#oblivious to the /sincerity/ for sure

[starlightarchery]

let's be clear, Emmrich is FULLY aware that rook's flirting with him. it's not that he doesn't understand or realize it, it's that he doesn't think rook's actually into him. that they're expressing a genuine interest. it's all in good fun, trading flattery and compliments back and forth, but he doesn't expect it to truly go anywhere.

this right here?

this is the first time he realizes they could be serious. the first time i think he lets himself entertain the idea that maybe they aren't just being charming. maybe they aren't just flattering him. maybe there's a chance they could actually want something more, and with him.

the man isn't oblivious. he knows rook is flirting, or at least flattering him. it just takes a minute for the sincerity to sink in.

[sleep-0-deprived]

Dom! Yan professor x himbo reader imagines~! ໒꒰ྀི˶˙Ⱉ˙˶꒱ྀིა

Just imagining your biology professor being a total hard ass, rude and unkind to every student he’s ever had and giving out the most excessive amounts of homework daily, as soon as he met you something sinister had awoken inside him. The way you’d smile at him all stupid wearing shorts that showed to much and jogging pants that let him see the side profile of your cock during the first day of meeting you had this man losing it.

Just imagining you staying back after your college classes, you being freshly twenty three and scraping by if not failing every class you took, only making it to college on a sports scholarship with you staring and blinking at your professor all class. Yandere professor, just imagining him watching you from the corner of his eye the whole class, his hands moving on auto pilot only able to think about you and how you blink dumbly at him while he teaches making him speak up “is something wrong Mr L/n?”

Just imagining you getting stuck after class in tutoring sessions all hours of the day because he claims “I’m just trying to help you achieve better [name]” he’d utter those words so sincerely it would keep you oblivious while he stares at your ass and your pecs, bitting his lips when you lean in your chair showing him the perfect peak of your body having this man insane having to excuse himself for a moment during your sessions while he goes and “fixes” the situation between his legs.

Just imagining Yandere professor who rubs up against you grabbing and touching your body all over at any chance he gets with close proximity, slowly over time building trust off of his age and status, him pushing mid forties and freshly divorced. Just imagining him bringing up chats about his golden retriever just to twist your oblivious trust into something else, making you feel special whilst he gives you all the attention you could ever dream of with the intent of getting you all to himself wanting to possess and keep you like a boy toy.

Just imagining Yandere professor who asks you for “favors” claiming he’d make sure you passed all your classes, that you’d never have to worry about losing your scholar ship. He’d have your face in his crotch with your mouth wide open engulfing his cock all flushed in the face with teary eyes holding his thighs. Oh how he almost felt sorry for those poor girls that drooled after you during your games….almost, but having your mouth stuffed full of cock asking “am I doin good E’nough f’you sherr” while you soured your words with spit making slurping sounds just trying to please a good grade out of him.

Just imagining Yandere professor who does random dorm checkups on you, making you stay over at his apartment the nights your frat bros throw parties, not standing for the thought of some sorority girl getting her manicured hands on you, you were His and he’d fuck you so good that you knew it. Two glasses of wine later sitting in his apartment with your hand gripping the counters in shambles “s-ir!” All you can repeat over and over is his name speaking it like a prayer to your messiah feeling a drunken man going at it fucking you so hard the sounds start buzzing together and the over head light in his kitchen blurs under your pupils.

Just imagining Yandere professor who had your legs spread wide open sitting leaned back on his desk eating your ass out like a starving man. Gripping your skin and kissing your pucker, practically making out with your rim and letting you ramble on cluelessly about your plays and strategies, whining about how “the coach is placing me as Qb this year!” While you grip the back of your professors head looking down at him just blinking and getting comfy when you see him having no intentions of letting you go since him being able to work your body and play with you however he liked was part of the “conditions”

Just imagining your grades going from a fifties and forties across the boards to becoming a straight A+ student having all of your friends asking how you managed to swindle that, having your fiends wanting to know your secret while one of them asks “all those time you’ve been ditching, you must be going off to secretly study huh!” Your closest buddy just laughs and nudges you during practice unable to tell him that you’ve been whoring yourself out to the most hated teacher on campus.

[bruisedboys]

bob reynolds x thunderbolt!reader (post thunderbolts, no spoilers!)

The first time you kiss Bob Reynolds, it’s over a box of pizza and a half-finished card game. He’s not expecting it. Neither are you, really.

It’s only a short kiss, but he’s blinking fast as you pull away, lips parted and a deep red blush crawling up his neck. You notice he leans forward a bit, following you as you pull back, probably without realising. It’s so cute, you have to stop yourself from kissing him again.

“Wh—why’d you do that?” He asks, dazed.

You shrug one shoulder. “I don’t know. I like you,” you say softly.

To be honest, something just took over you. You’ve finally got a moment alone with him, when usually you’re surrounded by your team of vigilantes who don’t seem to understand the concept of privacy. And he looked so lovely, sitting there laughing at your terrible joke, and pretending like he wasn’t totally letting you win the card game on purpose. He’s been so sweet to you since you met, and you’ve liked him for just as long.

Bob stutters, “You… like me?”

You nod earnestly. “Yeah, Bob. You couldn’t tell?”

Bob shakes his head vehemently, his mouth shut tight like he doesn’t know what to say, or can’t say what he wants to say. You smile at him, feeling fond all over, your limbs heavy with it.

“I thought I made it obvious,” you say.

You really tried. From the moment you realised you liked him you tried flirting, but he’d get so red in the face you’d feel bad and have to force yourself to dial it down for his sake. You’re pretty sure everybody but Bob himself knows how you feel about him, including Alexei, who’s usually about as oblivious as a teaspoon. In the end you settled on just being friends, but clearly, you couldn’t settle for long.

Bob just blinks at you. “I… I didn’t notice. I’m sorry.”

You have to laugh. You’ve got no idea why he’s apologising, but he tends to do that a lot. He’s working on it.

“S’nothing to be sorry for,” you tell him, shaking your head. “But I really do like you.”

Bob gazes at you, something unameable in the way he looks at you. It makes you nervous, stirs a soft buzzing in your chest like a honey bee.

He leans forward an inch like he can’t help it. You feel much the same. The closer he gets, the less you seem to be able to think straight.

When he finally speaks again, it’s with utmost sincerity.

“I like you, too,” he says. His hand moves to touch your forearm, warm and gentle, and you go very still. You think he might kiss you again. You want him to kiss you again.

“Yeah?” You find yourself moving towards him, his touch drawing you in, the two of you a pair of magnets unable to stay apart. His fingers drag up the length of your forearm and he nods.

“Yes.” His hand cups around your elbow, so gentle it aches. He swallows, then says, “Will you kiss me again?”

You don’t have to be asked twice.

[iris-qt]

Okay okay I keep thinking about oblivious reader who doesn’t think Theo is flirting with her because ~clearly~ he doesn’t even know her name. Meanwhile, Theo is confused because usually girls swoon when he calls them “Bella/Cara/Amore”

careful, cara

the way i immediately started writing when I saw this request...ily.

You’re rounding the corner outside the library with three books, an inky quill stuck behind your ear, and a half-eaten biscuit in your mouth when you slam directly into a wall.

Except it’s not a wall.

It’s a very tall, very warm, very alive boy who smells faintly of old parchment and something expensive and intoxicating, like stormy weather. Your biscuit goes flying. Your books scatter. You just about lose your dignity.

“Oh my—sorry!” you gasp, already dropping to the floor to collect your books and the crumbly remains of your breakfast.

A hand reaches out to help you. Long fingers. Calloused knuckles. You follow the trail of his arm up to a loosened tie, an open collar, and the annoyingly perfect smirk of Theodore Nott.

“Easy there, Amore,” he says, voice like velvet and mock concern. “You alright?”

You blink up at him. He’s doing that thing. That leaning thing. The one girls whisper about in Potions.

“Oh, uh, thanks. I didn’t see you.”

You give him a polite smile and reach for your last book, brushing his hand in the process. You barely notice.

He does.

“Careful,” he murmurs, helping you up. “Wouldn’t want Hogwarts losing its brightest star.”

You snort before you can stop yourself. “Pretty sure Hogwarts would survive.”

He laughs soft and surprised, then, with a practiced sort of charm, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. You freeze. He smiles. Like a boy who knows exactly what he’s doing.

You… do not.

Because, obviously, he’s just being polite. Or flirty. Or… whatever he usually is. He calls everyone Amore, doesn’t he? Or Bella. Or Cara. It’s practically punctuation with him. It’s probably because he doesn’t know anyone’s actual name. Especially not yours.

You smile back, half apologetic, half amused. “Thanks again. See you.”

And just like that, you walk off. With jam on your sleeve. And crumbs in your hair. And not a single thought in your head that Theodore Nott was very much genuinely flirting with you.

Behind you, Theo watches you go, something almost betrayed flickering across his face.

He mutters under his breath, half to himself, "Merlin, what do I have to do, serenade her under her window?"

Then he smirks, slow and dangerous.

Maybe he will.

.ೃ࿐

You slip into your usual seat for Charms, dropping your bag with a soft thud. You’re mid-rummage for a quill when you realize: There’s someone sliding into the seat beside you. Someone tall. Smirking. Smelling again unfairly good. You glance up.

Theodore Nott.

Again.

He drapes himself lazily across the chair, like he owns both it and the air you’re currently breathing.

"Morning, Amore," he says, low and easy.

You blink as he offers you a polite, confused smile. He must think you’re someone else. Maybe Isabella Hampton, she’s much prettier and sits somewhere nearby, right?

"Hi," you say awkwardly. "Did you need something?"

Theo leans in just slightly, a casual tilt of his shoulder, a lazy curve of his mouth. You could swear the entire room tilts with him.

"Only your company," he says, sounding devastatingly sincere.

You laugh, a little panicked. "Ha — that's funny."

You busy yourself yanking out your textbook and drop a quill in the process. It rolls dramatically across the floor. Before you can even react, Theo is already crouching down, retrieving it with a little flourish like a knight presenting a sword.

"Your weapon, mia cara," he says, handing it back.

You snort, which is not the sound you meant to make. Merlin, this poor boy is so theatrical. He must flirt like this with everyone.

"Thanks," you say, cheeks warm again.

Theo watches you for a second longer than necessary, something fond, almost wonderstruck, lighting up behind his eyes. Then he slouches back in his chair, spinning his wand between his fingers as if nothing unusual just happened.

You face forward, heart thudding, willing yourself to focus on Professor Flitwick's lecture.

You do not notice the way Theo leans slightly closer whenever you scribble a note. You do not notice the way he half-smiles every time you chew the end of your quill. You definitely do not notice the faint, hopeful look he sends you when Flitwick assigns paired spell practice for homework.

But you do notice, vaguely, that Theodore Nott is oddly...friendly. You chalk it up to him just being charming. Behind you, Pansy Parkinson drops her quill in shock, nudges Daphne Greengrass, and hisses, "Did Theo Nott just choose a partner?? Voluntarily???"

The Slytherin girls watch the scene unfold like it’s the third act of a very dramatic opera. Theo doesn't even notice.

He’s too busy smiling, a real, soft, slightly crooked smile, as you mumble, "Alright, I guess we’re partners, then?"

Like you’ve just handed him the bloody moon.

.ೃ࿐

You and Theo spend the next hour practicing Arresto Momentum for Flitwick's assignment.

Well... you practiced.

Theo mostly watches you with a look of soft, patient amusement, correcting your wand angles only when absolutely necessary.

(And each time he does, his fingers brush yours a little longer than they need to.)

You try not to think about it. You try very hard.

Finally, when you manage a perfect, object-slowing Arresto Momentum, you grin triumphantly. Theo grins too, wide and gorgeous, like you’ve just invented magic itself.

"You're brilliant," he says, voice low, warm.

You tilt your head, embarrassed. "I'm sure you say that to all your partners."

"I don't," he says simply.

You laugh it off again, assuming he's just being polite. Sweet, sure. But probably just friendly. Right?

(You are so stupidly, gloriously wrong.)

Class ends, and you're packing your things when it happens. You're struggling to jam your stupidly fat Charms book into your bag when Theo leans in, close enough that you catch that parchment-and-coffee smell again, and says:

"See you tomorrow, Y/N."

You freeze.

The book slips from your hands and thuds to the floor.

Theo straightens up, amused but obviously trying very hard to hide it, like he knows exactly what he just did.

You stare at him, heart thumping.

He knows your name. He knew your name. The whole time.

"You—" you start, stupidly.

He arches a brow, smirking, all lazy confidence. "What, Amore?"

You flush so hard you’re surprised you don’t combust on the spot.

"I—I thought you didn’t—"

"Didn’t what?" he says, looking genuinely entertained now.

You open your mouth, realize you have absolutely no idea what you’re trying to say, and shut it again.

Theo’s smile softens.

"I've always known your name, you know," he says quietly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Before you can even begin to untangle that emotional catastrophe, he reaches down, picks up your fallen book and tucks it carefully into your bag for you.

Then, with another soft, almost secret smile, he brushes a hand against yours and strolls out of the classroom leaving you standing there, red-faced and stunned, clutching your bag like a lifeline.

You still haven't moved.

[gf2bellamy]

i have a silly request for spencer x reader where it’s clear reader likes him and they go to a trip somewhere far and cold and the bau needs to double like in season 5 and morgan is similarly like no i don’t want to share with reid and reader just excitingly stands up like i’ll take reid then!!! hahahahah

sharing — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: mention of working on a case, reader has a nightmare, mention of an unsub who fixated on reader once, a/n: hiii !! love this idea <3 i mixed like 3 requests together so i hope that's fine <3

You tugged your jacket tighter around yourself, shifting on the worn-out lobby couch as Hotch finished debriefing the team on tomorrow’s case.

Just as he was about to dismiss everyone, Hotch hesitated, then delivered the news.

“We have to double up. There aren’t enough rooms.”

It didn’t even take Morgan two seconds before he blurted out, “I’m not sleeping with Reid.”

The rest of the team grinned, some chuckling under their breath, while Spencer—poor, oblivious Spencer—just blinked, looking mildly offended.

You bit back a small smile at his expression, the way his brows furrowed just slightly, like he was mentally calculating why Morgan would say that. Before anyone else could volunteer (or more likely, protest), you spoke up.

“I’ll share a room with Spencer,” you offered, perhaps a little too quickly.

The room went quiet. All eyes turned to you, then to Spencer, who blinked at you like you’d just spoken in an ancient, dead language.

“You… want to share a room with me?” he asked, voice tinged with genuine surprise.

Heat crept up your neck. Oh no. Had you been too obvious? It wasn’t exactly a secret among the team that you had a soft spot for Spencer—well, a secret to everyone except Spencer himself. The man could profile a serial killer in seconds but remained blissfully unaware when someone was flirting with him.

Under the weight of the team’s knowing glances, you swallowed, suddenly nervous.

“Uh, yeah?” you said, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly. “I mean, if that’s okay with you?”

Spencer opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “It’s—yes. That’s fine. More than fine.”

Morgan snorted. “Damn, Reid, try not to sound too excited.”

Spencer shot him a glare, but you caught the faintest dusting of pink on his cheeks.

Hotch, mercifully, cut in before things could get more awkward. “Alright, it’s settled. Keys are at the front desk. We meet back here at 7am.”

As the team dispersed, you grabbed your bag and moved toward the stairs, hyper-aware of Spencer falling into step beside you. The narrow hallway seemed to shrink around you, as you finally arrived at your door.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” Spencer murmured, voice low, almost hesitant.

You glanced at him as he fumbled with the key, the old lock stubbornly resisting. “Do what?”

He let out a quiet huff, adjusting his grip on the key. “Volunteer just because Morgan didn’t want to share a room.”

The implication in his words—that he thought you’d only stepped in out of pity—made your chest tighten. You watched as he wrestled with the door, his brow furrowing in concentration.

“I didn’t volunteer because of Morgan,” you said softly.

