#it was good and it made since for him to be thinking like that in the moment

[avaricefics]

the winner takes it all | kimi antonelli social media au

| Kimi Antonelli x fem!reader

| Fans are starting to believe that Kimi's girlfriend, Y/n L/n, is a bad luck charm at races- he happily proves them wrong

| This is my first ever smau, so I'm still learning all the formatting and such. Please be patient!

f1updates

f1updates Kimi Antonelli's girlfriend, Y/n L/n, posted on her story about arriving to the Canadian Grand Prix. The last time she went to watch a Grand Prix live, at the Spanish Grand Prix, Antonelli DNFed. Should Mercedes fans be scared of a bad luck charm in the garage this weekend?

comments

user1 Still not over Spanish GP... maybe Y/n actually is bad luck lol

user2 the more you think about it the more it makes sense

-> user3 Her first in person GP since Kimi was in F2 and he DNFs...

user4 Always said he shouldn't have dated her

real life

You scrolled through your phone, barely blinking as all the hateful comments and mean words flashed past on the screen. You should be used to the hate, having dated Kimi since his F2 days, but it still made no sense to you. These people didn't even know you, and yet they thought they could say whatever they wanted about Kimi and your's relationship.

You tried not to let it phase you, you tried to pretend like it didn't hurt each time someone on the internet called you a 'terrible girlfriend' or a 'bad luck charm'. Formula 1 was Kimi's dream, and you hated the thought of ruining it with your own selfish insecurities.

It also bothered you how much the fans looked down on you for missing so many grand prixs at the beginning of the season. You hadn't meant to, but your older sister had given birth prematurely to triplets a couple weeks before the season started, and you had stayed at your family home in Italy to help out for those difficult first months.

Kimi supported you fully, of course. He understood the need to stick with your family, and help them when they needed it. Between races, he had even stopped by the house to help with the triplets himself.

You and Kimi had both been so excited for the Spanish Grand Prix, but clearly that didn't turn out so well. And honestly? With how much hate you were getting for attending the Canadian Grand Prix, you were half-tempted to fly back across the ocean to Italy to help change diapers.

You scrolled past another negative post, one that wondered why Kimi would date you if you were so basic looking. You shut off your phone and resisted the urge to chuck it against the wall.

"What's wrong, vita mia?" Kimi called from the other room of the hotel, noticing you despondently laying starfished across the bed. You couldn't help but smile at the Italian nickname.

"Just stupid people on the internet," you replied. Kimi walked out of the other room, holding a leftovers box with spaghetti and meatballs that he had been warming up in the hotel microwave. Even if the spaghetti wasn't as good as authentic Italian pasta, it reminded both of them of home just a bit.

"Are you looking at the bad luck posts again?" Kimi asked, upset. He hated that there were people who called themselves his fans who treated his girlfriend so cruelly. You nodded.

Seeing your face, Kimi didn't say anything, but instead set the leftovers down on the bedside table and sat down on the edge of the bed, his body angled towards you. You sat up, scooching towards Kimi so you could rest your head on his shoulder as both of you leaned back on the pillows.

"I'm sorry this is happening," Kimi said softly. "I got so caught up in my own dream, I hardly payed attention to the toll it was taking on you to be there, too."

"It's not that," you said, trying to think of a good way to describe how you felt. "I love supporting you, and getting to be a part of that dream. I just... wasn't prepared for the fans to not want me to be a part of it."

"Oh, carissima," Kimi whispered. He pulled you closer to him with his right arm, and rested his head on top of yours. You didn't even realize that tears had started to fall until he reached up to brush them away.

"I love you," you spoke quietly. "I love you, and it sucks that people don't see that."

"I love you too." Kimi reached over your side to grab the leftover pasta, handing you a fork and taking one for himself. "I'll fix this, amore. I promise."

kimi.antonelli

liked by yourusername, mercedesamgf1, user74 and 134, 092 others

kimi.antonelli Y/n and I have been together for years, and I am shocked and horrified to see with my own eyes people who call themselves my 'fans' turning against her. We love each other, in sickness and in health, in the happiness and in the hurting, and through both good fortune and bad luck.

Anyone who doesn't see that and respect our relationship, and my girlfriend, isn't a real fan by any means.

comments

yourusername <3

comments restricted on this post

yourusername

liked by kimi.antonelli, georgerussel63, user10 and 184, 309 others

yourusername Mercedes 1-3 at the 2025 Canadian Grand Prix! I'm so incredibly proud, congratulazioni a entrambi! Let's go Kimi!!! (Something something bad luck charm... yeah, right. My boy is too good for luck :))

comments

georgerussel63 I see how it is... you get P1 and not even a picture

-> yourusername Gotta support the bf

->kimi.antonelli I'm her favorite 😇

->yourusername That too

[gay-dorito-dust]

How would the Saja boys react to Nonchalant Manager! Reader going on a date with someone for the night?

The second the words 'I've got a date tonight' left your lips when Romance had asked why you were getting all dressed up for, wondering if they had missed an important date, made the air leave their lungs as a plethora of emotions was brought to the surface.

Mystery wanted more then anything then to hunt this person down, not liking the idea of having to be forced to share your attention with anyone that was outside the group, growling and just showing hostility at this secret date that you were going on.

He would cling to you like glue, not letting you leave his sight for a single second as you got yourself ready, even going so far to make whiny noises from the back of his throat the closer it got to you leaving for your date. He's pratically beggin you to stay with him and ditch your date, filled with this idea that you shouldn't be anywhere but with him and the group.

He might as well be waiting at the door for you at this point, he's loyal to a fault.

Baby acts like he's not listening or showing any interest- head down in his notebook- but he's listening and he's not liking what he's hearing in the slightest, the lollipop half hanging out of his mouth didn't taste as sweet anymore upon hearing this news. Not that you didn't deserve to go on a date, just not with random off of the street that you might've bumped into by pure accident and felt obligated to go on a date with.

He would want to make up excuses that he nedded a secondary opinions on his verse within the song they were working on, needing you to go over pages upon pages of lyrics he had written off of the top of his head to keep on theme with the rest of the song. He would do anything to withhold you from going on that date, but all attempts were siwftly brushed aside as if you could see through them all.

It left Baby feeling a little stroppy as he's forced to wait for you to come back from your date as a unsettiling feeling developed within his stomach, not liking the overall feel of your date in the first place and waiting to be proven right.

Romance never felt as though he had to force a smile towards you, never becuase each and every smile he gave you was genuine. Yet the idea that you were going on a date with this mysterious person didn't sit right with him, and knew it didn't sit right with the others either from what he could tell by quickly glancing at them.

He'd at first try to be happy for you and your dare, but that would be lying to himself, and soon enough he'd drop the act and will try to make you see reason. He didn't like the idea of you on a date with someone else when your perfect partner was standing right infront of you; Him!

He would then try to entice you into staying with him in the apartment, where he could make you things or have an inpromptu movie night with a blanket fort and fairy lights gallore, anything he could think of that would have you second guessing whether going out on the date was necessary. He's determined to see you not go on the date and will keep you occupied by any means necessary.

Abby is not amused. He'd might say some shit like 'can they bench more then me?'

Abby hated not being seen by you, he hated the idea that some random person managed to score a date with you quicker then he could, and he had been trying for a long while since you became their manager. So he's not exactly all that happy and would wander what it was about this random person that had cuaght your eye, could they be more ripped then him? probably not, were they a good singer like him? probably not or else he would've heard about them by now.

So needless to say he's left baffled by what would compel you to look elswhere when you should be looking at him and only him. Abby would try to show why he was the better candidate, showing off his mucles and whatnot, all in hopes that you would see reason and not leave him behind to persue someone else.

Jinu is concerned about this person your going on a date with, espeically if they knew that you had connections to them, so what's stopping this person from trying to get to them through you and potentially hurting you in the process; Worse case scenario what if they were a demon hunter?

This was him trying to justify the ache within his chest when he heard you talk about this date and soon enough he wants every ounce of infomation that he can get out of you about this 'date.' Who they are, what they looked like, where were they taking you and so on to the point it felt like an interogation on his end.

He would secretly get Derpy and the bird to follow after you in secret and give him constant updates on how you are or have himself and the group follow you instead, wearing incredibly ridiculous outfits as to go undetected by you and the fans that would be having a night out themselves, watching your date from afar as they pathetically use the menus given to them to shield them if you were to look over at them.

Jinu will anxiously wait up for you when you get back from your date, demons don't need much sleep after all, but he was determined to not let someone else get to you and take you away from them. Hasn't he lost enough already? wasn't he allowed to be a little selfish with you even if he hated to be viewed as such?

[muntitled]

Playtime

Pairing: Nam-gyu x fem!reader

Summary: You weren't ready to kill anyone in Hide And Seek, thank God he's there to help

Warnings: Language, Blood, Gore, Violence, Religious Trauma, Murder, Mentions of Rape Dark Fic, Smut (+18, mdni), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dub/Con, PiV, Rough Sex, Blood Play, Ingesting Bodily Fluids, Dom!Namgyu, Sub!Reader, Mutual Masturbation, Spitting, Dirty Talk

A/n: I'm not responsible for the media you consume

Nam-gyu could taste colours.

He's quite sure that if he jumped off a high enough ledge, he'd fly.

Ever since they entered the gameroom with its low ceiling and labrinth streets, he's been on a bender unlike any other. A bender he's struggling to enjoy in its entirety because something almost akin to a conscience has been niggling away at him ever since he ran into you during Hide and Seek.

He was straddling a corpse, playing in its blood while Myung-gi called for him to hurry up.

You'd run into the same alley. You and your frightened eyes and your red vest clean of blood. He'd been smiling but that's because his face couldn't conjure up any other expression even if he tried.

And he did try.

He tried stepping towards you. Only to show you how to properly hold that knife you carried with such uncertainty.

But you'd already fled.

He knew you didn't have it in you to kill anyone.

That's why he was doing this. He was a good boyfriend.

"I don't get why we can't just kill it" Myung-gi watches with displeased eyes as Nam-gyu drags the living body of a middle aged man through the

He's stalling their movements significantly trying to pull the man whose own legs have no use for him now. Nam-Gyu made sure they weren't working. He made sure the man could not run. But he also made sure the man wasn't dead.

Nam-gyu's still twitchy, from the pills and from all the blood. It could've been so easy to stick another knife inside a hot body- it would've been way more fun. But then he thought of you. Your wide eyed gaze. Your trembling hand around the whimsical dagger.

That's when he stopped himself. That's when he whispered, to the frightened old man in the blue vest, “I'm not gonna be the one to do it,”

He could've killed this man. He could have watched the knife sink right through his blue vest.

He giggles to himself. Thinking about those corpses and their doll-like eyes. Their comatose little bodies. The fear. The peace.

"Thing is," he's speaking without noticing he's speaking. Nam-gyu drags the man through the ground like he's lugging a sack of potatoes. Like they don't have 15 minutes left in the game.

The man is either infuriatingly heavy or Nam-gyu's too high- it's proving to be a Herculean task even with his two hands on the collar of the old man's shirt. Myung-gi doesnt slow down his very serious gait but he cranes his ear back. "I kinda... like," Nam-gyu giggles to himself, still trying to find the space between reason and hallucination, "I kinda fucked things with my girl when I-" he rolls his eyes, "killed that bitch Se-mi," he groans as he pulls the man closer to an already open door. A dead end. "So now I kinda have to make up for that. You're in love too, you get it."

"You dont know what love is," says Myung-gi and before Nam-gyu enters the dead end door he looks at the man, chest rising snd falling from all that heavy lefiting. "Why would you say something so hurtful- and so true?"

"Why are we stopping here-"

"Tonight I'm gonna need her." Nam-gyu says, kicking the metal door further open to reveal you cowering in the corner of a dimly lit room. Dragon flies are painted across the wall and yet you're crouched like a shy little beetle in the corner. Nam-gyu nearly stops himself from cooing.

"I get antsy at night." He says, turning back to Myung-gi who regards you with a pitiful gaze. "Im so sick of jerking off-"

"Stop talking."

"I needed to get her a gift." Nam-gyu gestures wildly at the old man he's lugged across the streets, the man with wild eyes and broken legs.

He drops the man's collar and the blue vest's head hits the ground with a loud thud.

Nam-gyu's already walking towards you in the corner.

"Here, babe, I've brought you a gift-"

You're out of it. Spiraling. Cradling your legs. Trying to tell yourself this was never supposed to be about hurting others. It was only supposed to be about surviving. And now, here you were, face-to-face with the very reason you're in these games anyway.

"What am I supposed to do with him, Nam-gyu."

"Isn't it obvious?" He crouches down in front of you. Over Nam-gyu's shoulder, you notice his accomplice, player 333 looking immeasurably ill.

"Kill him, silly," as soon as Nam-gyu's words drop, Player 333 steps out of the room, murmuring lowly under his breath. Soon its just you, an old man pleading for his life and Nam-gyu.

You're shaking your head when your eyes meet that of the man you're supposed to kill.

Round.

Wide.

His fight or flight activated and going crazy. Someone who's prepared themselves for their own impromptu death.

Nam-gyu, still crouching in front of you, drags your face back to him by the tip of his finger.

He's blood soaked and crazy but familiar. His presence grounds you.

"I'd rather they gun me down-" the words dont leave your mouth before hes clamping your mouth shut with his hand. His mood is like a switch. Gone is his smile.

"Dont do that." He says, "babe, don't do that- I fucking killed that bitch, Se-mi, now you wanna suffer the same fate?"

Your words are muffled through his mouth but your tears spill over his hands "We're all going to hell anywayI-" your mind is flooded with Bible verses. Church sermons. All of them from your childhood. All of them condemning you. They're kickstarting a wave of panic and regret and shame and you're falling. You're drowning.

"Babe," he cradles your face once more, his thumbs drifting over yojr tear streaked cheeks, "Hell? We're already here. This is it, okay? I'm just gonna need you to be a big girl and do this one big thing for me." You look over his shoulder and you see the man's eyes, pleading. He could've tried to crawl to the door. He could've tried. But he's smart enough to know when he's right between the predator's jaws."

"What did you have out there, Princess? Hm?" Nam-gyu's still cradling your face like a baby. His bloodshot eyes are still gazing down at you like you hung the moon. His hands are trembling and he's leaving blood on your cheeks but you listen.

"A junkie boyfriend who left me in crippling debt?" You ask,

"Ok, I deserved that-"

You've avoided Nam-gyu since the lights out massacre. Since he lost himself to this place. And now, here you were, needing reassurance from the worst possible voice of reason. His eyes tracked your movements ever since hide and seek began. It was almost like a mirror of when you two were dating outside the games. The only difference is, he had been the liability then, with the shifty eyes, you'd save him...

This time he promised he'd save you.

"But you forgot something," he leans in closer until his lips graze your ear. For once you're feeling something other than fear. Other than existential doom. When he whispers his next words, gone is all hope for your humanity.

"That asshole who raped you," his voice is gentle, "Made you loose your job? I killed him."

Your brows furrow and you try to pull back but he's smelling your hair now, patting down on your braids like you mean something to him. Like you're a thing he's enjoying playing with.

"You what?"

"Yeah babe, you think I'd let him rape you and get you fired? I was a shit boyfriend, yes. But I loved you out there, and I love you in he-"

In between his words that resurrected all the ghosts of the outside world, everything that landed you in this hell in the first place, you'd detangled yourself from his limbs. By the time Nam-gyu finished his confession- about the disappearance of your boss right after you lost your job- your knife was already digging clean through the blue players vest, already unwrapping Nam-gyu's little present.

Just one kill and it saved you from yet another game.

You're out of it

Unable to look away.

The world is still.

The knife feels stable, like it's being held between two boulders.

You now know what it feels like to kill someone but before you can really drown in it, you hear his voice boom behind you

“Jesus fuck! That was so hot, did you see its eyes?!” He's pacing on unsteady feet across the room,” biting at his fingernails before crouching down beside you.

“Babe you need to see its eyes when you do it, that's the best part fuck-” you watch with wide eyes as something foreign overtakes Nam-gyu's entire being. You'd only seen him like this one other time. The lights out massacre. When he stabbed that girl over and over.

Now he's trying to open the eyelids of a corpse, as if you weren't sitting there.

“Fuck, he's already gone,” hes slapping at the corpses cheek but yku look down at your blood soaked hands bleeding heavily.

“It's okay,” he says, speaking louder than he needs to, “It's okay, Princess, we'll get another one-” You're about to protest but he's already standing up, dragging you off the floor in the process. His hands are cold and trembling in yours.

His lips are dry and warm as they pepper kisses all over your face.

“Which means-” more and more kisses- and maybe even a lick- “we have ro be really quick yeah?”

“Quick with what-”

He's already pulling his pants down far enough to pull himself out and your eyes widen as you step back. His pupils are blown. Two obsidian orbs, like the death in the room was another pill to him

“Y-You wanna have sex now?” You gesture wildly, “Here?”

He steps closer until he's completely made your personal space, his own. You turn your head away but he's breathing right against your cheek, plastering his body to you, “I need to fuck you,”

“Gyu-” he's twitchy and his words are slurred, and he's grinding against you with the urgency of a desperate man.

“Please-” he pushes your hair away messily, kissing up the side of your neck, “Play with me just for a bit, hm? Look at how pretty you look with all that blood on you-fuck-” he chuckles lowly, bringing your hand down until you're wrapping it around his exposed cock. “I nearly came watching you do it…” he whispers, squeezing your hand around his cock, “C'mon there's no one here…”

“There's a corpse right there-”

“He's not here anymore.” he's stroking himself using your hand. A part of you wishes you'd be more disgusted. A part of you wishes your moral code was still intact. But the body betrays. And right now your cunt is leaking while your boyfriend with his wild eyes jerks himself off with your hand, as if you were an object. “C'mon, please,”

You're not even sure why his asking anymore. His other hand is already mapping out the contours of your hips, already slipping under your shirt to paw at your breasts

You gasp when he pushes himself between your legs humping frantically against you as he pebbles your nipple between his thumb and index.

“Need it so bad, Princess, please,”

Your hand around his cock isn't even moving anymore, his hips are pushing forward in an act that has your mind slipping.

“I could fuck you like this,” he mumbles, “-without actually fucking you…”

You moan out loud, back arching off the wall, “I swear I'd cum,” he says, “That's how bad I want it-”

“Are you… Nam-gyu are you high?” You try to grapple onto reason with both hands because you were sinking fast. Your eyes were heavy lidded and you were jerking him off now on your own accord.

“Mm, and horny, babe I need it. Don't tell me you don't need it-”

“He spits on his hand before making it disappear through the waistband of your sweats-”

“Jesus this pussy-” in your hand, his cock twitches, right when his cold fingers make contact with your cunt, slick with its own arousal.

“Y-You're disgusting-” you try to say. As if your hips weren't rolling against his hand, as if you didn't drag your hand up and down the length of his shaft.

“Only for you-” his eyes roll back, “I'll be whatever you want me to be,” he says before dipping down to whisper. “I'd live inside you if I could-” That alone has your mind descending further and further into this pit of hellfire you're both swimming in.

“That's it,” his hand rubs circles around your clit. Fast, demanding circles that have you wincing, “Your pussy wants me so bad. You want me so bad I’m- fuck-” Its like he’s not talking to you and that alone makes you delirious.

“Gonna let me cum inside?”

Right when you're on the edge of it all, right when your about to cum, it stops. He's pulling your pants down- slotting himself messily between his legs before he brings his hand under your mouth.

“Spit.” He says, “Spit for me baby quickly.”

You do.

And when he uses it to lube up his cock your head hollows itself of all reason. You need him just as badly and soon, you're bucking upwards, guiding his cock in.

Through the slightly open door, your heart screams. Helpless, violent screams, and for a moment you delude yourself into believing you really have died and gone to hell.

But now the head of his cock is slicing right through you. He stabs you with it, slamming himself in until he's fully sheathed inside you. Your hand paws at his back. You wish he was shirtless so you can sink your nails into his back. Bring him closer. Until you've consumed him whole.

“You're pussy's so good- fuck. Between this, and the pills… Don't know which is better, baby-” he's already fucjing you at a quick and desperate pace against the wall. He lifts your leg up by hooking a hand under your thigh, only slotting himself in deeper.

With his other hand, he lifts the knife up. He lets it glint under the fluorescents. He lets you see it

“I could hurt you too.”

There's no rule that says I can't. I could make you all pretty with your eyes all empty. He presses the knife to the side of the neck as he fucks you, his eyes keenly zeroed in on your hot, sweating dark skin against the pointed tip. His cock oozes precum inside you.

“But your eyes are already pretty, yeah? My pretty baby

“Gyu- I'm gonna cum-”

“Fuck-”

He tilts the knife a little too deep, until a single bead of crimson dots your throat. You don't notice but he does.

“Im gonna cum inside you,” he says, fucking you harder against the wall. You nod, and when he dips his head between your neck to lick that bead of your blood, you feel his cock twitch inside you.

“Wanna taste you, your pussy, your skin, your blood- fuck-”

He's shooting his load inside you as he spews his unholy vitriol. It fills and then it spills and you're creaming around him as you slip into your own orgasm. It muddies your head and you cry out clutching at him like you want him completely inside you..

The door opens.

A blue vest, stops and stares at you two with wide eyes, before shuffling out.

You're both breathing heavily, both on a high that feels impossible to come down from. He's tracing patterns with the knife on your skin and you know next time he cuts you it won't be an accident.

[spatialwave]

Keys & Knives

pairing: namgyu x fem!reader word count: 2.5k ask: “I wanted to know if you could write a Nam-gyu x reader in the 4th game where the reader is on blue team and Nam-gyu is on the red” tags: nsfw, minimal smut, mentions of drug use, blood/violence, predator/prey, namgyu is psychotic as hell but very down bad for you lol, dark themes, no use of y/n, notes: thanks for sending this ask! the 4th game was so intense i’ve actually been itching to write some of the cat/mouse scenarios that come with it! not very smutty but if ppl like it i could be convinced to write a part 2 lol sensitive content below the cut.

How you made it this far was beyond you. You were running on pure adrenaline, every morning waking up with maybe three hours of sleep under your belt and a hungry, aching stomach. You’d ditched most of your food in the evenings, unable to eat from the anxiety that flooded your veins and contracted your stomach into horrible cramps.

Every waking minute left you terrified, looking around at the remaining survivors and afraid anytime you thought about the night the lights went out. The night when you watched many like-minded participants murdered in cold blood by those who voted to continue the games.

By now, you were weary of everyone. You’d found yourself once in Thanos’ gang in the earlier rounds, but that had gone to shit. There were only three of you left—Minsu, Namgyu and you. 

You’d avoided each other since that night. 

You watched from a careful distance as Namgyu babied Thanos’ necklace, dipping into the pills inside. You watched as Minsu hid away from both of you, both terrified and guilt-ridden of his lack of action that night. You decided to stay away. 

Nothing good could come from interacting with either of them. 

That was, until game four happened.

As you stood in the room before the games, a blue ball in your hand—you looked over and saw both Namgyu and Minsu on the opposite side of the room. Your heart stopped as the rules were announced. Watching in horror as you were given a measly rounded key, and each member of the red team was given a knife. Bullshit.

Your eyes landed on Namgyu, watching as he admired the knife. Seeing the bright red blood pool from his finger as he tested the sharpness of the blade. He tongued the blood, licking it clean as he looked over his shoulder, and those sharp, fox-like eyes landed right on you.

Your blood ran cold, muscles tensing as a wicked smile grew on his lips. Namgyu waved the blade, giggling like a crazed psycho.

You knew you weren’t his favourite—not after you voted to end the games. If Semi hadn’t died by his hands that night, it would’ve been you. You were sure of it.

To think, at one point, you’d had feelings for him. Well, ‘feelings’ was an egregious descriptor. The night after the pentathlon, you found yourself in his bunk when you couldn’t sleep, your mouth on his and quietly stifling whimpers as his hands pushed past your sweats. His words had been so sickeningly sweet, easing you into a night of pleasure that you hadn’t experienced in so long. He kissed you so tenderly, fingers plunging deep inside of you and curling to hit that perfect spot until you saw stars.

With red cheeks, you looked away from him and ahead at the guards. 

Game start.

The blue team filtered through the doors first, given a headstart to find their way to the exit. You hadn’t expected a maze, with various hallways, dead ends, and so much repetition that you’d begun to get dizzy. Your anxiety had started spiralling, especially when the red team was let in..

Only five minutes in, you heard the sounds of distant screaming as the red team preyed on the blue team.

“Shit,” you whimpered under your breath as you stumbled upon a closed door. You could hear distant footsteps, heavy as if chasing. With fidgety fingers, you managed to unlock the door and slip into the room that was painted brightly like a child’s daycare room. Quietly, you closed the door behind you and listened to the footsteps walk past, and your attention drifted around the room as you took it in. 

Then, you saw the other door.

You perked up, rushing towards it only for your key to not budge into its slot—a square?

Everyone had different keys.

After a couple of more minutes, you peeked your head out of the door. You looked both ways, knowing you’d need to be sneaky. Slipping out of the door, you quietly tiptoed down the hall, flinching anytime you heard a distant yelp or shout.

You were quiet, so quiet. You had managed to find the body of another blue player, their necklace hanging loose around their neck and bloodied—a square. With shaky handywork, you removed it and strung it around your neck and turned to face the opposite direction. All you needed was to retrace your steps and head back to the room you’d found. Surely a room with more doors was a good sign.

Carefully, you padded and made it to the end of the hall and turned right.

That’s when your eyes landed on him. Blood coating his face and vest. A wild, distant look in his eyes.

“You,” Namgyu spoke, a sickeningly sweet smile spreading on his lips as he pointed the knife in your direction. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he continued, stepping forward and scraping the sharp end of the knife against the wall as you backed up.

Your back hit the wall behind you, the scraping of the knife sending chills up your spine and making your head hurt.

“You’re such a rat. You hide so well!” He laughed, a sound you almost didn’t recognize. With how dark his eyes were, you couldn’t see—but you were certain his pupils were fully blown out. It was how Thanos’ were in those first few games he played.

His footsteps were light as he walked towards you, and it wasn’t until that moment that you understood the genuine fear of being preyed upon. You couldn’t recognize the crazed man he’d become, and your heart sank deep into the pit of your stomach. For a few moments, you accepted death, feeling the cold wall behind you. You wondered if maybe this was a good thing, that you could finally escape this hellscape.

