#made them react in an unexpected way

[alexiethymia]

like father like daughter indeed

[shadowtraveled]

"mithrun is the only real monsterfucker in dungeon meshi" is objectively the funniest bit you can get out of his everything, but in all seriousness i think his attraction to his love interest is deliberately overstated—and that makes sense, because romantic jealousy is a classic and digestible motive, which is explicitly what kabru was aiming for in condensing mithrun's backstory, and also because until chapter 94, mithrun wasn't willing to admit to the true nature of his desires.

but because romantic envy is both classic and digestible, it probably isn’t a unique enough or complicated enough desire to tempt a demon’s appetite. mithrun’s wish, as far as we can figure from kabru’s reduced retelling, was to have a life in which he had never become one of the canaries, and that carries like 3857 implications and desires within it. that’s delicious. his love interest acts as sort of a red herring to his motivation for making it, though. (side note: i'm saying "love interest" here because, keeping in mind that i barely speak japanese on a good day anymore, "想い人" is something i'd usually take as just kind of an old-fashioned and romantic way to refer to a lover, but in context i wonder if both the connotation of yearning and the vagueness are intentional, and i think this phrasing gets those aspects of it more effectively. anyway.)

mithrun considered his love interest to be untrustworthy. there was a minute where i thought that comment might be about a similar-looking elf (yugin, one of his squad members), but comparing the two…

the "sketchy" arrow is definitely referring to the elf we know as his love interest—the bangs go toward her right, she only has the one forehead ornament, and, most notably, her ears aren't notched.

every time she’s given a full-body depiction in his dungeon, she’s drawn as a chimera, with the body of a snake from the waist down. (side note: the “what if a dungeon has chimeras before reaching level 4?”/“then the dungeon lord is unstable” exchange just being mithrun grilling his past self alive is so funny. he’s so. but anyway) there are a couple things about this.

first, the snake part of the chimera appears to be modeled after some species of coral snake mimic

which, in the biology-for-fun manga, i… doubt is a coincidence, especially with the added context of the “untrustworthy” comment. the dungeon’s conjured illusion of mithrun’s love interest was a harmless copycat of a venomous original. for whatever reason, he felt this person was a threat and made up a "safe" version of her to be in a relationship with, and while it’s definitely possible to be attracted to or even love someone you find to be toxic and/or intimidating, when you take that into consideration alongside the configuration of her body, you get some interesting implications.

which brings us to our second point: if we assume that mithrun was not in fact fucking a snake, then sexual attraction, at least, was so far removed from his idea of a relationship with this person that he did not even bother to keep her dungeon copy human enough to maintain the illusion of the option of a sexual relationship. this is somewhat echoed in the depictions of their interactions, which also imply a frankly unexpected romantic distance. she kisses his cheek and he doesn't seem to react; she's at the edge of a narrow bed with only one set of pillows, on top of his blankets while he's underneath them.

the kiss is particularly interesting because it seems to contrast the text. kabru's narration tells us this was everything mithrun could have asked for, but mithrun is there looking unreadable to pensive, likely because this is right before the panel that makes it clear things in the dungeon are beginning to go wrong.

walking through this backwards for a minute, we have the physical barrier of his bedding and the spatial separation inherent in a bed made for one person, the emotional barrier of his mounting anxiety getting in the way of his ability to enjoy the affection he sought, and... the snake, which historically carries the connotation of temptation, yes, but also mistrust, barring physical intimacy. okay. ok. if a dungeon reflects the mentality of its lord, all of this might suggest that mithrun was not able to have any real desire for a relationship with this person. his unwillingness to be vulnerable or let another person in was insurmountable. but in that case, why was she such a focal point that she remained to the end, after his dungeon had stopped creating iterations of his friends to come and visit him? why would he get so upset over her meeting with his brother that he became lord of a dungeon about it?

well. mithrun's brother was also interested in her, probably genuinely. and mithrun had to win.

you have an older brother who your parents completely ignore, probably in part because he is chronically ill/disabled and almost definitely in part because he received a ton of recessive traits that resulted in rumors that he was an illegitimate child. you are aware, most likely because those same parents fucking told you, that you actually are an illegitimate child. but they keep you around because you had the good fortune of looking just like your mother. what can that possibly teach you but that you, like your brother, are disposable?

it's utterly unsurprising that mithrun, under these circumstances, developed a pathological need to be better than everyone around him. people don't keep you otherwise. i'd argue this is also why he says he looked down on everyone he knew while milsiril claims his dungeon reeked of feelings of inferiority—he sought out people's worst traits and prioritized them in his mind to protect his already extremely fragile sense of self-worth, and all the while he tried to be as likable and high-performing as he possibly could be. his parents disposed of him anyway, but even then he tried to keep up the performance. he was kind to everyone. he never once lost to a dungeon.

when he saw his "love interest" meeting up with his brother, what he saw was himself being replaced by a person his parents had always treated as worthless, and if that was what they thought of the child they'd kept, what value could anyone possibly see in the bastard they'd given away to die? mithrun and kabru tell the story like he wanted to win this unnamed elf's heart, but it was never about being with her. it was about cementing his worth, proving that he didn't deserve to be thrown away.

and so it's particularly cruel that his demon discarded him, too. but maybe it's also particularly gentle that, in the end, there was someone who refused to even consider giving up on him.

kui laid it out in three panels better than i could hope to.

yeah. it's love. you wanted to be loved, even when the only way you were able to understand it was through the desire to be wanted, and you wanted that so badly that the idea of being consumed felt like the promise of finally mattering to someone.

[beloveds-embrace]

(poly 141 x sick!reader)

The sound of rain pattered against the windows, soft and soothing, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the ache in your chest. The medication was doing its best, but there was only so much it could do when your body seemed determined to work against you.

You coughed softly into your sleeve, hating the weak tremor that followed. The plush comforter was tucked up to your chin, but warmth still felt just out of reach. Your parents had hired the team months ago after receiving one too many threats, and while you had initially bristled at the idea of four men shadowing your every step, you’d quickly grown accustomed to their presence.

It was hard not to.

Captain Price had a steady, grounding aura that made you feel safer just by being near him. Ghost was quieter, more intense, but he’d surprised you with unexpected softness when he thought no one was looking. Soap’s humor had carved through your anxieties more times than you could count, and Gaz- Gaz was the one who always made sure you ate, drank water, and had everything you needed before you even realized you needed it.

They made you feel protected.

But tonight, even their presence couldn’t completely chase away the unease creeping up your spine.

“Not sleeping, love?”

Price’s voice startled you, and you turned toward the door to see him leaning against the frame, arms crossed but eyes soft. He stepped inside, his boots surprisingly quiet on the polished floor, and came to kneel beside your bed.

“Sorry,” you murmured, feeling guilt curl in your chest. “Didn’t mean to keep you up.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, brushing his knuckles against your forehead to check for fever. “You know we don’t sleep unless you do.”

Before you could reply, a soft knock came at the door, and Soap poked his head in, carrying a cup of tea that was no doubt brewed exactly the way you liked it.

“You’re awake,” he said with a grin, stepping inside and offering you the mug. “Figured you might need this.”

You took it gratefully, inhaling the scent of chamomile and honey. “You don’t have to keep fussing over me,” you said, though the words lacked any real bite.

Gaz wandered in next before they could reply to you, holding the blanket you liked most. “Yeah, we do,” he countered easily. “Doctor’s orders, remember?”

Ghost was the last to arrive, silent as always, but he lingered closest to the door like a sentinel. Even with his mask that once scared you, you could see the way his eyes softened when they landed on you.

The four of them surrounded you, and despite the lingering ache in your bones, you felt safe.

You set the mug down once it was half-empty, already feeling your eyelids grow heavier. Price pulled the blanket up higher, tucking it around you like he had so many times before.

“Close your eyes.” He murmured.

“I don’t want to-”

“You’re safe,” Ghost said quietly, his voice a low rumble that you felt more than heard. “We’ll be here.”

It was hard to fight the pull of sleep when all four of them were so close, their combined presence lulling you into something warm and soft and safe. You let your eyes drift shut, your breathing slowing as the tea worked its magic.

They stayed until they were sure you were asleep.

The first noise was subtle.

Ghost’s head snapped up, and Price immediately rose from his spot beside the bed. Soap and Gaz exchanged a glance, already moving toward the door without a word.

It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to get inside. And it wouldn’t be the last.

Price leaned down, pressing a hand against your shoulder when you stirred faintly. “Stay asleep, love.” He whispered before following the others out.

The house was dark, but that didn’t slow them down. Ghost moved like a shadow, his knife already drawn as he signaled to Soap. They caught the first man before he even had the chance to react.

Gaz was quieter, slipping down the hall and cutting off the second intruder’s escape route. The scuffle was quick, brutal, and over in seconds.

Price handled the last one himself. The man barely had time to raise his weapon before Price’s fist collided with his jaw, sending him sprawling to the floor.

“Clear.” Ghost murmured, wiping his knife clean on the intruder’s jacket.

Soap crouched down, checking for identification, and then sighing when he found it. “Same group as last time.”

Price cursed under his breath, already reaching for his phone to call the cleanup team and your parents.

“They won’t make it upstairs.” Gaz said, voice steady despite the adrenaline still thrumming through his veins.

“They never will.” Ghost added, tone final.

They worked quickly, dragging the bodies out the back while Soap wiped down any lingering traces of blood. By the time they returned to your room, the house was silent again.

You woke to find the bed empty and the dim glow of the hallway light bleeding under the door.

Pushing back the covers, you slipped out of bed and padded toward the stairs. You weren’t sure what you expected to find- maybe one of them sitting at the kitchen table or keeping watch by the windows- but instead, you were met with Price coming up the steps.

“Hey,” you said softly, rubbing your eyes.

He froze for a split second before schooling his features into something softer, too fast for your mind or eyes to catch. “What are you doing out of bed, love? You need your rest.”

“Couldn’t sleep, John.” You admitted, hugging your arms around yourself. A tremor goes through you, the warmth from your bed and blankets ebbing away slowly.

Gaz appeared behind him, stepping around to stand in front of you. “You’re supposed to be resting, dovie. Come on.” He repeated, gently taking your hand and guiding you back toward the bedroom.

“Why were you all up?” you asked, glancing between them with a concerned. “It’s too late for all of you, no? I know you work in shifts but today wasn’t like that…”

Soap appeared next, a towel slung over his shoulder. “Routine check,” he said smoothly, face softening when he looked at you. “Jus’ making sure everything’s locked up. Yer so sweet, hen, but we know how ta do our jobs, dinna worry yer pretty head.”

“Again?”

“Can’t be too careful,” Price said, his hand resting lightly on your back as they guided you back to bed.

Ghost slipped back into the room last, silent as ever, though his eyes softened the moment they landed on you. He didn’t speak right away, just took a long, careful look as if reassuring himself that you were still there- still safe. Finally, he stepped closer, his voice low and steady as he said, “Back under the covers, love.”

You didn’t fight him. You never did. Not with them.

The bed was warm, the blankets heavier now as Gaz tugged them up higher, making sure you were fully tucked in. Soap lingered by the nightstand, placing the freshly cleaned mug of tea from earlier far away enough even if you moved in your sleep, it wouldn’t fall off.

“Try again,” Price murmured, lowering himself to sit beside you. His calloused fingers brushed your hair back, slow and gentle, lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

You blinked up at him, tired but trusting. You still didn’t know when exactly it had happened- when you’d stopped flinching at the closeness, stopped second-guessing the comfort they so freely gave. But you’d never regretted letting them in.

Not when it felt like this.

“We’re right here.” Price added, his voice a quiet promise, and you felt the words settle deep, anchoring you.

Soap crouched at the side of the bed, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off of him. “Sweet dreams, bonnie.” He said with a grin, though his voice was soft enough to soothe the lingering tension in your chest.

Gaz gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, his thumb brushing lightly over the blanket. “We’ve got you.”

Ghost stayed by the door, his sharp gaze fixed on the windows before flickering back to you. He didn’t move until your breathing evened out, waiting for the rise and fall of your chest to settle into something steady. Only then did he step out, closing the door with deliberate care.

But even once the door was shut, he lingered in the hall, his fingers resting on the handle as if to reassure himself that he could open it in an instant if you needed him. He waited, just to be sure, before finally moving away.

“She’s sleeping,” he murmured once he joined the others downstairs. His voice was quieter than usual. “Checked her breathing- still steady.”

“She needs rest,” Gaz said, though the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. “Nights like these don’t help.”

“They won’t happen again.” Ghost said, firm and low

Soap exhaled sharply, rubbing at his jaw with the rag he’d been using to wipe his hands clean. “She disnnae need ta know.” he murmured, the words heavier than the rest.

“No,” Ghost agreed, his voice low but certain. “All she should have to worry about is resting.”

Gaz leaned against the wall, his arms crossed but his eyes lingering on the stairs. “She’s safe,” softly, he spoke. “That’s all that matters.”

And they all nodded in quiet agreement.

Ghost checked the locks one last time, Price double-checked the security feeds, and Soap peered through the curtains before returning to his spot near the stairwell. Gaz made another sweep of the house, moving silently through the dark before settling in by the living room window.

The rain picked up outside, heavier now, but inside the house, the warmth lingered. It was safe. Quiet. What you needed, and what your parents had hired them to ensure for you.

And upstairs, you slept soundly- soft breaths filling the room, wrapped in blankets that smelled faintly of fresh laundry and tea, surrounded by the presence of men who would tear apart anyone who dared to disturb you.

Sheltered in their arms, you never even stirred.

[sonarspace]

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆STUDY BREAK (FT. GOJO)

꒰ synopsis. being in the same class as gojo satoru was bad enough; having him as the professor’s insufferably smug assistant made it worse. content. college au. nsfw. (teasing. slight praise kınk. fıngering. oräl. p in v. multiple ōrgasms.) wc. 5.3k. an. to clear up any confusion 😭.. satoru’s a senior student + the professor’s assistant in the course you’re both taking. (fic is kinda all over the place so idk if this works but let’s pretend like it does).

there’s something about gojo satoru that drives you insane. not in the fun, heart-fluttering way that comes with a secret crush or the thrill of banter. no—this is the kind of insane where you want to hurl something, preferably at his stupidly smug face.

“class,” he drawls, leaning lazily against the desk at the front of the room, his shirt slightly rumpled like he doesn’t give a damn—and he doesn’t. “these papers? a mixed bag. some of you really impressed me. others… well.” his lips curve into a smirk. “let’s just say the recycling bin was hungry.”

you groan inwardly, already sensing where this is going. he’s done this before, holding your work hostage like it’s part of his routine entertainment.

“and here,” he continues, brandishing a paper like a prop. your paper. “is a prime example of someone… almost getting there. strong ideas, decent execution, but the conclusion? oof. fell harder than my GPA sophomore year.”

a few students laugh. your jaw tightens, the heat in your chest bubbling up into something sharp and biting. he doesn’t have to name you; everyone knows exactly whose paper he’s waving around.

“anyway,” he finishes with a shrug, tossing the paper onto the desk like it’s disposable. “there’s potential. keep at it.”

you don’t even wait for class to end before your resolve solidifies: you’re going to kill him. maybe not literally, but metaphorically? absolutely.

you don’t plan on storming to his dorm room. it just… happens. one moment, you’re replaying his smug grin and the way his eyes gleamed when he mocked your paper, and the next, you’re standing outside his door, your fist raised to knock.

he answers quickly, and the sight of him makes you falter. his hair is damp, sticking out in soft tufts like he just got out of the shower, and his plain white t-shirt clings to him in a way that’s almost—no. you shake the thought away.

“well, this is unexpected,” he says, leaning against the doorframe with a grin that’s all teeth. “if you wanted private tutoring, you could’ve just asked.”

“don’t flatter yourself,” you snap, brushing past him into the room without waiting for an invitation.

he whistles low under his breath. “feisty tonight. to what do I owe the pleasure?”

you spin to face him, your hands clenched at your sides. “what is your problem with me?”

he blinks, his smirk faltering for a fraction of a second before returning full force. “problem? sweetheart, i don’t have a problem with you.”

“you humiliate me in class,” you say, your voice rising. “you make these comments, you single me out—what, are you that bored with your life?”

“humiliate?” he echoes, feigning a wounded look. “i think you mean ‘motivate.’ you’re one of the smartest people in that class. if i don’t push you, who will?”

“that’s bullshit,” you fire back, stepping closer. “you don’t ‘push’ anyone else.”

“because no one else is as fun,” he replies easily, his grin tilting into something sharper. “the way you react, the fire in your eyes—it’s addictive.”

your breath catches, the heat in your chest spreading to your cheeks. “you’re insufferable.”

“and yet, here you are,” he says, his voice dropping just enough to make the air between you feel heavier. “in my room. alone.”

“because you drive me crazy,” you snap, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

his eyebrows lift slightly, as if he’s genuinely intrigued by your outburst. “good crazy or bad crazy?”

he takes a step closer, too close. the kind of close that makes your pulse stutter and your instincts scream at you to step back—but you don’t. instead, you stand your ground, your jaw clenched as he waits for your answer, his gaze steady and almost daring.

“what does it matter?” you mutter, your voice quieter now, the heat of your earlier anger ebbing into something more uncertain.

“it matters,” he says, his voice low as his eyes flicker to your lips. “because I need to know if I can do this.”

before you can ask what he means, he leans in, his lips brushing against yours like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. but you don’t. his hand finds your waist, tugging you closer as the kiss deepens, his mouth hot and insistent against yours.

it’s like a dam breaking. weeks—months—of tension and unspoken words all come crashing down in a rush of heat and urgency. his other hand slides into your hair, tilting your head to kiss you deeper, and the sound you make in response is embarrassing and needy, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

you should stop this. you should push him away, tell him he’s crossed a line. but the way his thumb brushes against your waist, the way he tilts his head just right, the way he kisses like he’s been waiting for this moment as long as you have—it’s addictive. you can’t stop. you don’t want to.

but then reality slams into you like a cold gust of wind. what are you doing? your chest tightens as the weight of it crashes down all at once, the heat between you dissolving into something sharper, more terrifying.

you pull back abruptly, your breathing uneven. “i can’t.”

he blinks, his expression softening from one of heat to confusion. “what?”

“this—this is a mistake,” you stammer, backing away. your hands feel clumsy as they fumble behind you for the door. “i shouldn’t have come here.”

“wait.” his hand reaches out, almost instinctively, but you’re already opening the door, your chest tight and your mind racing as you step out into the hall. you don’t look back, even as the warmth of his touch lingers on your skin.

────

you avoid him after that. in class, you sit as far from him as possible, claiming a seat in the back corner, close to the door. the usual tension he brought to the room—his teasing remarks, his piercing gaze when he caught you rolling your eyes—feels conspicuously absent. he doesn’t call on you, doesn’t glance your way, doesn’t even acknowledge you.

it’s been weeks since that night in his dorm, and as the semester nears its end, the distance feels heavier with every passing class. his silence, once the thing you desperately wanted, now presses on your chest like a weight. you wonder if he regrets it, if he’s just as caught in the what-ifs as you are—or if he’s already forgotten.

the final project looms, deadlines creeping closer, but the distraction isn’t enough to stop the quiet ache that’s settled in your chest. you remind yourself it’s for the best. boundaries were crossed, a line you know you shouldn’t have stepped over. it doesn’t matter how he made you feel, how his kisses left you breathless and yearning. none of it matters.

and yet, every time you leave class, you rush, head down, praying he won’t stop you. and every time he doesn’t, the ache grows.

when class ends today, the air feels heavier than usual. your peers chatter around you, their voices blending into background noise as you pack your things quickly, eyes fixed on the door. if you can just slip out unnoticed, avoid another day of walking the tightrope you’ve been balancing on since that night—

but then a hand wraps gently around your wrist, warm and familiar.

“you’re avoiding me,” he says, his voice low and steady. there’s no edge to it, no teasing grin or smug undertone. just quiet certainty, like he’s stating a fact.

you freeze, your heart thudding in your chest. it’s been so long since he’s said anything to you that the sound of his voice directed at you feels foreign.

“i’m late,” you mumble, tugging your wrist weakly in an attempt to free yourself. “let me go.”

“you don’t have any classes after this,” he says, his grip loosening but not letting go. his eyes meet yours, calm but resolute. “i checked your schedule.”

your jaw tightens, irritation flashing through you. “you shouldn’t have access to my schedule.”

“probably not,” he admits with a shrug, a hint of the old satoru creeping into his voice, “but i’m me.”

you open your mouth to snap at him, to tell him to back off, but he cuts you off first. “come have coffee with me.”

you blink, caught off guard by the casual offer. “what?”

“coffee,” he repeats, his tone light, as if this is perfectly normal. “you like coffee, don’t you?”

“that’s not the point,” you snap, yanking your wrist free from his grasp. “what is this, some weird apology?”

“it’s not weird,” he says, his smirk faltering slightly now, his expression open and strangely earnest. “it’s just coffee. with me.”

you stare at him, struggling to find the right words. “gojo,” you begin, your voice heavy, “you and i are not friends.”

his face falls, the shift so quick and unexpected that it makes your stomach twist. you see the way his shoulders tense, the way his gaze drops for just a moment, but you force yourself to look away. without giving him a chance to reply, you turn and push past him, your steps quick and unsteady as you leave the classroom.

the ache in your chest grows with every step, and even as you round the corner, out of sight, the image of his expression lingers. there’s no relief this time. only guilt.

────

you don’t know why you’re here. no, that’s a lie—you know exactly why you’re here. the memory of his expression, the slight drop of his shoulders at your retort, has been looping in your mind, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

your feet carry you down the familiar path to his dorm, the ache in your chest twisting tighter with every step. before you can talk yourself out of it, your fist is already knocking on the door.

it opens almost immediately, and the sight of him steals the breath from your lungs. his white hair is a mess, sticking up in chaotic directions, and his glasses are perched crookedly on his nose. there’s a faint crease on his cheek, like he’d been leaning against a book, and his shirt hangs loosely off one shoulder, rumpled from sleep or hours spent working. he looks… soft. disarming. almost painfully cute.

“coffee,” you say, holding up the cups like a white flag. “can i come in?”

his lips twitch, a hint of a smile breaking through the haze of surprise as he steps aside. “bribery, huh? didn’t think you had it in you.”

his dorm is as cluttered as you remember—papers and notebooks sprawled across his desk, a blinking laptop shoved precariously to one side. you set the coffee down on the edge of the desk, your gaze catching on the scrawled notes and dense blocks of text.

“grading?” you ask.

“research,” he replies, dropping onto the edge of his bed with a tired sigh. his hand rakes through his already-messy hair, making it stick up even more. “finals prep. you know, glamorous TA things.”

you hand him a cup, your fingers brushing against his as he takes it. the simple contact sends a jolt up your arm that you stubbornly ignore. “thought you could use it.”

he hums as he takes a sip, his lashes fluttering briefly before he lets out a quiet sound of approval. the noise is so low, so soft, it makes your stomach twist. you glance away quickly, your grip tightening on your own cup.

“about the other day,” you start, the words quiet and tentative.

he glances up, the coffee still in his hands. his expression is unreadable, but his fingers still against the cup, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. “you don’t have to explain,” he says, setting his cup down on the desk. “if you don’t want this—if i got it wrong—just say so.”

“it’s not that,” you blurt, the words tumbling out too fast, too raw. warmth floods your cheeks, creeping down to your chest. “i just… i don’t know what this is.”

he doesn’t respond immediately, doesn’t fall into his usual teasing deflection. instead, he stands, crossing the small space between you with deliberate steps. his gaze holds yours, steady and unguarded, and it makes your stomach flip in a way you can’t control.

“let me show you,” he says softly, his voice low, uncharacteristically serious.

he’s so close now, his hand brushing against yours, his touch light, almost hesitant. and then his lips are on yours, and everything else fades away.

this kiss is nothing like the first. there’s no uncertainty, no restraint. his hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him as his mouth moves against yours, hot and insistent. your grip on the coffee slips, the cup hitting the floor with a dull thud as your hands find his shoulders, clutching at the fabric of his shirt.

when his hands slide under your shirt, the roughness of his palms against your bare skin makes you shudder. he guides you backward, his body pressing into yours until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. you sink down, the weight of him grounding you as he follows, his lips trailing fire along your jaw and down your neck.

his hands are everywhere—tracing the curve of your waist, brushing the underside of your ribs, exploring like he’s memorizing every inch of you. when he pulls back to look at you, his lips are curved in a wicked, breath-stealing grin.

“you’re infuriating,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough as his eyes rake over you, drinking in every detail.

“you’re worse,” you manage, though your voice is barely more than a whisper.

his grin widens, and his laugh is warm against your skin as he dips his head, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear. “you’re already so worked up. it’s cute.”

“shut up,” you snap, though the way your hips arch into his touch betrays you.

“make me,” he challenges, his lips brushing against yours before descending lower, kissing down your collarbone and tugging your shirt higher with every inch. his hands roam greedily, tugging the fabric over your head and tossing it somewhere behind him without a second thought.

his mouth is back on you immediately, nipping and kissing along the swell of your breasts as his hands work the clasp of your bra. when it comes free, his lips part in a satisfied hum, his hands kneading your soft skin like he’s savoring every second of this.

“so fucking perfect,” he mutters, his voice husky as he leans back slightly to take in the sight of you. his gaze is heavy, filled with something dark and hungry that makes your stomach twist in the best way.

“stop staring,” you grumble, though the heat in your cheeks betrays the sharpness of your words.

“can’t help it,” he says, his grin tilting into something softer, more genuine. “you’re gorgeous.”

before you can respond, his mouth is back on you, his tongue flicking over your nipple as his other hand trails down your stomach, fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of your pants. your breath hitches as he pauses, his gaze flicking up to meet yours.

“can i?” he asks, his voice quieter now, his expression serious.

you nod, and he wastes no time. his fingers hook under the fabric, tugging your pants and underwear down in one swift motion. the cool air against your bare skin makes you shiver, but the warmth of his hands is there immediately, coaxing you to relax under his touch.

“look at you,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick as his hands part your thighs, his gaze drinking in every inch of you. “so fucking pretty.”

your cheeks flush, and you try to turn your head away, but his hand cups your chin, gently coaxing you to meet his eyes. “don’t hide from me,” he says, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “not tonight.”

his other hand slides between your thighs, his touch featherlight at first, teasing. when his thumb brushes over your clit, a jolt of heat shoots through you, and your hips buck involuntarily.

“sensitive,” he murmurs, his lips curving into a wicked grin. “i barely touched you, and you’re already squirming.”

“shut up,” you snap, your voice shaky as your fingers clutch at the sheets beneath you. but the way your body reacts—arching into his touch, chasing the pressure—makes it clear that his teasing isn’t far from the truth.