The key finally turned with a reluctant click, but Spencer didn’t push the door open. Instead, he paused, his fingers still resting against the handle as he turned to look at you.

“Then why?”His voice was quiet, curious,

You held his gaze, willing yourself not to overthink it. “I volunteered because I like spending time with you, Spencer.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, his lips slightly parted, as if he wasn’t quite sure he’d heard you right. Then, slowly, the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh,” he said, voice softer now. “Thank you. I… I like spending time with you too.”

The sincerity in his words sent a rush of warmth through you, and you had to fight the urge to fidget under his gaze. Instead, you smiled and reached past him to push the door open, trying—and failing—to ignore the way your heart was fluttering wildly in your chest.

The room was exactly what you expected from a budget Alaskan motel—dimly lit with two queen beds that had seen better decades. But the blankets looked soft, and a small chocolate mint sat on each pillow, a token gesture from the management. You stepped inside, toeing off your shoes with a tired sigh.

"Comfy," you mumbled sarcastically, poking at the mattress before flopping onto it with a dramatic exhale. The springs creaked in protest, but you didn’t care. After hours of travel and a grueling case briefing, even this lumpy bed felt like heaven.

Spencer hovered near the doorway, his messenger bag still slung over his shoulder, watching you with an amused tilt to his lips.

"You wanna use the bathroom first?" you asked, already burrowing deeper into the pillows, your eyes drifting shut.

A soft chuckle escaped him. "Yeah. It doesn’t seem like you’re getting up for a while now," he observed, his voice warm with fondness.

"Mhm," you hummed in agreement, a lazy smile curling at your lips. You cracked one eye open just in time to catch the way Spencer’s gaze lingered on you. He gave you one last small smile before disappearing into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

The second he was alone, Spencer braced his hands against the edge of the sink and let out a slow, shaky breath. His reflection stared back at him —wide-eyed, flushed, utterly overwhelmed.

He wasn’t entirely sure how he was going to survive this night.

I mean, hello—he was sharing a room with you.

You. The one who laughed at his rambling facts even when no one else did. The one who always remembered how he took his coffee. The one who had somehow, without him even realizing it, become the axis his world tilted around.

And now you were lying right there, just a few feet away, looking unfairly soft and sleepy and perfect.

Spencer squeezed his eyes shut, running a hand through his already-messy hair. He could not afford to overthink this. Not when the alternative—letting himself imagine what it would be like to crawl into that bed beside you, to pull you close and press his lips to the curve of your shoulder—was so dangerously tempting.

He splashed cold water on his face, willing his heartbeat to slow.

Just get through the night, he told himself.

Spencer went through the motions mechanically—brushing his teeth, washing his face, changing into his sleep clothes—all while his mind raced a mile a minute.

When he finally emerged, the door creaked softly, revealing you still sprawled across the bed, though now with your bag half-unpacked beside you. A sweatshirt was draped over the chair, your toiletries neatly lined up on the nightstand. You’d clearly tried to make yourself at home in the brief time he’d been gone, but the way you curled into the pillows, one arm tucked under your head, suggested you hadn’t moved much.

“Are you done?” you mumbled, cracking one eye open to peer at him. Your voice was thick with sleep, but the way your fingers fidgeted with the edge of the blanket betrayed your nerves.

The entire time he’d been in the bathroom, you’d been silently battling your own heartbeat, cursing yourself for volunteering to room with him.

What were you thinking? Sharing a room with Spencer Reid—the man who made your stomach flip with just a glance, the man whose mere presence turned you into a flustered mess. And now you were trapped in this tiny motel room, with nothing but a few feet of space and your own racing thoughts between you.

Spencer hovered awkwardly near the bathroom door, his fingers drumming against his thigh. “Yeah,” he said, then cleared his throat when his voice came out too quiet. “Yeah, it’s all yours.”

You pushed yourself up with a small groan, rolling your shoulders as you swung your legs over the edge of the bed.

“Thanks,” you murmured, grabbing your toiletry bag and shuffling past him.

The brush of your arm against his sent a jolt through both of you, and for a split second, Spencer’s breath hitched. His eyes flickered down to yours, lingering just a beat too long before he quickly stepped aside, giving you space.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind you, and you let out a shaky exhale, pressing your palms against the cool porcelain of the sink.

Get it together.

Outside, Spencer stood frozen for a moment, staring at the closed door before dragging a hand down his face.

This was going to be a long night.

Twenty minutes later, both of you were settled in bed. Spencer propped up against the headboard with a book in hand, you curled on your side texting Garcia who was flooding your phone with increasingly ridiculous messages.

[Garcia 11:37 PM]: "So. Two beds or did someone 'accidentally' get assigned a single??"

[Garcia 11:37 PM]: five winking emojis

[Garcia 11:38 PM]: "I need details sweetcheeks. Is our boy in glasses wearing pajamas? Are they adorably mismatched? Does he have bedhead yet?"

You muffled a laugh into your pillow, typing back a scolding reply even as your cheeks warmed. The soft sound caught Spencer's attention - he glanced over the top of his book, watching the way your nose scrunched with suppressed laughter. Something warm and fond settled in his chest at the sight, and he had to consciously school his expression before returning to his reading.

Eventually, your phone slipped from your fingers as sleep claimed you. "Night, Spencer," you murmured, already half-lost to dreams.

"Goodnight," he whispered back, smiling at the way you immediately burrowed deeper into the blankets. He should have turned off his light then, but found himself watching the steady rise and fall of your shoulders instead, the way your eyelashes cast delicate shadows on your cheeks.

It took three tries to actually refocus on his book.

As the night went on, Spencer's own eyelids grew heavy. He was just considering sleep when a small, distressed noise broke the quiet. His head snapped up, sleepiness forgotten.

You'd turned onto your side facing him, fingers clutching the sheets with white-knuckled intensity. A faint sheen of sweat glistened at your temples, your breathing coming too fast. Spencer watched, his chest tightening as your fingers twisted deeper into the sheets, knuckles blanching white.

He wasn’t sure what to do.

The logical part of his brain—the part that could recite statistics on sleep disturbances and the neurological response to nightmares—knew that waking someone abruptly wasn’t ideal.

But the other part, the part that ached at the sight of you in distress, overruled it completely.

Spencer set his book aside with careful silence and stood, crossing the small space between the beds in two strides. “Hey,” he murmured, hesitating only a second before placing a tentative hand on your shoulder.

You barely stirred.

His grip tightened slightly, fingers pressing into the curve of your arm. “Hey, wake up,” he urged, voice low but firm.

Your eyes flew open, blinking up at him in the dim lamplight. For a moment, you just stared, disoriented, your breath still unsteady. Spencer had shifted to sit on the edge of your bed without realizing it, his free hand already moving in slow, soothing circles against your shoulder.

“Hi,” he whispered. “You okay?”

You swallowed, pushing your hair back from your face with a shaky hand. “Did I have a nightmare?” you asked, voice rough with sleep—and something like embarrassment.

Spencer nodded, his thumb still tracing absent, comforting patterns on your skin. He couldn’t seem to stop touching you, as if the contact alone could chase away whatever shadows lingered behind your eyelids.

“Do you get them often?” he asked carefully.

You exhaled, slowly sitting up. His hand slipped from your shoulder—only to settle, almost instinctively, on your knee. His thumb resumed its gentle circles, as if his body refused to break contact entirely.

“Yeah,” you admitted, avoiding his eyes. “Ever since that case in Texas.”

Texas.

The word landed like a stone in his stomach. He remembered. An unsub who had fixated on you, his gaze predatory, obsessive.

Nothing had happened but the way he had looked at you, the way his voice had curled around your name during interrogation… Spencer’s jaw clenched.

He hadn’t realized it still haunted you.

"He's locked up," Spencer blurted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. Then, like floodgates opening, the rest came pouring forth: "Seventy-three years with no chance of parole. The appeals were all denied last month. He's in ADX Florence now—maximum security, complete isolation. His cell is monitored twenty-four seven and—"

You blinked up at him, the haze of sleep slowly clearing as his ramble continued. And then it hit you—the way he recited the details with pinpoint accuracy, the way his fingers flexed against your knee.

Spencer had been keeping tabs on him.

Not just casually. Not just in passing.

Obsessively.

The realization sent a strange warmth curling through your chest. You reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing against his wrist, stilling his nervous ramble.

"You’ve been checking up on him," you said softly. Not a question. A fact.

Spencer froze. His lips parted, then pressed into a thin line, as if debating whether to deny it. But then his shoulders slumped, and he exhaled, long and slow.

"Yes," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. His thumb resumed its absent circles on your knee, but his gaze dropped, suddenly fascinated by the frayed edge of the motel blanket. "I—I needed to be sure. That he was still there. That he couldn’t—"

That he couldn’t get to you again.

You squeezed his wrist, and when he finally looked up, you offered him a small, tired smile. "Thank you," you murmured.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, because the tension was too much and the night was too long, you nudged his leg.

"You’re not sleeping on that lumpy bed over there," you said, nodding toward his untouched mattress. "There’s room here."

Spencer’s eyes widened. "I—are you sure?"

You rolled your eyes, shifting to make space. "Just don’t hog the blankets, Spencer."

He hesitated, then—slowly, carefully—stretched out beside you, his body a warm, solid line against yours. The bed was small enough that your shoulders brushed, and when you turned your head, you could see the faint flush creeping up his neck.

"I'm sorry you have them," Spencer mumbled suddenly, staring resolutely at the ceiling as you shifted onto your side to face him.

"The nightmares," he clarified when you didn't respond immediately, finally turning his head to meet your gaze.

"It's fine," you said, your voice thick with sleep but carrying that familiar dismissive tone he knew all too well. "They'll go away eventually."

Spencer studied you in the dim light, noting the way your fingers twisted in the sheets again, the slight tension in your jaw despite your casual words. He hated this. Hated that you suffered through this alone night after night.

Before he could stop himself, the words came tumbling out:

"Did you know physical contact during sleep can reduce nightmare frequency by up to 32%?" His fingers twitched against the mattress, itching to reach out but hesitating. "The pressure stimulates oxytocin production which lowers cortisol levels and—"

He cut himself off when he realized he was rambling, but the damage was done. You were staring at him now, eyebrows slightly raised, that tired smile turning into something more genuine—more amused.

"Are you suggesting we cuddle, Dr. Reid?" you teased, your voice laced with sleepy humor.

Spencer's flush deepened, spreading from his neck to the tips of his ears. "I—that is—statistically speaking—"

You didn't let him finish. With a quiet huff of laughter, you closed the small distance between you, tucking yourself against his side and resting your head on his shoulder. Spencer froze, his breath catching as your warmth seeped into him.

"Like this?" you murmured, already sounding more relaxed.

It took Spencer several heartbeats to remember how to move, but eventually his arm came up to wrap around you, his hand settling tentatively against your back. "...Yes," he managed, his voice oddly thick. "Exactly like this."

The moment the words left his mouth, your fingers began absently tracing patterns against his chest—slow, wandering lines that burned through the thin fabric of his sweater. Spencer's breath hitched audibly, his entire body going rigid beneath your touch.

"Sorry," you murmured immediately, starting to pull away. "I didn't—"

"No!" The word came out too loud, too desperate. Spencer cleared his throat, his arm tightening reflexively around you to keep you from retreating. "I mean... it's. It's fine. More than fine. Actually, studies show that—that light physical contact can lower heart rate and—"

You pressed a finger to his lips, effectively silencing his ramble. In the dim light, you could see the way his pupils had blown wide, the rapid flutter of his pulse in his throat.

"Spencer," you whispered, your own heart racing. "Breathe."

He exhaled shakily, his lips brushing against your fingertip before you slowly lowered your hand. For a long moment, you simply stared at each other—both painfully aware of every point of contact, every shared breath.

Then, with deliberate slowness, you returned your hand to his chest, resuming your idle tracing. This time, when Spencer's breath caught, you didn't apologize.

And when his fingers began tentatively carding through your hair in response—his touch feather-light and trembling—you couldn't suppress the small, contented sigh that escaped you.

Somewhere in the back of your sleep-fogged mind, a thought surfaced:

This might be even better than actual sleep.

[spidercat2099]

I feeeeel like Nanami wouldn't notice you flirting with him until someone brought it up.

He'd just be at his desk working on some project when the guy who sits next to him is like "So are you guys a thing yet?" right after you leave a coffee at Kento's desk.

He'd be like "What are you talking about?"

"C'mon dude, she's obviously into you."

"She's just very friendly." He'd respond, not thinking too much about it.

"Just to you?" The guy would ask, letting the question linger for a second before returning to his computer.

His eyebrows furrow slightly and the gears begin to turn. You were a bit touchy, always ensuring there wouldn't be loose threads or dust on his nice suit. You always asked if he ate, how his day was, and if he'd like a coffee. He would've kept thinking that it was just you being friendly if he hadn't realized that you hardly make an effort to do all those things for any other worker.

"I should ask her out then. She is pretty cute." The guy would say, more to himself than Kento. But if what he said was true, Kento would not like the idea of the other guy asking you out first. He had to know.

So, he'd get off the clock just a bit earlier that day. Just as you were getting up from your desk, you'd see a large figure loom over you. "Hey, I was just about to say goodbye." You'd say, surprised he made the first move to see you for once.

"Miss y/n. Have you been flirting with me?" He'd ask bluntly. He'd see no reason to skirt around it, he had to know if he was truly missing all these signals.

You'd chuckle, a bit flistered by the sudden question as you pack your papers. "Well... just a bit. I hope it doesn't offend you."

Kento would pause, confused as to why you weren't more upfront about it. But at the same time, he realized you were probably very obvious if the guy next to him noticed it. He was just oblivious. "Offend me?" He'd ask, unsure of how it could possibly be offensive.

"Yeah." You'd shrug. "It's fine if you don't feel the same. I still wanna be friends."

"I didn't say I don't feel the same." He'd shut down that idea quickly. "I just hadn't thought of our interactions that way. I thought you were simply being friendly."

You'd laugh softly, now in a more amused way. You thought he was brushing you off this entire time to let you down easy. "I appreciate that you think I'm that nice."

"So, to be clear, you've been flirting and you like me. Is that correct?" He'd just have to make sure there was no other way to take it.

"Yes." You'd laugh again. His eyes would widen. He didn't think someone could like him out of all people. He always thought he was too boring, too unemotional, too uncaring. But you... you were so sincere in your feelings for him, that he wouldn't be able to doubt it. He'd realize how your laugh made his heart skip a beat. He'd know he didn't wanna waste time.

"Then... would it be right to assume you'd say yes to a date with me?"

You'd pause. "You're... asking me out?"

He'd simply nod. "I would like to take you out."

You'd clear your throat. You didn't think you actually had a shot with him, but it's presenting itself. "I would like that too."

[mariasont]

SLIDE NUMBER 42

spencer struggles to stay focused during his FBI seminar after watching you accept another man's phone number

pairings: spencer reid x shy!reader warnings: post prison spencer, fem reader, fluffy fluff, pre-relationship mutual pining, jealousy, hot people who don't know they're hot, reader is so oblivious wc: 2.4k request: here

His speech is going fine. Good even, by technical standards. Solid pacing, no detectable tremor in his voice, and the audience seems engaged, or at least polite enough to fake it.

No eyes have glazed into vacant stares of boredom, no one has made sudden exits conveniently coinciding with his most critical points. Someone even laughed at his heuristics joke. Sure, that laugh might have stemmed from social obligation rather than genuine amusement, but Spencer’s ego isn’t picky. Validation is validation, however pitiful its origins.

After a hundred (give or take, but who’s counting? Certainly not him anymore) FBI seminars, public speaking has downgraded itself from gut-twisting terror to something more akin to low-level tinnitus. Persistent, yes, but easily ignored if he doesn’t focus on it.

Today, though, there’s a blemish in his confidence, a nearly imperceptible fissure disrupting an otherwise flawless delivery, and annoyingly, he knows exactly what’s causing it.

Or rather, who. 

It would be easy, tempting, even, to attribute it to jet lag or his questionable decision to skip breakfast, despite knowing precisely how much glucose his brain demands to function optimally.

It’s approximately 130 grams daily, for the record.

But under close examination, these excuses collapse.

His mouth dutifully churns out the familiar concepts — cognitive shortcuts, behavioral reinforcement, and a half-dozen other psychological principles he could probably recite even if heavily sedated.

His eyes, though, are less disciplined.

Spencer no longer pretends he isn’t looking for you. Plausible deniability lost its appeal around the hundredth time, so now he’s squarely planted in the acceptance stage, routinely scanning briefing rooms, glancing down the jet aisle, even sweeping through crowded streets that realistically hold zero probability of your sudden appearance.

Stranger things have happened though.

Your usual chair, predictably front and center, has been taken by someone else. The disruption alone unsettles him, an absurd reaction, he knows, considering the concept of assigned seating vanished after high school.

But worse, far worse, your new seat, slightly further back to the left, is paired closely with a stranger. A male. A male stranger.

Did he mention that?

From this distance, Spencer reads you the way he would scrutinize grainy case footage — frame by frame, microexpression after microexpression. You sit poised, shoulders relaxed in a way that seems sincere, fingers neatly intertwined in practiced, polite calm. The hesitant half-smile on your face is one he’s memorized by now, the kind you deploy when responses fail you but courtesy remains compulsory. 

There’s nothing outwardly troubling. No anxious shifts, no rapid blinking patterns, no unconscious signals suggesting underlying distress. And the man beside you remains scrupulously neutral, displaying no signs of threat or territorial intent. No encroaching hand, no aggressive hand over your chair.

Textbook respectful. Harmless, even.

Spencer hates him, regardless.

Maybe hate is a strong word. Spencer is self-aware enough to admit that. He’s nothing if not precise with language, after all. But the irritation brewing in his chest feels warranted, even if it’s inconvenient and flagrantly unprofessional. 

He should be paying attention to his own presentation, should be demonstrating at least a shred of respect for the material, and especially for the painstaking work you poured into it. 

Last Thursday alone, you spent two entire hours rearranging his deck into a visual narrative.

He had fun watching as you tensed each time his hand brushed yours or whenever he leaned a fraction too close, your shoulders tightening in a way he mentally filed under adorably flustered.

He also (less fun) watched you agonize over font choices as though the fate of the world depended on serif or sans-serif, and the way you had gotten so worked up trying to pick between two indistinguishable shades of blue. 

Eventually, he broke. Softly, half-laughing, he told you, it doesn’t matter which one, I’ll love it regardless because you picked it.

He could almost hear your internal plea for the earth to kindly intervene and swallow you whole. And as usual, Spencer pretended he saw nothing, politely glossing over the obvious.

It had, after all, become his speciality — noticing everything about you and pretending he didn’t.

His eyes focus back on you, in the present to see that there’s a napkin involved with the stranger, accompanied by a ballpoint pen scratching digits hastily onto the flimsy, coffee-stained paper, folded once before sliding across the table.

You accept it without hesitation, slipping it beneath your fingers. To any else, the exchange would seem mundane. And maybe it genuinely is mundane.

Maybe people pass you phone numbers all the time and Spencer’s just blind to it, trapped comfortably back in plausible deniability. 

And honestly, why wouldn’t this be a regular occurrence? He should’ve considered this months ago. From a purely observational standpoint, you’ve practically designed to attract attention. Intelligent. Kind. Beautiful. Very beautiful in a soft, disarming way that defies simple categorization.

He expends enormous effort pretending your very existence doesn’t accelerate his heart-rate into concerning ranges. It’s possible that other, saner men don’t waste precious energy on such fruitless, exhausting self-deception.

Spencer blinks slowly, disoriented by the sudden wave of heat climbing uninvited from beneath his collar. The fabric feels restrictive, as though actively tightening, trying to suffocate him purely out of spite.

For the life of him, he can’t remember which slide he’s on, or even if the current slide bears any relation to the words he was previously speaking. His pointer hand hovers mid-gesture, awkwardly frozen.

There’s a distracting ringing in his ears — no, he corrects himself, not ringing.

Silence.

His own silence stretching across the room as he mentally scrambles to pinpoint exactly when he stopped talking. Judging from the expectant stares, probably mid-sentence.

Your eyes find his almost instantly, brows pinched the tiniest bit, like you’re puzzled but trying not to be disrespectful about it. Spencer can feel the sweat prickling beneath his shirt.

But then you smile and give him a thumbs up.

Big and bright and encouraging like you’re trying to telepathically remind him that he’s doing great, as if this is only a mild, forgivable stumble from a nervous academic tripped up by nothing more serious than transition slide number 42.

It’s not funny. He tells himself that with conviction. But there’s some part of him that wants to laugh anyway, if only to release the pressure building inside him.

Instead, he settles for a restrained nod, stretches a smile over clenched teeth, pretends it feels natural then regains his place in the presentation.

Guilt rushes in on the tail end of his anger (anger? jealousy? — the terminology feels suspiciously accurate, but labeling it as so feels premature and vaguely terrifying). He’s uncertain what specific transgression triggered this, but his nervous system apparently feels apologies are overdue, regardless.

Possibly because his thoughts are increasingly heading into Neanderthal territory with every look the man gives you.

Thankfully around halfway, maybe just past that mark, the nameless man beside you rises. It’s discreet, he simply leans in toward you, exchanges some hushed, unintelligible words, then slips away.

The second the chair beside you empties though, that pressure in his chest loosens like a long-held muscle finally unclenched. Like oxygen flooding back into a room that had been vacuum-sealed.

Spencer rushes through his concluding remarks, murmuring a perfunctory thanks to the audience and moves swiftly off the stage.

No handshakes, no small talk, no waiting around to see if anyone has further questions. Frankly, he doesn’t have the bandwidth to pretend he cares.

His mind is fixated solely on you, his priority laser-focused on bridging the gap he’s spent the past hour actively trying not to acknowledge, intent on reaching you first before anyone else gets the chance.

You can’t help yourself from smiling the instant he comes into view, then immediately worry that it’s too much smile, a full wattage beam reserved for grander occasions than a simple post-presentation hello.

But then again, this is Spencer.

Spencer, who just minutes ago had half the room on the edge of their seats, eyes round with wonder, absorbing each detail like children watching a magic trick unfold.

You’re fairly certain he would appreciate that comparison.

“You were incredible,” you say, feeling a little winded by your own excitement. Hopefully, that accounts for the weird expression you’re pretty sure is plastered all over your face. “Seriously, you sounded so confident, and that one part, the twins with the shared delusion? You could hear everyone holding their breath.”

Spencer holds your gaze, expression carefully blank, as if he’s momentarily forgotten how to react. He finally swallows, glancing downward briefly before forcing his eyes back to yours. 

“Thanks,” he says, “to tell you the truth, it felt a bit�� off.”

“Really?” you blurt out. “It was probably the slides, honestly. I knew I should’ve picked the darker blue for the headers. The light blue looked fine on my laptop, but projected up there it looked way too… fluorescent. Sorry if it threw you off, or you know, temporarily damaged your retinas.”

His lips curve into something resembling a smile, but there’s a noticeable emptiness behind it, a shadow of the quietly affection grin he saves for Garcia when she insists on inventing some silly nickname for him, or that gently softened look he gives you when you ask him to double-check emails you’re irrationally convinced you wrote incorrectly.

This one feels different. More distant, maybe.

Was that too much? Did you overshoot the tone? Did you mistake his pause for an opening and trample right through it? Did the slides really throw him off? You don’t know, but your mouth is already moving again.

“I mean, no one probably even noticed the color thing. I just… I did. Not that it mattered. The content was what people were paying attention to. Your content, not mine, obviously. Just — sorry, I —”

“The slides were perfect,” he cuts in, shaking his head. “Really, thank you for putting them together.”

Warmth blooms aggressively across your cheeks, spreading upward to your ears until you’re positive they must be visibly burning.

You nod vigorously, maybe too much so, because words seem hazardous at this point. You’re 90% sure the only sound you would make is some kind of mouse-adjacent squeak.

He nods toward the row of now-empty chairs.

“Next time, would you mind sitting a bit closer?” he asks. “If there’s a technical glitch, having you close by could save me from another awkward pause.”

“I was planning to.” You let out a laugh, ducking your head. “But someone got there first and I thought it’d be weird if I challenged them to a duel or something.”

He laughs at that and your heart reacts accordingly.

“Tell you what,” he says, “next time I’ll reserve your seat myself. No need to resort to sword fights on my behalf.”

A chair scrapes violently a few feet away, loud enough to startle you mid-nod. You flinch, pivot slightly, and your purse, which was balanced precariously on the back of your chair, swings off and to the floor. 

Lip balm tubes, scattered pens, mint wrappers, crumbled receipts, and a pitiful handful of coins erupt from the bag like tiny projectiles, landing messily at Spencer’s feet.

You’re halfway through an apology that’s shaping up to be spectacularly frantic when he crouches beside you.

“It’s fine —” he reassures, patiently herding your scattered belongings until his hand stops dead, hovering oddly over something.

A folded napkin. He picks it up gently, like he’s trying not to crumple it, and you immediately recognize it, the paper, the stupid casual tilt of the handwriting. The guy’s phone number paired with an invitation for coffee or drinks or something similarly forgettable.

Honestly, you barely registered it at the time, dismissed it entirely after a polite smile and obligatory nod. It meant nothing then. It means even less now. 

Your brain lurches, caught in a panicked tug-of-war between explaining yourself, pretending nothing happened, or diving headfirst into an apology (your well-worn, anxiety-ridden default).

Because it all suddenly feels painfully amateurish, unbelievably unprofessional, especially in the relentless spotlight of being the newest face, the eager-to-please media liaison who occasionally gets mistaken for someone’s assistant or coffee-fetcher at least twice per conference. 

You already feel like you’re playing catch-up to the rest of them, especially him.

And now, somehow, you’ve inadvertently become the girl who collects phone numbers at work functions. It’s not that you wanted it, but refusing just felt unnecessarily harsh.

And what were you supposed to say? 

Sorry, but I’m secretly nursing a hopeless infatuation for the lanky genius on the stage with an alphabet soup of degrees, beautiful hands, and a voice you would happily let narrate even your most tedious existence? 

Arguably even less professional.

You take the napkin from his hand quickly, tucking it deep into your bag like maybe that’ll erase the last thirty seconds.

“That wasn’t, um, supposed to be…”

“You don’t have to explain,” Spencer interjects, gaze lowered, “I imagine it happens often.”

You press your lips together. Nervously, you steal a glance at him, noting the clench of his jaw and the almost angry crease between his brows.

“It doesn’t, actually.”

Both of you straighten at once, shoulders grazing clumsily as he smooths down his sleeves.

You silently wish, not for the first time, you could translate his face into something tangible. Profiler by osmosis, apparently, isn’t a thing.

“Well,” he says, like he’s still thinking it over. “They’re clearly behind the curve.”

Your stomach dives into freefall, landing roughly somewhere near where your purse had just been. Still, you muster a breezy smile, hand flicking dismissively.

“Oh, um, you don’t need to say that,” you say lightly, even though your mind is already sprinting between seven — no, eight — different theories on what exactly he meant by that. “But thanks.”

“I think I kind of do. Because if anyone’s asking for your number, I think it should be at least someone who —”

“Dr. Reid?” Someone interrupts, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Do you have a second to talk about the regression data on slide 19?”

Spencer nods, starting to turn, but not before his eyes catch yours again. Just once.

His mouth curves into the slightest of smiles, teasing in a way you’ve never seen, as though he’s entirely aware of the words left unsaid and exactly how they’re going to occupy your thoughts in the meantime.

You despise this new smile. You adore this new smile. You’re doomed, either way.

Without a second glance, you fish the napkin from your purse, walking to the nearest trash can and dropping it inside. 

You wonder if he’ll circle back. If he’ll finish the sentence.

And if he doesn’t, well, you’ll be thinking about it anyway.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[wwooyology]

idol sunghoon getting pissed because of his idol gf got into a dating scandal with his co-member, and his gf liked the way he got pissed, so he decided to show her who she really belongs to (??)

「notes」 : anony c'mere lemme just *😚🧠* you gave me an inch, and I swear I took it like ten miles... so lemme just say that I contemplated this and I may or may not have gone a little stir crazy (that and I'm pretty sure I'm ovulating...), so I sincerely apologize for the nastiness you're about to set your eyes upon 🫣🫣

↳ you can find the add-on part here!

Mark Me Yours | P.SH

「pairing」 : idol!bf!sunghoon x idol!fem!reader 「word count」 : 5k

「synopsis」 : the first time you were caught out with jake by the press it was an accident, but after seeing your boyfriend's jealous reaction you couldn't help but want to see more. so you went out with jake time and time again, even going as far as being a little too friendly with jake just to see how much sunghoon could take before he snapped. though your outcome probably wasn't exactly what you had in mind.

「genre」 : smut

「warning」 : cursing, biting/marking, rough makeout session, fingering, oral (m. & f. receiving), usage of toys, begging, degradation, choking, hair pulling, bondage, pussy slapping, clit play, face fucking, cum eating, dacryphilia, squirting, spitting, kinda toxic possessiveness, mean!dom!sunghoon x sub!reader, unprotected sex (please don't), orgasm denial, edging, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, rough sex, photography, breeding kink, creampie, manhandling, slight breath play, sunghoon is a bit sadistic, mentions of a safeword (but it's not used), petnames (princess, baby, slut, whore…), mentions of blood, implications of multiple rounds, lmk if I missed anything!

You lay out lazily on your boyfriend's bed, waiting for him to finish his shower after he had a long day at work. Scrolling through Twitter, laughing to yourself as you come across yet another article, 'Timeless y/n and Enhypen Jake Spotted Together Once Again, Coincidence or Not?' This had to be the third or fourth article within the last two weeks.

When the first article dropped after you were spotted with Jake at a local coffee shop, you were beyond worried about how your boyfriend would take it. However, seeing his face twist in annoyance and jealousy flipped a switch in you. The way his jaw would clench when he’d spot people on Instagram or Twitter talking about you and Jake, or when ship edits started to get posted of the two of you, or even when you were sitting in the room alone with just Jake. It was insanely attractive and left you dripping in your panties. 

Sunghoon knew it wasn’t your fault for what the press did or didn’t post, but he also couldn’t help the way that it pissed him off beyond belief every time he saw the photos. 

You then made it your goal to see just how much your boyfriend could take before he finally snapped. So you continued to go out in public with Jake, knowing you could be spotted just so you could get a rise out of your boyfriend. After the first week or so, you stepped it up a little bit. Getting a little too friendly with Jake, laughing at his jokes a little too hard, your hands wondering his body a little too much, your voice a little too surly when you talked to him, being just a little too close. Jake, of course, was oblivious to all of your little antics, thinking you were just being friendly and sweet like you usually were. It started to drive Sunghoon up a wall, so much so that he had to avoid being in the same room as Jake so he wouldn’t lash out at the poor boy. Eventually, he caught on to what you were trying to do, and he could feel his blood boil. He could handle you being a brat, but this? He was damn near his wits end, a hair away from snapping.

Coming back to the present, you were snapped out of your thoughts when a knock at the door was heard. Muttering a quick ‘come in,’ you weren’t too surprised to see Jake standing there, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket.

“Hey, Jakey.” You smiled sweetly at the boy who returned your gesture before looking around the room, presumably looking for your dark-haired boyfriend.

And just as you thought, the question fell from his lips, “Where’s Sunghoon?”

“He’s in the shower,” you told him, and Jake nodded before walking over, flopping down onto the bed, his upper body draped over your lap. 