It was the sound of a blood-curdling scream that brought you back to reality, and you ran.

Pushing yourself from the wall, you used it as leverage to sprint down the hallway to your left, and you could hear the sounds of him yelling out your name from a distance. You knew you couldn’t outrun him, not when he was as high as he was. He had more stamina, and you were far more clumsy and tripping anytime you turned a sharp corner.

It wasn’t until you felt your lungs beginning to burn that you found an open door to your right. It took everything to hold your breath and remain hidden as you slipped inside and closed the door just enough to cover you from the hallway. You felt like you were going to pass out, needing to heave and breathe, but you kept your hand tight over your mouth and nose.

Footsteps neared, slowing. You hid further to the wall, hoping that if he opened the door, you’d be hidden perfectly behind it.

You could fight him off if he found you. You could kick him between his legs or his stomach and make a run for it. As your mind ran rampant with ideas of how to protect yourself, you weren’t ready for what you saw. A stranger. A player you hadn’t recognized, likely within Player 100’s gang.

You froze, eyes wide and watching as he stepped into the room and turned to look behind the door, noticing you.

In a second, you attempted to sprint past, but he grabbed your jacket and threw you back into the room. You crashed against the floor, gasping as the wind was knocked from your chest.

“I thought I was going to fucking die,” the man breathed, thankful to have run into you. “You sneaky thing. Don’t worry, I’ll make it quick.”

You looked up at him as he stepped towards you, his hand tightening around his knife. You kicked your legs a few times, a futile attempt as he kicked them aside, and you winced at the rough hit. 

You saw him bend forward and swing, and you covered your face with your arms to protect whatever you could, but the pain from the blade never came. All you heard was the sound of struggling and huffing, then the door slamming shut. The door banged a few times, and it felt too good to be true. 

You were saved.

You dropped your arms and looked to see you’re saviour, sitting up slightly—then you paled. 

Namgyu had his back pressed to the door, feet firm on the ground, as the man who had tried to kill you attempted to push into the room. You shook your head, scrambling back until your head hit the wall and you felt momentarily dizzy.

“Please, don’t—” you murmured, all you could say.

Namgyu crinkled his nose, turning his head to the door, “She’s mine!” He hissed. And just like that, his prayers were answered as the forceful shoves of his teammate ceased, and instead, you both heard a woman’s scream and retreating footsteps.

His eyes returned to you, and you shook your head.

Your mouth had gone dry; you wanted this to end, but not from him, not like this. You wanted to go back home, back to your dingy little apartment. Your safety net where you could gamble all your money away and smoke all the weed you could until everything was numb. Your old life was better than this. You could suffer more if it meant getting away from his hellscape.

“You…” Namgyu chuckled, stepping away from the door. The hand that held the knife fell to his side, and the other pushed back over his face, then his hair, smearing the fresh blood over his skin. “You scared me.”

Puzzled, you stared at him in silence. He was erratic, and you didn’t want to upset him.

Slowly, he bent his knees into a kneeling position, elbows on his knees and hands hanging loose. His head cocked to the side, “Stop running and hiding. I’m tired of chasing you.”

“Go away,” you mumbled, fingers pressing harder into the floor beside you. “Please, just let me go. Namgyu, please—”

“That’s what I like about you,” he grinned, using the knife to point at you again, “You always say it right. You never treated me like I was worse than you.”

And why would you? Out of these games, you were sure you and Namgyu were alike. Running through different paths of addiction and debt. All of you were. There was no sense in pretending like anyone was better.

You perked up slightly.

“Are you going to kill me?”

Namgyu’s eyes flickered down to the blade in his hands, corners of his lips curling. He looked at you and narrowed his eyes. 

“You don’t want me to? I’ve killed three people already… four would just mean there’s more money for us who want to keep playing.” He said, eyeing you up. His voice was unwavering and a bit giddy. He was enjoying this.

Slowly, you shifted until you rose to your feet, unsteady in your movements and swaying. He followed, standing back up. You both stared at each other, and you weren’t sure if he was going to kill you or not. You wondered if maybe—just maybe—you could talk your way out of this. Feed into what he wanted to hear.

At the same time, you weren’t sure if you could. Not with that crazy look in his eyes.

The timing of this game was your saviour, though. The sound of another scream caused Namgyu to look over his shoulder, noticing the door slightly ajar as the sound reverberated in. It was your only chance; you had a brief moment in time where this could work.

You took it.

With quick steps, you shot forward and used all the strength you could muster to shove Namgyu to the side. He stumbled over his feet, but he hadn’t fallen like you hoped. Still, you went for the door. It was your only escape.

Fingers curled into your hair, and you cursed yourself for not having it pinned away like others had. You had grabbed the door knob, opening the door, but it was no use when Namgyu kicked it shut and slammed you against it.

You gasped, wincing in pain as your front hit the door. He stood behind you, pressed against you, and held the knife to the skin of your jaw.

“You’re easy to rile up,” he whispered, his breath against your ear. Warm and ticklish. The knife pressed against your skin hard, almost breaking it and drawing blood until he pulled back. “You’re too pretty to cut up,” he murmured, inhaling your scent as his teeth grazed the shell of your ear.

“Namgyu,” you whined, hands pressing between your chest and the door. Your nails scratched at the wood, itching to escape.

“If I wanted you dead I would’ve let that asshole kill you,” he whispered, and it sent a chill down your spine. “I wanted to make sure no one else got you first.”

You didn’t answer.

The sound of clattering caught your attention, and you looked down at the knife on the floor, bloodied. You looked back up, over your shoulder and saw Namgyu. You saw that sweet smile on his face. You were so close that you finally saw the blown pupils under the harsh lighting of the room.

You wondered if it was the drugs. That tomorrow he’d wake up, and in the next game, you’d be running from him again because he wasn’t in his right mind now. As much you wanted to get away from the insanity of the games and forget it all happened… somehow—in some fucked up way—you believed him.

“Why me?” You asked quietly, your voice nothing higher than a soft squeak.

“Because I can’t close my eyes without seeing your face all fucked out,” he huffed, two bloody hands grabbing at your hips. “I need to see it again. I want to hear you say my name while I fuck you. I need it bad.”

Your entire brain scrambled as he spoke to you, like he was begging. He whimpered into your ear, rutting against your ass pathetically and you were almost sure it was the drugs making him feel this way, but the heat growing between your thighs was unbearable.

“Fuck,” you whimpered under your breath, a soft sound escaping your throat as one of his hands pushed up under your shirt and the other into your sweats. Your toes curled into your shoes, and you gave in.

You were sure that this was going to bite you in the ass—that trusting anyone else this far into the games was a bad idea. Yet, his hands were so missed on our body.

You were just as fucked up as he was, even without the drugs.

[cass-1]

౨ৎ — visit from the wife — ౨ৎ

"There's a damn hot lass who walked into Price's office just minutes ago," Soap whispered to Simon, amusement filled his voice.

And when Simon didn't give any response, he continued, "She looked pissed. Wonder what that could be. Could be trouble in paradise for those two."

clearly Soap would be the one to wanting to figure things out, whenever it was about rumors or some spicy behind the scenes, he would be first to sniff around. Especially as it involves a hot lass like er’

Simon gave a brief glance at Soap before returning his eyes to his phone. Lieutenant Riley wasn't the one to give a second thought about other people's private lives and since he had a hog missus at home himself, why should he care?

Soap was still ranting about the drop dead gorgeous, pissed off woman who walked into Price's office when he suddenly stopped at the sound of high heels clicking at the ground.

That made Simon raise his eyes from phone. As soon as his gaze met hers, his jaw clenched, eyes widened a bit in surprise.

Tight fit jeans enlightening her curves, white blouse and black suit jacket. It all complimented her body well. It was hard to tear eyes away from her.

"Do you think she's his girlfriend? Or what is she doing here?" Soap leaned closer to Simon, both of their eyes still on the woman.

"She's from Counterintelligence." Simon grunted.

Soap's head snapped to look at him "How do you know mate?"

"She's my bloody missus.” Simon said, getting up from his seat, leaving Soap dumbfounded as he made his way towards the woman.

“What’re yu’ doin’ here.” He asked, looking down at you with that same stern glare.

“Drop the look, Y’know you’re not like that at home, handsome.” You flirted, trying t lighten the mood.

“I’m not in the’ mood, doll.” Simon stated, “du’ y’know how many men have gawked over yu’ the second u’ve entered the base?” He sighed, trying to contain his irritation.

“Let’s save the jealousy and keep this till we get home, aye?” You said, putting an innocent smile amongst your face. Y’know you’ll be having words with him later on his tone of voice towards her.

“Yes missus.” He surrendered. Simon was so getting it up the ass later on for the way he speaks to her amongst his pals.

“Good boy.” You whispered with that same weak ol’ smile. The innocent look on your face— he knew you were the man in the relationship. Simon tried his hardest to be it, but it failed.

You gave him a little kiss on the cheek before waving goodbye and heading back to the entrance. Your heels clicking every movement on the floor, making it echo in the halls.

“Oh Ghost, I ain’ thought yu’ ad’ that much of a gem at home.” Soap cackled, this only made Simon shoot him a glare. His laughing soon stopped.

“Enough chattin’ about my missus, yu’ should focus on keepin’ one.” He stated, the normal glare painting his face when he went and sat back down in his original seat.

The whole room began laughing their asses off, it only made Soap sit in denial and anger at the embarrassment. Now he knows when to keep his mouth shut.

I loved this guys. lmk if u want a part two of the at home vers. 👅

[mooningningg]

After You - Satoru G.

about. after a devastating accident pulls you back to tokyo, the last person you expect to see again is gojo satoru — the man who shattered your heart a year ago. You swore you'd never forgive him. But he’s showing up in quiet mornings and rainy afternoons, offering everything you used to love. And no matter how hard you try… you still notice him.

pairings. Gojo x Fem!Reader

words. 12.69k

content. angst, exes to lovers (maybe), slow burn, heavy emotions, crying gojo, yelling reader, emotional breakdowns, single tulip at your door, “don’t touch me”, “oh, toru”, soft flashbacks, hospital scenes, self-sabotage, character growth, gojo on his knees, regret-filled apologies, comfort scenes, pacing in a hotel room, rainy confessions, “i miss you”, sleepless nights, soft touches, holding back tears, emotional tension, love that still lingers

notes. stay up for part two??? winkwink, yll deserve a treat after this.

They say when something awful happens, time slows down.

But for you, it didn’t.

It struck fast and cruel, like the sharp snap of a branch underfoot.

One moment you were rinsing toothpaste from your mouth, scrolling mindlessly through notifications, and the next, your phone was shaking in your hand, someone on the other end barely holding their voice together.

You don’t even remember what they said exactly — only that he was in surgery, and it didn’t sound good.

That was enough.

You were already grabbing whatever clothes you could find, already booking the next flight to Tokyo, already letting your vacation days burn for something that didn’t feel like a break at all.

It had been a while since you heard his voice. Longer since you’d seen his face. But the second you heard the words accident and critical, something inside you collapsed without permission.

You hadn’t cried yet.

Not really.

There wasn’t time for it — only motion, only urgency, only movement that felt like survival.

The grief hadn’t hit.

Not fully. But something close to it was blooming beneath your skin, a cold, buzzing panic that had followed you all the way from your apartment to the terminal to the cab ride now speeding toward the hospital.

You try not to think about who else might be at the hospital.

You haven’t asked.

You couldn’t bring yourself to.

The name lingers at the back of your throat like smoke — like a wound you’ve trained yourself not to touch. Even now, even after all this time, even after all the healing you’ve faked in Kyoto, you can’t say it.

Not even in your head.

Not without feeling your jaw clench, your pulse kick up, your entire body remembering the sting of something you were never supposed to feel.

You wish you could say you’ve moved on.

That the distance between then and now had softened the memory.

That you don’t still flinch when certain songs come on, or when someone with white hair brushes past you too fast on the street.

You wish you could say it doesn’t still live in you — that night, that voice, the sound of betrayal dressed in a whisper.

But it does, and it haunts you every damn time.

And that’s why you don’t let yourself say the name.

Not here.

Not yet.

Not when you’re this close to the hospital, this close to seeing him — the one who didn’t hurt you. The one who never left, even when you did.

Suguru.

His name doesn’t sting.

His name doesn’t tremble when you think it.

He was steady, kind. Always there in the background, holding pieces no one else noticed you’d dropped.

The thought of him lying still in a hospital bed makes your stomach twist in ways you don’t have words for. You’ve known him since your first year of high school — back when the world felt too big and the future felt too far. He was the calm between louder voices, the one who made space for you when everything else felt like too much.

You owe him everything. So when the hospital comes into view — tall, gray, humming under fluorescent lights — you square your shoulders and remind yourself why you’re here. Not for ghosts. Not for memories. Not for names you can’t bring yourself to say.

You’re here for the boy who never let you fall alone.

You’re here for Suguru.

And if something else is waiting for you inside those walls?

You’ll deal with it when it finds you.

The hospital lobby is too bright. That’s the first thing you notice. Too white, too sterile, too cold. The kind of place where time moves weird — where minutes drag and hours vanish and the people sitting around you are all waiting for answers they’re scared to hear.

Your bag hangs heavy off your shoulder as you step through the sliding glass doors. The air smells like bleach and something metallic beneath it. You don’t look around. You just head to the front desk, voice barely steady as you say Suguru’s name.

The nurse gives you a room number and tells you gently, “The surgery ended half an hour ago. He’s stable for now.”

You nod, but your chest doesn’t unclench.

They tell you you’ll have to wait until the doctor clears visitors. So you’re directed to the family waiting room — tucked in a quiet hallway at the end of the cardiology wing. You’re almost afraid to open the door.

But you do.

And the second you step in, you see her.

Shoko sits in the corner of the room, hunched forward with her elbows on her knees, a tissue clutched loosely in one hand. Her eyes are red, but her face is still. Blank. The kind of blank that only comes after hours of holding it in.

She looks up when she hears you enter.

And for a moment, she doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

You just cross the room and kneel in front of her, the lump in your throat rising the second your eyes meet.

She was the one who called you.

Shoko hadn’t always been part of your circle. She came halfway through high school — quiet at first, almost cold, until she wasn’t. You didn’t expect to grow close to her, but she stuck. A sharp tongue, a good heart. You shared notes, lighter moments, hungover mornings. Somehow, she became someone you trusted. And now she’s here, holding herself like she’ll fall apart if she breathes too hard.

You reach for her hand, and her fingers curl tightly around yours.

“I got the call at 2AM,” she says. Her voice is hoarse. “They said it was bad. That there was… blood. And broken ribs. And—” She stops. Her mouth opens, then closes again. “They didn’t tell me if he was going to make it.”

You squeeze her hand. “He will.”

She lets out a breath, shaky and half-laugh, half-sob. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you say, even though your voice cracks. “Because he’s Suguru. He’s stubborn as hell. He doesn’t know how to leave.”

Shoko nods, but her lips are trembling now, and when her eyes meet yours again, whatever strength she was holding onto snaps.

The tears fall quietly. No sound at first — just her face crumpling as she leans forward and buries herself in your arms.

You hold her. Tight. The way you wish someone would hold you. Your hand finds the back of her head, and your other arm wraps around her shoulders as she finally breaks. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just broken.

You try to whisper something — It’s okay. You’re not alone. I’m here. But your own voice wavers, and before you can stop it, your cheeks are wet too.

You don’t even know who you’re crying for.

For Suguru, who didn’t deserve this.

For Shoko, who held everything together alone for hours.

For yourself, for everything you left behind and everything you’re being forced to feel all over again.

You cry quietly, tucked into each other like the world outside the waiting room doesn’t exist. You’re not ready to face anything beyond these walls — not the doctors, not the machines, not the possibility of seeing him.

But for now, you don’t have to.

You have Shoko. And she has you.

And maybe that’s enough, just for this moment.

The waiting room stays quiet after that. Just soft footsteps from nurses in the hallway, the buzz of an old TV on low volume, and the occasional sniffle from Shoko as she tries to get her breathing under control. You don’t say much. Neither of you need to. You just sit beside her, shoulder to shoulder, hands wrapped around bad vending machine coffee that tastes like burnt water and anxiety.

You checked your phone a few times, but there’s no point. No missed calls. No new updates. Just time dragging its feet, and your knee bouncing without rhythm. At some point, you both gave up and wandered down the hall to the little hospital kiosk — bought crackers you never opened, a bottle of tea, a rice ball you didn’t touch. The cashier didn’t ask questions. You looked too tired for small talk.

The hours stretched thin after that.

Shoko eventually closed her eyes for a bit, curled up awkwardly in one of the waiting chairs, her lab coat draped around her like a blanket. You didn’t sleep. You couldn’t. You just sat there, chewing your lip raw and staring at the hallway.

And then — finally — the door opens.

You shoot up before your brain catches up. Shoko’s eyes snap open too, and you both stand at once when the doctor walks in.

He looks tired, like he’s been on his feet for hours, but there’s a calm in his posture. A professionalism in his voice that makes you cling to every word.

“He made it through surgery,” he says. “There was a lot of internal bruising, several fractured ribs, and a ruptured spleen. The bleeding was significant, but we got to it in time. He’s stable now. Still unconscious, but responsive to touch. We’re keeping him under observation for the next twenty-four hours.”

You nod too quickly, almost like it’ll make the information easier to digest. Shoko’s breath hitches beside you.

“You can see him,” the doctor adds. “But keep it short, please. He needs rest.”

You thank him, voice barely audible, then follow the quiet sound of his footsteps down the hall. The fluorescent lights feel too bright again. The tiles echo under your shoes.

When he stops at the room, something in your chest twists.

The doctor opens the door, gives a polite nod, and leaves.

You step in.

The beeping is the first thing you hear — soft and steady. Machines monitoring a rhythm that, hours ago, almost stopped entirely. The lights are dimmed low, and the smell of antiseptic clings to everything.

Suguru looks... small.

Not physically. He’s still tall, still long-limbed, still very much the person you remember. But there’s something in the way he’s lying there — skin pale, an oxygen line resting under his nose, his arm bandaged and strapped with IV lines — that makes your heart lurch into your throat.

You take slow steps to the side of his bed. Shoko hovers beside you, her hand covering her mouth like she’s trying not to break again.

There’s a chair near the headboard, and you take it.

“Hey,” you whisper. Your voice feels too loud, even though it barely comes out.

His eyes are shut. There’s a bruise just beneath his cheekbone, faint yellow mixed with violet. You wonder if he even knows you’re here.

Shoko steps closer, brushing a hand over his hair, like maybe that’ll wake him. She doesn’t say anything either. Just stares down at him like she still can’t believe it’s real.

You swallow thickly and rest your hand near his — not touching, but close enough that he’d feel it if he shifted.

“You scared the shit out of us,” you murmur.

Still nothing.

But he’s breathing. That’s enough. For now, that’s enough.

You lean back in the chair and press your palm to your chest, trying to quiet the chaos inside you.

He’s here. He’s alive.

And as long as he is — you can keep going.

You’re not sure how long you sit there in silence, just watching the slow rise and fall of Suguru’s chest. His skin looks pale against the sheets. His lips are chapped. There’s a machine next to him that lets out a soft hiss every few seconds, and the sound digs under your skin like a pin.

Shoko stands near the window, arms crossed, eyes unfocused. She hasn’t cried again, but you can still see the weight in her face — like something’s pressing down hard on her shoulders and she’s too stubborn to fall under it.

You speak first, voice low. “Do they know what happened?”

She blinks, like the question had to filter through layers of static. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, the cops called me after I got here.”

You wait.

“They said it was a truck. Some delivery driver lost control—snow slicked road, poor brakes. It was too fast. Hit Suguru on the driver’s side.” She swallows. “They said he probably didn’t even see it coming.”

Your fingers tighten in your lap. The thought of Suguru alone in a car, unaware, unable to stop what was coming—something about it twists in your stomach and won’t let go.

“They said if the ambulance came two minutes later…” Shoko doesn’t finish.

You don’t ask her to.

The silence after is full. Not empty — just packed with things neither of you want to name. So you stare at the beeping monitor instead, and try to focus on the rhythm. It helps. A little.

Then Shoko’s phone rings.

She looks down, already irritated before she even sees the screen. But when she does, her lips press into a thin line. Her jaw flexes.

You don’t need to ask.

You already know.

It’s like your whole body freezes. Like your bones remember something your mind worked so hard to forget. You feel your pulse spike, chest tightening, the cold creeping in from somewhere deep inside.

“I should get this,” she mutters, eyes flicking toward you.

You don’t move. You can’t even nod. But she’s already turning away, already answering.

“Where are you, Satoru?” she snaps, low and sharp, the words like glass.

And just like that, it’s back.

His name.

Said out loud for the first time in a year. Like it never left the earth. Like it hasn’t been rotting quietly in the dark corners of your memory. It lands heavy, sharp — like someone carved it straight into your skin without asking.

You inhale too fast. Look away. Pretend to focus on Suguru’s hand.

Shoko paces a little, voice hushed now but tense. “No—don’t pull that. Don’t—Satoru, you should’ve been here hours ago. He could’ve died.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard.

Not now. This isn’t about him. This isn’t why you’re here. You came for Suguru — because he’s your friend. Because he’s family. Because he never broke you.

But you can hear Shoko’s voice still, even as she walks toward the hallway, trying not to disturb you.

“Yeah. She’s here. What the hell do you expect me to say to her?”

It’s too much.

Your chest tightens, and the room suddenly feels smaller — like the walls are pressing in, like the air’s been sucked out. You stare at Suguru harder, like maybe he’ll wake up and give you something to cling to. A joke. A complaint. A tired smirk.

But he’s asleep. And he is coming.

You push your chair back, quietly. The scrape of the legs on the tile is soft but enough to break Shoko’s focus for a second. She glances back, still holding the phone against her ear, and your eyes meet.

You don’t say anything.

You just need to leave before you fall apart.

You need air. You need to walk. You need to remember how to exist without his name ringing in your ears.

Because four years ended on a Tuesday.

Just like that.

And now he’s coming back into your life like the silence he left behind wasn’t loud enough.

You won’t break.

Not for him.

Not again.

You don’t wait for her to come back in fully.

You’ve already grabbed your bag from the floor, fingers fumbling for the zipper, pretending you’re not moving too fast, pretending your heart isn’t crashing against your ribs like a trapped thing.

Shoko steps into the room slowly, her phone still in her hand, like she’s trying to approach you without startling you.

“Y/N—” she starts, but doesn’t get the whole sentence out.

You’re already swinging your bag over your shoulder. “I need to check in. I haven’t… I haven’t rented anything yet. I need to figure that out.”

She frowns. “What?”

“I mean, I was thinking of staying somewhere for a few weeks. Like that Mimaru place in Ueno East. The one with the little kitchen. I think I saw a listing still open. I need to book it now—while I still can.”

You’re not making sense. You both know it. But your voice keeps pushing forward, carrying you through the panic, through the fog, like if you just keep talking, none of this will catch up to you.

Shoko steps in front of you before you can reach the door. “Y/N.”

You won’t look at her.

She exhales hard, trying again. “He’s coming. Satoru’s on his way.”

Your eyes snap up. The name, again. Spoken like it doesn’t hurt. But it does. It cracks something inside you, sharp and instant.

“I know,” you say flatly. “That’s why I need to go.”

“Y/N, wait—”

“I came here for Suguru,” you say, louder now, your voice starting to shake. “Not for him. I didn’t ask to see him. I didn’t want to see him. I can’t.”

Shoko’s expression tightens. Her eyes soften, but her jaw sets with a kind of stubborn kindness only she could pull off.

“This isn’t about you and him right now.”

Your laugh is bitter, short. “No? It feels pretty damn close.”

“I’m still mad about it,” she snaps. “Do you think I forgave him? I haven’t. I still want to punch him every time I remember what he did to you. But this isn’t about him. Or about you. This is about Suguru. He needs both of you here. Whether you like it or not.”

You shake your head. “I can’t be in the same room as him, Shoko.”

“Then don’t talk to him.” Her voice is quieter now, but firmer. “Don’t look at him. Just stay. For Suguru. That’s all I’m asking.”

You stare at her, trying to find something to fight with — a reason, an excuse, anything that doesn’t sound like I’m scared, because that’s what it really is. You’re scared. Of how he’ll look at you. Of how your voice might betray you. Of the way your heart is already acting like it remembers him — and it shouldn’t.

Shoko sees it. All of it. You don’t say a word, but your silence screams.

She takes a step closer.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you in a year,” she says quietly. “A whole year, Y/N.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“I missed you.”

Her voice is so soft, it lands right where your defenses are thinnest. You look at her — really look — and you see it in her face: everything she’s carried, everything she’s held together without you. You weren’t the only one who lost something when you left.

The room stays still for a long beat.

And you?

You just hold your bag a little tighter. Because you’re not sure what else you can hold onto right now.

You’ve been staring at your phone for the last twenty minutes, screen dim, thumb barely scrolling. You’re not reading anything. Not really. You just need something to look at that isn’t the door. Something to occupy the space inside your chest that’s been on high alert ever since Shoko stood up and said, “I’ll go get him.”

You didn’t ask her to.

But you didn’t stop her either.

Suguru hasn’t moved. His breathing stays slow, steady, the beeping of the monitors calm like he’s just napping after a long night. Every few minutes, your gaze drifts from your phone back to him. You wonder what he’d say if he were awake. You wonder if he’d be pissed or grateful. Maybe both. He was always better at reading people than you were.

You check the time again. The hallway outside is too quiet.

And then — footsteps.

Two pairs. Light, but unhurried. The sound of them makes something cold unfurl in your stomach.

You don’t lift your head. You don’t need to.

He’s here.

You knew he was. You felt it before Shoko even said she was going to meet him at the entrance — probably so the nurses wouldn’t assume he was some random six-foot-two man barging into the ICU like he owned the place. Because that’s what he looked like. Always did.

Even now, when Shoko opens the door and walks in first, your spine goes stiff.

And then he enters.

You don’t raise your eyes at first. You feel it instead — the way the air in the room shifts like it always used to. The weight of him. The gravity. It always demanded your attention.

And slowly, inevitably, you look up.

The same white hair. Tousled, like he ran his hand through it on the way here. No blindfold. No sunglasses. Just those eyes — the ones that used to soften when they looked at you, like you were something holy.

They’re just blue now. Plain and clear and impossible to forget.

You don’t mean to stare.

But in that second, you remember everything.

The way he used to walk you home, flicking your forehead and laughing at how dramatic you were. The way he used to kiss the top of your head like it was second nature. The night you fell asleep in his lap while he crammed for a test he never studied for. The four years of being so stupidly, completely his.

And then — the night you weren’t enough.

The night he told you everything and cried while you sat there, feeling like something hollow and discarded. The night you walked out of his apartment with a suitcase in your hand and everything else in pieces.

Your eyes drop back to Suguru, and you don’t look again.

He almost says something. You hear the breath catch in his throat, like he’s reaching for your name.

But Shoko is faster.

“Don’t talk to her,” she says under her breath, cutting her eyes toward him like a warning. “Give her space.”

A beat. And then he exhales — long and quiet, like it knocked something loose in his chest.

You keep your eyes on Suguru.

Because you came for him. Not for this. Not for him.

Satoru bites it back. Sighs, low and tired. Rubs the back of his neck.

Because she’s right.

You don’t owe him a damn thing. Not a word. Not a look.

He hurt you — ruined everything — in one night.

And now?

Now you’re sitting there like the four years he loved you never happened at all.

But you’re still the most beautiful thing in the room.

And he’s still the one who destroyed it.

You hadn’t meant to remember.

But sometimes, when the room gets too still — when the hum of the fridge starts to sound like silence, when the chair beneath you feels too familiar — it creeps back in. All of it.

The mornings first.

You used to wake up in a sun-drenched room that wasn’t yours, pressed beneath heavy sheets and even heavier limbs. Satoru always slept like he was trying to pin you to the mattress. A leg flung over yours. Arms around your waist. Sometimes his face buried in your shoulder, breath warm on your skin as he mumbled nonsense in his sleep.

He was terrible at waking up.

Always five alarms deep, groaning, dragging himself out of bed like gravity only worked on him. But for you? He made coffee. Every time. Milk and one sugar. Sometimes he forgot the sugar and tried to kiss it back into your mouth later, laughing when you told him he tasted like regret and half-burnt toast.

You used to study together — or at least, you tried to. Satoru got bored easily. You’d be neck-deep in notes while he stacked highlighters into towers or played with your hair, asking what you thought you’d name your future dog. Somehow, you always let him distract you.

Some nights you sat in the tiny ramen shop near the corner of your dorms, sharing pork broth and teasing him about getting extra noodles when he was already full. He never listened. Always said, “If I die, at least it’s with miso in my veins.”

He was loud in crowds, but soft with you. Always softer with you.

Fingers brushing yours under tables. A kiss to the side of your head as you walked. His hand resting on the back of your neck when you leaned forward — like he needed the contact, even in silence.

He took pictures of you when you weren’t looking.

And then laughed when you caught him.

You fought sometimes. Of course you did. Over nothing and everything — who forgot to text, who didn’t show up on time, what he said that came out too sharp. But he always came back. Always found you.

The rooftop of the engineering building. The lawn under the cherry blossom trees in spring. That 24-hour diner you hated but he loved, with neon lights that made your skin look like paper.

He made you laugh until your ribs hurt.

He danced with you in the hallway once, music playing from his phone speaker, swaying clumsily in socked feet on polished floor. Told you, “This is what people mean when they say forever.”

And you believed him.

God, you really did.

You memorized the shape of him — the curve of his grin, the dip of his collarbone, the little mole near his jaw he always forgot about.

He was your first home that wasn’t a place.

And for a while... it felt like enough.

It felt like always.

You didn’t just love him.

You chose him.

Again and again, even when it didn’t make sense. Even when everything else told you not to.

It wasn’t just coffee in the mornings and laughter under cherry blossoms. It wasn’t just the warm way he’d look at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

It was the night he drank too much after bombing a midterm he swore he didn’t care about. You were halfway through your own exam — thirty minutes in, pen moving furiously — when your phone started buzzing in your lap. Over and over. Shoko. Then Nanami. Then finally, a stranger.

The bar manager’s voice was sharp. Impatient. “Is this Y/N? You need to get down here now. He’s making a scene.”

You didn’t finish the test.

Didn’t explain. Didn’t even grab your jacket.

You just ran.

All the way to the cheap bar two blocks off campus where Satoru was slumped in a booth, laughing too loud, eyes glassy, one arm hanging off the edge like he was too big for the world. People were staring. A manager was yelling. Telling you they should call the cops. That he wasn’t your problem.

But he was.

He always was.

You apologized until your voice went hoarse. Helped him up even though he was twice your size. Held his hand like it could shield you both from the embarrassment burning up your cheeks. Got him home, into his room, into bed, and stayed by his side the whole night while he muttered half-coherent regrets into the pillow.

You missed the exam.

Your professor didn’t let you retake it.

Your parents didn’t understand either.

“You're throwing your future away for some boy?” “He can take care of himself, Y/N — why is it always you picking him up?” “He’s not your responsibility.”

But you loved him.

And that made it worth it.

At least back then, it did.

He had this way of holding your face when you cried. Like nothing else existed. Like your sadness deserved reverence. His thumbs would brush under your eyes, soft and steady, and he’d whisper things like, “If it hurts, I’ll make it stop. You just tell me how.”

He made you believe he could fix anything.

That nothing could go wrong as long as you had him.

He’d show up to your apartment with cheap takeout and a new playlist, saying, “You looked tired in your texts. This is recovery food and sonic healing.”

He’d kiss your knuckles in the middle of arguments, just to calm you down.

He’d carry your backpack after class even when you said it was fine. “It’s not about weight,” he said once, “it’s about letting you know I’m here.”

And God, you let him be there.

Even when it cost you sleep.

Even when it cost you grades.

Even when it started to cost you you.

Because being with Satoru made you feel like you were bulletproof — like nothing could touch you, not the world, not failure, not loneliness. He filled your days with so much light, you didn’t realize how dim you were becoming just to keep him shining.

You gave him everything.

Even the ugly parts. The selfish parts. The ones you’d never shown anyone else.

You gave him the parts of you that you now wish you’d saved.

Because at the time, you thought he’d keep them safe.

And for a while… He did.

It had been raining that week too.

Not softly. Not romantic or warm. Just endless, grey, and cold — the kind of weather that felt like it was leaking through the cracks in your life.

Things had been rocky for a while. A month, maybe more. Missed calls. Short replies. Less eye contact. More space between your bodies in bed.

You told yourself it was stress. Finals. His internship. The late nights, the shift in his tone when you asked where he’d been. You told yourself not to spiral.

Until the night he came home at one in the morning.

The dorm was dark. Just the little desk lamp you kept on while studying, your notes spread out in front of you, highlighter ink staining your fingertips. You were barely awake. Shoulders tense, eyes sore.

You didn’t even hear the door unlock.

You only noticed when the floor creaked — and then there he was, dripping rainwater on the hardwood, wiping his shoes half-heartedly on the mat.

He looked exhausted.

But not in the way you did.

You stared at him for a second.

Then said quietly, “You didn’t text.”

He ran a hand through his hair, didn’t look at you. “I figured you were busy.”

“I was. Still am.”

And when he finally turned his head, you saw it.

Just a flicker of it. Half-hidden beneath the line of his jaw, peeking out from the collar of his hoodie.

A kiss mark.

Faint. But real.

You froze.

He didn’t notice — or maybe he did. Maybe he thought you wouldn’t say anything.

But you did.

“…What’s on your neck?”

His mouth twitched.

“What?”

“Your neck,” you repeated, voice thin. “What is that?”

He didn’t answer.

And you knew.

You knew.

You pushed back your chair. Stood. Let the question fall again, louder, uglier, something in your throat already cracking:

“Who was it?”

He scoffed.

Like it was ridiculous.

Like you were.

“Seriously?” he said. “You’re going to start this now?”

“Start—? Are you fucking kidding me—?”

“It’s not a big deal,” he muttered, already walking past you toward the kitchen. “God, I was drunk.”

Your chest burned.

“Drunk?” You followed him. “You let someone put their mouth on you and you’re calling it not a big deal?”

“It wasn’t. I didn’t mean for it to happen, alright?”

Your voice splintered.

“So it did happen.”

That made him pause.

And when he turned around, something in his face was wrong. Not defensive. Not even sorry.

Just tired.

Like this conversation bored him.

“Look,” he said, “I was overwhelmed. You don’t— You don’t understand what it’s been like lately. Everything’s too fucking much, alright? I can’t breathe around you anymore.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

“You’re always hovering,” he snapped. “Always checking in. Always making things heavy. You act like I’m your responsibility or something. I didn’t ask you to give up your classes for me. I didn’t ask you to pick me up from every shitty bar or cover for me with your parents—”

“I did that because I loved you,” you choked.

“Yeah? Well it doesn’t feel like love. It feels like guilt. Like pressure. Like I can’t mess up without you holding it over my head.”

You stared at him.

And you realized something, in that moment.

He didn’t just betray you.

He resented you.

Everything you did — the nights you skipped sleep, the classes you missed, the way you fought for him harder than you ever fought for yourself — he hated it. He hated being held up like that. He hated the version of you that refused to leave, even when he gave you reasons to.

And he hated how small it made him feel.

“Then why didn’t you just say it?” you whispered. “Why didn’t you just tell me you didn’t want me anymore?”

Satoru looked away.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t apologize.

You waited for him to say something that could undo it. Even now, even bleeding — you waited.

But all he said was:

“I didn’t think it would get this far.”

That was the moment something inside you died.

The part that still believed in him.

The part that thought maybe you were different. That the four years, the late-night confessions, the mornings wrapped in each other — that it all meant something solid. Something real.

Instead, you stood there in a room full of shattered promises, rain pounding against the windows like it was trying to drown out the silence between you.

You grabbed your coat.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t reach for your hand.

Didn’t chase you down the hallway or beg you to stay.

Because you weren’t his anymore.

Not after that.

Not ever again.

The hotel room is too quiet.

You’re curled into the corner of the couch, knees drawn up, a cup of coffee resting warm between your palms. The city outside your window is buzzing — lights flashing, cars passing — but in here, it’s still.

Still enough for old ghosts to come knocking.

Your laptop sits forgotten in your lap, the screen dimmed out minutes ago, maybe longer. You don’t remember what you were typing. You barely remember what you were thinking. All you know is that your brain hasn’t stopped spinning since the hospital.

Since you saw him.

It wasn’t the face that undid you — though even now, you can see it in the reflection of the black screen. White hair. Blue eyes. The shadow of a man you used to love more than you loved your own future.

No — it was the memory.

It came back fast. Uninvited.

One minute you were standing in that sterile room next to Shoko, pretending you didn’t feel him looking at you. The next, you were back in that tiny dorm, the rain against the window, his voice in your ears again like a curse.

"I didn’t think it would get this far."

That.

That was the part that still makes your throat close.

Not the cheating.

Not even the kiss mark on his neck.

But the way he made your love feel like an accident.

Like some burden he didn’t ask for. Something you did wrong.

And you hate him for that.

You fucking hate him.

You hate how those words still live in your chest like splinters. How even now, a year later, after therapy and silence and pretending you’re healed, the memory still makes your coffee taste bitter.

You stare down into the mug.

It’s lukewarm now. You should get up. Reheat it. Do anything other than sit here and replay what broke you.

But your body won’t move.

Because there’s a part of you — the part you thought you buried — that still wonders what you did to deserve it.

That part is quieter now, sure. Duller. But it’s there.

It whispers things you don’t want to hear.

That maybe you were too much. That maybe loving someone that hard was suffocating. That maybe if you had just—

You stop yourself.

You swallow it down.

Because no. No — fuck that.

You didn’t break the promise. You didn’t kiss someone else. You didn’t turn four years into a footnote just because things got hard.

He did that.

He chose that.

And no amount of blue eyes or half-hearted apologies will ever change it.

You press the coffee to your lips, even though it’s cold.

Even though it tastes like memory.

And somewhere in your chest, the hate sits quietly — not burning, not loud. Just there.

Heavy, unmovable and earned.

The hotel room was too still.

Too quiet without Shoko's tired sighs or your footsteps moving from the kitchen to the bathroom. No clinking mugs, no charger cords stretched across the bed, no rustling of your oversized hoodie as you curled up with your laptop. Just... silence. And the heavy hum of the air conditioner that sounded too much like guilt.

Satoru leaned back against the headboard, still fully dressed. Jacket unzipped, shoes on, fingers twitching at his sides like they were looking for something to hold onto. But there was nothing left to hold.

You were gone.

And he felt it — finally, in full.

He stared at the bedside lamp, too dim. The walls, too blank. His chest, too fucking empty.

It had taken him a long time to realize what your absence meant. Months, maybe. At first, he called it space. Told himself he was giving you room to “cool off,” to “think.” As if you were the one who needed to apologize.

But then a week passed.

And another.

And then… it hit him.

Not in a dramatic way. No thunderstrike. No collapse.

Just little things.

Like how no one reminded him to eat before heading out to meetings.

How his keys were always missing now, and you weren’t there to laugh and say “Left side coat pocket, dumbass.”

How his apartment stayed cold all the time. How the bathroom floor was always wet. How the playlist in his car kept skipping over the songs you used to sing quietly along to — not because he removed them, but because he couldn’t bring himself to listen anymore.

And then it hit harder.

The way his laundry piled up. The way his calendar never got updated. The way he showed up late to everything, forgot birthdays, left unread emails for days.

You used to handle those things. Not because you had to.

But because you wanted to.

Because you loved him.

And Satoru hadn’t even realized.

He hadn’t seen how much of his life you filled — how much of his chaos you softened with a simple glance, a kiss to the shoulder, a quiet, “Hey, it’s okay, I’ve got this.”

He took it all for granted.

Your steadiness. Your small routines. The way you made his favorite tea when he was too exhausted to lift a finger. How you made to-do lists for him and stuck them to the mirror in neon pink sticky notes that always ended with “♥ please don’t forget.”

He remembered the time he was sick for three days and you stayed up, head foggy from your own fever, just to make sure he drank water. The time he failed a certification test and you said nothing — just let him lay in your lap and cry, fingers stroking his hair until he fell asleep.

You never asked for thanks.

You never asked for anything.

And he gave you everything but loyalty.

Now, sitting in this goddamn hotel room with the overpriced minibar and the empty second pillow, he finally saw it.

He would’ve given his blood, his name, his stupid pride — anything — just to hear you laugh again.

That soft, slightly breathless laugh when he said something dumb. The kind that made your nose scrunch and your eyes soften like he was the only boy in the world.

And now it was gone.

You were gone.

And he’d never hated himself more than in this moment — not when you cried, not even when he walked out of your apartment for the last time.

It was now, in the silence.

In the knowing.

That he let something extraordinary slip through his hands — and he did it thinking he’d still have time.

He thought he could fuck up and still be loved.

He thought you’d always come back.

And he was wrong.

So devastatingly, gut-wrenchingly wrong.

There’s a knock at the door.

Sharp. Twice.

Satoru doesn’t move at first. He doesn’t want to deal with anyone, let alone a hotel staff member asking if he wants fresh towels. But then the door handle turns, and only one person on earth would be both ballsy and polite enough to knock before breaking in.

Nanami.

“You look like shit,” he says bluntly, stepping inside.

Satoru doesn’t respond. Just stares ahead at nothing, still slouched against the headboard, still in yesterday’s clothes, still silent.

Nanami doesn’t expect a hello. He just sets down the takeout bag in his hand and walks over to the chair by the window, shrugging off his coat.

“You haven’t left this room in two days,” he says. “Shoko told me.”

Satoru exhales. A bitter, tired sound.

“I’ve had worse.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Nanami says, crossing one leg over the other. “But this is pathetic. Even for you.”

Satoru finally shifts — just enough to glance over.

“You came here to insult me?”

“No,” Nanami says coolly. “I came here so you’d stop marinating in your own regret like a dying poet.”

Satoru snorts.

Then falls quiet again.

A beat passes. The air is thick.

Then, without looking over, Satoru mutters:

“…You think she’ll take me back?”

Nanami doesn’t answer right away.

He leans back in the chair. Eyes him for a long, quiet second.

“No,” he says, flatly.

Satoru flinches. Just a little. Like he was hoping for something softer, even from him.

But Nanami’s never been one to sugarcoat truth.

“Not now. Maybe not ever.”

Satoru rubs a hand down his face. His fingers twitch in his lap.

“She won’t even look at me,” he says, voice low. “At the hospital, she just sat there. Like I was invisible.”

Nanami nods.

“She should.”

Satoru glances at him, brows drawn.

And Nanami continues, tone calm but cutting.

“She loved you like you hung the stars. Gave you her time, her future, her energy — all without asking for anything back. And you... what? You broke her. Because what — you got scared? Bored? Tempted?”

“I fucked up,” Satoru says, almost choking on the words. “I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “Don’t act like I don’t care—”

“I’m not saying you don’t,” Nanami cuts in. “I’m saying caring doesn’t undo what you did.”

Satoru looks away.

Silence again.

Until finally—

“I miss her so much, Nanami.”

And this time it’s not snark. Not deflection. It’s raw. Soft. A wound speaking directly.

“I can’t sleep,” he says, eyes glossing over. “I keep checking my phone like she’s going to message. I keep thinking I’ll bump into her at that stupid bento shop she likes. I—”

He breaks off. Exhales shakily.

“I remember everything. The way she’d wake me up by pulling the blanket off. The way she’d tie her hair in a lazy bun and still look prettier than anyone else. She used to hum when she studied. I used to hate that sound but now it’s the only thing I want to hear.”

Nanami stays quiet.

Lets him spill.

“I didn’t think she’d really leave,” Satoru says, quieter now. “I thought… no matter how bad it got, she’d still—”

“But she did,” Nanami interrupts. “She did leave. Because she had to.”

Satoru clenches his jaw. Stares at the floor.

And Nanami softens — just a little.

“She loved you,” he says. “Maybe still does. But don’t confuse love with forgiveness.”

Satoru doesn’t reply.

Nanami leans forward. Folds his hands together.

“If you want her back,” he says slowly, “then fix yourself. And not for her — for you. Because the man she loved wouldn’t have done what you did. And right now, she’s mourning him.”

Satoru’s throat tightens.

And in the quiet that follows, he finally understands—

You didn’t just walk away.

You grieved him.

The version of him that held you up when the world got too loud. The boy who remembered your drink order, who studied your face like scripture, who promised you forever and meant it — once.

And now, if he ever wants you back...

He has to become him again, or lose you forever.

It started small.

The morning after Nanami’s visit, Satoru was out of bed before nine for the first time in a month.

No excuses. No dragging. He just got up.

He shaved. Trimmed the chaos that had started taking root under his jaw. Cleaned out his inbox. Replied to four different emails that had been blinking red for a week. Caught up on overdue reports. Folded the wrinkled laundry that had been thrown over the back of his couch since god-knows-when.

Old Satoru wouldn’t have done any of that.

Old Satoru would’ve rolled over, groaned, and told the world to wait.

But the old Satoru didn’t have to see you in the hallway every morning with your clipboard and your unreadable face, your footsteps quick and careful, your eyes never lingering for long.

The old Satoru didn’t know what it felt like to be invisible to the only person he still cared about.

The first few days passed slow.

Suguru still didn’t wake up. Shoko said it was normal — healing was complicated. But Satoru started showing up every evening, sitting quietly by the window, watching you from across the room as you read or dozed or just… stared.

You never acknowledged him.

He didn’t expect you to.

But that didn’t stop him from hoping.

On the third day, he brought coffee.

Two cups.

He walked into the room like it was casual, like it didn’t mean anything, even though his heart was fucking racing. He held out the one you liked — same brand, same custom syrup pump you always asked for — and waited.

You didn’t even look at it.

Just reached into your bag, pulled out your own drink, and set it next to you without a word.

Satoru stood there for a second, awkwardly holding two coffees like a dumbass.

“…Yeah, okay,” he muttered, forcing a smile. “I mean, I’ll take both. That’s fine. I’m kind of sleepy anyway.”

You didn’t respond.

Didn’t even blink.

He sat down in the corner and drank both.

It was bitter. It stung. But he drank every drop.

Later that night, he got back to his apartment and opened up his calendar for the first time in ages. Started color-coding deadlines. Deleted all the mindless things that used to fill his days — the parties, the after-work bar crawls, the late-night games that ended in blurry mornings and hangovers.

He started doing things differently.

Up early.

Work first.

Texting Nanami back on time. Saying thank you to the admin assistants. Actually sitting in team meetings without slouching and zoning out.

He didn’t tell anyone why.

Didn’t say your name.

But they all noticed.

Even the higher-ups. The ones who used to roll their eyes when he sauntered in late with sunglasses and a grin.

“About time you cleaned up,” one of them muttered when he handed in a project two days early.

Satoru didn’t react.

He just nodded.

And went back to work.

Then came the rain.

The kind that turned the city into a blur of umbrellas and blurry headlights.

He was already waiting near the hospital entrance, standing under the awning, sipping a warm can of coffee from the vending machine when he saw you coming from the crosswalk — no umbrella, shoulders hunched, phone pressed to your ear.

Instinct moved him before logic could stop it.

He jogged forward, umbrella open, arm already outstretched as he stepped into your path.

“Here,” he said gently. “Let me—”

You looked at him.

And then walked faster.

No words.

No hesitation.

Just a sharp, desperate speed-walk that ended with you darting under the building overhang, water dripping from your sleeves.

He stood there in the rain like a statue, still holding the umbrella, watching your back disappear into the building.

And he swallowed it.

Didn’t chase. Didn’t speak.

He just walked back to the vending machine.

And bought another can of coffee.

Because even if you didn’t want his help, even if you didn’t want to be near him — he did want to be better.

Not just for you.

But because he hated the version of himself you had to leave.

Back at work, things changed more.

He started showing up to staff meetings early. Left detailed notes for people who missed presentations. Picked up projects he usually would’ve pawned off. He even reached out to Suguru’s old team — offered to help cover while they waited for him to recover.

He said it was out of obligation.

But everyone knew.

It was guilt. It was hope.

It was you.

A week passed like that.

With silent coffees. Awkward hallway glances. You ignoring him in every room. And Satoru not asking for more than that.

He didn’t deserve it yet.

But he was trying.

God, he was trying.

He was halfway through a meeting when his phone buzzed.

He didn’t even glance at the caller ID. Just grabbed it, eyes still on the spreadsheet his coworker was rambling about — until he heard her voice.

“Hey,” Shoko said. She sounded… different. Lighter. Like something huge had just cracked open.

“He’s awake.”

That was all she needed to say.

Satoru didn’t respond — didn’t even bother with a “thanks” — just stood up mid-meeting, shoved his laptop shut, and practically ran out of the office with his blazer flapping behind him and a half-apology to Nanami trailing off in his wake.

The drive felt like a blur. Like time didn’t matter. The whole world melted around the edges, and all he could think about was Suguru. Awake. Breathing. Alive.

By the time he pushed through the hospital doors, his pulse was racing.

And when he reached the room—

He stopped.

You were already there.

And for the first time in a year, he saw it.

Your smile.

Not polite. Not forced. Real.

It was soft, crooked, slightly teary — the kind of smile people only made when they thought they’d lost something for good and finally got it back.

You were leaning over Suguru’s bed, whispering something that made him grin, bandaged and groggy but alive, eyes warm even through the haze of meds. Your hand was resting near his — not touching, but close enough to feel like home.

And then—

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Suguru muttered with a hoarse laugh.

Satoru blinked.

And then that grin — the old one, the bright, obnoxious, Satoru fucking Gojo grin — stretched across his face.

“Well, well, well,” he said, stepping inside like he hadn’t just been holding back tears in the hallway. “Took you long enough, Sleeping Beauty.”

Suguru snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Where’s my kiss, then?”

“Oh, don’t tempt me.”

“You’re not my type.”

Satoru laughed. It came out louder than he meant, unfiltered and boyish and almost too much — but Suguru chuckled too, and suddenly, it felt like college again. Like rooftops and vending machine snacks and stupid inside jokes that never really left them.

They bantered for a while — something about Suguru's gross hospital food, how Shoko would definitely milk this for free drinks, how Nanami probably scolded the surgeon about punctuality. You giggled under your breath once or twice.

And then—

He looked at you.

And this time, you didn’t look away.

Your eyes found his.

And you smiled.

Small. Hesitant. But bright.

Like maybe… maybe this didn’t have to be permanent.

Like maybe, just maybe, there was still something left.

Something worth rebuilding.

Satoru’s breath caught in his throat — just for a second. Just long enough for his chest to swell, full of something warm and familiar and just a little bit fragile.

Because after all the silence, all the avoidance, all the cold hallway glances and slammed doors in the rain —

You were looking at him again.

And smiling.

And for the first time in over a year, Satoru felt alive.

Shoko and you had already gone.

Just one visitor at a time, per the doctor’s rules — the earlier exception was rare and temporary. So now, it was just Satoru and Suguru. Quiet between them. The hospital room had dimmed, the sun finally starting to fall behind the skyline, painting the walls soft orange and grey.

Satoru sat by the window, legs stretched out, fingers loosely linked in his lap.

Suguru cleared his throat, careful of the soreness still in his ribs.

“She smiled at you.”

Satoru blinked. Looked up. “Huh?”

Suguru smirked faintly. “Just now. You didn’t notice?”

He had.

Of course he had. He’d been thinking about it since the moment it happened.

“I noticed,” Satoru murmured.

Suguru looked at him for a moment longer. Then, without preamble, he asked, “You’ve talked to her at all?”

Satoru sighed. Shook his head.

“She won’t speak to me,” he said, voice low. “Barely looks at me. I’ve tried. Not with words, not yet. But... I’ve tried.”

Suguru raised a brow. “Tried how?”

That’s when Satoru leaned back in the chair, ran a hand through his hair, and really spoke — for the first time in what felt like years.

“I stopped waiting for her to forgive me,” he said. “Started working on being someone who deserves it. Even if I never get it.”

He paused. Swallowed thickly.

“I started showing up to work early. Got ahead of deadlines. I picked up your old assignments, handled team rotations, replied to every message Nanami ever complained I ignored. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since the day she ran in the rain to avoid standing under my umbrella.”

Suguru blinked.

“She what?”

“Yeah,” Satoru laughed once, bitter. “I waited at the hospital entrance like some fool with an umbrella, and she just looked at me… and ran. Didn’t say a word.”

Suguru tried not to smile, but it tugged at his lips anyway.

“I’ve been bringing her coffee sometimes,” Satoru added. “Doesn’t take it. She brings her own now. Same order, but not from our place.”

Another pause.

“I know I don’t deserve her,” he said. “And I know what I did was—” He stopped. Breathed. “It was more than a mistake. It was selfish. Cowardly. I broke something that took four years to build just because I didn’t know how to sit with my own fear. She gave me everything. Even when she was tired. Even when I didn’t thank her. And I...”

He trailed off again. This time, when he looked up, his voice cracked a little.

“I’d give anything to hear her call me Toru again.”

Suguru looked at him for a long time. The kind of look only someone who’s known you your whole life can give — layered with exhaustion, history, love, and disappointment.

“I hated what you did,” he said plainly. “Still do.”

Satoru nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

“But,” Suguru added, “I’ve also never seen you like this.”

Satoru blinked.

“I mean it,” he continued. “You’ve always had your charm, your talent, your big talk. But this... this quiet version of you, the one who's finally earning things instead of expecting them handed over with a smile — she would’ve loved to see this.”

“I’m too late,” Satoru said, rubbing his thumb against the corner of his lip. “She’s moved on. Or worse — she’s numb to me.”

“I don’t think she’s numb.”

Satoru looked at him.

“I think she’s scared,” Suguru said. “You broke her, Satoru. And people don’t just bounce back from that. But I also think... if she didn’t still feel something, she wouldn’t have come back to see me.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

Another beat.

“You want her back?” Suguru asked.

“With everything I have.”

“Then don’t rush it. Don’t corner her. And don’t try to be the man you were before. Be the man she should’ve had all along.”

Satoru exhaled shakily. “What if I don’t know how?”

“You do,” Suguru said, with a tired, certain smile. “You’ve already started.”

And for the first time in months, Satoru didn’t feel like he was drowning in regret.

He felt like maybe — just maybe — he was finally learning how to swim.

You just needed five minutes.

Five minutes away from the machines and the disinfectant, the humming lights, the weight of watching Suguru sleep like if you looked away, he’d disappear again.

So you stepped outside. Coffee in hand. Hoodie pulled up. The sky above Tokyo already dimming into something slate grey, the kind of quiet that warns you rain’s on its way.

You were halfway down the path to the little hospital garden when it happened.

A stranger — tall, in a rush, barely looking — bumped into you shoulder-first. Your hand jolted. Coffee sloshed over your sweater, hot and bitter and ruining the one piece of comfort you had on your body.

“Oh— shit, I’m sorry,” the guy muttered, already walking backward, not even waiting for you to respond.

You stood there, stunned. Chest heaving just slightly. Coffee dripping down your sleeves. Fingers clenched. And not because of the spill — not really.

It was everything else. It was the year that gutted you. The ache that didn’t leave. The fact that you still woke up thinking about someone who ripped you in half like it was an accident.

And then, of course—

“You okay?”

You froze.

Your heart didn’t. It stuttered like it remembered something you didn’t ask it to.

He jogged the last few steps toward you, eyes flicking to your shirt, the wet stain already starting to cool against your skin.

“I’ve got clothes in my car,” he said, breath a little rushed. “I can grab you something, a hoodie or—”

“No. Forget it.”

He blinked.

You didn’t mean to sound so sharp, but it just came out. Too fast, too raw.

“I was just—trying to help—”

“Well, don’t.”

Silence.

You hated this. Hated how his face fell just slightly, like he thought this was going to be the moment. Like he thought a fucking coffee stain was his chance.

You looked at the ground. Then at your hand. Then at him.

“Stay away from me. Okay?”

He didn’t move.

You clenched your jaw.

“I mean it.”

The wind picked up then — brushing past both of you, pulling your sleeves tighter against your arms. A low grumble of thunder rolled in the distance.

He looked like he wanted to say something.

But he didn’t.

Just stood there, watching you like you were the last thing in the world he had left.

You turned around.

And walked back toward the hospital doors.

And behind you, the rain started to fall.

You’d been back and forth from the hospital so often the nurses started to smile at you with tired recognition. Suguru was awake now — groggy, healing, but talking. That alone gave you something to hold onto.

But not enough to block him out.

Because lately, Satoru didn’t hide anymore.

He used to linger. Hang back. Leave a coffee on the bench like it was some apology in disguise.

Now?

Now he waited.

Held doors open for you. Walked behind you in the hallway — not too close, not enough to make you speak, but just there.

The day after the coffee spill, he showed up to the hospital with a bag of clothes.

Not from his car. Not his oversized hoodies or a stupid t-shirt you used to wear to sleep.

New. Folded. In your size. With a little tag still clipped to the collar.

“I didn’t know what color you liked anymore,” he said, holding the bag out. “So I got black. That was always safe, right?”

You didn’t take it.

Not then.

But when you left for the day, it wasn’t in the trash. It was sitting beside the hospital chair, and somehow — somehow — it made its way back with you.

Two days later, it was raining again.

You forgot your umbrella that time. Too distracted. Rushed out.

He didn’t speak when he met you at the exit, already holding his over your head.

Didn’t smile either.

Just walked beside you.

Both of you quiet under the small circle of plastic shelter, boots splashing through puddles. You didn’t say thank you. He didn’t ask for it.

That night, you sat at your hotel desk and stared at the wet umbrella in the corner like it was some kind of ghost.

By the third day, he started showing up with food.

He remembered your old orders — which you hated him for. Because it meant he remembered everything else too. Where you used to sit in cafés. How you hated olives. That weird way you always had to drink something cold with something hot.

He knew all of it.

And he used it.

Not to manipulate you. Not to beg.

Just to be there.

You tried to ignore it. You did.

You’d leave the food untouched sometimes, let the hospital staff take it, or give it to Shoko. You acted like it didn’t bother you.

But it did.

Because it meant he still knew how to take care of you.

And part of you hated how much you noticed.

The dark circles under his eyes. The way he didn’t laugh like he used to. The way he looked at Suguru — with real warmth, like he was scared to blink and lose him — and the way his gaze would flick to you after, like he was already bracing for heartbreak.

He didn’t flirt. Didn’t joke.

He just… showed up.

Every time.

And it was getting harder and harder to pretend you didn’t feel it too.

Not forgiveness.

But the ache.

The memory of what he used to be — what you used to be — before it all shattered.

And the quiet, unspoken truth that he was trying now, when it might already be too late.

You weren’t expecting anyone to be there.

Not outside your door. Not after a long, emotionally draining day at the hospital, not after hours of trying to convince yourself that you were fine. That ignoring him was working. That time was doing what it always promised to do — make things easier.

But there he was.

Leaning against the wall outside your hotel room, like he had nowhere else to go.

A single tulip in his hand.

Your favorite. The kind you used to tell him reminded you of quiet mornings and fresh starts. Of spring.

He looked up the second your footsteps approached — like he’d been listening for them. Waiting.

You froze.

He straightened up. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak.

Just held out the flower.

You blinked at him. Your fingers tightened around your hotel key.

“Who told you I lived here?” you muttered, mostly to yourself.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

You stepped closer to your door, ignoring the way your heart slammed in your chest. You tried to brush past him, to get your key in the lock, but—

“It’s just a flower,” he said quietly. “It’s not a promise. Not a trap. Just something you used to like.”

You stilled.

Just for a second.

And then, slowly, without looking at him, you took the flower.

Walked inside.

And tossed it to the floor.

Didn’t even look to see where it landed — just stepped over it, like it didn’t mean anything. Like he didn’t.

You didn’t expect him to follow.

But he did.

The second you turned around, he shut the door behind him, slow and careful like he knew you were ready to kick him out the second you had the breath to do it.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

“The fuck are you doing here?” you snapped, voice sharp, brittle.

He didn’t flinch. “I just— I needed to see you.”

“You have been seeing me, Satoru,” you said, stepping back like his presence alone was suffocating. “Hospitals. Hallways. Coffee stands. I told you not to talk to me.”

“I haven’t said a word.”

“But you’ve been everywhere.”

Your voice cracked. Just barely. But enough to make you hate the way your throat tightened.

You looked away.

He stepped forward once. Hesitant. Like he was moving through water.

“You deserved more than a quiet apology. More than coffee cups and umbrellas. You deserved—”

“I didn’t ask for anything from you,” you snapped, eyes burning. “I didn’t want flowers. I didn’t want closure. I wanted distance.”

He looked like he was holding himself together with thread.

“You think showing up with my favorite flower is going to fix anything?” you laughed — bitter, breathless. “You think being visible makes up for what you did?”

His mouth parted like he wanted to argue.

But he didn’t.

Because you weren’t done.

“I came here to forget. I came here to make sure I never softened again— and all you’ve done since Suguru opened his eyes is push yourself back into places you don’t belong.”

“I never stopped belonging to you,” he said.

The room went still.

You stared at him. Heart thudding. Eyes hot. Rage swallowing you whole.

But somewhere, under all of it — you noticed the way he looked at you like this was the last time.

Like every second he stood in that room hurt, nd you hated it.

Because no matter how hard you tried — You still noticed, and that was the worst part.

You didn’t mean to scream.

But it ripped out of you like it had been clawing at your chest for months, desperate for air.

“Get out of my fucking life, Satoru!”

His eyes widened — but he didn’t move.

“I don’t fucking need you,” you yelled, your voice breaking, fists shaking at your sides. “I never will again.”

He didn’t believe it. You knew he didn’t. Not with the way your throat closed mid-sentence, not when your eyes were already stinging.

And that only made it worse.

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” you spat, pacing the small room, barely able to breathe. “Why can’t you just—just stay away? Why can’t you let me go?”

Your hands shot up to your forehead, wrists pressed to your skin like you could hold the emotions in if you squeezed hard enough. But it didn’t help.

Nothing did.

Because you were crumbling.

“I don’t want to feel like this again,” you gasped, pacing tighter circles now, stumbling through your own grief. “I don’t want to be soft again, Satoru—don’t you get it?”

You turned to him, eyes wide, heart pounding, tears now streaming down your cheeks.

“I didn’t want to notice anymore. I didn’t want to see you and remember how good it used to be. I didn’t want to feel that pull again. Because I know myself—”

You sobbed. A sharp, guttural sound that broke through your teeth.

“I know I’ll always have something for you. Even after everything.”

He stepped forward — slowly, carefully, like he wasn’t sure if you’d let him.

But when his hand reached out toward you—

“Don’t fucking touch me!” you shrieked, jerking back like he’d burned you.

He froze.

“You don’t get to do this,” you cried. “Not after what you said. Not after what you did to me.”

Your voice cracked again, trembling, wet, filled with everything you swore you’d never let him hear.

“You can’t just fucking bring me coffee and expect I’ll forgive you,” you hissed. “You don’t get to barge into my life again with your sad fucking eyes and think I’ll forget what it felt like to be nothing to you.”

The yelling stopped, but your sobbing didn’t. Your arms wrapped around yourself as you stumbled back against the wall, as if holding your own body together was the only thing keeping you standing.

“You know how hard I love,” you whispered, voice shaking like glass. “You know it’s hard for me to say no to you.”

Your head fell forward. Shoulders trembling. “Why are you doing this to me?”

He didn’t answer.

“Why are you still coming back into my life,” you choked, “when you already tore it apart?”

You looked up at him, vision blurred, throat aching.

“You weren’t the one who gave everything only to realize our relationship was a fucking accident.”

He flinched at that.

“You weren’t the one who carried that.”

You shook your head, tears slipping down your chin. “You knew how to get me. You always knew. One sorry. One fucking flower. One ‘please,’ and suddenly I’m right back where I started.”

You laughed through the tears — bitter, hopeless.

“The resentment. The hatred. It just—goes quiet. Like my whole world starts spinning again, just because you showed up.”

Your hands dropped to your sides. Exhausted. Done.

“You’re a fucking jerk, Satoru.”

And he just stood there.

Soaking in the wreckage.

Because for the first time—

You weren’t holding back.

You didn’t expect him to move.

Not at first.

He stood there, staring at you like you’d just ripped open his chest and finally saw what was left inside. His jaw clenched. His lips parted, then shut again — like he didn’t know where to start. Like he knew anything he said might make it worse.

But then—

His voice.

Soft. So soft it barely made it past the space between you.

“I didn’t know how empty I was until you left.”

Your stomach twisted.

He took a step forward. One foot, then the other — careful. Heavy.

“I thought I could handle it. That if I gave you time, maybe I’d stop missing you. That maybe it would hurt less.”

He shook his head.

“But it never did.”

You stayed still.

He looked down. Fingers twitching at his sides, knuckles pale.

“I tried to be better. I tried to become the kind of man you’d be proud of. Not because I thought it would fix things—” His voice broke, barely audible. “—but because I needed to believe I could still be someone good… someone worth the way you loved me.”

Your chest tightened.

He looked up again, blue eyes shining under the weight of his own shame.

“I used to think I was the strongest man alive,” he whispered. “And then I lost you. And I’ve never felt weaker.”

The first tear rolled down.

He didn’t wipe it.

Didn’t flinch.

His lips just pulled into that soft, pouty line you’d seen so many times — when he was tired, or sad, or trying not to cry. His mouth trembled.

“I miss you.”

He said it like a prayer.

“I fucking miss you.”

And then — slowly, quietly — he sank to his knees.

Like his body couldn’t carry the weight of it anymore.

He knelt in front of you, looking up with eyes red and full of longing. His hands limp in his lap. His head tilted up, lips trembling, tears streaming down now — silent, steady, shameless.

Your heart cracked in half.

He was beautiful like this. Broken, yearning, soft in a way only you ever got to see. No bravado. No charm. Just the real Satoru — the boy who used to cling to your pinky finger in public like it made him braver. The man who used to fall asleep with his head on your lap, mumbling how he didn’t know how to love right, but he was trying for you.

You didn’t realize you were reaching for him until your thumb wiped the tear from his cheek.

He flinched, just slightly — like he couldn’t believe you touched him.

And still, he kept talking. Barely holding his breath between words.

“I think about you every morning I wake up. Every time I order coffee. Every time I hear someone laugh the way you used to in the car when I played stupid songs.”

He shook his head, more tears slipping out.

“I don’t want anyone else. I never did. Even when I fucked up—god, even then—there wasn’t a second I didn’t regret it.”

You stayed standing.

But your hand… lingered.

Fingertips brushing against the skin beneath his eye, now damp and warm.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for you.

Just knelt there.

Crying for you.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, Y/N. I know I don’t deserve it. But just… don’t hate me anymore.”

And you could see it in him — every single piece of him cracked wide open, still loving you, still begging you to love him back.

You didn’t speak right away.

You just stared down at him — knees on your hotel floor, eyes wet, face flushed, holding back nothing for once.

It would’ve been easier if he stayed the Satoru you hated. The one you left behind. The one who shattered you.

But he wasn’t.

He was this Satoru. The one crying at your feet like his entire world was on pause, waiting for your voice to bring it back to life.

And suddenly, the fear that had kept you cold for so long — the armor you wore so well — began to crack.

You opened your mouth.

It didn’t come out strong.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

His head lifted — just enough to meet your eyes. His bottom lip quivered. The quietest breath left his mouth.

“I know.”

You let your hand drop from his cheek. Watched it hang at your side, useless.

“I’m scared of losing myself again,” you murmured. “Of giving everything and watching it fall apart like it never mattered.”

He shook his head quickly, kneeling taller, hands still trembling in his lap.

“I swear to you,” he said, voice hoarse, “I’m not that man anymore. I don’t want anything else. I don’t care about perfect or easy or clean. I just—”

He looked up at you like you were oxygen. Like he was afraid to blink.

“I’m half a heart without you.”

You exhaled — sharp, shaky, gut-deep.

“And I’ve been walking around like I’m fine, like I’m whole,” he went on, voice trembling, “but I’m not. I’m fucking not, Y/N. I haven’t been since the night I left your doorstep.”

You bit down on your lip, eyes stinging.

“I think about it every day,” he whispered. “How cold you looked. How strong you were for letting me go. And I’d give everything just to go back and make you feel safe again.”

Silence.

You let it linger between you.

And then, with the gentlest breath — a thread of sound caught between sorrow and love — you said it.

“Oh, Toru…”

The moment it left your lips, his hands found your waist.

His arms wrapped around you like muscle memory, like prayer.

And he pressed his face to your stomach, forehead resting against the fabric of your shirt as he sobbed — not loudly, not violently, just finally.

Your hands trembled as they threaded into his hair.

You held him.

You held him like you used to — with everything you were. With love and hurt and history all tangled in your fingers. Your thumb stroked the nape of his neck. Your other hand stayed pressed gently to his crown.

Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t need to.

Because something heavy — something unspoken and unbearable — lifted from both your shoulders.

It didn’t make it simple.

It didn’t make it right.

But it made it real.

And in that moment — knees to floor, arms wrapped tight, breath stuttering between you — love didn’t feel like weakness anymore.

dividers by, @cafekitsune

[diabolikwriter]

Sarang/Love

Part I - Meeting

Tags: Creeps being Creeps, protectiveness, mates, poly! Relationship, crying, first meeting,

This is a short first part, I’m still kinda rusty (It’s been a couple of years since the last time I wrote something non-academic). I hope you guys find this satisfying, I might do some changes here and there, but hope you enjoy!

Running through the streets, you were wondering how your day had ended up like this:

The day had started as it normally did, you awoke to the sound of your alarm going off at 7 AM. You got out of bed, brushed your teeth and got dressed before going out to the nearest cafe and getting your morning coffee and some breakfast.

After you had enjoyed your breakfast, you went to the library and studied for your university class for a couple of hours before you decided to get some fresh air and lunch.

Though that was when it had gone down hill. Upon leaving the library you had bumped into a normal looking business man, except there was something off about him.

“Oh sorry I didn’t see you” you apologised,

“It’s fine darling, but if you want you can apologise for it by coming home with me and entertaining me and my friends.”. Slowly a couple of other guys had started creeping up, their grins making chills runs down your spine, thoughts were racing in your head as they closed in on her, until instincts as old as time kicked in and you ran.

Now as you were running through the streets, you couldn’t help but feel thankful for the years you had spent playing handball. Your stamina was good enough that you could just about keep the men away, but if you didn’t find somewhere to hide and rest soon, then you didn’t dare to think about what those men would do to you.

Turning around the corner you ran into something warm and solid, and hands cradled you close. The scent surrounding you was warm and comforting, embracing you and making you feel safe. When you looked up at the source of the scent, you were met with a pair of brown eyes, which shockingly seemed to shine gold for a split second.

“Are you alright?”, the voice asking you made warmth coil in your stomach and making you clench your thighs together.

“Y-yeah, sorry I’m kinda in a hurry”, growls and groans broke out from both sides of you, which alerted you to the four other guys near you. Guys she had seen before… oh. The Saja Boys.

You looked back at the person you had bumped into, and yep it was Jinu, the two guys right next to him were Abby and Baby, and beside each of them stood Mystery and Romance.

“Hey! There she is!”, the voice of the man you had bumped into earlier, and desperately were trying to get away from, cut through your realisation.

“Oi! We found her first, go find another girl, this one is coming home with us.” The group of men which had chased you was closing in on you and the Saja Boys, all of which growled at the approaching men.

Abby and Baby stepped towards the men, while Mystery, Romance and Jinu prevented you from seeing them, and shielding you from their view at the same time. “We don’t care about some shitty idols, just give us the girl, man!” One of the men said, even though he could feel the charged energy from the Saja Boys. The very fragile calm was ruined the moment a sob forced itself out of your throat, the air became charged with something dangerous, and it felt as if time stood still and the arms around you tightened. You could see looks being passed between the members of the boy-band, and it seemed as if they came to an agreement because shortly after pained shrieks could be heard before it went silent.

“Shh, don’t cry sweet girl, everything is okay now.”, Abby gently said, which made you cry even harder from the realisation that if you hadn’t bumped into these guys, you would probably have been taken by the men chasing you and had to be put through unspeakable things. “It’s okay, you’re safe now”, assured Romance, but before more could be said, a whine came from your lips and your legs gave out from underneath her.

“It’s starting now, we need to get her somewhere safe.”, noted Baby.

“Yeah, you’re right, we need to get her to safety, keep her hidden, healthy, we must protect her, make her ours in all ways.” Growled Abby, his eyes glowing golden and his lilac marks became visible, the other guys weren’t faring any better, but then Jinu interrupted their various fantasies playing in their heads, “stop. Calm down, all of you. This isn’t just some random woman, she is OURS and we will treat her with the utmost respect and care.” His voice was stern and left no room for discussion, “we will take her with us, put her in my room and get her through the first wave, without anything untowards being done, before we ask for her consent.” With that final statement Abby gathered you in his arms and carried you back to their apartment.

Taglist: @gremlinartstudio @permanenceimp @faerie-soirxx @cottonheadedninnymugggins @amery-benson-cvii

[moonstruckme]

Hi there! I loveee your fics :3 I never read Y/N fics (they’re my guilty pleasure…) is it possible that you could write a Remus! X fem!reader (or even James, I don’t mind) and the reader has had a really bad day, then James or Remus comforts her?

I love your work!!xx

Thanks for requesting!

James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 889 words

James stops speaking mid-sentence when he hears your key enter the door. He forgets what he was talking about entirely. 

“Oh, that’s pathetic.” Sirius smirks at him from Remus’ lap. “You’ve just perked up like a puppy. Try to retain a bit of self-respect, mate.” 

James is too chuffed to quip in reply. He only raises his eyebrows at Remus, who kisses Sirius’ shoulder and warns his boyfriend in a murmur to be good. Sirius is noticeably quiet when you come in. 

“Hey, angel!” James booms, spreading his arms for you. You drop your bag and walk straight for them. 

“Hi,” you say back, and it’s softer than James’, which isn’t unusual, but it feels even softer than normal. You lie down on the couch to hug him like you’re sick of carrying your own weight. 

“Hi.” James matches your tone, rubbing hesitantly up and down your back. “Alright?” 

“Yeah,” you say, with a breath out that clearly says the opposite. Sirius makes a face, and Remus taps his thigh, signaling for him to get up. They both retreat quietly from the room. You don’t seem to notice. 

“Funny seeing you here,” James hums, running his hand from the hem of your shirt all the way up to where baby hairs tickle the base of your skull. 

It’s a lame joke. You called to ask if you could come over. James said yes, obviously—what else does one say when their beautiful girlfriend wants to come spend the night—but he might have prepared a bit better if he’d caught onto your mood over text. Might have given you a better reception instead of goofing off in the sitting room with his friends. 

You make a low sound, a hum or a shapeless murmur, adjusting your arms around his shoulders to get closer. James takes this cue to maneuver you and pulls your bent knee across his lap so you’re straddling him. He mushes a kiss to your cheek. 

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” 

You sigh, heavy and tired. Again, there’s that weight you seem to be trying to leave behind. “Sorry. Nothing’s the matter.” You nose the collar of James’ shirt aside, touching your lips to his skin. “I just needed this.” 

“Nothing’s the matter?” he asks. James would never go so far as to call you a liar, but he doesn’t believe you even a little. 

“Just a bad day,” you amend. “I wanted to see you.” 

James’ heart heavies and swells at once. He’s upset that you’ve had a bad day, of course, but there’s also…you wanted to see him. At the end of a bad day, you came to him to make it better. That’s enough to set James aglow for weeks. He feels a renewed determination to do right by you. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, heart pouring from his voice. “Do you want to talk about it? What made it bad?” 

“Just…I don’t know. Lots of stuff.” You sit up in his lap to look at him. There’s a weariness to your expression, and James brushes a thumb over your cheek with intent of smoothing some of it away. It works, a little. You soften. “Can we just relax for a while? Sorry to steal you.” 

“I love to be stolen by you,” James replies earnestly. “Honestly, Sirius and Rem are probably glad to be rid of me. I think they were working up to some, erm, stealing away of their own, you know.” 

Your eyes warm with humor. “Do you feel like a cuddle?” 

He scoffs, standing and lifting you with him. You squeeze your legs tighter around his waist instinctively. “Now I know you must’ve had a rough go, asking silly questions like that.” James kisses your nose, delighted at the little scrunch it does when your lips lift slightly. “Of course I want to. I haven’t turned to stone since you last saw me. Shall we stop by the kitchen first, though? Can’t promise I’ll let you go once we start, and we may get hungry eventually.” 

“Oh, are you a taxi service now?” you ask amusedly. 

“Taxi, weighted blanket, snack courier—whatever you need, angel. I do it all.” 

That little smile remains, but your eyes cloud with something James doesn’t like. “I don’t mean to come here and dump everything on you,” you say, your voice quieting. “My day really hasn’t been so awful. I’ll be alright.” 

“I know you will.” James nudges the tip of your nose with his affectionately. He makes the executive decision that snacks will be necessary, taking you into the kitchen. “It doesn’t have to be awful for you to come to me, lovely. I mean, I want you here all the time, no matter how you’re feeling, but I’m happy to drop my crucial plans of fucking around in the sitting room to have a cuddle with you instead. If you’ll still have me.” 

You watch him hesitatingly. James lets you see what you like—he knows there’s nothing but sincerity to be found, really all he wants is to spend his evening making you feel better. You can hang out with his friends another time. 

“Okay,” you say after a few moments. “Can you get me closer to the pantry? I’d have some digestives.”

“Course. If Remus asks after them, we’ll pin it on Sirius.” 

[malsmind]

vampire!chris 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 bsf!reader 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘥

🕸 - content warnings: ★ munch!chris ★ biting ★ breaking skin/drawing blood ★ 'drinking' blood ★ overstimulation ★ mentions of period blood ★ multiple orgasms ★ chris creaming his pants ★

you didn’t mean to fall asleep on the couch. but the cramps had been hell all day, the heat pack long since gone cold, and the only thing making it bearable was the weight of chris’s arm draped lazily across your waist, warm and grounding. he was scrolling through something on his phone when you stirred, groaning softly as another ache twisted through your lower stomach.

“still hurting?” he asked, voice quiet, fingers already brushing your side.

you nodded, curling in on yourself slightly. “worse now.”

he didn’t hesitate. just set his phone down and turned toward you, sliding his hand over your hip, slow, comforting. his touch was warm. familiar.

“want me to help?” he asked, already dipping lower, lips brushing against your temple.

you didn’t need to think about it. “yeah. please.”

because chris was good at it. too good. every time he did this for you, it left you shaking, breathless, skin on fire and heart cracked wide open. and yeah—maybe it wasn’t just about helping with cramps. not really. not for him. you saw the shift in him as soon as he knelt between your legs, gently guiding your thighs apart. there was something in his eyes—half-hunger, half-reverence. and god, the way his hands touched you, even now, like you were something holy.

“you’re so warm,” he muttered against your inner thigh, breath hot. “always sweeter like this…”

his words made you shiver.

it started slow. it always did. soft kisses, his fingers stroking your hips while he worked you open with his mouth, careful and unhurried. you buried your hand in his hair, hips lifting slightly, already melting under him. but then—like every other time—he lost himself.

he groaned low into your pussy, grip tightening on your thighs as his pace changed, mouth hungrier now, more desperate. his fangs had already slipped out, grazing your skin harmlessly, like usual, like always.

except this time… he didn’t stop.

not when your breath hitched. not when your legs shook around him. not even after you came the first time, crying out, body arching off the couch. he didn’t pull away. not after the second one either. and that’s when the pain hit. your whole body jerked, sudden and sharp.

“ow—ow, ow, chris, chris!” you gasped, fingers yanking at his hair.

he froze.

pulled back instantly. his face was flushed, lips slick with your blood, fangs still out—but the panic in his eyes hit you first.

“shit—baby—fuck, i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to—did i—?” his eyes dropped to where he’d been between your legs. “i didn’t think i bit—I didn’t mean to—”

you looked down. two small dots of blood, not much. but enough to sting. enough to scare him.

“it’s okay, chris,” you said, still breathless, reaching down to cup his cheek. “i’m okay. really.”

he looked like he didn’t believe you. like he was ready to fall apart.

“do you wanna stop?” he asked quietly, voice rough, fangs slowly retreating.

you shook your head. “no. just… be gentle.”

he swallowed, nodding once. “yeah. yeah, i can do that.”

and he did.

this time his hands were softer, his mouth reverent again, like he was making up for what happened, like every kiss was an apology. you moaned softly, your hips rocking against his tounge, and he whispered your name like it was the only word he knew.

you didn’t expect the third orgasm to hit so hard. didn’t expect to cry out and claw at the couch cushion with how it tore through you. but what really caught you off guard was him.

the way he groaned into you, the way his hips jerked slightly against the couch, grinding down, breath stuttering into something raw and broken. and then—

a sound. low and shaky. a chain of muffled whimpers as he pressed his face deeper into you, whole body trembling. you barely managed to lift your head before you saw it. his jeans. darkened. soaked through. his eyes were squeezed shut. lips still pressed to your skin. completely undone.

he didn’t say anything at first. just exhaled shakily, head resting against your thigh now, like he couldn’t bring himself to move. you blinked at him, heart thudding.

“…did you just—?”

his jaw clenched. and you could feel the embarrassment radiating off him, even as he nodded once, face buried in your leg like he wanted to disappear. a long beat of silence. then you reached down and ran your fingers through his hair gently, your voice soft.

“…that’s hot.”

he peeked up at you, just barely.

“hot? didn’t find it weird or nothin’?”

you smiled, still dazed, still floating. “no. made you cream ya pants.”

he scoffed, shaking his head, resting it back against your thigh. “yeah…first ‘n last…”

you stayed there for a while, coming down from the multiple orgasms his tongue worked you trough. usually, he’d clean you up with the same care he always had.

but for now—you just laid there. like nothing else mattered. because it really didn’t in that moment.

a/n: ik i done a lot of these, but it's his fav meal... c'mon..

[rafeys-angel13]

rafe struggles to comfort you 002

- request a fic - masterlist - part one -

it had been three weeks since you last saw him. rafe messaged you every day, but you never replied. you had made a few new friends at the beach around a week ago. you had met them a few times.

they were pogues, but they were fun and welcoming. you felt safe with them and they were there for you, a lot more than rafe was.

you had woken up bright and early to go to the beach with the pogues. you found a spot and set up for the day. you and kie were laying on the sand while the boys were in the water.

kiara had fallen asleep a few minutes ago so you also close your eyes. the sound of the waves and inaudible chatter.

“so this is where you’ve been, huh?” a familiar, sharp voice cuts through the serene atmosphere. you look up in the direction of the voice and see rafe. he’s stood over you, staring down at you.

“rafe, i don’t want to talk to you…” you sigh and sit up, brushing the hair away from your face. he scoffs and throws his hands up.

“you’re unbelievable…” he sighs. “you haven’t replied to me in three fucking weeks.”

“yes, because i don’t want to talk to you.” you retort back with an eye roll.

“can we go for a walk or something… i wanna talk to you. i don’t care if the feelings not mutual, i can’t go any longer without speaking to you.” he holds his hand out for you.

you sigh reluctantly and take his hand, standing up. you slip your flip flops on and follow him. he starts walking slowly down the beach.

“so you found some new friends, huh?” he squeezes your hand gently as he speaks. “that why you’ve been ignoring me? have i been replaced?” his face shows a soft smile even though his words feel like a dig.

your heart flutters at the small squeeze, seeing his smile brings back the happy memories of your relationship. you love him, you really do— but the time you spent away from him had you second guessing your happiness.

“i don’t know if i’m the right one for you…” you murmur quietly, looking down at the ground.

“what?” his head snaps towards you, his eyes immediately glaze over with sadness and he automatically pulls you towards him— his steps come to a halt.

“i just don’t think im happy in the relationship, rafe…” you sigh, your heart pangs at the sight of his sad expression. he shakes his head and turns to you, taking your face into his big hands.

“no… you’re happy- you are.” his baby blue eyes look straight into yours, as if the more he looked at you, the more he could convince you that the relationship was good for you. “you’re a happy girl, baby…” he rambles, his eyes flickering between each of your eyes.

“i’m sick of just focusing on the highs… the bad outweighs the good and i’m sick of it rafe, i’m done.” you blurt out with a shaky voice, your bottom lip trembling as your eyes glaze over with salty tears.

“what? are those pogues putting words in your mouth? this isn’t like you, sweetheart.” he replies adamantly, his hands dropping from your face and never breaking eye contact with you.

“no. they’re not putting words in my mouth. i can speak for myself and that’s exactly what i’m doing.” you correct him firmly, repressing your tears. you’re not about to cry infront of him again.

“so that’s it? you’re just leaving me?” he throws his hands up and steps back, scoffing.

“i don’t know rafe. i don’t know what to do.” you sigh, rubbing your hands over your face. “i love you… but i can’t live like this.” you shake your head, looking up at him after you pull your hands away from your face.

“i love you… i love you so much. please don’t end it like this.” he steps forward, wrapping his arms around you.

you want to fight it, you want to stay strong and stand your ground. yet your body can’t resist him and you immediately relax into his chest. his head drops down and his cheek rests against the top of your head as your tears flow down your face.

his shirt becomes more and more soaked by your tears. but neither of you care. you’ve missed his arms.

“you can’t push me away when i need you and then expect me to comfort you when you need me…” you tell him, your voice coming out whinier than you intended due to the tears.

“i won’t push you away ever again…” he shakes his head, pressing a firm kiss to your forehead. “i swear on my life, baby” he murmurs, yet his voice is firm.

“i don’t know what to do, rafe…” you sniffle. you want so badly to believe that he can change and treat you better, yet it seems so impossible with a guy like rafe.

“come to my house… just for the night.” he grabs your shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. his eyes search yours, trying to figure out what you’re feeling.

he just wants a straightforward answer and you’re not giving him one.

“i don’t think that’s a good idea rafe.” you shake your head and he huffs, pulling you closer to him.

“please, sweetheart…” he pleads, his voice barely above a whisper. his nose brushes against yours and your heart flutters.

“no. you’re just doing this to try and change me mind. i’m not stupid.” you snap, finally finding the courage to step away from him. “were done rafe… i can’t live like that. it’s miserable.” you sigh, feeling the tears prick in your eyes yet again.

“please… if you need a break, we’ll take a break. but i don’t wanna lose you. you’re too special to me.” his voice trembles as he tries to grab your arm again. you shake your head and pull away from him.

“fine, whatever. just- leave me alone…” you tell him, he reluctantly nods. “i’ll talk to you when im ready…” you add before starting to walk away, back to the spot you were at.

“yeah… i love you, baby…” he croaks out as his hand slips of of yours soft skin. his heart aches as he watches you walk away.

— ·˚ ༘ a/n - sorry for the long wait. i hate this so much omg >:(

[gothicfied]

Could u maybe write something about how the squid game characters would be with a reader who's insecure? 💛

Squid Game (S2/S3) Characters with an insecure reader

Featuring: Thanos / Player 230, Se-mi / Player 380, Cho Hyun-ju / Player 120, Nam-gyu / Player 124, Kang Dae-ho / Player 388, Park Min-su / Player 125, Kim Jun-hee / Player 222, Lee Myung-gi / Player 333

Warnings: Mentions of drugs and overdosing in Nam-gyu's part, reader is insecure about their body in most of the headcanons, gender neutral language for the reader so I'm sorry if I slipped up and it suggests otherwise at any point, other than that it's just comfort/fluff, not proof read (English isn't my first language)

A/N: ASK IS A THOUSAND YEARS OLD but dude, I miss Season 2 so much, it was genuinely so whimsical compared to Season 3 ): Anyway, I feel like this got really weak towards the end. This took me like three days to write, sorry lolololol

Thanos / Player 230

જ⁀➴ Being in a relationship with Thanos, as he wants you to call him and always insists on it, isn't for the weak. He's outgoing, expressive, famous and you are.. well, you are you. Sometimes you think you're too boring for him and that he deserves someone much cooler than you, but you'd never voice your problems like that too him.

જ⁀➴ Thanos is, at first at least, very oblivious to your insecurities. To him, you are the most perfect person in the world, obviously, or else he wouldn't be in a relationship with you. He understands that, fundamentally, you are a very different type of person than him, so he chalks off your behavior as 'just being shy'.

જ⁀➴ The thought of not being enough for him keeps you up at night sometimes. You'd wander around in your shared apartment and maybe make yourself cereal in the middle of the night to at least be doing something. Occasionally, your boyfriend would wake up to sounds in the kitchen and hug you from behind when finding you there.

જ⁀➴ After a couple of weeks, even Thanos starts to get a bit concerned. You don't want to go out that much anymore and seem much more aloof than usual — What's up with that? He had to ask now.

જ⁀➴ After finding out what bothered you, since you couldn't keep your feelings bottled up anymore, he started to feel guilty (yes, he can actually feel bad for someone). Thanos hugged you very tightly that evening and tried to reassure you the best he could. Maybe he wasn't someone who was good with words, but he'd always shoe you his love through actions.

જ⁀➴ Random little gifts, songs or raps written just for you and obviously only about you, more compliments and co. were his way of expressing it. And, after a while, you started to feel better about your relationship, too.

Se-mi / Player 380

જ⁀➴ Se-mi is basically the cool girl every teenage girl always wanted to be. And you were the lucky person to call her your girlfriend. Her piercings, her hair, her style and especially her attitude were all so perfect — It was impossible to not fall in love with her. In return, she also thinks the world of you. "You're my reason to live." Se-mi would tell you sometimes.

જ⁀➴ But, seeing her with other people that seemed to match her vibe perfectly made you realize you might not be everything you thought you were. To her, at least. It seemed like she smiled more around her people, laughed more, talked more. Was it you? Were you the one that didn't fit in?

જ⁀➴ You tried finding solutions for your complicated feelings, because no one wants to have an insecure, jealous partner, right? But, you just couldn't force yourself to be more like her.. because that was just not you. It would be unnatural, unauthentic and pretty weird. You sulked more and more about it, making Se-mi notice aswell.

જ⁀➴ She'd beg you to talk to her about it, but you felt too embarrassed and shut her out. Genuinely, Se-mi chose you for a reason and you knew that very well, but you still couldn't shake the feeling that she would be better off dating someone with common interests or a common style.

જ⁀➴ One day, Se-mi basically forced you to tell her what the hell was wrong, since it was also kind of taking a toll on her, so you had to spit it out. She seemed rather suprised to hear about your insecurities, but didn't shame you for them, of course.

જ⁀➴ Se-mi decided to meet you in the middle and also try out some of the things you liked without acting so nonchalantly about it. Quickly, things turned back to normal, as the two of you communicated better with each other and Se-mi was more open about your relationship. She reassured you that you were the best partner she's ever had, that you were someone that healed her from past trauma and that she loved you the way you are.

Cho Hyun-ju / Player 120

જ⁀➴ In the beginning, Hyun-ju was definitely the more insecure between the two of you. She's a trans woman after all — It wouldn't be accepted everywhere and she understood that completely. But, when she met you and you made her feel loved and validated, she was definitely way more confident than before. Hyun-ju is a strong person, in more ways than one and you were proud of her every step along the way.

જ⁀➴ That didn't mean you weren't insecure yourself, though. All your life you've been dealing with self-image issues you just can't seem to get rid of. The beauty standards are high and you were convinced that everyone around you was lying when they said you were actually really pretty.

જ⁀➴ Hyun-ju, as empathetic as she is, immediately picked up on the problem as soon as you guys moved in together. She didn't know what to do at first: Should she ask you about it? Should she actively do something? Or should she just passively reasure you more by giving you more compliments and showing her love through actions? Or— Or maybe, she was just overthinking it.

જ⁀➴ The easiest thing was: Asking. So she did. And at first you responded with "No, no, it's nothing." But after a few more interrogating questions by her, you cracked. Admittedly, Hyun-ju was shocked about how you talked about yourself, because she couldn't fathom anyone ever thinking like that about you. You're beautiful, funny and smart... she didn't expect you to struggle with your self-image.

જ⁀➴ You didn't plan on crying that night, but you didn anyway when hearing you girlfriend talk so sweetly about you. After a hug and a kiss, you immediately felt better and promised her to voice your insecurities more, so she could prove them wrong everytime.

Nam-gyu / Player 124

જ⁀➴ Nam-gyu is definitely the most unhinged boyfriend you've ever had. You met him one night in the nightclub he worked at after you went there to celebrate your friend's birthday and fell in love with him instantly. You learned to live with his flaws, but you didn't tolerate his drug use — To this day Nam-gyu keeps calling you 'his savior' because he's convinced he would've died to an accidental overdose if you hadn't come into his life.

જ⁀➴ Your relationship was near perfect, the only thing that bothered you was that he still worked at that hell they called The Pentagon. Not only because he was surrounded by potential relapse opportunities, but also because.. well, because of the girls there. You saw what kind of people went in and out of there the night you were at your friend's birthday and you also knew how young men liked to talk about women. Doesn't matter if they're taken or not.

જ⁀➴ You tried making yourself feel better by ignoring it, because you knew Nam-gyu wasn't a cheater... right? You did bring up his job multiple times and told him to quit, because the circumstances in a nightclub were not great anyway. Your boyfriend undertstood your concerns, but couldn't help feeling like there was an underlying reason.. but, he wasn't good at reading people, so he didn't persuade you or anything.

જ⁀➴ One evening, just before he was leaving for work, he overheard you on your phone with your sister as you complained about exactly what you felt insecure about. And then it clicked in him. Nam-gyu thought it was so sweet that you cared so much about his well being, but his heart did crack a bit when hearing you talk about the possibility of him cheating.

જ⁀➴ After you hung up, he carefully knocked on your door frame and asked if you could talk. Oh no, he overheard everything, didn't he? But, it turned out to not be so bad talking about your feelings after all. Nam-gyu agreed with you and basically quit his job the next day, because he couldn't bear to see his love be insecure about anything.

Kang Dae-ho / Player 388

જ⁀➴ Dae-ho is the definition of the best boyfriend ever. He's probably the most caring and sweet person you've ever met and you were convinced you were going to marry him. And he gave you the same love right back: Cuddling with you even though you have to get up for work, buying you flowers randomly every week, calling you beautiful every time he saw you... that wasn't princess treatment for him, that was the bare minimum.

જ⁀➴ Even though you heard all this things about yourself from him, you couldn't help but always find something wrong with your appearance. Beauty standards everywhere werr tough, especially on women and you couldn't quite seem to catch up with them. Every day you'd open instagram to find a new insecurity taking over the platform, filled with people trying to give ridiculous tips on how to get rid of them.

જ⁀➴ Dae-ho, being the good boyfriend he was, always dragged you away from the mirror whenever you said something like "My nose is way to big" or "Do you think I should get lip filler?" because no. No, he didn't think that. The only thing he thought about all day was your (natural) beauty and he couldn't stand seeing you pick at yourself almost every day.

જ⁀➴ "Social media is ruining you, honey." Was the phrase you heard more often than not. In a way, he meant it lightheartedly, since he didn't want to invalidate your feelings just because your complaints were objectively wrong. You knew Dae-ho only wanted the best for you and you appreciated him being so supportive of you.

જ⁀➴ No, but seriously. There was nothing wrong with you. Whenever you said you were insecure about a part of your body, Dae-ho would kiss that exact spot a million times while telling you the exact opposite: There's nothing wrong with you, because you are perfect the way you are and he loves you for that.

Park Min-su / Player 125

જ⁀➴ Even though Min-su can come off as vulnerable and delicate because of his shyness and his habit of avoiding confrontation, he is most certainly the opposite in yout relationship. He's kind, calm and collected (like always), but he's also very mature about things you didn't expect. At first you thought he was just navigating through life cluelessly, but Min-su soon proved that he was a better afult than you were.

જ⁀➴ That also ties into your relationship: He dates to marry, so you can be sure that he takes any hardships quite seriously. And that also applies to any struggles you may have with yourself. It doesn't matter what you're insecure about, he'd never think of it a stupid or silly and he'd always try his best to make you feel more comfortable.

જ⁀➴ Whatever it takes, Min-su would do it: Talk it out, find solutions together, try making you feel more loved throughout the day. At first he thought maybe it was something that he was doing, maybe because he wasn't putting enough effort into the relationship, but you clarified it right away.

જ⁀➴ Past relationships of yours ended badly, so he learned, and now you were just so used to being treated badly and walking around eggshells around your partners. It was maybe a bit strange and foreign to have someone like Min-su by your side and you just had to get used to it.

જ⁀➴ Min-su loves you dearly and will definitely show that everyday. A simple "I love you" doesn't always cut it for him, so be prepared to be showered in gifts or random acts of service. Very quickly, you notice you aren't overly insecure about yourself anymore and you finally realize what a healthy relationship looks like.

Kim Jun-hee / Player 222

જ⁀➴ If there's one thing Jun-hee hates in this world, it's definitely seeing you being insecure about yourself. You'd often complain about your looks in a more jokingly way and the two of you have a laugh about it later when she convinces you that nothing's wrong with you, but she always feels that there's an underlying truth about what you're saying.

જ⁀➴ Jun-hee wouldn't directly ask, mostly because she wouldn't really know how to comfort you or anything, but she was still good at making you feel loved. More often than not you'd find little notes on the fridge or on your bedside table saying things like "Love you, can't wait to see you later" among other things. She'd leave them before going to work, since she had to wake up earlier than you.

જ⁀➴ At some point you started writing those little notes back, putting one in her bag or sticking them to the bathroom mirror. It became like a ritual for the two of you, which always cheered you up, especially if one of you had a bad day. Neither Jun-hee nor you would actually mention the notes, but it was an unspoken rule to write one back if you got one.

જ⁀➴ Little things like this definitely helped you feel more confident about yourself, since it was really nice knowing you had someone that loved you unconditionally. You woke up looking forward to finding a little yellow sticky note (sometimes even stuck onto your forehead) and Jun-hee's words always defeated any insecurities you carried around with you.

Lee Myung-gi / Player 333

જ⁀➴ Dating a famous youtuber has more downsides than upsides is what you learned very quickly. You weren't familiar with Myung-gi's online persona "MG Coin" at first and you had just gotten to know him at a random coffee shop. When things between the two of you started to get serious, though, he had to explain to you how he makes money... Yeah, advertising crypto currency.

જ⁀➴ At first you didn't care much, because at the end of the day you loved your boyfriend. He's caring and sweet, ready to sacrifice anything when it comes to you — That apparently also applied to his, weirdly high amount, of fangirls. They'd literally die for Myung-gi and were not very fond to find out he had a partner now.

જ⁀➴ The fact that people online started commenting on you, your clothes, hair, likes and dislikes, interests, the way you talk... it all made you feel very insecure, very fast. It was like you couldn't exist without being watched everywhere, like you couldn't post anything couple related without being torn to shreds by people you didn't even know.

જ⁀➴ Myung-gi wasn't blind and immediately caught on what was happening. Whatever he did to try and combat it, some idiots would still continue and that's just how the world was — But, he was ready to accept a break up if it was too much for you, even if it wasn't easy. Myung-gi sat you down one evening and poured his whole heart out, telling you how much he loves you and how he'd do anything for you, but that he couldn't bear seeing you get hurt.

જ⁀➴ Obviously you stayed with him. And eventually you learned how to ignore opinions of people you didn't care about. Myung-gi was never afraid to show you off and you shouldn't be afraid being shown off, because, at the end, you were his partner. Not anyone else.

[ggukivrse]

THE ART OF PRETENDING - JJK | 06

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, swearing, fluff, angst, arguing :’(, jk’s an asshole in this i’m sorry, (eventual) explicit sexual content, ft. seokjin, namjoon, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, yoongi + four female ocs

word count: 4.6k

notes: okay first of all, i’m SO sorry for the wait. second of all, this chapter was meant to be much longer but i split it into two :< anyways, likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are sooo appreciated!! enjoy (?) reading my angels <33 (and pls don’t hate me </3)

< prev • next > | series masterlist | main masterlist

⤷ chapter six — tv

“and i’ll be in denial for at least a little while / what about the plans we made.”

The kitchen is quiet, only filled by the soft buzz of the fridge and the distant sound of waves. You take a slow sip from your mug, fingers curled around the ceramic.

The coffee's still warm, just the way you like it — strong, slightly bitter, just enough milk to soften the edge. You’d made Jungkook’s the same way you always have. You didn’t even think about it. Just moved through the motions like you’ve done a hundred mornings before.

But that was nearly half an hour ago.

His mug is still sitting on the counter. Steam long gone, surface barely warm. You glance at it for the third — maybe fourth — time, as if expecting it to have vanished. It hasn’t. It’s still there, untouched.

And so is the space beside you.

You haven’t seen him since waking up.

You’d stirred sometime around eight, alone. No arm slung over your waist, no weight shifting the mattress beside you, no sleepy grumble against your shoulder. Just cold sheets and a quiet room. The fan was still spinning overhead lazily, and the only thing on the nightstand that hadn’t been yours was a single bottle of water.

You’d stared at the ceiling for a few minutes after that.

It would’ve been easier if you hadn’t let yourself get used to waking up like that again. If you hadn’t let it feel like something.

But you did, because you always do, with him. Even now.

So when you eventually got out of bed, you made two cups of coffee. One for you. One for him.

You tell yourself it was just habit. But that’s only half-true.

Because the other half — the part you don’t say out loud — is that you were kind of hoping he’d show up.

That you could sit across from him, trade casual conversation, build your way back into something steady enough to finally ask the things you’ve been swallowing down since the breakup. Finally ask the things you wanted to ignore last night when you kissed him.

What happened?

What changed?

Why did it feel like he was ready to spend the rest of your life with you, and then suddenly, he wasn't?

You’ve been sitting with those questions for weeks. Letting them settle into your bones. Last night had started to smooth out the edges. That kiss, the way he held you, the weight of him tucked against your back — none of it felt like someone who’d let go for good.

But this morning?

This morning feels like the reset button was hit again. Like you’re back at square one.

And it’s starting to scare you.

You take another sip from your mug.

It’s not just that he left. It’s the fact that you have no idea where he went, or why, or when he’s coming back. It’s that your questions are still sitting in your chest, unanswered. It’s that his coffee is still sitting in front of you, lukewarm.

It’s that you keep hoping for something that keeps slipping away.

And sure, it could be nothing. He could walk into the kitchen any minute and prove that all of your overthinking was for nothing and place a kiss against your temple as he silently confirms that you guys are finally okay again. But as you stare down at nothing in specific, eyes unfocused on the ground, you can't ignore the feeling that it's not going to be that easy.

A hand waving in front of your face breaks you out of your thoughts.

“Hello? Earth to ___?"

You blink and turn to find Kiara standing in front of you, one brow raised, one hand waving dramatically in front of your face.

“Fuck,” you mutter, pulling back a little, caught off guard. “You scared me.”

She grins. “I said your name twice. Thought you died standing up.”

You force a breath through your nose, trying to ease the tension from your shoulders. “Sorry. I zoned out.”

“Clearly,” Kiara says, folding her arms as she leans back against the island across from you. “You were staring at that coffee like you were possessed or something.”

You glance back down at Jungkook’s mug. The coffee inside has gone a dull, murky brown. It's oddly fitting.

“Just thinking,” you murmur.

Kiara gives you a long look, tilting her head slightly. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches.

You expect her to pivot the conversation, maybe ask what time you’re heading to the beach, or what’s for breakfast.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she says, softer now, “Is everything okay with you and Jungkook?”

Your stomach drops, and you're too slow to catch the surprise on your face before it shows.

She doesn’t look accusatory. Just curious. Maybe a little concerned.

You think about what Jungkook said — that your acting sucks.

Clearly, he was more right than you gave him credit for if this is the second time someone has thought that something was off between you two.

You give Kiara a tight smile, trying to play it off. “Of course we’re okay. Why wouldn’t we be?”

Your voice cracks slightly at the end and Kiara’s face shifts. Her eyes narrow, expression flattening just a little.

God. You suck at this.

She doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you.

And when you glance past her, you realise Ari and Yasmine are both in the kitchen now too. You didn’t even hear them come in. They're hovering by the counter, not pretending they didn’t hear the conversation. Yasmine raises her eyebrows at you as if to say, Really? That’s the best you’ve got?

You laugh, the sound a little too loud and a little too fake.

“No, seriously. There’s nothing going on. We’re totally fine,” you insist. You try to make it sound breezy, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. But there’s this edge of strain in your tone that even you can hear now.

Yasmine exchanges a quick glance with Ari. Ari raises a single brow.

“____,” Kiara says, and her voice almost sympathetic. “We love you to death. If anything if going on, you can tell us. We will fight that man if needed.”

You snort at the ridiculousness of the offer, trying to ignore the way they're all watching you.

“Okay, maybe don’t plan my best friend’s murder right in front of me,” Jimin says around a half-yawn, wandering into the kitchen. His hair is a mess — flattened on one side and fluffy on the other — and his hoodie is inside out. His expression, though, is amused as hell.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. It’s half a laugh, really — short and quiet, but enough to break the tension hanging over you. Your shoulders drop just slightly.

“No one said murder,” Kiara replies, looking entirely unbothered. “We said ‘fight.’ With fists. Maybe knees.”

“Maybe a little arson,” Yasmine adds, chewing on the edge of a strawberry she pulled from the fridge.

Jimin walks past them and reaches up to grab a granola bar from the top shelf. “You know I’m contractually obligated to defend Jungkook’s honour,” he says through a yawn, unwrapping the bar. “Even if he’s being an idiot. Which, to be fair, is frequent.”

“Then maybe pass that message along,” Ari says, deadpan.

He finally glances toward you then, eyes briefly scanning your face. He doesn’t say anything — and thankfully, he doesn’t ask — but something in his expression softens. Like he can see the way you’re slightly curled in on yourself, even if you’re trying to fake calm.

The semi-circle of concern around you shifts a little to make room for him, and he steps into it without hesitation, granola bar still in hand. It’s oddly comforting, how casually he folds into the space — like maybe if he acts normal, things will be normal.

And you’re grateful for it. The way attention slides off you and onto Jimin’s sudden presence.

You sip your coffee again, and it tastes slightly better now. Or maybe it’s just that your heart’s not pounding against your ribs anymore.

“Actually, I actually need to tell you guys something,” Jimin says once he’s halfway through the bar, mouth still kind of full. “Before everyone disappears into the sand for the rest of the day.”

You tilt your head, turning slightly more in his direction.

Jimin finishes chewing, wipes his hands on the front of his hoodie — inside-out tag flipping up in the process — and leans casually against the counter.

“Okay,” he starts, tone turning slightly serious. “This doesn’t leave this room. At least not yet.”

Immediately, all of you perk up.

“Oh my god,” Kiara says, leaning in. “Are we finally getting the tea?”

“Someone’s pregnant,” Yasmine whispers like it’s a wild theory, eyes wide.

“Wrong group,” Ari deadpans.

You snort.

“No one’s pregnant,” Jimin says. “But something is happening. And it’s big. So, swear you won’t say anything to Haeun.”

You all nod in varying degrees of seriousness. A chorus of “obviously” and “duh”s.

“Seokjin’s proposing.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. Not because no one saw it coming — but because even when you expect something, hearing it said out loud hits differently.

“No way,” Ari breathes.

“Finally,” Yasmine grins, clapping once. “She’s going to lose it.”

“I knew it,” Kiara says, not even pretending to be surprised. “He’s been acting weird since we got here.”

“Super obvious,” Ari agrees. “He kept spacing out yesterday during volleyball. I asked him if he was okay and he just said, ‘Just picturing things.’ I thought he meant, like… strategy?”

You set your coffee down, half-smiling. “That man has never strategised a day in his life.”

Jimin nods, serious. “Exactly. So, the plan is— he’s doing it the day after tomorrow. Right at sunset. On the back deck. He wants to keep it lowkey but still romantic. Just the group, nothing flashy. He’s got this whole thing with the fairy lights and stuff. It’s very... Jin.”

Yasmine clasps her hands together with a little squeal. “Do we get to be part of it?”

“Yeah,” he says, glancing at her. “Actually, he wants you to take pictures. Nothing major. Just candids. And the rest of us just need to, like, not make it weird.”

“What do you mean not make it weird?” Ari asks.

“I mean like… don’t swarm them,” Jimin says. “Don’t make it a whole scene. Just let it happen and then we can scream after she says yes.”

You all nod.

“God, they’re gonna be so annoying and in love,” Kiara sighs. “Good for them. Can’t wait.”

Jimin’s expression softens as he talks — and you can tell how much this means to him. How long he’s probably been sitting on it. How relieved he is to finally let it out. He’s one of Jin’s closest friends — the fact that Jin looped him in says everything.

“Wait, does Haeun know anything?” Ari asks.

“Not a clue,” Jimin says, grinning. “She thinks she’s just getting a sunset drink on the deck with Jin tomorrow before dinner. Meanwhile, he’s been carrying around the ring like it’s a live bomb.”

“She’s gonna be a mess,” you say quietly, voice warm.

"They're both gonna be a mess," Kiara replies, and you smile.

Honestly, it feels good to think about something else — to imagine someone else’s future for a while. One that's good and certain.

Not murky. Not lukewarm. Not tangled up in old habits and unfinished questions.

And just as that lightness settles in — just as you feel your chest unclench, just a little — the glass doors behind you slide open with a low hiss.

Everyone freezes.

The sliding door clicks back into place, the sound of it too sharp in the sudden stillness. Jimin’s eyes dart past you. Kiara, mid-sip of her drink, lowers her glass. No one says anything.

Your breath catches as you look over Yasmine's shoulder.

Please not Haeun, you think. Pleasepleaseplease.

Jungkook.

Helmet in one hand, motorbike keys hooked around two fingers on the other.

You're heart tugs with relief.

You’re glad he’s here.

Not because things are fine. Not because you know what you’re going to say. But because not knowing where he was all morning had started to eat at you, slow and annoying and persistent. Like something you couldn’t scratch out of your skin.

Jimin’s the first to speak.

“Fuck, man,” he says, twisting toward the door. “You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were Haeun.”

Jungkook’s mouth twitches, the barest hint of a smile. “Sorry.”

He steps further into the kitchen, the door soft-clicking shut behind him, and sets the helmet down on the island with a dull thud. The keys land beside it with a jingle. The whole group relaxes and the conversation starts backs up, but you’re barely tracking it.

Your eyes stay on Jungkook.

And his eyes don’t quite stay on you, but they flicker. Once. Then back down.

He moves to the cabinet and pulls out a mug from the same shelf you used earlier.

You pause, glancing at the mug still sitting beside your own on the counter. You hesitate for a second before you slide it toward him with your fingertips.

“Here,” you say. “I made one for you already.”

He pauses mid-motion, the clean mug in his hand, and his eyes drop to the one you nudged forward, then back up at you.

“I’m fine. Thanks though." He gives you a tight-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Oh.

Okay.

Maybe he just wants tea or something. You've never known him to be a tea person, but you don't dwell on it that much.

You're already moving to shrug it off when you catch a glance — just over the rim of your mug — of him moving back toward the coffee pot, and you watch, with a slow-burning disbelief, as he starts making the exact same cup of coffee that’s still sitting in front of him.

Same brand. Same scoop. Same splash of milk from the fridge. He reaches for the sugar and adds the same amount.

You stare.

Seriously?

You don’t say it out loud, but it hovers in your expression. Long enough that Ari, who’s been half-listening while peeling a clementine beside you, gives you the smallest nudge with her elbow.

You don’t even glance at her.

Your eyes are still on Jungkook.

He doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t care.

The air shifts around you and it feels like you’ve suddenly dropped into a scene you weren’t given the script for. Because it’s not about the coffee, really. It’s never just about the coffee.

It’s about how easily he dismissed it. Dismissed you so easily, as if you were nothing more than a stranger.

And maybe it’s petty, but come on. You made that cup for him. It wasn’t some random gesture. You got up, went through the routine, thought about what he’d want, even left it sitting there like a peace offering. And he’d rather go through the whole process again himself than take what you’d already done for him?

Fine.

You sip your own drink again, and try tune back into the conversation.

Jimin is talking about how Seokjin tried to smuggle the ring through airport security without Haeun seeing. Kiara makes a joke about hiding it in his shampoo bottle. Yasmine laughs so hard she nearly drops her bowl of strawberries.

And for a moment, it’s fine.

You even smile a little. Force yourself to pull your eyes away from Jungkook and land somewhere safer — like Jimin’s dramatic re-enactment of Seokjin’s TSA panic face.

But when your gaze flicks back, just for a second, you find Jungkook leaning against the opposite counter, sipping his freshly made coffee like he didn’t just say a whole lot by saying nothing.

And you don’t say anything either. Because what are you going to do — call him out for rejecting your cup of coffee?

So you let the conversation keep moving. You nod along. You laugh in the right places. You keep your expression neutral. Maybe a little too neutral.

But your jaw is just the tiniest bit tight. And your fingers wrap around your mug a little firmer than before.

Guess you weren't just overthinking after all.

The rain starts as a mist before quickly turning into a steady downpour.

You and Haeun are halfway back from the beach by the time it hits properly. She doesn’t bother running, and neither do you. You just glance up once at the thick, grey sky and laugh a little under your breath. She grins beside you, jogging lightly as she shakes water out of her ponytail.

“I told you it was going to rain,” she says, smug.

You’d been adamant about it, insisting that it would be warm as usual when you asked Haeun to come swim with you. She’d shown you her weather app and you’d waved it off with a dramatic, “Those things are never right.” Now, soaked halfway to the bone and blinking through the drizzle, you’re starting to eat your words.

"Yeah yeah, whatever."

By the time you step inside the house through the glass sliding doors, your legs are lightly dusted with sand and your hair is sticking to the sides of your neck, still damp from the ocean, and now slightly tangled from the breeze.

It’s warmer in the house, and for the first time since the trip started, everyone is inside. No one has slipped off to the beach or disappeared with a book to some random corner of the deck.

You brush your fingers through your hair absently as you kick off your flip flops near the threshold. Haeun’s already moved toward the kitchen, mumbling something about tea, leaving you to linger for a second by the open space where the wooden floor transitions into the living room rug.

Jimin and Taehyung are on the floor by the coffee table, throwing popcorn into each other’s mouths with miserable aim and laughing at their failures. Ari’s curled up with Namjoon on one end of the abnormally large couch that takes up almost half of the room, the two of them watching something muted on the TV while Kiara and Yasmine scroll through their phones on the floor beside them, bickering about which photos to post later.

And there's Jungkook.

He's sitting on the other end of the couch, knees propped up, thumbing idly through something on his phone.

He looks calm. Not relaxed, exactly — Jungkook doesn’t really do relaxed when he’s spaced out, but his shoulders aren’t hunched like they were this morning, and his jaw isn’t clenched. He just sits there scrolling.

You hadn’t seen him on the beach. You’re not even sure where he’d gone off to all morning, after the coffee exchange that had been awkward enough to replay itself in your brain on loop.

It’s not that you’re trying to obsess, but it’s hard not to notice when someone you used to know inside out starts moving like a stranger.

You take a slow breath, brushing your hand down your thigh once — a nervous gesture you don’t bother disguising — and cross the rest of the living room, stepping carefully over Taehyung’s outstretched legs as you make your way toward the couch.

There’s an open space beside Jungkook and you decide take it.

But before you can even properly sit down or bring up your knees to get comfortable, Jungkook's already standing.

You watch as he crosses the living room and drops down into the armchair beside Yoongi without a single word, disbelief painting your features for a second before reel your expression back to neutral.

You don’t look at anyone.

You definitely don’t look at Jungkook.

Instead, you keep your gaze pinned to the muted television in front of you — some vaguely familiar movie playing with the subtitles on — and try to ignore the way your heartbeat has picked up in your ears.

It’s not a big deal. Not technically. Maybe he just wanted to sit by Yoongi. Maybe you’re reading too much into it. Again.

But still.

Still.

You cross one leg over the other, trying to breathe through the stiffness now crawling up the back of your neck. You can feel a strand of hair clinging to your collarbone. You reach up and tuck it behind your ear just to do something with your hands.

“Hey,” Jimin says suddenly from the floor, glancing back toward you, “you two get caught in the rain?”

You force your mouth into a small smile. “A little.”

“Dumbasses,” Taehyung says fondly, tossing a kernel of popcorn that smacks Jimin square in the cheek. “Told you it was gonna pour.”

“It’s barely even raining,” Haeun calls from the kitchen, voice slightly muffled from the distance.

You hum in agreement, mostly to say something, but your voice barely makes it out. You don’t think anyone notices.

Except maybe Kiara, who glances at you briefly from the corner of her eye. She doesn’t say anything, but it’s enough to make you shift in your seat.

You try not to look again. At him.

You fail.

Jungkook’s posture hasn’t changed — one arm resting on the armrest, the other slung low in his lap. He’s facing the TV, but his gaze isn’t fixed on anything in particular.

This isn’t normal. Not even close.

Not that anything has been normal since the breakup, but this is different. Cold in a way he’s never been with you — even when you fought. Even when you broke up.

It’s the kind of distance that doesn’t come from anger. It’s more deliberate than that.

And you really don’t know what you did to deserve it.

The rain doesn’t last. It trails off sometime after the movie ends — not that you can remember a single scene of it — and by the time it does, the sky outside is starting to dip in colour.

You keep your eyes on your hands, loosely folded in your lap, while the rest of the group starts to migrate back outside into the pool and the beach. Someone tugs open the back door and lets the salt-heavy breeze rush back in. Kiara walks past and ruffles your hair lightly, says something about joining them soon. You nod, even though you’re not sure you will.

You don’t even register Jungkook until he’s moving past the arm of the couch.

“Jungkook,” you say.

He stops just in front of the door to the front.

He doesn’t turn fully. Just glances over his shoulder, enough to let you know he heard.

You stand before your courage can second-guess you. “Can we talk?”

A beat of silence passes. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, but doesn’t look at you.

“I don’t think there’s much to talk about.”

It takes you a second to process his words.

“What?” you ask, brows knitting.

“I just—” Jungkook shifts, hand flexing at his side like he’s trying not to clench it. “I think we’re handling things fine. Everyone still believes us, right? That’s the whole point.”

You stare at him.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He exhales, but doesn't respond.

“I’m not talking about the deal. I’m talking about you— us— and the fact that you’ve been ignoring me all day.”

“I haven’t—”

“Yes, you have,” you cut in, voice firmer now. “You wouldn’t even look at me this morning. You’ve barely said more than three words since last night.”

“I thought you wanted space,” he says quietly, finally turning around to face you. “I figured, after yesterday, that it’d be easier if I just gave you room.”

“Easier?” you echo. “For who?”

He swallows. His gaze drops. You can see the tension in the way his shoulders pull in slightly, like he’s trying to fold himself smaller.

“I’m just trying not to make this harder than it already is."

Your chest tightens, something sharp rising behind your ribs. There’s a line between being careful and being cowardly, and you don’t know when Jungkook crossed it — only that he’s already miles past it now, still walking away from a conversation he won’t even let you have.

“And moving when I sit beside you— what’s that supposed to be?” you ask. “Because if that’s you being careful, it really fucking sucks.”

His jaw twitches.

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, Jungkook? Because you’re not talking to me. You won’t even look at me.”

His lips part like he wants to say something before he stops himself.

You wait, but he doesn’t answer.

He just stands there in silence, eyes unreadable, like he’s scared whatever comes out of his mouth next will be the wrong thing.

And that frustrates you more than anything else.

Because you just want the truth, not silence. Even if it hurts. Even if it means hearing him say that he doesn't love you anymore. Because at least, then you’d know.

You cross your arms slowly, swallowing the lump that has started forming in your throat.

“You can’t just fucking kiss me one day and ignore me the next.”

“Look, I’m—” He exhales harshly. “I’m sorry the kiss didn’t mean anything, okay?

You freeze.

Something inside you falters, buckles under the weight of it. You try to breathe around the burn clawing up your throat, but the room suddenly feels too stuffy.

You press your nails into your palms. You can feel your pulse there — quick, shallow, and it’s the only thing anchoring you to the moment. You don't trust yourself to speak, so you don't.

Jungkook's voice is soft when he eventually speaks. “We only have to do this shit for one more day. That’s it. I’ll stay out of your way until then, and when it’s over, we can pack our bags, go home, and you never have to talk to me again.”

You stand there for half a second too long. Long enough for the silence to feel thick again. Long enough to think — maybe he’ll take it back, or stop you. Maybe he’ll say something else.

But he doesn’t, so you turn.

You walk away, footsteps too loud against the hardwood. Your throat is tight, your chest worse. You make your way outside and up the stairs into you room, shutting the door with a quiet click — not because you're calm, but because slamming it would mean he still matters enough to make you angry.

And right now, you're trying not to let him matter at all.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the blank wall, trying to will yourself not to cry.

You don’t win that one. Not completely.

But you wipe away your tears before they can stain your face, because if anyone comes looking, you’ll lie. If he comes looking, you won’t open the door.

Still, you wait for the sound of footsteps outside the room.

None come.

< prev • next > | series masterlist | main masterlist

[theamberparadise]

Stolen Goods | TICCI TOBY x READER SMUT DRABBLE | mdni!

SYNPOSIS; After Toby gets mocked by Jeff (who has fucked you before), Toby stomps his way to your room to give you the better– if not the best– sex you’ve had in your entire life. He wants to make you scream, to make you realize that he is the better choice for you, not Jeff. Him. Only him.

TW; c*ck1ng, ch0k1ng, m0ck1ng, d3gr4d4t10n, mentions of reader getting pr3gn4nt but not actually happening, toby's jealousy issues lmfao.

A/N; i was writing for toby's thirsts but i got a little sidetracked lmfao. consider this my first separately published drabble.

Jeff’s words rang in Toby’s head.

“You can’t fuck her as good as I can.”

“I doubt you’ll make her scream– or even make any sound at all.”

“What makes you think you’ll even get as close as to making her cum? Or even get her naked at all?”

Those words were injected in his brain like stinging venom.

And Toby was more than ready to prove him wrong.

And one night, Toby couldn’t take it anymore. He knocked on your door– three times, and the second your pretty face showed itself through the cracks, he shoved you back, making you stumble backwards, and when your questions came spilling out your mouth, he gripped your arms and pinned you down onto the stuffy sheets.

That was the only thing you remember before you were shrieking your brains out, your cunt fluttering around Toby’s meaty cock, his angry tip punching at your cervix.

You had no idea why he was doing this– or why you liked it. But from all the things he’s sputtering out of his mouth, you start to gain why he broke in.

“Why– why him of a-all people?” he muttered. “Why him? Why why why–” his words were almost static to your ears, the loud claps of your flesh and the thumping of your blood in your ears muffling out any other noise– or any other bit of your conscience telling you that you were still inside a mansion full of murderers and wanted convicts who might already have heard your wanton cries.

They only got louder when he lifted your hips with his, pushing the back of your knees toward the sides of your ears, forcing you into an aching mating press that only hit your spot even harsher than before.

“T-Tob-Toby–” your weak fingers clawed at him with the strength of a kitten. Toby didn’t budge. “What did h-he have that I d-didn’t?” he growled. “Did my dick n-not look big e-enough? Do m-my muscles not imp-impress y-you enough?” 

A silence consisting of your loud cries pursued for a moment, before his chest snapped and his hands went for your throat, leaving you to wrangle and squirm under him.

“Fucking answer me!” He roared, his cock ramming in your cunt even harder than before. The disgusting squelches of your juices turned filthy. And your moans? Turned unholy.

You were begging– begging for him to let go and give you some air. Begging for him to slow down, you can’t take it.

But all those pleas go unheard when Toby keeps on rambling about his questions– his delusions– his voice getting meaner and meaner from the start of him begging so sweetly to let him fuck you, a drastic change from sweet and yearning, to rough and intimidating.

You and Jeff only had a fling-- a one night stand that felt good, but you didn't think it would mean anything to Jeff. But not to Toby, no. He took it as an insult. An offense made by you. Despite him refusing to make a first move ever since the start of your stay here.

Toby knew this fact as well. And he admits, it's his fault, too. But the thought of you giving your pussy-- his pussy up for grabs to anyone in this damn mansion? Especially to someone Toby could break in half like a stick? Absolutely not.

“How did hi-his dick feel h-huh? Was it good? B-better? Better t-than me?” 

You shook your head. You didn’t want him to be even more rabid than he is now, if he was fueled by even a tad bit of anger any longer, he would kill you.

But clearly, your pathetic attempt didn’t work.

“Then what fucking business do you have with fucking Jeff? Huh?” he hissed. And when you don’t answer, he pulls out, leaving you wriggling on your mattress. You open your mouth to thank him and whoever is up in the clouds listening to you, but are interrupted by him lifting you up, twisting you towards the wall, pinning your poor face against it while your knees tremble against the cotton of the mattress. 

You shriek once again, louder, when Toby thrusts in once again without warning. 

Your poor, bruised wrists are pinned behind you now, the wall pressing against where the underlay of your skin meets his tip, making you feel him intensely more than ever before.

Your sobs are desperate, helpless. And that doesn’t stop Toby.

“Did he make you f-feel like t-this? L-like heaven?” he snickered, in pure pride. “He won’t ever f-fuck you like this. H-he won’t ever m-make you scream l-like this. He won’t even make y-you feel what y-you feel with m-me,” his words cut through like obsidian. “I’m better b-baby, so so much b-better…” Toby leans in and drags his tongue from your chin up to your ears. “He’s a fucking shrimp compared to me, but you d-don’t even seem to co-comprehend that.” he chuckles.

“Y-yknow who’s room this is?” he reaches up a free hand, balled into a fist before knocking against the hollow plywood with his knuckles. “It’s Jeff’s room,” he taunted, a sly grin plaguing his face. “And he’s in there, right now, l-listening to you being a who-whore for me.”

You can only do so much but to whimper like a poor animal, your orgasm being on the edge, like a string ready to be snapped.

“You wanna fuck him? F-fine, you can f-fuck him, date him if y-you want,” he rasped, his pace nothing short of relentless. “But not before I get y-you fucking pregnant,” your eyes widen. “Pregnant with my fucking babies, make h-him raise it,” he giggles. “Watch the life spill o-out of his eyes when he r-realizes it’s not his… fuck, baby, th-the things you m-make me want to do.”

You cringed, cheeks heating up like never before– Toby’s threats pushing you over the edge like a boulder.

The string inside you snapped like nylon, violently shaking your body with one last cry, nails scraping against the paint, eyes shooting open like sex-filled voids, the sound of his name bouncing off the walls.

A buzz from Toby’s very-cracked phone wakes you up. Your body feels… fresh. Relaxed. He must’ve bathed you when you passed out. 

Out of curiosity, you picked up his heavy cell, the bright screen almost blinding you when your eyes take focus.

------

JEFFREY

3 missed calls, 6 unread messages

12:46 AM what the fuck are you two doing

1:28 AM open the fucking door

1:31 AM toby i fucking swear

*2 missed calls*

1:58 AM im going to gouge your brains out OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR

2:01 AM youre gonna pay for this i swear ill leave you for dead you shitty little bitch

*1 missed call*

3:29 AM just you wait, twitch. just you fucking wait ill get her back.

---------

Thick fingers reached from behind you and gently take the phone out of your hands, the feeling of Toby’s stubble grazing on your neck like sandpaper makes you jump a little.

“Schlaf weiter, Engel. Er ist deine Zeit nicht wert. Ich schon. Nur ich. Er ist nicht halb so ein Mann wie ich.” his words sound foreign to you, but you have a mental guess on what it might mean. And one thing is for sure:

It would be evident that you won’t hang out with Jeff ever again.

[strnilolover]

Special birthday request hehe

Ride or Die Matt - reader ignores Matt after he hasn't fucked her in a while and gets bratty whenever he speaks to her. Matt sees her sexual frustration and draws it out a lil until she begs for it. The actual smut is yours to create and imagine. LOVE YOUUU

⌗ . . . A GOOD FUCK

WARNINGS : DOM!MATT. MEAN!MATT. BRATTY!READER. SMUT. PNV. DEGRADING. TEASING. SEXUAL FRUSTRATION!

for my lovely kay!! @endereies happy happy birthday!! <3

you knew matt wasn’t intentionally meaning to ignore you—you knew he had a big race coming up in a week and he just wanted to make sure everything was perfect and ready for himself to win.

but it was getting to you.

sitting in the hot garage day after day just to watch him work on his car with chris—his attention barely on you day after day. you were growing frustrated—needy—the tension in your body so tight you felt like you were going to burst.

and really today was no different than the last few. you were in the garage again—sitting on the empty tool bench in the far corner with your legs crossed. you were doing everything in your power not to look at him. you wanted to be mad at him—you were mad at him. but it was like your body just didn’t care what your mind thought.

matt was bent over the open engine bay of his race car, sweat dripping down the back of his neck and his hands buried deep inside the guts of the machine. chris was next to him, his sleeves rolled up with grease on his jaw, and tossing tools between his fingers while reading torque specs off his phone.

“she’s still knocking on the left side. probably a valve lash issue.” chris muttered, reaching for a socket wrench. “did you tighten these already?” you overheard him ask and matt grunted, reaching back and pulling a rag from his back pocket to wipe his hands. he nodded, sighing. “twice. and she’s still not settling.”

“You think it’s the camshaft?” chris asked, trying to help matt figure out what could be wrong with the car. he hummed. “could be.” matt replied before he stood straight for a moment, cracked his neck, and swiped sweat from his brow. his half-zipped suit hung low on his hips, exposing the white tank under it, stained with grease from the car and whatever else.

you didn’t even blink. chris noticed your behavior—and you were sure matt did too—and shot you a quick look, raising a brow at the way you sat there all stiff and silent, but didn’t say anything. he knew better.

matt had already tried to make conversation with you three times already today.

“did y’see the new tires?”

no reply.

“you wanna help baby? or just pout all day?”

still nothing.

“you’re not mad at me right?”

you were. but you smiled sweetly at your phone like he didn’t even exist. and matt scoffed low under his breath and leaned against the hood while chris ducked back under it. he was watching you and that made you twitch, but didn’t look up. he definitely noticed.

chris glanced up from under the hood of the car with a smirk like he was used to tuning you both out when you got like this. he himself could feel the tension between you two now beginning to grow rapidly. “i’m gonna..go grab the plugs.” he muttered, suddenly disappearing toward the supply shelf in the back.

as soon as he was gone, matt tilted his head at you and smirked like he was going to say something, but instead he gave you one last knowing look before he turned back to the car with that same smug little shake of his head.

matt definitely knew. it was like he could read you like an open book even if you didn’t want to be read. you were needy—throbbing and pent up. and you hated that he knew. hated how cocky he was about it. like he could feel it on you.

you could feel how flushed your face was, how hot you were just from him staring at you. it had been days since he’d touched you—fucked you. and it felt as if every little thing he did just served to rile you up more. you just turned yourself away from them once chris returned, keeping silent.

you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. not another glance or sound. you crossed your arms over your chest, your lips tight as you just stared away from them. your phone was still in your lap, but you’d scrolled past the same tiktok five times. you couldn’t focus.

you hadn’t realized that matt started to watch you again until he spoke—too wrapped up into your own head and trying to be mad at him. “baby.” matt called again, from across the garage after chris walked off again—this time taking his sweet time at the far end of the room. “you’re not even gonna look at me?”

you didn’t. you were barely breathing at this point.

there was a long pause—nothing but the sound of chris messing around somewhere in the back room could be heard. but the the sound of his boots coming toward you echoed through the garage.

you didn’t bother to move. but your stomach dropped and your cunt clenched—it didn’t take long before your eyes flicked up in spite of yourself just as he reached the tool bench you were sitting on. his frame was towering over you, arms crossed as he looked down at you.

“you’re actin’ like a fuckin’ brat.” he muttered, voice low enough to be for you only. “and honestly, it’s cute.” and you just blinked, like you didn’t hear him, but your nails dug into your arms. “don’t give me that.” he said with a chuckle, dropping his voice lower as he leaned in closer. his hands came to rest on the side of the bench, right by your thigh. “you’ve been sittin’ there all day with that little attitude. like i don’t know exactly why you’re so quiet.”

you still didn’t say anything—but it was becoming increasingly hard to stay quiet. to not just give in right now and drop your whole bratty act. you knew what you were doing—you did this every time you wanted his attention. he was so close. too close.

“poor baby.” he said, the mock sympathy dripping from his words as he cocked his head. “so neglected. must be real hard not getting my cock for a few days, huh?” and you clenched your jaw, exhaling slowly. your thighs pressing together. of course he knew—but you weren’t expecting him to say it out loud. not here at least.

“bet you been touchin’ yourself when I’m not around. whining into your pillow.” he sneered, his fingers barely brushing the top of your knee as his hand moved slowly. “but it’s not the same, is it?” and that’s what got you to finally look at him. finally. and he grinned.

“m’not a brat.” you mumbled, crossing your legs the other way, trying to move away so he wouldn’t make your walls crumple anymore than they already were. “oh, sweetheart.” he said, now dragging his thumb across your thigh. “you’re the fuckin’ definition of one.” he leaned down now, his lips right against your ear. “but i love when you act like this. makes it more fun to break you down later.” and then he pulled away, giving your thigh a light squeeze then and tap before turning away to go back to his car.

your heart was racing now, and you swallowed—your stomach already twisting and turning—mind running with so many thoughts of what he just might do.

-

the next day was worse. you were so much more worse.

you didn’t even say hi when you walked into the garage—and honestly you weren’t even sure why you kept coming back in here when you knew you didn’t have to. but you just strutted in anyways in a pair of tight little shorts and a cropped tee.

you made it a point not to look at matt when he glanced up, watching the way you climbed up onto that same tool bench and crossed your legs. but your whole body was stiff—because you could feel the way he looked at you.

chris was underneath the car, his legs sticking out like some cartoon, which honestly made you crack a small smile. but you wiped it away quickly as you started to peel open a popsicle you had brought with you and stuck it between your lips without a word.

matt shook his head and chuckled under his breath—he knew what you were doing. and you knew that he knew. it was on purpose, what you were doing. every little slurp you made on the red popsicle was for him. even the eye-roll you did every time you moved your head down was meant to test him. to tease him—just to see how far he’d let this go.

but he just kept working, even if you were staring to become distracting. his eyes flicking over to you every few minutes, watching the way some of the juice from the popsicle was dripping down the sides of your mouth. and how your nipples were poking through that shirt of yours. of course you weren’t wearing a fucking bra—matt didn’t like the thought of chris’ eyes landing on you and seeing it.

you sat there for a while, not watching the boys, just scrolling on your phone and eating your popsicle until it was finished. but at some point chris had left to “take a call.” he knew how you guys got, and really he wish he didn’t, but he was around be too often to where he started picking up on little details. and so he shoot a knowing glance between you both before heading out. the door swung shut behind him.

and that’s when the air seemed to change. it became more tense—so thick you could probably cut it with a knife. you and matt were both on edge, but it wasn’t going to be him who was going to snap first.

you didn’t hear mat move right away, just the sound of tools being set down gently in the tool boxes where they went before the sound of a rag was heard. and then his shadow was being casted over your legs. he didn’t give you time to react before he was already speaking to you.

“i should bend you over that hood.” he murmured, not even giving you the satisfaction of looking directly at you, instead he was looking else where. his hand rested on the edge of the bench beside you, fingers slowly curling just like they had yesterday.

he startled you to say the least but all you did was blink slowly before your lips parted, taking little breaths in and out. your heart hammering.

when he finally looked at you, he moved to step between your knees. “don’t look so shocked sweetheart. done nothin’ but try to provoke me today.” and you couldn’t stop the next words from slipping past your lips. “fuck you.” you mumbled, though it came out breathy.

he hummed, his hands moving slow—up your thighs, spreading them apart just a little as he leaned it towards you. “i like this version of you. all pouty. all worked up.” your breath hitched as his fingers ghosted over your core—so close you could feel the heat radiating off his knuckles.

but he didn’t touch you. not in the way you wanted him to—and that make your head spin, your walls crumbling down in an instant. “please.” you whispered without thinking and matt tilted his head, smirking to himself. he had you exactly where he wanted you. “please?” he echoed mockingly. “that’s it?”

he tsked, leaning in so close to you that his lips brushed your ear, just like they had done yesterday. and you could feel the way your breath caught in your throat. “nah, baby. you’re not gettin’ my cock until you’re begging for it. i wanna hear how bad it hurts not having your pussy stuffed after a few days.”

you whined, your hips shifting forward. he hadn’t even done anything to you yet—but yet here you were—your body already on fire and your mind already beginning to turn to mush just from how he was talking to you. “it hurts,” you whispered. “been hurting all week.” your words were breathless, almost inaudible as you spoke.

matt shifted just slightly, moving his palm to suddenly press flat against your cunt over your shorts—your legs parted more for him as you gasped at the contact. it was such a small move, but fuck did it feel amazing.

“oh, I fuckin’ bet.” he growled, his fingers now moving to rubbing slow, firm circles over your clothed clit. he was focused on the fact that chris could come back into the garage and see you both like this—no—he was focused on making you pay for how you had been acting towards him. “this little pussy’s been neglected, huh? bet she’s been so fuckin’ soaked for me, isn’t she?”

you nodded so fast you thought you’d get whiplash, your breath catching. he was always so hot when he spoke to you like this. it was exactly what you needed—and you were so so close to getting what you wanted, it was like you could taste it. “mhm—yes. fuck, matt please.” you begged just slightly, but it obviously wasn’t enough. because just as your hips started to grin against his fingers, he pulled back and just stepped away.

just like that.

and you stared at him with your lips parted in disbelief. he touched you and then backed off—why would he just do that?

“mm-mm. that’s not what i asked for.” he said, reaching out and wiping his hands with a clean rag, turning back toward the car with a smirk. “i said to beg. not whimper. makes you sound desperate baby.”

you were seething. your eyes turning to slits as your voice started before your brain could catch up. “matt!” you slid off the bench, storming over to where he way by his car, your voice beginning to raise. “you’re such a—” and before you could get the rest of the words out, matt was spinning quick to pin you back against the edge of the car with a hand against your stomach. “careful. sat the wrong thing and i’ll edge you on my tongue for an hour just to send you home without my cock.”

your eyes widened—welling just slightly as your whole body began to throb even more. it wasn’t fair how he was acting—he would’ve just given into you by now. you felt as if you’d cry right here and now with how much you needed him.

“now be a good girl,” he whispered, one hand coming out to grab at your hip as the one on your stomach began sliding down and into your shorts. his fingers dancing along the outside of your panties, tracing faint lines over your pussy. “and tell me what you want.” you were warm—everywhere—the wet patch on your panties growing by the second, sticking to you.

“want your cock,” you gasped, the words being mumbled, your pride crumbling. your body basically shrinking in front of him. “please—want it so bad—been aching for days.”

“yeah? what, you want it—here?” his fingers moved and pressed hard over your clit. you nodded desperately, lips parting as your eyes fluttered shut for just a moment. “c’mon baby, say it. tell me what filthy little thoughts have been swimming around in that pretty head of yours.” your hips twitched at his words, eyes fluttering back open.

“I want you to bend me over and fuck me like i’m nothing.” your voice cracked just slightly—you felt so embarrassed. “want you to use me. make me cum so hard i forget how long i waited.” matt groaned out a noise of approval before he leaned down, his mouth connecting to yours in a heated kiss.

his hand moved out of your shorts, coming up to land on your other hip as his lips broke away from your own, quickly spinning you around—pressing you against his car. the hood was down now, and you hadn’t even realized it was. almost like he planned for it to end like this.

he pressed a hand up between your shoulder blades, a quiet signal for you to go down. and you listened—bending yourself forward and arching the best you could, letting your legs spread more for him.

you let yourself lay flat, your cheek pressed to the metal of the hood. matts hands grabbed at the waist band of your shorts and yanked them down to your knees—your panties now on full display for him, absolutely soaked through. “look at you, soaked through your fuckin’ panties,” he muttered. “how pathetic is that?”

you turned your head slightly to look over one of your shoulders the best you could—catching a small glimpse of him before you let your head fall back down. “please.” you whined, pushing your hips back against him. you could feel how hard he was already, his cock straining against the material of his pants.

he thought about teasing you more—letting you grind yourself back into him like a needy girl—but he decided not to waste anymore time. after all, he was getting impatient himself.

so he just reached down and slid your panties to the side, his other hand coming down and undoing his pants, pulling his cock out as quickly as he could. he pulled back slightly so he could spit down onto his hand, reaching down to fist himself until he was slick enough. the loss of contact made you whimper, your desperation growing more by the second.

he chuckled when he noticed, tsking before grabbing your hip and lining himself up. “so fuckin’ impatient baby. you want it so bad? then fucking take it.” and with that his hips pushed forward rather rough, his cock burying itself so deep inside you, it nearly knocked the wind out of you.

you moaned loud—the sound almost between a cry and a scream—but he reached around and clamped a hand over your mouth rather quickly, shutting you up as his hips snapped forward. “shh, baby. y’gotta keep it down. wouldn’t want chris hearing what a needy little whore you are, hm?”

you shook your head, small “no’s” slipping past your lips as your nails scraped against the hood of his car. he started fucking you rough and deep, one of his hands tangling itself in your hair as the other stayed over your mouth.

“five days without my cock and look at you,” he hissed. “takin’ it like you’re starved for it. you are, aren’t you? so upset that my attention hasn’t been on you, you greedy girl.” your moans we’re muffled against his hand, drool pooling in the palm of it as he tried to keep you quiet.

“say it.” he growled, the hand in your hair yanking your head back and away from his hand that covered your mouth. your moans echoing through the garage now as his cock kisses that sweet spot inside you over and over again. the drool now trailing down the sides of your mouth, pool against your shirt.

“I—i was upset!” you gasped, a hand reaching back to grab at him every time he rammed inside you. your scalp starting to burn slightly from the grip he had on your hair. “just—just wanted your attention matt—missed it—please!” he cursed under his breath, his own eyes rolling back from how good you were behaving now. “there’s my good girl.” he murmured. “all that attitude just cause you needed what? a good fuck?, hm?.”

you nodded, the words dying on your tongue as he fucked you faster. the car under you was shaking and neither of you cared if chris heard you—both of you were just focused on the moment and how good you both felt.

every part of you felt on fire—from the heat or from matt you weren’t sure. but your stomach was becoming tighter, your orgasm building. you were crying by now, you were sure of it—your eyes all watery and nose sniffling as matt’s hips didn’t stop. he could feel the way you clenched around him, drawing him in every time he pulled out—it was like you were milking him.

“c’mon sweetheart, i can feel you clenching around me. you gonna cum already? missed my cock so much that you can’t even last?” your body shuttered at his words. he was mocking you—and you tried to deny it, tried to lift your head to say no but it was no use. he wasn’t lying.

the hand tangled in your hair pushed your face back down to the hood of the car, sliding down to grab at the back of your neck. holding you there. “cum on my cock baby. show me how bad you missed me.” hips get kicked your legs wider as he thrusted forward, the new angle making your eyes rolling back as you clenched around him again.

“ah—ah—oh fuck!” your body shook and tensed, walls fluttering around matt’s cock as you let go. you came with a loud cry, your juices beginning to rush out and down his cock. soaking the back of your thighs and the front of his pants. your legs almost threatened to give out on you, but matt just held you up as he fucked you through your high. his own not too far behind.

it wasn’t long before you body started to become over sensitive, twitching slightly in his hold as you started to babble. “matt—fuckfuckfuck—ohmygod—“ his hand on your neck decided to move again, this time trailing down your body and pressing to your clit, rubbing it quickly as his thrusts started to become sloppy.

“y’gonna cum again baby. c’mon, want you to cum again—you can do it f’me.” he groaned, his body leaning forward to press his chest flush to your back, his teeth sinking into the flesh of your shoulder as his hips stuttered. he stilled moments later, his balls drawing tight as he spilled himself inside you. thick ropes of cum painted your walls, some even leaking around the sides of him as he tried to bury himself deeper into your cunt.

the feeling of it triggered your second orgasm—your cunt clenching down around him once again as you came. your vision blurred for just a moment as small gasps slipped out of you. matt continued to empty himself inside you, making sure to fill you to the brim before his body relaxed on top of yours basically.

“this what you wanted, huh?” he muttered, turning his head two press a kiss where his teeth bit into your flesh. light purple marks already blossoming around the bite. and you nodded, your body half-limp and your mind absolutely gone. your breath catching.

“good.” he whispered—his arms moving to peel himself off of you gently. he was being gentle now. this was your favorite part after it all—how gentle he is with you, knowing he pushed your limits just a little. “stay right here for a sec while i get stuff to clean us up baby.”

you whined as he started to pull away—not wanting him to go. you just wanted him close now. “matttt.” but he just shushed you as his hips pulled back, his cock slipping from your now spent and full cunt. he watched as a mixture of his cum and yours leaked out of you, giving just a small smirk before he wandered off to get some clean rags.

matt had managed to get you both cleaned up in time and dressed before chris came back inside. matt had been situating you on his lap, your head snuggled into his neck, before chris came back into the building. you yourself were already starting to doze off in his arms, your body tired and weak.

and chris glared at you both—knowing just from how calm you were and how smug matt looked—that something went on in here that he’d rather not think about. a quite “you guys are disgusting.” muttered from him as matt just laughed.

a/n : this was supposed to be posted on june 28th but i’m very bad at sticking to a schedule obviously. but happy birthday kay!! my sweetest and bestest friend ever. i love you so so much and i hope your day was fantastic and just know that you are stuck with me forever 🤗

this also isn’t proofread so if there’s any spelling mistakes, i apologize

[buckevantommy]

for the fic prompt! : couch

baby bi buck is sooo special to me so have some bottom!buck in the early days of his relationship with Tommy. non-pen (for now..) 🥵🛋️

It's not the first time Buck's made out with someone on his couch, or any couch. It is the first time his partner's hands have been big enough to span his hips and strong enough to gently guide him into straddling their lap.

The noise that escapes his mouth where it's smooshed against Tommy's should be embarassing - it's needy, hungry, new - but he really doesn't care. Why would he care? When Tommy's so built that Buck's weight isn't a non-starter. It's the first time he hasn't felt too big during a makeout session, where he doesn't have to struggle to keep half his neurons firing so he doesn't forget his size and strength and injure his partner.

"Gorgeous," Tommy murmurs, voice a low rumble against Buck's mouth before capturing his lips again.

Buck bears his whole weight down, pressing Tommy into the couch, and grinds experimentally in his lap. Another should-be embarassing noise spills out of him, something base and primal from his chest as Tommy's arms - strong arms, thick and corded with serviceable muscle - wind around his midsection to hold him in place, wordless encouragement to keep doing what he's doing, to do more.

He loses himself in Tommy's kisses, building up a steady rhythm as he grinds artlessly down into Tommy's lap. They're both wearing jeans - which is kind of insane but the friction of the rigid denim against their bulging flies is driving Buck to the brink at double speed so he's putting it in the pros column.

One hand find leverage on Tommy's broad chest - sturdy like a fucking brick wall but with a soft give of cotton-covered flesh that Buck can sink his fingertips into - the other has a deathgrip on the collar of Tommy's overshirt as he chases after his orgasm, eyes screwing shut as the sensations of Tommy overwhelm him.

An unyeilding forearm braces Buck's back as Tommy's other hand slips beneath the waistband of his jeans and engulfs Buck's entire left ass cheek to give a firm squeeze—

Buck comes with a shout.

He barely registers Tommy's hold on him tightening as he rides out the last few shudders of his orgasm, Tommy's own muscles locking up and his cock jumping in the confines of his own jeans as he comes against Buck's own denim-clad mess.

It takes them a minute to catch their breath and for Buck's brain to reboot. He liked that. He really liked that. Everything about it was awesome, and.. kind of surprising. In a good way. A very fucking good way.

"Fuck." His underwear feels okay now, in the blissful moment after, but he knows from experience things are going to take an uncomfortable turn in the next few minutes. "It's, uh. Been a while since I've come in my pants like a horny teenager." Again: not embarassed. Tommy just.. has that effect on him. He's hot as hell and brings out Buck's wild side and he doesn't think Buck is too much.

Tommy's hands fit to Buck's hips again. Buck feels safer than he has with any partner. Ever. "Ditto," Tommy murmurs, hands soothing up and down Buck's ribs.

He's still planted firmly in Tommy's lap and Tommy doesn't seem in any rush to change that. Still. "Um. How d'you feel about a shower and a sleepover?"

"No bubble bath?"

Buck laughs and shoves playfully at Tommy. That beautiful crinkly smile takes over Tommy's whole face making Buck's breath stutters in his chest.

"I'd love to," Tommy says, easy as anything - like Buck's not asking too much too soon, like he wants to wake up next to Buck in the morning.

Buck wants that, too. Wants to wake up beside Tommy. Wrapped in Tommy. His mind wanders off down paths of what that might look like as he stumbles to his feet on shaky legs and reaches out a hand. Tommy lets Buck take a bit of his weight as he stands and it's another thing Buck files away that he likes about Tommy; he's strong, but he doesn't discount Buck's own growth and capabilities.

Tommy's hair is a riot, his curls mussed and free, his overshirt crinkled, face flushed and eyes bright in that just-fucked sparkly hazy kind of way. Buck can only imagine what he must look like.

He steps into Tommy's space, gratified when Tommy doesn't pull away or stumble from keeping them steady. "I want you to fuck me."

"Tonight?"

Buck smiles at the concern in his voice. Maybe they could, but.. "Next week? I kinda wanna work up to it."

Tommy's hands - those soothing, caring hands - shift in a soothing motion up and down Buck's flanks. "Of course. We can take it slow."

Slow, Buck thinks ruefully. None all of his girlfriends ever accused Buck of taking things slow. But he wants to, with Tommy. He wants to experience everything. "I like slow." With one last peck to Tommy's lips he leads them up to his shower, hand in hand.

send me more bottom!buck prompts

[jareaufiles]

DATE NIGHT • a.hotchner

PAIRING: aaron hothcner x female reader

PREMISE: Aaron finally asks you out on a proper date — no cameras, no sets, just the two of you. Dinner’s good, conversation’s better, but neither of you makes it back to your place. You end up in the backseat of his sleek black car, your panties shoved to the side, his hand around your throat, and his cock buried deep while the windows fog up around you.

WARNINGS: pornstar AU, explicit sexual content featuring an established dominance/submission dynamic, including scenes of rough vaginal sex, face-sitting, and cumplay (male character using his mouth to taste and tongue-fuck the cum he previously ejaculated inside the reader). It involves choking/breath play (hand wrapped around the reader's throat during penetration, with air restriction), verbal degradation and praise, oral sex (reader receiving), and overstimulation. takes place in a semi-public setting (a parked car), heightening risk and exhibitionistic tension. sex is raw, possessive, and messy, with an emphasis on control, dominance, and physical restraint (hair-pulling, pinning). it includes soft aftercare such as gentle touches, clothing adjustments, forehead kisses, and reassurance after intense physical and emotional exertion.

WORD COUNT: 6.7K

A/N: he's so yummy, it's unreal. who needs food when he can just eat you (out)? also, excuse the random food order lmao, i've been watching masterchef soooo

masterlists

You weren’t expecting the call. Not from him. Not at that hour.

It was crawling past midnight, that soft, aching hour where everything in your apartment felt a little quieter, a little heavier. The only light came from the flickering glow of your television. Some third rerun of a sitcom you weren’t even pretending to pay attention to, the canned laughter a distant, hollow thing against the thick hush of night.

The air was warm, the last of a long summer day clinging stubbornly to the walls, making your skin tacky beneath the thin cotton of your shirt.

His shirt.

Oversized, faded black, worn soft from too many washes. You’d stolen it months ago, snagged it off the back of a chair in Aaron’s dressing room after the AVN afterparty, one too many drinks deep, your lipstick still smudged at the corner of your mouth, and your thighs aching in the best possible way.

It smelled like him. Even now, after god knows how many laundry cycles, it clung to you like a memory; cologne and old stage lights, a sharp, masculine bite of aftershave stubbornly clinging to the collar. You hadn’t meant to keep it. You just… never gave it back.

Your legs were curled up under you on the couch, one hand lazily scrolling your socials, the other cradling a half-drunk glass of wine, condensation slick against your palm.

That bone-deep kind of solitude had settled in. Not quite loneliness, but a familiar, aching quiet. The kind that crept in at night and made you a little too aware of the way your phone hadn’t buzzed in hours.

And then it did.

The screen lit up with his name. Aaron.

Not Hotch. Never Hotch.

Everyone else called him that. On set, in group chats, in murmured conversations backstage about his stamina, his reputation, the way he could break a girl in two and still have her begging for more.

But you’d called him Aaron since the first day you met, tossing it out so casually it made him look up from whatever contract he’d been reviewing, something sharp and dark and proprietary flickering in his eyes like you’d touched a nerve no one else even knew existed. And you never stopped. It was yours. A small rebellion neither of you acknowledged out loud.

Your heart gave a hard, traitorous kick against your ribs. He never called.

Aaron wasn’t a phone guy. He was a late-night texter, terse and economical. Thinking about that thing you did with your tongue. Or Wear those thigh-highs tomorrow. Or sometimes just a blunt Now, when he wanted you in his bed, no scene, no lights, just sweat and teeth and the kind of rough, desperate sex that left marks.

A call, though? That was new.

You let it ring once. Twice. A third time.

Your fingers tightened around your wine glass, cold seeping into your skin as your thumb hovered over the answer button. By the fourth ring, your stomach was flipping, stupid and hot, nerves strung too tight, some part of you bracing for bad news, the other half already cataloging the way his name looked on your screen, burning it into your brain.

You answered on the fourth ring, your voice soft, careful, curious. “Hey.”

A pause. A breath.

You knew his breathing. You’d mapped it in the dark, felt it against your throat, between your thighs, ghosting over your skin when he didn’t want to speak but couldn’t seem to leave you alone. There was a faint clink of ice against glass on his end, the low rasp of his exhale rough like he’d been drinking, or maybe not sleeping.

When he spoke, his voice was softer than you expected. Rough, yes - that always lingered, but edged with something else. Warmer. Intimate in a way that sent a hot little pulse low in your belly.

“You busy tomorrow?”

It wasn’t what you expected. And somehow, that made it worse. Your lips curled, a slow grin tugging at the corner of your mouth even as your heart kept up its frantic little drumbeat.

“Not if you’re booking me.”

A beat — then a chuckle. Low. Deep. Unfiltered.

The kind of sound he almost never let loose unless you’d earned it, coaxed it out of him with a smart remark or the edge of your teeth against his jaw.

“Not for a scene.”

You sat up a little, tugging your legs tighter beneath you, the worn fabric of his shirt brushing over your bare thighs. There was a strange ache behind your ribs, a little knot of nerves you didn’t want to name. “Oh?”

Another pause. Like he was weighing the words in his mouth. Like he knew once he said it, there was no taking it back.

“I was thinking dinner,” he said. “Just you and me.”

The words landed with a weight you felt in your chest, low and sharp. You weren’t a rookie at this. You knew the game. Knew how to separate what happened under the lights from what happened after dark. You’d fucked coworkers, kissed them in parking lots, let their hands drift too low over drinks in shitty bars. You didn’t confuse it for anything more.

But this? This didn’t sound like a quick fuck or a livestream collab. This sounded deliberate. Like a line being crossed, slow and sure.

“Like…” you tested, your voice going a little breathless, your mouth tugging into a grin you couldn’t fight, “a date?”

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t laugh it off.

“Yeah,” Aaron said. Low. Certain. That quiet kind of sure that made your stomach clench, like he wasn’t leaving room for you to wriggle out of this.

And God, you knew what this meant. Knew what a step like this could do. The lines it would blur. The rules it would break. You could already feel it; the dangerous, intoxicating thrill of him on the other side of that door, without cameras, without a set, just him and you and that awful, perfect tension that always hung between you.

Your pulse thrummed. You tucked yourself deeper into the couch cushions, cradling the phone closer like you could keep him tethered there, just for a little longer.

“Okay,” you murmured, your voice soft but steady, and for the first time in a long time, you meant it. A grin split across your face, stupid and helpless. “Yeah. I’m in.”

And you knew, in your bones, this wasn’t going to be just dinner.

The place he picked wasn’t what you expected and somehow, that made it better.

Tucked away off Ventura Boulevard, the restaurant sat behind a discreet façade, its weathered brick exterior and dark wood door easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. No neon. No velvet rope. No desperate mid-tier porn stars in spray tans and knockoff designer dresses posing at the bar for their followers. It was old-school, unapologetically so. Mahogany paneling gleamed under the low, amber glow of scattered votive candles on each table.

The booths were deep, cracked leather, the kind that had held decades of whispered conversations and under-the-table touches. It smelled like aged whiskey and cigar smoke that probably hadn’t been legal in years, the faintest trace of it baked into the walls, mingling with the savory sweetness of seared meat and rich sauces.

In the far corner, a baby grand piano sat beneath a small spotlight, a middle-aged man in a gray suit coaxing out low, smoky jazz that filled the space like a sigh.

You showed up five minutes late on purpose. Because you could. Because you wanted to see how he looked when he realized you made him wait.

You walked in like you owned the place. A black silk slip dress hugging every inch of your skin, the thin straps constantly threatening to slip off your shoulders, nipples already pebbling against the fabric from the cool, conditioned air. No bra. You wanted him to see it. Wanted the promise of it to linger in his mind every time you shifted. The hem barely kissed the tops of your thighs, your legs elongated by delicate strappy black heels you knew would leave little marks on your feet by the end of the night.

Your hair was loose, styled in those effortless, intentionally careless waves — the kind that looked like you hadn’t tried too hard, though you’d spent a good twenty minutes in front of the mirror making sure it fell exactly right. A swipe of gloss. A hint of perfume behind your ears and at your wrists, something soft and expensive that clung to your skin like a secret.

You spotted him instantly.

Aaron was already settled in a booth toward the back, one arm slung along the top of the worn leather like he’d been born in it, a glass of something deep amber resting easy in his other hand. He wore a black button-up — sleeves rolled to his forearms, two buttons undone to show the barest tease of his chest, that triangle of skin you’d buried your face in more times than you cared to count. Dark jeans, clean but well-worn boots. No watch tonight. And you noticed, because he always wore one. Always checked it like he was keeping time for both of you. It struck you like a touch. Deliberate. Unmistakable.

His gaze found you the second you crossed the threshold.

It was a slow, unhurried sweep, starting at your throat, lingering on the line of your collarbones, the thin straps of your dress, the sharp peak of your nipples pressing against silk. Lower, over the curve of your hips, the bare skin of your legs.

By the time his eyes made it back to yours, your stomach was already dipping, a spark of heat flickering low in your belly. That familiar, terrible, perfect hunger that always burned between you. Tonight, it didn’t flicker. It roared.

“Damn,” you murmured as you slid into the booth across from him, a lazy, flirtatious grin tugging at your lips. You let your knee brush his under the table. Didn’t pull back. “You clean up alright.”

He smirked, one corner of his mouth tipping up in that way that always made you want to climb into his lap and cause a scene. His voice was a low, steady rumble, roughened by bourbon and maybe something heavier beneath. “Could say the same.”

The waiter came by, a clean-cut kid barely old enough to serve drinks, and Aaron didn’t even glance at the menu. He ordered for you both like he’d done it a hundred times before. A bottle of cabernet, the pan-seared salmon for you, ribeye for him, medium rare. Roasted fennel, crispy potatoes, lemon beurre blanc.

It should’ve irritated you, the casual assumption, the authority of it, but it didn’t. It never did with him. If anything, it made your skin prickle, made your thighs press a little tighter together beneath the table.

The wine came quickly. Dark, rich, velvety against your tongue, tasting of black cherries and spice, and you let the first sip linger in your mouth, watching the way Aaron’s eyes followed the movement of your lips, your throat as you swallowed.

The conversation started light, safe territory. Studio gossip, a director neither of you liked, an upcoming award show neither of you planned on attending.

He told you about some new girl on set who’d nearly passed out during a breathplay scene, and you countered with a story about a male performer who’d cried when he came too fast.

The words weren’t important, not really. It was the way his gaze never left your mouth. The way his thigh stayed flush against yours. The way you could feel the current thrumming between you, thick and electric, every look and word loaded with everything you weren’t saying.

Somewhere between the second glass of wine and the arrival of your entrees, the conversation slid into something quieter. “Ever seen Out of the Past?” he asked, fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass.

You shook your head. “Should I have?”

He shrugged, a glint in his eye. “Old noir flick. Mitchum. Femme fatale in a white dress. You’d like it.”

The implication was there, that you’d look good in that role. Dangerous. Untrustworthy. The kind of girl who leaves lipstick smudges on cigarette filters and men’s collars.

You arched a brow, grinning. “Guess you’ll have to screen it for me sometime.”

A beat. His gaze darkened. “Yeah. Guess I will.”

The food arrived. Your salmon crisp at the edges, the flesh tender and melting on your tongue. His steak a perfect ruby in the center, juices pooling around the plate. You picked at your plate between sips of wine, conversation continuing in that same lazy, intimate sprawl.

He teased you about your high school obsession with The Killers. You made him admit he still listened to Springsteen when he was too drunk to pretend otherwise.

He described the best wings in LA , some grimy dive bar on the east side where the risk of food poisoning was worth it, and you made him swear to take you.

At some point, he cut you a piece of his steak without asking. Held it out to you on his fork, his gaze never leaving yours. You took it, lips closing around the bite, tasting salt and char and something heavier you didn’t have a name for. He watched your mouth as you chewed, and you felt it like a touch.

By dessert — a crème brûlée you ordered for no reason other than to share — your pulse was a steady thrum in your throat. The heat between you had gone from steady hum to razor wire tension, sharp and singing.

You picked at the crisp shell of burnt sugar, passing the spoon back and forth, your fingers brushing, every glance heavy. Every word thick with what wasn’t being said.

And when he looked at you, head tilted slightly, lips curling at the corner, it wasn’t the look of a man who wanted to fuck you. Not just that. It was a look that said he wanted to ruin you.

You downed the last of your wine, feeling bold and reckless and too aware of the heat pooling between your thighs. You slid out of the booth, leaning down, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek as you murmured against his ear, “Hope you drive fast, Aaron. I’m fucking soaked.”

His jaw tensed, the muscle flexing hard, eyes gone dark and dangerous as they cut to yours. When he stood, it was too quick, too sharp, a man barely keeping a leash on himself.

“Let’s go,” he rasped, voice rough as gravel. And you grinned, knowing exactly how this night was going to end and that neither of you would make it home.

The night air hit you like a punch when you stepped outside. Cool and dense, laced with exhaust, wilting jasmine, and the sharp, tangy bite of hot asphalt cooling after hours of baking under LA sun. The heavy quiet of the city after midnight stretched out around you, the distant hum of traffic on Ventura a low pulse beneath your skin.

It felt like a different world out here, after the dim intimacy of that old restaurant, the flicker of votives still clinging to your retinas, the sound of Aaron’s low laugh in your ears, the taste of wine and butter sauce on your tongue.

You spotted him ahead of you, moving toward his car, a gorgeous, black muscle car gleaming under the hazy glow of a streetlight. The paint shimmered like ink, chrome catching the faintest hints of light.

You’d seen it on set before, once or twice, but never like this. Not like it was waiting for you. And fuck, he looked good in this light. The sleeves of his shirt still rolled to his forearms, collar open, the flush from wine and hunger making his jawline sharper, his mouth softer. His hair was slightly mussed from your earlier kiss, and that alone made your stomach twist tight.

And you didn’t think — you just moved.

Your heels clicked softly on the pavement as you closed the space between you, the silk of your dress catching on the breeze, clinging to your thighs. He turned at the sound, his eyes finding yours, that dark, unguarded look already waiting for you. And before he could speak, before the night could swallow the moment, you rose up on your toes, grabbed a fistful of his shirt, and kissed him.

It was filthy. Desperate. All teeth and tongue and clashing breath. His hands immediately framing your face, one slipping into your hair, the other anchoring at your waist, pulling you in so tight you could feel every inch of his body against yours.

The hard line of his cock through his jeans pressed to your stomach, and Jesus, he was already thick, already straining. You groaned against his mouth, your fingers sliding down his chest, feeling muscle and heat and the way his pulse thundered beneath his skin.

“Couldn’t fucking wait,” he muttered against your lips, breath hot, voice low and cracked with want. “Look at you… standing there, fucking perfect. I knew I wasn’t making it home.”

Your blood turned molten, your cunt throbbing, panties so wet it was obscene. You ground against him shamelessly, both of you so far gone it barely registered when he unlocked the car with a sharp press of his key fob and tugged you toward the back door. He opened it and you barely managed to slide inside before he was following, pulling it shut behind you with a muted slam.

The space was tight. Black leather seats, gleaming under the dim glow of the overhead light before he flicked it off, plunging you into a darkness broken only by the bleeding colors of city lights through the tinted glass. It smelled like leather and old cologne and him, the air thick with heat and need.

You straddled his lap without hesitation, dress riding up your thighs, your ass settling against the hard ridge of his cock through his jeans. The friction made both of you groan.

Your hands roamed instantly — over his chest, up his throat, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to make him hiss. His hands were everywhere at once. One slipped up your dress, fingers dragging over your bare thigh, while the other palmed your ass, the sting of his grip making you moan into his mouth.

The car rocked faintly with every shift of your hips, the windows already fogging from the heat pouring off your bodies. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew anyone could walk by. Knew that one wrong move could have you both caught.

And it made you wetter.

His lips crashed against yours again. Sloppy, desperate kisses that tasted like bourbon and want. His tongue pushed deep, claiming, and you whimpered, your body arching against him, aching. His hand slid higher, fingertips brushing over the soaked scrap of lace between your legs, and when he felt the mess you’d made, a filthy groan left his throat.

“Jesus fuck… soaked for me,” he growled, pulling back just enough to look down between you, watching his hand disappear beneath your dress. His fingers slid the panties aside, teasing your slick folds, gathering wetness before circling your clit with maddening slowness. “You been this wet since dinner, huh? Knew you were sitting there with this sweet little pussy dripping for me.”

You gasped, hips canting into his touch, the rough pad of his thumb making your head fall back, a broken, needy sound escaping your lips.

“So fucking pretty,” he murmured against the curve of your throat, his teeth grazing your skin. “I swear to God, no one else gets to see you like this. No one. Just me.”

Your cunt clenched hard at the possessive edge in his voice, your entire body pulsing with the desperate need to be filled. You could feel the thick line of his cock trapped between your bodies, straining against his jeans, and it made your stomach clench with anticipation.

“I need you, Aaron,” you whined, rocking against his hand, against the hard length of him. The slick sound of your pussy, the obscene wet squelch of it every time his fingers slid through your folds, filled the car. “Fuck — please, I can’t…”

He kissed you again, a filthy, open-mouthed thing that left your lips slick and swollen, his voice breaking against your tongue. “Gonna give it to you, baby. Gonna give you everything. Right here. Wanna feel this tight little cunt choking my cock. You want that?”

You whimpered something that barely qualified as a yes, your nails dragging down his chest, and you both knew neither of you were going to last long. Not like this. Not with the windows fogging, the car rocking, your slick drenching his fingers, his cock thick and heavy between you. The entire night had led here. Every lingering look, every brush of his thigh, every smirk when you called him Aaron.

And neither of you were making it home.

The air inside the car was stifling now, thick and humid with your mingled breath, the scent of sex, sweat, leather, and the sharp tang of arousal. The windows were completely fogged over, blotting out the city, turning the world beyond the glass into smudged streaks of neon and brake lights.

The car rocked in slow, subtle motions beneath you with every shift of his hips, every press of your body against his, the leather creaking beneath your knees as you straddled his lap, his hands greedy and rough, tugging your dress up over your tits so they spilled free.

He groaned when he saw them, dark gaze fixed on your flushed, stiff nipples, his hands cupping the weight of them, thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks. “Fucking perfect,” he rasped, voice breaking like it hurt to hold it in.

Then his mouth was on you. Hot, wet, teeth scraping and tongue swirling, pulling one aching nipple between his lips and sucking hard. You cried out, hips grinding down against the thick, unmistakable bulge beneath you, slick soaking your panties, your clit throbbing with every filthy pull of his mouth.

His stubble scraped your tender skin, making you squirm, loving the way his teeth grazed the sensitive bud before he moved to the other, lavishing it just as hungrily.

Your entire body ached, trembling with the sharp, urgent need to taste him, to have that thick cock stretching your throat, the weight of it heavy on your tongue. Impatient, desperate, you shoved at his shoulders, panting, and slid down between his spread thighs, the cramped space of the backseat barely accommodating you but you didn’t give a fuck.

You dropped to your knees on the floor, the leather hot and sticky under your skin, your hands already working his belt open, the sharp metallic clink of the buckle loud in the tight space.

His cock sprang free the second you tugged down his zipper, and fuck, it was beautiful. Thick and heavy, the flushed head a deep, angry red, a bead of precum already slicking the tip. The skin was velvety-soft over the iron-hard length, veins standing out along the shaft, the weight of it making your mouth ache.

The scent of him — sweat, skin, musk — filled your nose, thick and heady in the humid air, and your pussy clenched hard, a fresh slick of arousal pooling between your thighs.

“Jesus, look at you,” Aaron groaned, his voice pure gravel, watching the way you licked your lips, eyes glassy with want. “Bet your little cunt’s dripping down your legs, huh? Gonna suck my cock like a good girl?”

You didn’t answer, just grinned, filthy and hungry, and leaned in, your tongue flicking out to catch the bead of precum, savoring the sharp, slightly salty taste of him.

The sound he made? a low, guttural groan that sent a pulse of heat straight through you. You dragged your tongue along the underside, tracing the thick vein, before sealing your lips around the head, sucking gently, your hand wrapping around the base to stroke what you couldn’t take yet.

His hips jerked up, a helpless, reflexive motion, a rough curse spilling from his lips. “Fuck, that’s it, baby. Just like that.”

The stretch of him against your tongue made your eyes water, but you wanted it — needed to take it, feel that thick cock filling your throat, making you gag. You hollowed your cheeks, sinking lower, inch by inch, letting spit and precum slick your lips, coating him as you worked your mouth down. Every inch you swallowed made your pussy clench harder, your thighs squeezing together, aching for friction.

The car rocked gently with every bob of your head, the suspension creaking, a constant, filthy reminder of how visible you’d be to anyone walking by. Somewhere in the back of your fogged-over mind, you registered the thrill of it — the danger, the risk — but it only made you wetter. You moaned around him, the vibration making his hand fist tighter in your hair.

“Goddamn, you look so fucking pretty like this,” he groaned, his head tipping back, hips starting to roll up into your mouth, fucking your throat with short, shallow thrusts. “Mouth all stretched around me, drooling all over my cock. Bet you’d let me keep you like this all fucking night, huh? Anyone could walk by and see those windows, see you choking on my dick, and you wouldn’t give a fuck.”

His words made your cunt clench so hard it hurt. Slick dripped down your thighs, the wet heat of it making your skin slick, the fabric of your panties clinging to your folds.

You moaned around him, swallowing around the thick length in your throat, loving the way he twitched, the way his thighs tensed beneath your hands. The salty taste of him flooded your mouth, each pulse of his cock making you hungrier.

Aaron’s breathing turned ragged, voice breaking with every groan, every filthy word. “Jesus… fuck, baby, you suck my cock so good… such a good little cocksucker… making a goddamn mess.”

Your hand stroked what you couldn’t take, twisting your wrist on every upstroke while your tongue pressed flat against the underside, tracing every vein.

You gagged softly when his cock hit the back of your throat, your eyes watering, tears spilling over your lashes. He fucking loved it — the way his hips stuttered, the desperate, choked moan that tore from his throat proved it.

But just when you felt his cock start to pulse harder, his stomach tightening under your palm, his hand yanked you off with a sharp, filthy pop. His cock slipped from your mouth, slick and glistening, spit and precum stringing from your lips to the flushed tip. You gasped, panting, lips swollen, face flushed, eyes glassy with heat.

Aaron’s thumb swiped over your bottom lip, smearing the mess there as he grinned down at you, dark and wrecked. “Look at you… fuck, baby. Got me nice and wet. That perfect little mouth’s gonna have my cock sliding right into that sweet pussy so easy.”

The praise made you whimper, your thighs clenching together, desperate for him to finally fuck you. The heavy pulse of his cock against your cheek made you shudder. And you knew what was coming next would be filthy, rough, and perfect. The kind of fuck that left marks. The kind that made your cunt ache for days.

And you were ready for every goddamn second of it.

Aaron didn’t waste a second.

The second your swollen lips slipped from his cock, he was moving, yanking you up with rough, commanding hands, your body pliant and shaking as he twisted you around. You barely had time to catch your breath before he shoved you forward over the seat, forcing your chest down into the warm leather, your ass high in the air, legs spread wide in instinctive submission.

You gasped as the sticky heat of the car wrapped around you, every inch of your skin damp with sweat and arousal, the scent of sex saturating the space like a second skin.

He kicked your knees wider with his thigh, growling low under his breath, voice a dark rumble in your ear as he gripped your hips. “Look at this,” he muttered, dragging your dress up roughly, exposing your soaked panties to the hot, cramped air. “Look at this filthy little cunt, soaking wet from choking on my cock. Knew you liked it rough, baby, but fuck…”

He didn’t bother to pull your panties down. Just hooked his fingers in the fabric, tugging them roughly to the side, the elastic biting into your thigh, exposing your glistening folds.

You moaned, humiliated and aching, every breath catching in your throat as the air hit your slick skin. His fingers pressed against your pussy, spreading your lips with no gentleness at all, the wet sounds obscene, your arousal thick and messy and unmistakable.

“Dripping for me,” he groaned, dragging the fat, swollen head of his cock through your slick folds. “Fucking soaking, sweetheart. Bet I could slide in with no resistance.”

And then he did.

With one brutal, hungry thrust, Aaron slammed his cock inside you, forcing you open around him, the stretch blinding and deep. You cried out, the sound muffled against the seat as your walls clamped down around the thick length driving into you.

The sudden fullness, the raw, brutal pace — it was overwhelming. His cock split you wide, forcing your cunt to take every inch as he grunted behind you, the force of each thrust rocking your body forward against the seat.

“Fuck ... this pussy,” he snarled, pulling back and slamming in again, hard enough to bruise. “Takes me so fucking well. You were made for this, weren’t you? Made to get ruined in the backseat like a filthy little slut.”

You moaned, helpless and breathless, arms trembling where you braced yourself. Your cheek pressed against the hot leather, your breath fogging the window as he fucked you deeper, faster, the sound of skin slapping on skin filthy and loud in the tight space.

Then his hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back hard enough to arch your spine. Before you could speak, before you could even whimper, his other hand wrapped around your throat — firm, commanding — his fingers pressing into the sides, cutting off your air in the most perfect, dizzying way.

Your gasp was a choked, broken noise, your pulse thundering in your ears as the pressure built. His cock drove into you harder now, faster, using your cunt like it belonged to him. The mixture of pain and pleasure made your eyes roll back, your mouth falling open as your vision blurred. You couldn’t breathe and you didn’t want to. Not when it felt this fucking good.

“Look at you,” Aaron growled, breath hot against your ear as his grip tightened just enough to make your legs tremble. “All fucked out already? That sweet little pussy choking on my cock while my hand’s around your throat. You fucking love this, don’t you?”

You tried to speak, tried to nod, but he tightened his grip just a little more, and the whimper you managed came out as a pathetic, desperate sound. Your cunt clenched hard around him, milking his cock as he slammed in over and over, your slick squelching with every thrust.

It was soaked, messy, completely unrestrained — everything inside you unraveling as he held you there, pinned between his body and the seat, choking and dripping and owned.

“Bet you’re about to come, huh?” he snarled, teeth grazing your ear. “From getting used like this. You gonna soak my cock, sweetheart? Gonna gush all over me like the filthy little fucktoy you are?”

He let go of your throat just long enough for you to gasp in a ragged breath — one sobbing, broken inhale — and then his hand was right back, choking you tight, pushing you back into that perfect floating edge of need.

And that’s when it hit you.

Your orgasm slammed into you like a truck, your body convulsing around his cock, muscles locking as you came so hard your vision went white. Slick gushed from you, flooding down your thighs, soaking both of you in the raw, pulsing aftershock.

You screamed — or tried to — your voice caught between his hand and your climax, the sound reduced to a strangled sob as your body shook beneath him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Aaron groaned, his rhythm stuttering as your cunt spasmed around him, squeezing tight, dripping wet. “Jesus, you’re so fucking tight.. gonna come, fuck...”

He slammed in once, twice more, burying himself to the hilt as his cock pulsed deep inside you, thick ropes of cum flooding your cunt. He held you there, shaking, breathing ragged, his body sprawled over yours as you both trembled from the force of it.

For a moment, the car was silent but for the sound of your shared panting — his cum still warm inside you, your slick thighs trembling, the fogged windows glowing red and gold in the city light.

And then his grip softened.

His hand slid from your throat, brushing gently down your chest. His other hand released your hair, stroking soothingly down your spine, grounding you in the aftermath of that brutal, perfect fuck.

You sagged into the seat, body boneless, lips swollen and eyes glassy, utterly wrecked.

Aaron leaned in close, voice raw and low as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Good girl,” he whispered, praise thick and real now. “So fucking good for me.”

And you knew, even with your cunt leaking and your body shaking, that he wasn’t finished yet.

Not even close.

You were still trembling, your thighs slick with sweat and cum, your pussy aching and swollen from the raw, relentless way he’d used you and Aaron hadn’t even moved. He stayed pressed behind you, one hand still wrapped loosely around your waist, the other smoothing slow, grounding strokes up your spine.

His cock had softened just slightly inside your still-clenching cunt, but you could feel the pulse of him, the heat. His cum was thick and hot where it leaked out of you, messy and wet between your thighs, seeping out around him with every flutter of your muscles.

“Shh,” he murmured against your shoulder, pressing soft kisses to your skin as he eased out, the stretch making you whimper again. “I know, baby. I know. Just one more for me. You’ve got more in you — I know you do.”

You barely had the strength to nod. You were boneless, dripping, brain spinning in the thick heat of the car, but your cunt clenched just at the sound of his voice. You’d do anything he asked.

He guided you gently, with that strange mixture of patience and hunger only he could balance — tugging you around, helping you straddle his chest until you were facing him again, your legs spread wide over his torso, thighs trembling on either side of him.

You whined, face flushed, as the cool air hit your soaked pussy, his cum already leaking down your folds, shining on your thighs. His hands slid up your body, possessive and steady, until they gripped your hips.

Then he pulled you up higher and you understood.

The second your cunt hovered over his mouth, Aaron let out a wrecked, needy sound and dragged you down the rest of the way, until your thighs were braced against the sides of his face and your ruined, dripping pussy was pressed tight to his tongue.

He groaned like it hurt, like it was relief, like it was both. His mouth was hot and hungry, tongue immediately sliding through your folds, licking up the mess he’d left inside you. He didn’t ease you into it, didn’t offer slow licks or delicate teasing, he fucking devoured you, tongue lapping greedily at his own cum as it leaked from your cunt, licking into you with a desperate, obscene hunger.

“Oh—fuck, Aaron—” you choked out, hips jerking forward instinctively, hands bracing against the fogged window behind his head. Your body arched, thighs trembling around his face as his tongue worked deeper, flicking and curling inside you, wet noises filling the car as he tasted every drop of the slick, filthy mess he’d fucked into you.

He moaned into your cunt, the vibration shooting straight through you, and you sobbed out a sound that was half-laughter, half-broken need. He was fucking tongue-fucking you, eating his own cum from your cunt like it was heaven, like your pussy was everything he’d ever wanted. Every drag of his tongue was filthy and possessive, sliding in deep, tasting you both, spreading you open with his mouth like he was staking his claim.

Then his hands shifted, one sliding up to your spine to hold you steady, the other gripping your ass and pulling you down harder against his face. His nose pressed against your clit, and when he tilted his chin and sucked that throbbing, swollen bundle of nerves between his lips, your vision shattered.

Your whole body tensed, your knees digging into the leather, and you screamed — a ragged, raw cry that filled the car, your second orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. You came on his tongue, your pussy gushing, your hips bucking helplessly as he held you down and kept licking, riding out your orgasm with slow, reverent drags of his tongue, sucking softly, coaxing every last twitch and pulse from your spent body.

You collapsed forward with a gasping moan, your palms braced against the seat, thighs twitching where they still framed his face. His tongue finally slowed, his hands softening against your hips as he kissed your cunt with aching tenderness, cleaning you up with soft, wet licks, like he couldn’t stand the thought of wasting a drop.

When you finally managed to sit back, lifting yourself off him with a shudder, you caught sight of him below you — lips wet and swollen, chin shiny with slick and cum, his eyes fucking wrecked with devotion and lust.

“Jesus,” you whispered, voice hoarse, wiping your trembling fingers across your forehead. “You’re .. insane.”

He laughed, breathless, eyes still fixed on your ruined cunt like he hadn’t had nearly enough. “You’re welcome.”

You collapsed against his chest, and this time, he caught you gently, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you into the solid warmth of his body. His hands weren’t rough now. They were slow, soothing, stroking your spine and hips as your breathing came down. Your heart was still pounding, but it was soft now. Heavy with satisfaction. You were trembling, sweat-damp, sticky and sore — and the most taken care of you’d felt in weeks.

Aaron pressed a kiss to your temple, his lips warm and lingering. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. “You okay?”

You nodded, muffled against his chest. “Better than okay.”

He smiled, you felt it against your hair and kissed you again, softer this time, brushing your hair back from your face. He reached behind you, snagging your panties and gently sliding them back into place over your slick cunt, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh as he tucked the soaked fabric into place.

“Just until we get home,” he said, voice low and teasing. “Then I’m taking those back off.”

You giggled, weakly, and let him help you straighten your dress, smoothing it down over your thighs. He buttoned your coat for you, slow and careful, like every little gesture mattered.

Then he fixed his own clothes, still watching you like you were the center of his fucking universe, and reached over to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear.

The windows were still fogged, the city lights smeared in soft halos behind the glass. The air smelled like sweat, sex, and skin — but it was calm now, sated, quiet.

Aaron leaned in, pressing one more kiss to your cheek.

“Home?” he asked gently.

You nodded. “Yeah. But don’t expect me to walk straight when we get there.”

His grin was pure sin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And he started the car.