“you don’t really want me to, do you?” his voice is low, almost a growl, and the sound of it sends a shiver down your spine. “i think you like when i talk to you like this. when i tell you how good you’re doing, how fucking beautiful you look right now.”

your chest heaves as his fingers dip lower, sliding through your slick folds with infuriating slowness. every movement feels deliberate, calculated, like he’s savoring every second. when his fingers finally slip inside you, the stretch makes your head fall back, a gasp tumbling from your lips.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, his thumb circling your clit as his fingers begin to move, slow and deliberate at first. “you feel so fucking good, baby. so perfect.”

your hands fly to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he curls his fingers, hitting a spot that makes your vision blur. “oh my god—gojo—”

he tuts sharply, his fingers pausing inside you, his thumb stalling its maddening rhythm. your head snaps up, breathless and confused, to find him staring down at you with a dark look, his lips curving into a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“no,” he says firmly, his voice low and commanding as he tilts his head. “say satoru.”

“w-what?” you stammer, your heart racing as his fingers remain perfectly still, the tension building with every passing second.

“not ‘gojo,’” he says again, his free hand sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, his grin sharpening. “say satoru.”

you hesitate, your breath hitching as your body trembles beneath him. he presses his fingers deeper, curling them just enough to make your toes curl, and your resolve shatters.

“satoru,” you gasp, your voice breaking on the syllables.

his smirk widens, something dark and triumphant flickering in his eyes. “good girl,” he murmurs, his thumb resuming its slow, torturous circles on your clit as his fingers pick up their rhythm again, harder this time, deeper.

your head falls back against the mattress, your body arching into his touch as the pleasure builds again, higher and hotter than before. his name tumbles from your lips like a mantra, breathless and needy as he drives you closer to the edge.

“that’s it,” he coaxes, his voice dripping with praise as his free hand slides down your body, his touch possessive. “just like that, baby. let go for me.”

the coil in your stomach tightens to the breaking point, and when he curls his fingers just right, pressing against the perfect spot, it snaps. your orgasm crashes over you, white-hot and overwhelming, and his name spills from your lips in a broken moan.

“satoru—fuck—”

“that’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice rough with approval as he works you through the waves of pleasure, his movements slowing but never stopping until your body goes slack beneath him, trembling and spent.

he pulls his hand away slowly, his gaze fixed on you as he brings his fingers to his lips, licking them clean with a deliberate, satisfied hum. “even better than i imagined,” he says, his voice dripping with arrogance, his eyes gleaming as they roam over your flushed, trembling body.

you blink, your breath still uneven as his words settle over you. “wait—” you say, your voice catching slightly. “you’ve thought about this?”

his grin widens, slow and deliberate, and he leans down, bracing himself on his forearms so his face is just inches from yours. “oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, “you really think i haven’t?”

your cheeks flush even hotter, your pulse racing as his words sink in. “you’re—” you stammer, at a rare loss for words. “you’re ridiculous.”

“ridiculous?” he repeats, feigning offense, though the wicked glint in his eyes never falters. “i’d say i’m a man of focus. you’ve been in my head for weeks, driving me insane with that sharp mouth and the way you look at me when you think i don’t notice.”

“i don’t—” you begin, but his lips curve into a knowing smirk, cutting you off.

“you do,” he insists, his tone softening just slightly. “and every time you glared at me, every time you rolled your eyes or bit back some little retort, all i could think about was how much i wanted to shut you up. like this.”

his lips capture yours again, and this kiss is slower, heavier, laced with an intensity that makes your toes curl. his hands roam, sliding over your bare skin with a reverence that feels almost out of place against his words.

when he finally pulls back, his gaze is still on you, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “and now that i’ve got you,” he says, his voice dipping into something darker, “i don’t think i’ll ever get enough.”

the weight of his confession leaves you breathless, and before you can respond, his lips are trailing down your body again, his hands parting your thighs as he settles between them.

“what are you—” you start, but his eyes flick up to meet yours, and the look in them steals the rest of your words.

“relax,” he murmurs, his lips curving into a soft, almost mischievous smile. “i’m not done tasting you yet.”

his hands slide to grip your thighs, pulling you apart with ease as his lips descend, brushing over your inner thighs, teasingly slow. his tongue flicks out, hot and wet against your skin, and when his mouth finally finds you again, you feel your body arch instinctively, your breath leaving in a sharp, unrestrained gasp.

he’s relentless. his tongue drags up your folds in a languid stroke before circling your clit with maddening precision. his mouth is hot, the slick, wet sounds mingling with your soft moans, and his breath—warm and uneven—fans against your skin with every movement.

his hair brushes against your thighs, soft and messy, and your fingers thread through it again, tugging sharply enough to make him groan against you. the vibration of it sends a jolt of pleasure straight through your core, and your hips buck against his mouth.

“satoru,” you gasp, but it’s barely coherent, your voice breaking as he latches onto your clit, sucking just enough to make your toes curl. “oh my—”

the cold press of something against your inner thigh pulls you out of the haze, just barely. it’s sharp, unfamiliar, and you glance down—his glasses. they’re still perched on his nose, slightly crooked, the metal frame fogging faintly from the heat of his breath. he’s so lost in the moment, so focused on the way his tongue works against you, that he hasn’t even noticed.

your hand drifts down, brushing against the cool frame, and you slip them off without a word. the absurdity of it—the way he’s been eating you out with his glasses still on—makes you want to laugh. the corners of your mouth twitch, and a soft sound bubbles up in your throat, but then his tongue presses flat against your folds, dragging up in one slow, deliberate motion, and the laugh dissolves into a sharp moan.

your head falls back against the pillow, your hand tangling back in his hair as you toss the glasses onto the bed with the other. the noise they make as they hit the mattress is faint, drowned out by the obscene wet sounds of his mouth, the low hums of satisfaction he lets out as he devours you.

“fuck,” you whimper, your thighs trembling as his tongue flicks against your clit again, faster now, more insistent. your body arches instinctively, chasing the pressure, and his hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you even closer to his mouth.

he growls against you, the sound low and rough, vibrating through you in a way that makes your toes curl. his tongue dips lower, teasing your entrance before sliding back up, and the sharp scrape of his teeth against your swollen clit has you seeing stars.

“so fucking sweet,” he mutters, his voice muffled against your slick skin. “can’t get enough of you, baby.”

you can’t respond, can’t think. the only thing you can focus on is the way his tongue works against you, precise and relentless, building the heat in your stomach until it’s unbearable. your fingers twist in his hair, pulling harder, and the groan he lets out in response sends you spiraling.

“satoru—” his name falls from your lips like a prayer, breathless and broken. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, his mouth dragging you closer and closer to the edge until you can’t hold on any longer.

your orgasm hits you hard, ripping through you in waves that leave your entire body trembling. your hips jerk against his hold, your moans loud and unrestrained as you ride it out. his tongue slows, working you through every aftershock until you’re left panting, boneless against the bed.

when he finally pulls back, his chest is heaving, his lips and chin glistening with your slick. his hair is a mess, strands sticking up where your fingers had tugged, and his eyes—those impossibly bright blues—flick up to meet yours, gleaming with satisfaction.

“twice,” he says, his voice low and teasing as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

he sits back on his knees, his hands smoothing over your trembling thighs as he takes in the sight of you—flushed, panting, your chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath. his grin is lazy, self-satisfied, like he knows exactly what he���s done to you.

“you’re staring,” you mutter weakly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“hard not to,” he replies, his tone low and full of amusement. his fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, his touch soft, teasing. “you look so fucking good when you come.”

your cheeks burn, and you want to glare at him, to tell him to shut up, but the words catch in your throat as he reaches for the hem of his shirt. in one fluid motion, he pulls it over his head and tosses it to the side, the movement effortless and maddeningly confident.

your eyes follow the shift of his muscles, the way they ripple under his skin, lean and defined. a faint sheen of sweat glistens across his chest, catching the dim light, highlighting every sharp line and curve. your gaze drifts lower, down to the sharp ridges of his abdomen. the faint trail of white hair starting just below his navel draws your attention, leading your eyes further, until his hands move to the waistband of his boxers.

he doesn’t rush. he hooks his thumbs under the fabric, dragging it down slowly, deliberately, letting the anticipation coil tighter in your stomach. as the fabric falls away, your breath hitches.

he’s fully bare now, and your mouth goes dry.

his cock is… breathtaking. thick and flushed a deep pink at the tip, already leaking beads of precum that catch the light as they drip down the length. it’s long, the kind of length that makes your thighs press together instinctively, wondering how he’ll fit, but the heat pooling low in your stomach burns hotter, overriding any hesitation.

his hand wraps around it, and he strokes himself slowly, his thumb swiping over the head to collect the wetness there. the motion is deliberate, almost lazy, and the soft groan he lets out sends a shiver down your spine.

you’re staring—you know you are—and he notices, his lips curving into a wicked grin as his eyes flick up to meet yours.

“don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing as he leans forward, the head of his cock brushing against your folds, slick and hot. “i’ll make it fit.”

his words send a shiver through you, his voice low and dripping with confidence. the weight of his cock against your folds, hot and heavy, is enough to make your hips twitch instinctively, chasing the friction. but he doesn’t push in right away—of course he doesn’t. instead, he drags the head up and down your slick, letting it catch on your clit with every pass, teasing you until you’re squirming beneath him.

“satoru,” you whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders. you’re not above begging at this point. “please.”

his grin widens, his head dipping to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “what’s the rush, baby? we’ve got all night.”

“satoru,” you repeat, more insistently this time, and he groans at the sound of his name on your lips, his cock twitching against you.

“fuck,” he mutters, his voice tight now, losing some of that smug edge. “you sound so pretty when you beg.”

he lines himself up, his hand still wrapped around the base as he presses the head against your entrance. the stretch is immediate, a sharp, overwhelming mix of pleasure and pressure as he pushes in slowly, inch by inch.

“holy shit,” he breathes, his voice rough as his head falls forward, his hair brushing against your cheek. “you’re so fucking tight.”

your fingers clutch at his shoulders, your breath catching as he sinks deeper, the fullness stealing every coherent thought from your mind. he pauses halfway, his free hand sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his.

“you okay?” he asks, and there’s something softer in his voice now, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of discomfort.

you nod, your voice shaky as you answer. “yeah. just—keep going.”

his jaw tightens, and he exhales slowly, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before he starts to move again. every inch feels impossibly deep, your walls stretching around him, and when he finally bottoms out, you both pause, your breaths mingling as you try to adjust.

“fuck,” he groans again, his voice strained as his hips twitch against yours. “you feel so good. better than i ever—” he cuts himself off with a shaky laugh, shaking his head. “shit, you’re perfect.”

you can barely respond, the stretch and fullness leaving you trembling. but then he starts to move, pulling out almost entirely before sliding back in with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips. the drag of his cock against your walls is enough to have you moaning, your head falling back against the pillow.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, his voice rough and approving as he sets a steady rhythm. “good girl. taking me so well.”

your hands trail down his back, your nails scraping lightly against his skin, and the groan he lets out sends a fresh wave of heat through you. his movements quicken, the sound of skin against skin filling the room, and every thrust has him hitting that perfect spot deep inside you, making you cry out.

“satoru—” his name falls from your lips again, and he leans down, his teeth grazing your neck as he thrusts harder, deeper.

“you’re gonna make me lose my fucking mind,” he growls, his hands gripping your hips tighter, holding you in place as he drives into you. “you feel so good—so fucking perfect for me.”

the coil in your stomach tightens with every roll of his hips, the pressure building higher and higher until it’s unbearable. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing in tight circles that make your vision blur, and your moans grow louder, more desperate.

“come for me,” he demands, his voice rough and low in your ear. “let me feel you.”

the command sends you over the edge. your orgasm rips through you, your body arching into his as you cry out, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. your walls clench around him, and the sensation makes him groan, his thrusts growing erratic as he chases his own release.

“fuck—” he gasps, burying himself as deep as he can go as he comes, the heat of him spilling into you, thick and warm. his head falls to your shoulder, his breath ragged against your skin as he rides out the last waves of pleasure.

the room is quiet except for the sound of your heavy breathing, the air thick and charged as he finally pulls back, his weight pressing into you as he collapses onto the bed beside you. his arm slides around your waist, pulling you against his chest as he presses a soft, lazy kiss to your temple.

“told you i’d make it fit,” he murmurs, his voice still rough, but there’s a hint of smugness there, his lips curving into a small grin.

you can’t help the laugh that escapes you, your body still trembling against his. “you’re such an asshole.”

“yeah,” he agrees, his tone light, teasing, as he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “but you like it.”

you roll your eyes, but there’s no heat to it, your lips curving into a faint smile as you bury your face against his chest. “shut up, satoru.”

“never,” he replies, and the warmth of his laughter vibrates through you, grounding you as your breaths slowly even out.

an. gojo with glasses... *hnnggghh*

DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE, OR REPOST MY WORK ON OTHER PLATFORMS!

[tbaluver]

Can I ask for the Space boys swap bodies with MC? 😂

Swapping Bodies With Them- The Love And DeepSpace Men

parings in order: Xavier x fem! Reader, Zayne x fem! Reader, Rafayel x fem! Reader, Sylus x fem! Reader genre/tags: suggestive content below, silly, fem! masturbation a/n: hihi anonnies! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ i lovee the idea of swapping bodies it's such a silly idea like if i swap bodies with any them i would've started swinging it around til i started flying anyways i hope this was alright ! enjoy reading ! (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Xavier:

He would have to teach you how to use his evol correctly since you almost flash banged the both of you.

Your poor pussy. He’d have your pussy throbbing from constantly touching himself in your body. He’d get dizzy from the amount of rounds he’s done. The amount of orgasms he’s reached was like a euphoric electric shock throughout your body and it was so addicting.

Xavier would definitely randomly hold your boobs just because he likes the feeling of them. He hates wearing bras and wants your girls to be free.

Once you swap bodies back, you’re going to have to deal with stomach pains and unexpected trips to the bathroom. During his time in your body, Xavier made and ate some of his questionable food combinations and your system wasn’t used to that.

Zayne:

He’s relieved that the person he’s switched bodies is someone that he can trust and someone that he loves. Almost ends up calling the hospital on your phone to call out of work for a couple days. He doesn’t want you to stress out with the workload he deals with while you’re in his body.

Zayne is most definitely taking advantage of this to take care of your health. He’s making sure you’re getting all the nutritious meals that you have been ignoring from him and that you’re getting the right amount of sleep and the right amount of exercise.

Y'know how we casually just grab out boobs randomly? Zayne would definitely do that with yours when you swap bodies and he loves it. He would casually knead one of your breasts or just casually hold it while he reads his patient report. Also gently squeeze it as if it’s a stress ball.

Rafayel:

He took so many cute photos of him in your body. He even went through your shared closet and tried on so many of your outfits and did a little spin in the mirror. Creates cute outfits for you and adds items to his shopping cart for you to wear when you switch bodies again. He even tries all your makeup and just casually did your eyeshadow and your eyeliner wings so perfectly.

He’s obviously going to get curious and play with your pussy. “cutie why does it take soooo long to finish. no wonder you need me. it only takes a minute when i’m in you.”

He would be so flattered when he sees himself in your body and your body is just immediately soaked. He didn’t know it would just be that easy.

He would get SO flustered when you pin him down or tease him in his body. He wasn’t used to being in your height and the size difference but he’s not complaining.

Sylus:

Big. Every inch of him is just big. So waking up in the morning with you in his body can be a little overwhelming especially knowing you got a third arm that drags to the floor in between your legs.

He doesn’t remember ever being this short in a long time so seeing you in his body, he can understand why he can be overwhelming.

He would get curious. His hands would roll upwards up to your breasts, rolling your nipples and kneading them. Then he would lower your hands to your ass, gently pinching them and he would notice the pool in your panties. “Ah, I see why you react that way when I do this to you sweetie.”

If you two were away when you two swapped bodies, he’d take your body out to a nice spa to have your body relaxed and taken care of. He'll also get your nails or hair taken care of while he's out.

[nosyp]

Mask On, Fuck it Mask Off

Warning = smut🔞, murder, badly written smut (sorry)

Pairing = Front man x reader

Summary = You have sex. With the mask off ofc.

Word count = 1k

Part 2

“You really think doing this is fair for those people?” you ask him. 

The view before you was undeniable. There was a group of people put in a room together to play a wretched game for their lives. They all had terrified looks on their faces as they were forced to play the game of survival. They didn’t even know they had it coming either. You saw the list of people, mostly consisting of people who had nothing going for them. Either they were deep in debt or… you honestly don’t know. Helping a serial murderer wasn’t something you’d expect yourself to be doing… much less dating him.

“...” he doesn’t respond but instead, he moves closer to you. And closer… and closer. Until he closed the gap between you two.

You shiver slightly at the unexpected touch, his fingers grazing your skin with a calmness that felt entirely out of place. He didn’t say a word, but his silence said everything. The air between you both thickened, filled with something you couldn't quite figure out.

“You know it’s wrong,” you pressed, your voice a little more strained now as your heart started to race.

He finally met your gaze, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Fair?” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “Fair has nothing to do with it.”

Before you could react, he was somehow even closer, his hand now resting gently on your shoulder, his touch deliberate. “But you’re right about one thing,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. “This isn’t fair. Not for you.”

Your pulse quickened. You could feel the heat from his body invading your space, the way he loomed over you, taller and imposing, yet somehow gentle in the way he leaned in. His lips almost brushed your earlobe as he added, “But that’s what makes it more exciting, don’t you think?”

The tension was palpable, swirling between the two of you. A dangerous game, and you couldn’t help but feel drawn into it.

His fingers suddenly tugged at the buttons of your shirt, and he looked straight into your eyes. Reluctantly, you nodded and his fingers started fiddling with the buttons of your shirt. He slowly unbuttoned them one by one, as if he had all the time in the world.

His touch was much gentler than you thought it’d be. His fingers brushed lightly against your body, sending a sense of heat straight to your core. You tried to steady your breath, but the way his eyes focused on you made it impossible to ignore the growing tension between you two.

“Are you really going to pretend the game isn’t entertaining?” His voice was low, almost a whisper, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Talk to me with your mask off,” you demanded, completely ignoring the question of his.

He then proceeded to pull the black mask off his face, revealing the one and only– Hwang In-ho. He had a dead look in his eyes, the look of someone after doing something immoral. You knew he didn’t really want to do this… 

You could feel your pulse quickening, a wave of warmth spreading through you as he leaned in just a fraction closer. His breath brushed against your ear, and the subtle scent of his cologne mixed with the lingering tension. You should’ve stepped back, should’ve told him to stop. But you didn’t.

Instead, you turned your face toward him, your lips brushing lightly against his as the space between you seemed to disappear. He wrapped his arms around you and held you tightly, keeping you in place.

He pulled away from the kiss and lifted you up before placing you onto the cold marble table. You moaned at the cold sensation on your skin, causing a bulge to start growing in his pants.

Gently, he took off your clothes. Honestly, with you, he wasn’t as much of a cold-blooded killer as he was with others. Then, you heard the belt unbuckle and his zipper open. Without warning, he slid the tip in. 

“Mmh…” you moaned as he went inside you. “To- ahh- to- answer…mmh! your question… no- ah! it’s not entertaining…”

“Don’t- lie…” he mumbled as thrusted in and out of you. His pace was loving and he clearly didn’t want to hurt you in any way. His grip on your thighs were tight, but not tight enough to hurt.

One of his hands moved from your hips onto your breasts, squeezing it lightly still while moving his cock in and out of you. The sound of his hips slapping your skin echoed through the room as he continued. The feeling of him inside you made your mind spin. Pleasure was coursing through your veins as you felt every vein. 

“Ahh- I’m close!” you squealed. 

Hearing that, he quickened his pace and the sound of his thrusts got louder. Thwap Thwap Thwap

The jolt of heat caused you to squirm against his touch and he got quicker. Now his thrusts were brutal and you swore your skin was getting red. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he got faster and faster, chasing his high. 

Your breathing grew faster, more erratic. Each inhale felt shallow, like your lungs couldn't quite keep up with the rapid rhythm of your heartbeat. The air around you seemed to thicken, the tension almost tangible as you tried to steady yourself on the table. But it was impossible. Your chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths, betraying the way his proximity had completely unsettled you.

His breathing was not any better than yours though, he was panting, his stamina clearly depleting right in front of your eyes. The longer he was inside you, the more agonising it felt. You felt the feeling of ecstasy nearby, but you couldn’t reach it. Somehow, on instinct, you started moving your body along with his. Almost rhythmic. 

Both of your bodies were sweating at that point, the table was covered in fluids. Fuck. You felt so close. So close. You could feel it.

It wasn’t long till you finally reached it, releasing all of your cum onto his thick cock, causing him to follow with his orgasm as well. 

Then you heard the speaker say, “Player 196 eliminated.”

[snail-day]

With All My Heart, Will You Be Mine?

Sum: Happy Valentine's Day!

Yan! Yakuza Gojo x Reader

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Stalking, Kidnapping, Medical Horror, Graphic violence/torture, Terminal Illness (Reader), Blood, Gore, Dubcon kisses, Masturbation (Gojo), Manipulation, Forced Surgery, mentions of murder. MDNI

WC: 5.8k

A/n: Thank you 💖 anon for feeding me yummy ideas, lots of smoochies for you. You will receive my kidney for Valentine's day, keep it safe, use it for school! MWAH!

Really, truly - Gojo Satoru didn’t believe in love at first sight.

Lust at first sight? Absolutely. Intrigue at first sight? Happens all the time. But love? The heart-pounding, palm-sweating, head-spinning kind that made fools of otherwise rational men? No.

He was a romantic, sure, but not delusional.

And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of a dingy little house in Tokyo, meant to be handling business like the good little Yakuza heir he was, only to be hit with something so absurd, so world-altering, so utterly ridiculous that it left him breathless.

And on Valentine’s Day, no less.

It was almost poetic, if not for the fact that he should have been spending his evening hunting for buy-one-get-one-free desserts, maybe stuffing his face with something obscenely sweet, letting powdered sugar melt on his tongue instead of dealing with this nonsense.

Instead, he was here, wasting time on a pathetic excuse of a man who had made one too many promises and delivered on exactly none.

The debtor knelt before him, flanked by two of his men, the poor bastard's shoulders hunched, his body shaking so violently that the faint sound of his teeth chattering filled the otherwise silent room.

Satoru sighed, rolling his shoulders, letting his hands flex, testing the weight of his own strength. A simple knockout, maybe - if the guy was lucky. If he wasn’t, well, there were other ways to collect.

If you can’t pay up, surely your organs can.

His fingers curled into a loose fist, knuckles shifting beneath his skin, ready to land a single, decisive blow. His arm swung back, muscles tensing, the force behind it measured yet lethal.

He missed.

His knuckles cut through empty space.

The Gojo Satoru, who never missed, whose strikes always found their target with effortless precision, had missed.

Something lurched inside him. Something sharp, something foreign, something completely uninvited. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, his chest seizing up with a feeling that sent his pulse stammering, erratic.

The air in the room shifted, charged, like static clinging to his skin, humming beneath his fingertips, curling tight around his throat like an invisible wire. His breath hitched, a sharp, unexpected inhale that felt too much, too rapid, too overwhelming.

His body, his very existence, felt like it had been shoved off balance.

And all because of a picture frame.

A broken one, at that. Glass shards, littered the floor, glinting under the dim overhead light. His gaze flickered downward, catching the jagged fragments scattered like slivers of ice against the worn wooden planks.

And nestled between them, half-buried beneath the wreckage, was you.

His fingers twitched.

His chest ached.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head, forcing himself to move slowly, as if rushing might break the spell of this moment. His gaze briefly flickered toward Ijichi, who stood stiffly near the door, face pale, fingers twitching at his sleeves.

Satoru ignored him, poor Ijichi's silent pleas to please get this over with. Instead, he bent down, his long, gloved fingers ghosting over the broken glass before carefully lifting the frame from the mess. His movements were strangely reverent, cautious in a way that had nothing to do with avoiding injury and everything to do with the image trapped behind the cracked glass.

You.

Oh.

His throat tightened.

A snapshot of softness. A moment of warmth and light and everything gentle in a world that had only ever been sharp edges and raw violence to him. His fingers trembled slightly as he turned the frame over, gloved knuckles brushing against the broken glass, the sting of tiny cuts breaking through the protective barrier. Satoru barely noticed. The world had already tilted.

His breath came faster, shallower, something hot and unfamiliar crawling up his spine. His face felt warm. Too warm. Heat bloomed beneath his skin, creeping up from his chest, spilling up the curve of his throat, flushing the tips of his ears. His pulse—normally steady, untouchable—stammered, then slammed against his ribs, hammering like a war drum inside him.

His brain wasn’t working, actually Satoru's entire body was doing things it shouldn’t be doing. The way his fingers curled tighter around the frame, pressing it against his chest like something precious, something irreplaceable, something already his.

And then—before he could stop himself—

He giggled.

A soft, breathless little sound, slipped past his soft pink lips without his permission, without his control. The feeling was utterly foreign to him, so completely out of place in this bloodstained room, that even the lackeys flinched.

The debtor—poor bastard, still kneeling, still hoping for mercy—dared to look up. His breath stuttered, a trembling, desperate sound escaping his lips when he caught the sight of Satoru, hunched over the picture frame, grinning like he had just discovered the meaning of life.

And then, in a panic-stricken voice, hoarse and broken, he begged.

“T-That’s my daughter,” he gasped, voice cracking, his entire body lurching forward before the men at his sides yanked him back into place. “P-Please! Please, don’t - d-don’t hurt her, please!”

Satoru stilled for a few beats. His long fingers twitched against the frame, his grip tightening just slightly. Slowly, he raised his gaze, sharp blue eyes gleaming, amusement flickering beneath something far, far more dangerous., a fool in love.

A moment of silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Then, Satoru let out another breathless, giddy laugh.

“Oh,” he murmured, his voice a shade too light, a whisper too smooth. “Your daughter?” tilting his head, lips parting slightly, like he was tasting the words, rolling them around on his tongue just to see how they felt. Satoru's pulse was still racing, breathing still felt too fast, face still burned.

What a beautiful feeling. Love was truly a beautiful thing, he was a fool for thinking overwise. His lips curved into a lazy, lovesick smile. A slow exhale left him as he traced his thumb over the crack in the glass.

“What a lucky man you are,” Satoru mused, voice warm, teasing, almost affectionate. “To have someone so precious.”

Satoru's fingers curled tighter around the frame, pressing it against his chest like he could sink it into himself, steal you away, make you his. Careless to the shards of glass pressing themselves into his shirt, sodden with blood.

And then, with a soft, almost dreamy sigh, he whispered into the room -

“Oh, I think I’m in love.”

The debtor was still babbling, breath coming in ragged little gasps, his face pale and sweat-slicked, as if he expected Gojo to snap him in half at any second.

Poor guy.

Satoru’s expression shifted the sharp gleam in his eyes melting into something lighter, dreamier. His lips curled into a soft, almost fond smile, the heat still high on his cheeks as he turned his attention back to the trembling man kneeling before him.

A soft chuckle left him - light, airy, amused.

"I think we got the wrong guy, Ijichi-san," he mused, voice kept casual, lilting as if discussing the weather. Ijichi stiffened from his place near the door, blinking rapidly behind his fogged-up glasses, clearly unsure whether to be relieved or terrified. Still kneeling, leaned in just slightly, one gloved hand reaching out to cup the debtor’s jaw.

The man flinched hard.

His entire body shuddered, a choked sound spilling from his lips, but Satoru’s touch was shockingly gentle - a stark contrast to the raw strength curled beneath his fingers. His thumb stroked slowly along the man’s cheek, a featherlight touch, almost affectionate as if comforting a dear old friend.

Then - he patted his cheek. Soft. Reassuring. And yet, something far, far worse than a punch.

Because Gojo Satoru was smiling.

Not his usual cocky smirk, not the smug little grin of a man who enjoyed toying with his prey - but something softer.

Something warm.

Something that didn’t belong in a bloodstained room.

His head tilted slightly, bright blue eyes twinkling, the blush still lingering across his pale skin as he murmured, voice dipped in unsettling fondness -

"My apologies, father-in-law."

The debtor let out a broken sob.

The room was silent, tense, like everyone was waiting to see if their boss had finally snapped. He swallowed hard, forcing down the giddy little laugh bubbling up his throat. He needed to—no, he had to—figure this out. He had to figure you out.

Satoru was still thinking about you, even during his long day of hard work. Ah, he should be charging your rent for invading his mind like this!

The poor businessman in front of him wailed, body jerking violently against the restraints, but Satoru barely acknowledged it. He twirled the bloodied pliers between his fingers, splattering droplets of red onto the floor, his mind elsewhere.

“You guys ever been in love?”

The lackeys standing near the wall exchanged uneasy glances.

“U-uh… boss?”

Satoru hummed softly, affectionately as if he hadn’t just ripped a nail from the man’s hand a second ago. He turned to one of the lackeys, holding up the pliers like a microphone.

“Be honest with me. What’s the best way to impress a girl?”

Silence.

Even the poor bastard tied to the chair stopped whimpering. The loan sharks shifted uncomfortably, like they weren’t sure if this was a trick question.

Gojo sighed, tapping the pliers against his chin. Careless to the blood staining his pale skin.

“See, I’m thinking flowers - girls like flowers, right? But that feels so… normal.” Voice coming out light, thoughtful, as if he were discussing dessert options instead of dating strategies while actively torturing someone.

A lackey gulped. “Uh… I-I guess girls like grand gestures?”

Satoru’s head snapped up. Oh. Ohhh. That was good. That was so good. Satoru's grin stretched wider, his body practically vibrating with excitement.

“That’s what I was thinking too! Maybe I could make a little event out of it.” He flexed his fingers around the pliers before suddenly plunging them back into the man’s hand, gripping tight around another nail. The man wailed, body convulsing, but Satoru just clicked his tongue.

“Stay still, I’m having a moment here.”

He wrenched the pliers back with an almost theatrical flourish, watching as the nail came free, dripping red. He turned it between his fingers, examining it as he continued, “Like, I could just show up and say, ‘Hi, I’m your new boyfriend,’ but I dunno… that lacks finesse, don’t you think?”

Another lackey hesitated. “Uh… maybe you should… get to know her first?”

Satoru gasped. Ohhh. His fingers twitched, his pulse spiking, excitement crawling up his spine. “That’s a great idea! I should do some research. Find out what she likes, where she goes, who she spends time with - ”

He sighed dreamily, resting his chin on his gloved palm, pliers still in his grasp. “Ahh, this is so exciting. Who knew I’d find love on Valentine’s Day?”

The lackeys exchanged horrified glances.

The man in the chair sobbed.

Gojo barely noticed.

He was too busy imagining what kind of flowers you’d like.

Like any devoted future husband, he did his research.

By the time he finally stepped out of the shower after his long, excruciatingly confusing day—one he would rather you never know about—he had already started planning.

Steam curled in lazy ribbons around the dimly lit bathroom, clinging to the warm air like a ghost of the heat that had soaked into his skin. Water dripped from his snow-white damp hair, collecting in cool rivulets as they rolled down the sculpted lines of his collarbone, tracing the dip of his spine before vanishing into the plush towel slung around his waist. The overhead light flickered faintly against the condensation beading along the mirror, his reflection hazy and unfocused.

Satoru dragged a hand through his messy, damp white locks, pushing them back from his forehead, his fingers catching briefly on stubborn strands. He let out a slow breath, watching as the fogged-up mirror distorted his image, his usually sharp features blurred at the edges. For a moment, he simply stared, tilting his head slightly, his glowing blue eyes piercing through the humidity with an intensity that felt foreign, even to him.

His face felt… different.

He knew himself, had spent years looking at this very reflection - at the striking symmetry of his features, the lazy curve of his mouth, the effortless charm that had always drawn people in. But now? Now there was something wrong.

Or maybe something right.

His cheeks were warm, a soft flush spreading across his pale skin, settling stubbornly beneath his eyes, along the bridge of his nose. His lips—usually curled in an easy smirk, something smug and sharp-edged—felt softer, stretched into a stupid, giddy smile that he couldn’t seem to wipe off.

His fingers twitched at his sides, a restless, barely contained energy coiling under his skin. He could feel the uneven rhythm of his own pulse, the unsteady way it hammered against his ribs - too fast, too eager, like something wild and untamed.

A shaky laugh slipped from his lips, barely above a whisper, and immediately pressed his knuckles against his mouth, trying to stifle the ridiculous giggle that threatened to bubble up again.

Oh, what the fuck was this?

His stomach clenched - not in discomfort, not in anger, not in anything he could name. The feeling felt like being electrocuted. It felt like a freefall, plummeting into something dark and bottomless, with no hope of stopping. His chest ached, a tight pull between his ribs, something raw and desperate.

This wasn’t normal.

Nothing about this was normal.

Satoru’s fingers curled into the edge of the sink, gripping the cold marble, but it did nothing to steady him. He let out a slow breath, trying to shake off the haze filling his head, thick and suffocating. He needed to focus.

His smirk twitched, wavering for just a second before solidifying again, as he forced himself to breathe, to remember why he was here in the first place.

He had a plan.

Of course, he already knew he’d have to privatize a lot of your information. It wasn’t safe for someone as delicate, as beautiful as you to be left unprotected.

A beauty like you? Out in the open?

Far too dangerous.

You were just waiting to be taken, waiting for someone less deserving to snatch you up before he had the chance to make you his. The very thought sent an ugly, seething heat curling low in his stomach, his jaw tightening at the idea of someone else even thinking they had the right to look at you.

And then there was your father. Reckless. Stupid. Careless. Gambling away money, selling away your future with every thoughtless bet. If someone had to pay for his mistakes, it wouldn’t be you. It wouldn’t ever be you.

Satoru sighed, wiping the condensation from the mirror with the heel of his palm, only for it to fog up again seconds later. The humidity clung to him, soaking into his flushed skin as his gaze flickered toward the glow of his phone screen.

His research was proving… interesting.

His body froze.

The warmth in his chest twisted, coiling tighter, tighter, tighter, something sharp lodging itself behind his ribs. His breath caught, his fingers tightening around the cold marble of the sink.

He blinked once.

Twice.

The words didn’t change.

Waitlisted for a heart transplant.

His stomach dropped.

For a moment, he could do nothing but stare, his vision blurring, as if the letters themselves were somehow wrong, as if seeing them enough times could make them disappear, could make them not real.

His throat was dry, the earlier lightheaded giddiness evaporating, replaced by something heavy and unfamiliar.

A slow breath, shaky and uneven, pushed past his lips.

Then another.

His heart stuttered.

Then picked up again, pounding, throbbing, screaming against his ribs with a force that almost hurt.

His lungs felt tight.

This—this wasn’t—

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

His stomach twisted violently, sickening nausea curling through him as he forced himself to swallow, his fingers digging into the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white.

He could fix this.

Of course, he could.

It was so simple.

Well.

He could just give you his.

The thought hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. His own ridiculous, hopelessly lovesick heart—wasn’t it already yours?

Wasn’t it already beating for you, racing every time he thought about you?

He wanted you to have it.

Wouldn’t that be perfect? Wouldn’t that be romantic?

A tremor ran through his shoulders, something between a laugh and a shaky exhale, his body shuddering under the weight of the thought. He grinned, wide and almost delirious, his fingers drumming absently against the counter, a restless, frantic energy buzzing under his skin.

Oh.

Different blood types.

The air seized in his lungs.

An awful thing, really. A tragedy. A fucking crime.

It would have been the greatest honor - to have his very own heart inside your body, keeping you alive, keeping you safe, ensuring that he was always with you, always the one keeping you beating.

His grip on the counter tightened, his fingers trembling slightly as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool mirror. His stupid, desperate, lovesick heart was still hammering, pounding so hard it hurt, and—

And he just knew.

No one else could have you.

You were his.

And if fate wasn’t going to let him keep you safe the way he wanted, then— - He’d just find another way.

A soft, breathless giggle slipped from his lips.

It was almost sweet.

Oh.

Oh, he loved this.

You were going to love him too.

Satoru wasn’t sure how he ended up here, standing in the soft glow of your hospital room, arms full of entirely too many roses, pretending he didn’t just spend weeks memorizing everything about you.

This was supposed to be casual. A natural, effortless, totally normal meeting where he charmed his way into your life like it was meant to be. And it was meant to be, of course - he already decided that long before you even knew his name.

But none of his meticulous planning, none of the hours of preparation, none of it prepared him for this.

Because now that he was actually standing in front of you, he could feel his carefully constructed mask cracking at the edges.

And it was all your fault.

You blinked up at him, your wide, curious gaze unraveling him completely. Even in your frailty—IV drips, hospital gown, the telltale exhaustion clinging to your frame—you still managed to look like the single most perfect thing he had ever seen.

Then, it happened.

A smile.

A soft, hesitant little thing, warm enough to make his knees feel weak.

And then - the monitor.

The steady beep, beep, beep of your heart rate suddenly spiked, an unmistakable, rapid rhythm filling the otherwise quiet room.

Satoru’s breath hitched.

Oh.

The realization crashed into him like a freight train.

Your heart was racing.

Because of him.

Oh, fuck.

His grip on the roses tightened, fingers pressing into the delicate stems, the thorns pricking at his skin, he barely noticed. His own heartbeat had gone completely wild, hammering so loudly against his ribs that he was sure the entire hospital could hear it.

Heat rushed to his face, a creeping blush crawling from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, his entire body betraying him. He could feel it, the warmth spreading under his skin, the dizzying, giddy sensation that made him want to scream into the nearest pillow.

You were flustered over him.

Him.

Gojo Satoru.

A helpless, breathless giggle bubbled up in his throat before he could stop it, and he barely managed to cover it with a light cough, turning his head slightly as if that would somehow hide the absolute mess he was becoming.

He had to pull it together.

His entire existence led up to this moment, and he would not be the reason he messed it up.

Clearing his throat, schooled his expression into something softer, gentler, the perfect image of a man who had no idea what was happening.

"Ah," he started, voice almost too smooth, though there was an undeniable waver at the edges. He made a show of looking down at the roses, adjusting his grip as if suddenly realizing he was still holding them. "I… didn’t expect anyone to be here."

Your lips parted, the faintest hint of surprise flitting across your features. He wanted to frame the moment, keep it forever.

He forced himself to keep talking, keep lying, before his knees actually gave out, even if they did, he'd crawl to you, rest his head on your lap - He'd be your dog if you'd just ask.

“It seems the room has already been cleared a while ago,” he continued, his voice soft, almost apologetic. “I used to leave roses here for my mother.”

The words left his mouth too easily, even as his pulse refused to slow down. Satoru's fingers twitched, gripping the flowers just a little too tight because you were still looking at him like that.

Like you wanted him to stay.

And that damn monitor -

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Each sharp little sound sent heat straight to his face. He could feel it, the way his blush deepened, the way it spread down his neck, his body completely betraying him in real time.

You liked him.

You were crushing on him.

You were falling for him.

Satoru had to physically stop himself from grinning like a lunatic. He had to bite the inside of his cheek, had to tighten his grip on the bouquet, had to plant his feet firmly on the ground because he swore to god if he let go of his restraint for even a second, he would throw himself at you and never let go.

This was dangerous.

You were dangerous.

Because he had barely even spoken yet, and you were already his.

And oh, you had no idea what that meant for you.

His stomach did another awful, fluttery thing, his entire world tilting as he dared to meet your gaze again.

“Would it be alright… if I left these here?” he asked, voice lower, smoother, betraying absolutely none of the chaos screaming inside him.

You nodded, still watching him with soft, wide eyes, and Satoru had to bite back a whimper. His stomach twisted, something fluttering, tightening - something unbearable and all-consuming. He had barely spoken to you, and yet, here you were, already accepting him, already letting him into your space. It was almost too much. Almost devastating.

He placed the roses carefully on the side table, arranging them with precision, as if they were an offering, as if their placement mattered more than anything else in the world. His fingers lingered on the petals, smoothing them down, before he finally, reluctantly, stepped back.

Your gaze was still on him. Soft. Trusting. Beautiful.

Operation: True Love had been enacted.

And it didn’t stop there.

It had become routine. Every morning, without fail, he made sure you had your favorite coffee in your hands before the sun had fully risen. Even on the nights when sleep barely kissed his eyes, when exhaustion tugged at his limbs, when his body ached from handling the scum that threatened the delicate world he was building for you, he always stopped by that little café.

It was such a simple thing, really - just a cup of coffee. But for Satoru, it was a symbol of devotion. Every single action, no matter how small, was done with you in mind. He memorized your schedule, your favorite flavors, the way you liked it just a little sweeter when you were feeling under the weather. He took a sip of it each time before handing it to you, just to be certain that it was decaffeinated, that your already delicate heart wouldn’t be forced to work harder than it needed to.

He had memorized everything about your condition, studied every prescription bottle by your bedside, traced his fingers over the labels when you weren’t looking, committing them all to memory. He knew your dosages, your restrictions, the way your hands trembled ever so slightly when the medication began to wear off.

That was why, when the first drop of coffee hit his tongue that morning, he knew instantly that something was wrong.

The perfect order wasn’t right.

The bitterness was too strong, the warmth that settled in his stomach too telling. He pulled the cup away from his lips and stared at it, Satoru's mind running over the implications. The barista had switched it - either through incompetence or indifference, but in the end, it didn’t matter.

If he had been careless if he had handed it to you without checking if your poor little heart had struggled against the caffeine -

His hands began to shake, a slow, curling fury unfurling in his gut. The weight of what could have happened, of what he almost allowed to happen, pressed against his ribs, suffocating him. His fingers curled around the coffee cup, the lid creaking under the pressure as he slowly exhaled, trying to steady himself.

This wasn’t just a mistake.

This was a threat.

Satoru's grip on the cup remained eerily calm as he turned and walked back to the counter, each step measured, deliberate. His head tilted slightly, a soft, almost playful smile curving at his lips as he met the eyes of the barista who had handed him the drink. The poor fool didn’t even realize what they had done.

“Hey,” Satoru murmured, voice light, almost teasing, like he was about to share a secret. “Quick question.”

The barista looked up, confused, but obliging. “Uh, yeah?”

Satoru took another slow step forward, resting his arms against the counter as he leaned in slightly. Bright blue eyes studied the poor barista, carefully, searching for a flicker of remorse, of understanding, but all he saw was ignorance.

That wouldn’t do.

A wider smile traced his lips, tilting his head as if in thought. “Tell me,” he said, voice still honey-smooth, still light as air, as if he wasn’t seething beneath the surface. “Do you know what happens when a heart stops beating?”

There was a pause.

A hesitation.

The barista blinked, eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. “Uh - ”

Satoru didn’t wait for an answer.

His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around the barista’s wrist before they even had a chance to flinch. He pulled them forward with terrifying ease, dragging them halfway over the counter, ignoring the startled gasps of the people around him. His grip tightened, just enough to feel the fragile bones beneath his fingers shift under the pressure, just enough to send a message.

He could hear the barista's pulse, feel the steady rhythm beneath their skin.

Pathetic excuse of a life.

“You see,” he murmured, his breath a ghost against their skin, “a little thing like caffeine doesn’t seem like much, does it? Just a tiny mistake.”

The barista let out a whimper, their free hand scrambling against the countertop, desperate to pull away.

Satoru grinned.

“But when the person drinking it has a heart that’s already struggling?” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Well… then it’s a problem.”

He pressed down, just a little.

Just enough for something to pop.

The barista screamed.

Satoru sighed, shaking his head. “You almost killed someone very, very special to me,” he mused, watching the way their face twisted in agony. “And that makes me so sad.”

His fingers flexed.

The wrist in his hand gave way with a sickening crack.

The barista’s shriek pierced the air, loud and raw, but the café remained still.

No one moved.

No one ever did.

Satoru leaned in, crystalline eyes manic, lips just inches away from their ear, and whispered, soft as silk, “Do you know what that means?”

Their sobs were answer enough.

The next morning, Satoru entered your hospital room as if nothing had happened. The coffee was warm in his hands, a perfect balance of sweetness and warmth, exactly the way you liked it. You were just beginning to stir, your soft hands rubbing at your sleepy eyes, body curled up under the thick blankets.

You looked so sweet, so untouched by the world, that for a moment, he felt like he was burning alive. The moment your eyes landed on him, you smiled, slow and shy, and Satoru swore he felt his heart explode.

“Good morning, dumpling,” he greeted, sick with love, drowning in it, choking on it. You blinked up at him, looking so grateful, so happy, as you took the coffee from his hands.

He watched as you took a sip, watched as you sighed contentedly, watched as your heart monitor picked up just a little.

Oh.

Oh, that was dangerous.

The world around him faded, the memory of bloodied hands, broken screams, the useless little stumps where the barista’s fingers used to be all vanishing in the wake of your soft, wide eyes.

Nothing else mattered.

Not when you were safe.

Not when he was the one keeping you that way.

You still didn’t know.

But soon, you would.

He was waiting for the perfect moment - something grand, something special. Something that would tie you to him forever.

He loved watching over you.

He loved the way your eyelids would flutter, lashes casting delicate shadows against your cheeks as the medication coaxed you into sleep. He loved the way you’d sigh - soft, breathy little noises, so unaware, so vulnerable, your fingers curling instinctively against his sleeve as if you knew you belonged there.

And maybe you did.

Because this was exactly where you were meant to be.

Pressed into him, into his warmth, trusting and unguarded. His perfect little angel, unknowingly tucking yourself into the arms of the only man in the world who could love you properly.

You didn’t know what he had done to make sure you were safe.

Didn’t know how many hands he had taken, how many screams he had silenced, how many unworthy bastards had been erased for so much as looking at you too long.

Didn’t know how many times he had sat here, in this exact position, staring at the fragile line of your throat, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, watching the way your lips parted slightly as you exhaled.

Didn’t know how much it hurt to love you like this.

Because it did hurt.

It ached.

It burned, it devoured, it twisted inside him like something feral, something unsatisfied.

You were so small in his arms. So delicate.

And yet, his love for you was so enormous, so all-consuming, that sometimes he felt like he would crush you under the weight of it.

Every time your fingers twitched against him, every time your body relaxed, every time you made those tiny, sleepy noises, something inside him curled tight, so tight, too tight.

It was adoration.

It was devotion.

It was worship.

And yet, beneath that softness, beneath the aching love, there was something else.

Something darker.

Something needy.

Something filthy.

Because sometimes, when your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, when your lips parted just slightly when your warm, sleepy body curled into his, something unbearable coiled in his stomach, something starved and desperate, something that made him grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

The heat would pool low in his abdomen, coiling hot, tight, a restless hunger, a pressure that made his breath come faster, shallower.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair that you were so sweet, so trusting, so untouchable - and yet, your body fit against his so perfectly.

It wasn’t fair that you were right here, so warm, so soft, so completely his—but he couldn’t touch.

Couldn’t have.

Not yet.

Not the way he wanted to.

Not the way he needed to.

And God—God, what an awful man he was.

What a disgusting, depraved, vile creature he had become.

He shouldn't be thinking about you like this.

You were pure, delicate, untouched.

You needed protection.

You needed his care.

And yet, his traitorous body was already reacting, already stiffening, already pressing painfully against the fabric of his slacks, already begging for relief.

The feel was humiliating, sickening.

And yet, no matter how many times he told himself to stop - Satoru couldn’t.

Couldn’t because you were so fucking beautiful. Because you were so fucking his. Because even long after he had gently laid you back against your pillows, even after he had stroked the soft strands of your hair away from your face, even after he had kissed your forehead so gently, so reverently, he still felt that sickening vile feeling, the pressure of his hardened cock against his slacks. That unbearable heat, that sickening desire, the overwhelming need to relieve the pressure before it drove him insane.

So he would excuse himself.

With the calmest smile, with the gentlest voice, he would whisper, "Sleep well, sugar."

Then Satoru would slip out of the room and head straight to the hospital restroom.

Lock the door.

Pull out his phone.

And scroll through the hundreds of photos he had taken of you.

Some were from your walks in the park, when you were strong enough to leave the hospital, your face turned toward the sunlight, your soft laughter trapped in still frames, preserved just for him.

Others were taken without your knowledge, stolen moments when you were distracted when your lips were pursed in thought, when your fingers played with the frayed edge of your hospital bracelet, when you gazed out the window with that distant, dreamy look.

And God, his angel, his girl, his everything -

With shaking hands, he would unbuckle his belt, slide his hand into his pants, stroking himself to the images of you, barely able to breathe, biting his own lip to silence the pathetic little noises threatening to escape.

It felt so wrong.

So dirty.

So perfect.

And when he was finished, hot and sticky, Satoru would take a moment to look at your photo, his release streaked across your delicate face, your soft smile, your innocent little eyes. Then, with trembling fingers, he would draw tiny hearts in the filth, circling your cheeks, tracing the outline of your lips.

Soon he will be able to be a bit more selfish, to feel those pretty lips of yours wrapped around his cock, be able to coo at you to take more into your mouth, to feel the swirl of your tongue around his hardened length.

Oh, Satoru couldn't help but feel his heart pound against his chest at the idea of your sweet warm cunt wrapped around him, he'd be so gentle. Take his sweet time, he knew he had to be gentle, you were a sick little thing. Should he cockwarm you first? Get you used to him? Get you used to feeling so full, to the stretch, to the feeling of having him deep inside you.

Fuck looks like he has to give it another go, you little minx. Raiding his thoughts as always - a slight giggle escaped his throat before he began to stroke himself once again.

Satoru had made sure you both were exclusive, ensured your father understood that no other man would come near you. Because when he finally was able to confess his undying love, when he finally gave you everything, the action would be in a way that you would never forget.

A grand gesture.

A symbol of his devotion.

And as Valentine’s Day approached, everything was falling into place.

Because love wasn’t just words. The notion wasn’t fleeting, wasn’t something to be given halfheartedly. Love, real love, demanded sacrifice. And he - he was willing to give you everything. Even if it meant murdering an innocent individual, claiming the poor saint had wronged the clan. Because he had found the perfect match for your heart transplant, a saint of a person, someone who had never smoked, never drank, never told a single lie. Someone pure, untouched by vice, someone worthy of becoming a part of you. Someone perfect, just for you, so you both could live your lives together.

Because a love like this? It was eternal.

And you would love him.

And you would be his, forever.

No one would take you away from him.

Not even death.

Not even fate.

Satoru had never known love like this how it had seeped into his veins like poison, sweet and consuming, twisting around his heart until he couldn’t tell where he ended and you began. You had become his everything, the reason for his existence, the reason he woke up each morning, the reason he killed, the reason he breathed.

And now—now, you were here.

Laid out on the pristine white sheets of the underground medical table he had so carefully prepared, your delicate wrists bound with silk restraints, not to hurt you, but to keep you from thrashing, from making mistakes, from delaying the inevitable.

Because you were scared.

And that was killing him.

His sweet girl, his delicate little princess, his angel, was crying because of him.

Satoru's breath hitched, vision blurring with tears, and before he could stop himself, a choked sob tore from his throat. His fingers trembled as he cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing frantically over your damp skin, trying to wipe away the pain.

"No, no, no, my love - please, please don’t cry." His voice cracked, wavering between soft pleas and manic devotion, his lips quivering as he leaned down, pressing frantic kisses against your damp cheeks. He licked away your tears, swallowed your little whimpers, inhaled your soft, hiccuped breaths as if he could consume your fear and turn it into love.

His fingers stroked your hair, tracing the curve of your face, his touch tender, adoring, desperate.

“I can’t take this, sunshine. You’re breaking my heart.”

A shaky giggle slipped through his sobs, his fingers still trailing down the curve of your jaw, tapping gently against your chin like he was teasing you like this was just another one of his games.

His hands slid behind him, reaching for the small, heart-shaped box he had placed so carefully beside your bed. Satoru's breath hitched, fingers trembling not with nerves, but with sheer, dizzying excitement as he held it between you both. His tear-streaked face lit up, his lips parting into an eager, breathless grin despite the shattered, desperate look in his eyes.

This was it.

The ultimate proof of his love.

His grand gesture.

His devotion, laid bare before you.

The soft velvet of the box rubbed against your trembling fingertips as he guided it into your hands. Your breath was shallow, chest rising and falling too fast, too uneven. You didn’t want to open it.

You didn’t want to see what was inside.

But Satoru - was watching you so closely, his radiant, unearthly blue eyes brimming with an intensity that demanded you obey. So, with numb fingers, you lifted the lid.

Your stomach lurched.

The room spun. The sharp, metallic scent of blood curled into your nostrils, thick and suffocating, coating the back of your throat, making your body convulse in disgust.

A heart.

A real, human heart. The flesh was still fresh, still glistening, nestled inside the plush velvet like a grotesque, bloody jewel. Thin, severed arteries dangled from the muscle, the tissue dark, rich, and far too real.

Your breath hitched in a choked, wet gasp.

The air rushed out of your lungs, your vision narrowing as cold, paralyzing horror wrapped around you. Your fingers trembled violently, nearly dropping the box, your hands refusing to function, refusing to believe what they were holding.

No.

No, no, no -

You could feel your heartbeat slamming against your ribs, erratic, uneven, weak. You could feel the sting of tears welling up, blurring your vision, pooling in your lashes as you tried—desperately tried—to make sense of the unthinkable.

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to wrench yourself away, shove the box back into his hands, throw it, crush it, anything—

But you couldn’t move.

Your body refused.

Terror had turned your limbs to dead weight, keeping you frozen as if one wrong move might make this nightmare even worse.

Satoru tilted his head, watching you. That flicker in your eyes.

Horror.

Fear.

Rejection.

His grin faltered. Just a little. Just enough.

That look shattered something inside him. Satoru's breath caught, his smile wavering at the edges as his fingers twitched, his entire body stilling. For the first time in his entire, untouchable life, Gojo Satoru felt small. Like a child who had spent days, weeks, months crafting the perfect gift, only for it to be thrown away before his eyes.

A slow, breathy laugh fell from his lips - unsteady, cracked at the edges, but still so devoted.

“Aww, baby,” he whispered, tilting his head, his fingers tracing the side of your wrist, thumb dragging over your rapid, panicked pulse.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

His voice was soft, teasing - but his grip on you was tight. The air grew heavier and thicker, the scent of blood still hanging between you like perfume.

You wanted to move.

You wanted to run.

But his fingers curled tighter around your wrist, and those crystal-clear, feverishly bright blue eyes locked onto yours, swimming with something too deep, too raw, too unhinged for you to break away.

“You’re not mad, are you?”

His voice was gentle, cooing, like he was humoring you, like you were simply being shy, overwhelmed, unsure of how to accept such an important gift. His free hand reached out, brushing your trembling hair away from your face, tucking a stray strand behind your ear.

“I mean, I did all this for you,” he murmured, voice feigning innocence, his lips curving into something softer, something that might have been mistaken for genuine hurt if it weren’t for the twisted madness shimmering beneath it.

His fingers slid down, grazing your cheek before resting against your collarbone, pressing - just slightly. Feeling the erratic flutter of your weak little heart, the heart he was so desperate to protect.

The heart that could have failed you at any moment.

The heart that was soon to be replaced.

"I went through so much trouble," he continued, his voice quieter, sadder, fraying at the edges. "Just to make sure you’d be okay, sped up the process even, to make sure we can be together."

A tremor ran through his shoulders, his lips parting like he was about to say something more, but instead, he only let out a soft, shuddering exhale. His princess was rejecting his love.

But he had to be strong.

He had to be brave.

For you.

And so, he forced himself to smile, to press another kiss to your forehead, to whisper sweet nothings into your skin, even as his heart shattered.

"I promise, my love, it won’t hurt. You won’t feel a thing."

Satoru's soft lips hovered over your ear, his voice a trembling whisper, thick with the kind of love that could ruin a man.

"And when you wake up, you’ll be all better." His fingers trailed over the silk restraints, his touch lingering against your pulse, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath your skin.

Everything was going to be okay.

You were just scared.

You loved him too.

Major heart surgery is a scary thing. You’re just scared.

And if the doctor made a mistake - if you so much as whimpered in pain, if there was a single second where you suffered, where the operation was anything less than perfect -

Well.

There was a reason he had a backup doctor waiting in the next room.

A little extra insurance.

Because nothing could go wrong.

Everything had to be perfect for you. His fingers slid beneath your chin, tilting your face toward him, pressing a lingering, feverish kiss to your trembling lips - a kiss full of devotion, of desperation, of a love so strong it had become a sickness.

His heart raced, his breath shaky, uneven, manic.

And then, in a voice so soft, so full of adoring madness, he whispered against your lips -

"Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart."

As the medication in the IV lulled your eyes to sleep, all you could feel were soft kisses - featherlight, desperate, pressed against your cheeks, your forehead, the corner of your lips.

A lover’s touch.

A farewell.

[mocchiixxx]

Center of Attention

Seungcheol x Reader | Fluff, Jealous & Pouty Cheol, Playful SEVENTEEN

You peeked into the practice room, excitement bubbling inside you as you spotted SEVENTEEN hard at work. The boys were dancing in perfect synchronization, sweat glistening on their skin as the music filled the space.

Your eyes immediately found Seungcheol at the center, leading the group with his usual commanding presence. Even exhausted, he moved with precision and power, his focus unshakable—until his gaze flickered toward the door and landed on you.

For a moment, he faltered, his steps slightly offbeat. Then, a slow, boyish grin spread across his face as he straightened up, clearly pleased by your unexpected visit.

But before he could make his way to you, someone beat him to it.

"Y/N!" Seungkwan shouted, dramatically throwing himself into your arms. "Oh my gosh, you’re here! You finally came to see me!"

You laughed, patting his back. "I came to see all of you, of course!"

"Hah! See that, hyung?" Mingyu teased, draping an arm over your shoulder. "She came for all of us, not just you."

"Y/N, do you want to see our new choreography?" Hoshi piped up, eyes gleaming with excitement. "I swear it's gonna blow your mind!"

"Oh, oh! Sit here, next to me!" Dino tugged at your wrist, leading you toward the mirrors. "We need a fresh opinion!"

You giggled as the members pulled you into their chaos, talking over one another as they eagerly showed you moves, funny stories, and behind-the-scenes antics.

Meanwhile, Seungcheol stood frozen in the middle of the room, arms crossed, lips pressed into a pout.

Not. Happy. At. All.

He watched as his significant other was swept away by the other members, completely ignoring him. Him! Their leader! The one who was supposed to be getting all your attention right now!

Minghao, passing by, smirked. "You look like a sulky puppy, hyung."

"I'm not sulking," Seungcheol muttered, brows furrowing deeper.

"You totally are," Woozi added, barely hiding his grin.

Seungcheol huffed, hands on his hips. He'd had enough.

With slow, deliberate steps, he made his way toward you, towering over where you sat between the younger members. You barely had time to react before he effortlessly scooped you up—lifting you into his arms like you weighed nothing.

"Cheol!" You yelped, clutching onto him.

"Excuse us," he said firmly, shooting a pointed glare at the members. "I need my girlfriend back."

A chorus of laughter erupted around the room as the members teased and whistled, but Seungcheol ignored them, walking away with you securely in his arms. He carried you to the far corner of the practice room, finally setting you down—but not letting go.

"You barely looked at me," he accused, voice low and sulky.

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh at his adorable pout. "You were busy, so I didn’t want to distract you."

"I'm always okay with you distracting me," he grumbled, arms wrapping snugly around your waist. "I missed you."

You smiled, reaching up to smooth his damp hair. "I missed you too, Cheol."

His pout deepened. "Then prove it."

You chuckled before pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. He hummed in satisfaction, pulling you closer, as if to make up for the lost time.

From across the room, Jeonghan shouted, "YAH! WE'RE STILL HERE, YOU KNOW!"

But Seungcheol ignored them all, completely lost in you. Because as far as he was concerned, you were his priority—and finally, he was yours again.

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 23

˗ˏˋmatching threads ˎˊ˗

"You didn’t expect Jungkook’s birthday to end with soft talks about Mayer, thunderstorms and stupid craft projects. And yet, here you are."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 9.5k

content: delayed gifts, hand brushing, subtle comfort, emotional hypervigilance, miscommunication, clashing attachment styles, slow understanding, quiet intimacy, unexpected softness, bittersweet memories, trauma-informed reactions, symbolic objects, real conversations, familial grief undertones, perceptive but clueless boys, warmth in small gestures, psychological contrast, vulnerability denial, casual closeness, accidental meaning, rain metaphors.

Kiki Nation’s official discussion thread for FMU 23

✧ author's note ✧

This chapter made me feel some type of way, and not in the thirst-posting way for once (shocking, I know). There’s a softness to it that snuck up on me. Like I sat down to write what I thought would be a moment of transition, and ended up face-planting into the kind of quiet, delicate intimacy that’s so often overlooked both in fiction and real life. So here I am, feeling dumb and raw and tender over two forks.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Chapter 21, specifically that hand-touch moment—how subtle it was, and how I never explicitly addressed it in the narration because I didn’t want to. That’s the thing with psychologically driven writing: you’re not meant to be spoon-fed emotional meaning. You’re supposed to notice the tiny things. The almosts. The unspoken. The instinctive kindness that isn’t necessarily romantic, but still manages to get under your skin. That’s what that subway touch was. Not Jungkook being in love. Not a declaration. Just him, in his purest, most unaware form—being soft. Gentle. Deeply perceptive in a way that hurts because it’s so unconscious.

And that’s what this whole chapter is circling around. It’s not about a confession. It’s not even about clarity. It’s about conflict—internal, relational, unintentional conflict between people who are shaped by opposite emotional mechanisms.

Jungkook isn’t emotionally open, but he acts open because he’s thoughtful. Reader is emotionally hyperaware, but she reacts closed-off, because she’s scared and guarded. He acts without thinking deeply about it. She thinks deeply and then doesn’t act. They miss each other again and again not because they don’t care, but because their blueprints don’t match. And yet—they try. Or maybe, they accidentally try. And isn’t that so real?

One of them touches without thinking. The other flinches while overthinking. One gives a gift like it’s nothing. The other interprets it like it’s everything. They’re both right. They’re both wrong. That tension? That’s the story.

This chapter doesn’t show love blooming. It shows understanding struggling to sprout in barren soil.

They have so much ahead of them, so many versions of themselves they haven’t grown into yet. This moment is not culmination—it’s foundation. It matters. It matters more than if they’d just fucked again. Because emotional timing? Matters. And this wasn’t the time for sex. It was the time for emotionally loaded shit I can’t name because you haven’t read the chapter yet, but is now haunting me forever.

Read slow. Read deep. Look for the invisible thread. That’s where the truth is.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Walking back into the karaoke room feels like entering a different dimension—one where rooftop confessions and ex-girlfriend confrontations don't exist.

The noise hits you first, a wall of sound that's almost physical in its intensity. Hobi is mid-Mariah, belting out a note that should probably be classified as a war crime, while Ryan and Seth egg him on with increasingly chaotic dance moves. Tessa's doubled over laughing on the couch next to Diana, both of them recording the spectacle on their phones. Yeji and Irya are engaged in what appears to be a heated debate with Jimin over whether Britney or Christina had the better 90s catalog. Yoongi watches it all from his corner seat, expression caught somewhere between amusement and exhaustion.

"Holy shit, he's alive!" Kevin shouts when Jungkook steps through the doorway. 

The room erupts in cheers and catcalls, like they're welcoming a returning champion rather than someone who disappeared for half an hour.

"Dude, we thought you fell in," David calls out, raising his drink in salute. "World's longest bathroom break."

"Nah, he was definitely sneaking in a Clash Royale marathon," Kevin argues, tossing an empty cup that Jungkook easily dodges. "Probably hiding in a stall like a true gamer."

"You wish your stats were as good as mine," Jungkook fires back, slipping effortlessly into the friendly banter like he wasn't just having some kind of existential crisis on the rooftop. 

It's impressive, really—the way he can flip that switch, become this version of himself that fits perfectly into the chaos around him.

While everyone's attention is focused on Jungkook's triumphant return, Taehyung makes a beeline for Yoongi and Hobi, who've gravitated toward each other in a corner of the room. 

You're not trying to eavesdrop, exactly, but you happen to be standing close enough to hear the urgent whisper:

"He was on the roof."

The effect is immediate. Both Yoongi and Hobi snap their heads toward Taehyung, their expressions shifting so quickly it's almost comical—except there's nothing funny about the naked fear that flashes across their faces.

"It wasn't like that!" Jungkook interrupts, appearing beside them with surprising speed. His voice is a harsh whisper-shout, barely audible over the music but intense enough to make all three of his friends freeze. "I just needed air. Seriously."

"Bro..." Yoongi's voice is low, the single syllable carrying more weight than it should.

"Jungkook, you know how that looks to us," Hobi says, softer but no less serious. 

"I know. I'm sorry," Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, a gesture you're starting to recognize as his nervous tic. "But it wasn't... that. I swear. I just went there to think."

"After seeing her?" Taehyung presses, still tense.

"Yeah," Jungkook admits, "but it wasn't—look, can we not do this right now? It's fine. I'm fine."

There's clearly more to whatever ‘it’ is—something significant enough to make three grown men look like they've seen a ghost. 

But Jungkook's expression makes it clear the discussion is over, at least for now.

You should probably stop pretending to be fascinated by the karaoke song list and move away before they realize you're listening. 

But before you can, Jungkook abruptly changes the subject, his voice rising to a cheerful pitch that sounds slightly forced.

"Alright, alright!" He claps his hands together, turning to face the room. "So... birthday gifts for the birthday boy?"

The tension shatters as the crowd erupts in excited chatter. Seth whoops loudly, and someone (Ryan, you think) starts an off-key rendition of ‘For He's A Jolly Good Fellow’ that quickly derails into chaos. Jungkook's shoulders visibly relax as the attention shifts from whatever just happened to the much safer territory of presents.

One by one, people approach with gifts—some wrapped beautifully, others clearly hastily stuffed into whatever bag was available. 

Taehyung goes first, handing over a sleek black box tied with a simple red ribbon.

"Don't make it weird," he warns as Jungkook takes it.

Inside is what appears to be a ridiculously expensive camera lens. You don't know enough about photography to identify it, but based on the way Jungkook's eyes widen and his mouth forms a perfect ‘o,’ it's something significant.

"Dude," he breathes, lifting it carefully like it might shatter. "This is—holy shit, Tae."

"Yeah, well." Taehyung shrugs, but you catch the pleased smile he tries to hide. "You've been whining about needing a better wide-angle for your urban shots, so."

Jungkook looks genuinely moved, holding the lens like it's made of gold. "I can't believe you remembered."

"I always remember," Taehyung says simply, and the way he says it that makes you think he means more than just camera preferences.

Hobi goes next, presenting a sleek box containing what looks like high-end wireless headphones. 

“For all those late-night production sessions," he explains with a grin. "So we don't have to hear your trash music taste through the walls anymore."

"You love my music, asshole," Jungkook laughs, already testing them out.

"I love peace more," Hobi retorts, but he's beaming as Jungkook gives an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Yoongi's gift is less physical—a card containing what appears to be a voucher for studio time. 

“Booked you sixteen hours at Blueline," he says with characteristic understatement. "For that soundtrack project you mentioned."

Jungkook looks up from the card, something like disbelief crossing his face. "Dude, Blueline is impossible to get into. How did you—"

"I know people," Yoongi shrugs. "Just don't waste it making crap."

"I would never disrespect the temple," Jungkook promises solemnly, pressing the card to his heart with mock reverence.

The gift-giving continues, a parade of thoughtful items that speak to genuine friendship: rare vinyl records, vintage film books, an artisan coffee setup that makes Jungkook actually bounce with excitement. 

It's sweet, really—seeing him surrounded by people who clearly know him well, who've put thought into what he'd like.

And then it hits you.

Fuck.

The Mayer vinyl. Sitting on your dresser at home, still in its brown paper wrapping from that record store in Williamsburg. 

Because okay, first of all—who brings a fragile vinyl record to MOMA and then a karaoke bar? 

You simply had no way of bringing it without raising suspicions. 

And maybe asking Yoongi for help bringing it over would’ve made it look like you cared, so.

The gifts are winding down, and Jungkook is making his rounds, thanking everyone with what seems like genuine gratitude. He looks happier now, more relaxed—whatever happened with Mia and on the rooftop temporarily forgotten in the warmth of celebration.

You're contemplating whether you should make up some excuse about your gift when suddenly he's right there, appearing in your peripheral vision like he materialized out of thin air.

"So," he says, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he leans just a bit too close. "Where's my present, Pyx?"

The nickname rolls off his tongue, familiar enough now that you've stopped rolling your eyes every time he uses it. (Mostly.)

"At home," you admit, trying to sound casual and not like someone who completely failed at basic gift logistics.

"Oh?" 

His lips purse, fighting back what's clearly a smirk. 

The glint in his eye is positively dangerous. 

"At home?"

Your cheeks heat up against your will. 

“Not—I don't mean it like that," you stammer, realizing too late how your answer could be interpreted. "I mean I literally left it at the apartment. It wouldn't fit in my bag."

"Big gift, huh?" he murmurs, leaning even closer. His breath brushes your ear, warm and smelling faintly of vanilla. "I'm intrigued."

"It's just a thing," you say lamely. "Nothing special."

"I'd honestly be happy with the other interpretation, for the record," he continues like you haven't spoken, voice dropping to a register that should be illegal in public spaces. 

"In your dreams," you scoff, but it comes out weaker than intended.

"Every night," he confirms, that infuriating smirk spreading across his face now. "Detailed, technicolor dreams. Sometimes you even—"

"Boundaries, Rogue," you cut him off, pressing a finger against his lips. "We're in public."

"That didn't stop you earlier," he whispers, gaze flicking to your lips for the briefest second. "On the roof?"

"That was different."

"Different how?"

"We were alone then."

"We could be alone again," he suggests, voice casual but eyes anything but. "Plenty of dark corners in this building."

"You're incorrigible."

"You like it."

Before you can come up with a suitably cutting response, Ryan's voice cuts through the general noise of the room: "Yo, I'm gonna crash out! It's getting late!"

The announcement triggers a cascade of similar declarations. 

Suddenly people are gathering coats, exchanging final birthday wishes, making plans to meet up later in the week. The energy in the room shifts from celebration to conclusion, that particular lull that comes at the end of a good night.

As people begin filing out, Seth materializes beside you, a confident smile plastered across his face that probably works on most girls but just makes you want to step back a foot or three.

"So," he says, leaning in close enough that you can smell the tequila on his breath, "I was thinking I should get your number. You know, to hang out sometime."

"Uhhh," you stall, searching for a polite rejection. "No thanks."

His smile doesn't falter. If anything, it widens. 

“Come on, we had fun tonight, right? Just give me your number. I promise I'll only use it for emergencies." He winks, like this is some clever line that's going to change your mind.

"I said no thanks," you repeat, firmer this time.

"Don't be like that," he persists, stepping even closer. "Just your number. What's the big deal?"

You're about to tell him exactly what the big deal is when Jungkook appears at your side, his expression suddenly hard.

"Bro," he says, annoyance coloring his tone, "can't you see she ain't interested?"

Seth blinks, looking between you and Jungkook. "I'm just asking for her number, man. No harm in that."

"Except she already said no. Twice." Jungkook's tone is still light, but there's an edge to it now. "So maybe take the hint?"

For a moment, Seth looks like he might argue. Then he sighs, holding up his hands in mock surrender. 

"Fine, whatever. Your loss," he adds, with a final glance your way before merging back into the departing crowd.

"How is that your friend?" you ask once he's safely out of earshot, genuinely baffled that someone like Jungkook would hang out with such a persistent creep.

"He isn't, technically," Jungkook shrugs, watching Seth's retreating back with a slightly disgusted look. "He's Ryan's friend, who sometimes hangs out with Ryan, and so with us too. Definitely not my pick for the squad."

"Thank god for small mercies," you mutter, and he laughs, the tension from the Seth encounter dissipating as quickly as it arrived.

Jungkook steps back from you, that heated moment dissipating as he slips back into social host mode. You watch as he makes his rounds, thanking everyone for coming, accepting final hugs and handshakes. He's good at this—making each person feel individually appreciated, remembered. 

It's a side of him you are staring to recognize more and more often. 

When he reaches Tessa, you notice how his posture softens slightly. He says something that makes her laugh, tucking that perfect auburn hair behind her ear in a gesture that's both shy and flirtatious.

"You need a ride?" he asks her, and you barely manage to overhear. "I can call an Uber."

"No need," she smiles, gesturing toward Diana. "We're sharing a car. Diana lives just a few blocks from me."

"Good," he nods, looking genuinely relieved. "Text when you get home safe?"

It's sweet, the way he's concerned for her safety. Not what you'd expect from the guy who leaves his dirty dishes in the sink for days and thinks changing the toilet paper roll is optional. 

But then again, tonight has been full of surprises when it comes to Jungkook.

"Will do," Tessa promises, then hesitates before leaning in to give him a quick hug. "Happy birthday, Jungkook."

You watch them, something jittery settling in your chest. 

His lucky ass might actually score someone genuinely nice and put-together, who seems to actually like him beyond just his face and body. 

Good for him. 

Good for her, even, if she can't see that she's way out of his league.

Ten minutes later, the room has mostly cleared. Only your strange merged group remains—Yeji and Irya saying their goodbyes to Jimin by the door, while Taehyung, Hobi, Yoongi, Jungkook, and you linger in a loose circle near the couches.

"Subway?" Yoongi asks, addressing both you and Jungkook with his usual economy of words.

Jungkook nods, glancing at his phone. "Still running for another hour."

"I'll walk with you guys to the station," Taehyung offers, but Jungkook shakes his head.

"Nah, you're uptown. That's the opposite direction."

"I don't mind."

"I'm fine, Tae," Jungkook says firmly, and there's a weight to the words that seems to carry a conversation from earlier. "Really."

Taehyung doesn't look convinced, but after a moment of silent communication, he relents. "Text me when you get home."

"Yes, mom."

"I'm serious."

"I know," Jungkook's tone softens. "I will."

The farewells are quick after that—Hobi heading uptown with Taehyung, Jimin walking Yeji and Irya to their car, and the three of you—you, Jungkook, and Yoongi—making your way toward the subway station that will take you back to your shared apartment.

It feels like you've been gone for days rather than hours—like the person who left the apartment this morning for her first day at Barnes & Noble somehow isn't quite the same one heading home now.

But that's a thought for another time, when your head isn't fuzzy with tequila and your feet aren't aching from standing half the night.

For now, you just follow your roommates through the city streets toward the subway station, the quiet between you comfortable in a way it hasn't been before.

The subway car at this hour is practically abandoned—just a few night owls and the occasional service worker scattered across the seats like human tumbleweeds. 

Yoongi claims a seat by the door, immediately slipping his AirPods exactly like someone who's perfected the art of social avoidance. Within seconds, his head is tilted back against the subway wall, eyes closed. 

Either he's fallen asleep that quickly, or he's just really committed to pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist.

Jungkook drops into the seat beside him, legs splayed wide in that uniquely male way that screams ‘my balls need their own zip code.’ You take the spot next to him, trying to claim whatever minimal space is left.

Like seriously? There are literally twenty empty seats.

You nudge your knee pointedly against his. "Do you mind?"

"Wha?" He glances down, genuinely confused.

"The manspreading, bro," you gesture at his legs. "You're taking up enough space for three people."

He grins, completely unashamed. "I need to air out the jewels."

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" You swat his arm, genuinely annoyed. "That's exactly the problem with guys like you. Public space isn't designed for your testicle ventilation system."

"Guys like me?" He raises an eyebrow, still smirking but at least looking slightly less smug.

"Yes. Guys who think their comfort is more important than the space of everyone around them." You're on a roll now, the combination of lingering tequila and genuine irritation fueling your feminist rant. "Women are literally conditioned to take up as little space as possible, to cross our legs, to fold ourselves into tiny spaces, while men just spread out like they own the world. It's literally a physical manifestation of patriarchal entitlement."

His smirk fades slightly, replaced by something closer to actual consideration. 

He glances down at his legs, then at the way you've automatically tucked yours together to accommodate his sprawl.

"Shit, I sound like a TikTok right now, don't I?" you mutter.

"No, no," he says, actually shifting his legs together. "You're not wrong. I didn't really think about it that way."

Wait. What?

"You're just saying that because it's your birthday and you think you get a free pass," you say suspiciously.

"No, I actually get it," he says, looking strangely thoughtful. "My mom used to call me out for the same shit. Called it 'man space disease.' Said my dad had it too."

And now you don't know what to do with yourself. 

Because what the actual fuck? 

How are you supposed to maintain righteous irritation when he just... listens? Takes criticism? Brings up his mom in a way that makes him seem like an actual human person with a past and stuff?

Goddammit. Now you can't even properly be mad at him, which somehow makes you even more annoyed. 

"Anyway," you say, desperate to change the subject before you lose all moral high ground. "Happy birthday again or whatever."

"Thanks," he says, and then adds, "for everything. The museum was actually cool. Didn't know you had taste, Phee."

"I'm literally an English major."

"Yeah, but that just means you read boring-ass books from dead white guys."

"That's... not what English degrees are about," you sputter. "And I bet 90% of your film classes are just Scorsese and Tarantino circle jerks."

He laughs, a genuine sound that echoes in the empty subway car. "Fuck, you got me there. Though Tarantino is—"

"If you say 'ahead of his time,' I will push you onto the tracks at the next stop."

"I was gonna say overrated, actually. Everyone loses their mind over Pulp Fiction, but honestly? Mid."

You blink, genuinely surprised. "Okay, that's the most correct opinion you've ever had."

"I have tons of correct opinions. You just never ask me about them."

"Sure, like your opinion that coffee is better than tea?"

"Because it is!"

"That whole statement is a crime, is what it is."

He scoffs, rolls his eyes, and leans back, conversation over because he’s clearly not arguing over this. 

So the subway rattles on, the rhythmic clacking of wheels against track filling the silence. 

Your thoughts drift to earlier tonight—to that moment on the first subway ride when his hand had brushed against yours. 

Just a whisper of contact, his pinky grazing yours on the metal bar.

Why did he do that? What was the deal with that?

The question nags at you, an itch you can't scratch. Not because it matters in any deep way—obviously it doesn't—but because puzzling out Jungkook's behavior is becoming something of a hobby. 

A frustrating, often pointless hobby, but still.

"Hey," you say before you can talk yourself out of it. "Question for you."

He turns toward you, eyebrows raised slightly. "Shoot."

"Earlier, on the subway..." You hesitate, suddenly feeling stupid for bringing it up. "You kind of touched my hand on the bar? What was that about?"

"Huh?" He looks genuinely confused for a moment, then recognition dawns. "Oh! That."

He says it so casually, like it wasn't something worth remembering. Which it isn't. Obviously.

"I just noticed you had a panic attack this morning," he continues, his tone matter-of-fact. "In my room."

"What?" Your voice comes out sharper than intended, surprise making your pulse quicken. "How did you—"

"I passed by and heard your breathing," he explains, shrugging like this is a completely normal thing to say. "But I didn't want to intrude. Since it's something very personal and knowing you..." 

He looks to the side as he gestures vaguely. 

"Well, I don't think you'd have appreciated me barging in, so I just went back to cooking my super pancakes."

You stare at him, dumbfounded. 

Who… Who the fuck is this dude? When did Jungkook develop this thoughtful, considerate side? Is he possessed? Should you be checking for pod people?

"So on the subway," he continues, oblivious to your internal crisis, "I dunno, I felt you had off vibes, and—"

"Again with the vibes?" You can't help but interject.

He laughs, the sound sharp and genuine. "Bro, you had this face like the sad hamster meme and I couldn't take it. That's why I brushed your hand. Reassurance, y'know?"

"The... sad hamster meme?" you repeat, incredulous.

He whips out his phone, types something, then shows you the screen: a round-faced hamster looking depressed as hell, its tiny eyes radiating existential despair.

"That's not—I don't look like that!" you protest.

"You literally did. One hundred percent emotional support hamster energy."

"I will actually murder you in your sleep."

His expression shifts, something vulnerable flickering across his features.

"My mom—" 

He cuts himself off, suddenly looking down at his lap.

But somehow, he decides to continue.

"My mom used to do that for me, so I thought it might help. The hand thing. Not calling you a hamster," he clarifies quickly. "Just a small touch when I was stressed. Sorry if it was weird."

Oh.

"No, no, it wasn't weird," you say quickly. 

The image of a younger Jungkook, being comforted by his mother with small touches, is annoyingly humanizing. 

Couldn't he just stay a two-dimensional asshole? Would make life so much simpler.

"No?" He looks up, searching your face.

"...No." You clear your throat, trying to regain your footing. "It's kind of nice, actually. That you're this attentive." 

You clear your throat then; but it’s like the air is getting stuck in your throat at the sudden sincerity of this conversation.

So you can't help adding: "I guess. Could've apply it to the household, you know? Like maybe notice when the trash needs taking out?"

He snorts at that, the weird moment breaking; and you couldn’t be happier.

“One step at a time, Pyx. One step at a time."

"So your observational skills only work when it comes to me having panic attacks, not when the dishes need doing?" 

"I have selective observation abilities," he admits with a grin. "Like a very specific superpower."

"World's shittiest X-Man," you mutter. "'I'm Emotional Support Man. I can tell when you're sad but can't locate the broom.'"

He laughs, harder this time. "Fuck, that's actually my brand. Can I put that in my Instagram bio?"

"Only if you credit me."

"Deal."

The subway lurches around a corner, and you both sway with the movement. You catch Yoongi cracking one eye open, glancing at you both before apparently deciding you're not interesting enough to stay awake for and closing it again.

"So like, you must be psyched about the studio time from Yoongi," you say, genuinely curious about this part of Jungkook's life that you know almost nothing about.

"Dude, you have no idea. Blueline is like..." he gestures expansively, searching for the right words, "it's basically where half the top-charting albums from last year were produced. Their equipment is insane. Sixteen hours there is worth like, a month in a regular studio."

"And he just... got that for you? Just like that?"

"Yoongi knows people," Jungkook says, with a hint of pride. "He's lowkey connected as fuck in the music scene. Doesn't talk about it much, but he's got production credits on some tracks that went viral last year."

"Wait, seriously? Yoongi? Our Yoongi? The guy who speaks like four words a day?"

"That's his whole strategy," Jungkook whispers dramatically, leaning closer like he's sharing state secrets. "The less he says, the more people think he's some kind of genius."

"Is it working?" you ask, also whispering despite yourself.

He grins. "I mean, he got me sixteen hours at Blueline, so yeah, I'd say it's working pretty well."

"What are you gonna do there?"

"I'm scoring a short film by this director I know. Nothing major, just like a fifteen-minute thing, but I've been wanting to experiment with this sound for a while—like lo-fi beats but with some orchestral elements mixed in. Kind of a vibe Jonny Greenwood meets Nujabes thing, if that makes sense?"

It doesn't, really, but the way his eyes light up as he talks about it is surprisingly engaging. 

Cute.

Because that’s Jungkook when he talks about something he cares deeply about. He just… gestures as he explains, hands moving expressively, and his entire demeanor changes.

"That's actually really cool," you admit before you can stop yourself.

"Yeah?" He looks genuinely pleased by your approval, which is weird. Since when does he care what you think? "You should come by sometime. Check it out."

"I didn't know you were into all that," you say, genuinely curious now. "The music stuff, I mean. I knew about the film major, but..."

"I'm a man of many talents, Phee," he says with an exaggerated wink that makes you roll your eyes.

"Okay, and we're back to you being insufferable. That was a nice five-minute break."

He laughs, not at all offended. "Can't let you get too comfortable. Gotta keep you on your toes."

The subway announcement system announces your stop is next. 

Yoongi's eyes open immediately, like he has some kind of sixth sense for exactly when to wake up. He removes his AirPods, tucking them into his pocket as he stands.

"You coming?" he asks, directing the question to both of you but somehow making it sound like he couldn't care less either way.

"Yeah, yeah," Jungkook says, already standing. 

He offers you a hand up, the gesture casual but unexpected.

You hesitate for just a second before taking it, letting him pull you to your feet. His hand is warm, the calluses from guitar playing rough against your palm. And then he drops it as soon as you're standing, no lingering, no loaded moment. Just a simple courtesy.

But it’s the normal, everyday nature of the gesture that throws you. 

Like this is just what you do now—casual, friendly touches that mean nothing beyond basic human interaction.

The subway slows as it approaches your stop, and you grab the pole to steady yourself, pushing this strange new dynamic to the back of your mind to examine later. 

When you're alone. 

And preferably sober.

You've never heard Griffin meow that loudly outside of dinner time, and even then, it's not this fucking dramatic.

The elevator doors have barely slid open when the unholy feline screeching hits your ears—a sound that could only be described as a cat being simultaneously vacuumed and baptized against its will.

"What the fuck?" you mutter, already picking up your pace toward the apartment door.

Jungkook's reaction is instantaneous. One second he's trudging beside you, still talking about some obscure music producer, and the next he's bolting down the hallway like someone lit his ass on fire.

"Griffin!" His voice carries genuine panic as he fumbles with his keys, hands suddenly clumsy with urgency.

You follow right behind him, though your motivations are decidedly less noble. 

The building has a strict no-pets policy, and the last thing you need is to get evicted because Jungkook's furry contraband is having a meltdown at 1 AM.

"Jesus Christ, let me do it," you hiss, shoving at his hands. "You're gonna wake up the whole floor."

"I got it, I got it," he insists, still struggling with the lock as Griffin continues his banshee impression on the other side of the door.

"Clearly you don't got it," you argue, trying to wrestle the keys from his grip. "You're making it worse!"

"Can you just—will you just—give me a second—"

You're both so busy fighting over the keys that neither of you notices Yoongi until he's physically shoving both of you aside with surprisingly pointy elbows.

"Move," he grunts, extracting his own key and long since given up on expecting basic competence from either of you.

The lock clicks open, and the door swings wide just in time for an orange blur to come rocketing out into the hallway. 

Griffin shoots between your legs like he's auditioning for some Usain Bolt competition (but make it feline), though to no avail, because Jungkook's reflexes are impressively fast. 

Three quick strides and he's scooping the cat up, cradling him against his chest.

"Hey, hey, buddy, what's wrong?" he murmurs, immediately checking the cat for injuries. "You okay? What happened?"

Griffin, now safely ensconced in Jungkook's arms, has miraculously stopped his caterwauling and is instead purring loud enough to vibrate the hallway. 

The little shit.

"Oh my god, Jungkook, tell your cat to shut the fuck up," you hiss, glancing nervously toward neighboring doors. "You know the neighbors are gonna snitch if he keeps that up."

"No they won't," he says with the confidence of someone who's never faced consequences for anything in his life. "They all love me."

You blink. "You know all the neighbors?"

He just shrugs, already carrying Griffin back into the apartment like the entire dramatic episode never happened.

Yoongi, having completed his sole contribution to the crisis, is already disappearing into his bedroom, door clicking shut behind him with a finality that says ‘do not disturb under penalty of death.’

You stand awkwardly in the entryway, fidgeting with your keys, suddenly hyperaware that you're alone with Jungkook for the first time since... whatever that moment on the rooftop was.

He snorts, still cradling Griffin like a baby. 

"So where's my gift?"

Of course. Of course he couldn't just let it go. Had to make things weird and awkward because god forbid Jungkook let any interaction proceed without maximum discomfort.

You grunt noncommittally and trudge to your bedroom, pointedly closing the door behind you. 

There, sitting innocently on your dresser, is the crumpled paper bag from the flea market. 

Inside is the stupid vinyl record you'd impulsively bought for fifteen bucks because it had "John Mayer" on it and you vaguely remembered Jungkook had a vinyl wall with what looked like Mayer albums.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. 

Now, you're not so sure.

But it's not like you have any alternatives, and you did promise him a gift, so...

You grab the bag and head back out, careful not to make eye contact. You have no idea why you're suddenly nervous about this. It's just a vinyl. Probably one he already has. No big deal either way.

"Here," you say, thrusting the paper bag toward him.

He quirks an eyebrow, clearly puzzled by the plainness of your offering. 

What was he expecting? A fucking gift-wrapped Ferrari?

He sets Griffin down carefully on the armchair before taking the bag from you. The cat immediately curls into a perfect circle, clearly untroubled by whatever had sent him into hysterics five minutes ago.

Jungkook pulls the vinyl from the bag with deliberate slowness, like he's trying to extend the suspense. A small smile forms on his lips when he sees it's a record, but then—

His face contorts into an expression you can't begin to interpret. 

It's like watching someone cycle through all five stages of grief in under five seconds, ending on some emotion that looks like he might either laugh hysterically or have a stroke.

Your stomach drops. Fuck. You knew it. He already has it. Or worse, he hates this album. 

Great going, genius. You had one job.

"Nix," he starts, his voice strangled.

"It's fine," you interject quickly, already looking away and biting your lip. "I mean, if you already—"

"Phoenix."

Something in the way he says your nickname—your full nickname, not the shortened version—makes you reluctantly look back at him.

He's not... mad. Or disgusted. Or disappointed. 

If anything, he looks... stunned? 

His eyes are practically twinkling, like you just handed him the fucking Holy Grail instead of a dusty old record.

"Where the fuck..." he starts, then shakes his head slightly. "Where the fuck did you get this, Nix?"

You blink, caught off guard by his reaction.

"I—a girl has her secrets," you mumble, because no way in hell are you admitting you found it in a five-dollar bin at a flea market.

"This is Inside Wants Out," he says, staring at the record like it might vanish if he blinks.

"Yup. That's what it says," you confirm, pointing unnecessarily at the album title clearly printed on the cover.

Like, yeah. Thanks for confirming he can read. At least he’s not that stupid. 

"It's John Mayer, right...? I thought... I mean since your whole vinyl wall is mostly—"

"This is Inside Wants Out," he repeats, more emphatically this time, like you're not getting the significance.

You nod slowly. "Yeah... I heard you the first time."

"Do you know how hard it is to get this shit, Nix?" His eyes are still wide with disbelief. "This is a collector's item."

Oh.

Oh wow.

Oh fuck.

You didn't mean to give him something with actual significance. You were just trying to not completely fail at basic gift-giving. But now he's looking at you like you just casually handed him a winning lottery ticket, and you have no idea how to respond.

"I mean... I knew you'd appreciate it," you lie smoothly, like you totally knew what you were doing. "You seem like the type to be into the rare stuff."

His eyes narrow slightly, like he's not entirely buying your sudden expertise in John Mayer collectibles, but he's too excited about the record to push it.

"It was his first EP," he explains, still handling the vinyl like it might explode. "Self-released in '99, before he got signed. There were only like a thousand copies ever pressed, and they never reissued it on vinyl."

"Oh," you say eloquently. "Cool."

"Cool?" 

He laughs, the sound both incredulous and delighted. 

"Nix, this thing goes for like three hundred dollars on eBay if you can even find one. How did you—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head again. "You know what, never mind. I don't even want to know. Just... thank you."

Three hundred dollars? 

You almost choke. The grimy old man at the flea market had sold it to you for fifteen bucks, and even then, you'd thought you were overpaying.

Holy shit. You accidentally gave Jungkook the perfect gift.

You're still processing this bizarre turn of events when he does something even more unexpected. He steps forward and hugs you—a quick, one-armed embrace that's over almost before it begins, but still manages to short-circuit your brain for a solid three seconds.

"Seriously," he says, already stepping back. "This is... thank you."

"I—yeah, of course," you manage, still off-balance from the sudden contact. "Happy birthday or whatever."

He grins, already carefully examining the record sleeve for any damage. 

"Or whatever," he echoes, but there's no mockery in it. 

Just warmth.

A warmth that makes something in your chest twist in a way you don't want to examine too closely.

Jungkook flips the vinyl over in his hands, tracing the track listing with his finger. 

"I started collecting his stuff in high school," he says, voice softer than usual. "Everyone gives him shit, you know? Like he's this basic white dude music or whatever."

"Isn't he, though?" You can't help asking, even as you drift closer to the couch instead of retreating to your room like you'd planned.

He looks up at you, expression caught between offense and amusement. "That's what everyone thinks. But his guitar work? Seriously underrated. The guy's technically insane."

You perch on the arm of the couch, watching as he continues examining the record. 

“So you're into him for the... technical aspects?"

"Partly." Jungkook shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips. "But honestly? His music just hits sometimes, you know? Like when you're driving at night with the windows down, or when you just need to chill and not think for a while."

"Didn't take you for the introspective type."

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Phee," he says, but it's not a challenge or a flirtation. Just a simple statement of fact.

"Like what?"

He looks surprised you asked, like he expected you to roll your eyes and walk away. 

After a moment's hesitation, he gestures toward his bedroom. 

“I've got every vinyl he's released. Started with Continuum when I was fifteen..." He trails off, then shakes his head slightly. "Anyway, been collecting ever since."

You’re not sure whether he wants you to ask, or doesn’t want to overshare. So to play it safe, you don’t dig.

Instead, you find yourself saying, "My dad's obsessed with him."

Now it's your turn to be surprised—by your own admission. Because you hadn't planned to share that.

Jungkook's eyebrows lift. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you confirm, suddenly interested in a loose thread on your sleeve. "Used to play his albums constantly during gardening weekends. My mom would pretend to hate it, but I'd catch her humming along when she thought no one was listening."

"Gardening weekends?"

"Mandatory family bonding," you explain, the memory both distant and vivid. "Every other Saturday in spring and summer. Dad would handle the heavy stuff, Mom did the flowers, and I was on weed duty."

"Weed duty," Jungkook repeats, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Like, you grew pot with your parents? Damn, Nix, I had you all wrong."

You roll your eyes, but you're fighting a smile too. "Garden weeds, dumbass. The actual nuisance plants."

"So what? You'd all be out there pulling weeds while John Mayer serenaded you from a boombox?"

"Something like that," you say, the mental image so accurate it catches you off guard. "How'd you know about the boombox?"

"Dads and boomboxes go together like peanut butter and jelly," he says with authority. "It's basic dad culture."

"Fair point." You hesitate, then add, "He had this super old one. Battery-operated, because the garden was too far from the house for an extension cord. The sound quality was garbage, but he refused to upgrade. Said it had 'character.'"

Jungkook smiles at that, a genuine one that reaches his eyes. "Sounds like my kind of guy."

"You'd hate each other," you say automatically, but then consider it. "Actually, no. You'd probably bond over guitar shit and expensive coffee, and it would be absolutely insufferable for everyone else."

"I'm great with parents," he protests. "They love me."

"That's because they don't have to live with you."

He gasps in offense. "What? Come on, living with me is the best experience ever.”

"So now ‘best experience ever’ is you eating my leftovers and folding your briefs on the entrance table?”

"And mind-blowing sex," he adds, because of course he does. "Don't forget that part."

"And we're done here," you announce, standing up from the couch arm. 

"Wait," he says, surprising you again. "What was your favorite song? From those gardening days, I mean."

You pause, considering whether to answer. It feels oddly personal, sharing music taste with Jungkook. More intimate somehow than the physical stuff you've done together.

But he's looking at you with genuine curiosity, still cradling the vinyl you gave him like it's something precious, and you find yourself responding before you can overthink it.

"'Slow Dancing in a Burning Room,'" you admit, the memory rising unbidden. "Not off that album, obviously, but it was on Continuum."

“Really? I wouldn't have pegged you for that one."

"Well, I wasn't exactly vibing with the lyrics at age ten," you say, defensive without knowing why. "It just... reminds me of my mom."

"Your mom was into songs about dysfunctional relationships?"

"No, dumbass." 

You take a breath, weighing whether to elaborate. 

Fuck it. 

“There was this one time, we were gardening, and it started raining—like, suddenly pouring. Dad ran inside with the boombox, but Mom just... stayed out there. And I did too."

Jungkook's watching you intently now, the vinyl temporarily forgotten in his hands.

"That song was playing right before the rain started," you continue, eyes fixed on that loose thread again. "And when Dad got inside, he must have put the song on again inside the house, because we could hear it through the open windows. Mom just... started dancing. In the rain. And she pulled me in, and we were spinning around like idiots, getting completely soaked, while Dad watched from the porch and pretended to be embarrassed by us."

You risk a glance at Jungkook and find him smiling softly.

"What?" you demand.

"Nothing," he says, but his smile doesn't fade. "Just... that's a really good memory. I like that it wasn't some deep angsty reason. Just your mom being cool."

"She wasn't always," you say before you can stop yourself. "Cool, I mean. But she had her moments."

A comfortable silence falls between you, the kind you didn't think was possible with Jungkook. He's still looking at you with that soft expression, and you find yourself continuing without really meaning to.

“Anyway,” you say, desperate to lighten the sudden heaviness between you. “I like sad songs and thunderstorms. Shocking revelation about the English major, I know.”

His mouth curves into a smile, but it’s gentler than his usual smirk. 

“I know you like thunderstorms.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” he nods, setting the vinyl aside with careful hands. “Remember the first time we hooked up in this apartment? There was a storm outside.”

“How do you remember that?”

He shrugs, casual, unbothered.

Like it doesn’t cost him anything at all to reveal he keeps details in mind or cares. 

“You were curled up in that bean bag by the window, watching the rain like it was telling you secrets. All broody and intense. Very on-brand.”

“I wasn’t broody,” you protest automatically.

“You were staring at a lightning storm. The only way you could’ve been broodier is if you were wearing fingerless gloves and listening to The Cure.”

You throw a decorative pillow at his head, which he catches easily. “Fuck off, I don’t even own fingerless gloves.”

“Yet,” he adds with a grin. “There’s still time, though. Hot Topic’s having a sale.”

You flip him off, but you’re smiling despite yourself.

“I just like storms, okay? They’re… honest.”

“Honest?” He raises an eyebrow, looking genuinely curious.

You struggle to articulate something you’ve never had to put into words before. 

“Yeah, like… they don’t pretend to be anything other than what they are. They’re loud and chaotic and messy, and they don’t apologize for it.”

“Huh,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Never thought about it like that.”

“Plus,” you add, tone deliberately lighter, “they smell good.”

“Yeah I guess they do,” he agrees, and for some reason, this tiny point of connection feels significant.

“You smell like rain,” you say, the words slipping out before your brain can catch up with your mouth.

“Huh?” he looks at you, confusion replacing his easy smile.

“I mean,” you backtrack, suddenly feeling stupid, “you’re always saying I smell like vanilla and stuff. And you really like vanilla, right? With your vanilla extract flask or whatever. Well, you smell like rain. At least to me. I really like rain. That’s all.”

There’s a moment of silence, just long enough for you to start mentally calculating how quickly you could fake your own death and flee the country.

“I smell like rain,” he repeats, expression unreadable.

“It’s not a big deal,” you say quickly. “Just an observation. Like how Yoongi smells like coffee and disappointment.”

He laughs at that, breaking the weird tension. “That’s… oddly accurate.”

“I’m very accurate,” you say with mock seriousness. “My superpower.”

And… why exactly are you quoting him? That’s exactly what he said in the subway.

And you said it without thinking. 

“Well,” he says, not catching onto that or at least not making it about that; leaning back into the couch cushions, “for what it’s worth, I’m glad I don’t smell like disappointment. Rain is definitely the better option.”

“Don’t get too excited. I didn’t say you smell good,” you lie, because of course he smells good, the bastard. “Just like rain.”

“Uh-huh.” His smile is knowing, infuriating. “You literally just said you really like rain, though.”

“I changed my mind. Rain is overrated.”

“Sounds fake, but okay.”

Griffin chooses that moment to stretch dramatically on the armchair, reminding you both of his presence. The cat yawns widely, showing tiny needle teeth, before resettling into an even tighter ball.

“Anyway,” you say, seizing the opportunity to change the subject, “your cat is still a menace, even if he has good timing.”

“The best timing,” Jungkook agrees, reaching over to scratch behind Griffin’s ears. “Though I still don’t know what set him off earlier.”

“Maybe he sensed a disturbance in the force.”

“Maybe he just missed me,” Jungkook suggests, and the sad thing is, he’s probably right. Griffin is ridiculously attached to him, like some kind of orange, furry shadow.

“Cats don’t miss people,” you argue, just to be contrary. “They’re cold-blooded killers who tolerate humans because we operate can openers.”

“Griffin misses me,” he insists, stroking the cat’s back. “Don’t you, buddy? Tell Phoenix how much you missed your dad.”

Griffin blinks slowly in response, which Jungkook apparently interprets as agreement. 

“See? He says he was devastated by my absence.”

“He says he’s plotting to kill us both in our sleep,” you counter.

“Nah, he only does that to people who don’t bring him treats. Speaking of which…” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small packet of cat treats, shaking a few onto his palm.

Griffin is suddenly wide awake, lunging for the offering with surprising agility for a creature that was seemingly comatose two seconds ago.

“You carry cat treats in your pocket?” you ask, incredulous. “To a club? To a karaoke bar?”

“Always be prepared,” he says solemnly, as if quoting some ancient cat-owner wisdom. “Besides, Griffin can sense when I don’t have them.”

“Your relationship with this cat is genuinely concerning.”

“Says the person who talks to him when she thinks no one’s listening.” He smirks at your surprised expression. “Yeah, I’ve heard you. ‘Who’s a little murder machine? Is it you? Yes it is.’”

You feel your cheeks warm. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You baby-talk my cat, Phoenix. Just admit it.”

“I do not baby-talk—”

Your phone chimes with a text notification, cutting off what would have undoubtedly been a brilliant denial. 

You move towards the entryway, where you'd left your purse on the table, and reach to look for your phone, when suddenly—

Oh. 

The DIY bracelets. Right.

You'd left them at the shop at first for that contribution project Ash had talked about, but then... something had pinched at you when Jungkook mentioned having one similar as a kid. 

How it reminded him of his mom.

And now that you're talking about mourning a mom that you still have alive, because the mom from your memories often differs from the one who exists now... it feels like the right moment. Like maybe these stupid friendship bracelets aren't just arts and crafts bullshit but something that might actually mean something.

Fuck, that's corny. You're being corny right now. This is what happens when you let your guard down for five seconds around Jungkook—suddenly you're having feelings and shit. Gross.

But your fingers are already closing around the bracelets. 

You're impulsive like that. Always have been. Jump first, think later. It's gotten you into trouble more times than you can count, but occasionally—very occasionally—it works out.

You slip them into your fist, hiding them behind your back as you walk slowly toward Jungkook. He's still standing there, watching you with that half-curious, half-amused expression that makes you want to simultaneously punch him and—

"Hmm? What's up, Phoenix?" he asks, eyebrows lifting slightly when he notices your hands hidden behind your back.

"Nothing," you say, too quickly.

His eyes narrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. 

“What's that?" He takes a step closer, trying to peek around you. "You hiding something?"

"No," you lie, taking a step back. "Mind your business."

"You're being weird," he says, his smirk widening into a full-on grin. "What is it? A love letter? Secret diary? Embarrassing photos of you in middle school with braces?"

"I never had braces," you retort, still backing up as he advances. "And it's nothing, so back off."

"If it's nothing, why are you hiding it?" He lunges suddenly, trying to grab at your hands, but you twist away, nearly knocking over a lamp in the process.

"Jungkook, I swear to god—"

"Come on, just show me!" He's laughing now, the asshole, clearly enjoying your discomfort. "What's so secret that you can't—"

He makes another grab, and this time his fingers catch your wrist. You try to pull away, but he's stronger than you, the jerk, and before you can stop him, he's pried your fingers open.

The bracelets fall into his palm.

His laughter cuts off abruptly. 

He stares down at them, then back up at you, his expression shifting to something you can't quite read. 

His eyes go all soft and wide, like some anime character or something, and it makes your forsaken insides twist.

"How?" he asks, voice quieter than before. "I thought we left these at the shop."

You look to the side, feeling heat crawl up your neck. 

This is so fucking embarrassing. 

It's just bracelets. 

Stupid, childish bracelets that shouldn't mean anything.

"When I came back to get my phone, I..." You trail off, not sure how to explain without sounding like a complete sap. "I saw them and I just..."

You shut up, because what are you supposed to say? That you couldn't stand the thought of leaving them behind? That something about his face when he talked about his mom's bracelet made you want to give him this small piece of today?

He seems to understand anyway, nodding slowly as he looks down at the bracelets again. 

"Thanks," he says, and it's so genuine it makes you uncomfortable.

He holds them for a moment longer, then asks, "Can I?" gesturing toward your wrist.

You extend your arm automatically, then realize what he's doing as he fumbles with the clasp of the Phoenix bracelet.

"No, let me wear the Rogue one," you say quickly.

He pauses, brows furrowing. "But I am Rogue."

"Well, you said you didn't want to wear a bracelet calling you 'Rogue,'" you point out, "so... might as well wear the Rogue one myself and you wear the Phoenix one."

A slow smile spreads across his face, like what you've just said makes perfect sense instead of being the most backward logic ever. 

And with a soft, delicate breath he says:

“Deal."

His fingers brush against your skin as he fastens the Rogue bracelet around your wrist. You try not to react, but your pulse quickens traitorously beneath his fingertips.

When he's done, you take the Phoenix bracelet from him, gesturing for his wrist. He extends it without hesitation, and you're struck by how much larger his hand is than yours, how warm his skin feels beneath your fingers as you fumble with the clasp.

"There," you say, pulling away quickly once it's secured. "Now we're even."

"Even," he echoes, looking down at the bracelet on his wrist, the fiery beads catching the light. "I guess we are."

You stare at the bracelet on your wrist for a few seconds, the beads catching the dim light of your apartment living room. Your eyes flicker up to his wrist—he's doing the same thing, turning his arm slightly to inspect his newly acquired accessory like he's never seen a fucking bracelet before. 

His eyes catch yours, and you can't help asking, "You gonna wear it?"

He rotates his wrist, watching how the beads interact with the light. 

“Maybe." The corner of his mouth twitches. "I don't know, does it fit my vibe?"

Is he serious right now? 

You deadpan him, staring straight into his eyes without blinking.

He can't help but snort, his shoulders shaking slightly. "That's a no, then?"

"Whatever," you say, waving your hand dismissively. "You don't need to wear it. It's a silly thing anyway." 

And it is. Just a stupid arts and crafts project you made while trying to keep him busy for his birthday party. 

No big deal if he tosses it in a drawer and forgets about it. Literally could not care less.

"Nah, it's cool," he says, examining it again. "Kind of tacky, but in a fun way."

He looks back at you when you stare in silence too long. 

"What about you?"

"Huh?" You blink, caught off-guard.

"Are you gonna wear yours?" He gestures toward your wrist with his chin.

"I don't know." You twist the beads around your wrist, acting like you're still deciding. "It's not like I want people to know I have friendship bracelet gay shit with you."

He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Right, I had forgotten what I'm gonna say when people ask what 'PHOENIX' means."

Your eyes flicker back to him, side-eyeing him suspiciously. "What would you say?"

"Maybe I should tell them it's from my roommate," he says, tapping his chin in mock thoughtfulness. "Who rose from the ashes and all that. Like some kind of angry, book-obsessed firebird."

"Don't you dare talk about me like that!" You immediately shove at his shoulder, scowling. "Oh my god."

He sidesteps your attack, continuing, "—into this majestic creature who's deep down probably not plotting to murder me in my sleep—"

"I swear to god," you lunge at him again, "if you say that cringy shit about me to anyone—"

"—and who secretly loves making friendship bracelets—"

"I will end you," you threaten, trying to grab his arm while he deftly avoids your attempts. The audacity of this asshole. "I will literally smother you with a pillow."

"—and wearing them too!" He's full-on laughing now, dodging around the coffee table. "The bracelet represents how we've evolved from mortal enemies to... slightly less mortal enemies."

"That's it." You grab a throw pillow from the couch and hurl it at his head. "You're dead to me."

He catches the pillow easily, still grinning like an idiot. "Aw, come on, Nix. Embrace your phoenix identity. Like the bird, you too have emerged from—"

"If you say 'ashes' one more time," you threaten, grabbing another pillow, "I will personally ensure you become some."

"Violent," he comments, raising his eyebrows. "And after I accepted your little craft project."

"It's not a—" 

You start to protest, then stop yourself. 

What the hell would you call it?

"Whatever. It's just a bracelet."

"A bracelet of tolerance," he suggests, his eyes dancing with amusement. "At best."

"Exactly," you say, oddly annoyed that he's stolen your line. "A bracelet of 'you're still annoying as fuck but occasionally tolerable.'"

"A bracelet of 'we haven't killed each other yet, which is honestly impressive,'" he offers.

"A bracelet of 'the apartment lease says I can't legally push you off the balcony,'" you suggest.

He laughs, running a hand through his hair. "Cool. I'll take it."

"Don't make it weird," you mutter, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with the direction this conversation has taken. Why is he being almost... nice? "It's just a stupid bracelet I accidentally made while you were trying to avoid talking about your Instagram."

"Right," he nods, tapping the beads against the table. "Just like how you 'accidentally' bought me a super rare vinyl."

"Shut up."

"Never," he says, shifting Griffin to make room on the armchair. "So, this means you're warming up to me, huh? All it took was some karaoke and a rooftop heart-to-heart."

"I already told you we'll see," you remind him, rolling your eyes. "Don't push it, Rogue."

"Fine, fine," he holds up his hands in surrender. "Just saying, the evidence is mounting."

"What evidence?"

He starts counting off on his fingers. "One, you made me a bracelet. Two, you bought me a vinyl. Three, you didn't ditch me at my own birthday thing. Four, you haven't tried to poison my coffee in at least three days."

"That you know of," you counter, but you can feel the corner of your mouth twitching traitorously.

"See? You're not even denying it," he says, pointing at you triumphantly. "Face it, Phee. You tolerate me."

"The bare minimum bar for human interaction. Congratulations."

Griffin chooses that moment to let out a pathetically dramatic meow, clearly offended that he's no longer the center of attention.

"Someone's jealous," Jungkook immediately turns to scratch his cat under the chin. "Don't worry, G, you'll always be my number one roommate."

You roll your eyes. "Great, I've been demoted behind the cat."

"He doesn't leave wet teabags in the sink," Jungkook points out.

"He literally shits in a box in our bathroom."

"Yeah, but at least he covers it up."

"I'm not having this argument," you declare, standing up from the couch. It's late, you're tired, and this whole day has been weird enough already. "I'm going to bed."

"Night, Nix," he says, voice softer than his usual teasing tone.

"Night, Rogue," you reply, hesitating for just a moment too long before adding, "Happy birthday. Again."

He smiles—that same genuine smile from before. "Thanks. For everything."

"Don't get used to it," you warn, already backing toward your bedroom. "Tomorrow I go back to hating your guts."

"Looking forward to it," he calls after you, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

You close your bedroom door a bit harder than necessary, but you're smiling as you do it. And if your fingers brush against the beads on your wrist as you change into your pajamas, well, that's nobody's business but yours.

It's just a bracelet. Whatever.

goal: 650 notes. can’t believe how quickly kiki nation got the goals back, you guys are amazing and unhinged. 😭❤️‍🩹

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[vikkirosko]

Headcanons of how would Stolas, Fizzarolli, Asmodeus, Sir Pentious, Husk, and Alastor react to their crush asking "Why me?" after he confessed to them? Not because they don't like him back but they feel like he deserves someone better than them!

Headcanons Why me?

📻 Alastor x Reader 🎙

Getting a confession from Alastor was the most unexpected event in your life. Even though you had feelings for him, you would never have thought that such a thing was even possible. He continued to look at you with his usual smile, waiting for at least some kind of answer from you, and you could only ask why you

Your question made him laugh, as if you had asked something so obvious that it was even funny. He asked you directly what you meant, to which you confusedly told him that you were an unsuitable partner for such a charismatic person as Alastor. Your answer made him laugh again, which made you even more embarrassed

Alastor did not torment you with suspense for a long time and told you that it was his choice and if it were not so, you would not be having this conversation now. He was sure of what he was experiencing and was only waiting for your answer

You didn't know how to react. You weren't completely sure that it wasn't a joke or something like that. The only way to find out the truth was to take a chance and tell him how you felt about him

🃏 Husk x Reader 🥃

Husk didn't admit even to himself for a long time that he had feelings for you. He denied them, but eventually admitted to himself that he really likes you. Now he had another difficult task, namely to tell you how he felt about you. He did it quickly, abruptly, when you were alone in the bar. However, your reaction was not what he expected and it put him in a dead end

You only asked him one question. Why do you. You claimed that Husk, despite all his rudeness, was a good man and deserved a good partner, which you did not consider yourself to be. Husk was frankly surprised that you saw him in a completely different way than he perceived him. Perhaps it was because you were in love with him, but Husk was not going to go back on his words because you considered yourself unsuitable for him

Husk directly told you that he feels these feelings not for someone else, but for you, which means he was not going to give up his feelings so easily, especially if the only reason for this was that you did not consider yourself a suitable partner for him. He asked you directly if you had the same feelings for him as he had for you, and when he received an affirmative answer, he nodded with satisfaction

He understood that you were worried about him, but Husk intended to decide for himself who was the right partner for him and who was not, and you were the person he wanted to see next to him, and if you felt the same way about him, then there were no reasons why you couldn't be together

🐍Sir Pentious x Reader 🎩

Pentious took a long time to tell you about his feelings. His feelings for you were strong and he sincerely wanted to tell you about them, and his subordinates often supported him in this, so he was able to muster the courage to tell you everything. But when he confessed to you, he saw how quickly the emotions changed on your face. You were surprised, confused and excited

You asked him why you. You stopped talking, so he asked what you meant. To his question, you took a deep breath and spoke. You said he was smart, brilliant, funny and sweet. In your eyes, he was wonderful, despite the cute oddities in your opinion, and he deserved the best partner, which you were not, at least that's what you said yourself

When you looked up at him, you saw tears in his eyes. He was ready to cry. He couldn't remember the last time someone had said such words to him, especially the person he really liked. Pentious asked you if you had mutual feelings for him, and after receiving your affirmative nod, he hugged you tightly

He was happy that you reciprocated and now you could be together. Pentious was as happy as ever, rejoicing that he was able to confess his feelings to you. He was sure that no matter how gloomy his day was, it became brighter next to you

🦉 Stolas x Reader 🎩

Stolas had few opportunities to experience real feelings. That's why when he realized his feelings for you, he decided not to delay the confession. He knew he could have missed his chance, so he decided to take a chance, but your reaction surprised him

You were very confused and started talking fast. You told him that you weren't the right partner for him, even though you felt the same way about him, and it wasn't about social status. You thought he was wonderful. He was handsome, smart, kind. He deserved the best partner. Better than his almost ex-wife and better than you, at least that's what you claimed

Stolas listened to your monologue with surprise, after which he smiled gently and took your hand in his. He told you bluntly that there weren't many pleasant moments in his life, but after meeting you, his life became brighter and he hoped that there would be even more of these moments

He felt warm in his soul when he saw your embarrassed expression. Stolas was glad that his feelings were mutual, because you said it yourself, but he was even more pleased that you sincerely wished him happiness. He hoped that together you could become happy

🐓 Asmodeus x Reader 💕

Asmodeus has been planning to confess his feelings to you for a long time. He wanted everything to go beautifully, because you deserved the best, which is why he prepared a romantic dinner for the two of you, cooking the food himself. Ozzie behaved gallantly and politely when you came, sincerely hoping that you liked everything, and when dinner came to an end, he honestly told you about his feelings for you, but your reaction surprised him

You asked him why you. Asmodeus didn't have time to answer you when you started talking. You thought he was wonderful. He was smart, handsome, talented and more, and he deserved someone better than you, much better than you, at least that's what you said yourself

When you finished your monologue, Asmodeus couldn't help but laugh, after which he hugged you. He was glad that you had such an opinion of him, but he knew that he loved you and in his eyes you were the best and he wanted to see you next to him and not someone else whom you considered better than yourself

Ozzie hoped that you would be able to believe in yourself and not continue to deny his feelings. He saw that his feelings were mutual and it made him happy. Asmodeus was sure that you would be really happy together

🎪 Fizzarolli x Reader 💟

You and Fizzarolli have been friends for a long time and he knew that he was in love with you. Fizz didn't know how to tell you that he liked you, and so he was silent for a long time, but he realized that he couldn't keep silent anymore, so he decided to confess to you about all his feelings that he felt for you

When he stopped talking, he saw how red your face was. You were confused by his confession and clearly started to worry, but instead of responding to his feelings, you asked why you. You were talking fast, embarrassed, obviously nervous, but you kept talking. You told him that he was a wonderful man, he was funny, handsome, talented and deserved the best partner, much better than you

When you finished speaking, you saw that Fizzarolli was as confused as you were. He was embarrassed that you thought he was so wonderful, because he didn't think he was as wonderful as you said. He gently took your hands in his and shyly said that his feelings for you were sincere and that you were the most wonderful person he had ever met

Fizz was genuinely glad that his feelings were mutual. He wanted you to be happy, especially after you expressed your uncertainty about his choice. He wanted to do as much for you as possible, at least as much as his powers allowed him

[malfoysanctuary]

as much as I love writing...sometimes I get an itch for a good read myself. here are the stories I ALWAYS reach for, please check them out and give the authors some love ❤️‍🔥

*updated as I find good reads*

───────────────────────────────

✧.* fluff ⋆ | ˚꩜｡ series | ⚠︎ angst | 🔞 smut | ✪ g's star reads

Draco Malfoy

✧.* The Alchemy by (@lqveharrington) ✪ ⤷ Although Draco promised that he would keep your relationship a secret just for you, he can’t contain himself after winning the Hogwarts quidditch cup. ✧.* Someday by (@lqveharrington) ⤷ you and draco are from opposing houses, and you were terrified how your friends were going to react when they found out. ⚠︎ sweet disaster by (@redeemingvillains) ⤷ you and draco are inseparable friends, but deeper feelings come to light when you're asked on a date with someone who is determined to take advantage of you. ✧.* Deck the Halls by (@writingsbychlo) ⤷ Narcissa has big plans for her son's girlfriend this time of year, and you're determined to live up to her expectations. 🔞 Flutterby Baby by (@agreeewrites) ✪ ⤷ Draco finds out another student sabotaged your Herbology project. 🔞 Bad Santa by (@agreeewrites) ⤷ Your boyfriend Draco has thrown the Christmas party of the year, and wears a Santa hat to make you smile. But jealousy quickly throws a wrench into your festive evening.

Theodore Nott

✧.* Words Unspoken by (@girllblogging777) ⤷ in a moment of loneliness and feeling misunderstood, theo finds out you also speak Italian. ✧.* careful, cara by (@iris-qt) ⤷ an oblivious Y/n misinterprets Theodore's flirtatious Italian nicknames and suave demeanor as mere politeness, while Theo grows increasingly perplexed by her indifference to his romantic overtures. 🔞 spoiled by (@dracosprettygirl) ⤷ Theo was convinced you'd never look his way—until a Hogsmeade date leaves your heart bruised and angry. Now, Theo's done hiding his feelings... And ready to ruin every man who ever made you feel unworthy. THE BEST LOVE STORIES by (@@writingsbychlo) ⤷ theo is in love and doesn’t want to have to hide it.

Mattheo Riddle

✧.* veritaserum by (@redeemingvillains) ⤷ when mattheo drinks veritaserum on a bet, he's confident he doesn't have anything to hide… until you show up. ✧.* cold comfort by (@redeemingvillains) ✪ ⤷ mattheo has one rule: any girl can share his bed (and there's been plenty) but none can stay the night. when the unexpected happens, and you're begging to be the first, you find out why he had the rule in the first place. ⚠︎ the black lake by (@redeemingvillains) ⤷ mattheo is hogwarts' triwizard tournament champion, and he's proven that he can crush the competition. but when the stakes are raised, and you're involved, nothing will get in his way. ✧.* the playlist by (@redeemingvillains) ⤷ enzo overhears something about you he shouldn't have and when he tells his friends, all hell breaks loose. ⚠︎ riddle's girl by (@redeemingvillains) ⤷ mattheo has...feelings about you wearing his quidditch jersey. ˚꩜｡ the new girl by (@redeemingvillains) ⤷ despite their best and most ardent efforts, each of the slytherin boys gets rejected by you, and can't figure out why, not knowing that one of them holds a secret that explains it all. ⚠︎ Dove by (@redeemingvillains) ⤷ fed up with the way the slytherin boys create chaos without consequence, someone seeks to bring them down a notch by going after the one thing their strongest loves most: you. ✧.* His Soft Spot by (@ravenclaw-for-all-seasons) ⤷ Mattheo Riddle's icy demeanor melts away in the presence of you, revealing a side of him that even his closest friends didn't expect.

Remus Lupin

🔞 Waiting by (@dismalflo) ✪ ⤷ you and Remus have been dancing around your feelings for each other for a while. Both too stubborn for your own good, but what happens when that stubbornness helps you both out?

Sirius Black

˚꩜｡ Hardass by (@ellecdc) ⤷ Sirius Black is all sharp edges and heat in the kitchen, until a quick-witted bartender strolls in, and leaves him completely undone.

Fred Weasley

✧.* through the seasons by (@kyber-crystal ) ⤷ he would love you till the end of time. everyone can see it, and they can only hope that you’ll come to your senses and realize that too. 🔞 Another Man's Treasure by (@spencersmopbucket) ⤷ You're Cormac McLaggen's girlfriend — but Cormac pays more attention to Quidditch than you. Shame, shame.. Fred just can't let you go to waste.

Lorenzo Berkshire

⚠︎ closed and locked by (@redeemingvillains) ⤷ you are overwhelming smitten with lorenzo berkshire. fact: you think he’s smitten with you too. but when you and pansy hear something you shouldn’t have, it has you questioning everything you thought you knew about hogwarts’ biggest flirt.

Why choose? (Poly)

✧.* emergency contact by (@cosmal) ⤷ james gets called when you faint at work. and then sirius. then remus. you feel awful.

[urdreamydoodles]

Hello! First off, I need to let you know you had made me the happiest person when I found out there was a marvel comic x reader writer and your writing is beautiful! I was wondering if you would write a hc of marvel comic Matt Murdock, Remy Lebeau, Kurt Wagner, and Julian Keller (idk if you write for him since he’s formerly x-men) reacting to reader kissing them out of nowhere/when they least expect it. Thank you!

X-MEN CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You kiss them when they least expect it

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Hank McCoy, Emma Frost, Laura Kinney, Wade Wilson & Julian Keller

Reply to anon: I'm a Marvel & DC Comic book fan first and foremost, so I wanted to write for this version of the characters and to be honest, I didn't expect so much love for it...SO I'M EXTREMELY HAPPY to receive your type of message! The headcanons for Matt come right after in the "Marvel Comics Characters" headcanons I will post <3 (Btw, I love Julian)

Logan Howlett

- Logan smells you before he sees you, that familiar, intoxicating scent that always seems to linger in the air long after you’ve left. He barely has time to turn before your lips are on his, searing and unexpected, a wildfire in the dead of winter. His entire body tenses—like something wild, something caged—but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he goes utterly still, as if afraid that any movement will wake him from this impossible dream. He has lived lifetimes soaked in blood and regret, but this? This is something he never let himself believe he could have.

- The taste of you is an ache, something he knows will settle into his bones and never leave. His hands twitch at his sides, the animal in him howling to hold, to take, to claim—but you are not something to be taken. And so, he lets you lead. Your lips move against his with the kind of softness he has never known, and his mind screams that this is dangerous. He is dangerous. But then you sigh into him, fingers curling in the worn leather of his jacket, and he thinks—maybe—he could allow himself this one selfish thing.

- When you finally pull away, his breath is unsteady, rough, the remnants of your touch burning through his veins like whiskey. His eyes—dark, stormy, something unspoken lurking beneath them—search your face as if trying to commit every detail to memory. He should say something. Tell you this is a mistake, that he is too old, too broken, too much. But when he sees the way you look at him—like he is not a weapon, not a thing made for war but a man—his throat closes around the words.

- “You got no idea what you’re doin’, darlin’,” he mutters, voice rough as gravel. And yet, when you smile, soft and knowing, when your fingers trail the faintest touch against his jaw before you step back, he knows you do. You know exactly what you’re doing. And for the first time in a very long time, Logan thinks—maybe—he could let someone love him. Maybe he could love them back.

Remy LeBeau

- Remy never expects to be caught off guard. He is a man who thrives in the game of unpredictability, who lives in the art of mischief and charm, who always has the upper hand. And yet, the moment your lips press against his, he forgets how to breathe. His hands, so used to sleight of hand and stolen treasures, falter at his sides. He could swear his heart stops beating, just for a second, just long enough for the world to tilt beneath his feet. He has been kissed before, a thousand times over, but never like this. Never by you.

- When the initial shock fades, he reacts like a man starved. His fingers find your waist, his body pressing flush against yours as if he could sink into you, disappear into this moment and never return. He tastes of spice and something sweeter, something sinful, and you realize—Remy LeBeau does not simply kiss. He devours. He worships. His lips move with the expertise of a thief, stealing the breath from your lungs, the steadiness from your limbs, and he does it all with a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth.

- He doesn’t let you pull away easily. Even when you try, his grip lingers, his forehead resting against yours, breath mingling with yours like a confession neither of you are ready to speak. His eyes, those crimson-burning embers, flicker over your face with a hunger that has nothing to do with the usual games he plays. “Ma belle,” he murmurs, voice like velvet, like the slow drag of a match before it sparks. “Y’gon’ be the death of me.” And yet, the way he smiles—half-dazed, half-drunk on you—tells you he would not mind dying that way.

- There is something dangerous in the way Remy looks at you now. Not the usual teasing, not the flirtation thrown so easily to the wind, but something deeper. Something reverent. As if he is looking at a gamble worth losing everything for. And as his fingers brush your jaw, tracing the ghost of your touch, you realize—you have just become the only game Remy LeBeau is willing to play for the rest of his life.

Kurt Wagner

- Kurt is not used to being touched so freely. Not like this. Not without hesitation. When your lips meet his, it is as if the world stutters around him, as if time itself takes pause to marvel at the impossible. His breath catches in his throat, a sharp, startled sound, and for the briefest moment, he forgets how to exist. His tail curls behind him in a sharp flick of surprise, and he nearly disappears in a reflex of instinct, but something about the warmth of your hands, the softness of your mouth, keeps him grounded. Keeps him here.

- When he finally gathers the courage to move, it is hesitant, unsure—his fingers hovering at your waist as if afraid to break something sacred. His lips, gentle, trembling with quiet reverence, move against yours like a whispered prayer. You are warmth, light, something divine in his arms, and he drinks you in like salvation. He has dreamt of this—secret, foolish dreams whispered into the lonely nights—but never dared believe it could be real. That you could want this as much as he does.

- When you part, his breath is unsteady, his golden eyes wide with wonder. He stares at you as if you have done the impossible, as if you have rewritten the very fabric of his existence with a single touch. His tail coils loosely around your wrist, a subconscious tether, as if to reassure himself that you are real. That this is real. ��Mein Herz,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “What have you done to me?” And yet, the way he smiles—soft, awestruck—tells you he never wants to be undone by anyone else but you.

- He does not know how to ask for more. Does not know if he is allowed to. But when you lace your fingers with his, when you press the faintest of kisses to his cheek before stepping back, he knows—he would wait a lifetime for you to do it again. And again. And again.

Scott Summers

- Scott lives by control. He has spent his life suppressing, restraining, calculating every breath, every movement, every word, because one wrong step can mean disaster. But when you kiss him—without warning, without hesitation—every ounce of that control shatters. His entire body stiffens, breath stolen, mind racing with the sheer impossibility of what is happening. He has dreamed of this, a thousand different ways, but none of them prepared him for the reality of your lips against his.

- His hands—gloved, always careful, always distant—hover at your sides, caught between instinct and hesitation. He wants to touch you, wants to pull you closer, but the fear of losing control, of breaking something irreparable, holds him back. And yet, you do not waver. You kiss him like he is not a weapon, like he is not something dangerous, like he is just a man. And for the first time, Scott Summers allows himself to believe it.

- When you finally part, he exhales sharply, as if he has been holding his breath for years. His glasses slip slightly down his nose, and he pushes them up with a shaky hand, his fingers brushing against his lips as if trying to chase the ghost of your touch. “I—” His voice falters, rare uncertainty cracking through his carefully built walls. He swallows hard, eyes hidden but gaze heavy. “I wasn’t expecting that.” But there is something else in his tone, something just shy of desperate. He wasn’t expecting it—but now he wants more.

- You smile, tilting your head, studying him with a knowing softness that makes his stomach twist. “Would you like me to do it again?” The question is playful, teasing, but the heat that flares in his chest is anything but. He swallows down a million responses, a million emotions threatening to spill over, and simply nods. Because yes. Yes, he would. More than anything, he would.

Jean Grey

- Jean has always been attuned to the emotions of others. She feels them like echoes in her own mind, the soft hum of sorrow, the sharp sting of desire, the quiet weight of longing. But when your lips press against hers, she feels nothing but silence—beautiful, breathtaking silence. The world, usually so loud, so overwhelming, fades into something small, something insignificant. There is only the warmth of your mouth, the way your fingers tangle in the red silk of her hair, the way your heartbeat thrums against her own like a perfect melody.

- She gasps against you, not out of shock but something deeper—something fragile. She has lived lifetimes within the span of a single moment, has seen the past, present, and future weave together like a tapestry, but she never saw this. Never saw the way you would tilt the world on its axis with a single touch. Her hands, delicate yet unshakable, find your face, her thumbs tracing the shape of you as if committing you to memory. She knows, in the depths of her soul, that she will never forget this.

- When you finally pull away, she exhales a laugh—soft, breathless, incredulous. Her emerald eyes search yours, bright with something that flutters on the edge of joy and disbelief. “You—” She stops herself, biting her lip as if savoring the taste of you, as if reluctant to let it go. And then she shakes her head, a slow, knowing smile curling her lips. “You really are full of surprises.” There is a lightness in her tone, but beneath it, something deeper lingers. Something that tells you she does not want this to be a singular moment.

- And then, before you can respond, she leans in—this time, she is the one to steal the air from your lungs. The kiss is softer now, slower, but no less consuming. When she pulls away, she rests her forehead against yours, her breath mingling with your own. “I could get used to that,” she murmurs, voice warm as sunlight. And in the way she lingers, in the way she stays close, you know—she already has.

Ororo Munroe

- Ororo is a goddess, a tempest, a force of nature so powerful the very skies bend to her will. And yet, when you kiss her, she is caught in a storm she cannot control. Her breath catches, her usually poised frame stiffening for the briefest of moments as your lips mold against hers. She has always been the eye of the hurricane, calm amidst chaos, but now, she is swept away in a current she never anticipated.

- Her hands hover at your sides, unsure, not out of reluctance but reverence. To be loved by Ororo Munroe is to be touched by the divine, but for the first time, she does not feel like a goddess—she feels human. She feels the warmth of your skin, the way your fingers brush against her cheek, the way your lips move with something so tender it unravels her. The storm within her does not rage—it settles, it quiets, it softens into something resembling peace.

- When you finally part, her white lashes flutter against her cheeks, her breath uneven, her hands finally finding your waist as if to ground herself. She looks at you as if you have done the impossible, as if you have harnessed the wind and commanded the rain. And perhaps you have. Because for the first time in a long time, Ororo Munroe does not feel alone. “You surprise me,” she admits, her voice a whisper of thunder, low and full of something unreadable. “And I do not surprise easily.”

- A smile tugs at the corner of her lips, rare and breathtaking, the kind of smile that shifts the seasons. And then, with a gentleness that contradicts her power, she presses her forehead to yours, fingers threading through your hair. “Do it again,” she breathes, and there is something almost dangerous in the way she says it. Because now that she has tasted you, now that she has felt this, Ororo Munroe is not sure she could ever let it go.

Rogue

- Rogue has spent her entire life fearing touch. She has spent years mastering the art of distance, of longing from afar, of never letting herself hope for too much. And yet, when your lips meet hers—soft, unguarded, reckless—she forgets to be afraid. The world disappears in the space between heartbeats, and all that remains is the impossible, the breathtaking reality of you kissing her.

- Her mind screams at her to pull away, to stop this before it’s too late, before she ruins something beautiful. But she can’t. She won’t. Her gloved hands grasp at your arms, her body leaning into yours as if she has spent lifetimes waiting for this moment. And perhaps she has. Because for the first time, she isn’t thinking about control, about consequences. She is thinking about the way your lips feel against hers, the way your breath mingles with her own, the way your fingers press into the small of her back as if you could hold her together.

- When you part, her chest rises and falls in quick, uneven breaths, her wide green eyes searching yours with something almost desperate. “Sugar, you—” Her voice falters, thick with emotion, with something dangerously close to hope. Her fingers, still gloved, trace the ghost of your touch against her lips, and she swallows hard. “You don’t know what you just did.” But the way she looks at you—the way she stares as if you have rewritten the very fabric of her existence—tells you that maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t mind.

- She should be afraid. She should be pushing you away, telling you that this is dangerous, that she is dangerous. But when you smile at her, when you reach for her hand despite the barriers she wears, she feels something shift. Something new. Something she is not sure she deserves, but something she wants all the same. And for the first time, Rogue wonders—what if she let herself have this? What if, just this once, she didn’t run?

Erik Lehnsherr

- Erik has built his life around steel and rage, around vengeance and pain, around the belief that love is a weakness he cannot afford. And yet, when you kiss him, every wall he has so carefully constructed crumbles beneath the weight of your touch. He stiffens, a sharp inhale slicing through the space between you, his entire body wound tight like coiled metal, but he does not pull away. He does not stop you. Because for the first time in a long, long time—he doesn’t want to.

- Your lips move against his with a softness he does not deserve, a tenderness he has spent lifetimes denying himself. His hands twitch at his sides, hesitant, torn between pushing you away and pulling you closer. But when your fingers tangle in his hair, when your breath mingles with his, when you kiss him like he is not Magneto, not a man shaped by war and loss, but simply a man—he is undone.

- When you finally part, his breath is heavy, uneven, his storm-gray eyes dark with something unreadable. His fingers curl into fists at his sides, as if restraining himself from reaching for you, from keeping you tethered to this moment forever. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he murmurs, voice like rusted iron, rough and laced with something dangerously close to yearning. But there is no real warning in his tone, no true resistance. Only the weight of a man who does not know how to accept kindness, how to accept love.

- And yet, when you step forward, when you press your palm to his chest, when you look at him as if he is not a monster but something worthy—his resolve fractures. His fingers, finally, finally, find your waist, his grip firm yet reverent, as if afraid you might disappear. “Do it again,” he breathes, and in that moment, Erik Lehnsherr does not care if love is a weakness. Because if this is what it means to be weak—then for you, he will gladly fall.

Charles Xavier

- Charles Xavier has spent his life knowing things before they happen. His gift is both a blessing and a burden, allowing him to read thoughts, anticipate words before they are spoken, sense feelings before they fully form. But when you kiss him, it is the first time in his life that he is truly, utterly surprised. For once, his mind is not a step ahead—it is caught in the moment, helplessly, beautifully ensnared in the warmth of your lips and the gentle insistence of your touch.

- His breath stutters as you tilt into him, the world narrowing to the space between your bodies. He has always prided himself on his composure, on the unshakable calm of his demeanor, but now he feels undone. Your lips are soft but certain, as if you have known this moment was meant to happen all along. His hands twitch against the arms of his wheelchair, caught between instinct and disbelief, between wanting to pull you closer and simply letting himself exist in this quiet, impossible wonder.

- When you finally pull away, his blue eyes flutter open, dazed, unfocused, as though waking from a dream too precious to be real. A slow smile tugs at the corner of his lips, something warm and unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “That was unexpected,” he murmurs, voice like velvet, smooth but slightly unsteady. And yet, there is something else beneath his words, something deeper—an unspoken truth that has lingered between you for too long, now given breath at last.

- He reaches for your hand then, his fingers ghosting over yours in a way that is both hesitant and reverent. “Would you mind terribly,” he breathes, his smile deepening, “if I returned the favor?” And when he leans in, when his lips find yours again, there is nothing hesitant about it. There is only the weight of time, of longing, of something that was always meant to be.

Wanda Maximoff

- Wanda has spent her life walking the fragile line between control and chaos, between the known and the unknown, between the world as it is and the world as it could be. And yet, when you kiss her, all of it—the noise, the worry, the restless ache of her existence—disappears. There is only you. Only the impossible softness of your lips, only the warmth of your touch, only the way time seems to slow, to bend, to hold its breath for her.

- She does not pull away, does not tense, does not question. Instead, she melts into you, her fingers curling into the fabric of your clothing as if afraid you might slip through her grasp like so many things before. You taste like something she has spent lifetimes reaching for, something she has never quite believed she could have. And yet, here you are. Here she is. And for once, the world does not seem so cruel.

- When the kiss finally breaks, she does not move far. Her forehead lingers against yours, her breath mingling with your own as if unwilling to let go of the moment just yet. Her deep, sorrowful eyes search yours, dark with something unreadable—something aching, something vast. “You shouldn’t do things like that,” she whispers, and yet her fingers tighten their grip on you, betraying her own words. “It makes me want to believe in things I shouldn’t.”

- And yet, despite her protest, despite the ghosts that haunt her, Wanda does not step away. Instead, she tilts her head, studying you as if memorizing every detail, every curve, every fleeting second. And then, as if deciding something only she can understand, she kisses you again—slower this time, softer, as if weaving a spell that neither of you will ever escape.

Pietro Maximoff

- Pietro Maximoff moves faster than thought, faster than light, faster than anyone can keep up with. He is a blur, a flicker, a storm that never settles, never stills. But when you kiss him—when you reach for him without hesitation, without warning—time stops. For once, he is not ahead of the world. He is not running. He is simply here. And it terrifies him.

- His entire body locks up, caught between instinct and shock, between the urge to retreat and the unbearable need to lean in. No one ever catches him off guard—no one. But you? You have done it so effortlessly, so completely, that he feels as though you have stolen the breath from his lungs. He forgets to move, forgets to think, forgets everything except the way your lips press against his, the way your fingers grasp at him like you have no intention of letting go.

- When you finally pull back, his silver lashes flutter, his bright blue eyes wide, wild with something unreadable. “Did you just—” He stops himself, swiping his tongue over his lips as if to make sure the sensation is real. And then, suddenly, he laughs—a breathless, incredulous sound, full of something sharp and breathless. “You’re either very brave or very reckless,” he murmurs, voice tinged with something teasing, something warmer than he meant it to be. “Maybe both.”

- And yet, even as he tries to turn it into a joke, his fingers twitch at his sides, restless, uncertain. He has never been good at staying still, never been good at patience—but for you, for this, he thinks he could learn. “Do it again,” he says, grinning now, eyes glinting with something wicked, something real. “I dare you.” And the way he looks at you—the way he leans in, as if already chasing the next kiss—tells you that this is a dare neither of you ever plan to back down from.

Hank McCoy

- Hank McCoy is a man of intellect, of reason, of science. He has spent his life in pursuit of knowledge, in understanding the mysteries of the world through logic and deduction. But when you kiss him—when your lips press against his without preamble, without hesitation—there is nothing logical about it. His mind, so accustomed to analysis, simply stops. And for the first time in a long, long time, he is left with nothing but feeling.

- His breath hitches, a sharp inhale caught in the depths of his chest, his large hands flexing at his sides as if unsure what to do with them. He is a scholar, a thinker, a man who prides himself on his control—but here, now, he feels unmoored. Your touch is warmth against the cold edges of his mind, a spark that ignites something deep, something unexpected, something he cannot name.

- When you finally pull away, he does not move for a long moment. His blue eyes flicker with something complex, something vulnerable, something profoundly, devastatingly human. “That was… unexpected,” he finally says, voice rough with something you cannot quite place. And yet, despite his words, despite the shock that lingers in his expression, his gaze is soft when it meets yours, unbearably gentle.

- He exhales a slow breath, as if steadying himself, and then—almost tentatively—he reaches for your hand. His fingers are careful, cautious, as if afraid you might vanish like a fleeting hypothesis unproven. “Would you, perhaps, consider repeating the experiment?” he asks, a small, wry smile curling at the edges of his lips. And when you lean in again, when his hands finally settle against you with quiet certainty, you know this is an experiment he never intends to abandon.

Emma Frost

- Emma Frost has spent a lifetime ensuring that no one can touch her—not truly. Her mind is a fortress of diamond walls and razor-edged wit, a citadel where no one is allowed entry without permission. She does not startle easily; she does not allow herself to be vulnerable. And yet, when you kiss her—when your lips press against hers without warning, without hesitation—she falters. Just for a moment. Just long enough for you to feel it.

- Her breath catches, but she does not pull away. No, Emma Frost does not retreat. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, allowing you just enough room to linger, to taste the cool, intoxicating sharpness of her. And yet, there is warmth beneath the ice, a slow-burning ember hidden beneath layers of frost. She is calculating even in this, assessing, analyzing—but there is something else in the way her fingers twitch against your arm, something unspoken in the way her lips part ever so slightly beneath yours.

- When you finally pull back, her expression is unreadable, a perfect mask of composure—except for her eyes. There is something dangerous in them, something bright and wicked and amused. A slow, knowing smile curls her lips as she tilts her chin, regarding you with the kind of gaze that makes people weak in the knees. “My darling,” she purrs, voice like silk and steel entwined, “if you wanted me, you only had to ask.”

- And yet, when her fingers brush against your wrist—light, fleeting, almost imperceptible—it is not just a challenge. There is something softer beneath the bravado, something she will never admit aloud. You have surprised her. And Emma Frost does not allow herself to be surprised. So when she leans in again, this time on her own terms, you understand the weight of it—the rarity, the quiet surrender hidden beneath the smirk.

Laura Kinney

- Laura Kinney is not accustomed to softness. Her world has been forged in blood and survival, in the quiet brutality of necessity. She has been trained to anticipate every attack, every shift in movement, every threat before it even takes form. But when you kiss her, there is no time to predict, no time to react—only the moment, sudden and unrelenting. And for once in her life, she is caught off guard.

- Her body stiffens on instinct, muscles coiled tight, but she does not pull away. No, she stays still, frozen in place as if trying to process something unfamiliar, something she has no protocol for. Your lips are soft against hers, warm and sure, and for a brief second, she forgets to breathe. It is foreign, this feeling, this intimacy that is not laced with violence or pain. And yet, it does not feel wrong. It feels… safe. And she does not know what to do with that.

- When you finally pull back, she blinks up at you, her gold-green eyes wide, pupils blown. Her breath is uneven, though she would never admit it. Her fingers flex at her sides, a silent battle between instinct and something deeper, something softer. “Why did you do that?” she asks, voice low, guarded. But there is no anger in it, no sharp edges of rejection. Only quiet curiosity. Only the echo of something she is too afraid to name.

- And then, as if deciding something in that precise moment, she steps closer. Not much, just enough for her breath to brush against your cheek. Her gaze flickers down to your lips, and when she speaks again, it is almost hesitant—almost shy. “Do it again.” It is not a request. It is a challenge. And when you accept, when your lips find hers once more, she does not freeze this time. Instead, she leans in.

Wade Wilson

- Wade Wilson never shuts up. He fills the air with words, with jokes, with carefully crafted chaos designed to keep people at arm’s length. He is quick and loud and relentless, because silence is where the darkness creeps in, where the thoughts become too heavy, too real. But when you kiss him—when you press your lips against his without preamble, without warning—he falls completely, utterly silent.

- His mind goes blank. It is a rare thing, for Wade to be lost for words, for thoughts, for anything but the sheer, staggering reality of this moment. Your lips are soft against his, warm, steady, real. And for once, he is not a punchline, not a joke, not a monster wrapped in red and black. He is just Wade, just a man who is suddenly, unexpectedly being kissed by someone he never thought would want to.

- When you pull back, there is a beat of absolute stillness. Then, suddenly, he sucks in a sharp breath and blurts out, “Was that a pity kiss? Wait, no, don’t answer that. Actually, do answer that. But lie to me if it was. Unless it wasn’t. In which case—” He stops himself, blinking rapidly, his gloved fingers twitching at his sides. “Holy shit. You actually kissed me. I didn’t hallucinate that, right? Because, like, my brain is super messed up, and sometimes I—”

- But then, you kiss him again—shorter this time, softer, just enough to shut him up. And when you pull away, he just stares at you, his mouth slightly open, his expression unreadable beneath the mask. And then, slowly, his hands come up to his face, covering his mouth as if trying to hold something in. “Oh my God,” he whispers, voice slightly muffled. “I’m gonna have to marry you now.” He peeks between his fingers. “You cool with that? No take-backs.”

Julian Keller

- Julian Keller is not used to being caught off guard. He is sharp, quick-witted, arrogant to a fault, and always, always in control. People orbit around him, drawn in by the effortless gravity of his confidence, his charm, the raw, unapologetic force of his presence. But when you kiss him—when you take him by surprise for the first time in his life—his mind goes completely, devastatingly blank.

- For a split second, he doesn’t react. And then, his body catches up with him, his hands instinctively reaching for you, gripping your waist like an anchor. His breath stutters against your lips, and suddenly, he is no longer the Julian Keller who always knows what to say, who always has the upper hand. He is just a boy, completely and utterly at your mercy. And it thrills him.

- When you finally pull back, his lips are parted, his green eyes slightly dazed, like he’s trying to piece together reality again. Then, slowly, a grin spreads across his face—wide, cocky, but with something undeniably genuine beneath it. “Damn,” he breathes, running a hand through his dark hair, voice rougher than usual. “That was… unexpected.” His grin sharpens, his gaze flicking to your lips. “You gonna warn me next time, or is this just how you say hi now?”

- And yet, despite the teasing, despite the bravado, there is something else in his gaze—something that lingers, something that betrays just how much that single kiss affected him. He leans in again, close enough that his breath fans against your skin. “You know,” he murmurs, tilting his head, “if you wanted my attention, there were easier ways.” But the way he looks at you—the way his fingers curl slightly, as if resisting the urge to pull you back in—tells you that, despite his words, he wouldn’t change a thing.

[mylovesstuffs]

OT13 reacting to their s/o stealing kisses randomly

Request: Celeste my love, I have a request. In January and February I feel sooooo lonely so lonely and being single this year doesn't help. Could you please do a svt reaction of significant other sneaking up and just walking past them or they’re busy doing something and she just leaves a quick kiss! I hope it made sense 😭 it's okay if you want to take time you don't have to post immediately. I can waitttt.

A/N: My love, I’m so sorry that this is coming out so late 😔 By the time it’s ready, it’ll probably be March (It is March 😭), I didn’t mean to keep you waiting and I truly wish I could give it to you sooner 💛 There were some other requests that came in first, so those had to be prioritized, and this one got pushed back on the schedule a bit. On top of that, Tumblr’s been a pain in the ass lately, not letting me edit my drafts, which has made things even harder. I also wanted to make sure I do your request justice because you deserve all the soft love and comfort in the world, especially during those lonely months. Thank you for being patient with me, and know that the second it’s done, I’m sending it your way 🥺✨ (pushed it in the front of the schedule, otherwise it would be out next week). Please know that you are never truly alone. You have me, and you have SEVENTEEN (even if just in our imaginations, they are HERE for you!!). Love you!

The Ones Who MELT Every. Single. Time.

Joshua: Immediately short-circuits. He just blinks at you in disbelief, then smiles so softly it hurts. “Again. Do it again.” He'll literally chase you around the house for more kisses.

Dokyeom: LOUD GIGGLES. Every time you surprise him, he gets all giggly and flustered like you just confessed for the first time. “Oh my gosh, you can’t just do that to me!!!” But he LOVES IT and might start returning the favor randomly too.

Mingyu: He gasps really dramatically (just like how kwan does sometimes in GoSe), then immediately grabs you for a longer kiss because one is not enough. He’s so whipped that he’ll start walking around with a dopey smile for the next hour 😭

Seungkwan: He’ll act offended at first. “Excuse me? You think you can just do that and walk away?” But the moment he sees you smiling, he’s done for. Will definitely complain cutely but secretly loves it.

Dino: Uri Dino turns so reddd, every time. Flustered baby. He tries to act cool and unbothered, but his ears give him away. “You’re so sneaky…” But if you keep doing it, he’ll start stealing kisses back.

The Ones Who Turn It Into a Game

Jeonghan: This man immediately starts plotting revenge. “Oh? You think you can steal kisses and get away with it?” Next thing you know, he’s stealing kisses at the most unexpected moments like, when you're mid-sentence, brushing your teeth, ANYTIME.

Hoshi: Immediately tries to steal a kiss back—but three times more aggressively. It turns into a full-blown kiss battle, and now neither of you can get anything done.

Minghao: He pretends not to react, acting all nonchalant, but you’ll notice the corners of his lips twitching. Then later, when you least expect it, he grabs your wrist and kisses you out of nowhere, whispering, “Got you back.” (DRXFCFFGFCFCFTF MINGHAO ALWAYS GETS ME!!!!)

Vernon: He smirks because he feels challenged and instantly steals a kiss back, but longer. Then he just walks away like nothing happened, leaving you standing there like ???

The Ones Who Pretend to Be Unbothered (But Are Internally Dying)

Seungcheol: He tries to act like he’s used to it (which he is atp), but the moment you walk away, he’s grinning like a fool. If you do it too many times, he’ll just pull you into his lap and trap you there, like “Okay, you wanna kiss? Sit here and don’t leave.” (DUDE, I CAN LITERALLY SEE HIM BEING LIKE THIS ACK)

Wonwoo: At first he doesn’t react much, just raises an eyebrow. But if you keep doing it, he grabs your face gently and gives you a REAL kiss. Then, he smirks and says, “If you’re going to do it, do it properly.” 😳

Woozi: Internally screaming. He’ll try to act like it’s nothing, but if you keep stealing kisses, he’ll get all flustered and mumble something like, “You’re ridiculous.” But he NEVER stops you. If anything, he leans in slightly the next time.

Jun: He acts unbothered at first, like “Hmmm, interesting.” But then he starts anticipating it. He’ll just casually lean closer as if inviting you to do it again, playing mind games with you. “Oh? Nothing today? That’s disappointing.”

[4linos]

love unmasked.

lee minho x 9th member

synopsis: despite months of quiet affection, you and minho decide to share your secret with the group. the members' reactions are a mix of laughter, teasing, and understanding.

wc: 1637

It had been months since you and Minho first started dating, and in that time, you'd grown accustomed to keeping your relationship under wraps. Every stolen glance, every quiet conversation, every brief, secret touch felt like a dangerous game you were playing with fate. You weren't sure why you were so nervous about the secret getting out, perhaps it was because you weren’t sure how the other members would react, or maybe because your connection with Minho was something so precious that you didn’t want to risk tainting it with anyone's judgment.

But the more time passed, the harder it became to keep your feelings hidden, especially when it came to moments like tonight.

It was your one-year anniversary with Minho, and even though the excitement of the day filled you with joy, there was also that familiar tension hanging in the air. You had spent the evening out together, just the two of you, laughing and sharing small, loving moments, nothing overly dramatic or showy, but everything felt perfect in its simplicity. As you made your way back to the dorms, you were still laughing, your cheeks warm from the affectionate pecks Minho had given you.

But just as you rounded the corner of the hallway, a familiar figure appeared from the end of the corridor. Hyunjin. You froze, a sudden wave of panic flooding you. Minho’s hand brushed against your back in reassurance, but your hearts raced in sync.

“Hey, where have you two been? You missed dinner,” Hyunjin asked, his eyes narrowing slightly. You could tell he was suspicious, but not entirely sure what was going on.

You took a deep breath, summoning all the acting skills you could muster. “Oh, we… we stayed back at the company for some extra practice,” you explained, trying to keep your voice calm. “Minho was helping me with some last-minute choreography for the comeback.”

Hyunjin glanced at you both, still trying to read the situation, but ultimately shrugged. “Whatever Minho says, I guess. Just don’t keep me waiting again. You two better not be doing anything weird…”

The tension in your chest eased, and you gave him a small, nervous smile. “Promise we won’t.”

Hyunjin let out a disinterested hum and walked past you, disappearing into his room.

You both knew the day would come when you would have to tell the others, but you weren’t sure if you were ready.

-

The next morning, practice for the comeback was intense, everyone pushing themselves harder, giving it their all. During a brief break, you found yourself sitting next to Minho. He glanced over at you, a look of quiet understanding passing between you two.

He nodded towards the group. “It’s time. We can’t keep this secret anymore.”

You hesitated for just a moment, the knot in your stomach tightening. But deep down, you knew Minho was right. It had to happen. And as much as it terrified you, it would be a relief to stop hiding.

You cleared your throat, catching the attention of the others. Everyone turned towards you, curiosity flickering in their eyes.

“Minho,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the butterflies in your stomach. “Can you tell them?”

Minho didn’t hesitate. He looked around at the members, his gaze briefly meeting yours before he spoke without sugarcoating. “Y/N and I have been dating for a year now.”

The room went silent. The members blinked at him, the words hanging in the air like an unexpected punch. Then, Seungmin suddenly burst into laughter, his face lighting up with amusement. “What?” he gasped, wiping a tear from his eye. “It was so obvious!”

The rest of the members exchanged confused looks. Some were surprised by the news, others confused by Seungmin’s reaction. “What do you mean, ‘obvious’?” you asked, feeling your cheeks heat up.

Seungmin grinned and leaned back. “Well, remember that time I woke up in the middle of the night to get a glass of water? I saw you two in the kitchen kissing. You said you were just having a midnight snack, but… uh, your lipstick was smudged, Y/N, and Minho had some around his lips too.”

You buried your face in your hands, mortified. Minho rolled his eyes, nudging you softly. “I told you so.”

You groaned in embarrassment, your face burning bright red. Seungmin’s laugh didn’t make it any better, but his teasing only made the situation more surreal. “I mean, you two were pretty obvious. And let’s not even talk about how you guys act around each other. Like, seriously, we all knew.”

Minho chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, Seungmin.”

As everyone processed the news, Hyunjin suddenly spoke up, a light chuckle escaping his lips. “Honestly, I didn’t know,” he admitted. “But now that you mention it, I should’ve figured it out after last night. You two lied about staying late for practice, didn’t you?”

You winced, feeling caught. But you could only shrug sheepishly. “Yeah… we were kind of trying to avoid getting caught.”

Chan, ever the level-headed leader, broke in with a smile, trying to ease the mood. “I’m happy for you two, really. But you have to be careful. You’re both in the public eye. It’s cute, though. You two are adorable together.”

The warmth from his words settled in your chest, and even though you were still a little nervous, you felt relieved. It was done. Everyone knew.

There were no more secrets. And as awkward as it might be at times, it felt good to be able to hold Minho’s hand without the weight of hiding it from the members.

-

That night, after practice, the group gathered in the dorm living room to wind down, everyone sitting around on the couches, catching their breath after the intense rehearsal. The air felt lighter now that the secret was out, and you found yourself sitting next to Minho, your hands brushing occasionally, and not having to hide it.

Seungmin, ever the mischievous one, had a big grin plastered on his face. “Honestly, I’m still kind of shocked you two managed to hide it for so long,” he said, leaning back on the couch with his arms crossed. “You guys were so obvious. The kitchen kiss? Please.”

You felt your cheeks redden again, but Minho just rolled his eyes, clearly used to Seungmin’s teasing by now. “You could’ve kept that to yourself, you know.”

“I couldn’t resist,” Seungmin said, laughing. “But seriously, I’m glad you two are together. You’ve always been so… cute, I guess,” he added, shrugging as though the comment wasn’t that big of a deal.

The rest of the members chimed in, and what followed was a wave of lighthearted teasing, but it was clear no one was upset or bothered by the news. In fact, they seemed mostly excited. Chan was the first to speak seriously.

“I’m happy for you both,” he said, offering you both an understanding smile. “Just be careful with how you handle things in public. You know how fans and the media can be. But other than that, just make sure you take care of each other.”

“Yeah,” Changbin added with a smirk. “We don’t need any extra distractions. Especially during comeback preparation. Focus on that first, yeah?”

Minho nodded. “We will. We’re not letting this get in the way of our work.”

As the night went on, the group shifted back to their usual rhythm. The teasing and congratulations continued, but it was clear that everyone accepted your relationship. It felt strange, in a way like a new chapter had opened and things were slightly different, but also not. You were still a part of Stray Kids, still the same group of people who’d spent years together, and nothing about that had changed.

-

The next few days at practice felt different, but in a good way. There was a new sense of ease between you and Minho, a quiet acknowledgment of your relationship in the air. Still, the dynamic of the group hadn’t shifted. Everyone was still working hard toward the comeback, and despite the occasional teasing from Seungmin, things felt balanced.

But the true test came the next evening when you and Minho were in the kitchen alone, preparing your dinner after a long day of rehearsals. The members had already gone to bed, and it was just the two of you, standing in the quiet kitchen, your hands brushing as you passed ingredients to each other.

Minho opened the fridge and pulled out some fruit, then handed you a bowl. “I’m glad things are normal, even after all of that,” he said quietly, his voice soft. “I was worried it might get awkward.”

You smiled at him, heart warming at his words. “Yeah, me too. But I think everyone just wants us to be happy. Even if it means they have to deal with Seungmin’s constant teasing.”

Minho laughed, a low, soft sound. “I think I can deal with Seungmin. As long as you’re happy.”

You stepped closer to him, resting your hand on his arm. “I am. And I’m happy we’re doing this together.”

Minho’s eyes softened, and he gently pulled you into him for a quick hug. “Me too,” he murmured, his voice steady with affection. You held onto him for a moment longer, enjoying the quiet, simple comfort of being with him without any pretense.

//

masterlist.

[a/n: i have many 9th member requests that i’m working on. i hope u all enjoy 🥰]

❌proofread

[amirasainz]

I read you "The greatest prank of all times" with ollie, I think it's wonderful. I was wondering if you could do another fiction of ollie and the reader actually getting pregnant on accident, and now they have to tell the grid, but none of them believe either of them at first because of the prank that they had pulled. If you can't do this, it's fine. Please and thank you!

Enjoy reading and send some requests!

- xoxo babygirl 💕

Part 1

Not a Prank anymore

It had been a week since Yn and Ollie found out the unexpected news. The small red cross on the pregnancy test had stared back at them like a secret that was too big to hide. They had spent the first few moments freaking out, pacing around the living room of their apartment, trying to process it all.

“I can’t believe it,” Yn whispered, still staring at the test as though it might change its answer. “This is… this is real, right?”

Ollie ran a hand through his hair, his eyes wide with disbelief. “I don’t know. I thought I’d be ready for a family, but this is… It’s a lot to take in, Yn.”

The two of them had been together for just over a year now. Their relationship had started out as a sweet and simple romance, but a year ago, they had played a prank on their fellow drivers, telling them that Yn was pregnant. Everyone had believed it, and the jokes and teasing had flowed for weeks after. But this time? This time, it was real.

“So, what now?” Yn asked, looking up at Ollie with a soft smile.

Ollie paused, still trying to process the initial shock. He rubbed his face, taking a deep breath. “Well, we tell everyone, right? The drivers. They’re our family too.”

Yn nodded. “Let’s do it. But this time, it’s real.”

The living room was full of chatter and laughter as the drivers trickled into the apartment. The evening had started off like any other gathering: a relaxed dinner with their closest friends.

Charles and Carlos had already started talking about the latest race results, their usual friendly banter filling the air. Lando and Max were sitting on the couch, arguing about who had the better strategy in the last race, while Yuki and Franco were happily munching on their food. The table was loud, everyone in high spirits.

Kimi, who had been in on the news for the past week, sat in his usual spot, silently observing the chaos, a glass of wine in hand.

Yn sat next to Ollie, giving him a small, reassuring smile. She could feel her heart racing again, but this time, it was for a different reason. It wasn’t fear or anxiety; it was excitement. She could see Ollie was nervous too, but he kept giving her small glances, trying to keep himself calm.

“Are you ready for this?” Ollie whispered to her, his hand resting lightly on her knee.

Yn squeezed it, trying to calm her own racing thoughts. “Yeah. It’s time. Let’s do it.”

The dinner wound down, and soon, everyone was laughing and sharing stories of their latest misadventures in racing. Ollie and Yn exchanged a look and stood up, grabbing everyone’s attention.

“Hey, guys,” Ollie said, his voice surprisingly steady despite the nerves twisting in his stomach. “We need to talk to you about something. We’d like everyone to move into the living room.”

Charles, who had been in the middle of a heated debate with Lewis, raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing bad,” Yn added quickly, “we just have some news to share. Please, everyone, if you could?”

The drivers all looked at each other, curious but trusting. They slowly made their way into the living room, taking seats on the couches or standing around, unsure of what was coming.

Once everyone had settled, Ollie and Yn stood together in the middle of the room, both looking a little nervous, but ready.

“Alright, we have something big to tell you all,” Yn began, glancing at Ollie for support.

Ollie nodded. “Yeah, so, um… we’re pregnant.”

The room went silent. The kind of silence that fills a space when no one really knows how to react.

At first, no one said anything. The drivers exchanged confused glances, unsure if this was another prank. After all, they had been the victims of one before.

Charles, trying to piece it together, squinted his eyes. “Wait, you’re… really? This is… this is a joke, right?”

Yn smiled nervously. “No, it’s not. We’re going to be parents.”

Max, still trying to process it, shook his head. “Are you serious?”

Yn held up the pregnancy test, still in its little plastic case, and handed it over to Kimi, who had already known. Kimi didn’t even flinch. Instead, he took a long sip from his wine, watching the others carefully.

Slowly, Charles took the test from Kimi’s hand, his eyes wide in disbelief. His mouth opened and closed as he looked back at Yn and Ollie.

“Oh my god,” Charles muttered, and in the next moment, he fainted.

The whole room erupted into chaos. Carlos rushed to his side, kneeling down beside him, a mix of concern and confusion on his face.

“Charles! Charles, wake up!” Carlos yelled, shaking him gently.

Franco stood there, frozen, then slowly looked over at Yn and Ollie. “Are you really…?”

Yn nodded, her eyes bright. “We are.”

Fernando, who had been quiet up until now, stepped forward, his face breaking into a smile. “This is amazing. Congratulations! You two are going to be great parents.”

Lando, who had been standing with his arms crossed, suddenly uncrossed them and stepped forward, a playful grin on his face. “Alright, this is no joke. But now that we know you’re serious… Can I have the number of your doctor? Just want to make sure everything’s good.”

The room went silent again. Everyone was staring at Lando, who seemed completely unfazed.

“You want the doctor’s number?” Ollie asked, surprised.

“Yeah, I’m just making sure we’re all good. I mean, you two are going to be parents, so you’ll need support. I want to make sure you’re getting the best care, yeah?”

Yn and Ollie exchanged a quick look, unsure if Lando was serious, but they couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, we’ll give you the number.”

Lando immediately pulled out his phone, making a quick call as if he was making sure everything was in order.

“Just wanted to help,” Lando muttered to no one in particular, a cheeky grin still on his face.

Yuki, who had been munching on his food, blinked up at everyone. “Wait, what baby? What’s going on?”

Carlos, still trying to revive Charles, glanced over at Yuki. “The baby, Yuki. They’re having a baby. Can’t you see the test?”

Yuki, still holding his fork, nodded slowly. “Oh, yeah. That’s cool. Congrats.”

Franco clapped his hands together, a huge grin spreading across his face. “I’m so excited! You’re going to make such great parents. I know it.”

Max finally walked over to the couple, clapping Ollie on the shoulder with a smile. “Congratulations, mate. Seriously, that’s awesome.”

Lewis, who had been standing off to the side, crossed the room toward them with a warm smile. “This is big, you know. I’m proud of you two. You’ve got this. And I’ll always be here to help however I can.”

Yn smiled at him, her eyes filled with gratitude. “Thank you, Lewis. That means a lot.”

And then there was Carlos, still holding Charles up and looking at the pair with a grin. “Congratulations. But seriously, Charles needs to wake up so I can finish congratulating you properly.”

Everyone laughed, the tension easing as they all gathered around Yn and Ollie, offering hugs, congratulations, and kind words. The couple stood together, feeling the warmth of their friends surrounding them, and in that moment, everything felt right.

Yes, they were young. Yes, they had no idea what the future held. But one thing was certain—they were ready for this next adventure. Together.

[madwomansapologist]

ᡣ𐭩.ᐟ a hound left without a leash

★彡 synopsis: your love is constant, ever-present and ever-growing. toji finds it endearing. how you're not afraid of being soft around him. but he can’t be like that. his love isn't gentle and quiet like yours: it's remorseless, made of sharp fangs soaked in blood—five times toji felt loved by you, five times he loved you back.

content warnings: established relationship, fluff & angst & smut, domesticity, movie night, toji is soooo in love it's embarrassing, touch starved meet clingy, he's bad at feelings don't give him space, devotion, beach date, hurt/comfort, his love language is acts of service it's not his fault he only knows how to kill, violence (not towards reader), gaslight if you squint, voyeurism, sex toy, manhandling, lots of spit and bites and scratches, creampie, cockwarming.

bella's note: inspired by the song valentine by laufey. y'all say thank you, @gothsuguru for making like three posts about toji that reminded me of my love for this deadbeat killer.

word count: [4.3K]

(It took Toji by surprise the first time he noticed it.)

Toji tried to focus on the action movie—clearly made with no aspiration beyond gathering as much money as possible. He really did. Before learning the bland protagonist’s name, heavy eyelids and comfy blankets came together with a sickening plan to betray his determination.

There was no movie to pretend to watch by the time Toji woke up. The television was turned off, the living room silent if not by his untamed heartbeat. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, blurs turning into discernible shapes, Toji breathed no more.

Only after seeing it on the television that Toji was able to feel it on his body. Fingertips running through his still-damp hair, thumb pressing softly against his temple. A constant movement, warm and calm. It made him think about waves in an empty shore.

A contained laughter guided his eyes away from the screen. Leaning on your shoulder, Toji saw you. Eyes narrowing at your phone, undoubtedly fighting to stay open, the tip of your tongue between your parted lips. Caressing his hair, you nibbled on your tongue.

For you, it was an old habit you couldn’t get rid of. For Toji, it was a telltale of your concentration.

Once he learned there was a way to read you, Toji aimed to collect all your telltales. He has all those little signals memorized to translate your behaviors into something he can fully understand. Into something he can transforming into actions.

Distant gaze means hesitation, which in turn means say something, anything, goddamnit. Trembling lips and fervent rage, scrunched nose and jealousy, discreet smiles and nauseating happiness. Toji could fill libraries with everything there is to know about you.

Staring at the soft muscle, Toji knew what your concentration required from him: silence, just for a while. Toji gave you what you needed, hoping somehow you knew what he meant by it—I love you, I love you, I love you.

Wondering about what you needed him to do for you Toji didn’t even notice your nails scratching behind his ears, where you knew he’s sensitive enough to melt into your palm. If he had, maybe Toji would’ve fallen asleep on your shoulder again and rest properly for once.

Toji can’t remember the name of the movie that lulled him to sleep. If he was at your home, if it was late at night, if it was during an unexpected blizzard. Toji can only remember that your eyes weren’t on him, and your touch was gentle.

Scrolling endlessly as you kept him awake, Toji thought once more about how soft your skin is when compared to his. It lacked scars. You lack roughness, precision, disgust. All those things Toji once believed being an adult meant: you don’t have any of them.

(The first time he noticed your love was gentle and quiet, Toji didn’t knew how to react.)

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

(Obviously, Toji never lets you win.)

“Just throw me, Toji”, you practically meowed his name. When he completely ignored your presence, you pinched his cheek. Toji took a deep breath. “Please. Pretty please.”

Your cold hands cupped his cheeks, trying to get Toji to look at you. Pouting, plush bottom lip on display, you stared at him through your lashes. You knew it would take one look at you for him to fold and give in.

He slipped away from your hold, so fast you only noticed he was gone when Toji was already laying down on your beach sarong. That made you giggle. He does that all the time. Moves faster than your eyes can comprehend.

It’s so alluring you couldn’t even force yourself to get mad over Toji mistaking your new sarong for a sheet.

“Brat, I’ve told ya”, he tilted his head back. Toji rest his arm over his head, in a not-so-subtle way of ensuring he wouldn’t accidentally sneak a glance at you. Toji could feel on his bones that you were pouting. “I’m not doing that.”

Maybe because you both went on a whim to a beach on a random tuesday, maybe because this one isn’t as popular as you feared, it was truly a peaceful day. No kids running around, no loud music blasting through someone else’s phone, no drunks yelling just because.

It’s so close from being a perfect day, now all you need is to hear Toji saying yes, darling, anything for you. Not that you ever heard that before. At least, not worded like that.

With a melodramatic sigh, you walked to where your stuff was. Searching among all the bags tossed around, you found just what would change his mind. As your malignant plan developed inside of your mind, a grin spread across your face.

Sitting on his lap, your soaked thighs clamped around Toji’s thick waist. Sighing once more, you rolled your hips with the poor excuse of searching for a more comfortable position. Warm fingers pressed down on his hips; nails close enough to ghost over his happy trail.

“Behave”, Toji groaned, free hand closing around your hip. He easily held you in place. You smelled like salt and malice. “I won’t change my mind.”

You bent over Toji, soaked bikini pressing down against his toned chest. Scratching his forearm, you brushed your nose against his cheek. “Can I try to convince you?”, you whispered sultry against his ear.

Softening his hold on you, Toji smirked. “You’re a fucking menace.”

Splash.

Pouring cold water on his face, you took advantage of his surprised state to run away while you’re still able to. Laughing more than you could breathe, you tilted your head back to look at Toji. “Now tell me something I don’t know.”

Just like you expected, Toji looked at you.

Just like you always forget, Toji was fast. Really, really fast.

Colliding with his chest, you frowned as your mind processed that Toji was right in front of you. As a pair of arms wrapped around your waist, you knew there was nothing you could do to escape his grip. You tried to anyway.

“That’s cheating”, you yelled. It made him laugh like hell, chest vibrating against your stomach. Lifted up far above the ground, you moved your feet uselessly. “It’s so unfair, you need to let me win sometimes too!”

A slap against your ass shut you up. “Annoying brat”, Toji threw you over his shoulders. You tried to squirm away, but decided to settle for just complaining once he bit your thigh. “As if. You can earn your victory or stop acting like a bored cat for once.”

Giggling, you pressed your elbows down on his shoulder. “Toji. My love”, your voice imbued in honey and sugar made him face you. Smiling angelically, you pointed at the cliff providing the shade you two enjoyed all day. “Throw me in the water. From up there, please.”

Another sigh. I’m almost breaking him, you thought. “Why? Just… why?”

“Because I want to jump so badly but I’m a coward”, you pouted. His eyes fell towards your bottom lip. “So just throw me. Pleeeeeeeaase. Pretty please.”

“If you drown, I’m not saving your ass.”

“Deal”, you kissed his jaw.

Another slap. “Spoiled, annoying brat.”

(Except, obviously, Toji always lets you win.)

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

(If you had asked, Toji would’ve confessed in a heartbeat.)

Toji took of his shoes and frowned at your heels fallen out of place. Murmuring to himself about how when he does it with his sneakers it’s a crime deserving of death sentence, Toji closed the buckles of your heels and put them inside the shoe rack.

He knew something was off once the silence lingered. Never one to doubt himself, Toji didn’t hesitate. He analyzed the floor, searched for different scents, checked the front door’s handler. Passing through every room with a hand near his hidden gun, Toji didn’t breathe until seeing you on your bed.

Although, what Toji saw didn’t make him any more relieved.

It’s late at night and you’re still wearing your responsible-adult clothes—that’s how you call those you buy solely so your coworkers won’t judge you. Earrings intertwined with your sweaty hair, necklace pressed against your collarbone, belt too tight to be comfortable.

Moonlight showed him your puffy eyelids smeared with mascara. Half-open as you stared at the ceiling, you didn’t seem to acknowledge Toji’s presence. You didn’t seem to acknowledge anything at all.

“Hi, love.” Toji kneeled down, whispering in order to not startle you. He pressed his chin on your pillow, hands moving your hair away from your face. “Are you here with me?”

Another tear rolled down your face once you blinked. Toji pressed his thumb against your skin, stopping it from falling into your ear. You tried to turn your face away from him, but hesitated once the warmth of his hands made to your heavy mind.

“Need to sleep”, you murmured, voice so thin Toji felt his throat shut.

Soaked in sweat, Toji ran his fingers through your hair without bothering you. He scratched your head, draw figures on your scalp, avoided any knots. Your name, his own, any other word he could think of: his fingertips wrote on your head. For what felt like hours, that’s all he did.

You tilted your head, staring at him. Toji can’t remember ever seeing your eyes like that. Dim. He wondered where you lost your light, and made a quiet promise to return it to you. “Sorry.”

“Don’t.” Toji simply continued to caress your head. “Tell me what to do.”

For the first time in hours, you thought about what you needed. With a single phrase, Toji reminded you that you had a body. “Can you get me my towel?”

Toji would’ve done anything, everything, you asked him to.

With your towel on the mattress, Toji assisted you to sit down. One hand on the small of your back, another cupping your cheek. You melted into his touch, but closed your eyes once he kneeled in front of you. Running away from his careful gaze, you grabbed your towel and forced yourself to walk into the bathroom.

It didn’t surprise you that Toji followed you. Or that he took the towel from your hands, unclasped your jewelry, slid your clothes off of you. Neither as the water hitting your body was on the temperature you prefer, as he hugged you tightly under the shower, as he didn’t make questions you couldn’t quite answer.

Not even your worst day would make you forget how soft your Toji is.

Toji relies on your body to tell him what you need, but once or twice you will say it yourself. Can you get me my towel? You want to be clean again. And knowing what you want, Toji knows what to do.

In no rush, he put your shampoo on his hand and massaged your head. Once your back found a support on his chest, he rinsed your hair while protecting your eyes. After moisturizing, he brushed your hair until he could feel no more knots. Washing the remains of conditioner away from his hands, he moved to the rest of your body.

It didn’t feel weird, and that did surprise you. To feel his hands on your naked body without feeling desire or desired. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Far from it. As Toji washed you, you just felt less lonely.

“Toji?”

He kissed your scalp, massaging your shoulders. He drawn little hearts on your skin. “I am here”, Toji hummed.

“It’s nothing”, you closed your eyes. That was a lie. You meant to say thank you, and I’m sorry but knew he would get mad if you did so. “Just wanted to hear you.”

“I am right here.”

(He would’ve confessed to mimic you, because Toji’s love is anything but gentle and quiet.)

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

(You wouldn’t ask him to. You would never.)

Ignoring the sorcerer’s terrified eyes, his movements were harsh and cold. It felt just right. To have a combat knife between his fingers again. How natural. As if his hands came from a mold, one made to wield blades and nothing more. That would make sense. For his body to be assembled instead of born.

Gun left aside; chair dragged across the concrete floor. Toji sat in front of the muzzled sorcerer, spreading his legs as he sharpened the blade. Moonlight made it clear. Cold sweat, stunned eyes, shaken limbs. He was a scared, coward animal.

“Don’t cry now”, Toji cocked an eyebrow. Spreading his legs, he admired the thin edge. Perfect. Dragging out the silence for one more instant, Toji stared at the walking corpse. “Not when you begged for this.”

A clan left behind; hellish decades erased within an insurgent decision. Toji doesn’t need to be a Zenin to have enemies. Blood-stained hands collect them just as easily. But after slaughtering enemies enough times, those smart enough to be considered dangerous by others knew better than facing him.

But rumors travel fast and, in his absence, fools gained confidence.

This late on his life, Toji couldn’t tell if it was instinct or muscle memory. He simply knew the sorcerer was about to do something stupid. The knife’s handle hit the man in the temple. As he fought to continue conscious, Toji observed his skin turning purple.

He felt proud. This night left no wound or bruise on his skin. There will be no perplexed gaze, uncertain touch, questions that can’t be answered honestly. Once he comes back to his home, you will have no reason to worry.

“You hurt her.” Toji wondered how long it would take. To get back to you. To return your caring gaze, feel your caring touch, hear your caring questions. “Now I’ll hurt you.”

It begged. It tried to negotiate, numbers rising as Toji continued in silence. If rumors travel fast, so does the truth. Toji turned soft, a rumor that thing discovered to be a lie the moment it decided to bother you. Toji can be bought, a fact that never once included you.

“What do you want?!” And the tears came back. They usually do, with loud and unstoppable sobs. Don’t matter who they are, in the end they beg just the same. “I can give it to you. Tell me your price.”

“Your right hand”, Toji tilted his head, sliding the edge of the knife against the armchair. “You touched her with your right hand.”

Toji was merely taunting the sorcerer. He would never use a combat knife to torture someone. That doesn’t sound like him at all. Toji will saw both hands with a dull knife.

(But you didn’t need to ask him to. Toji would always.)

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

(Toji didn’t need to say it.)

It took him long enough to unlock the door to your apartment. The voice of a senator on a news channel welcomed Toji. Heels inside the shoe rack, handbag and headphone forgotten on the couch. Hearing you hum in the shower, Toji turned the TV off.

He could picture it so clearly. You stretching your neck and walking barefoot into the living room, rubbing your eyes just to immediately remember about the mascara. Calling for him. Hearing nothing in response. Choosing something loud on the TV and deciding to take a long shower because it’s friday, I deserve this.

Toji sighed, relief washing over him in waves. You’re back to being you.

He put the takeout on the table and organized the groceries on the kitchen cabinet—his excuses for staying out longer than usual. Toji was careful with them. Food from your favorite restaurant, cleaning products you mentioned before. Lies build on solid truths.

He doesn’t have an excuse for the scent of antiseptic soap, but once your products made to his nostrils Toji realized he wouldn’t need one. Scents way too sweet, enough to confuse slightly his keen senses. There is no way you’re able to smell anything but yourself.

As the bathroom door opened, Toji grabbed a towel on the laundry and locked himself inside it before you could get a hold of him. He doesn’t think you would notice, and if you did you wouldn’t waste your breath on it, but Toji won’t risk it.

Washing himself once more, Toji tried not to wonder about what would make you despise him more: what he did, or that he doesn’t feel any remorse. Would it make it better for you if Toji cried in the shower? If he stared at his clean hands and saw blood on them? Toji could pretend for you. He really would.

You’re safe and sound, mere steps away from him. Toji showers hearing your loud music. Toji can picture that too. You waiting for him as your sleepy eyes challenge your determination—you always fall asleep before he gets to you. You being you. No shaky breathes, no unstoppable tears. He could never feel remorse.

Toji went after you with a towel around his hips. Following the music most likely coming from your phone, he gently opened the bedroom door to not wake you up. Leaning on the door frame, Toji chuckled.

With your eyes closed, you were far from sleeping. Wrinkled sheets falling out of bed, toes curling against the mattress. Damp towel forgotten on the floor. A hand squeezing his pillow, the other hidden between your thighs. Forearms moving in the rhythm you created to yourself; small gasps concealed by a song.

Spit gathered in the corner of your mouth, mesmerizing Toji. How he wished to sink his teeth into your glossy lips. A broken moan and your back arched, his eyebrows furrowing in synchrony with yours. You did it as the waves of pleasure became too much, and Toji as he finally saw what you had between your legs.

From the blunt and bulbous head to its thick length, it was truly no wonder why you were so quiet. All way out, then all way in. Your concentration was on fucking yourself with the dark purple dildo, the rest simply too much for you little brain.

He never saw that one before.

Wrist burning from your incessant movements, your free hand abandoned his pillow to press down on your clit. A simple and precise touch that made you whimper. Feeling shivers down his spine, Toji smirked.

Your eyes fluttered open.

A beat later, they meet his and widened. All way out. Mouth hanging open, you chuckled. It sounded like you were about to lose your sanity. Then all way in. “There you are.”

Toji crossed his arms, leaving his place at the door to a new one at the end of the bed. “Putting on a show for me?”

“Not on purpose”, you laughed it off. It felt so dirty. For you to talk normally while doing something so lewd. As if you weren’t fully exposed—as if he wasn’t too. “I could say the same about you.”

Skin reddish because of the hot water, black hair dripping wet. You followed every drop, burning him with your ravenous gaze. Veins evident on his thick neck. Long fingers pressing down on his forearms, a reminder of how bad you miss his touch. Huge thighs, even when relaxed.

He dropped the towel. “Not on purpose”, Toji lied.

A knee sunk on the bed, his hands caressing your heels. Toji forced your legs up, tilting his head to kiss the side of your foot. He put one on each shoulder, another knee sinking down on the bed. Grabbing at the fat of your thighs, Toji pulled you closer.

Toji has a way of making you feel weightless.

He bit his tongue, a hand massaging your thigh. Always the cocky asshole, Toji rubbed your overwhelmed clit with his thumb. Staring into his hungry eyes, you grinned.

Holding the firm base of the dildo, Toji pulled it out of you. The sounds your cunt let out, soaked and soft, made him squeeze your thighs. With a pop, there it was, covered in lubricant and your excitement. Your core clamped around nothing.

Toji spat on you, fingers rough against your sore lips as his other hand pumped his cock. You swallowed watching Toji compare with your dildo. You both could see the truth. How your toy was much bigger and ticker.

Salivating, Toji was so proud of you.

Bending over you, forcing your thighs against your chest, Toji admired your sweaty face. He kissed your temple, pressing the dildo’s tip against your lips. “Your collection only grows”, Toji groaned. “That’s a new one.”

“Not new”, you lapped at the protruding head. “Is for when I miss you.”

Toji sank his teeth into your shoulder, hiding his burning cheeks against your skin. Fingers ran through his hair; nails scratched his forearm. “You saw me this morning.”

His tongue was everywhere, moving too fast for you to keep up. Kissing your shoulder, licking your neck, biting your collarbone. Toji is always too much. How perfect of him. “Are you that needy you can’t go hours without me?”

“Miss you all the time”, you struggled to breath. Pulling him by the hair, you made Toji face you. Lost on his dark eyes, time seemed to stop. “Say you miss me too.”

“Miss you all the time”, Toji obeyed. It wouldn’t matter if he didn’t. Not when you can see his flushed cheeks. As a reward, you kissed the scar on his mouth—you would’ve kissed it anyway. “Think about you all the time.”

You bit his earlobe, nose sliding against his neck as you searched for that sweet spot able to make Toji stutter. Once you did, mouth sucking it without mercy, Toji gave your hips a strong squeeze. His calloused hands would mark you tonight.

Toji humped on your thigh. You could feel precum leaking against your skin. He settled for leaning his forehead against yours. “You smell way too sweet.”

“I can get new lotions”, you offered. “Something you like better.”

“Don’t.” Toji cupped your face, ignoring your clit to rub the length of his cock against your slit. Pushing your head against the pillow, he kissed your forehead. “I like you sweet.”

Toji didn’t meant to slip inside you. He wanted to taunt you some more. To fuck you with your dildo and make you scream right into his open lips. Toji wanted you drooling. And once you begged him enough, showing what a polite woman you are, Toji would make you cry with his tongue deep into your walls.

But you were so wet.

“T-Toji!” You gasped, eyes wide as you felt all of him. Pulling his hair, you bit his bottom lip. “Can feel you so deep…”

“I know”, Toji grabbed the headboard, thighs shaking. So fucking welcoming. Thumbs stroking your hips, his mind was a mess because of you. “I know.”

Your eyes meet his. A part of Toji wanted to look away. To hide how fragile you make him. How your gaze burns him deeply. The other wanted to never shy away from you. To never know what it feels like to not be watched by you.

No one ever sees him, the one who left it all behind. No one but you.

His body collapsed against yours. His hands pulled your hair, making you tilt your head so he could continue to torture your neck. Thighs forcing yours open, chest pressing down against yours. You could feel the rhythm of his heartbeat. This gigantic man crushing you against the mattress, so heavy it was difficult to breath.

Drunk on his overwhelming intensity, you admired Toji. His hips rolling up, so slow you could feel the trace of every vein on his cock. His length inside you, never giving you a break. His hair dripping on you, a blend of water and sweat.

“Remind me… to thank my new friend”, Toji tilted his head, pointing at the dildo besides your pillow. His raspy voice was more addictive than cocaine. “Got you ready to take me all in.”

Fighting his grasp on your hair, you hugged his shoulders and forced your head up. Sharing an open mouth kiss, your drool fell on your chest. It felt so cold. Or perhaps your skin was too feverish. Toji devoured your every moan, hands tightening around your hips.

“Missed you so much”, you whimpered. His forehead leaned on yours, eyes closing as Toji tried to not lose himself. You continued to admire him. “Missed being yours.”

“You’re always mine. All the time”, Toji groaned. His tip hit your most sensitive spot; your eyes closing on their own. Toji rubbed your neglected clit, a hand grabbing the roots of your head. His grip firm yet gentle. “Look at me.”

You obeyed, staring into his dark eyes again. You could swear you saw stars on them. Toji leaned his forehead on yours, your touch enough to make him forget everything but your name.

“There you go”, he whispered. “Focus on me, pretty. Don’t look away.”

Searching for those stars again, the waves of pleasure strong enough to shatter your mind. There was nothing but that spot you and Toji turned into one. Blinded by a fog, crushed by him, you came looking into his eyes.

Toji filled you with all he had. His head fell on your chest, it all too much for him to bear. It all too good for him to fully believe it was real. Gasping, he couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t do anything but breath on you. Sweet you.

Running your trembling fingers through his hair, you collapsed against the pillow. Toji was heavy enough to make you breathless, but you didn’t want him to move. You wanted him as close as he could get.

“Welcome back”, Toji murmured. Mimicking you, Toji ran his fingers through your hair. You felt him smiling against your skin. “I missed you.”

You knew exactly what he meant by that. “I love you too”, you whispered.

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