stepped closer, his sharp fingers gently cupping your cheeks.

“My dear, cherished, loved engelchen (little angel). Where did you learn that from? Such sweet words will not be tolerated. I shall memorize the entire dictionary to out-win you in this battle of precious monikers.”

“Oh yeah? We’ll see, herzblatt (sweetheart), because I did my research! So I win!” - you mumbled proudly, even when Capitano kept squishing your face by squeezing your cheeks lovingly.

Your little ‘warfare’ was left at that, and you didn’t think much of it afterward. A successful conquest; or so you credulously thought. Little did you expect, that in a couple of days, Capitano would burst into the room, a thick book in his hand labeled ‘Dictionary & Encyclopedia of Teyvat's Ancient Languages’.

“My dear, you won’t believe this! I have found a compelling addition to what I must call you, notlazohtlé." (my precious thing)

“U-um, Capitano. You didn't actually spend days trying to memorize a whole… dictionary, did you?”

“Nonsense. A warrior never backs down from a challenge. Especially one bestowed upon him by his yōltzin.” (lover)

✧ When Il Dottore heard you speak, he had to ensure the grip on his book was firm. He swore he almost dropped it but made sure to conceal it, as his back was facing you while he stood in front of bookshelves.

“What did you just say?”

“Habibi” - you retorted simply. “Or, do you prefer azizam?” (my dear)

There was a prolonged silence coming from the Doctor. The sound of this native tongue brought a conflicting range of abrupt disgust and wistful familiarity. Yet Dottore clenched his jaw; there wasn’t an ounce of humor in his voice, and he would much rather go on pretending he hadn’t heard you say those words.

"What are those harebrained names you are calling me? Has your time in Sumeru made you so asinine?"

You were not surprised he reacted this way. Nonetheless, It was futile to hide your solemn disappointment, so you sighed - "Never mind..."

The book he had been flicking through was gradually set aside. Although you couldn’t read his expression, he remained eerily still.

"Say it again."

"Hm?"

"I said,” - Il Dottore suddenly turned, stepping closer to firmly set his hands on the table, looming over you. “Say it again."

Oh no, you thought. “I said habibi. Like people in the Sumeru desert region often say… But I thought you’d loathe it so maybe aziz-”

Your words were cut off, as the Harbinger cupped your jawline and made sure to silence your doubts with his own lips. The sudden kiss was as sweet and warm as honey, and as ardent and fiery as the blazing deserts of Sumeru.

“I was not being serious.” - He explained after leaning away, even if his scoff came out stilted. He didn’t mean to be rude, instead, he was impressed you went your way to learn these expressions. His hold on your jaw abates in an instance “Call me whatever you want.

You blink - “Well, you studied like… twenty languages since you were a student. So I wanted to gauge your reaction. What about ‘my heart’? was it kalbi, or…?”

“...Ya balsam qalbi (O balm of my heart), you just called me a dog.”

The Doctor couldn’t help but laugh at your antic. Your sweet attempts at endearment were beyond him, especially when you fumbled on pronunciation. Thus, he settled with teasing you, locking his lips back with yours. You could feel his love wash over you like the gentle breeze blowing across the sand; carrying away any lingering worries and leaving you with the joy of being with him.

✧ Scaramouche abhors seeing couples being all mushy and sweet in public. Lovers giggling when embracing under the shade? Ugh. Calling each other cute nicknames as they walk? Disgusting. Stealing discreet kisses while no one is looking? Nauseating!

His reaction is nothing new for you, as he frequently crossed his arms in annoyance. Particularly after a nearby married couple passed by the two of you, one of them saying “Anata, don't forget to buy some sugar and flour on our way home.” - Just people going on with their lives. What you didn't expect was how the Puppeteer would latch to your arm and accuse you:

“Why are you not calling me that!?”

You blinked in bewilderment - “...what?”

Scaramouche huffed, his expression sour - “You know what! Dropping the semi-formalities and using Anata (dear). Don't make me repeat myself.”

“But that's how married couples refer to each other.”

“So?”

Silence. The two of you awkwardly stood still, frozen. And then it clicked. “I can’t believe my ears… The 6th of The Fatui Harbinger,”

“Wait, I take it back –”

“Is asking me,”

“Don’t. Don’t you da–”

“To use anata, like a precious spouse would do to their loved one! Aaa!” - you gushed and beamed, your tone countering Scaramouche’s flustered groans, while he tugged at his hat to conceal his furrowed eyebrows. “Should I welcome you home with a cute pink apron, telling you that dinner and a bath are ready, too? Or maybe, offer you something else… ”

“You’re insufferable. I regret even bringing this up now.”

“Fine, Fine. I'll stop." - you sighed after a hearty chuckle. “Sometimes, rigid formalities can appear as an insult too, you know. After all, what sort of sweetheart would I be if I didn’t consider your troubles."

You mused innocently at the mental image of using terms of endearment like a married couple. However, your imagination was interrupted as the Harbinger took it upon himself to grab your waist, pulling you flush against him.

"Did I tell you to stop? If we're going to pretend to be a cute, married couple - then do so properly. Besides, what was that part about offering something else when greeting me back home?”

✧ When you prepare little surprises for your beloved Pantalone, you often come up to him with contagious excitement, eager to show what nick-nacks and artifacts you brought along. This time, you recently returned from an expedition in Liyue, and as always your affluent partner greeted you with honeyed enthusiasm, embracing you tightly as you spoke of your adventures.

“Pantalone, Pantalone!” - You exclaimed gleefully “I learned something new while I was staying in Liyue Harbour!”

“Oh? And do tell, sweetheart, what is it that caught your curiosity this time?” - Pantalone spoke elegantly, helping you undress from your adventuring garbs.

“I was familiarizing myself with certain literary texts and it led me down a rabbit hole of traditional phrases common in Liyue… And I figured out how to call you precious! Bǎobǎo!” (baby)

Pantalone’s eyes shot wide open with renowned zeal. He grinned and clasped his hands, “Oh, my treasure! How adorable of you! And did you go all the way out just to learn this for me? Let me hear you say it again.”

“Bǎobǎo! It suits you! Or maybe you prefer xīn'gān?” (heart and soul)

Pantalone was ecstatic, his smile further widening - “My, my, you certainly worked on your pronunciation. Your stay in Liyue paid off then, because dear, you are making me swoon with your adorable surprises. Pray tell, what other phrases did you learn?”

“Well, I was told that lǎogōng (hubby) is good.”

“Mhm, yes, yes.” - Pantalone nodded.

“Also huài bāo,” (naughty)

“O-oh?”

“And wǒ yào nǐ,” (I want you)

“O-.... oh,”

“And also shǐjìn yīdiǎn (go harder), but I was told this one is a little bit intense.”

The Regrator became motionless. You gazed at him with such pure naïveté, so oblivious that your charming perception didn't grasp the weight of these foreign words. He placed his hands on your shoulders firmly and inquired seriously:

“My sweetheart. Who, exactly, taught you all this?”

“Well, so. There was this lady who had a small perfumery shop by Chihu Rock. I think her name was Ying'er.” - you pondered but smiled “She was a nice lady, she taught me all these phrases, and said they would work like a charm!”

Pantalone had to exert all his mental strength to avoid fainting or exploding. He is unsure of what exactly, but one more word from you and he'd drop to his knees with a ring for you. Rather than translating your earlier words, the Harbinger lets out a shaky sigh and focuses on controlling his hitched breathing.

“Oh, Shǎguā (silly). If you were unsure of the words' meanings, you could have just asked me and I would have demonstrated. Personally.”

✧ It was another day at Tartaglia’s family home in Snezhnaya. You visit him often and his family has long since welcomed you as part of their household. Especially the siblings, as Teucer and Tonia always welcome you with tight embraces whenever you arrive.

When you found your beloved Childe in the kitchen, he innately greeted you with a kiss on the cheek, asking: “You’re right on time, sweetpea. We’re planning on making homemade meat dumplings. Maybe some borscht as a side dish too. Is that okay with you?”

To which you simply nodded, already moving to help - “Of course, milyy (sweet). Do you need me to start with the bullion?”

The Harbinger stopped. He never heard you use native terms, but when he registered your words, his head quickly snapped toward you in astonishment.

“Do my ears deceive me?! Did you just call me…!”

Aha, so you got him. You tried to hide your giddiness, a faint grin threatening to appear - “Well, I just tried to use something new. You love nicknames, right? So perhaps…”

“Say it again!” - The man practically leaped at you, his eyes now glowing with elation as he hyped you up to reveal your cards.

“Okay, okay big guy, just take it easy. I just said milyy (sweet). Maybe you’d like it if I said… lyubimyy (darling)?”

Tartaglia gasps as your sweet words hit his ears, but then a wide grin spreads across his face. “Oh, is this a challenge? If so, fight me! I will shower you with more love for each sweet word coming out of your mouth. But I warn you, you'll have to use them a lot more often from now on.”

He kisses your cheeks again, this time with even more passion and fervor while he cupped your cheeks. His lips felt like waves crashing against the shore, and each one left an invisible imprint of love and adoration on your soul. As you chuckle at his affectionate antics, small hushed voices interrupt you two.

Teucer and his sister Tonia were peeking behind the kitchen door, giggling as they eavesdropped on you two. However, when Tartaglia caught their gazes, the rascals scurried away giggling.

“Hey! Quite sneaking in! Did your parents not teach you to give adults some privacy?”

Latin: melimelum (honey-apple), mel (honey), corculum (sweetheart) German: geliebter (Loved one), herzblatt (sweetheart), engelchen (little angel) Nahuatl (Aztec): notlazohtlé (my darling/precious thing), yōltzin (lover) Persian: azizam (my dear) Arabic: habibi (my dear), Ya balsam qalbi (O balm of my heart), qalbi (my heart), kalbi (my dog, lmao) Japanese: Anata (informal you, dear for couples) Mandarin: Bǎobǎo (baby), lǎogōng (hubby), huài bāo (naughty), wǒ yào nǐ,” (I want you), shǐjìn yīdiǎn (go harder), Shǎguā (silly melon) Russian: milyy (sweet), lyubimyy (darling)

*While I speak Arabic, and Russian and know a little bit of Japanese; If you have some additional info on the linguistic part, or speculation or spot some inaccuracies - please, please, please 🙏 kindly share them with me! I am open to fixing any mistakes. Or if you just have headcanons and love projecting certain languages onto these characters like I do - share them with me!

Thank you

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