“Did you see the new article?” He pouted as he started to pick at the end of your skirt, causing you to smile, but you nodded your head before tilting your phone screen down to show him that you had been reading it. Jake sighed dramatically, his face falling into the side of your thigh, “I hope they stop soon. I’m pretty sure Hoon is gonna strangle me the next time one comes out.” He shivered at the thought, causing you to start laughing.

You knew he was right. Sunghoon has been avoiding Jake like the plague for the past few days. Anger and annoyance are the main expressions he wears anymore. His jaw is always locked tight, afraid he might say the wrong thing. But you were enjoying it, maybe a little too much.

Just then, the bathroom door swung open, ceasing your laughter as Sunghoon walked into the room, towel in hand, drying his damp hair. However, as soon as his eyes landed on you and Jake in his bed, you could have sworn you saw a fuse blow in his head. His eyes darkened into a glare, demanding that Jake leave, not a single bit of room left open for discussion. 

Jake nearly levitates off of the bed before rushing out of the room as quickly as he possibly could, not wanting to be at the end of your boyfriend's wrath. You watched with an amused smirk as Sunghoon's eyes trailed from the doorway back to you.

“Is this really that amusing to you?” His voice was cold as he walked towards the open door; it sent a shiver down your spine and your thighs clenching together. You, however, just hummed with a shrug before looking back down at your phone. You peeked over the top of it, excitement bubbling in your chest as you watched Sunghoon slam the door shut before turning the lock. The moment you had been waiting for was finally about to happen; you finally got him to snap. You mentally cheered, completely missing the borderline psychotic gleam in your boyfriend’s eyes.

Sunghoon walked back to the end of the bed, a snarl pulling on his upper lip, revealing his pointy canine. The very canines you wished would mark your body up, leaving behind puncture wounds and bruises even though you would get a lot of shit from your manager and makeup artist. He never did, though, because he knew the stakes; however, now? Now, all of those thoughts. All of the sane thoughts, really. Completely vanished from his mind.

He leaned over the bed, grabbing your outstretched ankle before yanking your body down to him. A small gasp fell from your lips at the sudden action but was quickly quieted when you bit your tongue as Sunghoon hovered over you, slotting his body against yours. 

The dark, lustful look in his eyes had your body wiggling in anticipation, a shock rushing through your veins when you felt his erection against your thinly covered core. Thinking back to all of the stuff you did to get here made you giggle because you thought you had finally won. Or so you thought. Sunghoon, on the other hand, found it far, so far, from amusing.

“Well, see how much you’ll be laughing, princess,” He chuckled darkly before his slender fingers wrapped tightly around your throat, causing your breath to hitch, but all the air was soon taken out of your lungs when he kissed you hard.

A cry tore from your lungs when he bit down on your bottom lip before sucking on it. You were sure that it had drawn blood, but your mind was quickly bought elsewhere when his other hand cupped your boob, squeezing harshly. 

“You just like the attention, huh?” He growled, nipping at your jaw, “You’re just a little attention whore, is that it?” 

You whined as his grip on your throat got tighter, not enough to completely cut off your air supply, but definitely enough to make you feel a little lightheaded. Sunghoon was typically always rough when it came to sex, but this? This was new, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t turn you on even more.

“Don’t think I don’t know what your little game was.” His voice was deep, sending shock waves throughout your body, “How you purposely left with Jake knowing the press was watching,” He moved his hand, allowing you to breathe, but not long before he sunk his teeth into the soft flesh of your neck causing you to cry out his name, “or how you threw yourself all over Jake…” Tears pricked at the corner of your eyes as he continued to bite and suck on your neck, leaving deep purple and red marks. “All for what, huh? My attention? Well, guess what, princess, now you have it.” 

You knew you probably pushed him way over the edge the moment he started to mark up your skin. While his hands were tight enough on your body, you were sure they’d leave bruises behind. Then that dark lust that clouded his eyes was the final ringer that let you know, ‘oh I really fucked up’. 

“Hoon-” “What’s the safe word?” Oh, you definitely fucked up; you knew he never mentioned the safe word unless he was going to be rough. The two of you only came up with it just as percussion, mainly when you tried something new. But for him to ask now when you could clearly see the anger in his eyes? Yeah, you were screwed.

When he didn’t get an answer quickly enough, he grabbed your face, squishing your cheeks together, and moved his face merely inches away from yours.

“What’s. The. Word. Y/n.” Sunghoon snarled, enunciating every word with a glare. Your eyes were wide, not quite out of fear but something else you weren’t sure what to call.

“Purple.” You responded to the best of your ability with his hand on your face, eyes staring into his.

Then he let go of your face before pushing off of your body, standing flat on his feet. You pushed yourself up, eyes on him, ready to ask what he was doing. However, his voice was quick to beat you to it.

“Strip and on your knees.”

The tone of his voice was already enough to leave you dripping in your underwear, but the way his eyes bore into you made your whole body shiver. This new side of Sunghoon was something you never thought you would need, but it is now. You wanted so badly to disobey him, but you knew that if you continued to push his buttons, he wouldn’t hesitate to leave you without cumming. 

So, with shaky legs, you pulled yourself to your feet before slowly undoing the button on your skirt and letting it fall to the floor. You could feel Sunghoon’s fiery gaze on you as you pulled your shirt over your head and threw it somewhere in the room. Once you were left standing there completely bare before him, Sunghoon walked over and put his hand on your shoulder, pushing you down onto your knees.

“Now be a good girl and put that pretty mouth of yours to use,” He spoke lowly, his finger combing through your hair until he got to the crown of your head. A whimper fell from your lips as you placed your hands on his thighs to stabilize yourself when he tugged your head back harshly. “And I swear to god you try to tease, I will leave you here tied to the bed with a vibrator attached to your cunt.” The way his upper lip pulled back to show his pointed tooth, you knew he wasn’t lying.

"O-Okay," You choked out as he cranked your neck back a little more, eliciting a cry from your lips. He then let go, standing straight again, allowing you to slightly relax your neck. You wasted no time pulling his sweatpants' string loose before hooking your fingers around the waistband to pull them down. Once his pants were pooled at his feet, you lifted yourself up a bit, mouth watering at the sight of your boyfriend's dick.

Sunghoon then held something out to you, and your eyes went wide at the sight of the little pink egg, “Put this in that needy little hole of yours, and don’t you dare cum without my permission.” Your gaze shifted from the little toy to your boyfriend’s hooded gaze before taking it into your hand.

You kept your eyes locked with his as you brought the toy down to your pulsating heat, rubbing it up and down to collect your slick to use as lube. The slight stretch it offered left a whine falling from your lips, but it wasn’t nearly enough. That’s what you thought, at least, until a sudden vibration caused your whole body to jolt and a moan to slip past your lips. Then it was gone. Sunghoon watched from above as your body relaxed a bit, your eyes shifting to meet his once more.

He then grabbed himself at the base before tapping the head against your lips, prompting you to open your mouth. You parted your lips, sticking your tongue out, letting him drag his tip across your wet muscle, hissing at the contact. Shuffling a bit closer, you encased your lips around his tip, causing him to groan. Sunghoon gathered your hair into a makeshift ponytail before thrusting his hips forward, sheathing his entire length in your mouth. Thankfully, your gag reflex was almost nonexistent; otherwise, you were sure you would be a choking mess. 

His pace started out steady; his hold on your hair kept your head in place. Until he found his rhythm, and his hips snapped forward, hitting the back of your throat, causing tears to prick at the corner of your eyes. Then the little toy inside of you buzzed to life, causing a moan to tear through your throat, muffled by his dick. The vibrations caused Sunghoon’s head to fall back with a groan.

Your head started to go fuzzy with pleasure as Sunghoon continued to piston his hips until your nose brushed his pelvis bone. The vibrations then kicked up, causing your body to jolt, nails to dig into his thighs, and you to moan around his cock. All of the sensations were overwhelming, and you weren’t sure if you would last much longer, but then Sunghoon’s words echoed in your brain. Knowing that he would punish you even more if you came without his permission, you tried your best to hold it in.

The drag of his cock along your tongue was enough to have your eyes roll back as you pressed the wet appendage against him.

“Fuck, this is supposed to be a punishment, yet you look like you enjoy sucking my dick.” He chuckled darkly before a throaty groan broke from his lips, his hips stuttering as he got closer to his high. You hummed around him, trying to keep yourself grounded, but you nearly choked as he turned the vibrations up to the highest setting. Tears were spilling from your eyes as you screwed them shut, pleasure overriding your senses.

Sunghoon wanted to burn this image into his memory, the tears running down your flushed cheeks. How the mixture of his pre-cum and your saliva dripped from your chin. The dark purple and red bite marks that covered the skin of your neck. The way your hips rocked against nothing but the air as you struggled to keep from tipping over the edge. God, it was a picture-perfect sight; if he could, he would share it with the world. A clear sign that you were his.

The thought of all of your guys' fans seeing it drove him over the edge, his dick twitching in your mouth as he painted your throat white. An animalist growl tore through his mouth as he rocked his hip, riding out his high before shutting the vibrator off. He then pulled out of your mouth, watching as you closed your lips, swallowing his seed without a word. You then opened your mouth once more, tongue lolling out to show him.

He then tugged on your hair, causing you to whine as you stood on wobbly legs. Not giving you a moment to breathe before his lips found yours in a heated kiss. He groaned at the taste of himself on your tongue before maneuvering you back until your knees hit the bed. A gasp fell from your lips as Sunghoon picked you up and crawled onto the bed before laying you flat on your back. 

Sunghoon pulled away from your lips, pressing hot, wet kisses along your jugular down to your breast before encasing one of your nipples in his mouth. A breathy moan escaped your parted lips as your fingers ran through his hair, tugging slightly. 

A loud cry escaped from your lips, and tears fell from your eyes when the vibrator kicked back to life. Your hips bucking against Sunghoon’s body, and your hands tugging on his hair. The male smirked as your body tensed underneath his, listening to every little noise that left your pretty lips.

“Hoon- fuck!” You cried out when you felt his slim fingers prodding at your entrance, thumb pressed against your clit. There was no way you were going to be able to last long at this rate, but when you met his dark gaze, you knew you had no other choice.

Your back arched off of the bed when he pushed two of his fingers into your pussy, pushing the little egg further in. A lewd, pornographic moan tore from your lungs when it pressed against your sweet spot.

“Found it,” Sunghoon chuckled, pulling his mouth away from your tits to watch as your body convulsed under him. His fingers started to pump in and out of your slick walls while turning the vibrator up.

Your ears were ringing, and your brain was starting to go blank as your body became overwhelmed with pleasure. Moans and cries of Sunghoon’s name fell from your lips like a mantra, and you could feel that little knot tighten to the point of almost snapping.

“‘M close! Hoon, please!” You cried out, back arching off of the bed as your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head. Then, just like that, your orgasm was ripped away from you when Sunghoon pulled not only his fingers out but the vibrator as well. Pleas and whines slipped past your swollen lips as your vision focused, but your words were cut short when Sunghoon wrapped his fingers around your throat once more.

“Oh no, baby, you seem to have forgotten.” He left a chaste kiss on the corner of your lips before moving to your ear, “this is a punishment, you’ll cum when I say you can.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you locked eyes with your boyfriend, your mind reeling. This wasn’t how you expected things to go; sure, you knew he was going to punish you, but this? Your whole body was on fire, and the touch of Sunghoon’s finger felt like it was searing your skin, leaving behind traces of his touch.

Your jaw fell slack as Sunghoon slipped his fingers back into your dripping cunt, moving at a harsh pace. His thumb presses down in tight circles on your clit. Cries left your lips as you tried to push your boyfriend's hand away from your sore hole, but he was quick to grab your wrists with a growl, pinning them above your head.

“Don’t be a brat, be a good little slut and take my fingers.” His words stung in all the right ways, and your cunt squeezed around his fingers. Sunghoon smirked before catching your lips in a bruising kiss, muffling all the moans escaping your throat.

Your head fell back as you tried to wiggle your hips away from Sunghoon’s hand, the sensation becoming too much, almost mind-numbing. Sunghoon pulled his fingers out before landing a firm smack on your clit, causing a loud cry to fall from your lips, tears flowing down your cheeks.

“What did I say?” His tone was a low growl, sliding his finger back in.

“Please, Hoon, it’s- fuck! ‘S too much.” Your cries only spurred your boyfriend on, speeding his fingers up.

Broken sobs fell from your mouth as you felt that same knot in your gut reappear, but you knew that he would just rip that away. Your nails dug into the palm of your hand as you tried to ground yourself, but his fingers just kept rubbing your velvet walls in all the right ways, making stars cloud your vision. And then it was gone once again.

Sunghoon’s dick twitched at the sight of your tear-streaked face, loving how your makeup smeared under your eyes, how tears stuck to your eyelashes as you looked up at him with the fuck-out expression he loves so much. His eyes then traveled down the length of your body, your hands pinned so perfectly under his, the love bites that littered your neck and chest, the sheen of sweat that coated your body, then, finally, your dripping cunt. Your slick leaked out onto his sheets, leaving a wet patch. The sight made him rock hard once more, to the point that it almost hurt.

His silence was worrying to you because you couldn’t tell what he was thinking, let alone what he was going to do next. Just then, he released your wrist before leaning over to his bedside table. Your eyes widened as he pulled out the bundle of black rope, shaking your head frantically.

“No, no, I’ll be good, I promise! Sunghoon, please.” You begged, tears streaming from your eyes. However, those pleas were cut short when he glared down at you, holding his hand out for yours. “Sung-”

“Hands. Now.” His tone left no room for negotiation, and with a whine, you placed your hands in his. Watching as he bound your wrists together before pulling them above your head to attach them to the headboard. Once you were locked in place, he leaned down, face mere centimeters away from yours. “Should have thought about that before, huh?” His voice was harsh, his eyes gleaming, almost sadistic. “Maybe I should mark up this perfect body of yours; then maybe you’ll get the idea that you’re mine.” 

You bite your lip as he moves down your body, hooking his hands under your thighs, lifting your lower half until your ass rests on his chest, legs hanging over his shoulders. The position was extremely uncomfortable, but that soon slipped away from your mind when his lips latched to the inside of your thigh. Your breathing was ragged, breathy moans and whines falling from your lips as he left bites and marks all along your inner thighs.

Once he was satisfied with all of the marks, he moved down, blowing on your drenched pussy, watching as you clenched around nothing. Sunghoon gathered a ball of saliva in his mouth before letting it drop onto your clit, watching as it trailed down to join the abundance of slick. Your eyes watched his movements, lips tucked between your teeth. He then dived right into your pussy, licking a long stripe from your slit to your clit before harshly sucking on the bundle of nerves, eliciting a strangled moan from your lungs.

“Holy shit!” You cried out as your head flew back into his pillows, hips bucking into his face. Sparks flew across your vision as he held onto your hips, tight enough to halt any of your movements.

Sunghoon then trailed back down to your slit, sticking his tongue in, tasting your sweetness as it gushed out onto his tongue. He hummed at the taste, sending vibrations through your core and making you cry out his name, hands clenched into fists above your head. He continued to eat you out like a starved man while you were a whining mess under him, tugging on the restraints, hoping they would budge, but they didn’t.

“Hoon- fuck, please don’t stop.” You cried out, head falling back as he latched his lips to your clit once more, drawing patterns on the little button. The pillow under your head had your tears stains on it as the salty liquid continued to flow from your eyes at the instrumental amount of pleasure you were feeling.

You begged him not to stop as you felt that knot reappear once more, hoping that he would finally let you have that release. Sunghoon smirked against your core, listening to your choked pleas and moans. His movements didn’t let up as your body started to twitch, a tell-tale sign that you were close.

“Cum for me slut.” He growled against your skin; the mixture of the vibrations and his teeth slightly scraping against your clit had you toppling over the edge. Your body convulsed in his hold, toes curling behind his head and his name leaving your mouth in a borderline scream. It all just spurred your boyfriend on as he continued to devour you, easily throwing your body into overstimulation.

All of your body muscles tensed, and your shoulders grew sore from the angle at which they were placed. You were sure that your legs wouldn’t be usable the next day, nor would your voice, but that was a problem for future you to worry about. Right now, your brain is far too cloudy to think straight, pleasure drowning all of your senses.

A silent scream tore through your lips as Sunghoon placed the little vibrating egg against your clit. Your legs moved to snap close, but Sunghoon was quicker than that, grabbing hold of one of your thighs and keeping it in place. The mixture of the vibrations and his tongue buried in your cunt had your legs shaking by his head, another orgasm already on the horizon.

Inchohent moans and noises fell from your lips as he brought you over the edge once more, eyes squeezed shut. Sunghoon slurped up all of your juices, not leaving a single drop before pulling the vibrator away from your twitching clit. He then kissed the bundle of nerves, causing a small squeak to leave your lips. Your eyes then opened slowly, meeting Sunghoon’s eyes as he looked down at you with a smug look.

As he laid your body down, you could feel your muscles relaxing, and you closed your eyes, trying to catch your breath. However, your eyes snapped open when you felt the tip of his cock prodding at your entrance.

“You didn’t think we were done already, did you princess?” He chuckled, watching the shock on your face morph into pleasure as he slid in with little resistance. Your nails dug into the palm of your hand as a choked sob tore from your lungs.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” The word fell from your lips in a rushed chant as Sunghoon’s hips started to slam against yours. “‘S too much, Hoon!” You cried out as your back arched off the bed.

“No, it’s not; just shut up and take it,” Sunghoon growled, hands holding onto your hips with a vice-like grip. A high-pitched squeal broke through your parted lips when his hand came up and wrapped around your throat once more, “who’s pussy is this? Who’s making you feel this good? Who do you belong to?”

“You.” The words choked through your lips, but that didn’t fully satisfy the male; no, he wanted to make sure everyone knew. 

Leaning down, he ghosted his lips over yours, “Then say it.”

He then leaned back up and pounded into your sensitive cunt making your head spin, “Fuck! Yours, Sunghoon!” You screamed as your head fell back, missing the sadistic smirk on your boyfriend’s lips.

Sunghoon continued to thrust hard and deep into you, his pace never slowing, and you could already feel another orgasm creeping up. The words came out jumbled as you tried to warn him, his fingers squeezing the flesh on your neck. 

You were clenching around his dick like crazy, causing him to groan, “fuck keep doing that, and I’m bound to breed this cunt of yours.” The words only made you clench around him again, making him chuckle, “You want that, don’t you? You want my seed filling your womb until you’re sure to get pregnant, huh?” You mewled at his words, fucked out eyes looking up to beg.

Seeing the expression on your face almost drove Sunghoon over the edge, your tear-stained cheeks and glossy eyes that were begging him to cum inside, then your swollen lips that were parted as you moaned out his name. Fuck he wasn’t going to last much longer. Taking his hand off of your neck, he moved down to press his thumb against your clit, circling it in tight circles. Your hips bucked at his touch as your nerves were set aflame once more. The knot in your stomach tightened to an unimaginable level, but this one felt different. Like your body was about to burst, but before you could even get the chance to warn Sunghoon, your orgasm hit. Your release gushes out in waves, coating your and his thighs. A loud pornographic moan fell from your lips, and Sunghoon cursed under his breath at the sight. 

“You fucking squirted, you filthy whore.” He chastises you, his hips stuttering as he feels his high creeping up. A whine fell from your lips as he continued to fuck into you at a harsh pace until he finally tipped over the edge with a groan, painting your gummy wall white. 

Sunghoon continued to rock his hips into yours, riding out his high before coming to a complete stop. His eyes squeezed shut, feeling you wrapped around his still semi-hard dick, milking him for all he was worth. Opening his eyes, he let the flutter down to where the two of you were still connected, groaning at the sight of the white ring around the base of his cock. He wanted to capture this moment. So he did.

Leaning over, he grabbed your phone, which had been haphazardly thrown to the side, before opening the camera, ignoring the article you had pulled up. You didn’t even realize what he was doing as you tried to catch your breath until you heard the shutter click. Your eyes opened at the noise, surprised to see your boyfriend aiming the camera down at where his dick was still sheathed inside of your cunt.

Sunghoon could feel himself grow hard again at the sight, wanting nothing more than to make a big mess of the two of you. Swiping on the screen, he switched to the video recorder and hit the little red button before rocking his hips against yours. A whimper fell from your lips as he continued to toy with your puffy cunt.

"Oh, I'm not done with you yet, baby…" he chuckled darkly, his eyes meeting yours. "Far from it."

@wwooyology | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗 : ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʏ ᴀ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴘᴜʀᴇʟʏ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴛᴀᴋᴇɴ ꜱᴇʀɪᴏᴜꜱʟʏ.

[berniceinthehouse]

Loved your fic of Baku!!🥹🥹 can I request yeon sieun x oblivious fem reader? Maybe like idiots in love!! Reader liking sieun for a very long time now but decided to put it aside (atp she believes sieun has a lover and that’s his textbook) she’s loud and a little rowdy, definitely likes to tease sieun and drags him down random stuff with her and she is okay staying friends with him if it means not ruining anything!!

She had no clue sieun reciprocate her feelings and maybe they shared a sweet moment where sieun is surprisingly the one to confess and reader who is known to be loud is suddenly speechless and very, very flustered.

Not just friends

Pairing: Yeon Si-eun x Fem!Reader

Genre: Fluff 🎀

Warnings: none

Summary: You’ve had a crush on Si-eun forever, but you’re sure he’s already taken—by his textbooks. So you never push. You tease him, drag him around, stay in his orbit. That’s enough. Until he says something that turns your whole world upside down.

A/N: thank you so so much for being my first request!! I’m so glad you enjoyed my Baku fic!! I really hope I gave you what you asked for, if I didn’t I sincerely apologize :(

You had rules when it came to Yeon Si-eun.

Rule #1: Do not flirt with him.

Rule #2: Don’t stare too long.

Rule #3: Don’t ever, ever assume he feels the same way.

Because he didn’t.

Obviously.

So you kept it simple.

You were his loud, annoying friend. The one who talked too much. The one who always pulled him into dumb convenience store trips and picked fights over ramen flavors and knocked on his desk just to say “Hey. Are you studying to be the next Albert Einstein?” when he’d been studying for three hours straight.

You liked being in his life.

You liked being his friend.

And you didn’t wanna ruin it because of some stupid feeling you had deep down in your heart for him.

That evening started the same way most of your hangouts did—with you texting “get your ass outside i’m bored” and him showing up ten minutes later with no complaints.

You were sitting side by side on the steps of the convenience store, swinging your legs while sipping banana milk.

“People say you look like you’ve got no emotions,” you said, looking at him sideways.

He blinked slowly. “You’ve said that before.”

“I stand by it.”

He didn’t answer. Just kept sipping his drink.

You bumped your shoulder into his. “Do you ever get bored of me?”

“No.”

You turned to him. “Really?”

He nodded once, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Why not?” you asked, half-laughing. “I drag you everywhere. I talk too much. I’m kind of a pain.”

Si-eun stared at you for a moment, then looked down at his drink. His fingers tightened slightly around it.

“I like being around you,” he said.

It was quiet. Casual. Like he was telling you the weather.

But your brain short-circuited anyway.

You blinked. “Huh?”

He glanced at you again. “You make things easier.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you just went quiet. For once.

He shifted slightly, placing his drink down.

“I thought it was obvious,” he said, still calm. Still unreadable.

“What was obvious?”

“I like you.”

You stared at him, eyes wide, face blank.

And then—completely overwhelmed—you laughed.

Not because it was funny. Because you were short-circuiting.

“Wait—what?”

Si-eun frowned slightly. “Is that not clear?”

You shook your head. “No—no, it’s clear, it’s just—what do you mean you like me? Like, you like being around me? Or like—you like me like me?”

He looked at you steadily. “Like I want to hold your hand. Like I want you to stop pretending it’s just one-sided.”

You forgot how to function for a solid five seconds.

You, the loudmouth. The chaos friend. The one who always said she was fine just being in his life seen as a friend.

Now frozen. Blushing. Quiet.

“…Okay,” you finally said, voice way too soft.

He blinked. “Okay?”

“Yeah. Um. Okay.”

You were blushing so hard it burned. He noticed, obviously.

And that bastard—he smiled.

“Can I hold your hand now?”

You nodded, still stunned.

And when his fingers laced through yours, you didn’t say anything. Just sat there in total silence.

You then swallowed.

Then, before you could overthink it, you leaned in.

Slow. Cautious. Like maybe you were about to touch a dream that might vanish if you moved too fast.

He didn’t pull away.

His hand stayed laced in yours, fingers warm and solid. And when your lips finally met his, it was soft—deliberate. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he already knew what it would feel like.

The kind of kiss that didn’t rush.

Just… settled.

And when you pulled back, barely, your forehead brushing his, you whispered, stunned and a little breathless.

“I can’t believe you like me.”

He looked at you, voice low. “I always have.”

[gakukitty]

— CRUSHING x sakadays

summary . what does it look like when the both of you are crushing on each other?

wc . 1.6k

cw . nothing much to be worried about !! not edited, so sorry for any mistakes / things thst don’t add up

the characters areee : shin asakura , kei uzuki , nagumo yoichi , heisuke mashimo , natsuki seba , gaku , shishiba

masterlist ౨ৎ

shin asakura

oblivious scale : 7 . shin’s obviously got some insider info on what you’re feeling, but he’s surprisingly oblivious. i feel like he’d feel suupppeer guilty for reading your mind— that and he always gets distracted whenever he has a chance to hear any important thoughts that could give him an idea of how you feel about him. next time, for sure, shin thinks— and the next time he’s already fighting back the urge to bash his head against the wall in both nervousness and embarrassment, then the opportunity slips away.

hc : constant hand-brushing . shin reeaallly doesn’t mean for it to happen, and he knows that you don’t either— because he can literally hear the way your thoughts stutter and stop for a moment as his fingers lightly brush against yours. he thinks it’s just soooo cute !

hc : all of your favorite things find themselves in your hands . he knows exactly what you want and what you like. ‘oh man, that keychain is so cute.’ you think to yourself— and in the following days, shin is suddenly holding out that exact same keychain for you with flushed cheeks.

kei uzuki

oblivious scale : 4 . he most definitely knows that you have some type of feelings for him— kei can understand that much. but either way, he still feels just a little unsure about this all. like, how does he know his mind isn’t playing tricks on him? but he thinks that look on your face is pretty sincere.

hc : constant eye contact . uzuki doesn’t even mean for it to happen. his gaze just naturally meets with yours! sure, he sometimes glances over to your on purpose, but other times it sort of just.. happens.

hc : lingering . the man really likes being close to you, he realises. so it’s only natural that he’s just a little hesitant to leave your side. “bye, uzuki.” “bye, (name).” and the two of you just stand there in silence. and once you finally do walk away from him, albeit a little hesitantly, he stays standing for a few seconds. uzuki stares, dazed, before he finally leaves too.

nagumo yoichi

oblivious scale : 1 . nagumo deeeeffiiinittleyyy knows. he probably knew even before you did! he only feels a little doubt sometimes, but they quickly wash away when he catches a subtle glance from you.

hc : spontaneous visits . he can’t help it! he just wants to be with you allll the tiimmeee. so, don’t be surprised when you hear knocking on your door and nagumo standing there, covered in blood and smiling widely.

hc : casual touching . now, nagumo’s not overbearing at all with his touching at all. sure, he likes to pat your head or your shoulder, maybe hold your hand or poke at your cheek— but he never touches you enough to cross the lines of.. whatever you’ve got going on. he thinks it will stay this way for a while. holding hands but never intertwining fingers. patting your head but never stroking your hair. poking your cheek but never caressing it.

heisuke mashimo

oblivious scale : 9 . this one shouldn’t be too surprising. i mean, this is heisuke we’re talking about. however, he’s surprisingly perceptive at time— but he just doubts himself. you smiled at him? that definitely means you like him, right?! wait, no.. you’d never like a guy like him..

hc : doodling . heisuke isn’t sure how he’s supposed to make a move. the man spends a few days thinking, his thoughts rolling around his head like little marbles as he bashes his forehead against a wall. he doesn’t know what to do!— until he gets it. he finally thought of something. he’ll draw you a portrait! however, when the picture finally finds it’s way to your grasp, you’re not sure if this is supposed to be a threat or a compliment. it’s the thought that counts, so you give heisuke a beaming smile— a smile that makes him want to draw one million more pictures for you if he gets to see that smile again. so, every now and then, heisuke shyly hands you a little paper— or piisuke brings it to you!

extra : doodling . additionally, he likes to draw on your hands. his warm hand grabs yours, the other shakily holding onto a pen. you agreed to let him do this, so it’s okay, he reminds himself. the end product is a little wobbly, but cute!

hc : acts of service . heisuke doesn’t have the funds to buy you expensive and lavish items, so he’s decided to compensate for that by becoming your personal dog. okay, not actually. but he overhears you saying you’re tired? do not worry, heisuke is already on his way to give you a piggy-back-ride! need water? he’s scrambling to share his water bottle with you!

natsuki seba

oblivious scale : 3 . natsuki is pretty sure that he’s got a pretty firm grasp on what you feel of him, judging by the way you linger in his workshop, occasionally asking about him or bring him something. but what if you’re just being friendly? he sighs, figuring that dwelling on it will do no good.

hc : sweet sharing . one thing that the two of you have made a tradition is for you to bring him something sweets sometimes when he’s busy in the workshop. at first, he was a little confused— why is this random person coming here with sweets for him? are they poisoned? but once he realises you’re a friend of shin’s, he guesses you’re probably not the type to do that. so he had some of those for the rest of the day— and just like that, you started to come by more often. he wonders where you get all these sweets from. one day, though, he decides to do something. “(name),” he calls out for you as you move to leave. you glance back at him curiously. “yes?” “stay. let’s share.” natsuki offers, gaze shifting away from the weapon he’s working on and meeting with yours. ever since then, you both share these sweets together.

hc : metal flowers . natsuki is obviously good with metal and stuff like that— so it’s obvious he’d use his skills to impress the person he likes. he works for a few nights, perfectly crafting some roses from metal. he didn’t really feel like buying an actual bouquet— because those wither rather fast— so, he settled with these. he binds a small strip of metal into a bow around the stems of these flowers, and a small, proud smile graces his lips.

gaku

oblivious scale : 0 . gaku absolutely 100% knows about how you feel. he can tell by that little sparkle in your eyes whenever he’s around.

hc : casual closeness . you’re just casually sitting on a couch in the hideout, humming absentmindedly to yourself as you scroll through your phone. that game looks cool, you think. d just as you write down a reminder to buy that game, you feel a figure slide onto the couch beside you. his (very nice and delicious) muscular arm resting on the back of the couch, his forearm just barely brushing against the back of your head. you swear that you feel a chill down your spine. you snap your head to look at the offender— a man named gaku. he just stares blankly, before his lips curve into a lazy smirk. heh. he knew you’d react like that. the man’s definitely not shy to get close. standing behind you, his breath gently fanning over the back of your neck? daily occurrence at this point. linking his arm with yours when he feels like it? easy. resting his chin on your shoulder? why are you so fidgety? oh, why are you getting so flustered when his hand reaches for yours?

hc : annoying touches . gaku thinks you’re really funny when you’re startled. he first realised this when his hand accidentally latched onto the hood of your jacket and tugged you down a little. you yelped, turning around and blinking back at gaku. that’s how he fell in love with these reactions. ever since then, he’s found great pleasure in tugging your hair lightly, pulling you back by the hood of your jacket, pulling your shoes off when you’re sitting down, and other things that he’s noticed you react to. he just gives you a nonchalant shrug when you confront him about it— but the subtle flush on the tips of his ears, and the almost unnoticeable curve of a smile on his lips betrays his enjoyment.

shishiba

oblivious scale : 0 . shishiba knows. he knew since the start.

hc : walking home . the first time you two walked home, it was a rainy night. raindrops were pouring, and the skies were dark and cloudy. you’re way too close to home, so you’d feel bad catching a bus or or taxi. shishiba gives you a side-glance, taking note of your contemplative expression. “i have an umbrella.” he says, his gaze shifting away from yours. “let me walk you home.” shishiba adds, clearing his throat softly. and with that, you both started to walk home together more often. or to the nearest train station, bus stop, etc.

hc : hair ties and hair clips . shishiba once overheard you complaining about your hair bothering you. and he’s definitely noticed it— the way some strands brush against your face in the wind, and the quiet huff that escapes your lips as you attempt to soothe your hair. so, one day, he offers you a hair clip. it’s now become a habit for him to give your hair ties or clips if he notices you becoming particularly agitated by your hair.

[favefandomimagines]

Simp (f.l)

Summary: Frank is pining hardcore after his coworker…very hardcore

Request: the lack of frank fics on here is crazy cos he’s so gorgeous and complex but anyways i see you write for him so i was wondering if you could do like hardcore pining, yearning frank x reader where everyone in the pitt can see the tension between them but they are both too stubborn to make the first move

AN: I love a man who yearns

The Pit never really slept. Even when the halls were quieter, and the monitors only beeped sporadically, there was a pulse in the place—steady, stubborn, alive. Dr. Frank Langdon liked to think he was much the same.

After the messy collapse of his marriage and the months of slow, aching rebuild afterward, he carried himself with a certain armor. Confident, cocky even. Unshakable.

Except, of course, when it came to her.

Y/N.

Y/N was chaos and kindness bottled in one person. She had this way of commanding a trauma bay with a clipped, efficient voice that left even seasoned nurses scrambling to follow her orders. She was brilliant, stubborn, and sharp-tongued enough to keep up with Frank—and that was saying something.

The worst part? She had no idea.

Or maybe she did.

Frank leaned against the nurse’s station, arms crossed, pretending to review a chart on his tablet while sneaking glances at Y/N across the ER.

She was laughing with Dr. Mohan by the vending machines, head thrown back, one hand lightly resting on her hip. Frank could feel the tug in his chest like a goddamn fishhook. He swallowed thickly.

Mohan said something else—probably an inside joke between them—and Y/N laughed again. Frank had never envied a vending machine so much in his life.

"You’re staring again," muttered Dana, sliding past him with a smirk.

"I’m not staring," Frank grumbled, heat creeping up his neck.

"Sure you're not," Dana sing-songed, disappearing into a patient room.

Frank sighed and ran a hand through his messy brown hair. How had it come to this? He, Frank Langdon, reduced to a pining idiot over a woman he couldn’t even bring himself to properly ask out.

Because it wasn’t just a crush. Not anymore.

It was the way his stomach twisted whenever Y/N smiled at someone else. It was the way he tuned into her voice automatically, even in a packed trauma bay. It was the way he noticed when she was tired or when she had a new pen tucked behind her ear.

It was the way he caught himself thinking of her, constantly.

And it scared the absolute hell out of him.

Meanwhile, across the ER, Y/N was not as oblivious as she pretended to be.

She could feel Frank's eyes on her sometimes—okay, a lot of the time. She could hear the subtle shift in his voice when he spoke to her, the way his teasing banter always edged just a little closer to sincere when they were alone.

And she wasn’t blind; Frank Langdon was absurdly attractive. Even after a 15-hour shift when his scrubs were wrinkled and his hair was a mess, he somehow looked like he belonged on the cover of a medical drama poster.

And God, was he good at what he did. Watching Frank run a code was like watching art happen in real time—sharp, smooth, unflinching. He had a gift.

But she also knew his history. Everyone in the Pit did.

The divorce. The bitterness that had curled under his skin like smoke. The wild, reckless way he’d thrown himself into work afterward, like if he stayed busy enough, he wouldn’t have to think.

Y/N had spent too many nights nursing friends through breakups to not recognize the signs.

And she wasn’t about to be anyone's rebound—not even Frank Langdon's.

Even if her heart did stutter every time he flashed her that cocky, lopsided grin. Even if she found herself looking for excuses to team up with him on cases. Even if she felt safer with him in a trauma bay than almost anyone else.

Especially because of all that.

She was too stubborn to make the first move. Too scared of getting her heart broken into something small and unfixable.

So she played the game, smiled back, flirted when it felt safe—but always, always kept the line between them firmly drawn.

Even if she wanted to cross it more than anything.

It wasn’t until the accident came in that night, right before shift change, that Frank realized he was absolutely, irrevocably screwed.

"Mass casualty incoming," the charge nurse warned, sticking her head into the lounge where Frank and Y/N were both trying—and failing—to eat dinner. "Multi-car pileup on 76. Five patients at least. ETA three minutes."

Frank immediately shoved his food aside and rose. Y/N was already moving too, grabbing gloves and snapping them on with practiced ease. Their eyes met briefly, and Frank felt it—an electric charge sparking between them.

"You ready, partner?" he drawled, bumping his shoulder lightly against hers.

Y/N smirked. "Born ready, Langdon."

God help him.

The first ambulance screeched into the bay, and chaos bloomed like a stormcloud.

Frank and Y/N fell into a rhythm instantly, as they always did. Y/N took charge of a young woman with a chest wound while Frank handled a man with a broken femur and a possible spinal injury. Orders flew. Hands moved. The ER buzzed and roared around them, a living thing.

Frank could see Y/N out of the corner of his eye the whole time—focused, calm, impossibly beautiful under the harsh fluorescents. Her hair was tied back messily, tendrils falling around her face.

And she was the most breathtaking thing he had ever seen.

He almost missed the nurse asking him for a medication dosage.

"Uh—yeah. One milligram. Push," Frank barked, shaking himself. He could not afford to be distracted right now.

They stabilized their patients, pushed them off to CT and trauma surgery, and somehow—somehow—managed to get a breathing space. Frank peeled his gloves off with a snap, leaning against the wall to catch his breath.

Y/N slid down to sit beside him on the floor, legs stretched out in front of her.

"You good?" she asked, voice soft.

Frank turned his head and looked at her, really looked. At the exhaustion in her shoulders. The stubborn strength in her posture. The little curl of hair that had escaped her ponytail and clung damply to her temple.

God, he wanted to kiss her.

He wanted to kiss her so badly it hurt.

Instead, he said, "You were amazing in there."

Y/N smiled, a little bashful, a little amused. "You weren’t so bad yourself, Langdon."

Frank chuckled and leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. "Stick with me, kid. I’ll teach you all my tricks."

"You wish," Y/N shot back.

But she said it warmly, almost fondly.

Frank cracked one eye open and looked at her again, heart thudding against his ribs.

One of these days, he swore, he was going to stop being a coward and ask her out.

Just... not today.

||

The lull after the trauma surge lasted all of fifteen minutes.

Frank barely made it back to the lounge before being paged again, this time for a nasty lac to the forearm—a teenager who’d slid off a skateboard onto broken glass. Frank stitched quickly, his hands steady even though his brain was still half on Y/N, still replaying the way her fingers had brushed his wrist when she’d handed him a clamp in the trauma bay.

When he finally escaped again, it was to find Y/N sitting sideways on the worn leather couch, her socked feet tucked up under her, flipping through a dog-eared medical journal. A fresh bandage peeked out from beneath the sleeve of her scrub top.

He crossed the room before he could think better of it.

"You didn’t get that cleaned up properly," he said, nodding at her arm.

Y/N raised a brow. "It’s nothing. A scratch."

Frank gave her his best unimpressed doctor stare—the one that usually made med students wither.

"Sit still," he said, grabbing the basic wound care kit from the cabinet.

Y/N hesitated for a second, searching his face, and then—maybe to humor him—stuck her arm out.

Frank perched on the edge of the couch beside her, heart beating far too fast for a guy who'd been covered in other people’s blood less than an hour ago.

He cleaned the scratch carefully, too carefully, aware of every tiny shift of her muscles beneath his fingertips. She smelled faintly of antiseptic and soap, and something warmer underneath—something that was just her.

"You're being very dramatic about this, Dr. Langdon," Y/N teased, watching him work.

"You're my partner," Frank said, more gruffly than he meant to. "Can’t have you bleeding out in the middle of a code."

"How heroic," she said dryly, but there was a small smile playing around her lips.

Frank pressed a bandage gently onto her skin, then looked up—and realized how close they were. Barely a foot between them. He could see the faint spray of freckles across her nose. The glint of amusement in her eyes.

For one reckless second, he thought about leaning in.

Instead, he cleared his throat, dropped his hands into his lap, and said, "All patched up, doc. Try not to injure yourself again for at least an hour."

"Guess I'll try," Y/N said, laughing under her breath.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Frank thought maybe—maybe—he wasn't completely imagining the way she looked at him.

Later, Y/N leaned against the nurse’s station, charting on a patient, when Dana sidled up to her with a knowing smirk.

"You know he's basically in love with you, right?"

Y/N didn’t look up. "Who?"

Dana snorted. "Langdon. Dr. Broody over there."

Y/N felt her cheeks warm, but kept her voice even. "He's like that with everyone."

"Uh-huh," Dana said skeptically. "Sure. He totally volunteers to clean people’s wounds at random. Super normal."

Y/N tapped the tablet harder than necessary, trying to ignore the way her heart skipped in her chest.

"Anyway," Dana went on, "the entire ER has a betting pool on when he’ll grow a pair and ask you out."

Y/N's head shot up. "You're joking."

"Dead serious. Robby’s got fifty bucks on you two hooking up by Halloween."

Y/N opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. "That's ridiculous."

"Is it, though?" Dana wiggled her eyebrows. "You like him too. Don't even try to deny it."

Y/N shook her head, laughing nervously. "Even if I did—which I'm not saying I do—it's complicated."

"Life’s complicated," Dana said cheerfully, then wandered off to help a patient who was throwing up in bay three.

Y/N stood frozen for a moment, her heart thundering in her ears.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew what she felt for Frank wasn’t casual. She knew that the part of her that held back—the cautious, wounded part—was getting harder and harder to listen to.

But if she fell for Frank Langdon, really fell? She wasn’t sure she could survive it if he broke her heart.

And God, she would fall. She was already halfway there.

It got worse when another trauma rolled in an hour later.

An elderly woman with a head bleed, confused and combative. Frank jumped into action, voice calm but commanding, and Y/N found herself standing beside him almost instinctively, reading off vitals and helping to restrain the patient gently but firmly.

At one point, Frank looked up at her, and the world narrowed to just the two of them.

"You good?" he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.

Y/N nodded, feeling breathless.

Frank’s hand brushed hers briefly as he reached for a clamp. The touch was featherlight, accidental—and yet she felt it like an electric shock all the way to her bones.

They worked seamlessly, saving the woman’s life with a coordinated dance that didn’t need words.

When it was over, when the patient was safely whisked upstairs to neurosurgery, Frank turned to her with a grin that made her knees weak.

"You’re a damn rock star, you know that?" he said.

Y/N laughed shakily. "Coming from you, that's high praise."

Frank’s grin softened into something else—something almost tender.

"I mean it," he said, voice rough. "I’d trust you with my life."

Y/N’s heart twisted.

And she realized—maybe he was already trusting her with it.

Maybe he was just as scared as she was.

Back in the break room, Frank slumped onto the couch, scrubbing his hands over his face.

He couldn’t keep doing this. Couldn’t keep orbiting her like a satellite too scared to land.

Every part of him wanted her. Needed her. Not in the reckless, self-destructive way he’d used to need people, but in a way that felt terrifyingly real.

And if he didn’t tell her soon, he was going to lose his damn mind.

||

The next shift was somehow even worse.

Frank had never been this distracted in his life.

He nearly forgot to sign a trauma note, practically ignored the med students. Robby caught him staring into space during a chart review and gave him a look that screamed, get your shit together, man.

Frank knew exactly what the problem was.

Y/N.

Y/N, standing three feet away in her black scrubs that maybe Frank thought fit her too well. Y/N, tucking a pencil behind her ear, and making Frank want to do completely inappropriate things in the supply closet. Y/N, being brilliant and fierce and so far out of his reach it physically hurt.

And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that he could feel the wall between them cracking.

She looked at him differently now. He could see it in the way her eyes lingered, the way her smile faltered sometimes, like she was trying to stop herself from doing something reckless.

He had to do something. Had to say something.

Or he was going to lose her before he ever really had her.

Meanwhile, Y/N wasn't faring much better.

Every time Frank laughed, every time he teased her with that crooked smile and that infuriating wink, she felt herself sliding closer to the edge.

She was tired of fighting it.

Tired of pretending she didn’t want him.

But still—still—fear gnawed at her.

What if he wasn’t ready? What if this was just loneliness, desperation, looking for an easy out?

She couldn’t survive being another casualty in Frank Langdon’s messy post-divorce world.

And she couldn’t survive losing him as a friend, either.

So she waited. And watched. And hoped he’d make the first move.

It was nearly seven in the evening after a long shift, when Frank decided, screw it.

He found her in the back hallway, fiddling with the vending machine, trying to coax a granola bar loose.

"Come on, you stupid piece of shit," Y/N muttered, whacking the side of the machine.

Frank leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her with a fond smirk.

"You know, if you wanted a snack that bad, you could’ve just asked me," he said.

Y/N jumped slightly, then rolled her eyes. "I’m fine, thanks."

Frank pushed off the wall and wandered closer, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He felt about a hundred years old and fifteen again all at once.

"You’re not fine," he said lightly. "You’re hangry. It’s a public health emergency."

Y/N laughed despite herself. "You’re impossible."

Frank took a breath. Now or never.

"I was wondering," he said, casual, too casual, "if maybe you wanted to grab dinner sometime."

Y/N blinked. "We grab dinner all the time. Cafeteria food doesn’t count."

"No, I mean—" Frank faltered, scrubbed a hand through his hair. God, he was bad at this. "Like. Real dinner. Plates and silverware. Maybe even something that costs more than five bucks."

He risked a glance at her.

Y/N was staring at him, wide-eyed, like she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing.

Frank’s stomach twisted. Had he just made a huge mistake?

"Like a date?" she said slowly.

Frank swallowed. His throat was dry as hell.

"Yeah," he said roughly. "Like a date."

The silence stretched between them.

Frank wanted to crawl under the vending machine and die.

Finally—finally—Y/N smiled. Soft. Shy. Beautiful.

"You’re serious," she said, almost wonderingly.

Frank stepped closer. "I’ve been serious for a long time," he said quietly. "Just too much of an idiot to say anything."

Y/N's lips parted slightly, like she was about to say something—and then she shook her head, laughing a little under her breath.

"You’re ridiculous," she said.

"And yet," Frank said, grinning now, "you’re still here."

Y/N hesitated for a heartbeat longer—then reached out and poked him lightly in the chest.

"One date," she said, mock-stern.

Frank caught her hand in his gently, holding it for a second longer than necessary.

"I’ll behave," he promised, voice low and sincere. "Scout’s honor."

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. A real smile. One that made something warm and unbreakable light up in Frank’s chest.

“Promise me, this isn’t because of the divorce. You actually want to pursue this and not some mid-life crisis.” Y/N spoke softly.

Frank looked down at her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I promise. I want you Y/N.” He said.

"Okay, Langdon," she said. "You’re on."

Frank grinned like an idiot.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt exactly right.

They didn’t kiss. Not yet.

Frank figured he could wait.

After all, he’d already waited this long.

What was a little longer, for something—someone—that might just be worth everything?

[iconbyunghun]

first time

Pairing: Lee Byung Hun x virgin!reader

Summary: After a failed attempt to take the step into intimacy with your beloved boyfriend, you finally feel confident enough to give yourself to him. He couldn’t long for anything more than making you feel desired and showing you how amazing making love can be.

Warnings: Smut 18+, MDNI, age gap (early-20s/50s), virginity loss, oral (fem receiving)

Word count: 3.9 k

a/n: I wish I had more time during the week to finish my drafts (work and adult life sucks) :( so this is one of them. I tried to make it kinda fluff, but I’m not sure if I succeeded.

From the beginning, sincerity was the foundation of your relationship with Byung Hun. Despite the significant age difference, the chemistry between you made everything flow wonderfully during the six months you had been together. You loved being able to talk to him about anything, sharing your doubts and concerns, and feeling how his maturity and experience always had the perfect answer for everything. But, although you never hid anything from each other, there was one topic that, up until that point, had never been addressed.

Intimacy.

It wasn't a lack of desire. You felt it in the way he looked at you when he thought you didn’t notice, in the way his hands lingered a little longer on your skin, in how his kisses, at certain moments, became more demanding. And, of course, you weren’t oblivious to how attractive he was—his presence, his gaze, the tone of his voice—he was every woman’s dream.

The breaking point came one night after you attended an event as his guest. When it ended, he suggested going to his apartment, and there, with a few glasses of wine in your system, you both let yourselves be carried away by the rhythm of your lips meeting. His jacket ended up on the floor as he positioned himself over you, supporting his weight on his knees and his left arm beside your head. Without breaking the kiss, he deepened it, making it more intense. Your hands, tangled in his hair, gave him gentle squeezes as his free hand slid down your thigh, caressing your skin before slipping under your dress. He smiled against your lips as his fingertips brushed against your warm, damp center, confident that you were ready for him.

And suddenly, you broke the kiss—and the moment. The instant you felt him move your underwear aside and attempt to slide a finger inside you, you snapped out of the trance immediately. As a reflex, you tried to close your legs and pushed his shoulders with a startled gasp.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, concern evident in his voice as he gave you the space you seemed to need. He was worried he had done something wrong.

You curled your legs against your chest, resting your arms on your knees. Your face burned with embarrassment. You didn’t know how to explain it, and all you wanted was for the ground to swallow you whole.

Since you had started dating, you had thought about this topic many times. You had never had sex before, and it wasn’t something that had particularly interested you. Not until you started your relationship. You knew he was experienced and that, at some point, he would expect to take that step with you, as any couple would.

In your limited romantic experience, you had never gone beyond kissing and a few touches with an ex. Most of your friends had already done it, and from listening to their stories—almost always disastrous—you couldn’t help but feel a certain aversion to the idea of being naked, exposed, and vulnerable in front of someone else.

Even if that person was your beloved boyfriend, someone who loved you devotedly and would never hurt you, you simply needed more time to feel safe.

"I-I’m sorry..." was all you could say before rebellious tears welled up in your eyes.

Byung Hun, still trying to understand the situation, shifted on the couch and focused his attention on you. Feeling a pang in his chest at seeing you so vulnerable, he lifted a hand to gently stroke your face and wipe away your tears.

"Baby, you don’t have to apologize for anything," he said softly, searching for clues in your gaze.

The lump in your throat grew bigger. You felt like a fool for not being able to do something so “normal” and for not even being able to explain it without breaking down in tears.

"I-I’ve never..." You bit your lip, searching for the right words. "I’ve never done it... and I don’t want you to think I don’t want to, but I need more time..."

Covering your face with your hands, you rested your forehead on your knees. You couldn’t bear to look at him.

Byung Hun raised his eyebrows, surprised, and then he understood everything. He felt bad for assuming you already had experience.

"Sweetheart, I’m the one who should be apologizing," he said tenderly, taking your arms and pulling you into his embrace. "Come here."

With gentle movements, he slid one hand along your back and the other under your thighs, effortlessly guiding you onto his lap. Wrapping his strong arms around your waist, he pulled you close, pressing a kiss to your cheek. You curled up against his chest, feeling his warmth envelop you completely.

"I should have been more mindful of this. You don’t have to feel bad."

For a moment, the thought that he might love you a little less for not giving in scared you, but his warm embrace and words of understanding dispelled that fear.

"Doesn’t it bother you to wait a little longer?" you asked in a trembling voice. "I... I don’t want you to get tired of me..."

He let out a soft chuckle before placing another kiss on your head, lingering there for a few seconds as he inhaled the sweet scent of your hair.

"Sweetheart, I’m completely in love with you," he said seriously. "I want it to be special for you when it feels right."

That night, you fell asleep in his arms, letting his warmth surround you.

After that, the topic was never brought up again. You both continued with your routine, but the thought lingered more persistently in your mind.

You started analyzing your body in the mirror after showering, wondering if he would like you enough, if you were attractive enough when fully exposed. The thoughts forming in your head told you no—not when he had been with stunning models and actresses you could never compare to—and that only discouraged you more.

You searched for information online, though it wasn’t the most reliable source, but you didn’t have the confidence to ask a friend about your doubts. Most advice said that to avoid discomfort, your partner should prepare you well and that you should know your own body. You wondered what they meant by "knowing yourself better." It wasn’t as if you had never masturbated before, but it wasn’t something habitual for you. And now, when you tried following the advice, you only ended up frustrated—rather than letting the sensation flow, you just felt stressed.

Byung Hun, for his part, made sure not to make you uncomfortable again. His touches were completely innocent: his hugs purely comforting, accompanied by kisses on your cheek, forehead, and soft pecks on your lips.

You started sleeping over at his place more often, which allowed you to spend more time together. Even if your schedules didn’t always align during the day, you could always see each other for breakfast, lunch, and, without fail, at night to rest.

That Sunday night, as had become routine, you two picked—or rather, you picked—a movie to watch before bed.

"Are you paying attention?" you asked, turning your head to look at your boyfriend.

He smiled before placing a soft kiss on your temple.

"It’s Twilight, baby. I don’t think I need one hundred percent of my focus to understand it," he teased, earning a light slap from you on his shoulder.

You laughed, adjusting yourself slightly before returning your attention to the movie, which was nearing its end. Both of you were curled up in bed, the sheets covering half of your bodies. He was dressed in pajama pants and a white T-shirt, while you wore a silk top with thin straps and matching shorts—ones he had gifted you. Your head rested on his left arm while his other arm wrapped around you, holding you close.

His fingers began to trace barely-there caresses on the exposed skin of your abdomen. At first, it seemed like an unconscious gesture, but you noticed. The sensation became hypnotic, completely capturing your attention. Suddenly, you became more aware of the heat of his body against yours, of his masculine scent enveloping you—intoxicating and consuming.

Almost without thinking, you pressed yourself closer to him. The movement made his touch stop, leaving you with a subtle sense of emptiness. Your gaze slides sideways toward his face. He seems focused on the end of the movie. The dim light from the TV casts shadows over his features. His hair was longer now—at your request—and you loved how a few strands fell over his forehead. His glasses, always present, gave him an intellectual air you adored. His strong jawline and well-defined nose were the perfect combination, and when he ran his tongue over his lips to moisten them, the simple gesture sparked something inside you that you hadn’t felt before.

Without thinking too much, you placed your hand on his chest in a casual attempt to get his attention. His eyes lowered until they met yours, and a smile formed on his lips.

"Everything okay, princess?" he asked curiously.

You didn’t say anything. You simply leaned in and brushed your lips against his in a soft kiss. Your hand moved up to his cheek, and he responded immediately, returning the gesture with the same tenderness.

He leaned slightly over you, shifting his weight carefully as his lips moved over yours with patience, exploring you without rush. His glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose, and noticing your breath fogging them up, he took them off with a smile before setting them on the nightstand. You took the opportunity to grab the remote and pause the movie just as the credits started rolling. The dim light from the screen was the only thing illuminating you both.

His attention returned to you. He leaned in, his lips barely inches from yours. Your hand found his cheek again, caressing him in a silent invitation.

“We're feeling affectionate tonight, huh?” His tone was playful.

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks. Yes, you were fully aware of your need for contact that night, but you didn’t need him to make it so obvious.

“Shut up…” you whispered, giving him a light smack on the cheek, which made him laugh.

“Sorry,” he murmured before kissing you again.

This time, his lips moved slower, deeper, making you want more. Your tongue barely grazed his upper lip, and the gesture didn’t go unnoticed by him. He felt the warmth spread inside him. He understood your silent permission, and without hesitation, let his tongue explore the kiss with more intensity. A muffled moan escaped your lips as he invaded your mouth, the touch of your tongues sending electric currents through your body.

His hand settled on your waist before naturally sliding over your skin. You felt it slip under your pajama top, and a shiver ran through you as his palm cupped your breast, squeezing it gently. A gasp left your lips when his thumb brushed over your nipple, hardening it.

The pleasure took you by surprise, making you break the kiss as you tried to catch your breath. He stopped immediately, his eyes searching for approval in your flustered expression.

"Sorry, I got carried away…" he admitted, his voice deeper, huskier than usual. He withdrew his hand gently, bringing it to your cheek, caressing you tenderly.

But frustration filled you. You didn’t want him to stop. Yes, there was a flicker of fear in the back of your mind, but at that moment, your body craved his touch more than anything.

“Byung Hun…” his name slipped from your lips in a whisper, and he felt a shiver run down his spine.

You took his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, and guided it back to your chest. “I want you to continue.”

Your voice was a little firmer now, and he searched your face for any sign of hesitation. “Baby, you know we’ll only go as far as you want, right?”

You nodded, and he sighed in relief. He didn’t want you to feel any pressure.

“I love you,” he murmured against your lips before kissing you again.

This time, when his hand slipped under your pajama, it moved with confidence. His thumb traced slow circles over your nipple, and your muffled moans were swallowed by his mouth.

And you felt it. His hardness against you, even through the fabric, his hips unconsciously pushing against your center, sending a wave of pleasure through you. You knew that if you wanted to stop, now was the time. But your body responded instinctively—your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer.

“Baby, I need you to help me with this…” he murmured against your lips, grasping the hem of your pajama.

You hesitated for a second, and with a slow breath, you sat up and pulled the garment over your head, but as you lay back down, your arms instinctively crossed over your chest. Byung Hun remained on his knees, watching you with desire.

“I think we should be in the same conditions,” you muttered, noticing that he was still dressed.

“Well, that seems fair,” he replied with a nod before pulling his shirt over his head and letting it drop to the bedroom floor.

Your eyes roamed over his bare chest, down his torso, following the faint veins disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants. His body still held its athletic definition, and you were completely captivated by the sight.

“If you keep looking at me like that, I’ll be the embarrassed one,” he teased.

Your gaze returned to his face, finding him with an amused expression. He loved seeing you like this—expectant, eager. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about being the first man to have you. He wanted to show you how good making love could feel and ensure you never forgot your first time.

He placed his hands on your thighs, caressing them softly before leaning down to press a kiss on the inside of each. Then, propping himself up on his forearms on either side of your abdomen, he began trailing small kisses along your skin.

His hands reached the waistband of your silk shorts, slowly sliding them down as his kisses followed the path. He left a lingering one at the top edge of your underwear.

“No… you don’t have to…” your voice trembled slightly with nervousness, stopping him.

He looked up at you and pressed a final kiss to your stomach. “Baby, if you want this to be easier, you have to let me prepare you.”

You wondered how he could speak so naturally while you could barely nod. But you trusted him.

“Okay…” you whispered. And you mentally thanked yourself for always keeping that area bare for comfort.

He placed another kiss just below your navel before sitting up and, with both hands, slid your shorts and panties down together. You lifted your hips slightly and then your legs to help him remove them completely.

When he tossed the garment aside and looked at you again, he swallowed hard.

The sight before him was sublime—you were naked and completely exposed to him. Your arms instinctively tried to cover your chest, your legs remained pressed together, and your skin burned with a blush he wasn’t sure was from heat or embarrassment. He didn’t know if paradise existed, but he had an angel right in front of him.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

He reached out, parting your legs and settling between them. A stifled moan escaped your throat as you felt his heavy breath against your most sensitive area. His grip on your thighs was firm, his eyes gleaming with hunger as he took in the glistening evidence of your arousal.

You bit your lower lip, trying to hold back a moan—but it was useless. The moment his tongue traced a slow, deliberate path along your center, working its way up to your clit, a shudder ran through your body. He groaned softly against you, savoring your taste like a drug that left him craving more. His tongue moved with precision, teasing and exploring, while your breathless moans filled the room.

When he flicked the tip of his tongue over your clit, your hands, which had been clutching the sheets, shot up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, urging him on. He responded eagerly, his mouth devouring you as if you were the most exquisite thing he had ever tasted. He sucked on your most sensitive spot, making you arch against him, and when you tugged at his hair in desperation, he only groaned in approval, the vibrations making your whole body tremble.

Lowering his mouth, he let his tongue glide down to your entrance while his fingers gathered your wetness. A shiver coursed through you as he pressed them gently against you.

“Fuck… you taste so damn sweet,” he murmured against your core before slowly easing two of his long, thick fingers inside you.

Your body tensed at the new sensation, but he kept you distracted, his tongue never ceasing its movements. His fingers moved with a slow, deliberate rhythm, sliding in and out, curling slightly to brush against a spot inside you that made your thighs tremble. He spread his fingers just enough to stretch you, coaxing your body to open up for him.

The pleasure built quickly, a tight coil forming in your stomach. His free hand rested on your lower abdomen, feeling the way your body quivered beneath his touch. Your hips instinctively began to move in time with him, chasing the mounting pleasure. His mouth latched onto your clit once more, alternating between sucking and flicking his tongue with fervor. His fingers quickened their pace, thrusting deeper, and then—

A sharp, blissful tremor surged through you as the wave of pleasure crashed over you, pulling you under.

“B-Byung Hun,” you moaned, his name escaping your lips as he licked and kissed you through the aftershocks of your release. Your chest rose and fell in rapid breaths, your body still tingling in the aftermath.

“My sweet princess,” he murmured, his voice filled with quiet adoration. You slowly opened your eyes, finding him hovering above you, his face mere inches from yours. Your gaze drifted to his lips—swollen and glistening from his efforts.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice gentle.

You swallowed, still trying to steady your breathing. “Y-yeah… that was incredible,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Satisfaction flashed across his features, pride evident in the way he smirked. “Give me a second,” he murmured before pulling away and standing up.

Your legs still trembled as you watched him cross the room, his broad back a perfect view. He rummaged through a drawer in the closet before turning back toward you, a small silver packet in his hand. Your eyes widened slightly. He had condoms here?

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said with a sheepish chuckle. “At some point, we were going to do this, so I had to be prepared.”

There was nothing hesitant in the way he carried himself. He was calm, confident, utterly sure of what was about to happen. Standing beside the bed, his gaze roamed your body as he reached for the waistband of his pants. Without another word, he let them drop to the floor.

Your breath hitched.

Even through the fabric of his boxers, you could see how hard he was. The sight sent a new rush of heat through you.

Climbing back onto the bed, he knelt between your legs. With deliberate slowness, he slid his boxers down, freeing his length. Your stomach clenched at the sheer size of him. This was definitely going to hurt.

Tearing open the silver packet, he rolled the condom down his length with practiced ease. You couldn't take your eyes off him.

Noticing your gaze, he let out a small laugh and cleared his throat to get your attention. He winked at you, amusement and desire shining in his eyes.

“We’ll take it slow,” he assured, his voice raspy. “But if you want me to stop at any point, just say the word.”

You nodded. “I trust you.”

A slow, reassuring smile tugged at his lips before he shifted closer. One hand slid between your thighs, fingers gliding along your oversensitive folds, while the other guided himself to your entrance. He brushed against you, coating himself in your arousal before pushing in—just the tip at first.

A sharp, stinging sensation made you gasp, your fingers digging into his arms. He immediately leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to your neck, his lips soft and soothing against your skin.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick with restraint. “Taking me so well.”

He pushed in deeper, inch by inch, letting you adjust. You sucked in a deep breath, trying to relax, feeling every stretch of him as he buried himself to the hilt.

A low, guttural groan left his lips. “Fuck… you feel so, so good.”

The tremor in his voice sent a jolt straight to your core, making your walls tighten around him. His arms trembled slightly from holding back, from trying not to lose himself in the overwhelming heat of you.

You swore you had never heard anyone sound so damn sexy in your life.

“Please… keep going,” you whispered.

You gasped as your body gradually adjusted to his intrusion, the discomfort melting away into something deeper, more intoxicating.

He started with slow, careful movements, rocking his hips in a steady rhythm. His lips found yours, swallowing your soft moans as your hands clung to the back of his neck. Little by little, the lingering pain faded, replaced by waves of pleasure that built with each thrust.

A particularly sharp moan tore from your lips when he hit a precise spot inside you, making your vision blur with white-hot pleasure. You needed more.

“Go… go faster,” you pleaded, your voice trembling.

Byung Hun didn’t hesitate. Almost instantly, he picked up the pace, his movements becoming more urgent, more demanding. The room filled with the sounds of skin meeting skin, of breathless moans and the sheer bliss of being completely filled for the first time.

Your walls tightened around him, the pressure almost unbearable. He knew you were close—so was he. He wouldn’t last much longer.

“Cum for me, baby,” he murmured against your ear, his voice thick with desire, before trailing wet kisses down your neck. That was all the stimulation you needed, his name slipping from your lips in a breathy moan

“You’ve done so fucking good,” he panted. With one last ragged breath and a few uneven thrusts, he spilled into the condom, his body trembling against yours.

His breathing was still uneven as he carefully pulled out, disposing of the used condom before collapsing beside you. Without a word, he wrapped you in his arms, your overheated bodies molding together in a lazy, intimate embrace.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he shifted onto his back, pulling you onto his chest. The tension in your body slowly unraveled, replaced by a warmth that settled deep in your bones.

Still floating on the lingering high of pleasure, you felt your eyelids grow heavy, your breathing slowing as sleep crept in.

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice laced with adoration as his fingers traced lazy patterns down the curve of your back.

A sleepy smile ghosted your lips as you nuzzled closer. “I love you too,” you whispered against his skin, before surrendering to the pull of sleep.

[alygator77]

.ೃ࿐motherhood and matrimony I ch 4 𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ summary. satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, enemies (annoyances) to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, marriage of convenience, slow burn, smut, fluff, some angst, reader is single mom who recently broke off her engagement, satoru being a cute step dad, naoya is your crappy ex, triggers of prior domestic abuse » 【note, this chapter contains extreme emotional manipulation from naoya, reader discretion advised】

ꨄ words: 9.3k

ꨄ a/n. okaaaay time for some angst ya'll. this series is taking a serious turn 🥲 also, as i said earlier, originally this chapter was 20k words buuuut i decided to split it up. i know ya'll said you wouldn't mind one long chapter but it's just, there are moments that i really want to give more time to breathe. you'll get ch 5 soon though, enjoy ♡

ꨄ taglist: open (ao3)

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ch 4 // shadows of doubt

“…you sure you’re okay watching Haru?” you ask, hovering by the doorway, your fingers lightly brushing the doorframe as you steal one last glance into the living room.

The television screen casts a soft glow over Satoru and Haru, nestled together on the couch.

Satoru’s brow is furrowed in concentration as he fumbles with the TV remote, cycling through the menu. His lips are pressed into a thin line, his tongue peeking out slightly at the corner in a classic expression of someone deeply focused.

His usually tousled white hair is messier than usual, as if he’s run his hands through it a few too many times in frustration, and his sweater hangs loosely on his frame, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

It’s a stark contrast to the sharp, tailored suits you’re used to seeing him in.

But that’s because right now, he’s just Satoru—the guy who’s clearly struggling with something as simple as setting up a kid’s TV show, and yet, there’s something incredibly endearing about it.

Haru, oblivious to his difficulties, swings her tiny legs back and forth in a rhythm of excitement as she sits beside him.

It’s a picture of domesticity that feels almost too perfect to disrupt—a scene that brings warmth, but also a sharp pang of guilt.

Guilt—of what you are about to do.

“Yes, of course,” he replies without missing a beat, light yet reassuring. He glances up at you briefly, offering a warm smile. “Do what you need to do, it’s important to have time to yourself.”

Right now, it feels like you don’t deserve that smile.

The ache in your chest intensifies at the sincerity in his words, making the lie you’re carrying out feel even heavier.

Finally, after a few more clicks, the TV springs to life, and a triumphant grin spreads across Satoru’s face as the familiar Digimon theme song bursts through the speakers.

The sound seems to ignite a spark of joy in Haru, her face wide eyed as she turns her full attention to the screen.

“Besides, I promised her we’d watch Digimon together,” Satoru says, his voice laced with affection as he glances at Haru. “Now’s the perfect time. Right, Haru?”

Haru beams, her small body practically vibrating with excitement as she snuggles closer to him.

“Wow, look ‘toru, look!” she exclaims gleefully, her voice high-pitched with exhilaration as she points at the screen.

Her eyes sparkle with wonder, completely captivated by the vibrant colors and lively characters dancing across the television.

“Yay!” she claps her hands together.

A tender smile curls upon Satoru’s lips as he shifts his gaze from Haru to you. His blue eyes, always so vibrant and full of life, are soft and inviting, radiating a sense of calm—a calm that should put you at ease, but why does it fill you with more guilt?

“See? We’ve got it all under control. Go do what you need to do, and don’t worry about a thing.”

His words are spoken with such warmth and trust—it should comfort you, but instead your unease twists further in your gut.

You force a smile, trying to push away the shame that threatens to rise to the surface.

“Alright,” you murmur, “I won’t be long.”

But you linger for just a moment longer, unable to tear your eyes away from the heartwarming sight before you.

The way Satoru drapes an arm around Haru, pulling her closer as they both become engrossed in the show—you realize something profound.

It’s in the subtle details—the way he listens intently to her excited chatter, how he nods along, genuinely interested in every little thing she points out, even if it’s something as simple as a colorful character on the screen.

Satoru isn’t just watching Digimon with Haru; he’s immersing himself in her world.

He’s someone who takes the time to enjoy the things she loves, someone who listens to her with the patience and attentiveness she deserves. He’s supporting her curiosity, encouraging her to explore and express herself, making her feel valued in a way that is both gentle and profound.

It’s everything you’ve ever wanted for Haru—a stable, loving figure in her life, someone she can depend on, someone who can always be there for her. Someone who makes her feel safe, cherished, and free to be her true self.

Someone Naoya never was.

But this relationship is a contract, a charade—a lie.

And now, this new lie you’re about to bring to the table, casts an even darker shadow over this picture of domestic bliss.

There is a storm cloud, threatening to break at any moment—to drench you in an unforgiving rain. And that storm cloud is your reality.

The reality that this relationship has always been a lie, hasn’t it?

So... is what you’re doing really any different?

As you turn to leave, your body feels heavy, burdened by the deception you’re carrying with you.

Closing the door behind you, the soft click echoes in your ears as you begin to walk down the hallway, away from the warmth of the living room and into the cold reality of the decision you’ve made.

ꨄ

A soft jingle rings above your head as you push open the glass door to the coffee shop—a sound almost too cheerful considering what’s to come. Once the door closes behind you with a muted thud, your fate is sealed.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee hits you first, rich and earthy, mingling with the sweet, buttery aroma of pastries that line the display case. It’s a combination that would normally invite comfort, a location for quiet relaxation.

Today, however, that feels entirely out of reach.

Only a few patrons are scattered about, each lost in their own world—reading books, typing away on laptops, or simply enjoying company. The soft murmur of conversation barely registers in your ears as your eyes sweep across the room.

Within moments you spot Naoya, seated at a corner table in the back, a place where the dimness nearly swallows him whole, casting long shadows that seem to cling to him like a second skin.

His chosen spot is strategic, offering both a sense of privacy and an air of intimidation.

It’s a stage he’s set perfectly.

The way he sits—one arm draped casually over the back of the booth, the other cradling a coffee cup—exudes an unsettling confidence, as if he’s already decided the outcome of this meeting.

His minacious eyes rake over you and he registers the trepidation in your step, causing a shiver to run down your spine as his lips slowly curl into a predatory smirk.

Setting down his cup of coffee with a practiced ease, the porcelain clinks softly against the saucer. With a lazy flick of his wrist, he waves you over, the gesture so casual it’s almost insulting, as if he were summoning a servant rather than inviting a conversation.

You lower yourself into the chair across from him with measured deliberation, desperately trying to project a façade of composure even as anxiety, anger, and guilt roil within you like a brewing storm.

Unfortunately, the table between you and Naoya feels woefully insufficient, a flimsy barrier against the man who once wielded a terrifying influence over your life—a man who now threatens to shatter the fragile peace you’ve painstakingly pieced together.

“y/n,” he begins, his voice smooth and slick, like oil spilling over water, spreading tendrils of unease. “I’m glad you decided to show up.”

You force a tight smile, though it feels more like a grimace.

“You didn’t exactly leave me much of a choice, did you?”

A low insidious chuckle leaves Naoya’s lips, the noise grating on your nerves. His cold calculating eyes hold your gaze as he tilts his head to the side, and for a moment, you feel like a mouse caught in a trap, every avenue of escape cut off, leaving you with nowhere to run.

“Tch. What else am I supposed to do?” his tone drips with mock innocence, as if he’s genuinely puzzled. “You don’t answer any of my calls. It’s almost like you’re trying to avoid me.”

His eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of something dark and unreadable passing through them.

“You look well, though. I’ve missed you.”

The casual cruelty in his tone, the way he throws out those words—words that should carry weight—as if they mean nothing, as if he hasn’t been tormenting you.

It makes your skin crawl.

“I didn’t come here to chat, Naoya,” you say firmly. “What do you want?”

You catch a flash of his white teeth in the dim light of the coffee shop, but there’s a cruel twist to his lips, a smugness that makes your stomach churn with unease.

“Straight to the point, I see. I always loved that about you,” he drawls, his tone almost affectionate.

He leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other in a posture of relaxed arrogance.

There is a beat of silence as he pauses, as if savoring each moment of your discomfort, drawing it out and relishing the control he has over the situation.

The control he has over you.

“I think you know what I want, y/n,” he continues, tone almost patronizing, as if speaking to a child who just doesn’t understand. “I want what’s best for Haru. I’m sure you do too.”

“You’re threatening to take her away from me. How is that what’s best for her?” you scoff, though the defiance in your voice barely masks the trembling fear underneath.

His gaze roams over you, assessing, calculating, and it takes everything in you not to shrink under the weight of his scrutiny.

When he speaks again, his voice is a low, dangerous whisper that sends a shiver down your spine, cold as ice and sharp as a blade.

“Because,” he hisses, the word dripping with venom, “you’re not thinking clearly. You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment. Haru deserves stability, a future where she’s not dragged into whatever mess you and Satoru are involved in.”

The accusation cuts deep, and despite your best efforts, you flinch slightly at his words, the reaction small but not unnoticed.

Naoya’s eyes glint with satisfaction, feeding off the fear and uncertainty he’s managed to briefly instill within you.

Before you can muster a response, he leans in closer, his tone shifting, becoming smooth and insidious, like poison seeping through the cracks of your resolve.

“Oh y/n,” he sighs, voice dripping with false sympathy, “I know this thing with Satoru is just a charade. You may think you’re merely playing house, but what you’re actually doing is setting Haru up for confusion and heartache. What kind of future is that for her?”

It’s like he’s pulled the rug out from under your feet. The air around you seems to thicken, making it hard to breathe. Because deep down, a part of you has feared how this arrangement may affect Haru.

The doubt that Naoya is sowing isn’t new—it’s something you’ve deliberately tried to ignore.

The connection Haru is forming with Satoru, the bond that’s growing stronger every day—isn’t it built on a foundation of lies?

What happens when it all crumbles—what happens to Haru then?

What if you’re setting her up for a heartbreak that she’s too young to understand?

Ah…but that’s what Naoya is good at, isn’t it?

He thrives on stirring a visceral reaction within you, on playing your emotions like a finely tuned instrument. And you know better—you know better than to believe that his actions have anything to do with Haru’s well-being.

After all, Naoya has only ever used Haru as a tool to control you, to manipulate you into doing his bidding.

He doesn’t truly want Haru—he never has.

This is just a twisted game, another attempt to bend you to his will.

“Naoya,” you begin, voice trembling with a mix of anger and desperation, “this isn’t about what’s best for Haru. Cut the crap,” you snap, the frustration seeping through your words, giving you a fleeting sense of strength. “Don’t play games with me. What are you really after?”

Naoya’s response is a soft, chilling chuckle, a sound so unnerving that it slithers around you, making your skin prickle with unease.

He tilts his head slightly, regarding you with a twisted sense of satisfaction, the corners of his mouth curving into a smirk that’s as sharp as a knife’s edge.

“You’re not as naïve as you look,” he murmurs.

With a deliberate elegance, he runs his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back and straightening his posture as if ready to present himself for something significant. He then leans forward, fixing you with a gaze that feels like a vise tightening around your heart.

“I’m willing to make a deal with you.”

You swallow hard, forcing the question past the lump in your throat.

“What kind of deal?”

His eyes glisten with satisfaction, a spark of triumph lighting them up as if this is the moment he’s been waiting for all along.

“Do you remember the case that was quietly swept under the rug a few years back?” he begins, tone almost conversational. “The one that could have destroyed the Gojo family? Well of course, you don’t—because the Gojos made sure no one remembered.”

A cold dread settles in the pit of your stomach as the gravity of what he’s saying begins to sink in. You try to piece together what he could possibly mean, but the implications are too terrifying to fully grasp.

“…what are you saying?”

Naoya’s smirk widens, a cruel light flickering in his eyes as he watches your reaction.

“Oh, don’t play dumb, y/n. You know exactly what I’m talking about. The Gojo family isn’t as squeaky clean as they’d like everyone to believe. That closed case—it’s a time bomb waiting to go off, and I’m the one holding the detonator.”

With a casual elegance, Naoya places his elbow on the table and rests his chin in the palm of his hand, his gaze never leaving yours.

“I want you to help me reopen the case,” his voice now a silky, dangerous murmur. “I need inside information, something to poke holes in the Gojo family’s defense. Satoru trusts you, doesn’t he? He’s practically handed you the keys to the kingdom.”

Your blood runs cold as you grapple with the enormity of what he’s asking.

“You want me to spy on Satoru? To dig up dirt on his family?”

Naoya shrugs, the gesture so casual, so dismissive, as if the request is the most natural thing in the world.

“Spy is such an ugly word. Let’s call it… protecting your daughter’s future. You help me get the information I need, and I’ll make sure this custody battle disappears. You’ll never have to worry about losing Haru.”

You feel sick to your stomach as the full impact of his ultimatum crashes down on you.

Your skin crawls at the way he frames it—to him it’s as if he’s offering you a lifeline, a way out of an impossible situation. But the reality is, he’s trapping you, coercing you into betraying the one person who has given you a chance at a new life.

Betray Satoru?

The very thought twists like a knife in your gut.

Satoru—the man who has shown you nothing but kindness, who has gone out of his way to make you feel safe, to make you feel valued. The man who has opened his home to you and Haru, who has treated your daughter with a warmth and love that you never thought she would receive.

How could you possibly betray him? Be his downfall? The mere thought of it makes your chest tighten, your heart aching with the weight of the impossible decision that Naoya is forcing upon you.

But then, the other side of the coin looms large and terrifying: the risk of losing Haru forever. The thought of her being taken from you, of her being dragged into Naoya’s world, is a nightmare you can’t bear to even consider.

The two most important people in your life, and Naoya is forcing you to choose between them.

How can you possibly make such a choice?

“I…I can’t do that, Naoya. