#mutual doesn’t look like a word anymore

[rosewould]

fuck up my life; hjs

1k celebration masterlist

🖊️⇝ pairing; han jisung x afab!reader (+ lee know)

🖊️⇝ words; 12.3k

🖊️⇝ genre; smut, angst!!!

🖊️⇝ warnings; very toxic relationship, two deplorable dirty cheaters, public sex, mutual masturbation, choking, very rough sex, bondage, ball gag, unprotected sex, slut shaming, large cock, dubcon(? just to be safe), slapping, squirting, spanking, biting, casual sex, you're going to hate mc and Jisung they're horrible people and just when you think it can't get worse hooooo boy

📜⇝ If you can't set aside your morals for a story centered around two cheaters, I don't blame you, but this fic ain't for you lol. This is the first part of the second story! I'm so late to 1.5k that we're close to 2k, so I can't wait to start writing that one. Right now I'll just focus on the other two parts of this :*)

act i ➻ yeah right

Your blue eyeshadow was too flashy. Your cut crease and eyeliner too sharp and intense. Your overlined nude lipstick was downright gaudy. Feeling pleased, you stand from your vanity and inspect your outfit in the full-body mirror to your left. 

The thin silk fabric cinched in slightly at your waist, accentuating your breasts and hips. You’re basically telling men to look at them. Oh, and that slit. You turn to get a better look at it, tsking when you catch a glimpse of the swell of your ass. With how high the slit runs up and how short the dress is to begin with, you might as well just go out in your underwear. You looked like a cheap, tacky whore.

It was perfect.

With one last look in the mirror, you adjust the collar of your dress. With there being no sleeves on your dress or anything covering your shoulders, the thick piece of fabric was the only thing keeping you from flashing the entire club. Long strips of silk cascade down your back after you tie it securely around your neck. 

You flounce past your drunken boyfriend on the couch, the loud click and clack of your D’orsay heels taunting him to take a look. He scrambles to sit up and doesn’t bother turning off the TV. He’s annoyed but not that bothered by you leaving the house in this state.

“What, are you going out to find someone to fuck?” He slurs. You spare him by not even glancing once. You’re sure he doesn’t want to be seen when he’s being a belligerent fool. “Huh? Is that what you’re doing? You look like a prostitute!” He yells more frantically when he realizes he’s not deterring you. You snicker before finally looking back at the poor man. His shirt is more stain than polyester and his blue-striped boxers sit crooked on his hips. His hair is a mess and he can barely keep his eyes open.

“‘Twas the goal, my love.” You smile with a wink before leaving him to drink himself to sleep.

-🖊️⇝

You hadn’t been to The Eve in years, since before you were cleansed. You enter and become engulfed by the pulsing music and dancing bodies. Looking around you can’t help but smile. This is where you belong. Across the room is a man who doesn’t share this sentiment. He feels out of place. He glances around nervously at the shameless PDA and lousy dancing. He should be at home with his loving girlfriend. 

Jiwoo is breathtaking. Her expressive eyes and radiant smile keep his lungs in constant lockdown. It’s true that she and Jisung are extremely different. She’s an early bird while he’s a night owl. Her active lifestyle makes Jisung seem sedentary. Also, she doesn’t want to have sex much at all. And when they do have sex, it’s vanilla missionary. At the beginning of their relationship, Jisung was convinced her lifestyle just needed some getting used to. Three years later and he's only gotten less strong-willed. He’s suffocating.

He needs to breathe.

Jisung has been off the market for quite a while now. After moving in with Jiwoo, his priorities shifted. He’s not a kid anymore. It’s time for him to get serious and settle down. So, no, Jisung hasn’t been to a club in a minute. It was all stressing him out, but he was dressed up and he was already here. He should at least get a drink.

One drink becomes two and two become four. Jiwoo would be pissed. He already feels guilty about keeping how he’s feeling a secret, and now he’s drunk and alone. He can already hear her lecturing him. He laughs to himself, forehead thudding on the surface of the bar. 

Everyone around him looks so carefree as they dance and shove their tongues down each other’s throats. How do they do it? Maybe he should get up and try. The dancing part, of course. Maybe he was drunk. Pushing through the sea of bodies was a blur. He was just determined to get somewhere in the middle. The more he’s completely surrounded, the more immersed he feels in the atmosphere. He gets it now, he sways his body to the music.

The people surrounding him brush against him, sometimes even knocking into him. It only helps him levitate higher. With an extended exhale he floats until he’s hovering in the atmosphere. A body brushes against his front, pulling him back down to Earth. His eyes travel down to an ass against his crotch. Electricity crawls up his legs, prickling at his skin. He doesn’t realize his hands are resting on your waist until the fabric of your short dress rides up.

“At least tell me your name before you take my clothes off.” Your voice is sweet, seductive, it makes his head swim. He yanks his hands away and tries to back up only to bump into someone behind him. His body is propelled back into you, and your behind is back against his groin. He groans, hands gripping your upper arms to keep you at a distance. “What’s wrong babe?” His hands slip from your soft skin as you flip around to face him.

The face put to the seductive voice was a near perfect match. There was a look of intrigue behind your alluring gaze as you examined Jisung. He couldn’t help feeling a hint of danger as you looked him over. The way you hold yourself indicates explicitly how confident you are. As your eyes travel back to his face he nearly flinches from the sharpness of your eyes. Did you think he was pathetic? 

Jisung clears his throat and squares his shoulders. Your smirk and snort make him shrivel up again. You lean in with an earnest look on your face.

“You seem like a sweet guy.” You smile before sauntering elsewhere. Jisung looks down, alarmed by his hand reaching out for you. He physically pulls it back with his other hand. His encounter with you sobers him up immediately and he rushes out of the club. What he should be doing is being there for his girlfriend and being upfront with how he feels.

One the way home he chews on his lip, regarding the bulge in his pants nervously. He takes a shower as soon as he gets home before even thinking of crawling into bed with Jiwoo. He sighs deeply as he joins her under the covers. It’s warm and comforting, despite how his thoughts prod at him. He should wait until the morning instead of waking her. He extends his arm to hold Jiwoo but hesitates. His mouth falls open slightly as he stares at the back of her head.

-🖊️⇝

“Jisung. Jisung!” His girlfriend’s annoyed voice jolts him awake. She throws a hand through her messy hair that just falls back around her face. He squints as the sun intrudes his eyesight, it was definitely way too early to be awake. He looks up and smiles groggily.

“Good morning.”

“Don’t good morning me, you made a mess!” She gestures agitatedly at the bed. Jisung pauses before ripping the covers away. The moist feeling against his hip and upper thigh becomes more apparent when he sees his soiled boxers and sheets. He looks up at Jiwoo as she makes a frustrated noise. She pulls the fabric of her nightgown, looking nauseated by the semen coating it. The throb Jisung feels in his groin is downright reprehensible. Whenever they have sex, Jiwoo makes him pull out and cum into his hand. The sight of his semen on her makes him aware that not only did he cum in his sleep, but he’s hard again. 

“Don’t just sit there, clean it up!” Jisung scrambles up from the bed, wrapping the comforter around him when he hears the increasing urgency in her voice. Jiwoo was repulsed by bodily fluids. Saliva, semen, sweat, all of it. She gagged once when he accidentally came in her mouth. The incident made both of them swear off blowjobs. Jisung was completely willing after the look on her face. He felt horrible. Yet here he is, getting turned on while she’s freaking out.

“I’m so, so sorry.” He laments as he rips the sheets off the bed. He watches with remorse as she rushes to the bathroom. His uncomfortable hard-on made him wonder what got him all worked up in the first place. He’s had many dreams where Jiwoo was a nymphomaniac and did unspeakable things to him. Even then, he only woke up with a boner, he never came in his sleep.

Dread fills his body as flashes of his dream enter his mind. That residual heat lingered the entire time he was awake, only now is he realizing where it came from. Images of you with your breasts exposed while bouncing on his cock fill his brain. 

“Such a sweet boy.” You moan lewdly.

Jisung shakes the dream away and clenches his eyes shut. It was because he was drunk. That was all. He loves Jiwoo.

-🖊️⇝

You brace yourself as your hand wraps firmly around the doorknob. With a sharp inhale you push the door open and are immediately greeted with your boyfriend still on the couch. He had cleaned up, it was the afternoon after all, and he fixes you with a disappointed scowl. He takes the time to realize what you’re another man’s shirt again.

“What the fuck-”

He rushes over to you and you raise your arms into the air expectantly. He grits his teeth before pulling the souvenir sweatshirt over your torso and head. This time he doesn’t toss it in the garbage, he angrily throws it to the ground. 

“I thought that would piss you off.” You grin, eyes tracking him as he fumes.

“Aren’t you tired?” He asks exasperatedly. A grimace flickers through your smile but you force it back. “Aren’t you?” You quip back, angling your face closer to his. Your heartbeat accelerates when he doesn’t move away.

“You want me to fuck you? Is that why you’re doing all of this?”

You bite your lip, not shying away from his aggression. “So why don’t you fucking ask like a normal person?” He shoves you backward and you hit the door. A moan is pulled from you involuntarily. He growls, unbuckling his belt before shoving his pants down. His hands are rough as he grips you, spinning you around and pushing you into the door. Anticipation rips through you until you’re close to trembling. He makes quick work of hiking your dress up and moving the shamefully thin fabric to the side. 

“This what you want?” He wraps his arm around your chest before shoving his cock inside you. You moan out, still not answering him. He squeezes your jaw hard with his other hand. “Fucking answer me!” His voice is piercing right next to your ear and you jump, pussy clenching around him. You whimper but your resolve stays intact. He grunts as he continues to fuck you in a position that curves your back uncomfortably. 

“You’re not answering because you know you’re a whore.” His voice wavers under the power of his thrusts. “Did you let him cum inside you?”

“You think I’m disgusting don’t you?” You moan. He doesn’t answer, giving you the same treatment you gave him. He instead wraps his hand around your throat and squeezes until your eyes roll back. He doesn’t speak anymore. The living room fills with grunts, heavy breathing, and the sound of his skin impacting yours. 

He shoots his load inside you with jerky thrusts, tightening his hand around your throat until your hearing and sight get cloudy. He lets you breathe before shoving you away. You gasp in air a little too quickly, losing balance from the shove and falling into a coughing fit. Your knees burn from scraping the floor after the impact. As dread starts to spread, you count in your head; 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6-

“Stand up.” His voice sounds uncaring but his hands are gentle as he lifts you off the ground. A genuine smile almost creeps through as you clear your throat. “Go to the bathroom and clean yourself up.” You can hear his bite start to wane. 

He took longer than last time but he still did it. He always comes around. 

Despite what he said, he ends up being the one kneeling between your legs while you sit on the toilet. You wince as he wipes between your folds. The cloth is damp and cold. He doesn’t speak the entire time. His jaw is tight and his thick, dark brows are drawn together. “I could do this myself.” You stare down at him before sighing.

“Minho.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Do you remember that shirt I wore in high school?” Minho’s hand hovers in the air as he hesitates. You puff air through your nose as you smirk. “Because I’ll never forget how you scolded me. You were so nerdy with your glasses.” You giggle.

Minho continues wiping away at your mound. “You came stomping up to me and said “those words are inappropriate for school!” and told me to put on the proper uniform.”

Still nothing. Is he doing it because he knows what his silence does to you or because he genuinely doesn’t want to speak to you? The former is better, you can grapple with spite. But you can see his face softening. He’s reflecting on your fond memories, but he still says nothing.

“You never stopped. You’re still that nerd in the glasses trying to get me to behave and probably always will be.”

Minho finally looks at you. He scowls at you and you brace for him to blow up. But he just drops the rag with a gross splat before leaving the bathroom. You shoot up from the toilet.

“Yeah, I knew you wouldn’t like the sound of that.” You chase after him. “You want to give up don’t you?-” He slams the bathroom door in your face and you listen as his heavy shoes thud away.

Your nostrils burn with each inhale. The air is dry, you said that to him when you bought this apartment together. He didn’t listen to you.

-🖊️⇝

Jisung was dozing off at work. It was his fault for jizzing in his sheets. He guesses Jiwoo could’ve just cleaned herself up and waited for Jisung to wake up to wash the sheets and scrub the mattress. But she didn’t and there’s no point in thinking about what if’s.

Still, he was probably gonna be here for a while. Probably gonna have to work overtime. He already planned to put his right hand to good use in the bathroom, making sure to stay quiet. Jiwoo would surely ask why he didn’t ask to have sex. She doesn’t know he watches porn or the type he watches. She’d probably faint, thinking the man she’d been with for three years was some debauched pervert.

Turns out he didn’t have to work overtime. He takes the extra hours at his disposal to take a walk through the city. He told himself he was just walking around aimlessly, but his feet were walking a specific route. Taking him to a place he should be swearing off. He can see the neon sign in the corner of his eyes, bright green and screaming at him. Walk past, you should be home by now.

He hesitantly peeks at the sign. If he were to walk in right now, would you be there again? Jisung curses under his breath, shaking the thought from his head. He shouldn’t be thinking such a thing right now. 

She was strange anyway, he thought. Calling him a sweet guy from such a brief exchange. What did she know?

Jisung eventually gives up on his walk, ignoring his brain screaming at him to take a peek inside. When he walks through the door Jiwoo is sitting on the couch, frantically nipping at her nails. She shoots up when she sees him.

“There you are.” She breathes, as if she’d been holding it. She bounds toward him and wraps her arms around his waist, resting her head against his chest before he can even hang his coat up. “I was worried you’d be working overtime tonight.” She chuckles, failing to disguise how nervous she seems. With his features wound tight, he flicks his sleeve away to look at his watch. It’s 9 pm, she should be in her pajamas already and reading a book in bed.

“You waited for me?” He asks, puzzled. Though, he was more fretful than anything. 

“Yeah, I wanted to apologize.” She slowly pulls away, guilt weighing down her cute mousey features. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.” Her eyes flit up at him before she shuts them with a sigh. “Or woken you up.”

Jisung blinks, realizing she probably saw his dark circles. His fretting got stronger the more she spoke and suddenly he found himself in total panic mode. ‘Y-you don’t have to worry about that! I’m the asshole. I knew very well you don’t like body fluids.”

“You were asleep, Jisung. How could you have known?” She implores. She was right, it’s not like he forced himself to cum. But that part was only a cover for what he was truly guilty about. If anyone should be apologizing, it should be him. Right as he takes a breath, Jiwoo is sighing and stepping away.

“I’m gonna go get ready for bed now. Oh, and–” Jiwoo spins back around and gives Jisung an emphatic look. “You’re not an asshole, Jisung. You’re sweet. The sweetest guy I’ve met.”

After Jiwoo is closed within the bathroom Jisung feels multiple emotions tugging at his stomach. He should tell her. About everything. How he still isn’t used to their different preferences. His browser history. Going to the club. The dream.

He rushes after Jiwoo, pushing the bathroom door open to see her naked body. She squeaks and covers herself up. “J-Jisung? What…”

When he feels himself start to get hard he immediately shuts the door. He could just relieve himself and try again later. But where? She was in the bathroom. She’d be pissed if he came anywhere else. 

He kneels on his bed with uncertainty before collapsing on his face. He definitely shouldn’t do it here, but he still starts jutting into the mattress. The comforter is wiped clean of her scent so his fantasizing was dulled. But he still humps with fervor, finding something inside him egging him on. He clenches the comforter and lets out a squeezed grunt once the shower comes on. 

Jisung has been a no-good boyfriend. Apparently her friends keep banking on her to be the first to get hitched in her friend group. If only they knew what he was thinking about right now. They’d beg her to break up with him, plead her to stop shopping for rings. Maybe one of them would even speak up about the sneaking suspicions they’ve been harboring this entire time.

“I knew he would do something like that. He looks like the type to have wandering eyes.”

He whimpers, hiking a knee higher to really press his groin against the mattress. “He definitely checks out other women, he probably does it shamelessly too.”

It would be Haseul, he can feel it in the way she looks at him. She knows, she can sense that he’s no good. Jisung unbuttons his jeans to let the tip of his cock peek out from under his underwear. It feels so hot and soft against his stomach that he’s able to ignore his concerns about making Jiwoo upset. He even spits into his hand, a thick glob like he fantasizes about, before smoothing it over his cock head. 

He moves to his knees, gripping his shaft with two hands and fucking into them. With puffs of airy moans, he lets his eyes flutter shut and fantasizes about spraying his cum all over the bed. Oh, Jiwoo would get so upset. She’d call him disgusting and probably kick him out. She’d break up with him because of how bad he is.

He’s so close he can feel the heat swirling in his groin but then the shower shuts off and he hurriedly stuffs himself back in his pants. As he zips and buttons himself back up he can feel that euphoria slipping away, leaving him cold and unsatisfied.

-🖊️⇝

You linger outside your door a little longer today. You can hear the tv blaring behind it. Maybe if you come in later than usual you can conjure up some more of his passion. He’s been colder. You’re pushing it.

It was unlike you to be so antsy but the possibility of you getting to him made you open the door. Minho glances up at you, only to look back at the tv like it was nothing.

For the first time in years you felt wary about the shirt you borrowed from your escapades. You stand in the living room, waiting for anything. He could even break up with you and it’d be better than this. Feeling suffocated, you leave to your room. You barely got any sleep at your one night stand’s house. You couldn’t stop thinking about how you’ve entered a new phase. The one where they realize you’re not worth it. That you’re easy with no thrill.

You strip your clothes off and lift your covers, slipping beneath them. You angrily wipe away the tear that slips free as you lay your head on your pillow. This is what you wanted. You were asking for him to stop pretending to care about you. He’s finally done it.

When you wake up it’s dark out. Minho is nowhere to be found. Not in the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen, or the spot he’s carved out for himself on the couch. 

You wish you could track him down and force him to face you. What would you do then? You’ve tried pissing him off and pushing him until he has no choice but to blow up at you. What if he doesn’t do that anymore.

Your eyes scan the faces of each mid-height male dancing under the dim lights. They’re desperate to find those pouty lips. That annoyed stare that didn’t change the fact that he resembled a rabbit.

Him being here is past wishful thinking. Him being here means he’s decided to meet you at your level. It took a lot of letting him down to get him to even fuck you the way he does now. The day he becomes a degenerate to understand you is decades ahead, if you two make it that far.

You see a pair of glasses that feel familiar. Thinking of the Minho from when you started dating used to be sweet. But seeing those thick rimmed, square glasses make you sick right now. You clench your fists. Being in this atmosphere this long without a drink feels strange, but it doesn’t stop you from making your way over to the guy with the glasses. You shove at his shoulder, forcing his attention on you. 

Jisung stares at you like a deer in the headlights. He wonders if you somehow know about the naughty dreams he had about you, or that he’s happy to see you for the worst reasons. His thoughts won’t shut up. They indulge in the nasty fantasies while simultaneously telling him he’s a monster because of them. 

Jisung wipes his sweaty palms off on his t-shirt, only then do you recognize him. It’s hard to forget someone who wears a t-shirt to a club. The same person you saw nudging their way onto the dance floor seemingly in a trance. You’re still unclear why someone like him stumbled in here, and why he’s back.

“I-I’m sorry, you probably mistook me for someone else.” Jisung distances himself discreetly with a nervous smile.

“I didn’t.” You flash him the same smile you’re sure scared him off last time. You expected him to chase after you, but when you looked back, he was rushing out of the club. You should stay away from people like him. He’s practically trembling. Your eyes drag slowly up and down his frame. “You’re a sweet boy, you shouldn’t get involved with someone like me.” You say as if he told you he was interested. You’re being insanely presumptuous, but you have your reasons.

“I would never. I have… I have a girlfriend.” Jisung announces proudly. At that moment, the both of you come to an understanding. He got a boner when you guys danced together and now he’s unabashedly staring at your cleavage.

And Jisung? He’s aware of how obvious he’s being. The lust is as pleasing as it is painful. He’s drunk on it, eating up the black, strapless bustier hoisting up your tits and miniskirt tempting him to imagine your panties. His current behavior isn’t very sweet of him, you both think.

And it’s exciting all the same.

The lights bathe both of you in shifting hues as you swirl your hips against his groin. Your hand reaches to rest on the back of his neck, pulling him closer until his breath ghosts on your neck. Time is stuck in slow motion as you both relish in the teasing. It’s exhilarating, sending shockwaves through both your veins. 

Jisung’s breath labors more and more the further he gets into his fantasy. He’s already decided that your panties are red and lacy. The straps are thin and sit high on your hips. You have on a matching strapless bra and the cups cut so low that your nipples accidentally pop out when he yanks your top down. His burlish hands grope harshly at them while he bites your neck.

Your filthy moan makes his eyes snap open. His lips are actually on your neck and his hands have moved up from your hips to your breasts. Thankfully he didn’t expose you to the rest of the club, but that’s the least of his concerns. This is it. He can’t go back now. His erection is pressed firmly against you, riding up your skirt, and his hands are squeezing your tits. Jiwoo would be absolutely devastated. Fuck, fuck, fuck, desperation pleads and claws at him. Crippling shame and guilt wrack throughout his body.

This time a filthy noise leaves his mouth as his hips jerk against you. His cock is throbbing and his head is swirling with need. The fantasy has escalated. You’re gagged and bound, writhing underneath him. He grabs a handful of your pussy. He’s ripped from his fantasy once again once he feels lace on his fingers. Your face turns against his, your mouth grazing his cheek as you buck uncontrollably in his grip. Jisung grunts and presses you hard against him. Hot seed spurts up from his tip, soiling his underwear.

-🖊️⇝

Jisung rushed home and slammed the door behind him. He rests against it, steadying himself. His heart feels like it’ll give out. He can’t stop replaying what happened. It makes his knees weak and triggers a deep ache in his pants. It feels so fucking good to think about. It feels so incredibly bad to think about. Jisung collapses to his knees with an anguished sob. 

“I’m so sorry.” He sputters out.

-🖊️⇝

Your routine was interrupted. You return later that same night to see Minho asleep on the couch. You wonder if he’d feel relieved if he saw you returning home early. 

He shouldn’t.

You’re still thinking about him. You don’t know his name and you’ve never seen anything but an imprint of his dick, but he’s running through your mind. You want fuck him bad. Bad enough that you’re touching yourself in bed. You let out a whine when the memory gets to the part where he runs away. He ran away from you again.

Now you know it’s because of guilt rather than being intimidated. There’s a chance you'll never see him again. It makes you more upset than you care to admit. You know what it feels like when you like someone. You avoid them like the plague and feel like throwing up at the thought of them. They make you imagine a bright future way too early. This is not that, but it’s not like your other one night stands either.

Thinking of him makes you think about the state of you and Minho. You sprawl out in your empty bed after climaxing. The cool parts of the sheets sizzle against your hot skin. You stare blankly out the window, hoping sleep will take pity on you and save you from your thoughts.

-🖊️⇝

You sit at the edge of your bed for what feels like hours. Today you wish you could get to The Eve early. You’re disgusted with yourself. You want to plan your outfit and pick out something extra special. What the fuck is wrong with you. The door opening almost breaks you free from being locked in place. 

“Were you here all night?” 

You look up at Minho, who’s taken aback by the fear in your eyes.

“Are you okay? Did something happen?” His concern is strong enough to show on his face, but not to come further into the room. You bite your lip and focus back on nothing. 

“Why are you worried about me?” You ask in disappointment. It’s easy to understand why someone on the outside would think it was disappointment in him. It wasn't. 

He leaves after that. Either he asked himself that question and came to his senses, or–

You sigh, shakily standing from the bed. It doesn’t matter.

Later that night, Minho is gone again. Not there to see you dressed up with more intent than usual.

-🖊️⇝

“What have you been up to lately?”

The question was like a metal pipe crashing into Jisung’s head. He whips his head around to gape at her. The fear in his eyes catches Jiwoo off guard but she laughs it off.

“I’ve been washing more of your favorite t-shirts lately. I thought you only saved those for special occasions?” She wiggles her eyebrows at him. She’s being cheeky, but the bile climbing up Jisung’s throat doesn’t care about that. He should tell her now before it gets worse. She’s such a wonderful woman that she’d probably forgive him. She’s so perfect, she doesn’t deserve to be treated like this.

Jisung’s cock twitches.

“I’m just trying to do more things that make me happy.” The words fly out of him, not a stutter, wobble, or voice crack inside.

“D’aw,” Jiwoo pouts, touched as she sets down the dish she was drying to come sit next to him. She wraps her arm around his shoulder and pulls him in before placing a chaste kiss on his lips.

“I’m really happy to hear that!” Her smile slowly fades as worry takes over. “You know, I was worried that you seemed really down lately. I was thinking of canceling on the girls next month…”

“No!” A strange authoritative tone crops up. Jisung gives Jiwoo a firm look. “You’ve been excited about this trip for so long! You should absolutely go. The only reason I may have been down lately is because I’ve been feeling a little suffocated. I decided to try new things around town and it’s been helping.” Jisung turns his body toward her, grabbing both her hands. “Don’t you worry about me, okay?” One could say ‘trying new things around town’ wasn’t a complete lie, but it still worries him that he’s lying to his future wife so easily.  

“Okay… but if you need me to cancel-” Jiwoo attempts to rush out, but Jisung hits her with an even firmer look. 

“Go.” He says simply. With that, Jiwoo is back to beaming. She throws her arms around him and gives him a tight squeeze. Over her shoulder, Jisung’s smile fades.

Later that night, Jisung plants his dirty lips on a sleeping Jiwoo’s cheek before leaving.

-🖊️⇝

Jisung is anxious as he searches through the club. He doesn’t see you anywhere at the edges of the club. The last place to look is in the middle. Jisung pushes his way through, feeling his body buzz the further in he gets.

In the middle he spots a woman with a low waisted, flowy skirt and bandeau top. When you twirl around, the skirt’s front is revealed to be asymmetrical, almost tattered in appearance with its two high slits. You move closer to him, the hunger in your eyes transferring to his. You breathe hotly and grab his face. All the pent up passion built up overnight culminates in a sloppy kiss. A kiss that you can barely call a kiss with your tongues laving at each other’s mouths and chins.

Another boundary has been broken. Jisung grunts, grabbing you by the throat and yanking you away from him. The shock in your eyes would give him pause before the kiss. Right now, Jisung’s lust has taken over. You might slap him or tell him off now, and he’ll respect your wishes. But you don’t do anything, other than flashing pleading eyes at him. His nostrils flare as his breathing gets heavier. He leans in and draws your bottom lip back with his teeth. After he releases it he’s leaning by your ear. 

“Open your fucking mouth.” He growls. 

Your mouth lolls open, your eyes begging even more. Jisung spits into your mouth, some of the saliva landing on your chin. You close your mouth, putting on a show of licking around your mouth. Jisung balls the back of your skirt within his fist and pulls you closer. Your tongues are exploring each other’s mouths as Jisung reaches under the front of your skirt. He gasps against your lips when his fingers dip straight into your wet heat. You chuckle before licking a stripe up his cheek. The skirt you’re wearing isn’t short, but the slits in the front are high enough that one bold dance move could show the entire club your cunt. 

Jisung nearly whimpers, steeling himself before plunging two fingers in immediately. You moan loudly, the loud music drowning it out. Jisung keeps you pressed close enough that only someone paying close attention could see you getting your hole fingered. Your head lulls, resting against his chest as you shut your thighs around his hand. Jisung lets go of your skirt to tug at your hair. He yanks your head back. 

“Open them back up. Now.” He spits next to your ear.

You bitch and whine, but you still do it. An intense heat overwhelms his cock. He should fuck you right now. He should tear your skirt off and use the tattered fabric to bind your wrists together while he fucks you right in the middle of all these people. The club goers bump into both of you at all sides. One stumbles backward, propelling you forward and plunging Jisung deeper. Jisung licks his tongue into your open mouth. 

Your tongues tangle together while a droplet of your juices trails down Jisung’s forearm. 

“I’m gonna cum! Choke me!” You plead pathetically. Jisung doesn’t hesitate to oblige, squeezing until your eyes roll back. Jisung finds himself mimicking your pained expression as your cunt spasms around his fingers. He grinds pitifully into nothing, reverting back to his fantasy. Your bandeau is made into a makeshift gag as he fucks you so hard your tits spasm in different directions. Your entire body jiggles from the force. 

The feeling of your hand cupped around his bulge lights up his synapses. He groans, it’s guttural as sperm shoots into his underwear for the second night in a row.

-🖊️⇝

Jisung watches Jiwoo carefully, who just thanked him for doing laundry more often. Things are better than before, the two of them are more affectionate. She even has sex with him a little more. He doesn’t cum, which she was initially concerned about. He reminded her that that was ideal in their situation, and she felt better instantly.

Jisung realized long ago that missionary did nothing for him. He started to fantasize about you during it, but decided that was somehow crossing the line. Not the countless times now you’ve made him cum in his pants. Not the fact that you and Jisung have your hands down each other’s pants every night now. Not the fact that he now knows a list of what turns you on and has it memorized.

Jiwoo leaves tomorrow.

That fact replays in his mind as he watches Jiwoo maneuver around the kitchen. She catches him staring and smiles. He smiles back. 

-🖊️⇝

You chuck the bag over the high rim of the dumpster. You feel lighter, and it’s not just because you’re no longer lugging a heavy trash bag of large t-shirts, sweatshirts, and hoodies. 

When you walk back in the house Minho is familiarly pushing you back against the door. His eyes are wild, and you can’t recall a time he’s looked this crazed.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He grits before grinding his jaw. He’s fuming. That in itself scares you a bit, but it’s also that he’s been getting more and more antsy for the past month. 

“I-I don’t…”

“Bullshit.” He spits, making you flinch. He releases his tight grip on your shoulders, sharp eyes still trained on you. “You’re fucking disgusting.” His voice cracks a little. 

You’re not scared he’ll do something to you. Well, not anything abusive anyway. You’re scared because he knows you’re up to no good. You don’t know if he’s narrowed it down exactly, but you know he’s onto you. 

Seeing Jisung is the highlight of your day. Your body ignites in goosebumps as soon as you see him. Something about him, the horrible thing he’s doing, makes you better about yourself than all the years Minho dedicated to fixing you. 

“Fuck you.” He spits before retreating into the bedroom. He’s been spending so much time in there that you took his place on the couch. You sleep there in your day clothes, crying yourself to sleep. 

When you see Jisung that night, you’re more exhausted than usual. He pulls your hair like he usually does, smashing his lips against yours. You don’t love it as much as you usually do. You just want to climb into bed with Minho and hold him. A part of you knows he even wants you to. But you can’t. You don’t deserve that. So you cry as you kiss someone else’s boyfriend.

He laps up the tears and you’re slowly soothed. You’re not sure to what extent, but you’ve come to understand that Jisung is a monster. He frequently brings up how wrong it is that he’s treating his girlfriend like this. His cock throbs when he talks about how he knows she’s planning to propose. He cums after imagining her face if she saw the two of you. 

“So, do you want to come over tomorrow?” He asks with a twinkle in his eye. You were both stood outside of the club. The same day he described in detail his fantasy of his girlfriend forgetting something and coming back only to see her boyfriend balls deep in you, he revealed that she actually is going away. And now he’s making another part of that fantasy a reality. You take a long drag of your cigarette, mascara smudged all around your eyes. You blow, realizing you’re not the least bit repulsed. You feel good.

“Yeah.”

-🖊️⇝

You linger outside of the bedroom door, hand repeatedly reaching for the knob but deciding against it. Your eyes flutter shut, remembering how warm his embrace used to be. 

-🖊️⇝

When Jisung opens the door, something feels off. Maybe it’s the lack of loud music and dancing bodies bumping into the both of you, but the hunger isn’t there yet. 

You shuffle inside, annoyed when he whistles and rocks on his feet. 

“D’you want something to drink?” He says, not meeting your eyes. 

“No. Is that the bedroom?”

“Yeah…” He hesitates before he answers and swallows hard after. “Yeah, let’s uh… let’s head inside.” Jisung offers to hang your purse up on the hook by the door, right next to a wooden bat. You do it yourself.

The bedroom is pleasantly designed, it’s clean and organized, and there’s a picture of Jisung and his girlfriend on the nightstand. A part of you was scared he was lying about it, this cements it. He hurries over to lay it down after seeing you stare at it. 

“So um, I have a few things in mind, but we could of course do whatever you want to do.”

So far this is a complete let down. You’ve confirmed that he’s an actual monster, but now you’re not so sure about his dominance. Was it just a fluke while you’re at the club? You didn’t come here to be asked how you want be fucked. You sigh, considering going home and crying yourself to sleep again. While looking at the floor you see two feet plant themselves in front of you. 

When you look up at Jisung, you don’t intend for your eyes to be as glassy and pitiful as they are. It’s Jisung’s turn to sigh. 

“You’re just hopeless, aren’t you?” Jisung runs his knuckles down your cheek. The gesture confuses you, but then you notice his eyes. Before you can get excited, his hand is wrapped around your throat. Your eyes flutter shut. “Gonna make me do all the work? Hm? Can’t even fucking talk?”

You’re too busy relishing in the wave of relief crashing over you to realize you’re being disobedient. A slap across your face brings you back to reality. 

“Fucking. Speak.” He demands lowly. 

“N-no, I won’t make you do all the work–”

“Then get your ass on the bed. Hike it in the air.” 

You rush over, kneeling on the bed and pulling your dress off. Jisung comes over and yanks it the rest of the way, impatiently. He grabs your head and shoves it into the mattress before grabbing the rope from the nightstand. He told Jiwoo he wanted to learn sailor knots when she found it. He wasn’t completely lying, which is why he was able to demonstrate some for her.

Even a simple one was enough to convince her, that same knot is enough to restrain you and fulfill one of his biggest fantasies. Jisung unbuckles his belt not only to relieve some of the building pressure, but also to bend it in half. He raises the belt before swinging it down. The leather laps painfully against your ass. Your body jolts and you gasp. The sting doesn’t go away before the next lash. Another and another, Jisung is completely relentless. He stops only to haphazardly free his bottom half. 

You feel the bed dip again behind you, whimpering like a puppy. Then you feel his hard cock against your ass. You chant pleas under your breath, cunt clenching desperately to feel him inside.

“Don’t know how to shut up, huh? That’s okay,” Jisung leans over, grabbing the ball gag from on top of his nightstand. One of the many things he picked up this morning in preparation. He fastens it securely around your head, pulling the ball further into your mouth until you can’t coherently beg anymore. 

“If I were you I would stop that begging. It’ll only take longer for me to fuck you, okay?” Jisung’s voice was laced with sympathy undercut by a sinister undertone. You nod against the bed, trying to quiet your whimpering. 

You yelp as the belt lashes against you again. 

“What the fuck did I say?” He warns in a growl. 

You panic, silencing yourself immediately.

Swing after swing after swing after swing. Jisung punishes your ass until it’s red hot and tears have thoroughly soaked your cheeks. You gargle softly against the gag. 

“Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

You pant excitedly as he grabs your hips and pulls you closer. 

“If I do this for you, give you what you want, you have to keep it up. No noises while I fuck you open.”

You nod frantically, trembling from the sheer anticipation. His tip prods against your entrance. You knew he’d be the biggest you ever had from the times you jerked him off, but feeling him attempt to push into your hole made your eyes blow wide. You panic again, worried you’re not going to stay quiet. 

Then he shoves his way in. Luckily the force makes you choke on your scream. Your legs shake, fists balling tight. You’re pleased when you hear Jisung’s euphoric moan. He stays submerged inside you, but he’s moaning uncontrollably. 

“F-fuck, I can see your asshole fluttering, baby girl.” Jisung sounds like he might cry. He slaps your ass, this time with his own hand, testing your silence. With that, he starts moving. The pace is already brutal. His rhythmic, chesty moans show just how much this is getting to him. Does his girlfriend fuck him at all? Whatever. She doesn’t deserve this anyway. This is all for you. 

Your feet jerk up from the bed with each punishing thrust. It’s like he can’t help himself, he has to go balls deep every time. Each stroke with your cunt stroking him pulls a different string of moans. You’ve never heard him so vocal, and it’s never been so hard to shut up. He’s milking your pussy so good it’s making you cry. SIlent sobs squeeze from your body as his body drapes over yours. He grabs your throat, making it even worse. Your sobs become audible, but he doesn’t even care. You’re both too far gone to care about how loud you’re both being.

His bottom lip drags from your shoulder up to the apex of your neck. He’s croaking out moans right next to your ear and you know he’s gone. You tug at your restraints, wishing you could touch and claw him right now. 

His seed is hot as it spurts into you. The sensation sends your body down, flat to the bed. His hips follow, continuing to buck into you as your orgasm rockets through you. You essence squelches around him until it forces him out, continuing to spray and soil the both of you.

The two of you lie there with loud, hoarse pants for what feels like hours. You expect to turn and see the sun rising. It doesn’t matter because it’s sunny inside your body. The minute Jisung unties you, you’re reaching to hold him close. Your hands travel down his back and over his shoulders like you’d been craving. Somehow the come down is still so euphoric. You both buzz long after you’ve cum.

-🖊️⇝

It was two years ago that Minho put a code on his phone. He doesn’t use it for anything but checking emails and making calls, so he didn’t worry about most of the traditional phone activities. You never understood why putting a code on his phone was included in that, and you warned him multiple times that he would get his phone stolen. You knew that a code wouldn’t keep someone from getting in if they really wanted to, but you weren’t saying it to help him out. Besides, he’d just shrug anyway. 

So you went through his phone. 

You guys had a fight, back when they used to be coherent, and then he put a lock on his phone. All that to say, you couldn’t have prepared for Minho’s spotty appearances lately if you wanted to. You were serious about tracking him. The unknown was sure to kill you. Death was the only thing that could come from pain like this. You didn’t actually do it this time, did you?

Was he at someone’s house? Someone who’s been begging him to ditch you and enter a healthier relationship? Who could it be? He doesn’t go to church, his family either lives far away or are constantly going on trips, his friends have essentially rage quit their friendship… who else does that leave?

You wish that meant there was no other way he could’ve connected with someone, but it’s not true. He’s handsome and a great guy. There’s no way no one has approached him in all these years.

Your vision has long blurred, the show on the television becoming blobs of color. You haven’t showered since you’ve been with Jisung. You feel gross but have no desire to move. Whenever you hurt him, it’s intentional. Sometimes you even spend the night alone at a hotel and buy a shirt from the men’s section the next morning, pulling it onto your frame right before you get to the door. Right now, it’s completely subconscious. You’re going to Jisung’s in an hour and it’s the only thing that makes you feel like anything other than death. The warm feeling you get at the idea of being with Jisung doesn’t come from wanting a reaction out of Minho. That brings a dark, gnarling fear out of the depths of your soul.

You don’t like Jisung. You love Minho. That much is apparent when you see Jisung. He doesn’t give you butterflies. You just feel comfort in the way he can still fuck you with traces of his girlfriend everywhere.

Jisung freezes mid-greeting to look at your old clothes. You’re definitely different from your encounters at the club. He noticed you go from dominant and intimidating to submissive very gradually. It hit its peak when you had your arms crossed in his bedroom yesterday, refusing to initiate anything. He chuckles at you which earns him a scowl. He tugs you inside and kicks the door closed, leading you all the way to the shower. He’s back to taking complete control, pulling your dirty clothes off one by one. 

He steps behind you once his clothes are off, smoothing his hands over your now moistened skin. The hot water aids in raising the temperature between the two of you. Jisung finally feels you relax against him. He moves his hand down between your legs. He parts your thighs, letting the water trickle over your mound. His cock gets hard fast when he’s with you. You feel his shaft rest rigidly in between your cheeks as he lathers soap all over your body.

To your disappointment, he doesn’t fuck you in the shower. He simply rubs your body everywhere but where you need him. He steps out the minute all the suds have been rinsed off your skin. He tepidly dries himself off, tossing the towel over his shoulder. You watch him clean his glasses before putting them back on, only for them to fog right back up. He looks over at you questioningly. 

For a moment, with his eyes obscured, you can transplant the image of a younger Minho onto him. Your mind starts to wander to an alternate reality where Minho knew you were a lost cause right off the bat. How different would your dynamic be? Would there be one at all?

“You should’ve been on the bed by now. Hurry up and dry off.” Jisung’s voice and expression ooze with disappointment that makes your core hum. You dumbly turn off the water while keeping your eyes trained on his naked figure. This is your first time seeing him completely bare. You almost saw it yesterday, as he took a shower right after you chickened out of staying any longer.

When you climb onto the bed you hike your ass in the air again. His hand thundering down on your ass makes you jolt. “Not today.” He grunts as he lies down on his back. He rests his hands behind his head. 

“You were a fucking brat yesterday. Immediately putting me to work and then not staying quiet. Did you think I missed that at the end?” Jisung raises his eyebrows, scolding you both with his words and his eyes. You wish you could put the Jisung you first met and this one side by side. He is totally relaxed while easily maintaining control.

“Straddle me, and hold your arms together behind your back. You’re putting in work today.”

You bit your lip to stifle the whine threatening to get you punished. This is a pillow princess’ worst nightmare. Your eyes unwittingly move to his cock which is so hard gravity is failing to lay it flat on his stomach. Your fleeting thought to disobey just to get more effort and attention from him disappears. 

So you clasp both your wrists and slip onto his cock. You didn’t realize how wet you were until his head slid past your entrance. His cock feels so hot and so does his skin when your calves graze his thighs. It’s electrifying yet inviting. You get the urge to lean against his chest but he’d probably pull out, and that would annoy you enough to make you cry. 

And so you bounce, letting him see the front of you fully nude in all its glory. How your tits bounce and hips swing. He grabs your hips but not to guide you, to dig his fingers into flesh. 

This, you figure, is one of his favorite positions. You figure because it’s the first time he’s cum twice for you. That, and it’s the only position he repeated. For the next two weeks, he has bounced you on his cock while standing up with your legs tightly secured around him, had you flat on your back with your legs in the air on his dining room table, had you halfway off the couch while straddling him again, and so on. He always shows you a picture or a video once you get to the area of his choice. His calm dominance melts away just for a moment as he excitedly presents it to you. Him baring his deep passion to fuck you strangely doesn’t push you away. You find yourself squeezing your thighs, wide eyes matching his as he shows you the position.

The two of you have gone from barely speaking outside of sex to making out as soon as he opens the door. You both giggle like schoolkids in anticipation. You both joke through a blur of lips and teeth.

But that excitement and glee fades as soon as you’re back in your dreary apartment. The escalation of childlike joy when you’re at Jisung’s directly translates to escalated sorrow when you’re back at yours. 

You only catch glimpses of the back of Minho these days, either retreating to the bedroom or out of the apartment. You have the urge to sleep over Jisung’s for the rest of the time Jiwoo is gone. That somehow feels like crossing a line that’s comically insignificant at this point. You know Jisung would understand what you mean. That night you took a shower at his place, he washed your clothes for you.

“You could stay until they’re done.” Jisung suggests after some tense silence.

“No, I should go.” You shoot it down immediately. The option has always been unspoken but ever present. To stay a little longer, watch a movie, drink some water, maybe actually cuddle. Not like what you did the first night, where you ran out of there as soon as you realized you were caressing someone else.

“In what clothes?” Jisung chuckles. You glare at him again. You hate when he does that. Well, you did, until you realized you’re both horrible enough to have fun while being unfaithful. 

“Can’t I just borrow some of hers? I’ll wash those and-”

“No.”

Just then, the Jisung from the first time you met him was back. He wouldn’t meet your eyes, but you could see the raging conflict behind them. So you left with some of his clothes instead.

You told him you were in a relationship, but not much else about it. Since then there’s a mutual understanding of each other.

-🖊️⇝

You enter the apartment as soon as Minho leaves his room. He stares at you, clearly shocked. He probably expected to be gone before you came home, so you wouldn’t see him dressed up with his hair styled and your favorite cologne on. It’s been a long two weeks, so the stinging in your eyes turns into tears fast. He pushes past you and leaves the apartment, leaving you to collapse to the ground. The pain is immediate because the denial has shriveled up. You’re being forced to accept that it’s happening. Anger swiftly takes hold as you’re reminded of one hard to swallow truth. 

You stand up and grab the lamp beside the entrance. You shove it to the ground, the delicate glass covering shattering before the bulb does the same. You send the potted plant into the tv, throw a stack of plates onto the floor. Once your energy is spent, the fact is still there.

You have no right to be upset.

You throw a tantrum and break things because you made your own bed, but you have no right to do that either.

You deserve this.

You deserve him bringing a new girl home and fucking her loudly in the bed you used to share. You deserve him coming home every day and telling you what a worthless piece of shit you are. You deserve him introducing you to the girlfriend he’s been hiding from you and shoving his tongue down her throat right in front of you.

You deserve him giving up on you and admitting you were never fixable to begin with.

Your stomach caves from the sheer force of your sobs. Your body contorts, tangling within your bed sheets and kicking the cover off. You force yourself to imagine all these things he deserves to do to you even though it feels like it’s setting you on fire. You cry and cry until your body feels hollow and you stare numbly at the wall.

The sun rises.

-🖊️⇝

Your ears pick up each sound but it’s muffled. The sound of the door opening. The sound of his boots crunching against glass. The sound of him crying. The sound of him leaving. 

The sun sets. It’s time to see Jisung. 

Your body wobbles as you sit up. Your body feels like a ton of bricks. You rush to the bathroom, finally emptying your bladder. You’re going to his house with the same clothes from the day prior again.

He opens the door, chuckling just like the last time you did this. “No work today?”

You’re not in a laughing mood, though. You thought things would be like they had been. You’d be depressed while you were home and cheerful at Jisung’s place. But no, the tears break free and stream down your face. Jisung pulls you into the house, asks if you’re okay. He shouldn’t. People like you don’t deserve sympathy. You grit your teeth, grabbing his jaw and pulling him forward. He stiffly places his hands on your waist, hesitantly accepting the kiss.

You cup his cock, making him moan and grant your tongue entrance to his mouth. You push him toward the couch until he flops down onto it, looking at you in bewilderment. 

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” He asks just before you devour him again. You guide his hands to your breasts, whimpering when he pinches your nipples. 

“Fuck me.” You plead, voice weak and eyes glassy. Your eyes don’t plead him like they usually do. You’re deeply hurt, your lip trembling and shattering his heart. 

“Babe c’mon, let’s stop–” Jisung reaches up to caress your face, laughing awkwardly.

“Don’t call me that.” Your tone is venomous as you swat his hands away. Jisung is taken aback. Not because of your tone, but because he hadn’t realized he called you that.

Exasperated, you huff and reach for his dick. Once it’s free, you’re awkwardly shimmying off Jisung’s basketball shorts. Jisung is finding it difficult to find the words he’s looking for. It’s too late anyway, you’re sinking down onto his cock. Sex with you is like a defibrillator. It jolts life back into him, no matter how much the guilt is getting to him. It lets him set aside his worries for now to just focus on how wet and tight you are around him. The constant access to you is dizzying. Just when he’s coming down from his high, you’re back with another dose.

Without Jisung’s strict rules or constant orders you’re able to think. It’s horrible.

“Fucking choke me– ngh! Yell at me!” You grit out.

With this Jisung is back to reality with you. He stammers, your eyes and your words conflict each other.  He considers it, playing along while his heart’s not in it. The sex is going to be subpar today clearly, so it doesn’t matter what he does next.

“Jiwoo called me earlier today.”

You’re chugging along, hoping this transitions to him hissing demands at you. 

“Well, she calls me every day. I used to think it was because she was worried about me. I thought that was the same reason she hugged me so long before she left,” Jisung’s voice is conversational despite the strain your cunt squeezing him is giving it. His eyes are fussing with a conflict again. You stop, in exasperated shock that he’s opening up about this right now.

“She even gave me this look before she went out the door. So I kept telling her every time she called that I was okay and that she should have fun. That she didn’t have to call me every day because I was scared she’d call at the wrong time. But today…” Jisung feels his heart clench as he recalls her words.

“Things are going really great recently, aren’t they?” She laughed, it sounded so sweet. Jisung could hear the commotion of activities more fun than being on the phone in the background. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I think about you so much that it's hard to have fun while I’m here. I miss you so, so much… and I realize now that I don’t like being without you.” She laughed again, but this time Jisung could tell she was crying. “I kinda wanna come home?” 

She was asking him.

“W-what did you say?” You swallow hard, trying to hide the horror in your eyes. Would he really tell her to come home? Is she about to walk through the door and fulfill his fantasy? Your stomach drops as you glance over your shoulder.

“I said no.” Jisung says quietly. You turn back to see his bitter smile. “I stayed on the phone with her for hours to soothe her and convince her to stay.” Jisung huffs, attempting to blink away his tears and failing. His head droops, hiding from you. He hiccups, “She was so happy with me after I did that. She-”

You cradle his face, slowly lifting it to face you. Jisung looks upset at this, shoulders bouncing as he begins to cry harder. You try to wipe away his tears with your thumbs, shaking your head when they quickly get replaced.

“It’s better this way.” You say weakly. 

“What?” The frustration leaks through Jisung’s anguish. He tries to shake away your hands but you grab him more securely and force him to look in your eyes.

“You don’t want her to know how awful you truly are.” 

Seeing the pain intensify in your eyes, Jisung stills. Knowing he understands now, your hands drop from his face. Suddenly, you feel more alone than you have in weeks. You start to get up but Jisung’s hands caress your face now. A tear hangs on your eyelash as you gaze wearily at him. You wish he’d just let you go. At least rotting in your bed, you’d be faced with one facet of pain. Staying here with him is like watching the last bit of color drain from the world.

“Stay here.”

“No–”

“Stay.”

You stare at him, wondering if he’s just saying this because you’re the only one he can engage in this kink with. Then he kisses you. He inhales deeply as he threads his fingers through your hair. He captures your lips, detaches to breath and captures them again. The lack of tongue or teeth feels foreign. You can’t remember the last time Minho kissed you like this. It’s only been drunk and sloppy, rough out of anger, or awkward in pursuit of keeping your loveless relationship a secret. 

The only thing close to Jisung’s trembling lips against yours was when Minho first found out you fucked someone else. He pleaded with you to tell him it didn’t mean anything, to tell him that you still loved him. His lips then were frantic, refusing to let you slip away with his hands caging you in. If only you did slip away back then. His life would be better now.

But Jisung is steady. The underlying shame and regret don’t dull the passion flowing from his lips.

Another boundary has been crossed. The final one. There was no redemption to be desperately dug up to salvage your souls as you kiss each other like the world might fall off its axis if you stop. The two of you only break apart to moan as you ride him. Your hips grind against his lap, his dick as far in as it can go. You moan into each other’s mouth as Jisung’s climax brings you closer to yours.

And yours comes and goes. Your freshly showered bodies lay as close as you can get in his bed, arms wrapped tightly around each other.

-🖊️⇝

You jolt awake multiple times during the night, jolting Jisung awake with you. He just soothes you back to sleep, not asking about your nightmares detailing each scenario you forced yourself to imagine two nights ago.

Jisung leaves early in the morning, whispering to you to lock the door if you leave.

“You can stay, though.”

To your horror, Jisung kisses your cheek. Him falling for you hadn’t crossed your mind. He had always been so sex focused that romance seemed like a distant afterthought. He could have rubbed circles into your back each time you awoke because he was being nice. Your rationalizing is cut short as an even more horrifying thought rears its ugly head.

You wished he had kissed you on the lips.

-🖊️⇝

Judging by the mess you left behind, Minho must think you’re on a rage fueled bender right now. He never did check if you were in the room that morning, so maybe he thinks you trashed the apartment, left, and never came back. You know for a fact he’s worried. Very little could stop Minho from worrying about your safety. That’s why even someone like you never played that card to get his attention, and why you’re worried sick. You pace around Jisung’s apartment. Your phone is still at the apartment, shattered from your temper tantrum. He would probably report the incident to the police before he contacted you, but the sight of your phone broken on the floor with you nowhere to be found doesn’t encourage confidence.

The thing is, you can’t go back and face him. Walking in, completely unharmed and freshly showered, with some other man’s clothes on and guilt evident on your face would just cement it for him. All you would do at the point is apologize, and what’s left of his soul would shatter right in front of you. You clamp your hand over your mouth, unable to bear the image of Minho realizing there’s actually someone else. You’re horrible to him, but the only thing he could be sure of is that you only love him. You imagine it’s the only thing keeping him around.

Minho putting together that all these years of pain and suffering and praying you’ll change has culminated in someone else getting the appreciation he deserves could change him forever.

So you lower your hand from the door knob.

-🖊️⇝

That night with Jisung was different. You were both so overwrought with guilt that you spent the evening taking turns soothing each other. When you finally had sex, it was more tender than it ever should be. He was hovering over you, looking straight into your eyes and he smoothed his hand over your hair. He peppered soft kisses all over your face. You loved every second of it. You showered together again and cuddled in bed. 

“Minho? Is that his name?” The sound of his name makes you flinch. You move away from Jisung who looks at you in confusion. 

“Don’t say his name!” You shout, stumbling out of bed. He blinks at you as you start to gather your clothes. He follows after you, stammering an apology. 

“Y-you said his name in your sleep yesterday. I’m sorry– I–”

“Just stop!” You’re more panicked than angry, which comes through in your voice. You’re loud, so it could be heard through the door. Pounding against the door makes you gasp, you stumble backwards. Jisung catches you, pulling you close.

“Who’s there!” Jisung shouts.

“Open the door!” Minho shrieks, his throat sounds like it’s tearing from the sheer force. Jisung grabs the bat, readying it before swinging the door open. Before he can even threaten him, Minho is pushing past him, eyes frantic as they search for you. When he finds you, you see it. You’re clean, unharmed, wearing nothing but Jisung’s shirt as you hug your body. 

He’s putting the pieces together.

Your mouth feels dry, your tongue feels like it’s swelling. The way Minho’s shoulders slouch makes your chest ache. He shakes his head at you in disbelief. 

“Your purse.” He gestures weakly at the bag sitting on the couch from when you entertained the idea of going home. “The tag is connected to my phone because I knew you’d do this.” Despite being so quiet, his words slash you open. 

“Minho…” Your trembling hands cover your mouth. This is it. This is it.

“Minho I didn’t mean to scare you I swear–”

“You can have the apartment.” The words fight their way from Minho’s mouth, but he’s not able to look at you. 

“Minho?” You try pitifully. Minho just drops his head, lingering for just one more moment before leaving. Jisung is quick to hold you, caress the back of your neck as if to cushion the incoming sobs. But they don’t come. 

-🖊️⇝

“For some ungodly reason, he’s going to keep paying your lease.” You gape at the woman. She doesn’t introduce herself, but you know it’s her. The one he wore your favorite cologne for. 

“He told me not to but fuck it– don’t contact him.” She shoves a finger into your face. “Don’t go looking for him, don’t make this any worse than you already have for the past twelve years.” She pauses, waiting for your reaction, seemingly expecting you to explode on her. You nod, finally closing your mouth that had been hung open this entire time. 

“Okay.”

She looks confused before she shakes her head and walks off of Jisung’s porch. 

-🖊️⇝

Jisung comes home with Chinese takeout. 

“I’m going to set it on the table.” He says breathlessly as he takes off his coat and hangs it on the coat hanger that his girlfriend undoubtedly picked out. She’ll be back in five days. He’ll erase any signs of you and go back to normal. 

“Are you hungry?” He asks.

“What the fuck are we doing?” You say before you can stop yourself. It’s quiet for a moment, and you refuse to turn around and see his face. 

“What?”

“Why would I sit at that table and eat with you?” You stand up, finally turning around once the emotions stirring inside you are potent enough. You interrupt him before he can answer.

“Your loving girlfriend is going to come home soon.”

“That doesn’t change anything. I mean, we can still meet at your place–”

“She’s going to propose to you, Jisung.” He freezes for a moment, but you can tell by his face that he still doesn’t get it. 

“Do you seriously think she’ll never be suspicious? That she won’t wake up one night and realize you’re not there? Then she’ll pretend she’s asleep and hear you walk out. Then she’ll be more aware of the clues. You smell like perfume that’s not hers, there was a small amount of lipstick smudged on your collar, you’re sexually satisfied all of a sudden,”

Jisung swallows, “Then we’ll be careful.”

“Are you seriously willing to risk your relationship?” You ask, a nasty hint of amusement in the way you raise one brow at him. He closes his mouth.

You laugh loudly, the laughter spiraling out of control before you finally catch your breath.

“I fucking knew it.” Your expression sours, settling into a bitter one as you yank your purse off the hook.

“Don’t leave…”

“I don’t give a fuck about you. Don’t waste your time on someone who wouldn’t care if you died. Focus on your fucking fiancee.” You look back sligthly before slamming the door behind you. 

Jisung wasn’t sure why he felt a bit panicked. His heartbeat accelerated as he stabilized himself against the counter. The slam of the door echoed in his head over and over until Jiwoo was kneeling in front of him, surrounded by all their friends and family. Everyone swooned, there were tears in Jiwoo’s eyes and all her friends' eyes. 

“Han Jisung, will you marry me?”

Jisung looked around frantically, feeling like the world was spinning. Only then did he realize why he was immediately panicked by you leaving. It was solidified by the fact that he couldn’t get in contact with you. He never did get your address, and you either never got another phone or changed your number.

Jisung’s breaths felt like they couldn’t break free. 

He was suffocating.

“Yes.”

-> end of act i

[sixoclockuty]

staring at my mutuals when they post things abt doing activities and such with their mutuals and i sit there and think “man i wish i was mutual enough to engage in that activity” bitch you can’t get more mutual than literally being mutuals

[rosicheeks]

✨voice kink voice kink voice kink voice kink voice kink voice kink voice kink voice kiiiiiiinkkkkk✨

[funshape]

if they had tumblr in spongebob times

🧽 bubbleblowingbuddy Follow

who wanna go jellyfishing after work? just got a new net 😄

(7 notes)

🗿squidwords Follow

my fucking god can you guys not read the text under my art posts IF YOURE GONNA LIKE MY ART FUCKING REBLOG IT. LAST TIME IM GONNA SAY THIS if i catch you liking and not reblogging under my next self portrait series i’m gonna start getting REAL BOLD with that block button istg

#and squilliam if ur reading this which i FUCKING KNOW you are #stop block evading i know you’re making new accounts to stalk my blog on #come off anon and stop vagueing me on main #I KNOW you’re sending your followers to send anon hate #and no i WILL NOT forget what you did to me #at the bikini bottom talent show #YOU NASTY LYING BITCH.

(1 note)

🐿️ treedomepilled Follow

going here once would fix 90% of this sites userbase forever

#texasposting

(1302 notes)

⭐️ rock-star638226 Follow

the group chat is bullying me over my room setup and i can’t take it anymore please tell me this doesn’t look like something from r/malelivingspaces please. pplease

(515 notes)

🦑 squill-i-am Follow

can we talk about how pathetic the people on this site who post their art and then go “REBLOGS > LIKES!!!! DONT LIKE WITHOUT REBLOGGING!” under it are like seriously omfg deeeeply unappreciative selfish behavior are you 12. sorry not everyone wants to put your shitty oil paintings from your 5 follower art blog on their mutuals dashes i guess. and your art is probably ugly as barnacles if you need to beg for reblogs on it to get any amount of traction on it anyway, just saying😭

(672 notes)

🦀 krusty-krab-money-grab Follow

Hey anyone else working the afternoon shift rn just see a little green thing run past the cash register? what was that

(4 notes)

🦠 rate-the-chumbucket-5stars-onyelp Follow

DHRHEH THFORUMELA ITS THE FORUMEUAR THE THRREAL FORMULER I FUCKING GOT IT QUICNQUICK REBLOG THIS BEFORE THOSE CAPITALIST FREAKS AT THE KRUSTY KRAB SEND A CEASE AND DESIST GET THIS EVERYWHERE CONTACT BIKINI BOTTOM NEWS GET THEFUCKIGN WORD OUT THIS IS WHAT THEY DONT WANT YOU TO KNOW GO GO GO

#krusty krab critical #anti krusty krab #secretforumlagate

(839 notes)

🐋 pearlygirlie Follow

turning off anon for a while because oomf is in some sstupid drama and now i’m catching strays for it. mutuals can contact me on discord if you want i’m not saying anything about my stance on the situation because either way i’ll get hate for it. this website sucks

🔁🐋 pearlygirlie Follow

yes oomf is my dad.

(320 notes)

[ghoulphile]

janey's dad | c.h./the ghoul | part 01

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 3.7k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; age gap, hair pulling, teasing, making out, mutual pining, lipstick kink, stockings, frottage, porn w/ feelings, porn w/ plot, mild angst w/ happy ending, divorced!coop, babysitter!reader, pre-war/bomb ➥ summary | “We really, uh, shouldn’t - oh fuck, you look --” ➥ notes | i'm so sorry this is later than it should be. i am unfortunately a corporate slave and this fic just did not want to cooperate 🫠 there are a lot more things planned and this fic is turning into a bit of a beast (20+ pages and counting rip lmao) so i've decided to split it into two parts to make it more manageable for myself mostly un-beta'd atm a special thanks to @corinthianism for all her lovely help ❤️!!

feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | masterlist

Divorce is hard, but being a divorcé is downright hellish.

One of the ugliest things in the world, if Cooper Howard has any say. At least when he was a Marine, they told him where to point his gun, where to aim; nameless threats vanishing with a quick squeeze of the trigger.

Here, these ‘enemies’ aren’t enemies — not really.

It’d be easier if they were.

Worse still, they have names he holds as dearly as his own. There’s Barb, whip smart and always so clever. Then Janey, the light of his life and so sweet his teeth ache.

Once upon a time, life was sweeter than apple pie on Sundays.

Then came the separation.

Afterwards, he finds it hard to look at what’s left of his family without losing breath like a horse kick to the chest. Their absence rips open a hole inside him ten miles wide, its edges jagged and wrong.

And when he can’t take the silence anymore, fingers of malt liquor help dull the ache, though it’ll never be enough to mend what’s broken.

See, war’s something he understands.

But these domestic battlefields where he sits across from his ex-wife while lawyers barter this weekend and that holiday?

How he struggles to meet his daughter’s eye every time she asks if he’s coming home?

When Barb keeps the house and the money while he keeps the scrapbooks and the dog?

He doesn’t — can't — refuses to comprehend.

Because in what world can you reconcile looking down the barrel of a smoking gun only to find the woman you love staring back, finger on the trigger? Left out to hang as Vault-Tec orchestrates his downfall.

The true depth of their involvement is unknown, but it’s no coincidence his bank accounts dried up faster than the Mojave in June. The ink still wet when the media snapped up the story of his failed marriage.

Thus, his reputation (rather what’s left of it) unraveled faster than a spool of thread.

Knocked on his ass and kept there by a boot heel crushing his windpipe. Whose? He hasn’t got a fucking clue.

But whoever they are, they’re making sure he stays a washed up nobody who struggles to land a call back, much less pay his monthly alimony on time.

See what we can do? You were America’s favorite gunslinger - now look at you. Mind your place.

Hell, millions used to scream his name.

Nowadays people whisper it behind their hands like a dirty secret, “Oh, did you hear? Cooper Howard…” as they dissect pieces of his life into bite-sized Before’s and After’s. “Hah! Serves him right. Y’know, I never liked him much.”

While he grits his teeth and swallows his bitterness with a smile, he hates how he can’t protect Janey from snide reporters and nosy strangers. Juggling actor-father-divorcé with fumbling hands.

It’s only been six months; a heartbeat, a lifetime, and already he’s scraped thin like butter over too much bread.

Something’s gotta give.

After all, he’s only one man.

But just when it's bleakest, the clouds part.

A young woman moves in next door, the first bright thing that’s come his way in a long, long while.

At first, he kept his distance.

Exchanged vague hello’s and how-are-you’s. Then Janey took a shine; always so friendly and eager to talk about her latest books.

Any reservations he might’ve had died when he saw how enamored you are with her.

Only made sense that over time small pleasantries turned into playdates. Then those playdates turned into sleepovers.

Before long, you’re watching her when a gig runs late.

Rustling up grub and tucking her into bed more often than not these days. And when he slinks in through the door, knees aching and stripped to the bone, there you are with a shy smile and a warm meal.

So what if he takes himself in hand after you leave, stroking his cock to the thought of you down on your knees in that pretty little sundress?

Imagines the wide stretch of your ruby lips as you swallow him down, lipstick smeared an awful mess?

Cums hard to the fantasy of your teary eyes and hiccupy breaths as you choke?

What you don’t know can’t hurt you.

After all, he’s a gentleman... he promises to keep his hands to himself.

“All right, Sugar Bomb, it’s bedtime.”

Bundled in navy bedding up to her nose, Janey’s wide brown eyes peer up at you from beneath a riot of frizzy curls. Roosevelt, her ever faithful companion, plasters himself to her side. The tip of his tail swishes once, twice before falling limp.

“Ah, c’mon guys. Don’t look at me like that.” You sigh with a fond shake of the head, hip popping out to rest against the doorframe. “I don’t make the rules, I just follow ‘em.”

A muffled response sounds from the lump of little girl, “Nmfhm.”

Squinting, you dip your head and tap the side of your ear, "Pardon?"

“Mnhfmmmm.”

“Ye—eah… Didn’t catch that, Mumbler.”

Janey tugs down the blanket, her mouth pursed in a moue of displeasure. “I said,” she crosses her arms with a huff, “not until Dad gets home.”

Shit.

“M’sorry, baby. He’s still gonna be a while.” Walking across the room, you stop beside the bed and motion your hand back and forth. “Scooch over.”

Gangly limbs fumble as Janey wiggles into the middle of the mattress, her feet tangling in the blankets. Roosevelt takes a toe to the nose during the transition, but flops across her knees all the same.

Together they settle with a bounce of springs.

In the open space, you slide in.

The bed sinks under your weight, a plume of rich cologne tickling your nose; mint-spiced citrus. Cooper. Your stomach swoops, and your heart trips.

“I didn’t see him at breakfast — or lunch!” A pout tugs at her mouth. “Not even dinner. I gotta go home tomorrow. So when am I gonna see him?”

“Oh, bug.” You sigh, propping yourself up on your elbow. “Your dad’s been real busy at work. And I know that’s been hard for you, but I promise to make sure he’s here for breakfast tomorrow.”

“D’you mean it?” Her cold nose digs into your skin. “Me and Roosevelt miss him so much.”

Cuddled into your chest, Janey tosses an arm around your back. Her fuzzy head rests in the crook of your arm, springy curls tickling your skin.

You squeeze her tight and trace your fingertips over her forehead.

“I can do you one better,” you say, bopping the tip of her nose just to hear her giggle - a soft sound that sits warm and gooey in your chest. “I pinkie-promise.”

Her finger loops around yours, so small and fragile.

“I’ll even make pancakes. How’s that sound for a promise?”

“Oh, yes, please! I think Dad will like that,” a wide yawn cuts her off mid-sentence. “He’s sad, but he always smiles when you make food.”

Janey’s words — unexpected as they are sudden — cut so deep it steals the breath from your lungs. You flounder, your heart a throbbing bruise in your chest.

“... Then pancakes it is.”

As if nothing happened at all, she asks, “Do I have to go to bed now?”

“Afraid so, little miss.” Your responding chuckle sounds stilted even to your own ears. “Just you wait. When you wake up, Dad’ll be home.”

“Fi—ine, but I want extra pancakes.” Janey pauses, considers you with narrow eyes, then adds, “With syrup!”

“Whatever you want,” you say with an indulgent smile. “Now... time to sleep. It’s really past your bedtime.”

She gives you one last squeeze then lets you tuck her in nice and tight, blankets pulled up to her chin. You drop a kiss on her forehead while Roosevelt re-settles on the pillow beside her after a quick scratch behind the ears. 

Everything in order, you turn to go only for a little hand to stop you.

“Yes?” you reply, glancing at her from over your shoulder.

“... can you put on one of Dad's movies?”

The tremble in her voice - like she’s about to get scolded - breaks your heart clean down the middle. Stitching on a soft smile, you nod and walk to the darkened TV set in the room's corner.

After fiddling with the nobs, static flashes to life.

“The Man from Deadhorse okay?”

The holotape sliding into the track swallows the sound of her tiny “Yeah.” Starting up with a whirl of machinery, the second-hand Radiation King flickers to life in black-and-white.

A vast plain and bright sky stretches across the screen.

Then Sugarfoot creeps into frame with the one and only Cooper Howard sitting astride the noble steed. The sheriff’s badge on his chest glints in the sun.

“Thank you,” she mumbles, already half-way to sleep.

“Anything for you, baby. Sleep tight.”

Flicking off the lights, you leave the door cracked. Walk away pretending like hearing her whisper goodnight to the TV doesn’t lance through you like lightning.

The desire to whisk her into your arms and soothe all of her ails is almost impossible to ignore.

Somehow, you distract yourself by wiping up the table, then by fixing a plate of dinner for whenever Cooper rolls in. Though all the while, how brokenhearted Janey sounded sits in the back of your mind like a leaden weight.

When Cooper stumbles into the living room, it’s half past midnight.

You’d gotten up to greet him, curled as you were in an armchair reading, when something about the stern line of his mouth gave you pause.

Where the usual lighthearted greetings lingered, a pensive stillness trembled to life.

Tension crackles through the air; a held breath of agitation. By the faraway gaze and defeated slump of his broad shoulders, it’s plain to see the night didn’t go as intended. And no matter how much you long to soothe, you can’t.

After all, he’s not yours to touch.

Instead, you offer a sympathetic smile and ask, “Rough night, huh?”

Cooper ignores the prompt, squeezing past with a brief touch to your elbow as he makes a beeline for the dry bar. The heat of his body is there and gone in a flash, his cologne teasing your senses. He says, “Thought you’d be asleep by now.”

Your heart flutters in your throat. “Ah,” you lick your lips, “well, I was going to finish my chapter first.”

Humming, he turns his back to you and fiddles with high balls and decanters. The tink of crystal glassware fills the air as he speculates which alcohol goes best with his mood. 

“Thanks again for watching Janey.” He nods in approval and fixes his whiskey neat. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, Mr. Howard.” You shrug. “She’s a sweetheart.”

He shoots you a dry look from over his shoulder, stirring the dark amber of his drink with a forefinger. When he sucks his skin clean with a soft pop - a flash of a pink tongue taunting, teasing - your stomach swoops.

God, I wonder what else his mouth can do.

Flustered, you clear your throat and stare at a spot on the wall.

“How many times do I gotta tell you to call me Coop?” he says, digging through some drawers until he finds what he’s searching for: a lighter. “It must be a million and one by now.”

Flint sparks as flames jump, eating away at the end of a cigarette. Cooper inhales in short little puffs, pulling on the filter. His cheeks hollow, the shadows enhancing the cut of his jaw before the tip catches alight.

“Well,” he exhales, his gaze catching yours through a plume of smoke as he turns, brow raised. “Anything to say for yourself?”

“Old habits die hard, I guess,” you chuckle.

The corner of his mouth lifts in a lopsided smirk. “I’ll drink to that.” He knocks back the last finger of whiskey before refilling with gin.

Springs groan in protest when he drops to the couch, settling in with an outstretched arm and wide spread thighs.

“It’s been a long fucking day,” he rasps.

Gulping, you try to ignore the space at his feet.

The stirrings of desire provoked by the urge to sink to your knees and fill it with your body, to ease tension from those shoulders with your hands, your mouth, your cunt — if he’d let you.

“You heading home?” Nursing the fresh drink, he swallows a mouthful, only to hiss low through his teeth at the chemical burn. His throat bobs, framed by the open collar of his shirt. “Whew! Goddamn, that’s strong.”

“No, I can stay for a while.” A bird on a wire, you perch on the cushion beside him. “Got nothing else planned for tonight, anyhow.”

Cooper snorts. “I doubt that very much. A sweet young thing like you,” he motions towards you with his glass, “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of fellas calling, especially on a Friday night. Don’t waste your time with me.”

“That’s not why I--” you stop yourself short.

Save for the bustling LA avenue right outside the complex, the apartment itself is stone silent for several heartbeats. Words hover on the back of your tongue, catching in the bend of your throat molasses thick.

Meanwhile, Cooper continues to swirl the alcohol in his glass.

Maybe in a different life, you wouldn’t hesitate to express yourself.

But here — with him — you shouldn’t.

Christ sake, he’s a grieving divorcé, you chastise yourself. The last thing he needs is me trying to lay one on him.

When you speak, his name glides off your lips for the first time, clementine sweet, “... Cooper, I’m not wasting my time. I enjoy spending it with Janey - and you.”

“Well,” he husks, hooded eyes dragging down your visage in a slow once-over, “you’re the first one in a long while to feel that way, sweetheart.”

Dripping like honey whiskey from Cooper’s lips, the simple phrase burns its way down-down-down until it blooms like liquid fire in your belly. Warms you all the way to your toes as your heart pounds against your ribcage.

“I mean it.” Your knuckles twist in the pleats of your sundress, bolts of blue fabric bunched around your knees. “Everything I do is because I want to.”

The flash of red nails plucking at the sheer nylon of your stockings snaps up his attention, his gaze snagging - staying as he chases the curve of your exposed leg, hungry.

He wets his lips, and tenses his jaw when he spots how the soft fat of your thigh dimples in because of your garter. “That’s awful sweet of you to say.”

You tremble beneath the intensity of his attention.

Greedy.

Little kisses of awareness spark bright along the path his eyes carve like the caress of shy fingertips.

However, before you’re able to confront him about his interest, the heat leaches from his expression, grows mute and cold like a muzzled dog. 

Readjusting the waistband of his slacks with a tug, he says, “I know you got better things to do than keep an old man company.”

Irritation sparks. “Cooper--”

“If this is about paying you for tonight,” his lips quirk into a sheepish smile, “I won’t be able to yet.” He scrubs a hand through the stubble peppered along his jaw. “The gig tonight didn’t… Well, it doesn’t matter.”

“No, that’s not what I --”

He plows on, “Anyway, the one I’ve got tomorrow should be enough. How about I stop by around seven o’clock? I’ll treat you to dinner as an apology.”

Frustration bubbles beneath the surface of your skin, antagonism thrumming through your veins. Your hands shake almost as much as your voice. “Cooper!”

“I… uh, yes?” He blinks.

Your brows furrow. “You don’t get it,” you say. “I mean, you truly don’t know?”

“I’m afraid there’s a lot I don’t get. You’re gonna have to be more particular.”

Maybe not said in so many words (or at all) but actions speak far louder.

Otherwise, why else would you spend most of your time in his apartment, fill every spare moment with Janey, and reserve evenings for his company?

Hell, you even cook and clean!

Almost scream your interest from the rooftops, and it’s obvious to everyone but him, it seems.

Here you are thinking he was preserving your dignity whenever he ignored a passing comment or lingering touch when, in fact, he’d been oblivious to their existence to begin with.

How a man can be so obtuse when you’re throwing yourself at him is beyond you.

If he wasn’t so captivating…

“Are you kidding me,” you ask, mindful of your tone, “how could you not know?” You throw your hands in the air. “I’ve been — for months!”

“Well, I don’t have a goddamn clue what you’re talking about, sweetheart,” he snarks, setting his glass on the table. “Care to enlighten me?”

Fine. If that’s how he wants to play, let’s play.

When he moves to take another drag from his cigarette, you strike, fingers locking around his wrist mid-lift. And although his glassy eyes narrow, he keeps his hand still.

Waiting to see what you'll do.

Tucking your knee under you for balance, you bend forward and watch his face from beneath your lashes. When your lips wrap around the filter, a dark hunger bleeds into his expression, his pulse a steady thud against the pad of your thumb.

Inhaling, the cherry lights up, a flashbang in the dim overhead light.

Cooper’s breath hitches, and then you’re pulling away with a lungful of smoke; the taste of ash heavy on your tongue.

He tracks your movements with greed, gaze flicking for the briefest of moments past your chin before refocusing on the ring of red lipstick staining white paper.

“If you wanted one,” he chokes, gripping the back of the couch with white knuckles, “all you had to do was ask.”

With a coquettish grin, you exhale to the side and stare at him with hooded eyes. “Is that so?” Plucking the cigarette out of his limp hold, you stub it out in the ashtray. “What if I wanted to ask for something else, Mr. Howard?”

The next moment finds you deposited in his lap, his hands shooting out to grab at your waist only to freeze before they make contact.

“Woah! I--”

“Tell me something.”

Your lips caress the shell of his ear, sharing breath - sharing space as you plaster yourself to his front, arms looped over his shoulders. He jolts, body trembling with restraint.

“Would you give me what I wanted if I said please?”

The distance between you snaps taut with anticipation. “C-Coop,” he stutters. “Call me Coop.”

You hum. “Well, Coop, would you?”

“That depends almost entirely on what you’re asking for, sweetheart.”

Red nails skate along the back of his neck, play in the downy soft hair of his nape just to feel him shiver. And then you’re leaning back with your hands braced on his knees, your legs falling open in invitation.

The hem of your dress bunches around your waist, exposing the soft cotton of your underwear, and the darkened patch of slick soaking through.

“I think you know exactly what I want,” you purr. “Because you want it too. Don’t you?”

He bites down on a strangled moan when your hips arch forward, rocking the soft plush of your ass against the heavy weight of his thickening cock. The zipper digs into your skin as he tents the front of his slacks.

Mouth dropping open, his tongue flicks out to wet his lips - a slick circle of temptation that makes you clench. “I, uh, I don’t…”

Reaching between your splayed thighs, you hook a finger beneath your panties and pull the fabric aside. He jerks forward, exhaling hard at the flash of your soaked cunt and twitching clit.

“C’mon, be honest.”

With a sigh, you gather your arousal on the tips of your fingers.

Cooper’s gaze is a heavy weight pinning you in place as you pretend it’s him dragging his knuckles over the top of your mond. Him dragging calloused fingers up along sticky folds to play with your sensitive clit, ripping soft little mewls from your lips.

“Can’t you see what you do to me, Coop?” you say, pulling your hand away to show the webs of slick stretching between your fingers. “I’m so wet. Please, I’ve wanted you for so long…”

His hips rock against your ass in an aborted thrust. “Shit - shit!” Eyes slamming shut, he grits his teeth and digs his fingers into your sides hard enough to bruise. “We really, uh, shouldn’t - oh fuck, you look --”

“Why not?” Your hand brushes over his groin. “I can feel how hard you are.”

“It isn’t right, that’s why.” He stutters, stumbles over his words, “Besides, Janey…”

“I can be quiet,” you say, lips trembling. “I promise.”

“Goddamnit, you can’t say things like that and expect me not to --” Cutting himself off, strong fingers seize your chin and tilt until you’re met with Cooper’s severe expression, his scorching gaze. “You need to tell me now: are you sure this is what you want?”

There’s no hesitation, “Yes.”

In what world would you refuse?

The words barely pass your lips before Cooper’s bowing his dark head, mouth ravenous as it captures yours in a slick glide of bruising lips and hungry tongues.

He steals your breath, licks into your mouth and traces along the sensitive inside of your lip.

Pulse jump starting, your toes curl over the edge of the cushion and your thighs squeeze the barrel of his chest, kneecaps digging into his ribs.

“Oh,” a moan punches itself out of your throat - a breathy little thing swallowed up by his lips. “That’s--”

Anticipation swells, simmers between you like a band before it snaps. A strong forearm locks around your waist, tugging you into the cradle of his chest until you’re plastered from stem to stern.

Too hungry for tenderness as his free hand slips up to cup the back of your head, fingers catching in the briar of your hair and tugging at the roots.

You claw at his shoulders while sparks of pain ricochet down your neck, sufficing into a prickly flush that heats your blood. “Hnn, Cooper,” you gasp.

He murmurs your name through languid flicks of his tongue and sharp little nips of skin that leave your mouth tender and swollen. When he pulls away to survey his handiwork, his eyes are dark. Fathomless.

"I never thought I'd get the chance to kiss you like this," he says, wicking his thumb over the pillow of your bottom lip. "You taste as good as I imagined."

Dragging your nails across his scalp, you plead, “No more teasing - I can't take it.”

"Well," he grunts, fingers twisting up in your dress, “If that’s how you feel, then you better put those hips to good use and work for it, sweetheart."

part 2 dropping soon

[forlix]

𝐚𝐜𝐞・h.h.

— volleyball superstar and your personal hell hwang hyunjin proposes a trade-off you can't refuse: his matchmaking services for a passing anthropology grade. the plan is foolproof in theory; in practice, it is something else entirely.

words・15.2k

pairing・volleyball player!hyunjin x tutor!reader (gn)

genres・college!au, sports!au, fake enemies to friends to lovers, fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn. two polar opposites sharing one soul. a seungjin fic if u squint. loosely inspired by the manga/anime haikyuu!!

warnings・mentions of anxiety, fear of failure, heartbreak, loneliness, and self-image. course language and callous banter (as always) ft. suggestive flirting and one kms joke. some of the referenced players and coaches are real; this fic is not.

playlist・collision by stray kids・value by ado・waiting for us by stray kids・eternity by bang chan・dreaming by smallpools・fly high!! by burnout syndromes

a/n・writing this felt like returning to my roots tbh. i love volleyball and i love sports aus and i love, love hwang hyunjin. thank u to my sahar for bringing this fic to life with me, as always; i can no longer write for him without also writing for you. i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i adored writing it. happy late birthday, our jinnie, our hyunjin, our forever ace; you are so unbelievably loved ♡

“Not a word out of you,” you say, tossing your backpack onto the floor of the lecture hall with a heavy-handed flick. “I’m serious.”

Hyunjin glances up at you with a frown. “When did people stop saying good morning?”

Your lack of an immediate comeback tells him the situation is dire. He observes you for a moment, his mouth falling open, hanging still, then curving into a slow, serpentine smile.

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Please, angel.”

“No! Leave me alone.”

Hyunjin slumps back into his seat, thinking hard. The solution occurs to him with a poke of his tongue into his cheek. “Coffee on me for a week.”

At this, your hands stop rummaging in your bag. You cock your head, your interest piqued. Got you. 

When you finally humor him and turn around, you’re flinching like you’re in pain, eyes closed and breath held and all. He giggles and leans in for a closer look. Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He could’ve counted your eyelashes if he wasn’t so flummoxed by the state of your forehead.

“What the hell did you do?”

“Tried to cut my own bangs,” you sigh. “It didn’t go very well and now I look like Rock Lee.”

Hyunjin lets out a forceful laugh. “You’ve seen Naruto?”

You open your eyes. Only then does Hyunjin remember how little distance he left between your faces, when he’s staring straight into them and all the strange, starry speckles they hold.

The air between you curdles like sour milk.

Things are awkward between you often, he’s realized recently. What’s more, he didn’t think he was capable of being awkward with anyone anymore until he met you. It was your ill-fated seat that he chose to sit next to on the first day of ANTH 111, your ill-fated lap onto which he chose to spill his Americano, and the rest was history (or, in this case, anthropology). His tongue ends up in sailor’s knots with every smart-aleck comment and pitiful laugh you’ve given him since. Maybe there’s more to it, maybe there isn’t—Hyunjin doesn’t think about it much. He doesn’t like thinking in general.

You pull away from each other in unison. You clear your throat, glancing elsewhere. 

“Of course I’ve seen Naruto,” you quip, and everything is normal again. “Why do you seem surprised?”

“Because you’re so scholarly.”

“I am not scholarly.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You go to a park to play chess with old people on weekends.”

“I need to get my steps in somehow.”

“You didn’t know what Urban Dictionary was until I told you to look up—”

“God, I learned so much about you that day."

“Your favorite social media platform is Quizlet,” he bursts, exasperated. “Quizlet.”

“It is not.” An introspective pause. “Or is it?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Hyunjin throws his feet up on the chair below him, jabs in your direction with a bandaged finger. “There is no way you enjoy watching 2D men beat each other up in your free time. I don’t buy it.”

“Honestly, I thought you’d have more to say about my current appearance than my hobbies.”

He does, though. Matter of fact, he’s been curating a list since this conversation started: Vector from Despicable Me, Dora the Explorer’s hot older sibling, Spock. You face-planted into a lawnmower. You mistook a paper shredder for a hat. It goes on.

But then his head turns. Your eyes meet again. He’s reminded that it’s hard to sustain an inner monologue and look at you at the same time, Vector resemblance and all.

He reaches up, nudges a lock of your hair over a centimeter or so, and gives the patch of forehead a gentle flick.

“Watermelon,” he mumbles with a sickening smile.

You divert your attention to your lecture notes with a disappointed click of your tongue. “You’re getting soft.”

He spends the entire lecture daydreaming about tropical coastlines.

“I only get coffee from that one place on the east side of campus, by the way,” you say as you’re strolling out the building together, “and I get it a very specific way. Can you handle it?”

“Your faith gets me out of bed in the morning,” Hyunjin deadpans. “I’ll handle it, love. Text me your order.”

All of a sudden, you position your hands close to your stomach, the lapels of your jacket casting them in shadow. Your fingers begin to move in a sequence that he’d recognize anywhere.

“Body flicker jutsu,” you whisper, and then you’re scurrying off without another word—but you do glance back at him to gauge his response. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the main quad’s busy thrum.

Hyunjin gapes at your retreating figure for so long that phosphenes start prancing around his field of view. Then he heads to the gym. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram.

“Hwang, I need you in my office.”

Hyunjin stops lacing up his shoes to see Coach Bang standing on the court’s sideline with a grim air about him. He glances at his captain, confused.

“Don’t look at me,” Minho says mid-stretch. “Godspeed.”

“Thanks, cap.” Useless.

Head volleyball coach Christopher Bang’s workspace reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. It’s all fluorescent lights and spotless white walls, the only decorative fixture a picture of his siblings, parents, and dog in front of the Sydney Opera House, framed and facing him atop his desk. Hyunjin once snuck the thing into the bathroom, an innocent plot to satiate his curiosity, and promptly discovered the man’s propensity for violence. He’s packing beneath those dry-cleaned polos, by the way.

Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. “You can read, right?”

“Yes, coach,” he sighs. Everyone’s expectations for him are subterranean.

From: Park Jinyoung «asiansoul_jyp@snu.edu» To: Bang “Christopher” Chan «cb97@snu.edu» Subject: Not good See email from Hwang’s antopology professor below . He submitted the complete script of the Trolls movie instead of his mid term paper and now he’s failing the class . Not good . Sort out ASAP JP Sent from my iPad

Bang snatches up his mouse and scrolls, his ears turning scarlet. “Wrong email.”

“Yep.”

From: Kim Kyeyoung «kyeyoungkim@snu.edu» To: Park Jinyoung «asiansoul_jyp@snu.edu» Subject: Regarding Hwang Hyunjin To Director of Athletics Park, I am writing to inform you that, as of yesterday, Mr. Hwang Hyunjin has a D- (64.9%) in ANTH 111: Cultural Anthropology, due to his submission of the complete script of a kids’ movie instead of his midterm paper. It is disappointing to see Mr. Hwang trivialize and ridicule my class to such a degree. Please see to it that he reorganizes his priorities lest his Student-Athlete Participation Agreement do so for him. Regards, Kim Kyeyoung Professor of Anthropology

“That’s bullshit!”

“We’re in agreement there.” Bang folds his arms over his chest, throws his foot over his knee. “Do you know what your Student-Athlete Participation Agreement says?”

“Does anyone?” Hyunjin scoffs. Bang whips out a form and brings it to eye level, the thing covered from top to bottom in microscopic Times New Roman. “No way you just had that.”

“I had it delivered ten minutes ago,” Bang confesses, then clears his throat and begins to recite. “All student-athletes must complete the academic term with a C or higher in all courses, should they wish to continue their participation in athletics thereafter.”

Hyunjin stiffens. “What the fuck? I’ve never heard—”

“If any Department of Athletics personnel,” Bang continues, raising his voice, “have reason to believe that a student-athlete will not be able to satisfy this requirement, they are encouraged to utilize resources such as academic advising or peer tutoring in guiding said student-athlete back onto the correct path.”

He shoves the piece of paper across his desk. “Read that name aloud for me.”

Hyunjin stares at the signature at the bottom of the page, scrawled so carelessly that most of it deviates away from its designated line. There is a rare hollowness in his chest that he recognizes as anxiety. With it comes a glimpse of a life without volleyball, the question of what little of him would remain.

“Hwang Hyunjin,” he says under his breath.

The office goes silent. Bang tucks the form back into his drawer. It closes with a gentle click.

Then comes the yelling.

“The Trolls movie? Trolls?! Are you fucking with me, Hwang?”

“It was a cultural reset! The pinnacle of modern media! How’s that for anthropology?”

“BAD!” Bang explodes, gesturing to the email emphatically. “VERY, VERY BAD!”

Hyunjin slumps over, dejected.

“You’ve never had trouble with school before.” He leans over his desk imposingly. “What the hell happened this semester? What changed?”

Nothing is the first answer that comes to mind, but Hyunjin’s pulse spikes like a lie detector. Upon the inside of his eyes replays a scene of a certain someone with watermelon bangs doing teleportation jutsu at him from a few yards away, wearing a smile made of some kind of space dust that astronomists haven’t discovered yet.

He grits his teeth, annoyed. This is what happens when he thinks.

“Beats me,” he fibs. “Typical junior year stress, maybe.”

“Does any of it have to do with Piazza?” 

Hyunjin shudders.

It just might, actually.

Modesty has no place in the career he’s had: high school national champion turned ace hitter in both the South Korean U21 roster and regular rotation for Seoul National University, the best collegiate volleyball team in the country. His name has lived at the top of ranking lists and the center of gold medals since he turned old enough to qualify for them; the press believes him the instigant of South Korea’s imminent volleyball revolution. It’s a mouthful, he knows.

It was never a question that he would go professional; the question was who he should talk to and where he would go.

At the start of the school year, Bang, acting in place of the agent he was advised to find and never bothered to, gave him a list of people to reach out to. On the very top was none other than Roberto Piazza, the chairman and head coach of Allianz Milano, one of the most eminent club teams in the world—and current home to Hyunjin’s personal idol, outside hitter Ishikawa Yuki.

Hyunjin thought his poor coach had finally succumbed to his old age. The thought of stepping onto the same court as Ishikawa felt sacrilegious, let alone donning the red, white, and navy blue of Allianz Milano with him. But Bang slapped him on the back of the neck and reminded him that going professional was equal parts preparation and opportunity; he was never going to know the answers to questions he didn’t ask. Hyunjin was coerced to fire off an introductory email despite his reservations.

Piazza replied within the week.

For the last five months, Hyunjin has been fighting with tooth and nail to manage his expectations. He scrolls past the team’s social media posts like they burn his eyes. He replies to Piazza’s emails right before working out with Changbin under the assumption that whatever the shredded libero does to him will eviscerate his brain. If his world is made of dreams, this is the one at its very core, imbued with destructive potential the second it became attainable.

But that’s the last five months. The last five weeks have been you kicking him in the shin because he’s laughing (or trying to make you laugh) and the professor is staring; you listening to him rant and rave about volleyball when he knows you couldn’t care less about the sport; you relaying the contents of your class readings like hot gossip, your eyes wild and hands flying around because you can’t contain your excitement. You, you, you.

He cards a hand through his air, regaining focus. “You know how I feel about Piazza.”

“Expect the worst, hope for the best.” Bang’s chair skids backwards as he stands up. “I think it’s a good approach.”

Suddenly, he is directly in front of Hyunjin, low enough to meet his eyes. His hands rest upon his shoulders firmly.

“But hope is hungry, and it will consume you if you let it,” he says. “Do not let it, Hyunjin. I’m not asking.”

Even while being squeezed to a pulp and regarded with the cold intensity of a statue, Hyunjin can’t help but feel anchored, somehow, to the floor of this miserable office. Protected.

Bang lets go of him. “I’m not asking you to find a tutor by the end of the week, either.”

Hyunjin groans. “Yeah, yeah. I’m on it.”

A set of bandaged fingers appear in your periphery to place a paper cup onto your laptop. Accompanying the smell of fresh coffee is that of smoky rose, as decidedly douchey as ever.

“I thought you said your order was complicated.”

You look up from your phone to see Hyunjin plop into the adjacent seat. His long, caramel-colored hair is damp and unstyled in the aftermath of a morning shower, droplets of water pearling on the lapels of a navy blue windbreaker, layered over a white long sleeve. You recognize the outfit by now as game gear.

“Was it not?” You ask.

“It was an Americano, love. I walked up to the cashier and placed an order for an Americano.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure if you could handle that much.” He flips you off as you squint at the cup. “Someone wrote their number on the lid, by the way.”

“What? Really?”

“No.”

He shoves you hard enough for your upper body to drape over the opposite armrest; you’re still cackling by the time you’ve straightened up again.

“Why did you get this, anyway?” Hyunjin grumbles. “I thought you had a sweet tooth.”

“I do, but you don’t.”

Only then does the fool understand that you had no intention of charging him in coffee just for a haircut reveal. He takes back the coffee hesitantly.

“Thanks,” he says at last. “Nice of you.”

“I know, right? Hated it,” you respond, and he almost chokes on his first sip.

You almost choke on nothing when Kim Seungmin materializes in the aisle adjacent. He holds out a hand in Hyunjin’s direction. “Yo.”

Hyunjin dabs it up mid-sip. “I fully forgot you were in this class.”

“Well, I’m due for my weekly appearance.” Seungmin slips into the seat directly below you, glancing at you over his shoulder. “Hey, Y/N.”

“Hi,” you say, somehow managing to stumble over the single syllable the word has. You thank your lucky stars that you fixed your hair yesterday.

You like Kim Seungmin. Not just in the cutesy, crushy way, but in the “I would relinquish all of my rights for you” way where you spend every waking moment cursing out whatever stroke of misfortune placed Hyunjin in the seat next to you instead of him. He’s funny, gorgeous, and talented—a vocal performance major with a student-athlete contract—and you think your infatuation is more than justified. Hyunjin thinks it’s hilarious.

You side-eye your blonde adversary, prepared to see one of three things: a suppressed laugh, a dramatic eye-roll, or a mature kissy face that usually results in the first option. You’re met with something far more worrisome.

He’s thinking.

That can’t be good.

Suddenly, his phone screen lights up with a text that temporarily wipes the conspiratorial gleam from his eye. Hyunjin scans it over and groans. “Can this guy do his fucking job?”

“He wouldn’t have to if you didn’t quit,” Seungmin answers. “I’ll never forget you, Manager Hwang.”

“Shut up.” You peer at Hyunjin, silently requesting an explanation. “Our captain is forcing us to help him look for a new team manager. We need one for playoffs because of some stupid U-League rule—Seung, why do you look morose?”

“I’m mourning.” Seungmin does look morose indeed. “Hyunjin committed larceny last year and our coach punished him by making him our team manager for the rest of the season. It was so funny.”

Hyunjin slides down his seat. “It was the worst experience of my life.”

Neither man seems inclined to elaborate on the mention of larceny. You choose to digress. “Can I ask why?”

“He had to be responsible,” Seungmin whispers. “For other people.”

The top of Hyunjin’s head stops right next to your armrest. You reach over and pat his hair in faux sympathy. “Poor thing.”

“Hardass refused to do it again this year, so now we’re recruiting.” Seungmin props an elbow upon the back of his chair, looks at you contemplatively. “I don’t suppose you have four hours to spare every day.”

Hyunjin scoffs from below you. Loudly. “This one? Team manager?”

“I can see it.”

“I can see killing myself, maybe.”

The next time you reach for him is to hit his forehead. A crisp smack resounds around the barren lecture hall. Hyunjin cusses into his seat cushion.

“Seems like a great candidate to me,” Seungmin muses, and the warm smile he gives you mirrors onto your face before you can think better of it. God, it’s pretty. You wonder how it would feel pressed against your own.

Hyunjin is now completely out of sight and halfway onto the floor. “I miss when you didn’t come to class, Seungmin.”

Eighty minutes later, you’ve just emerged from the classroom when Seungmin calls out to you. You come to such a sudden halt that Hyunjin almost trips over you, but you barely notice him stumble, utterly enraptured by the hand Seungmin brings to the strands of hair by your ear, the fingers that dust your cheek as they pluck a small piece of lint from out of the tresses.

“Sorry.” He flicks it away with a sheepish smile. “I couldn’t unsee it.”

You manage to thank him just before your whole body ceases to function. Hyunjin sidesteps the two of you, yawning.

Seungmin excuses himself not too long after you reach the main quad. You also turn to leave, sparing Hyunjin a curt farewell in the process. He hooks his pointer finger around the handle at the top of your backpack and lugs you backwards with infuriating ease.

“I didn’t like that at all,” you say.

“I don’t care. I have something to tell you.”

“You have a kid, don’t you?”

“Wha—huh? Who do you think I am?”

“The one-night-stand’s poster child. The champion of the contraception industry.”

“Yeah, contraception industry. It’s right there in the name.”

You can’t argue with that. “What do you have to tell me?”

A shadow of hesitation flits across Hyunjin’s face. Your smile falters. Is it possible that you’re about to have a serious conversation with him for the first time? Maybe you should’ve saved the secret son bit for another time.

“I’m failing anthro.”

So much for a serious conversation. 

“Come again?”

He repeats the mystifying statement.

“You’re joking.” The look on his face says otherwise, though, and your eyebrows disappear into your hair. “You’re failing anthro?”

“I just said that, yes.”

“You’re failing anthropology?”

“Mhm.”

“Just so we’re clear—you’re failing Introduction to Cultural Anthropology?”

“Yes. I’m glad you’re having fun.”

This is the best day of your life. “I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“Yeah, well, our professor has no media literacy,” he mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Hyunjin clears his throat. “Anyways, I was thinking—”

“Wow! Congratulations. That’s a big—oomf—”

Hyunjin puts his entire hand over your face. Your mangled noises of protest go unacknowledged.

“I was thinking,” he continues, pushing your head around like a stick shift, “you and I can work out some kind of deal.”

You shove his wrist off you with a revolted groan. “I think I just ate some athletic tape.”

“Happens. You wanna hear the deal or not?”

“Does it involve ingesting more sports equipment?”

“Do you want it to?”

“Just tell me the deal, boy.”

“Alright.” He takes a deep breath. “If you help me pass this class, I’ll set you up with Seungmin.”

Your head performs a triple-axel on your neck. You are unable to respond for what feels like multiple hours. Finally: “I’m gonna need you to elaborate.”

“On which part?”

“All of them. Everything.”

Hyunjin sighs, then scans the courtyard. His gaze settles on the student union a little ways off. “Are you hungry?”

You pick up a sandwich and a smoothie in a state of nervous stupor. One would think it’s the prime minister you’re about to have lunch with and not an imbecilic left-side hitter eating from three different entrees at the same time.

He’s chosen a table a few yards away from a planter of flowering cherry blossom trees. You feel jealous eyes on the side of your face as you take a seat across from Hyunjin, but they don’t know that his telephone pole legs still bump against yours even with them drawn as close to your body as anatomically possible. Or that he’s drawing up a literal Ponzi scheme on your sandwich wrapper. You wager you’ve had better company.

“You like anthropology. I like listening to you talk about anthropology.” He traces over the wrapper’s left corner. “And I kinda want you to boss me around. That weird?”

“Yes, definitely,” you mumble around a mouthful of bread. “Go on.”

“Conclusion one: you should be my tutor.” He taps in place as if applying a finishing touch, then swaps to the opposite side. “You also like my teammate, but he’s neck-deep in volleyball and music this semester, which makes him hard to get a hold of—for most people.”

“Let me guess. Not for you.”

“Ten points to Ravenclaw.” His British accent is nightmarish. “Seung and I live in the same building. We get dinner when we go back from practice together. Conclusion two: you should come with us.”

“To dinner or to practice?”

“To both. Which brings us to my third and final conclusion—”

He slams a fist onto the center of the wrapper.

“—you should manage our team.”

“I knew it!” You slam the table as well, your smoothie wobbling upon impact. “You’re trying to swindle me! You can’t pay for my labor with more labor. What do you take me for?”

“It’s not labor, dumbass! Ask our last manager! He didn’t do shit!”

“Yeah? Who was your last manager?”

“Me!”

Oh, right. “But you hated it!”

“I hate everything that isn’t playing volleyball. Try again.”

You fold your arms over your chest. “You said you’d kill yourself if I managed you.”

Hyunjin starts balling up your sandwich wrapper. “It’s true. I thought about you and my coach getting along and promptly got a rash. But it makes so much sense: you do whatever you want during practice, tutor me afterwards, and then you and Seung can eyefuck over ramen or something. My coach hops off my dick, you hop on Seung’s—”

“STOP!” A girl drops her receipt not too far away, startled by your outburst. “Stop right there. I get it. Stop.”

“It’s a good plan.” He slings the paper ball towards the nearest trash can. It drops into the hole without so much as a brush against the rim. “You know it is.”

You’re loath to admit that you do. “When did you even come up with all this?”

He flicks a thumb in the direction of your anthropology class. No fucking wonder he’s failing.

“What is this, mock trial?”

The owner of this voice is the third man you’ve seen today donning that navy windbreaker, white long-sleeve combo. He has a face that reminds you of your neighbor’s cat from back home, sleek and sharp and only slightly sinister. There’s a dash of humor in his expression as he approaches your table like he’s enjoying the company of a court jester.

“Slamming tables like fuckin’ tariff lawyers,” the cat-man hums, lifting a hand in Hyunjin’s direction. “I could see it from all the way inside.”

“Captain!” Hyunjin crows, dabbing him up without missing a beat. They really do that like breathing. “Just the man I was hoping to see.”

“Really? I thought you’d be avoiding me like the rest of our homunculus team.”

“I would never.”

“You did. Yesterday. When you saw me and started running in the opposite direction.” He pauses for emphasis. “As fast as possible.”

“Well, that was yesterday. Today is a new day.” Hyunjin tosses you a proud glance. “And today, I bring you a new team manager.”

You stiffen. “I haven’t—”

“Is that so!” When the stranger smiles at you, you feel the same satisfaction you did every time the cat let you scratch her on the chin. “Music to my ears. What’s your name, cutie?”

You catch Hyunjin’s eye across the table; he nods enthusiastically as if saying go on, then. You briefly picture yourself strangling him with his own athletic tape. You then picture yourself hopping on Seungmin’s—

Rigidly, you throw a hand out to the cat-man, your face aflame.

“Y/N,” you grumble. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

He shakes on it heartily. “Likewise. I’m Minho. Welcome to the team.”

“Yes, welcome to the team,” Hyunjin parrots, looking positively jolly. You gnash your teeth together so hard your jaw throbs.

He’s lucky that his proposal holds so much water. He’s lucky that you don’t plan to strangle him until after you try that eyefucking thing.

You do kick him under the table, though.

The team has five weeks to prepare for the Korean University League, the biggest college-level volleyball tournament in the country. You have five days to learn how the hell athletic tape works. You can’t tell which is the bigger endeavor.

“I’m going to cause him irreversible skeletal damage,” you tell Changbin.

The team’s libero is twice as kind as he is talented, a full-time sweetheart working part-time at the university’s sports medicine clinic. Only your first week on the job and you’ve already decided he’s the only person on Earth you would permit to usher you through the gym at 6:45 A.M., a roll of athletic tape pressed to your back like a pistol.

“You will not,” Changbin answers. “One, because this won’t involve his skeleton, and two, because I wouldn’t ask you to help if it did.”

“You’ve misunderstood me,” you return as the two of you stop in front of an examination room. “I want to cause him irreversible skeletal damage.”

“Oh.” He opens the door with a frown. “Oh dear.”

Inside, Hyunjin is sitting cross-legged on top of a taping table, fitted in a loose gray tee and athletic shorts. He watches in pessimistic silence as you enter the room and beeline straight towards the shelf on the right. You slip a thick binder into your hands and bury your nose inside it without so much as a greeting.

“I am going to get maimed,” Hyunjin tells Changbin.

“Have some faith, both of you,” Changbin replies sternly. You find the pages you’re looking for and begin poring over them like you’re cramming for an exam. “You’ll be fine, Jinnie. Y/N studied.”

“Studied?” He repeats. “For this?”

“I’m pretty sure Quizlets were made.”

“Three, to be exact," you interject, sticking out your hand. “Now tape me.”

Hyunjin mouths the words tape me in baffled silence. The latter obliges your request with a smile. “See? What could go wrong?”

The answer to that, actually, is a lot. Especially after Changbin gets called away to help stretch out a teammate named Felix who allegedly “sprained his ass,” leaving Hyunjin to you and your binder.

You detect no smoky rose in the air around him today, just the subtle smells of cedar and cypress—laundry detergent or shampoo, maybe. Figures he doesn’t wear that insufferable cologne to practice.

“Go easy on me, yeah?”

While Hyunjin’s tone is teasing, yours is downright somber.

“I can’t promise anything.”

With that, you turn your palms face-up in a silent request for his hand.

A few strands of hair fall into your face as you lean in for a better look. It’s the first time you’ve seen his fingers untaped; they’re pretty, long and slender and surprisingly manicured, but also battered in their delicacy, the veins running over the back of his hand and forearm prominent, his bottom knuckles discolored from the healing bruises they bear. His hard work is palpable upon the smooth skin as evidently as if tattooed.

Hyunjin says your name in close proximity. You respond with an absent hum.

“You’re not nervous, are you?”

“No. Maybe a little.” You let his hand fall free and go to rummage for supplies. “Fine, yes. Very.”

“But you made Quizlets. You’re prepared for anything.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” You realize only after spotting the gentle smile on his face that he’s making fun of you. “I hate you.”

“Actually,” he hums, “I think you care about me, love. That’s why you’re nervous.”

“Nonsense—I care about disappointing Changbin. That’s it.”

“And me. And hopping on Seungmin’s dick. All these things don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”

You try to tackle him. Hyunjin catches your hands a few inches away from his face, fingers closing around your wrists with obnoxious agility.

“Have you lost your mind?” You whisper-shout, your face on fire. “Don’t bring that up here. I’ll maim you for real.”

The laugh that explodes out of him throws his entire body backwards, turns his eyes to crescent moons and his mouth into a little rectangle. You hate that you don’t hate when that happens.

“My bad, my bad. It slipped out. I won’t—”

One incremental shift of Hyunjin’s body later, you find that you’re precariously, alarmingly close to one another.

So much so that you notice the mole beneath his left eye for the first time, that you're nearly cross-eyed looking at it. That the tip of your nose actually brushes against his before you pull away with a quiet intake of breath. 

Things are awkward between you often, you’ve realized recently. You’re both professional yappers, always quick to digress, quick to find a new topic to bicker about before the awkwardness marinates. But hours later you’ll look back on the interaction and still remember how the air shifted: like a layer of dust had been blown away and something untouched and unknown was discovered just underneath.

Since you’ve met him, Hyunjin has spent more time on your nerves than on your mind. You’re not exactly losing sleep over such a circumstantial acquaintance; you know that his presence in your life will end the way it began, naturally and anticlimactically and inside the ANTH 111 lecture hall. Still, it doesn’t go unnoticed when your heart and stomach launch into an elaborate gymnastics routine in the wake of something he says or does, just as they’re doing now.

Hyunjin glances into your right eye a moment, then your left. The mole just below his left eye disappears when he smiles, the expression soft, saccharine, and sincere. How anyone casually looks the way he does is beyond your abilities of comprehension.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

Your face continues to burn, now perhaps for different reasons. “What for?”

He lets go of your wrist, sweeps the lock of hair that keeps getting in your eyes behind the cuff of your ear.

“Caring about me.”

Then he flicks your forehead. You recoil with a quiet ow.

“Now stop stalling and tape me, dumbass.”

“Okay,” you mutter, rubbing the injury tenderly. “No need to get violent.”

It turns out the arduous taping procedure described in the instruction manual is for serious hand injuries. Hyunjin splints his fingers together for support, not rehabilitation, so it takes all of five minutes for him to talk you through his process. You finish taping both of his hands with nineteen minutes to spare. So maybe the Quizlets were overkill.

As you’re walking him down to practice, you take his hand and lift it to eye level, scanning your craftsmanship dubiously. “It’s not too tight, is it?”

“It’s perfect.” He swivels the hand around and grabs onto your entire face, the sensation by now eerily familiar. “Want another taste?”

You shove him down the stairs that remain. Unfortunately, there are only two. “You are truly grotesque.”

The gym has come to life since you arrived earlier this morning, now illuminated by shining ceiling lights in addition to the sun spilling through high, narrow windows. Most of the team has yet to step onto the court, still stretching or jogging along the sidelines: Minho and Coach Bang are talking strategy on the bench, the coach taking notes on a handheld whiteboard every now and then; Changbin is leaning over a recumbent Felix below the scoreboard, presumably trying to fix his ass.

The only one already with a ball in hand is Seungmin, setting to himself by the net. Once, twice, thrice straight up in the air, and then he glances in your direction and sends the fourth towards the left side of the court in a buoyant arc.

You only glean bits and pieces of the next few seconds. Hyunjin is at your side one moment, making a break for the net the next. His arms draw backwards in perfect synchrony. Feet hit the floor with laserlike intent. His entire body unravels like a fraying chrysalis as he rises to meet the ball, pounds it over the net and into the ground at an angle so clean that the sound of its landing resounds within your ribcage. It rebounds over the railing of the second floor and barely misses the doorway of the examination room you just emerged from.

Hyunjin drops lightly back onto his feet, following the ball’s tumultuous trajectory with proud eyes. A leftover breeze tosses a strand of hair over the bridge of your nose, and time starts moving again.

“Oi, this isn’t your backyard! Go pick that up!” Their coach booms, though his words lack their usual bitterness after what he just witnessed his ace hitter do.

Hyunjin swivels towards Seungmin first. “Crazy bitch. What the fuck was that?”

“Lower and faster. Further from the net too,” Seungmin returns. “How’d it feel?”

The grin on Hyunjin’s face reminds you of a wildfire, untamed and all-consuming and frightening in its fervor. “Like we just won everything.”

He tousles your hair as he jogs past you and back up the stairs to fetch the volleyball. Seungmin waves at you with one hand and palms another ball into his other. His face is warm and bare, his slim build flattered by his volleyball gear. You’ve witnessed few people so nice to look at and even fewer things as elegant as his setting form. But you are still thinking about Hyunjin—and you can’t move.

It is debilitating, watching somebody do the very thing they were destined for.

A little less than a week later, Hyunjin is approaching hour three of spewing hot garbage into a Word document when he decides to give up and call you. 

“Hello?” He immediately starts laughing. “Where the fuck are you?”

You poke the top of your head into the shot of your ceiling, gesturing to your headband. “My face is preoccupied at the moment.”

“Oh, you have to show me. Please.”

You flip your phone up for no more than half a second. A camera shutter goes off, followed by a shriek so loud that it peaks your mic.

“Motherfucker!”

He basically sprints to his camera roll. His prize: you with your face slathered in cleanser, hair pinned back by a Miffy headband, looking like the abominable snowman if he liked cute merchandise.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly. “I’ll treasure this forever.”

“You’ll be punished, Hwang.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You brandish your middle finger at him in response. He props his phone up against his computer screen with a chuckle. 

“Aaanyways, I have a thesis statement to run by you.”

The first thing you did as Hyunjin’s tutor was help draft an email to Professor Kim, begging her to let him resubmit the two essays he royally botched. She replied with a lengthy quotation from her syllabus, specifically the section that talked about (and prohibited) resubmissions, but ended up making an exception for Hyunjin on account of the “truly piteous timbre” of his email. You fell out of your chair laughing when he read you her response.

“You should’ve opened with that.”

“I tried, hello? Someone distracted me!”

“Read. It. Before I change my mind.”

You spend a few minutes at most on the thesis itself, advising him to avoid passive voice, answer the prompt, establish a refutable argument, the works. Then he asks you a question about the research topic itself, allusions to the afterlife in Ancient Egyptian artwork, and the tutoring session takes a turn into what feels like a podcast episode.

You talk about the God of Death, Anubis, and his connections to the underworld; the elaborate, lavish funerary rituals intended to ensure the souls of the dead traveled safely; the vibrant murals that flanked their final resting spots as pictorial requests for divine protection. And you talk about them all with such confidence, such eloquence, that it’s as if you’re leading him through a history museum rather than talking to your phone as you do your skincare. He could listen to you for hours. He does, actually.

Around 1 A.M., Hyunjin stops typing mid-sentence when you come into frame for the first time, collapsing into your bed with a sigh of relief. Your eyes are soft and sleepy as they blink at your screen, strands of damp hair clinging to your cheeks. He feels his heart physically shift inside his ribcage when your mouth stretches into a yawn. It is the same sensation as the time you shot him a smile over your shoulder and he couldn’t move for ten minutes.

With that, his attention span has run its course.

“Baby,” he interrupts gently. “Let’s stop here, okay? You seem tired.”

You open your mouth as if to protest, only to yawn again.

“I suppose I am. Will you keep working tonight?”

“I think so. I hit my stride.”

“Text me if you have questions, then. I’ll respond when I wake up.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Your lips curve into the smallest of smiles. It copies onto Hyunjin’s face incurably quickly. 

“I had my doubts about this tutoring thing, you know.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, you told me this class was the closest thing to daily naptime you’d experienced since preschool.”

“It really is.”

“You also told me you would rather slam your tongue in a car door than read more than three sentences in one sitting.”

“I really would.”

“And you once referred to academia as ‘Virgin Village.’”

“Didn’t you come up with that?”

“No, hello? I live in that village.”

He grins. “I know. I just wanted to hear you admit it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ah, don’t threaten me with a good—”

“What I’m trying to say is that I didn’t think you would take this seriously, but I’m happy to be proven wrong.”

Hyunjin leans back. “Well, turns out I might give a fuck about anthropology after all.”

“Really?”

“No.”

You pretend to punch him through the screen. It’s so cute that he forgets to think before he opens his mouth next.

“But I do give a fuck about you.”

There’s nothing crazy about the statement. You’re friends, sort of. You manage his team. It would be strange if he didn’t. But the seconds that follow are terrible, a silent prophecy of something disastrous, like a cloud of rubble before an avalanche, the standstill during a star’s final breath. And Hyunjin’s heartbeat is hounding against his ears like a performance of traditional taiko.

He says good night in a haste. The call ends. He stares at the wall of his bedroom in a muddled haze for who knows how long.

Then he opens his texts.

Hyunjin: We have team bonding tomorrow btw Hyunjin: Don’t forget Y/N: i forgot. Y/N: pick me up at 6:45? Hyunjin: 🫡

He picks you up at 7:53.

You approach his car with your fists balled and your eyebrows knitted together like a mean old curmudgeon and he’s walking too close to your lawn.

“His fault,” Hyunjin says before you start yelling.

Minho simpers at you through his open window. “Hey, you! So glad you could join us!”

You fix the man with a judgmental glare as you slide into the backseat. “Aren’t you the captain? Why are you this late?”

“Whoa, okay. I would’ve scheduled this for earlier if I knew right now was honesty hour.”

“You did schedule it for earlier,” you say. “You scheduled it for way earlier.”

“Yeah, well, you’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me, Minho.”

“I can too. Tell ‘em, Hwang.”

“I want nothing to do with this.”

When you step through the doors of the arcade, you’re met with a surge of sensory input that you haven’t experienced in years. The air hangs thick with the smells of greasy concessions; everywhere you look are flashing screens and neon signs, stuffed animals and fading posters; clamoring against your ears are the sounds of games being won or lost, of balls being pocketed or launched, and of a horde of fully grown men spectating a match of Dance Dance Revolution so passionately (and loudly) that they’ve scared everyone away from that side of the room. You recognize the current competitors as Changbin and Jeongin.

“I’ll go pay,” Hyunjin says. “How much time do we want?”

“Infinity,” Minho answers. Hyunjin doesn’t move. “Two hours.”

He flashes him a thumbs-up. “And you?”

“I’m okay, I think.”

“No you’re not,” the two men answer in perfect unison.

You glance between them warily. “I don’t mind watching, seriously. I don’t even know how most of these games work—”

“There’s Tetris,” Hyunjin cuts in.

You purchase an hour.

One would imagine the point of the evening is to break the SNU men’s volleyball team, not to bond them. You’ve never seen so many strained blood vessels in your life. Nor have you heard of half the insults they spew at each other as the night goes on. Felix has to pay a fee for lodging an air hockey puck in the side of the MarioKart machine. Changbin loses at skee-ball and has to down an XL slushie like it’s a shot. It’s a scary amount of boyishness expressed in scary ways.

But they’re happy. You’ve picked up on it when they’re on the court, noticed the raw elation they emanate just from playing together. Yet, their closeness has never been more evident to you than tonight. The men are either laughing or making someone else laugh, arms draped over each other at all times, equally happy to celebrate victories as they’re eager to punish losses. It dawns on you at some point that you’re glad to be here with them, grateful to be a part of something so special—especially because there’s Tetris.

“Have you ever considered going pro?” Hyunjin asks over your shoulder.

You waited until most of the team was distracted to slink off to your beloved machine. Hyunjin tagged along, undoubtedly with the intention of making fun of you, only to be rendered speechless by your mastery. He’s been watching in a state of stupor, forearms propped against the back of your chair.

You don’t respond for a while, too focused on a precarious patch to even blink, let alone partake in conversation.

“I already did,” you finally answer.

“Sorry, what? You played professional Tetris?”

“In middle school. Then I got bored and switched to backgammon.” You pause. “Then I got bored again and switched to chess.”

“How do you look like this with these hobbies?”

Your run ends a few minutes later with a somber sound effect. You turn around in your seat with an anguished groan. “I think I’m washed.”

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You just set a new record by three hundred thousand points.”

“It’s a small pond,” you say, and an idea occurs to you. “Do you wanna try?”

“I get the feeling I don’t have a choice.”

“Then you’re smarter than you look.”

“Well, you look—”

His eyes move between your shoes and your face, and then his voice is an inaudible mutter as he sinks into your seat. You think you hear something along the lines of unfair.

“What was that?”

“Ugly. I said you look ugly.” He cracks his knuckles. “Now let’s break some fuckin' blocks.” 

When Hyunjin learns that the pieces can be rotated (so six or seven attempts later), a man walks into the arcade. 

He has hair the color of dark chocolate, the face of a fairy prince—and he’s with someone. The two of them appear arm in arm, laughing at something he said. He looks at this person the way astronomers do to the sky.

Something shatters inside you like old porcelain.

Your hands loosen around the back of Hyunjin’s chair. You can’t watch. You can’t think. You can only feel a void of disappointment rip open, stretch over you like an elongating shadow.

“Seung!” That’s Jisung, you think. “You made it!”

“Yo, sorry we’re late.” That’s Seungmin. That is undoubtedly Seungmin. “Dinner took longer than I thought.”

“Min, are you sure I’m allowed to be here?” You don’t know who this voice belongs to and you’re not sure you want to. “I feel like I’m intruding—”

“Hwang,” you say suddenly. “I have to go.”

He turns around, confused. An unattended block falls into a terrible spot on the screen behind him. ”Already?”

“I forgot I had an important call to make.” You turn away, training your eyes on the patterned carpet. “Sorry. I’ll see you around.”

You have touched Hyunjin’s hands many times. He’s asked you to tape his fingers every day since the first; he likes the way you cut off his circulation, says it helps him hit harder. But you never hold his hand so much as you examine it, the act stiff and unfeeling, cordoned within the professional pretense of athletic treatment. 

Now, Hyunjin catches your hand like a gardener repotting their favorite flower: delicately, careful of leaving its roots intact and petals untouched, but firmly, securely, so the flower continues to stand tall even when it’s been extracted from the soil, not even a speck of dirt slipping through the cracks between their fingers. That is the image you conjure when he slips his between yours, his metal rings cold where his fingertips are warm.

He says your name. There is a pinch of pain in the word, and you know that he knows.

“Do you want to be alone?”

You have never been asked such a thing—you have never asked to be asked such a thing—but, for some reason, the question brings tears to your eyes. 

“Yes, please,” you whisper, and you pull your hand away.

When you stalk past him, you hear Jisung notice you, call out to you, a note of worry in his question. You also count three pairs of eyes on your back: one concerned, the next confused, and the last you are wholly incapable of meeting. 

Unknown to you is the fourth pair fixed upon the top of the Tetris machine, where you’ve left your phone.

You emerge into the parking lot. The frigid air stills your mind for a fraction of a second, the last moment of mental quietude you will allow yourself that night.

Hyunjin’s right; the team manager doesn’t have to do much.

Coach Bang allows you to come to whichever practices and games you feel like, during which you might at most lug around a ballbag or fill someone’s waterbottle before holing up somewhere to do your own thing. But you like the people you work for too much to do so little for them, so you attend everything  your schedule allows. 

Last week, you could be found helping Minho put up the volleyball nets before practice, your laughter echoing throughout the spacious gym as he complained to you about his biochemistry professor’s distinct “cabbage scent.” Or running to grab materials for Changbin as he treated his teammates’ injuries like you were assisting an orthodontist giving someone a root canal. The dinner invitations you extended to Seungmin were always turned down, but his teammates were more than happy to assist you and Hyunjin in your quest to establish the best kimbap joint in the area once and for all. You even had a heart-to-heart with Coach Bang during one of the team’s water breaks, in which you managed to get half a smile out of the guy; Hyunjin was convinced that was his way of asking you to elope. You spent more time in the gymnasium those ten days than you had your entire college career.

Then came the arcade.

Five days have come and gone. You haven’t attended practice since, but you still see Hyunjin every morning at anthropology. The two of you sit in uncharacteristic silence for most of the lectures. You’ve taken the best notes of your life. He doesn’t mention the previous weekend; he doesn’t mention much of anything. 

In person, that is.

That Friday afternoon, you’re reading on the terrace of the library when you receive a text. It’s from Hyunjin, a two-minute voice note. You hesitate for a moment, stick a pencil into the gutter of your textbook to save your place, and slip your earbuds in. You listen to it.

Then you listen to it again.

And again as you wrap up your study session and go home. Again as you cook yourself dinner and load the dishwasher. Again as you shrug on a jacket and pocket your keys, setting off on the familiar trek to the gym.

As for what you plan to do there on a Friday night, long after the team has finished practice, you haven’t the slightest clue. You continue to move regardless, fueled by the feeling that there is where you need to be.

Coach Bang is leaving the building just as you’re approaching it. He halts in his footsteps and raises his eyebrows when he notices you. The man has always been difficult to read, but his face is exceptionally opaque now. Maybe it’s the shadowy landscape; more likely it’s the uneasiness that began to mount within you once you noticed the lights in the gym were still on.

“It’s been a while,” he greets.

“Coach,” you return, lowering your head. “I want to apologize for—”

“Save it,” he says, not unkindly. “There’s nothing to apologize for, alright? The team is lucky to have you.”

You manage a grateful smile. “I’ll be back starting next week.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He starts to walk away, stops himself, and glances into the illuminated building. “I would give him some space, by the way.”

Your uneasiness morphs into anxiety as you watch his broad back retreat into the shadows. You remain outside the gym for a few minutes more, accompanied by the distant melodies of cricket chorales and the muffled squeaking of shoes against laminated hardwood, the harsh sounds of flesh meeting leather.

Briskly, you walk home, rummage around, and return to the gym ten minutes later with your textbook tucked beneath your arm. This time, you unlock and enter the building without a moment of hesitation. 

Hyunjin is positioned multiple yards behind the service line, rotating a volleyball in his hands. A high toss, two resounding steps, and a collision like the crack of a whip. The previous ball has barely landed in the furthest corner of the court when he’s picking up the next, retreating to the same spot to do it all again. His tank top is the color of charcoal over his sweaty skin, his hair auburn where it’s plastered to his neck. He’s alone.

You only catch sight of Hyunjin’s face when you descend the stairs. His expression is crystalline, hardened with concentration and fortified by courage, but fragile all at once, rendered delicate by fatigue and fear, spilling from his every seam and splintering off his person like a broken vase. You recognize it as clearly as if you were looking at a picture of yourself from the worst years of your life.

“I was told to give you space,” you call out, and Hyunjin drops the volleyball he’s holding.

His lips fall apart. Nothing comes out of them. The only sounds to follow are your footsteps as you make your way towards the bleachers, a vertical wall of plastic now that they’ve been retracted for the night. You fold your legs into a criss-cross as you take a seat at their base.

“Is this enough space?”

More silence. You gesture to the volleyball nervously.

“Don’t make me go further, please. I’m not ready to die.”

Finally, this earns you a smile. It’s not much, but it loosens the nervous coils in your heart, permits your lungs to contract once more, and it remains on his face as he swipes the ball back into his hands. You open your textbook.

The rest of the night elapses in turning pages and soaring volleyballs. You don’t care for minutes or hours; you give him all the time in the world, as he did you.

The only time you glance at the clock on the wall is around midnight, when Hyunjin hobbles to the middle of the court and collapses. You’re worried at first. Then he rolls onto his back and releases a guttural groan into his hands, and your held breath comes out a laugh. You set down your book and stand up.

There’s a lake of perspiration forming around him. You pay it no mind and flop onto the floor, your eyes instantly narrowing beneath the fluorescent lights. 

“How do you see under these things?”

“I don’t,” he returns. “I complained about it to Coach once.”

“And?”

“He made them brighter.” Sounds about right.

Hyunjin spends the next few minutes catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in your peripheral vision. You sift through your mind for phrases of consolation or gestures of support and come up empty. You wish you had Hyunjin’s way with words.

But you think about the way his smile reached his eyes as he thanked you for caring about him, the tenderness with which he caught your hand at the arcade, the I give a fuck about you he blurted before ending the study call. You think about the voice note. It’s not that Hyunjin has a way with words; it’s that he’s brave enough to break the silences that you can’t, like he perceives your anxiety for the aftermath, shouldering the responsibility so you won’t have to.

This cannot be his burden alone.

You inhale. “What’s on your mind?”

Hyunjin doesn’t answer right away. You give up on squinting and close your eyes. The lights are still bright enough to dance around the murky darkness.

“I don’t think I know how to put it into words.”

You nearly laugh; you know how that feels. “Don’t think, just talk. I’m here.”

The same advice you gave yourself seems to work on him as well.

“Do you remember Ishikawa Yuki?”

His role model.

“He’s currently playing for a club team in Italy called Allianz Milano.” He blows out a deep breath. “I’ve been talking to their coach, Roberto Piazza, for the last six months.”

The gears in your head creak in their effort to process the implications of these words. “Holy shit, Hwang.”

“He emailed again, this morning. Said he was coming to the tournament later this month, he’s excited to see me play in person, whatever. And it hit me, finally, that this is all real. Like, this is actually happening to me. I spent all of today freaking out and asked Coach to let me stay back after practice. Usually, it wears out my brain if I tire my body, but it only half-worked today. I couldn’t wrap my head around anything. I still can’t.

“I am who I am because of that man, and now…I have a shot at playing with him. I keep asking myself why I’m not—not happier. I should be bouncing off the fucking walls, no? If I told my past self that this would be happening to him one day, he—he would—”

You open your eyes, confused by the sudden silence.

Hyunjin is sitting up next to you, staring intensely into the bleachers. You first notice the tip of his tongue prodding into his cheek, then his shuddering breath. He lifts a hand to his face, pressing against his eyes.

You stop thinking after that.

You sit up with him. When you settle your fingers around his wrist, he allows you to pull his hand back to his side. But he turns away as if trying to hide from you; he squeezes his eyes shut as if that would obstruct your view of his pain.

You reach to cradle his face, bringing him back to you. The cuff of your sleeves wipe at the saltwater on his cheeks, push the hair off his forehead with gentle sweeps. The two of you are close, close enough that your lips would meet the space between his eyes if you so much as lost your balance. His gaze traverses to your face, but you resolve not to meet it. You know you will traipse into uncharted territory the moment you do.

“Don’t fight it.” You trace over the hill of his cheek. “Healing becomes easier if you let yourself hurt. Trust me, Hyunjin.”

His first name should feel foreign on your tongue, yet you suspect the syllables have accompanied you all your life.

“You don’t have to continue if you can’t.”

“S’okay.” Hyunjin lifts your hand away from his face, presses a kiss to the base of your palm. “I want to.”

You feel yourself stumble ungracefully into the uncharted territory from before; does he do the same?

“I used to play volleyball on this expanse of cracked blacktop, behind my primary school. It was pretty brutal on my feet—I blew through so many different pairs of sneakers my mom almost made me quit.” He smiles at the memory. “But every time I came close to quitting, I’d go home and rewatch the same USA vs. Poland match from the 2008 Summer Olympics I asked my dad to record, and I’d promise myself it would be me on some other kid’s screen someday.

“That kid would tell everyone who’d listen about how cool I am. That I’m a secret superhero. That I’m living proof humans can fly if they really, really try—just like I talked about the volleyball players I grew up watching on my TV.

“The other day, Coach told me that hope would consume me. I thought it was just some senile drivel at the time, but..I think I get what he means now. I would do anything and everything to make that kid proud—even if it meant losing myself.” He lowers his head, auburn strands falling into his eyes. “That’s what’s on my mind.”

Amidst the ensuing pause, a storm approaches. It does not come in the form of rain or snow, sleet or hail, no; it is a gathering of words unsaid and emotions unacknowledged, all emerging from the deepest chambers of your heart in synchrony. The same entities you used to scapegoat for all the times things were awkward between you and Hyunjin when you were the culprit all along. You and your blind cowardice.

The storm tears open the seam of your lips. You do not resist; it’s long overdue.

“Every time Changbin sees you, he turns into a smitten schoolgirl,” you say. “He is physically unable to contain how endearing he finds you. He told me so himself.”

Hyunjin looks at you with widened eyes. You think you can see your own reflection in them, and you are the spitting image of a lighter dropped into gasoline, unstoppable in your vehemence.

“Jeongin comes to you for advice before anyone else,” you continue, “even for things related to school—which I still find hard to believe, I’m not gonna lie. But you have his best interests in mind, and it shows in everything you do for him. Of course your opinion matters more than anything in the world.

“I know you think he can’t stand you, but you are the reason Coach Bang loves this job, why he loves this sport. It’s written all over his face every time he calls you something mean, every time he makes you run another lap, every time he looks at you. You’re like a son to him. Everyone sees it but you.”

“Then there’s me.” You pause to catch your breath. “When I think about what my life used to be, I remember a lot of things. I remember loneliness. Insecurity. I remember my books and my backgammon boards and the way I taught myself to disappear inside them so the world would never find me. I remember avoiding mirrors like a vampire because I didn’t like seeing my own reflection. I remember feeling like I had to put on someone else’s personality every time I left the house because nobody would want to know me for me. All I ever wanted was a place where I could be myself, love myself, without consequence. I have yet to find that place.

“But I found a person. Someone who wouldn’t know time and place if they kicked his dick into his body. Someone who thinks instant ramen is high in nutritional value because it comes with dried vegetables. Someone who sweats the same amount of rain the Sahara Desert receives yearly—your body is not normal, by the way.”

Hyunjin giggles; it is soft and short, a small, tearful huff into the quiet air that makes you feel like you’re flying.

“Don’t get me wrong,” you say. “Your sense of humor sucks and your taste in coffee is so boring and you are the one with no media literacy, not Professor Kim. But I love spending time with you. I love who I am when I’m around you. And none of that has to do with volleyball.”

The next time you blink, you discover that he’s not the only one with tears in his eyes. How long has that been going on?

“There’s so much about you to be proud of, Hyunjin.” You give him a watery smile. “That kid will be spoiled for choice.”

When Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, you fall into each other like going to bed after a long day. Your face burrows into the crook of his neck in your embarrassment; he is laughing and crying at the same time when he mumbles something into your shoulder: “I knew you cared about me.”

You are so happy for the comedic relief you could sob. It helps that you already are.

“How the fuck are you still sweaty?” You choke out, and you think you like his cologne after all.

Six days later, Hyunjin opens the door of his apartment.

A fun-sized flurry of black and white barrages into the hallway outside and almost runs headfirst into the figure waiting there. You fall to your knees like you’ve just been gravely wounded, emitting an ear-piercing wail to match. All it takes is a few good head scratches for Kkami to stop yipping bloody murder and start whining for attention instead. 

Upon minute five of watching you and his dog cuddle in the hallway directly outside his home, Hyunjin sighs.

“Can you come inside, please? My RA will think I’m doing some freaky shit again.”

You side-eye him as you walk into his apartment, Kkami perched happily in your arms. “What, exactly, does freaky shit entail?”

He smirks as the door falls shut. “You want me to tell you or show you?”

You turn to Kkami, disgusted. “Your owner’s a bit of a pervert, my dear.”

Kkami licks you on the chin. Hyunjin’s eyes narrow to slits.

“Traitor.”

Naturally, Hyunjin’s parents chose the eve of his final anthropology exam—and the week before the tournament that will determine the trajectory of his career—to ask him to look after Kkami for a few days. He nearly canceled their plane tickets himself, but his impromptu roommate is currently ransacking your face with kisses on his couch, and he thinks your laugh complements his studio better than any decoration. 

“Do you want anything to drink?” He calls from the kitchen area.

You meander over, Kkami (still) perched happily in your arms. “What do you have?” 

“Alcohol.” He opens his fridge far enough so you can peer over his shoulder. “Americanos.”

He stops speaking.

“Is that all?”

“Yes. Wait—and apple juice.”

“You are about to be a professional athlete.”

“What the Italians don’t know won’t hurt them. You want apple juice, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

“Maybe. Can you open it for me? My hands are full.”

Hyunjin does so with far less reluctance than he feigns. You thank him jubilantly, popping the straw into your mouth.

“Let’s get this over with.”

At 10:32 P.M., all is calm. You are sitting on the floor, your back against the side of his mattress. Hyunjin is where the universe intended: curled up in bed, both him and his laptop lying on their sides. You have studied eight out of ten units in only two and a half hours, and the night is still young. Kkami is but a fluffy, sleepy Oreo by your waist.

At 10:33 P.M., the Oreo begins to retch.

You startle a foot into the air. Hyunjin is out of bed and on his feet in the blink of an eye, the very image of a dog dad on duty. He grabs three different things off the kitchen counter with one hand and scoops up the long-haired chihuahua with the other, and then he’s kicking open the door.

Seungmin appears out of thin air carrying two heaping bags of groceries. Hyunjin nearly knocks him and a month’s worth of fresh produce down four flights of stairs.

“Hyun—Kkami?” Seungmin swivels. “Yo, what the fuck is—”

Hyunjin is already out the door.

A few minutes later, Hyunjin squats off to the side, pouring fresh water into a portable dog bowl. A little ways away, Kkami is throwing up ebulliently; a set of footsteps approaches.

“What is this thing?” Seungmin squats down next to Hyunjin, picking up the piece of patterned fabric lying on the grass. 

“Kkami gets sad after throwing up,” he sighs. “His blanket makes him feel better.”

Seungmin watches the chihuahua for a few moments, a soft flinch crimping his features. “He ate too fast again?”

Hyunjin rakes a hand through his hair. “I don’t get it. Nobody’s gonna take his food from him.”

Seungmin laughs. “I didn’t even know he was on campus.”

“I picked him up last night. My parents are traveling for work—they say hi, by the way.”

“I say hi back. I miss your mom’s cooking.”

“Me too,” Hyunjin says, smiling. “She would love to cook for you again—she’s always saying you’re too skinny.”

“She really is.”

A beat passes; it is then that Hyunjin has an epiphany.

Seungmin was the one who put a volleyball in his hands for the first time. Back then, Hyunjin was the lesser troublemaker between the two of them—a concept that neither of them can wrap their heads around to this day. Seungmin suggested they use the clotheslines in Hyunjin’s backyard as a makeshift net, despite Hyunjin’s dissuading; half of Hyunjin’s father’s wardrobe caught on fire, Seungmin had a black eye for a week, and nobody knows what happened to that volleyball. The two of them have been attached at the hip ever since.

It is a crazy thing, having your best friend as a teammate; a singular flick of the wrist or a point of his shoe and Seungmin will know exactly Hyunjin wants the ball down to the net’s fraying fibers; Hyunjin will be exactly where Seungmin needs him down to the flecks of paint on the volleyball court. Hyunjin has always been Seungmin’s hitter—Seungmin, always Hyunjin’s setter. Nothing will ever change between them so long as that remains the case.

At least, that’s what Hyunjin used to think.

Learning that Seungmin was in a relationship was as much a wake-up call for Hyunjin as it was for you. At first, he was just fucking pissed; how could Seungmin be so stupid as to turn down someone like you, especially when Hyunjin had shot his mouth off about his wingman services? More importantly, how long had his best friend of eighteen years been in love, and why was he the last to know? 

Only now, as they wait for his nine-year-old chihuahua to finish barfing, does Hyunjin realize that he can’t remember the last time he and Seungmin talked. Not “talked” as in a brief exchange inside the locker room or the lecture hall, about a new approach he wants to try or what Seungmin got on number four or if he wants a ride to practice—“talked” as in talked, about Hyunjin, about Seungmin, about the eighteen years they shared, about all the years yet to come.

Hyunjin sees his setter every day; he stopped looking for his friend a long time ago. 

“Yeonwoo, right?”

He senses surprise in Seungmin without having to look at him. But he also senses a smile, a subtle show that Seungmin recognizes what he’s trying to do—and forgives him.

“Yeonwoo,” Seungmin affirms. “We’re in the same songwriting intensive this semester.”

“Also a singer?”

He shakes his head. “Piano player. Performed at the Carnegie Hall in the United States at, like, seven years old. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so talented.”

“Wow, that’s—hi, old man. You done?”

Kkami walks over with his head hung low and tail between his legs, and Hyunjin hurries to drape the pup in his favorite blanket, pulling the bowl of water in front of him in tandem. Seungmin runs a hand over the top of Kkami’s head as he hydrates.

“You’ve suffered,” he tells him solemnly, and Hyunjin snorts.

“As I was saying—that’s crazy to hear, coming from the most talented person I know. You guys looked so good together.”

“Thanks. It’s weird. I’m happy.”

“You deserve it. You really do, Kim.” They exchange smiles, and Hyunjin gives Seungmin a playful nudge. “When are you introducing us?”

“The arcade wasn’t enough?”

“Don’t insult me.”

“Whenever you want, then.”

“Dinner with my mom, dinner with Yeonwoo,” Hyunjin recounts. “I’m holding you to it.”

“Bet.”

They shake on it. If Hyunjin wasn’t already reassured by Seungmin’s smile, he knows by his clasp around his hand that they’ll be okay.

“What about you?” Seungmin asks. “Are you together yet?”

Hyunjin knew this was coming. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Seungmin strings his hands together, letting them dangle in the space between his knees. “Someone you have questions for that you’re too scared to ask. Someone who’s lived in your mind since the day you met. There’s someone like that, isn’t there?”

Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek. 

Ever since that night on the gym floor, Hyunjin’s been having these dreams. By the time his alarm goes off in the morning, every detail of the dream has eluded him, leaving behind only a ghost of emotion, akin to the breeze that grazes your face moments after walking past another person.

But then he’ll get out of bed, and walk to that café on the east side of campus, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. There, he’ll order a vanilla latte with extra sweetener, then turn around to see you standing five feet away, holding an Americano and trying not to laugh. And he’ll just know, with everything in him, that you are where his head goes when he’s not keeping watch.

He still addresses you by the pet names you hate. He still finds any excuse to be close to you; he still pesters you like a child with a crush. But now, he calls you his baby like one wishes on a star; his eyes drift to your lips every time you’re within two feet of each other; he makes fun of your likes and dislikes only because he’s happy to know about them at all. Ever since that night on the gym floor.

It’s impossible for nothing and everything to change at once. Two people teetering on the precipice of something cannot withstand a gust of wind so powerful. He’s already hanging off the ledge, losing his grip; where are you?

Next to him, Seungmin lets out a soft laugh. “There is.”

Hyunjin doesn’t know what to say.

“It might’ve been me, at some point,” he hums, returning his hand to scratch the back of Kkami’s ears. “But it has always been you, Hyun.”

Four floors above them and inside Hyunjin’s place, you are pacing between his fridge and his bed, nervously awaiting his and Kkami’s return.

Something catches your eye, wide and flat and hung on the wall by his bathroom door. You approach it curiously, your lips pulling into a fond smile the moment you realize all that’s in front of you.

Many of the photographs are of Hyunjin: him in his preteens, dead asleep in bed while dressed head to toe in volleyball gear, braces visible because his mouth is open; an action shot taken at what must’ve been a U21 match, the South Korean flag stitched into the shoulder of his jersey; him with half a birthday cake in front of him and the rest smeared all over his face. There are headlines, too: Underdog team earns district’s first high school volleyball state title; Hwang Hyunjin proves himself worthy of “ace spiker” label at South Korea V. Croatia U19 match; Coach Bang “Christopher” Chan leads Seoul National University to second consecutive KUL championship. There’s one—Who is Hwang Hyunjin? Meet the twenty-year-old instigant of South Korea’s imminent volleyball revolution—beside which he’s written the singular word “mouthful.” You laugh; you agree.

But pinned to the corkboard is also a photograph of Minho, surrounded by stray cats in the alleyway outside a K-BBQ restaurant; his parents cradling Kkami in an apple costume; his high school volleyball team silhouetted against a pretty sunset. Him and Seungmin as kids, covered in grime and scrapes but beaming nonetheless; him and Seungmin at age nineteen, stadium lights on their backs, unadulterated elation on their faces as they charge towards each other, beaming still. Changbin piggybacking Felix through the hallways of the gym, neither of them wearing a shirt; Jisung offering Coach Bang a beer while the latter looks direly unamused (you make a mental note to ask about that one later); what looks like a Rock Lee cosplayer grimacing in the middle of your anthropology classroom.

You rush forward as if decreed by gravitational force. Not too far away is another picture of you, in which you boast a Miffy headband and a face full of foaming cleanser. Then another, your eyes narrowed like that of a sniper taking aim as you’re playing Tetris; you with so many volleyballs piled into your arms that you can’t see your own face; your cheeks squished by a bandaged hand after you lost a bet about pandas (they can swim); you clutching your stomach on the library floor, brought to hysterical tears by Professor Kim’s email. You, you, you.

You bring your pointer finger to this last image, tracing it over the curve of your own cheek. You see a dimple on your face you didn’t know you had. You realize it only comes out for him.

It has always been him.

The front door opens. A man with telephone poles for legs and a long-haired chihuahua in his arms appears behind it. You sense in him that something has changed since you last saw each other. The two of you lock eyes. 

It’s not awkward this time.

Multiple yards behind the service line, Hyunjin is rotating a volleyball in his hands. It feels solid and sentient, an extension of himself held in cotton-clad fingers. He knows how this story will end.

He moves his eyes to his best friend’s back. Four fingers flash back at him twice, signaling a high lob set to the left, the very play they’ve practiced tirelessly for the last five weeks. The breath Hyunjin blows out of his cheeks seems to crystallize in the air, almost solid in all its exhilaration. 

He bends low and throws high. His arms drop behind his body like a spread of feathered wings; his feet fall into place below him like a meteor shower, two consecutive strikes against the earth that fissure its mantle. The lights overhead are bright. His palm pulls taut when it slams into leather. He knows how this story will end.

The volleyball tears towards the ground. It trembles as if scared by all that it holds: the guarantee of a flawless denouement, the catalyst of a radiant future. Hyunjin’s heart is beating hard enough to crack his ribs when he lands back on the ground, when the volleyball lands in the furthest corner of the court. He’s not scared at all.

He balls his fingers into fists.

“JUST LIKE LAST YEAR, BACK TO BACK ON AN ACE—”

An arm seizes Hyunjin’s neck; another drags him onto the floor. His head thuds onto the hardwood with a sound he hears over the whole world detonating. His vision fills with the faces of the people he cares for most, some covered in tears and others rivaling the ceiling with their blinding smiles. He can’t feel most of his body; his sweat drips into his mouth. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care.

“—DEFENDING THEIR TITLE FOR THE THIRD CONSECUTIVE YEAR—”

His eyes find Seungmin’s among the fray. Their hands clap together with such force that Hyunjin cusses at the impact. Seungmin’s gaze burns into his with a ferocity that Hyunjin plans to take to his grave. His setter. His best friend.

He says something inaudible, but Hyunjin reads the words off his lips, and his eyes fill with tears: we win everything.

“—YOUR NATIONAL CHAMPIONS: SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY!”

Hyunjin’s post-game interview is a lawless affair. He is allowed at most half an answer before a new teammate is barreling over with an animalistic screech or a new friend is screaming congratulations from out of frame.

The reporter is visibly agitated by her final question, unpursing her lips to ask: “Is there anyone you’d like to thank?”

Hyunjin exhales. “You want the short answer or the long—”

Changbin seizes him by the head. Hyunjin bursts into a peal of high-pitched laughter as the libero litters kisses all over his face, nearly crumpling to the floor in his attempt to escape.

“Love you,” he yells before hurrying off. 

“Love you too, Bin.”

Hyunjin turns a sheepish smile to the reporter.

“The short answer,” she deadpans.

He starts counting off his fingers. He thanks his family—his first and last teammates, his eternal anchors. His other family, his actual teammates, the best boys he’s ever known. His coach, who will let him call him Chris someday. His best friend and setter, Kim Seungmin, who set a clothesline on fire once and changed his life forever.

In the distance, a figure emerges from the locker rooms. There’s a navy blue SNU banner draped over your shoulders, two overflowing duffel bags in your hands. Jisung and Jeongin run over to take them from you, and the smile you give them is wide and flushed, a remnant of the elation you shared from afar. The three of you start walking out of the gym.

Hyunjin thanks you.

You didn’t ask for the position, he tells the reporter, but some idiot roped you into it, and they’re all so grateful that you decided to stick around. You know the team better than they know themselves—it’s hard to believe you’ve been with them for five weeks instead of five years.

What are you like? What aren’t you like, is the better question. You’re caring, smart, strong; you see so much goodness in the people around you, all while unaware that it is your warmth that brings it out of them. Flowers only bloom in the sun’s doting radius, and so did he.

You have the sort of soul that incurs the scorn of the stars. They are the only ones to deserve you, they'd argue; you’re wasting your potential among humans when you belong to the sky, and they’d be right.

Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek, suddenly annoyed.

“Why the fuck am I still talking to you?” 

“Pardon?” The reporter returns, but Hyunjin is already vaulting over the bleachers, making a mad dash for the exit. She gives her cameraman an affronted glare. He shrugs.

He explodes onto the concrete, looking around in a frantic haze. He finds the blue banner heading toward the team bus and flanked by his teammates with ease.

He calls out to you.

You glance backwards. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the area’s busy thrum. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram again, but he’s used to this feeling by now. Jeongin and Jisung make themselves scarce.

You’re beautiful. God, you’re fucking beautiful. That was the first thought to enter his mind when he spilled an iced Americano on your lap all those months ago and you looked at him like he hailed from another planet. And it is the first thought to enter his mind now, when he runs up to you and cradles your face in his hands, his touch infinitely, impossibly gentle, and you look at him like he’s everything that has ever existed, everything that ever will. 

Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He could’ve counted your eyelashes—if he didn’t have something far better to do.

“Tell me now if you don’t want me to do this,” he whispers.

A stupid smile crosses the face of the smartest person he knows. “My lips are sealed.”

Hyunjin kisses you. He kisses you until the banner around your shoulders is wrinkled under his touch, until your hands are tangled in his hair and aching his scalp, until the breaths you take are breaths you share, passed between your mouths like a puff of smoke before they’re colliding again.

He kisses you until he’s crying, again, until he’s no longer tasting your lips but your grin, and he kisses you only harder when those scornful stars start to dance before him, for you are his, not theirs, and he’s really won everything, now.

“Hwang, I need you in my office.”

Six months later, Hyunjin sees Coach Bang standing a few yards away with a grim air about him. He stops in his footsteps and glances at his captain, confused.

“I know nothing,” Seungmin says, walking away. “Good luck!”

“Thanks, cap.” Hyunjin swears he’s had this exact exchange before.

Head volleyball coach Christopher Bang’s workspace still reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. But there are two picture frames on his desk now: one of his family in front of the Sydney Opera House, the other of a band of boys clad in navy blue, draped over one another in exhausted bliss. The latter lends the room a much-needed sense of vitality. Too bad it still houses a rusty cyborg.

Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. “Read.”

From: Nicola Daldello «ndaldello@pvm.com» To: Bang “Christopher” Chan «cb97@snu.edu» Subject: Re: Allianz Milano V. Pallavolo Perugia practice game Christopher, Allow me to apologize for my delayed response as I shared your request with Chairman Piazza. It is my great pleasure to inform you that we would love for Mr. Hwang Hyunjin to participate in our practice game versus Pallavolo Perugia. The match is scheduled for Monday, October 7th, 5-7 P.M. CET in the Giurati Sports Centre in Milan. Mr. Hwang will be playing for Allianz Milano as an outside hitter alongside Mr. Matey Kaziyski, Mr. Osniel Mergarejo, and Mr. Ishikawa Yuki. Please let me know of your availability to call regarding Mr. Hwang’s travel logistics. His transportation and lodging costs will be paid for by the club. I’m looking forward to speaking with you and welcoming Mr. Hwang to Italy once and for all. Yours, Nicola Daldello Assistant Coach, Allianz Milano

“I told you, some opportunities just present themselves,” Bang says, turning his monitor back around. “As for next steps, I need a holistic calendar view of your entire month of October, including social ev—Hwang, is that foam coming out of your mo—NOT ON MY CARPET! HWANG!”

In a park about a ten minute walk away, a small crowd of elderly people are scattered across a few stone tables, hunched over the fading chess boards painted into the granite surfaces. Mrs. Choi whisks away Mrs. Baek’s king with a triumphant yelp.

“I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! That opening is unbeatable!” She swivels towards you, shaking a fist threateningly. “You! Get over here. Your reign is over.”

You are sitting cross-legged in the shade of a broad magnolia tree, clearing out your storage. You tried to take a picture of a particularly rotund pigeon to send to Hyunjin earlier and couldn’t even do that. It was then you decided you couldn't live like this anymore.

“As excited as I am to beat you again, Mrs. Choi, I need ten more minutes,” you call back. 

She presents you with an unpleasant hand gesture. You turn your attention back to your phone, grinning. Two new notifications sit at the top of your lock screen.

Hyunjin: Omw now. Sorry had to talk to Chris Hyunjin: Same park? Y/N: yes Hyunjin: Who’s our opponent today Y/N: mrs. choi Hyunjin: Not that bitch again Y/N: ?

He’ll be here in eight minutes.

You return to the task at hand. You’ve already cleared out your apps, your documents, and videos; all that’s left is the audio files. You conduct a quick mental review. Surely you’ll live without your downloaded music and accidental voice memos.

Instead of hitting the “delete” button, you extract a pair of tangled earphones from your jacket pocket.

You go back to your texts with Hyunjin, open the shared attachments tab, and scroll for a long time before you find the voice note he sent you seven months ago.

He finds you a sobbing mess.

“Hey, hey, whoa.” He’s on his knees in an instant, gathering your hands into his, a world of concern in the brown of his eyes. Your earbuds fall out and clatter onto the cement below. “Baby, what’s happening? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” you say in a flustered haste. “Yes, I’m okay. I don’t—I don’t really know what’s happening.”

“Did that hag do this to you?” He asks this question so seriously. “I’ll beat up a senior citizen, I don’t give a fuck—”

“No!” You let out an ugly laugh through your tears. “No, no. Leave Mrs. Choi alone.”

“Then what is it? What’s wrong?”

Eventually, your vision clears enough for you to look at the man kneeling in front of you. His roots grow out longer every day, his hair by now nearly equal parts gold and black. A spot of sunlight infiltrates the magnolia leaves and lands on his left eye, turning it the hue of melted bronze.

Your fingers drift to the sides of his beautiful face as you lean in close; he smells like a combination of smoky rose and tropical coastlines.

“I’ll tell you later,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his hairline. 

He is dissatisfied with this, hooking a pointer finger beneath your chin, guiding your face back to his. He laves the saltwater from your lips, your tongue, and then you’re smiling again, barely able to remember why you cried in the first place.

You rest your foreheads together. “Have I told you that you look like a bumblebee these days?”

He smiles. “Does that make you my flower, then?”

“Because you’re irresistably drawn to me?”

“No, because I wanna put my pollen in—”

You shove him away. “You are grotesque.”

He returns in a flash. “You love me.”

You kiss him again. And again. And one more time for good measure, during which you mumble I do against his lips, and then you remember something.

“Why did Coach hold you back, by the way?” You pull away, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “Are you in trouble again?”

“No, no. The opposite, actually.”

Your brow furrows. “The opposite? What—”

“In this lifetime, please,” Mrs. Choi hollers from the chess tables. You roll your eyes. Hyunjin smiles helplessly.

“Duty calls, my love.”

“Tell me your thing later too?”

“Of course.”

You dust yourself off and stand up, making your way to the battleground. But not before you whisper to Hyunjin, “now watch me beat up a senior citizen.”

He laughs with his whole body, his eyes the shape of crescent moons, his mouth a little rectangle.

“Hypocrite.”

Hyunjin: [1 Audio Message]

This is my seventh take and I’m not recording an eighth. What you get is what you get. I don’t care anymore.

I understand if you don’t wanna talk about what happened at the arcade. I wouldn’t, either. I just wanted to say that you don’t have to do this tutoring thing anymore. I won’t be able to fulfill my end of our deal, so…yeah, it wouldn’t be fair to you. You’ve already done so much for us. For me.

As for team manager, you’ll have to talk to Minho and Coach Bang if you wanna quit. Doesn’t sound like a fun conversation, I know—but if that’s what you decide, I’ll have your back. They don’t scare me. Well, they do. Sometimes.

You’ve been…distant, this week. I’ve known peace and quiet for the first time since we met, and I fucking hate it. I realized I couldn’t care less if you’re my tutor or my team manager or whatever—I just don’t want you to be a stranger. Maybe that’s selfish of me to say, but I’m tired of pretending the idea of losing you doesn’t terrify me. It does. It truly fucking does.

I’m gonna end this here, because I almost just stopped recording on accident and I would’ve committed first degree murder if I had to do this all over again. Sorry that this got so long, and…I’m sorry about everything. You deserve better.

Come back to me whenever you’re ready, okay? I’ll be waiting.

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© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · liked this work? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support ♡

[vi-enti]

it’s so funny following mutuals of my mutuals because then my entire dash becomes a mutual reblogging from a mutual’s mutual and then my mutual reblogs from me and so it’s all the same post

[prettyboykatsuki]

YOU’VE GOT THE CURE (EVERYTHING I NEED) | B. KATSUKI. 

✮ tags ; gn + afab!reader, soft dom!reader, sub!bakaugou, developing relationships, mutual pining and ambiguous relationships, anal play (m!recieving), dry orgasms, p in v, unprotected sex, 18+

✮ wc ; 6.7k

✮ a/n ; an anon comission from a beloved mutual im posting. also just dropping in to say hello

✮ synopsis ; katsuki is too fucking young to have erectile dysfunction, damn it.

“Hey.” 

“Hm?” 

The sound of your typing is especially loud in the empty office. It’s a Saturday and neither of you are supposed to be clocked in, but when duty calls - it’s up to the two of you to answer. 

“...I’m going to tell you something. If you so much as fucking laugh I will kill you.”

You don’t look up from your screen.

“Well that’s one way to start a sentence. I’ll try not to laugh.”

Katsuki slams his hand on the desk. 

“I’m being serious,” He says in a half-yell. You look up from the edge of your laptop unflinchingly with a displeased frown, shaking your head and throwing your hand up half-heartedly. 

“Fine, fine - I promise I won’t laugh. Can you stop being all ominous? You sound like Tokoyami.” 

“There’s something wrong with me,” 

“Well yes,” 

“Not like that,” He hisses, taking a deep breath. He leans forward with his elbows on the table, hands clasped seriously as he covers his face. “...I think my fucking..thing..is broken.” 

There’s a loud noise like a muffled laugh but when Katsuki looks up your expression is completely blank. Your lips are pressed tight, eyes out of focus as you continue to type. Or pretend to. True to your word, you don’t laugh but Katsuki still wants to fucking kill you. 

“Oh? What uhm,” You clear your throat, lips trembling as you try to keep yourself together. “What brought you to that conclusion?” 

He nearly snaps his pen in half. 

“What do you fucking think?!” 

“Hey. Calm down. I’m doing my best not to laugh but you are not helping.” 

This is the sort of thing Katsuki would normally take to his grave. Not only is it genuinely humiliating, it is the sort of painful personal detail he wouldn’t share with anyone even if he was fucking them. It wouldn’t matter either, that his dick isn’t working - if the other ways he relieved stress were.

He’s got an average sex drive, sometimes lower but a high libido. Getting off is a physical response to a bodily need. Like eating food or taking a nap. It’s just because it’s a physical need, it is noticeable when the need doesn’t get met. He is painfully aware of it. It’s been weeks and he thinks he’s starting to lose his mind. Worse? He’s exhausted every human option trying to fix the problem himself, save for going to the dick doctor. His testosterone levels are fine, he gets check-ups more regularly than the average person. Given his reputation is at stake, he’d rather not get prescribed anything. He’s bought ginseng and shitty vitamins and medicine he had to ship from overseas. Anything and everything. 

Picking up viagra at the ripe age of twenty four would give him psychic damage he won’t recover from, this much Katsuki is sure of. So not that. But everything else, every natural remedy conceived - he’s tried. 

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” He says, pinching the bridge of his nose and willfully ignoring the sound of your strained huffing “I can’t fucking get….it up and I don’t know why. I’ve tried everything. Everything. I’m going crazy,” 

“You know, it really says something about our relationship that you can confide to me about these kinds of problems. Like I’m so proud of us,” 

“Shut up. I’m already miserable enough without wanting to fucking tell you - but the only other option is Shitty Hair and Izuku. I refuse to buy a single goddamn pill for it, and I know if I go to a doctor they’re gonna recommend it and—” He can’t finish the thought. It’s a little too sincere for the kind of conversation you’re having. 

You’re a tactless person, so of course - you don’t bother with going along with the mood. Instead you smile like the evil bastard you are. 

“And…?” 

“You little—” He sighs rubbing his palms over his hands “And because I can trust you to be the least horrible option.” 

“So you acknowledge my valiant efforts as your underling and assistant and know you’d be nowhere without me?” 

“Shut up.” 

“Aw, you’re sweet,” You say, promptly ignoring him “But yeah, I mean - no judgement. I would ask if you’ve had anything major happen but I unfortunately already know that’s not really the case.”

Yes. You, of all people, would know that no major changes have happened in Katsuki’s external life that would make it hard for his dick to function. You spend so much time together. Minus the time he spends working and catching villains in the world - you’re practically glued to his side. You’re in charge of all of his affairs, his schedule, all other personal things. Katsuki is naturally neurotic, but you handle all of it with grace and care. You know everything about him, which is why he is asking you about this problem. 

(Does it border on unprofessional? Of course it does. But your relationship to each other degraded that border a long time ago. You’ve already slept in his bed and met all of his friends. And kissed him, but that’s irrelevant for now) 

“I need solutions,” Katsuki offers, totally and utterly defeated by the situation at hand. “I’ve done everything. Taken every goddamn herb, done every meditation. Nothing is working. Nothing. I’m going to go fucking crazy.” 

“Do you think just sleeping with someone would help? I know you don’t want to ask any of your friends, but maybe an escort? We can do it discreetly.” 

“Fuck no. If it were that easy I would’ve done it.” 

You pause. Katsuki can see the focus on your face and doesn’t know if it makes him feel better or worse. After an elongated period of silence, you perk up a little. You lock eyes with him and Katsuki briefly regrets bringing the whole conversation up in the first place. 

“Hate to ask,” You say, though there’s not enough embarrassment on your face to make anything of that statement. “But uh, have you tried getting off with other things. Like something that isn’t your dick.” 

He feels a flush creeping up his skin. “What the fuck are you talking about!”

“This is an important question,” You emphasize, an expression so alarmingly calm Katsuki doesn’t know if it makes him feel better or worse. “Cause if the answer is no, then that’s basically the best solution.” 

“How the fuck is that the best solution? Are you insane?” 

“Don’t be such a prude, Mr. Dynamight. You’ve bottomed before. It’s not that different. Have you ever tried it on your own?” 

“I fucking hate you.” He replies, closing his eyes and frowning. “No I haven’t. Why the hell would I do something so embarrassing.” 

“I know you’re super anal retentive - no pun intended there actually, but can you relax a little? It’s a good solution if nothing else is working. Your dick might be broken but an orgasm is an orgasm.” 

“Remind me to never ask you for shit again,” 

“I’d love that. Just keep me on payroll. Anyway,” You go back to typing. “I think that should be your first move,”

“How the—are you seriously telling me I should go fuck myself to solve my problem?” 

You giggle. “Well it sounds bad when you put it like that. But I guess yeah. I can help pick out some sex toys, maybe, do a little research. If you don’t want to do it in your apartment, there might be a love hotel,” 

A blush creeps up against the back of his neck. He covers his face with his hands. 

“I’m begging you to shut the fuck up. There’s no,” Another wave of humiliation sets in “There’s no way this is how I’m going about this. Like. Fucking none.” 

“The only other option is the good old fashioned doctors appointment, then. Which we can squeeze in over telehealth I think - since you got a check-up pretty recently. Want me to do that instead,” 

“Fuck, no. I just,” He groans, feeling the stress make his eye twitch “Fuck.” 

There’s a bit of silence and a little typing, like you’ve decided to leave him to his thoughts. Which he doesn’t blame you for, because all things fucking considered - there’s not really any more options. He’s a smart man and even he is fucking stumped. He’s going to have to give into something, eventually. He knows that, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. 

As soon as he gets close to giving up, you sit up straighter and give a deep long sigh. 

“Hey,” You scratch the side of your face awkwardly. “Do you want me to help you….?” 

He stares at you. “With what.” 

“With your dick being broken,” 

“What?!” 

“Don’t yell anymore, you’re giving me a headache,” You express, rubbing your temples. “Look. You need to get off, and you’re probably going to have to use your ass to do it. You don’t want to do it by yourself, and you don’t want to do it with a friend or escort. You’d prefer not going to the doctor's office or taking any pills. I’m offering - I’m not really your friend per se and you trust me enough to ask about it.” 

He hates more than anything that you have a point. 

“You can’t be fucking serious right now.”

“Hey. If you want your dick to stay broken for a while until you figure it out, do you. I’m just saying. Offering solutions is what you pay me for,” 

He pulls back a little. 

“...Are you fine with that?” 

“Oh banging you? Is that what you’re worried about?” He winces at the direct and crass way you speak. “I like you plenty and you’ve got a pretty face. I’m down if you are,” 

“I can’t believe I’m considering this.” 

“Really? I totally can,” You snicker, and he really, really considers firing you. “It’s not the first time we’ve crossed boundaries with each other. Just consider it, okay? Before you actually blow a fuse.” 

He leans back in his chair and groans. 

“Fuck. Yeah, whatever.” 

__ 

It’s another week before Katsuki takes you up on your offer. 

Miraculous it took that long, given the amount he suffered stubbornly trying to fix the problem on his own. The lengths he went too are too embarrassing to even disclose or recount but it very quickly became clear that this was not an issue that was going to magically disappear - no matter how hard he tried. 

Against his better judgment and after a long, cold shower trying to talk himself out of reality - Katsuki sent you a one line text. 

Fine. Come Saturday. 

The only thing he could say without dying of complete fucking shame. He’s grateful that’s the time you decided to have some tact. 

(Not a lot, since the text back you sent was a peach emoji and a thumbs up. But whatever, he’ll take what he can get.) 

It’s Saturday now, and he’s clean. All of him. He’s clean, and just wearing his boxers - sitting on his couch. You’ll be here very soon, and he can’t believe he’s saying this, but he’s nervous. 

You did mention you were fine with it. He believes that because there’s been long standing tension between you two for god knows how long he’s not entirely blind too. You sleep at his place sometimes and spend all day with him, and then there was that one time you two kissed (very sober) during New Years. You don’t bring it up because you know he can’t deal with it. Yet he’s comforted by the fact you at least want it (because you’ve said so), and that you’re willing to do this despite the ambiguity in your relationship. 

He knows that is inevitably going to come up today. But he really wants to fucking cum. And if it’s with you, then it’s fine. If his head was a little clearer, he would probably reject this whole thing based on his own emotional disparity. God fucking knows he is not in any place to deal with any of that. His heart barely gets by in the office and now you were going to fuck him. 

Is he stupid? 

Usually no, but because there’s a soft dick and tight balls where his brain used to be, currently yes. Everything put together, it’s a recipe for disaster. He considers telling you to fuck off and forget all this happens. 

But then he thinks about the prospect of your hands and your voice and it’s enough to at least get his heart pumping, though his dick still refuses to cooperate.

More than anything, he does trust you. Shitty, smug little fucker you can be sometimes - there’s not a single person who goes out of their way for him. More than just your job, sometimes it feels like every little thing you do is for his sake. Everything you don’t ask of him, every secret you keep. You push him where he needs to go and encourage him to take risks in his career without imposing on him. 

He blushes again, laying on his couch. He was nervous before but it’s not any better. Maybe he’s not so much of a dumbass as he is a total fucking masochistic. Is the level of overthinking the shit Izuku goes through? No wonder he’s like that all the time. 

He almost jumps out of his skin when he hears the doorbell ring. 

He answers the door shirtless and finds you on the other side. You have a cardboard box and the most nonchalant expression he’s ever seen. Normally it would annoy him, but right now he’s kind of comforted by it. You look at him with a flat smile. 

“Hey sexy,” You say with no intonation. “Can I come in?” 

He gives you a look of disdain. “Don’t ever say that shit to me again. But come in,” 

You laugh quietly as he steps aside. You don’t have much with you other than the ominous box and your bag. 

“You look like you’ve showered,” You say, taking your shoes off and putting on the house slippers he keeps for you. You don’t even look at him as you go towards his bedroom upstairs. He follows you with mild (faux) annoyance.“What a shame.” 

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

“I wanted to get a little romantical and help you clean up but you’ve taken that from me. I’m a little hurt.” 

“You’re such a dumbass. As if I’d let you do that,” 

“Don’t be such a spoilsport. I’m gonna be playing in your ass today anyway.” 

“Not the same thing.” 

“Tomato, to-mah-to,” You say with a wave of your hands. When you finally get upstairs, you look over your shoulder. Katsuki gets the message quickly enough, helping you with the door. You give him a little smile and let yourself in, dropping the box on the edge of his king sized mattress. 

He stands in the doorway for a short while, glancing at you before coming in. You put your bag somewhere on the floor before getting back to the box you’ve brought over. He can guess what’s in it, but he stands with you to open it anyways.

Predictably,  the thing is full of sex toys. The first question he wants to ask is how much you spent on all of it, but he bites his tongue. 

You look at him and do a little jazz hands gesture. “Tah-dah.” 

He gives you a displeased look, but you’re well used to this sort of thing from him. There isn’t actually a whole lot in the box. The theatrics of you bring it upstairs were more likely just you fucking with him for the sake of the bit.  He frowns. Typical. 

You do have some new things in the box. A few expensive look gadgets, like a pair of quirk canceling handcuffs (decorated with leopard print fur) and something that looks like it goes around his neck. The sex toys that are in there are noticeably high quality. You definitely used his dime to pay for this. 

“Handcuffs? Seriously?” 

“You’re too much of a control freak and I like not having my hands blown to bits,” You say, shaking your head. “We should establish some ground rules and stuff now.” 

“Haah? The fuck are you gonna do that we need rules.”

“I’m not just gonna jump scare you with dominating you. But that is what I’m doing.  What we’re doing.” You give him a more serious look, that makes him feel more shy than he cares to admit.  “You get what I’m saying? You have to trust me a little, okay?” 

He makes a petulant face at you. “I already trust you dipshit,” 

“This and that are different,” You say, shaking your head. He refrains from disagreeing with you a second time. They’re really not, but he has no desire to explain that. “I’m gonna touch you and be a little strict. Are you okay with that?” 

“I don’t care.” 

“That’s not an answer,” 

He grits. “I want to cum. And I…trust you or whatever. I already agreed to this. If it’s pissing me off, I’ll just kick you offa me. Anyway, ‘s fine.” 

“If you kick me I’m suing you for battery. We can have a safeword. I’m not going to duct tape your mouth and I’m gonna talk you through most of it - but just incase.” You say. He pauses, taken aback by how… delicately you’re treating him. He doesn’t know if he should be pissed about it or not. “Any word is fine. We can use the stoplight system too if you want.”

“Stoplight?” 

“Red for stop, yellow for slow, green for go.” 

“That’s fine. Easy to remember.” 

“Okay,” You nod to yourself, tucking the promise to memory before looking at him more seriously. “Are you okay with intimacy?” 

He stares at you. 

“The fuck…?” 

“Kissing and hand-holding and all that other stuff.” 

“Is it necessary?” 

“Strictly speaking, no,” You look at him knowingly this time. He’s taken aback, but you’re always like this. You look through him, not at him. “Are you okay with it?” 

The implication is there. Do you want it? is the question that goes unasked. Too direct for his tastes. He feels heat spread through his body, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. 

“Yeah…’m fine with it.” 

Your smile is more genuine this time around. He turns away from you a little. 

“Okay. That’s everything out of the way. I’m gonna cuff your arms,” You say. It all feels a little sudden. He figures you’d mean business, but still - he’s not all that prepared. He’s had a week to mentally prepared but that feels like nothing compared to now.  There’s an authority to the way you talk now he isn’t sure he’s going to get used too. “Repeat your safewords to me when you turn around.” 

He frowns but listens. He puts his hands together in front of him, waiting for you to cuff him, shyness making him hot. 

“Uh. Red for stop, yellow for slow down, green for go.” 

“Good boy,” You say so smoothly it almost rolls off of him. The cuffs go around his wrists, and Katsuki can feel the familiar sensation of losing his quirk. Now it’s just the both of you. “I’m expecting a little pushback, but generally - you’re to listen to me. Clear?” 

“God, fuck - yeah clear,” Katsuki says, feeling ticklish all of a sudden. “All this shitty foreplay is making me feel weird.” 

You wrap your arm around his midriff in a sudden movement, making him twitch. He can feel your cheek pressed against his chest as your hands hover over his waistband. He takes in a sharp inhale. 

“It’s good that you’re feeling anything.” You say, breath just barely above a whisper. “Gonna take this off,” 

He just nods, silently. It’s still on soft, but something is happening in his gut at least. You help him take his boxers down. You’ve probably seen him naked before, more than once. You two being attached at the hip was no joke. This time there’s this lingering anticipation that’s there, and that changes things. 

He steps out of his boxers. He’s naked and you’re clothed and his head feels like it’s spinning. Your hand guides him to the edge of the bed. He sits and watches you, but you don’t undress. 

The first kiss (second kiss) that you exchange with Katsuki is pleasant. You bend down to do it. It’s a chaste way to meet his lips, weirdly soothing while his stomach is starting to tie in knots. It’s a little surprising how..comfortable it is. Your mouth is soft, your lips taste a little like chapstick and you smell nice. You pull away to kiss the corner of his mouth, trailing down his jaw. 

Your thumbs draw over the shell of his ear, rubbing the lobe tender. You’re so different. The contrast in your normal personality is a little too much for him to reconcile with easily, but you brush over these things well enough. He looks away when you meet his eyes. 

“Do you wanna lay down or kneel?” 

His throat is tight. “...Don’t care.” 

You laugh a little to yourself, another kiss. “Lay down then. It’d probably be easier if you put your ass up but knowing you, I doubt it.” 

He blushes, annoyed that he’s so obviously predictable to you. 

The sheets are soft where he lays. You don’t join him on the bed at first. He just waits there cuffed as you shuffle around for things - lubes and toys and pillows. When you do return to him, you pat his side and slide a pillow underneath his back. He quickly regrets laying down, because god the position is fucking exposing. 

You get between his legs and settle there comfortably. A hand rests on his bare thigh, rubbing your thumb into smooth, muscled skin. His breath is hitched. You lean down and kiss his hip. Still no dice on the erection, but you don’t seem discouraged. 

You flip the lube open and let it pour onto your fingertips. It’s pink lube. This is mildly irritating, but saying anything will feed into your satisfaction so Katsuki bites his tongue. He watches it as you warm it in your hands, patting his leg with your clean hand. 

“Legs up,” You instruct. “And deep breath. Try not to tense.” 

“Just goin’ for it, huh?”

You don’t reply to that, but you do smile. 

It’s not his first rodeo. His second or third, but certainly not his first - but he’s never had it done for a reason like this. There was an exchange prior, that someone was putting something in him for their pleasure too. This isn’t for that. This is just for him, with your skilled hands and your oddly gentle tendencies that he doesn’t see any other time. That proves to be too much, makes his belly feel honeyed with lust. 

The warm, thick sensation of lubed fingers presses against the tight rim of muscle. He breathes and unclenches. Tries not to think too hard about anything. He’s desperate, too desperate. At this point, it’s hard to be prideful. Your hands are noticeably daintier than the ones he’s had in him prior. It’s…weirdly nice. Makes the process easier somehow. He’s reminded that you’re just you, and that makes him more nervous. 

“That’s it, baby,”  You hum, so soft it’s startling. The way the blood starts to rush in that familiar way nearly makes him sick. Oh, fuck. No way. “Oh?” 

No way. No fucking way. No way that’s what does him in. 

You pause. He takes in a deep breath, ready to say anything to defend himself. Humiliation spreads through his whole body. He can feel how hard he’s starting to burn, like the blood in his body is struggling to keep up with the desire and pump of his heart. His chest and face start to flush a familiar rose as he grits his teeth and closes his eyes. 

Weeks. Weeks and weeks of trying to figure this out. And it was you calling him baby, of all things, to get him at half-mast. 

He’s too afraid to open his eyes, but forces himself too. He’s expecting a smug laugh or sarcastic jab but instead you just look surprised. You stare at him, unblinking. He’s so startled he stares back. 

“Do you wanna…keep going?” 

He gets hard. Fuck. 

“S-shit,” He says, wishing he could cover his face with his hands properly. “Yeah,” 

He can’t read your expression at all. Annoying. You don’t brush over it though - but you don’t force him to acknowledge it either. Maybe you’re just focused on the fact he finally has something to work with and don’t want to ruin it by making him talk about his feelings. 

“Baby,” You say again, smooth and deliberate. There’s that twitch again, something pooling in his gut. He starts to feel nervous. You’re doing the same as before, stretching him and teasing the rim - getting him ready for something else. “You like bein’ my baby, Katsuki?” 

He opens his mouth, only to close it again. He tries to choke some word about, telling you go fuck yourself - but he always ends up looking at your face. Your lashes on your cheek. Soft touches and even softer words. He stops knowing what he wants at some point.

“Ugh,” His voice grows thicker. “Don’t ask me that,” 

(If he were more apt at honesty, he could admit to you that he just wants you. In whatever way. Sometimes you get like this, when you’re not screwing around - and you’re so good to him that it hurts. He likes your sarcasm and dryness. 

But he likes too when you’re this sweet on him too - even if that feels shameful as fuck. That feels like it’s crossing so many more lines that you’re usual self. He knows that better than anyone. It is crossing more lines than usual. 

He can’t help but think about it anyway.)

You laugh a little. His eyes go lidded as you continue to work him open. It’s a slow process. You circle his hole with your thumb each time before pushing in. You get one finger in without effort. The second one takes a little more. Another heaved breath and unclenching of his muscles. 

He hasn’t felt the sensation of something entering him in so long. He can’t remember when the last time was. He’s antsy as you pump your fingers in and out, stretching him slowly. You find the bottle with your free hand, flicking it open with your teeth and pouring lube onto him directly before you keep going. 

“That feel okay?” You mumbles

“Y-yeah. Feels fine,” He huffs, closing his eyes “Feels…good,” 

“It’ll feel better soon. Just need to,” You curve the two fingers inside of him up. They search and search and search until—

There. Shit, there. 

“Oh, shit,” He gasps, arching himself up as you rub it. You smile at him, pleased. “Fuck,” 

You whistle. Katsuki can feel his cock throb properly now, up at full attention. You don’t touch him though. Your other hand grips his thigh for support as you focus your wrist and energy on curling your fingers against his prostate. His stomach flutters, waist tightening.

He’s been fucked before, damn it, but this is different. This is controlled and concentrated. Your fingers are perfect in their motion, pinpoint pleasure making him break out into a feverishness. You’re annoyingly good at this. His whole nervous system feels like it’s being unraveled so slowly. Pulled apart like the slices of a fruit, something for you to pick off and eat.

His head feels like it’s full of cotton, tongue too big for his mouth. Thoughts clouded and inhibition lowered. Real pleasure. He hasn’t felt that in what has to be more than a month now. It’s overwhelming. He’s sensitive and muddy and acting stupidly - he’s well aware. It’s an out of body experience being so unwound in general but this after everything is overstimulating. 

God it feels good. How can anything feel this fucking good? 

His breathing is erratic, heart pumping trying to keep up with it. Euphoric little pricks start at his abdomen and shoot off through his whole body. Like the splintering ends of a falling star. 

He’s never had any orgasm that feels like it needs every muscle in his body to pump through him. It starts in his center and spreads out, melts him slowly. Usually the feeling of needing to cum is passing - just building pleasure until the orgasm hits and the high relaxes. His cock is leaking now with every little press along his insides. Little white dribbles of pre-cum sliding down his shift all the way down to his ass. He doesn’t want to think about how he looks, so he focuses on how it feels. 

“Fuck, that feels so good,” His voice almost gives. “Shit, I’m gonna cum if you don’t slow down.”

“You can cum if you want to, Katsuki,” As if to drive the point home by massaging his inner thigh, neglecting his cock “Guess you’re pretty sensitive inside, hm? Gonna make you cum like a girl,” 

His blush deepens.. 

“Haah, fuck - fuck I’m not sensitive. It’s just, hng. Been a while,” 

“Don’t be a liar or I won’t let you cum,” You tease. 

His eyes shoot wide, brows touching his hairline.  “Fuck, d-don’t you dare. .” 

You have the nerve to laugh at him. All things considered, maybe you’ve earned. “Just teasing. I’m awful but not that awful. “ 

“You’re not awful, fuck - just really,” He throws his head back against the sheets. “Need to cum, really need to—” 

“Gonna cum without even touching your cock,” You say, half-amused. He shudders when the realization dawns on him.“You’re so sweet.” 

He’s drooling. The strength goes out in his jaw as the feeling just builds and builds and builds. It goes on like it’ll never topple. 

When it does, it doesn’t feel so much like a rope unsnapping as much as it feels like everything is being pulled from under him. Like the loss of gravity. His abdomen goes tight, the anticipation of it making it impossible to breathe. So close, so close, so close. His brain feels shut off, mindlessly humping along air to capitalize on everything. You’re encouraging only eggs him on further. He lets out a garbled little noise, choking. His voice rasps as electricity flows through him. 

And he cums, there’s an orgasm - but nothing comes out. He cums so hard but his balls still feel so tight and full. It feels good but he’s still so fucking hard. It snaps him awake as his eyes open, and you’re staring at his cock a little awestruck. 

“Oh, poor baby,” You say - not exactly mocking him but not exactly being kind either. Katsuki stares at you lost and hazy. “A dry orgasm after all of that. That’s just cruel. 

He heaves. “What the….how am I supposed to?” 

His dick aches. Fuck he almost wants to cry. 

Your hand wraps around the base of his shaft in a sudden movement, making him hiss. He almost cusses you out. Sensitive, too sensitive. You put your thumb over the tip of his cock, more pre-cum leaking from it as you. You look mesmerized as it dribbles against your thumb

A long pause. 

“Hey,” Your expression is  serious. “Do you wanna fuck me?” 

“What?” 

“I’m really turned on right now, shit. I was planning on just helping you but, you didn’t cum yet and I’m...,” You’re looking at him so directly. His heart pounds. “You can say no,” 

Of course he wants to fuck you. That’s what he wants to say. He doesn’t know where he’d find the fucking gall. 

“....’s sensitive,” He says instead, flushing with embarrassment. You brighten up. “Just… give me a minute,” 

“I will but first,” You rummage through your items and pull out a plug. His eyes widen. “It’ll feel good, I promise.” 

He grumbles, but doesn’t reject you. You have some kind of miracle in you - so he feels more inclined to just give in to whatever you say. You look eager to do it. He doesn’t know how he feels about that. 

It’s easy enough to put the plug in when he’s already all soft. He’s still sensitive and swollen. He hisses as the cool metal of the plug slides into softened hole, before settling. You give him a little tap on his which he glares at you for. Your only response is laughter. 

There’s nothing to talk about while Katsuki watches you undress. You don’t take it all off - just your bottoms. It’s not that he has nothing on his mind. Just that… seeing you like that isn’t making him any less hard. He just… looks at you. Dumbly. You slide your shorts off in one go and your underwear along with it, and you’re all on display. 

It’s pretty. Your pussy is really pretty. A horrifyingly embarrassing thing for him to think but it’s true. There’s a fine layer of hair on your mound that he likes. You’re dripping wet like you said you were, and that doesn’t make the situation any easier. You give him a little smug grin as you settle over his lap. He stares at you completely absent-minded, flushed. 

“Like what you see?” You tease. He’s too struck to lie to you. 

“Yeah,” He rasps. He’s out of his mind right now. He blames it on his dick. “I wish I could take these fuckin’ cuffs off.” 

You look at him a little surprised. “You don’t like being cuffed and restrained?” 

His ears feel hot, heat prickling up his skin. “Didn’t say that just,” He groans even trying to say it. “...Wanna touch you,” 

He trails off. You use your hand to turn his face back to you, cupping his jaw as you bend forward to kiss him. He stares at you wide-eyed, making a noise of surprise. This kiss is different from all the others. Deeper, with more feeling. He gets into it, lifting his head to kiss you back. 

When you pull away, you’re all fluttered lashes and adoration. 

“After I drain your dick dry,” You say with a confidence that astounds him. “I’ll take them off and let you fuck me proper. But you have to tell me you want that, first. Do you wanna fuck me, baby?” 

“Shit. Y-yeah,” He nods, feeling absolutely swept up in your pace. 

“Say it.” 

“I wanna fuck you, dammit,” He stutters through the last of his sentence. “Don’t make me beg, my dick is going to blow off if you keep torturing me.” 

You laugh good naturedly and he feels a little proud that he made you laugh. The thought that he’s beyond whipped wipes the smile off his face completely, but whatever. 

You pull back, sitting up as you examine his cock. You hold it up to you, weighing your options. 

“I’m too horny to open myself up. I’m just gonna sit on it, ‘kay? Don’t buck your hips up,” 

He opens his mouth to protest, but the words die in his mouth. The warm, wet heat of your cunt is immediately overstimulating. He groans so gutterally it startles him. Like it’s punched out of him. This is the only pressure his hard cock has gotten in months and it’s making him feel like he’s on fire. 

You don’t give him a chance to cover. You lean over him as you maneuver his cock to your entrance with all disregard for his sanity. You hiss as the tip finds the spot. Fuck you’re wet. Your insides are so soft, so sticky - but you’re still so damn tight. 

As you promised you go slowly. It doesn’t help him losing his mind. Worsened by the fact he can see you on top of him, all bated breaths and shaky moans. There must be a dull pain, but you only give him a smile as you get the first inch. 

“You’re big,” You say breathlessly. His cock twitches to life. “Feels fucking good. Shit, that’s amazing. Haha, I can feel you so deep already.” 

“Please stop talking, before I, haah,” 

“Don’t cum yet,” You demand, lowering yourself further and further until you’ve bottomed out. Katsuki feels fucking crazy. “Let me get my fill first.” 

“Ngh, easier said than fucking done,” 

You just laugh. “Try your hardest, Mr. Hero. Show off your endurance, hm?” 

He groans as you start to move. You really don’t regard him at all. You lean over him with one hand and use your other to tease and toy with your clit as you ride his cock with reckless abandon. The room is quick to fill with noise - the sound of skin slapping skin, the skin sticking where your hips meet his thighs. 

 You’re moaning in little broken waves. He’s not going to last if he listens to you anymore. 

He’s biting the inside of his cheek trying not to cum, but you don’t make it easy. You’re riding him with so much force, using him. Your pussy is so tight it’s gripping him, sucking him dry. A vice-like grip, sticky and pliant over the hard curve of his cock. Everytime you bounce and throw your ass a little harder onto him, he can feel you. Feel himself and  how deep he is. His hands tighten into fists where they’re cuffed in front of him. 

He’s never been… used like this. But he doesn’t hate it the way you disregard him to chase your own pleasure while being so generally mindful of his own. You take and take and take but you make it feel so good. 

It’s not helped by the plug in his ass, brushing against his prostate every single time you move. Makes him jolt. Every fiber and nerve in his body is wound as tight as it can possibly go. All of his strength, sanity, and focus he has left in him is trying not to cum, not to buck his hips up and rut into you like a stupid animal no matter how much he wants too. 

He can feel you start to cum before you even tell him. Your walls pulse with need and your movement starts to get slower. The grip you have holding you up weakens slightly. 

“Gonna cum. Fuck baby, I’m gonna cum,” You say with a pant. You open your eyes and look down on him “Cum with me, okay? Don’t hold it in,” 

The words alone trigger a reaction. But with everything else, it’s like Katsuki explodes. Weeks worth of tension in his body, in his muscles, in his everything  - burst at the seams. You cum and he follows you nearly in succession. The hard pulsing of your swollen cunt suck around him like a vice and he goes practically limp feeling his dick finally drain. 

He cums and he can’t stop cumming. Pumps out so much white hot seed his head starts to cloud. He fucks up into you, sloppy and dumb. Chasing his high as he pours every ounce of his load into your pussy without so much as a modicum of shame. A month of dryness overwritten by the most intense orgasm he’s ever had in his fucking life. He doesn't know how long he stays there, painting your walls with his spend. It just goes on forever, longer than he’s ever experienced. 

He has his eyes closed as he goes limp. Fucking hell. 

It takes him a while to go soft again. When he finally does and returns to consciousness, he’s still nestled inside you. You give him a smile when his eyes finally open, leaning forward to kiss his hairline. 

“Still all there?” 

His voice is hoarse like he’s been screaming. “I feel like I fucking died,” 

You giggle. 

“So… no?” 

“Kind of. Barely. What the fuck is up with you.” He says laying his head back, sweat dripping down his back. “Shit.” 

“Did you like it?” 

He gives you an unimpressed look as you laugh. 

“I’m glad.” You say softly. You’re warm. God he’s down bad. “We have a lot to talk about later. You should take a little break for now.” 

He nods in agreement to both things before pausing. “For now..?” 

“You thought we were done?” You say with a tilted head. He gapes. “I thought you knew I was more ruthless than that.” 

He groans. 

“You’re insane.” 

You chuckle, leaning down to kiss him. 

“You love me.” 

He lets you kiss him some more and doesn’t bother denying it. 

[theorphicangel]

“𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐜𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬?” | 𝐌𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

synopsis: you have a valentine’s date tomorrow and you’re somewhat excited for it. but there’s just one thing you’re unsure about…thankfully your trusted roommate can help. right?

tags: roommate au! (Here we go again), smut, 18+, oral (m.receiving), blowjob, praise, mutual pining, these mfs are in DENIAL smh

PART ONE.

“You have a valentine’s date?”

“God, O’Hara don’t even try to hide the surprise in your voice, why don’t you.”

You cross your arms, frowning at your roommate who was currently sitting next to you on the couch. The two of you were watching a remake of a new movie that had come out recently. An hour or so had passed, the both of you stuck within a comfortable silence before your words had distracted him.

“How could you blame me?” He begins, his gaze still on the television screen. “I’ve never seen you bring anyone home before.”

“So you keep notice on who I bring home?”

A pause runs between the two of you.

“No.”

“Liar.”

Miguel clears his throat. “It’s none of my business anyways, what you do.”

After a few beats of silence, Miguel speaks again, this time with a teasing tone. “I wouldn’t want to be like you anyways, keeping track of who I sleep with.”

“I do not keep track!” you exclaimed.

“How come you remembered Cindy’s name then?”

You hesitate, stuttering off. “You–you talk about her a lot.”

“Bullshit.” A grin creeps up across his lips.

“You jerk, I was gonna ask you for a favor but since you wanna play that game, nevermind.” You crossed your arms, turning your attention back to the screen. Simultaneously, you had just sparked off Miguel’s own curiosity.

“What’s the favor?”

“I don’t want to ask you anymore, I’ll ask someone else.”

“Like who? Peter?”

“Don’t be mean, mig’.”

The movie continues to play in the background for a minute or two before Miguel starts getting restless.

“So who's the guy then? Someone you paid?” Miguel’s grin doesn’t have the time to stretch across his lips this time as you throw a pillow to his face.

“Hey!”

“Watch your mouth, O’hara.”

The two of you had been roommates for just under a year. You had moved in due to an emergency situation. A few troubles with your finances, student loans and the loss of your job resulted in you desperately responding to a roommate advert posted on the internet. Moving in at the beginning was awkward, the two of you avoiding each other, minimal conversation revolving around the weather and who would take out the trash.

But all it took was one night for the both of you to open up to each other, a shift in your realization that Miguel wasn’t as bad as you thought. A few too many drinks one night led you to learn a lot about each other. Like how he didn’t like the dark yet had a weird obsession with space. You found that he had a brother, a few years younger than him who was almost a spitting image. For him, he learned how you once had wanted to be a painter but soon switched career paths to psychology as well as taking up a foreign language.

Ever since that night, you’ve managed to maintain a good friendship with Miguel, completed with a little teasing here and there. On some nights, when you were left alone in your room, you laid back and stared at the ceiling, thinking about him. Particularly, thinking about him and the girls which he brought home. Your mind wandered to the possibilities of what he would be like with them. Imagining what it would be like to be in their position.

How would he touch you, feel you, look at you? Would he be gentle and take his time or does he rush, his passion taking over his whole body? It was questions like these that plagued your mind. You began to create a fantasy in your head, touching yourself at the thought of him touching you; imagining his movements to be slow and cautious, taking you all for himself.

Speaking of, you’ve recently noticed his lack of…visitors lately. Instead of hiding away with them in his room, he’s recently been spending a lot of late nights in your company.

“What’s your plans for Valentine's Day?” you queried, trying to maintain a casual tone. “Taking Cindy out for a romantic dinner?”

Miguel scoffs, shaking his head a little. “Why don’t you ask her out yourself, since you’re so obsessed with the woman?”

A small wave of ease flows through your mind at his answer. Yet it wasn’t exactly the answer you wanted. You pat Miguel on the chest mockingly.

“I knew she said no to you. If you ever want to talk about it, I’m here you kno—” Unfortunately you weren’t able to finish your sentence as a small scream left your mouth, as Miguel pinched your thigh.

“Watch it, imbécil.” he glared, before changing the topic. “But I’m serious, who's the poor guy then?”

You shoot an offended glare back before repositioning yourself on the couch, turning your body to face him properly.

“Someone asked me from work.”

“And you didn’t have to get on your knees and beg them first?” Playfully, you hit him on the arm and he lets out a fake wince of pain.

“Shut up. And no, for your information, I didn’t.”

Miguel hums, his eyes quickly glancing back to the television screen as he tries his best to ignore the sinking feeling of disappointment in his lower abdomen. Guess he should cancel tomorrow then.

“But I had a favor to ask you.” you turn your body, shifting your position to face him. Miguel merely raises a brow, humming deeply again with his eyes still glued on the screen.

“I was wondering if you’d…show me how to—uhhh how do I put this? Suck someone off.”

Miguel froze. Oh, now you had his attention.

“¿Qué?”

You freeze, clearing your throat as his eyes snap back to you. “I mean it was just a suggestion– I-I’ve watched a few videos but I’m still kinda—I just— I mean, I don’t–”

“You don’t know how to give a blowjob?”

It was a bit more blunt than you had wanted to put it but…yes.

You nodded silently, now choosing to avoid eye contact. “I just wanted some tips, y’know? What do guys generally like? I’ve read that some like it differently than others so…”

“Why are you asking me?”

Ah yes, the million dollar question. Why were you asking your hot ass roommate for blowjob tips? You had the choice to ask anyone: your best friend, or another friend or even a random stranger on the internet. Why him?

“You’re…experienced.” was all that you could come up with. “And not in a bad way!” You quickly correct. “ but I can assume you’ve had your good shares of…that.”

Miguel raises a brow again, swallowing thickly. Anxiety was now bubbling at the base of his stomach. You were asking him how to please a man and immediately his mind jumped at the thought of you with your valentine’s date at the end of the night. Ah, you were asking for your date.

“Well, did you just want tips or did you…” he trails off without finishing the sentence, thinking how weird it would be to finish the sentence that had popped up in his mind.

“ ‘Or did I’ what?” You repeat, tilting your head ever so innocently.

“Or did you want to practice on me?”

/

And that’s how you got here. Kneeling on the floor between the thighs of your very own roommate whom you have only known for less than a year. Was this what you were expecting when asking for advice? Of course not. But there was a sense of excitement that grew in the pit of your stomach and you weren’t going to complain about it.

“So how do I start?” You glance up at Miguel, your eyes wide with innocence and curiosity to learn. Just from the way that you looked at him, he was already beginning to get hard.

“Well, you just start.”

You roll your eyes, “Okay, doofus. So you expect me to just get into it? No foreplay or anything?”

“There’ll probably be some foreplay with your date and stuff but…we don’t have to do that.”

For a split second there’s an aura of hesitation between the two of you; him regretting his last words and you almost wanting to reject his assumption. Mutually, there’s a little voice inside of you that tempts you both to take the chance and do this properly.

But of course, this was a lesson.

A mere, innocent favor from a roommate. With no strings attached. Or feelings for that matter.

Even if it killed you both to suppress them.

You nod silently, taking mental notes. Miguel raised his hips a little to pull down his sweatpants, enough so that you could access him with ease. Now you’re starting to get nervous. Your heart was palpitating so much that you could hear your own heartbeat thump in your ears. “I-”

“If you don’t want to, we can stop.” He quips quickly, noticing your hesitation.

You pause, reflecting for the final time whether or not you wanted to do it. Once you made your decision, you glanced up at Miguel.

“It’s not like I have much time left to practice, right?”

Miguel raises a brow. After all, Valentine's day was tomorrow so you needed all the practice that you could get. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” you vocalized, trying to sound more confident in this way.

“Okay, lemme just–” Miguel mumbled to himself as tugs down his boxers. You noticed the way the bottom of his shirt hiked up a little, presenting his happy trail; a dark bush of hair leading all the way down to his…

Oh.

It’s big. Bigger than you thought. And he’s not even hard yet.

Miguel seethes a little, his cock only semi-hard. He pumps himself a few times before removing his hand, leaving it up to you. His arms now rest on the back edge of the couch, widening his thighs a little more for accessibility.

‘Holy shit’, you think to yourself, how the fuck were you supposed to deal with this?

Miguel caught onto your expression, panic drawn all over your face. “We can–”

“No.” you interrupt him, reading his apprehension too. His concern for you is more than obvious. “I want to.”

Miguel chuckles a little, “I was going to suggest to take it slow but yeah, if you’re still up for it.”

You swallow thickly, edging nearer before planting your hands on his thighs. This is so alien to you. After many months of tiptoeing around him at a distance, it was scary how fast you found yourself in a position of intimacy with him.

Sure, many times before have you fantasized about what it would be like to get close to him. With the sounds of moans coming from his bedroom late at night, it wasn’t hard for you to figure out how much of a woman pleaser he was.

Slowly, your hand wraps around his cock, feeling him get harder and harder with every second that passes. You think back to the videos that you had watched previous to this, noticing that most of the women decide to give a few strokes before going in with their mouth. You imitate them easily, watching your hand move.

You take in every fine detail: every vein, every twitch, every shade leading from the tip to the base. The crown of his cock is thick, becoming redder with every stroke as juices of pre-cum subtly spilling away.

“Jus’ like that.” Miguel murmurs and you notice how his tone is a little lighter than before. “When you’re ready, you can lick the tip a little, warm yourself up to it.”

You hum in response. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, not yet at least.

Once again, you think back to the porn videos you had watched, imitating the women by tracing little circles across the tip of his dick. Miguel lets out a drawn out groan and little by little you can feel his body relax as you continue on. It tastes salty. The tip of his cock is reddened and soft.

For a minute or two you continue to trace circles, closing your eyes in the moment, allowing yourself to relax and get rid of any nerves or doubt. Miguel says nothing more, his teeth softly biting down on his lower lip, he watches as you hesitate, unsure of how to continue from here.

Miguel’s hand soon reaches for your chin, causing you to pause and tilt your head up towards him. His hand cups right under your lips and your face turns to confusion for a split second before he lets out his command.

“Spit.”

For some reason, your body listens to him without a second thought.

“It’s okay if it gets messy,” he advises, “the messier the better.”

You make a mental note of that.

You make sure to be careful with your teeth as your lips part around his cock. Once again you take it slow, letting your mouth adjust to his size. He’s bigger and thicker than you had expected, barely halfway before he already fills up your mouth. Your eyes water as you attempt to take him whole, a decision which you realize quickly was too hasty as you reach your gag reflex.

“Hey, hey, hey, don’t– mierda!” Miguel sits up a little, trying to pace you. Your eyes water and saliva continues to pool out of your mouth, dripping down to his balls. Your cheeks are full of his cock and as if following his instincts, Miguel almost wants to hold your head there. It takes all of his resilience not to place his hand at the back of your head. He let out a grunt at the warmth of your mouth, coaxing him to stay a little longer. But unfortunately if he does, then he may cum sooner rather than later.

You feel his fingers tap your shoulder, “Hey–” he manages to draw out, “brea–breathe through your nose.” You attempt to do so, just letting off a few inches of his dick, letting your hand stroke whatever you can’t take. With you, you can build up a pace more freely, bobbing your head up and down. You close your eyes, concentrating on keeping your rhythm, a steady pace for now.

Fuck it, Miguel gives into his instincts, letting a hand cup the back of your head ever so lightly.

“Fuck, keep going… you’re doing so well.”

Miguel’s praises boost your confidence, the simple phrase removing past doubts that had cast over you. You pause to allow yourself to breathe, your hand stroking his length in the meanwhile and Miguel seems to cup your chin again.

“Mírame.”

One simple order and he has you hooked and, god, you have a gorgeous view.

His dark brows are deeply furrowed. Chest rising and falling heavily, His hands are now by his side, prominent veins from his other arm lead to the back of his hand which currently grips a pillow on the couch. His eyes are beginning to droop, with his head tilted back slightly. You notice how his Adam apple bobs in his throat with every guttural hum that he makes. His mouth is just about agape enough for you to spot his pink tongue peeking out at you.

And as for him? The sight of you is more wondrous than he could ever imagine. Your eyes are also heavy-lidded. Lips plump and wet with saliva dripping down your chin. This is a side of you that he’s never seen before. Your eyes glow with submission, the innocence and inexperience peeling off of you. If you keep looking at him with that expression, he’s not particularly confident that he’ll be able to hold on for that long.

“Don’t stop looking at me, okay?”

You hum a little before your lips open wide to wrap around his cock again. Yet this time, you manage to keep eye contact. Another unrestrained grunt leaves Miguel’s mouth, his lips parting once more.

You’d say that you’re confident now, relaxed more than ever – confident enough to begin exploring. Keeping his cock in your mouth, you begin to bob your head at a rhythmic pace and at the same time a free hand reaches down to his base, lightly tracing over his balls.

A sharp inhale leaves his mouth. “You’re gonna kill me, you know that, nena?”

You hum in response, the vibration of your mouth causing a helpless moan from your roommate. You focus near the tip of his cock, returning back to tracing circles over the slit. One hand still pumps the rest of him whilst the other gently teases his balls with your fingertips.

He’s closer than you think. And you can tell by the way that his hips begin to shift a little as if he’s trying to get more of your touch. He tilts his head back, chest rising and falling at a more dramatic pace. “Shit–shit–shit-m’gonna, m’gonna cum– if– if you keep going… oh fuck!”

“Wan’ me to swallow it all?”

You’re practically teasing him at this point. Fuck, he’ll do anything, anything. And this time he doesn’t hold back in vocalizing this, the words ‘yes’ falling from his tongue, pleading, begging you to continue. “Yes, yes, don’t fucking stop.”

You decide to grant him his wishes, turning to a faster pace as you stroke his length with your hand. You can feel his cock twitching, thick veins rubbing against your palm.

“You close, mig’?” you taunt, watching as he closes his eyes in pure euphoria. He nods, inchorant words fall from his lips in a babble as his hips jerk upwards and his thighs tense around you.

Fuck, fuck, fuck m’cumming! M’gonna–”

Miguel manages to cut himself off with a deep groan, lifting his hips up as you wrap your lips around him for the last time. His cock twitches, veins pulsating as your mouth is filled with his white seed. You swallow as much as you can, trying to bear the salty taste. His cum is thick, spurting so much out you think you won’t be able to keep up. Some leaks out, dripping down his shaft. As soon as you’ve swallowed, you lap up what you missed.

“Fuck, wait, wait–”

“M’cleaning you up.” you mumble. You can tell how sensitive he is. Just from your tongue lightly licking his length so as to not waste anything, his cock twitches. Once satisfied, you pull away, your tongue licking at your bottom lip.

Apart from the sound of the now forgotten movie playing in the background and the sound of light panting coming from Miguel, there’s a silence between the both of you.

You lean back, resting on your heels as you begin to grow aware of your actions.

You’ve just sucked off your roommate. Correction. Your hot ass roommate.

Neither of you know what to say. You begin to avoid his eye contact, feeling the awkwardness creep in. Yet, it fails to fully entrap you as Miguel chooses to bite the dust and speaks first.

“For someone with a mouth that doesn’t shut up, I’m surprised you know how to use it well.” he mutters, pulling up his boxers and sweatpants.

All tension from your body begins to evaporate, a slight smile appearing on your lips.

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” you frown, wiping off remnants of his cum mixed with your saliva from your lips with the back of your hand.

“Nothing, nothing. You were just…good for someone who hadn’t done anything like this before.”

Unlike when you were sucking him off, his praise causes heat to rise to your cheeks, your face burning up. And like a few moments ago too, you continue to avoid his eyes.

Clearing your throat, you move to stand, gesturing that you’re about to go to your room. The movie is just about over but neither you nor him were worried about that anymore.

“Any other advice that I should take?” you say.

Miguel frowns, taking a few moments to think deeply. If he’s being completely honest with himself, that orgasm has crushed him. Leaving him with nothing but thoughts of you and that sweet mouth of yours. Just thinking about it almost makes him hard again.

A part of him almost dares to tell you to forget your date tomorrow and to go out with him tomorrow. The card and flowers addressed to you, wait patiently in his room, a last-minute gift after weeks of building up the courage to ask you. All that courage is lost now though.

He’s too late.

“No.” He says, finally, going against his instincts. “Just do exactly what you did for me.”

“No complaints?”

“No complaints.” He clarifies. A deep pit of regret and hurt builds up again in his lower stomach, a feeling that he’ll have to start getting used to. He deserves it, he thinks, for not asking you sooner. He has no right to be jealous that someone else beat him to it. Not when he wasn’t dropping enough signs to prove that…

he’s falling in love with you.

Before entering your bedroom, you pause, the door leading to your bedroom slightly ajar. “Hey.”

Miguel glancing up to look at you.

“Thanks.”

Miguel says nothing more and really he should be the one thanking you for the heaven that you’ve just taken him to. He waits until he hears your bedroom door close and lock before letting out a sigh that he didn’t know he was holding in.

After he’s sure that you won’t return, Miguel pulls out his phone, tapping his screen until he reaches a certain page.

‘Are you sure you want to cancel your reservation for a ‘table for two’ on the 14th of February ?’

After a mere moment of hesitation, he confirms. His thumb clicking on ‘yes’.

part 2.

[lovebugism]

"we’re arguing when the ball drops on new year’s eve, and decide to kiss and shit i don’t think i hate you anymore"

with eddie and grumpy!r pls

ty for requesting! :D — your new years kiss ends up being the loudmouth, metalhead, wild-haired boy you can't stand (enemies to lovers, grumpy!reader, 1.5k)

blurbcember ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

Another year passes in a blink, and suddenly everyone around you is chanting “new year, new me” like it’s not just some overdone mantra destined to be forgotten by mid-February. 

It’s not surprising that you and Eddie are the only two not participating in the holiday theatrics. It’s also not surprising that the two of you are spending the entirety Steve’s New Years party bickering like a married couple on the couch.

You both got dragged here — you by Robin, and him by Dustin — and the two of you are acting like total grumps about it accordingly. And even though you can’t stand being in the same room as each other, you’ve been shoulder-to-shoulder in the living room all night.

You’re sitting pretty in a black dress beside him, scowling like a storm cloud while Eddie scoops a handful of pretzels in his mouth. Seemingly noticing your side-eyed glare, he starts to chew more audibly because he knows how much you hate it. The slow and rhythmic smack smack smack makes the chatter around you sound more distant as your skin begins to crawl.

Eddie smiles when you tense — wider when you glare at him.

“Sometimes I wonder why I hate you, and then you do stuff like that, and I think to myself, “oh yeah, that’s why.”

He grins with all his teeth, pretzels crumbs and all. “The feeling’s mutual, princess.”

“Don’t call me that,” you grumble with a roll of your eyes.

You shake your crossed leg to the music playing softly overhead and try to focus on the television in front of you. The staticky film of Times Square isn’t quite as distracting as the boy beside you — and not just because he’s purposefully trying to annoy you. 

He has no right to be this pretty, with his wild hair and black button-up and smudged eyeliner. It’s hardly fair.

“Don’t act like one, and I won’t,” he retorts, muffled through the food in his cheek.

“Don’t talk with your mouthful. It’s disgusting.”

He doesn’t say anything, just gives you the widest smile he’s ever looked at you with. The bits of chewed-up pretzel in his teeth make you grimace.

“You’re a child,” you deadpan.

Eddie laughs — a pretty little sound in a scoffed-out breath. 

He sits the half-empty bowl on the coffee table, then pushes his sleeves to his elbows. His arms are pale, lanky, and tattooed. Some of the ink is faded and messy, obviously not done by professionals. You think those intrigue you the most. You’d ask about the stories behind them if you even cared.

Eddie rests his elbows on his knees and looks at you over his shoulder. His smile is pink and made of honey — his eyes dark and made of fire. 

“You can act like you hate me all you want, but everyone here knows you’re obsessed with me,” he teases with a scrunched nose, motioning to the room with his pointer finger. 

No one’s paying either of you any mind. They’re too focused on their own conversations to care about the ones you and Eddie have had a thousand times over. You try to act as disinterested as they do. You think you’re playing the part pretty well, honestly, but Eddie’s looking at you with a twinkle in his eye like he can see right through it.

“That’s very presumptuous of you, Munson.”

“Just calling it like I see it,” he huffs and leans back again, spreading his arms across the back of the couch. 

The sudden proximity isn’t lost in you. Neither is the smell of nicotine and sandalwood radiating off of him. It stirs a velvety feeling in the pit of your stomach that you try hopelessly to shove down.

“You must be completely and utterly blind, then.”

“Uh-uh,” he hums with a shake of his wild head. “Twenty-twenty vision, baby.” He leans in close to croon the words in your ear, and your heart lurches into your throat. You shove him off with a half-hearted hand anyway. 

“Get off me!” you groan, face scrunched in a childlike annoyance. “And don’t call me baby.”

Eddie settles back beside you with a subtle pout between his brows. “If I can’t call you princess and I can’t call you baby, then what am I supposed to call you?”

“Nothing!” you shout, like being called baby hadn’t stirred something foreignly pleasant behind your ribcage. “Don’t call me anything! Don’t call me at all—”

“Guys! Come here! The ball’s about to drop!” Dustin shouts over the chatter to get everyone’s attention, a bit too loudly. He stands in front of the television along with the rest of the small crowd, ogling at the bad reception of the Times Square Ball and a flashing countdown.

“Sounds like me in middle school,” Eddie jokes, making Steve snort out a laugh when he walks in from the kitchen. You shoot the wild-haired boy a squinted look of disgust and he chuckles. “Oh, c’mon! That was funny, and you know it.”

“Ten!” the crowd begins to chorus.

“You’re an idiot,” you grumble.

“And you’re the one who’s obsessed with the idiot, so… Who’s the real weirdo?”

“Nine!”

“Still you.”

“Ooh,” Eddie lilts, plush lips softly pouted. “So you are obsessed with me?”

“Eight!”

You scoff a bitter laugh. “You love putting words in my mouth, don’t you?”

“Like I said,” the boy hums with a smug smile. “Just calling it like I see it, honey.”

“Seven!”

The dumb name shouldn’t make you melt like it does. You turn into a puddle before you can come up with another comeback. You forget how to form words and get lost in how soft his lips look, pink and delicate like a flower. God, he’s so pretty, you hate him.

“Six!” your friends continue to chant, the only sound in the expansive living room. “Five!”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed about, honestly,” the boy assures with an absentminded shrug, tilting his flushed cheek to his shoulder and flashing you an unkissed grin.

“Four!”

“You’re not the first girl to fall head over heels for me, and you won’t be the last.”

The corner of your lip curls into a quiet smirk. You squint at him, eyes twinkling with mischief and a sudden longing for him to eat his words. “Is that so?” you croon lowly.

“Three!”

He leans in like he’s about to tell you a secret. The nicotine-whiskey concoction on his breath brushes your cheek. Screw the alcohol in your abandoned cup — you’d sooner get drunk on him. 

“I’ll make sure to let you down easy, alright? I promise,” Eddie hums with a feigned seriousness.

“Yeah?”

“Two!”

He nods, bushy brows pinching softly together and petaled mouth gently pouting. “Yeah. I’m not in the heartbreaking business, you know? I don’t wanna hurt your feelings, princess, but you should there’s no way in hell that I’m ever gonna—”

“One!” the house chants together, louder this time as they shout, “Happy New Year!”

You blink, and suddenly everyone’s grabbing onto somebody. 

Robin and Vickie share a quiet peck you don’t miss in the corner of the room. Mike and El smack a more obvious kiss in the very center of it. A newly grown-up Dustin tries his chances with Nancy, glancing at her with a silent smile she shakes her head at — “Not a chance, kiddo,” she says with a soft pink grin. Even Max leans over to brush a kiss to Lucas’ cheek, right before scowling at him, “This doesn’t mean we’re back together, Sinclair.” 

So you feel it’s only right, that in a room of kissed mouths, you get kissed, too.

Eddie is the perfect victim. Mostly because he hasn’t stopped yapping since he sat down beside you, some hours ago now. You reach for him, splaying your hand across his warm jaw (that grows somehow hotter beneath your touch), and pressing a kiss to his blabbering mouth. 

You swallow all the half-hearted insults he spews at you because he thinks you really hate him. In Eddie’s mind, if being mean is how he gets closer to you, then when you go low, he’ll go all the way to hell. 

You don’t kiss him like you hate him, though. You kiss him like you can taste stars in his mouth. Like the rest of your whole life is sitting on his tongue.

Your mouth locks with his for a moment, kissing the breath from his lungs, only to pull away a second later.

Eddie’s totally frozen when you’re gone. The loudmouth boy — who you decided to hate if you couldn’t love — is left so suddenly speechless. He blinks at you with heavy, velvet eyes and grieves a thing he didn’t even know he could have.

A grin pulls at your freshly kissed mouth. It feels good to have the upper hand again.

“You’re never gonna what?” you tease, tilting your head like you’re innocent.

His mouth parts for an answer. Nothing comes out.

Your smile widens. “That’s what I thought. Honey.”

[toruslvt]

Making satoru squirt and him making fem reader squirt. I'm dying for some switch content

mdni. mutual overstimulation, whiney Satoru my beloved. ( i had to pause writing at least 5 times to scream in my pillow ) please read the first two tags lmao

“b-baby, p-plea-se, I can’t, not anymore, a-ah!” Satoru sobs quite loudly to be honest, his eyes are glossy and filled with tears, the rim of them slightly reddened and matching the color of his bitten lips from endless hours of overstimulation. you’ve probably sucked the strength out of him through his dick, since his hands weakly push against your forehead in a failed attempt to keep you away from his throbbing length, “j-just pull it out, ah-a!”

“how many so far?” you giggle, pulling his cock out between your lips with a loud pop and getting in return a grateful sigh out of your boyfriend, one that doesn’t last long as your palm comes to rub circular motions on his tip, smearing the remaining cum all over the swollen flesh.

“d-dunno... ngh! haa, it’s too much!” he chokes on his own sobs, arching against the couch backrest so his heaving chest glistens with sweat under the living room lightbulb, his thighs squeeze your sides tightly, kicking and fighting the intense mixture of pain and pleasure running through his flustered pale body from the tip of his cock. you’ve never seen your boyfriend so worked up and overstimulated, all whiney —more than usual if you had to admit— but he looked absolutely cute begging for mercy.

“just one more, c’mon, and i’ll let you go” you smirk pressing your lips to the underside of his messy cock, feeling the veins throb under your tongue and palm warm up from where it continues to rub on his tip.

“n-no! stop please, feels weird!” Satoru begs, his body curving so he hovers over your body, so close to your face you’re able to watch his eyes open wide in shock, panting loudly and holding onto your hair for support barely seconds away from half screaming and shooting a translucent and diluted cum-like liquid in hard jets that landed on your face and the floor.

“wha—” you mutter back, staring in surprise at how your boyfriend’s body flops back against the couch, breathing heavily as if he just ran a marathon, “Satoru... did you just squirt? ” it comes out as a giggle, still dumbfounded from what just happened.

he doesn’t reply, and you’re a bit worried that he might have fainted, deciding to sit on his lap and observe his unfocused eyes staring up at the ceiling.

“Toru?” you softly slap his cheek, biting back a grin “are you dead?”

your boyfriend is a box of surprises, that’s for sure, but something that never failed to amaze you, even though you’re well aware of, is his incredible strength and stamina, yes, he might look all brain fried right now, but you should have expected for him to flip you over in the blink of an eye, pushing you underneath his body and spread on the couch with one leg over the backrest and the other bent so far it almost touched your ear.

“i told you to stop” Satoru growls, hands hooking under your thighs, positively bending you in half with his fattening cock dangerously close to your dripping cunt.

you laugh breathlessly, pushing the damp hair out of his eyes and slicking it back to watch how his bright blue eyes are now slightly darkened and almost disappearing around his blown out pupils, “please..., that was so fucking hot”

“we’ll see if you say the same after I make you squirt and beg” his voice is erratic, deeper and a bit dangerous, barely giving you time to process his words before he’s plunging deep into your pussy with a broken moan, he might act all dominant now, but the way his thighs shook and cock twitch told another story.

“don’t exaggerate! it wasn’t t-that ba-ah!” you get to mutter, cut by Satoru’s hard and precise thrusts inside your sopping wet cunt, moving in frenzy while choked out sobs came out of his mouth, drunk in the feeling of your tight hole squeezing him.

“so good, oh my fucking god!” your boyfriend moans, caging your body underneath his by pressing almost his whole weight on top of you, allowing only his hips to fuck into you with a loud wet sound from where his balls slam against your slick coated ass, barely rising before he’s back deep inside your walls, continuously slamming directly against your g-spot.

“S-satoru, i’m sorry alright, b-but please! slow down!” you cry out, begs falling on deaf ears as the man thrusts never falter, continuously driving you insane, and himself into the border of crying from fucking his overstimulated sensitive cock inside your pretty pussy.

“ah, ah! i’m gonna cum again” he sobs, ignoring your screams and nails digging on his back, and instead wrapping his arms around your thighs, bending you in half as he mounted you with whines and whimpers coming out of his lips, “uh, feels amazing, i’m going insane” is the last thing Satoru says before digging his teeth in your neck and cumming drily inside your pussy, the position causing his cock to bump and twitch directly against your g-spot and forcing your own orgasm out.

a loud beep rang in your ears at the same time your eyes clouded, unaware of the force of your own squirt gushing out and dropping from Satoru’s toned chest and flushed cock, you couldn’t hear a sound, but were certain you screamed quite loudly, only a couple of minutes after, once he knew you were a bit more lucid Satoru dared exhale a soft “payback” directly against your ear.

[alwaysshallow]

Isa baby please can we have ghost be told NO for some work stuff by higher ranked! Reader and him to be like

🤪🤪 why does this make me horny 🤪🤪

You’re mad as hell.

You should say something to him after ordering him to go to your office, you know it. You should address all the things that irritate you right now, but you physically can’t bring yourself to it—not when your desire is to bite into his throat. It’s not leader-ish, it’s not you since you never scream at your team. Yet, you have to clench your fists, so they won’t land on his pretty face.

“Won’t you even look at me?” he asks, and somehow it makes you even more mad at him. A low laugh escapes your mouth, as you shake your head with disbelief. His audacity is fucking insane.

As you look up at him, you can’t help but notice the way he just smirks under that simple balaclava he has. It’s almost arrogant in a way, like he’s completely unfazed by your emotions and what he did.

"You disobeyed my orders," you speak up, slowly, deliberately—it’s the only way of speaking that won’t have you screaming at him. “Then, you proceed to lead the entire team under your command, even if I told you otherwise.”

His brown eyes harden a little, but he’s not less amused, as he takes a step forward in your direction. "I did what I thought fit for the situation," Simon says. Riley’s tone is insistent, not leaving a pole in a discussion; a great leader trait, you'd normally think of it.

But right now, this tone makes you furious because he’s not the leader. He’s someone that should obey, someone that shouldn’t even question your choices on the battlefield since you are the one giving orders. Not him.

“Right. Completely putting people at risk, instead of backing out despite we had everything,” you grit through your teeth. The next words you want to say are tough, so you clean your throat and take a deep breath before actually saying them. “You’re off the mission.”

The atmosphere between you two can be cut with the knife. Not only he doesn’t speak to you for a good minute, but he looks at you with a confused look in his eyes. “What the fuck?”

Of course he’d react this way, you think. Nothing new, nothing surprising—at least not with Simon Riley. “I can’t have you sabotaging my mission because you did something that fit the situation.”

“Sabotaging your mission,” he laughs. You lean against the wall when he takes another few steps in your direction, and you tilt your head at him for a better view. “It fits the situation because ‘m savin’ your bloody ass, colonel.”

“I don’t remember asking for it.” You furrow your eyebrows, trying to calm down. It’s hard enough with being mad at him, but even harder when he's chest to chest proximity, towering over you.

“You don’t have to ask. I’ll do it anyway, whether you want it or not.” He shrugs; for a moment, your words die in your throat.

Whether you want it or not.

You shouldn’t feel so hot and bothered right now. Yet, you can’t really help it, as he leans down to your eye level, so you don’t have to have your chin up anymore.

“Should take you off missions with me, then?” you ask. It’s obvious that the question startles him a bit, as he scoffs.

“You can’t do that, love. Wouldn’t do you any good, would it?”

“As far as I remember, I call the shots. Not you, so I’d be careful.”

He hums, completely ignoring the slight warning in your words; his eyes drop to your lips, like he doesn’t care about anything you said before. “I want to kiss you.”

You roll your eyes, ignoring the heat radiating all over your face. “I could have you suspended for insubordination right here, right now, lieutenant, and you think about—”

You don’t get to finish that sentence, as he pulls his balaclava a little over his nose and he pushes his lips into yours. Forceful kiss at first, evolves into the mutual battle of domination; maybe it’s the rank type of thing considering how eagerly you fight, but you can’t do it for long. Not when his hands lands on your hips and your back hits the wall

“I don’t think,” he pants out, his lips still against yours, “that you get how I care about you. You want to piss me off and send me off the mission? Do it. But I’ll be here anyway.”

“I could call the general on you,” you squeak weakly, as he picks you up and sits you on your desk.

“Then fuckin’ do it,” he growls, looking into your eyes—you do not look away, under any circumstances. It would only grow his ego bigger. “No one could protect you like I do. I’m on your command and you like it.”

The evident cockiness in his voice has you trembling, not to mention the lips on your cleavage, as he kisses the skin here. “On my command? You’d do whatever I want you to do?”

He smirks, lazily. “Isn’t that what I just said, love?”

You bite your lip more; it’s gonna be a bloody mess here in a minute, but you can’t care less right now. “Take off the mask,” you say. He tilts his head like a puppy, confused, as his back straightens. “You’re not fucking with me with this thing on.”

And oh, how quickly he throws his balaclava behind him, not even caring about where it lands. It's just your words that get him, the way you're so sure when you say it. It doesn't take him long to get rid of your pants either, kneeling right in front of you.

"'m gonna take," he murmurs to your thigh, gnawing at the skin, "such a good care of you, love. Gonna make this pussy all mine."

It takes one swipe of his tongue to know that he's right.

[wttcsms]

these eyes were made for lookin’ at you (only you) ; simon “ghost” riley.

pairing simon “ghost” riley x f!reader word count 5.6k synopsis simon riley didn’t ask to be a hero, but he finds himself wanting to be yours. content contains hints to human traff/icking (not explicit), breeding kink, belly bulge, size difference, pet names/terms of endearment (pretty girl, baby, love, darling, sweetheart), soft!ghost, obsessive!ghost, domesticity, mutual pining, praise kink, probably ooc!ghost but the man is absolutely whipped for you, clothed sex (his uniform is on), minor depictions of violence

He doesn’t quite consider himself a hero, you know.

He’s got a foul mouth, a sense of humor that borders between too dry or too dark, and so much blood on his hands that he’s surprised to see they’re not red when he pulls off his gloves and runs them under scalding hot water.

There will be no parades in his honor. No little boys running up to him on the streets, proclaiming that they want to be just like him. No statues to be sculpted to remember him by whenever he meets his inevitable end, six feet under. He probably won’t even be a memory after death.

And he’s come to terms with all of this, of course. It’s not like he cares — he didn’t sign up to do this shit for the glory or because he wanted to be considered a hero. He did it because someone out there had to be the person willing to do anything for the betterment of everyone.

Perhaps that makes him heroic in some sense; again, he doesn’t particularly care.

Until you.

Until one mission sends you into his direct orbit, knocking everything he’s ever known out of its place. It’s disorienting, confusing—

—exhilarating.

He doesn’t get scared anymore, but there’s something inherently frightening about wanting to share parts of yourself — of your very being, of your soul — to someone. He’s not quite able to label any of the emotions he feels for you the first time he sees you, but he feels enough to know that if he wants to save himself, he should put as much distance between the two of you as he possibly can.

(It turns out that this lieutenant doesn’t have as great of a sense of self-preservation as he proclaims.)

You cling to his arm, ignoring the way your palm digs and presses into the hard armor and tactical gear he sports. You think he might shake you off or forcefully pull you off of him, but he does neither. The soldier freezes, just for a second, and then he turns to face you.

If this is what the Grim Reaper looks like, perhaps death isn’t such an unfavorable ending. You can’t make out any physical features of your savior’s face, save for the pair of dark eyes staring right at you.

The skull mask does its job of securing his identity, but he should consider wearing goggles, you think. You’re not certain, but you think his eyes must be his most incriminating feature. You think if he gave you a proper minute to look at him, the image of his eyes would be ingrained in your memory. You’d be able to recognize him by them alone.

“Do you understand me?”

The gruff voice must be coming from him, if the subtle movements underneath his mask are any indication. He’s staring straight ahead now, watching as the rest of his team begins to usher the other girls who were stolen alongside you into large trucks. Maybe they’re tanks. You’re not quite sure.

“You must not then, yeah?” When he speaks, every word seems to be just the slightest bit rough around the edges. His accent is oddly nice; from the way he delivers his comments, though, you’re left wondering if he is, too.

He must be — nice, that is. A nice man would let you continue to grip his arm for support, even though you’re capable of standing on your own. A nice man would save you from the hell you’ve been subjected to for… Months? Has it been months? Shorter, maybe? Or longer? Time passes differently when all you want to do is die.

“I understand,” you finally answer him. You think your words must come out a little rough, too. The air in this area seems hard to breathe in, and you’re not sure when was the last time you even drank anything. You say it so quietly, you’re afraid that you’ll have to force yourself to speak up, but he nods.

“You’ll be safe now.”

Looking back, those might have just been words meant to comfort you, but you trust this masked man. You don’t know him (not yet), but the way he says it sounds like he means it.

(He means it.)

He goes by Ghost.

He doesn’t tell you why, and you don’t unnecessarily pry yourself into his business.

He doesn’t even tell you the name himself; you hear it from the mouths of the other officers, the other men who helped in rescuing you and the others.

The man who took you — the one in charge of shipping and selling the girls — won’t be giving you any more problems, now. He won’t hurt you again, isn’t even capable of touching you ever again. This is what Ghost reassures you with, and you nod, believing him.

After all, you witnessed him slice the asshole’s neck. You watched the blood spill out of his body. You were being ushered away at the time, but you still found the strength to turn around to watch him die.

You still haven’t found yourself able to detach yourself from him, and he hasn’t found the strength to shake you off just yet. Your fingers look dainty compared to the bulk of his arm, and the uniform he’s wearing only serves to add to his overall mass. You should want to put some distance between you and him; you know what men are like. You know it doesn’t take much for them to snap and change their demeanors in an instant. With the strength you’ve already witnessed and the sheer size of him, you know fighting him off wouldn’t even be realistic. But you still find yourself refusing to leave him alone, as if the evil he just destroyed will come back to life and hunt you down the very moment your savior leaves you.

It’s why you’re in a separate vehicle from the rest of the rescued girls. It’s just the two of you in the back, and the only noise you can hear is the loud huffs from the engine and the sound of tires speeding on rough terrain.

“When we return, there will be people who will come collect you and the others. They’ll clean you up and help you get back on your feet. You’ll be able to start a new life.”

A new life?

The thought excites you.

You don’t know what awaits you outside. When you were a little girl, you were still allowed to bask in the outdoors. The warmth of the sun, the feel of a soft breeze brushing against your skin — sometimes, when you were chained and in your cell, cowering in the dark, you wished that you hadn’t taken advantage of those little luxuries.

“In this life… I will feel the sun?” He hears the innocence in your voice, your question filled with longing and maybe even excitement. It was just past dusk when they rescued you; it’s now nighttime, and he feels himself wishing he had the power to bring the sun down from the sky and present it to you.

“In this life, you’ll be able to do anything you want.”

He’ll personally see to it if he has to.

You had fallen asleep by the time you reached your destination. With one mission successfully completed, Ghost finds himself with another almost immediately after, and with the peaceful expression on your face and the fact that this facility is one of the most secure buildings in the world, he leaves you—

—only to return back to the facility in a little over two weeks.

It’s not as if there’s someone waiting for him in the empty residence he calls home. Besides, it’s only natural — human, even — for him to be curious as to how you’re doing. While he trusts that you’re safe, he finds himself, in between lulls on missions, wondering how you’re adjusting.

(And in the rare moments where he finds himself fighting off exhaustion — the only telltale sign that he’s still flesh and blood and not the phantom his enemies think he is — he finds himself wondering if you’re thinking about him too.)

What did you see when you stared at him that day? He had killed a man — killed many men, actually — without mercy, without hesitation. He’s done it so many times throughout his life that wielding a weapon has become second nature to him.

Sometimes he even feels like he’s the weapon.

And again, he doesn’t care about whether or not he’s deemed a good person or a hero, but he doesn’t want to be a nightmare to you. He can still feel the ghost of your touch lingering on his left arm, the arm that you had clutched the day he rescued you. If not for the employees confirming your presence and guiding him to your room, he would be almost convinced that you’re a dream he thought up himself.

“Poor girl,” the woman leading way is telling him. “She’s been having the worst time out of all the others. I’m not surprised, hearing what they must have had to endure all that time, but the sweetheart can’t even sleep without us sedating her.”

“What?”

The low timbre of his voice makes the word sound more like a growl.

Seemingly shocked at his reaction, the woman almost pauses in her steps before continuing. “Yes, she’s been having nightmares. Thrashing wildly in her sleep, screaming the first few nights, even.” And then, almost as if she’s trying to make him feel better, she adds, “But she’s much better now. Save for a few sobs every now and then.”

He doesn’t know what to make of that. If it had been someone physically tormenting you, he would have no issue in getting rid of the source of your pain. Demons who only appear in nightmares, though — that’s something not even he can fight off for you.

When they make it to your door, the woman knocks gently, calling out your name softly, almost as if she does anything too harshly, you’ll break down.

“I brought someone here who wants to see you, hon. I’m going to come in now, okay?”

The woman eyes him almost warily as if she’s just now taking him in. He didn’t bother changing out of his usual uniform, telling the helicopter pilot that picked him up after his most recent mission to take him directly here instead. In his defense, he hadn’t even anticipated you still being here.

But you are.

He’s well aware that he probably doesn’t look the nicest, his mask serving its purpose and obscuring his whole entire face, making him entirely unreadable. If you’re as skittish as the woman claims you are, perhaps it’ll be for the best if he leaves now.

But it’s too late. She’s opening the door and never one to hesitate, he’s stepping in. The woman doesn’t follow; instead, she shuts the door, most likely ready to call for backup if anything were to happen to you.

You look at him, and then a second later, recognition gleams in your eyes.

Now that it’s not as dark, he’s able to take in every single feature of your face, from the color of your eyes down to the slope of your nose and the shape of your pretty lips. He commits your visage to memory.

“It’s you,” you breathe out, sitting up straighter on your bed. “The man who saved me.”

And if the near reverent way you greet him isn’t enough to have him reeling, the next words you say have his heart freefalling:

“You’re my hero.”

You speak to him so sweetly, in a tone so soft that the words you say wrap around him like a warm blanket. No one has ever said that to him. No one has ever spoken to him the way you do.

He swallows hard, and for the first time in his life, he’s unsure of what to do.

“Have you been alright?” He asks, and your expression falls almost immediately.

You answer him after a few seconds of silence.

“Yes.”

You little liar.

“I’m very comfortable here, but I’ve seen many of the others getting ready to travel elsewhere. The people here are kind, and they tell me they have many houses I can choose from. They’ll help me find work and…” Your voice trails off, and he watches the way your hands curl around the bedsheets. “I’ll be normal. Find a husband, make a family, forget all about this.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Yeah.”

You’ll learn soon enough that he doesn’t like lying.

He moves quicker than someone his size should be able to; stealthy, too. You don’t catch his movements, but you blink, and suddenly he’s right in front of you, crouched down so he’s able to look you in the eyes.

You were right. You are able to recognize him by his eyes alone.

“You don’t have to lie to me, you know.” When he speaks, you can’t help but hang on to every word. You find yourself nodding. “You’ll answer me honestly then?”

You nod again, this time a bit quicker.

“Good girl.” You hear the approval in his deep tone of voice, and you almost wish you hadn’t. You didn’t know what it’s like to be fed such praise, and you’re stuck starving for it now. “How have you been?”

“Alright. I’m happy to be here, but I—” Your voice cracks, and so does something inside of him. You look down, suddenly more interested in your sock-covered feet rather than his eyes. “Everyone else is able to move on so quickly, or they have someone waiting for them. I have no one. No one is looking for me. No one is expecting me.”

The realization of your reality finally settles in for you with your confession. You were born into that fate; the other girls who used to occupy the cells next to you were stolen. By all means, you were assigned to die there. There isn’t a future for you because you’re certain the universe did not anticipate you ending up like this.

No one is expecting me.

He understands what that’s like. It’s the reason why he’s here, because for once in what feels like forever, he finally has someone he’d like to see after a mission.

“You could find someone out there.”

“What if I leave here, and no one wants me?” The words come out a bit wobbly, and you look at him with glossy eyes and wet lashes.

You’re even prettier than he remembers.

He swallows hard, trying to find the right words to say.

(Soap claims he has a bad habit of saying the most awful things at the worst time possible.)

“That won’t happen.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Because after meeting you for the first time, he — the man with no regard to his own personal well-being and the utmost self-control — finds himself longing to be in your presence. He had to see you again; can’t you already see how you’re taking root inside his very being?

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Will you come back then?” When you look at him like that, all wide-eyed with your pretty lips forming a subtle pout, he thinks he might do something stupid, like—

“Whenever you want me to.”

—make a promise he might not be able to keep.

He gives you a burner phone. It’s supposedly untraceable (he doesn’t let you know about the tiny personal tracker he attaches to it; don’t worry, he’s the only one able to access your locational information), and while he doesn’t give you any explicit instructions, the only number programmed into the contacts list is his.

(That’s fine with you. It’s not as if you have anyone else to talk to.)

You know that he must be a busy person. You wonder if he’s considered a savior to many other people like you. Then innocent thoughts like that spiral into something jealous. Does he normally visit the people he saves? Are there other girls who have been gifted a phone like this?

He doesn’t message you, and you’re too scared of bothering him to reach out.

Every night since he sent you this phone, you’ve laid in bed, thumbs hovering over the keypad, debating what to say if you ever get the courage to text him. Every night, you never hit send on a single draft, and you fall into an uneasy slumber usually after your tenth attempt at a text message.

Sleeping is the worst.

Your nightmares can’t reach you when you’re in the safety of the waking world, but the moment your eyes are closed, it’s like every dark memory you’ve suppressed comes out of the shadows and begins its long-awaited torment.

The feeling of the cuffs on your ankles digging into your flesh feels too raw and real to be a mere memory. The men walking by your cell, sometimes staring at you uncomfortably long, taunting you and calling you cruel names. They’re always so explicit about what they have planned for you, but your seller will never give you up. Not until he finds someone willing to pay the high price he has hanging over your head.

You’re an untouched, undamaged good is what he reminds you. You’ll make him so much money.

But then you feel the cold, clammy grip of his on your arm and his breath on your neck, and you scream and scream and scream.

There must be cameras in the room you’re in because after the first week of nightmares, the kind workers here stop rushing to your room. If you don’t quiet in a few minutes, a male nurse will come in with a syringe and a pitying look before injecting a sedative into your veins. Artificial sleep is the only uninterrupted rest you get these days.

You wake up with your throat raw from your yells, and your skin sweaty. It takes several minutes for your heartbeat to go back to its regular pace, yet the images of your most recent nightmare are still flashing in your mind. You grab the cell phone you keep tucked under your pillow. It must be because of your panicked state of mind, but you find yourself clicking his contact.

The dial tone grounds you into reality, but before you can truly come to your senses and hang up, he answers the call.

“Hello?” Hearing his voice calms you down even more so despite the slight crackle that comes with hearing him through the speakers of the phone.

“Ghost?” You’re whispering, even though you’re certain that the walls are thick enough for you to speak normally without bothering anyone. Besides, anyone with ears probably already suffered through your fit.

“[Name].”

You don’t remember telling him your name, but it makes sense for him to know it. After all, he’s the one who visited you several days ago.

The thought that he would have to make an effort to seek you out and learn more about you is far more comforting than you think it should be.

“S-sorry for bothering you. It’s probably late—”

“Are you alright?”

“Am I… Alright?”

“Yes.” After contemplating a bit, he adds, “And don’t try to lie to me, either.”

“Are you busy?”

He’s in a safe house ten minutes away from the facility; say the word, and he can get there in three.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t answer mine.”

“No, I’m not busy. Now your turn: how are you feeling?”

“Scared.” It’s easier to admit things when you’re unable to see him. Staring at him makes you nervous because you think he’ll be able to read everything on your own face. Vulnerability is never easy.

“Did you have a nightmare?” Maybe it’s the exhaustion messing with your mind, but you think his voice might have just softened, just the slightest.

“Yeah.”

He’s silent, but you think you hear some slight movement on his end.

“Ghost?”

“Yes?”

“What’re you doing?”

“I’m going to visit you. Do you not want me to?”

You’re scared to answer, too frightened that your tired state will cause you to let the raw truth slip out.

You think you’re always going to want him.

He can only visit you when he’s in between missions.

(Unfortunately for you, breaks for him are a rarity.)

He comes back to you, sometimes a little bruised, sometimes a bit more broken than when he had left, but he always keeps his promise.

Whenever you want him to be with you, he’s there.

The nightmares gradually get better with time, but you always sleep the best when he’s with you. At first, he would just sit in a corner of your room, almost impossible to view unless you focus hard on him (if you didn’t know he was there, you probably never would have noticed him at all). He eventually began to sit closer to you, somewhere near the edge of your bed. On the rougher nights, you would find yourself reaching out for his hand.

When his presence alone can’t keep the nightmares at bay, and you wake up from another bad dream, he doesn’t force you to tell him what you see. Instead, he talks. Despite his rough voice, the sound of him telling you about the mundane aspects of his day is the most comforting thing in the world. It’s like your own personal lullaby.

He tells you about his life before this. You tell him about yours, too. His gloved hand brushes against your cheek as he tucks back a strand of your hair. You lay your own hand atop his, feeling the warmth of him even through the thick leather. You tell him about your nightmares, all the darker details that make you loathe your very being. He tells you his name.

You whisper it back to him.

Simon. Simon Riley.

You say it several times, sometimes slowly. Testing out how the syllables rest on the tip of your tongue.

He likes his name best when you’re the one saying it.

The facility starts to fill up with other saved victims from missions more recent than yours. You’re free to stay here as long as you like, but one day, Simon presses a key into the palm of your hands. You don’t need him to say anything; the imploring look in his eyes, your favorite feature in the whole world, ask the question for him.

Now the two of you share a bed. His toothbrush stands right next to yours, and the former empty residence that Simon used to spend his off-time avoiding is a home. He cares about what will happen to him because every time he leaves for a mission, you send him off with a soft see you soon!.

He knows that keeping his heart cold would ensure that he would go to great lengths to see to the success of his missions, but running towards death is such a silly thing. Why would he be okay with chasing after that when he knows he can return to his safehouse hidden in the woods and find you in the kitchen humming? If anything, he completes his missions even faster now. You told him that you’ll be expecting to see him soon, and he’s not one to disappoint you.

Simon Riley knows he’s got it bad. He can’t sleep well unless his sheets smell like you. He asks if he can bathe you just to run soap over the smooth skin of your body because he’s entirely obsessed with you, every scar and beauty mark. He knows it’s dangerous, but he keeps a Polaroid of you tucked safely away in one of his inner pockets in his uniform.

One morning, nearly a year since he rescued you, you tell him you love him.

He lets you take his mask off.

You’re smiling at him, eyes shining as you take in every minute detail. You can’t believe this is a face he would want to hide from the world. Selfishly, you’re a bit pleased with knowing you’re one of the few to see him like this, completely bare. To make the moment even better, he says it back.

He loves you.

“I know.” You tell him; it’s obvious. His mask is resting in your hands, after all.

Simon rushes home after every mission to see you, his first love, his only love. He loves coming back to you when you’re barefoot in the kitchen or washing your face in the bathroom, but he loves it the most when you guide him to your shared bedroom, the prolonged distance between the two of you making your longing for him all the more intense.

He loves you all the time, especially when you’re lying beneath him completely bare, with your hands (so much smaller compared to his own) eagerly touching every inch of him you can reach. He just got back; his uniform is partially off, all the weapons left hanging by the doorstep. He’s got nothing but the protective armor and the thick fabric on him, and with the way your body is practically calling for him, he doesn’t think you’ll give him enough time to strip himself of his clothes.

“Simon — missed you so much,” is what you whine out. He knows. You don’t have to whimper it out to him because your actions (and body’s reactions) leave nothing to assumption. You’re struggling to lift yourself up to pepper kisses all over his unmasked face, dainty hands tugging at his sleeves. Your cheeks are flushed, and you attempt to rut against him, trying to get some type of friction to satiate yourself.

You’re already so wet for him that he can feel it through his uniform.

“I know, baby. I’ve got you.” That’s your Simon. Always reassuring, always there when you need him. And right now, you need him so desperately that you’re soaking the bedsheets beneath you.

True to his word, you feel a gloved hand teasing your slick folds, smearing your arousal everywhere.

“Fuck.” He breathes out, admiring your glistening folds for just a second with a sort of sick fascination. He can spend hours with his head in between your thighs and your hands clutching at his hair. He won’t be leaving you so soon, though. He’ll have all the time he wants to bring you to the height of pleasure with just his tongue; tonight, he wants to give you exactly what you need.

The feeling of two of his thick fingers working in and out of your tiny hole has you moaning and writhing beneath him. You’re always beautiful in his eyes, but there’s something about you with wild hair and eyes shut from pleasure that makes you practically irresistible to him.

Everything about Simon is larger than life, and the feeling of being so small in comparison to his hulking figure should be frightening. But when he’s above you, his large fingers toying with your pussy in the way he knows you just love, you feel protected. Like he’s your shield from the harsh world outside. Inside your shared bedroom, only you two exist.

Your back arches, forcing his fingers to reach even deeper. The texture of his gloves only adds to your pleasure and in an attempt to prepare you for his cock, Simon adds another finger to stretch out your tight cunt.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Be a good girl and cum for me, yeah?” His words come out through gritted teeth, as if it’s taking everything in him not to replace his fingers for his cock. His tolerance is hanging on by a mere thread, but he refuses to fuck you properly ‘til he’s certain you’re ready to take him. Only when your cum is coating the leather of his gloves will he know.

You nod, occasionally jerking your hips in tandem with his thrusts, chasing after your high. You’re beginning to feel hotter, your pussy becoming even wetter, and neither of you can make out the words you’re mewling out. Perhaps your whines are pleas for more, maybe even mercy.

You can’t last any longer, and as his fingers curl against your sensitive walls, you find yourself nearly screaming his name as you gush around his fingers. He grins at the result of his hard work, withdrawing his fingers just to hold them up to you. His gloved hand glistens in the moonlight, and you can only watch as he raises his fingers to his mouth before sucking your essence off of them, effectively cleaning it up.

He never breaks eye contact with you once.

“Should I try it straight from the source?” His grin is teasing, the gleam in his eyes nothing short of wicked.

You weakly shake your head, already too fucked out to properly respond.

“No? I’ve been starving for your taste all those weeks I was gone, love. You don’t want to be a sweet girl and let me have my fill?” You know he’s just teasing you, but you still find yourself upset at the prospect of displeasing him.

“Not yet.” You pout, spreading your legs for him. “I wanna feel your cock.”

His grin only grows wider.

“Looks like my perfect girl’s been starving too, huh?” He leans down to give you a kiss, and you can taste a hint of your arousal lingering on his tongue. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll give you everything you want and more.”

Everything about Simon is larger than life.

The first time he ever fucked you, you had cried from the stretch of his massive girth invading your previously untouched cunt. The sensation of being filled to the brim was a foreign one, but a feeling you’re certain only he could provide. No matter how many times he’s had you, it always feels like it’s your first time taking him.

He’s whispering words of reassurance as he guides himself into your leaking entrance. Despite him working you to your peak, three fingers doesn’t begin to compare to his dick, and you find yourself whimpering over his words of praise.

“You’re doing so well for me, love. Such a good girl, my good girl.” He kisses your forehead, forcing every inch of himself inside until the tip of his cock is kissing your cervix. The pleasure of being so full outweighs the pain of the stretch your cunt has to make to accommodate his sheer size.

You stare down at where the two of you are connected, taking a sharp breath as the unmistakable bulge in your belly serves as undeniable evidence of just how deep Simon is capable of reaching. It’s always a wonder on how your tiny pussy is always able to take him, and Simon merely chuckles as he notices where you’re staring.

Using the same hand he used to coax your first orgasm with, he gently guides your hand to rest on top of the bulge. He’s smiling as he tells you, “Keep your eyes right there, darling. I want you to watch me as I fuck you.”

His thrusts are always powerful, a true sign of his strength. You’re not even sure where all his stamina comes from because no matter how exhausting his missions may appear to be, he always finds the energy to fuck you well throughout the night.

Your body’s natural instinct is to tighten around him, and the pressure has him growling as he works harder to piston his cock in and out of you. The lewd squelching noises, the smacking of skin against skin — everything is just so downright pornographic.

Your free hand finds purchase on his clothed back, nails digging through the fabric as he continues to work to bring the two of you to an explosive finish.

“Fuck, I missed you so much, darling.” He hisses, relishing in the tightness of your cunt and how your body takes him so well every time. “I don’t ever want to leave you alone again.”

You whine out for him, needing him closer even though he’s already as close as he can get. With his unyielding, powerful thrusts and your heightened sensitivity, neither of you is going to last much longer. He looks down to admire the imprint of his cock in your belly. He loves you and finds every little thing about your body perfect, but he can imagine your belly expanding to make room for his child and your tits swelling with milk. Fuck.

“Want to put a baby in you, love. Will you let me? You’ll never be alone again, not when we make the perfect lil’ family.” He grunts, and you nod, overjoyed at the idea of him wanting something so intimate. A family. Your family. He’ll give you a baby.

“Yes!” You scream out, feeling the coil in your stomach about to snap, every thrust bringing you closer and closer to breaking. “Wanna have your baby, wanna be with you forever.” The words come out sounding like sobs as you feel the tension inside of you snap.

“Fuck, you’re so perfect. Going to fill this cunt with my cum, darling.” His thrusts are becoming more erratic as he gets closer to losing control. Both of his hands grip your hips, his hold on you tight as he releases into you with a deep grunt. His cum is thick and warm, filling you up so much to the point where it’s already leaking out despite him staying inside of you all in an attempt to make sure it takes.

Breathless, wild-eyed, red cheeks — the both of you are an absolute mess.

You take a shaky hand to run through his hair that’s damp with sweat, and he leans into your gentle touch. You stare at him with a reverence he feels he doesn’t deserve.

“My hero.”

[omitea]

𝐉𝐉𝐊! 𝐌𝐄𝐍 + 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔

. ft. gojo, geto, nanami, higuruma, choso & toji.

. content. fluff, slight mention of intimacy in geto’s. but most fluffiness. chubby reader hinted in toji’s.

. note. gags. this sucks. dont question my writing, idk how to do that anymore. also im sleepy so idk if its proofread well enough. goodnight.

☆— 𝐆. 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔

gojo can’t get enough of seeing you smile. the way your lips stretch, eyes squinting slightly and he swears he can see them sparkle under the slight dimmed lights. but oh he loves the feeling of your pretty smile against his lips. swollen lips molding against each other before he feels what he desires the most. when he pulls away and looks at the sight of your spit covered lips, he can’t help but mirror your own expression. the dimples denting his pink cheeks only cause your smile to widen. and gojo thinks that he fell deeper in love if that was even possible.

☆— 𝐆. 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔

geto loves the way you subconsciously scrunch your nose; when you’re concentrating or if you dislike something. he honestly thinks it’s adorable and sometimes you catch him staring before he extends his calloused finger to boop your nose. he also took notice the slight scrunching of your nose during intimate times. a soft expression of slight pain mixed with pleasure as he tends to you with such gentleness. words of affirmation leaving his parted lips as he traces the bridge of your nose, leaving a soft kiss on the tip of it. its like a habit you can’t get rid off, because even when you’re crying— your cute, red stuffed nose still does the same.

☆— 𝐊. 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈

nanami thinks you’re the closest thing to perfection he’s ever laid his eyes on. all the little traits of you makes his heart swell even more with pure love. you’re so attentive and caring towards everyone and he has to often remind you that you have to take care of yourself too. even though he already does that on a daily basis. a part of him gets thrilled seeing you furrow your brows when scolding him. its not the most appropriate, he knows that. and he tries anything and everything to keep his mind away from those thoughts. but for now, he should definitely listen to what you have to say.

☆— 𝐇. 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐀

higuruma finds it adorable how often you zone out while your gaze remains on his face. eyes trailing the curves and bumps; something you’d compare to a perfectly sculpted sculpture that’s been placed in a historical museum. dare he to say your lips part every time in adoration once your eyes settle on his nose. he often has to look away to hide the heat growing beneath his pale skin. the little things you admire about him makes him love you even more than he already has. although, he’s quick to shower you in affection too, to make sure you understand that the feeling which resides in his chest, is mutual.

☆— 𝐊. 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐎

choso is so grateful for you, it’s something he tells you a lot. the patience you have with him, the way you take care of him; including the smallest things. it was often overwhelming for him to express his feelings, but you made it all the more easier. you make loving him look so easy, and it truly is. he learns more from you than he ever thought was possible. he tends to adapt to the things you do, not noticing the small changes within him. everything you do feels so natural, and he came to conclusion that loving you has felt like that for so long.

☆— 𝐓. 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎

toji doesn’t like anything other than having his hands on your soft skin. he could fall asleep as soon as his head find its place on your plush thighs. he loves them wrapped around his waist but laying on them is what he’d prefer more. having his rough, yet warm hand under your shirt is something he looks forward to once he finally enters your home. fingers tracing the path your stretch marks create, leading towards your pudgy belly he likes to fond with. his hand may make its way to your breast if he’s getting way ahead of himself. he just loves how soft you feel and wants to touch all of you at once.

©𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐀. please refrain from stealing my works !

[wonuwonder]

toast rule — jeon wonwoo (m)

content: wonwoo smut, fem reader x wonwoo, semi-public sex (bathroom), unprotected sex (pls wrap it), non relationship, anything else lmk!! 1.7k words

an: minors dni. not proof read! kinda rushed it so will be correcting mistakes later, lowercase intended. english is not my first language.

“you know there’s a saying, that if you avoid eye contact during a toast you’ll have bad sex for seven years” you say jokingly, you had gone out to some fancy restaurant for Soonyoung’s birthday, your best friend. some of your friends were mutual, and they were here as well as his own friends, which you knew a couple of them.

one of his friends, whom you’d always had seem to have some sort of tension with, Wonwoo; stares directly at you from across the table, smirks and, leans closer, extending his glass of wine to the middle of the table, and says;

“guess I better do it right” he locks his eyes with yours, and toasts your glasses together while the others do the same, you both stare directly at each other while taking a sip, and when you finish, he adds “cheers” his gaze going from your eyes to your red lips, and so on.

for the rest of the night, you become more aware of his presence, exchanging glances while pretending to pay attention to the conversation going on at the table. you catch him staring at you a couple of times, and he catches you doing the same, smirking everytime he does.

after a while, you feel something slightly brushing your leg, you quickly dismiss it, but then you feel it again, and again, shifting in your seat, you look under the table while trying not to move around so much, and you notice it wasn’t something, but someone doing it. you look up, and find him again, smirking at you, biting his lower lip as if trying to hold in his laugh, you glare back at him, and then look around the table to see if anyone had noticed you two bickering, but as you both were the last on each row at the table, no one was really paying attention.

“i’ll be back in a sec” you say to Seokmin, who was sitting next to you, all flustered, you glare at him again and get up from the table, heading towards the bathroom.

you look at yourself in the mirror and fix your hair, hell, you looked hot, wearing a little black dress that hug your curves perfectly, with just the perfect amount of cleavage, you’re about to put your red lipstick on when you see Wonwoo, entering the bathroom, quickly finding your gaze in the mirror.

“hey, what are you doing here?“ you ask as he gets to you, turning around, he’s standing in front of you —towering over you.

“looking for you, i got bored at the table” he gets closer, and brushes a strand of hair out of your face and rests his hand on your jaw, he leans towards your now exposed ear and says “wasn’t fun anymore if you weren’t there to look at” he continues, lifting your chin up, you can’t help but stare at his lips and his piercing onyx like eyes, as he does the same to you

“you weren’t so bad to look at yourself either” you say back playfully, intertwining your arms around his neck.

he grabs you by the hips and tugs you against him, making you whimper under his touch, already turned on by the sudden interaction, he leans closer, pushing you against the counter, while pressing his hips against yours, he brushes the hair out of your neck, but before kissing you he asks “may i?”, you nod, giving him the confirmation that you were as needy as he was, and honestly, you’d been wanting this since the night started.

he kisses your neck sofly, leaving a trail of kisses from the back of your ear, all the way to your clavicle.

“wonwoo…” you say lowering your voice, and he stops to look at you again, you heard people walking towards the bathroom, “anyone could walk in here any moment” he doesn’t think twice as he’s already pulling you towards the last stall in the bathroom, locking the door behind him just in time as people come inside the bathroom.

he stares back at your frame, all pressed up in that tiny little black dress you had decided to wear for tonight, that made your legs look endless, and hugged every inch of your body tight, which had been driving him crazy the minute he saw you walk into the restaurant.

“fuck it” he groans under his breath, and grabs your face kissing you hungrily, pressing you against the tiny wall, the kiss getting hotter by the second, he lowers his hands to your waist gripping you even tighter against him, you huff out a moan in response, and he quickly covers your mouth with his hand, reminding you you weren’t alone, your eyes go wide, and he grins at you, before he continues kissing you, your hands roaming all over his toned body.

his shoulders looked so wide in that white shirt that had been hugging his muscles too tight, distracting you all night. your fingers quickly start to unbotton it.

“can’t wait huh princess?” he says pulling back from attacking your neck with kisses, —that were definitely going to leave marks—

“wonwoo please touch me” you say, voice all breathy from the heat, he wastes no time doing so and pushes your dress up to your waist, revealing the tiny red lace thong you had wore tonight, he groans when he sees it, putting it to the side for easy access, his fingers dipping in your arousal, spreading all over your pussy, massaging your clit, making you gasp, one of your hands leaving his neck to cover your mouth, just in time for when he adds one finger.

“you like that baby?” he says to your ear and all you can do is nod, overwhelmed by all the pleasure, he adds another one and curls then inside of you while continuing to play with your clit with his thumb, your eyes squeezing shut at the sensation.

“fuck won-“ you manage to say, he looks at you with his darkened eyes.

your hands reach for his pants, and you unbuckle his belt almost desperately, his erection pressing hard against the fabric, you start stroking his bulge from outside his boxers, his cock painfully hard by now and he hitches a breath the moment you do.

“i need you, right now” you demand and his hand leaves your pussy, shutting your mouth with his fingers, making you taste yourself and you take his fingers gracefully, coating them with your tounge.

“i need you to keep quiet baby” he whispers as he gets his boxers down his legs along with his pants, his throbbing cock sprinting against his lower abdomen, and fuck it was huge.

you reach for it almost instantly, stroking him delightfully, his head tipping back and biting his lower lip to keep quiet.

he stares back at your pleading eyes and you say “please fuck me won” your words coming out like music to his ears, he grabs one of your legs and hoists it up behind his waist, making space for him to fit between your legs, squeezing his forearm tightly to steady yourself, he lines up against your core, his cock already leaking with pre cum, and he sinks into you harshly, both of you looking down to where your bodies connect, your forehead falling against his shoulder biting your lips to keep shut. he slowly puls out and sinks back in, picking up the pace, he starts pounding on you, you both already a mess while trying to make as less noise as possible, his mouth finds yours again, kissing you passionately, you groan against his mouth as he finds your favorite spot, you can’t hold much longer.

“won… m’gonna” you start and he grips your hip tightly with his free hand, squeezing your thigh with the other.

“me too”, he thrusts into you one more time and you both come undone, you bite his shoulder trying not to scream, and he grabs your other leg, making you wrap yourself around his waist to sit on the toilet lid, straddling him, as he was still inside you, you both ride out your highs.

he rests his head on your chest and you play with his hair, resting your cheeck on top of his head, and you stay like that for a bit, as his cum drips out of your pussy. after he pulls out, he starts to clean you up, and you both dress yourselves as better as possible to look like nothing happened.

after you’re done, you try to figure out if there’s someone still in the bathroom, pressing your ear against the tiny door, wonwoo wasting no time in looking at the way your ass cheeks looked pressed in the fabric of your dress.

“you think someone heard us?” you say, while still trying to hear if there was someone else in the bathroom, he grips your ass tightly with one of his hands, making you turn around to look at him.

“probably…” he starts, “not that i care” he says and starts kissing you again, but you shut down the kiss before it starts getting heated again.

“won we need to go back, they’re probably wondering where the hell we went” you mutter out, he steals a kiss from you again, “i’ll go see if there’s anyone here and in the hallway, so you can escape first” you leave the stall trying to look as normal as possible, while fixing your dress and examine each stall, luckily for you, you were alone, but you open the door of the bathroom, and find minghao leaving the men’s bathroom.

“hey, y/n, you okay?” he asks.

“yes! just, um lady problems” you reply, and his eyes squint, not buying any of it obviously,

“… okay, see you at the table” he says back grinning at you, and when he turns to walk away, you go inside the bathroom to free wonwoo from the stall, “you can leave now, quickly” you say and he gets out, “when you get back to the table, say you were outside smoking or something, minghao was in the bathroom, so you can’t say that” you explain and he nods, “alright, alright” you walk towards the door together, but before opening it, he turns around and says, to your ear.

“next time we do this, i want to hear every little sound from you” he bites his lips and grabs the door handle.

“what makes you think there will be a next time?” you bite back.

“the way you loved my cock” he winks at you before leaving the bathroom, with the biggest smirk on his face.

an: notes comments or reblogs are appreciated, just wanna read what you think😭

[imtryingbuck]

Clingy

~ gif not mine credit to owner ~

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Summary: Bucky overhears his girlfriend calling him clingy

Word count: 1243

Warnings: sad Bucky and swearing

A/N: whilst editing this I realised that Alpines a girl but just for the sake of this story we’re going to pretend she’s a boy🙃

Masterlist

Bucky had a massive smile planted on his face as he left the bedroom he shares with his girlfriend and cat; he was so proud of himself for finally mastering online shopping - he just ordered a huge cat tree for Alpine. To others it wouldn’t have been important but for him it was an accomplishment he was excited to share with his girl.

With a little bounce in his step, he was about to turn the corner to where the common room was when he comes to a stop.

“-I’m telling you Nat it’s annoying” he smiles at the voice that has soothed him to sleep more times than one “he’s so clingy, always wanting to lay on me, always following me around, trying to kiss me whilst I’m eating! It’s like he always needs to be touching me at every given moment, God he’s so needy” his heart breaks not only at the words but at how frustrated she sounds. He really didn’t mean to be clingy and needy, there was no doubt in his or anyone’s minds that he was in love with her, everyone always mocked about how he was her shadow, but he didn’t care. Being her shadow was his way of showing her that he loves her and that he was always going to be there, that no one was ever going to hurt her. 

Not having the heart to hear the rest he turns around and walk back to their shared room, determination running through his veins he was going to change. He didn’t want to lose her. The last thing he hears is Natasha laughing.

“Y/N he’s a cat! He loves you” Natasha chuckles.

“Yeah but still… it’s annoying. Because the worst part is that he only does it when Bucky isn’t there” Nat tries really hard not to laugh at the pout on the other woman’s face. It doesn’t take long for both burst out laughing.

~~~

Throughout the week Y/n notices something wrong with Bucky, it wasn’t normal for him to be out of bed before her - not anymore at least - he didn’t want to cuddle up with her anymore, the kisses were quick. It was hurting her; she was missing him even though he was close by. It wasn’t just her that noticed Bucky’s strange behaviour.

“What’s going on with you and Mr grumpy pants?” Sam asks as he hands her a fresh cup of tea.

“I don’t know Sammy, he’s been distant this past week and I don’t know what I’ve done”

“Have you guys argued?”

“No” taking careful sips of the hot beverage “the last time we argued was when I took that bullet for him and that was like what three months ago? We only argued for about an hour before we made up.”

“Wait… seriously that was the last time you argued?”

“Yep, we don’t argue about anything. Yes, we have disagreements about everything and anything, but it never leads to us fighting. But we also come to a mutual agreement on whatever we’re disagreeing with.”

“Okay okay” he puts on his concentration face on as she always puts it “have you took any bullets for him recently?” chuckling when he receives a deadpan look.

“No Sam I haven’t taken any bullets for him recently” rolling her eyes as she sets the now empty cup down “I honestly don’t know what I’ve done, I miss him.”

Standing up and placing a kiss to her temple “Go and talk to him, it’s breaking my heart seeing you both sad and mopey.”

“I will, thanks Falc”

Instead of going to find Bucky she grabbed her coat and bag and headed down to the garage, once she was inside her car she drove to the store.

The bed was covered in all different kind of snacks and drinks, her plan was to sit him down and talk then they’ll spend the rest of the night in bed watching movies and filling their faces. Making her way out of the room she went to track down her boyfriend - finding him in the gym.

“Hi bubba, can you finish up here and come with me” instantly not liking how her voice sounds.

“Um okay just give me a minute.”

“Of course.”

“Im done, where we going.?” Bucky’s right hand twitches to reach out to hold hers but all he does is shoves it in his pocket.

“Back to our room. We need to talk Buck”

He was prepared to drop to his knees and beg for her not to break up with him, promises on the tip of his tongue that he’d change and be better. Before he could utter a word, they had arrived at their room. The door was closed softly behind them whilst his head was bowed downwards finding his shoes more interesting. 

“Buck I don’t know what I’ve done wrong but I’m sorry I don-“

“I heard you”

“What?”

“I heard you talking to Nat about me being clingy and needy and annoying and I’m trying baby really I am. I gave you space, Im keeping distant because I love you and I don’t want you to break up with me an-“ 

“Bucky breath! Here sit down, focus on your breathing bubba” Moving him to sit on the sofa that was in their room, she knelt down in front of him going through his breathing exercises.

It took nearly 10 minutes for him to get his breathing under control, leaving him feeling more ashamed as always after he had a panic attack “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” he manages to rasp out.

“I’ll tell you what I always tell you when you have panic attacks - don’t apologise. It’s okay bubba I promise, I’ve got you” taking his hands into hers so rubs her thumbs over his flesh and metal knuckles “I wasn’t talking about you that day Buck, I was talking about Alpine. He followed me and Nat into the common room and Nat made a comment, I was talking about how he only wants me when you’re not around. Oh bubba you actually thought I was talking about you?” Taking one of her hands from his she wipes the stray tear that rolls down his cheek as he nods “Bucky I love it when you’re all over me, I love knowing that I’m never alone because your always there. I have never once thought you was clingy not once! I love you Buck and I love the attention you give me and affection you show me. Please bubba understand that”

“I love you too” bringing up her hand in his metal one “I’m sorry for overreacting baby I should of spoken to you”

“Give me a kiss and all is forgiven” she grins cheekily.

He pulls her on to his lap and kisses her, both sighs contentedly as they share their first kiss in a week little pants of air leaves their lips once they detach from one another.

“I brought snacks and drinks so how about me and you get into bed watch movies, eat, cuddle and maybe some other activities?” She says with a suggestive tone with one eyebrow raised.

Bucky chuckles when a squeal interrupts him standing up.

The third film has finished, not like they were watching - to busy doing other activities - they lay tangled with one another. 

“I brought Alpine a new cat tree off the Amazon.”

~ banners credit goes to @sweetpeapod ~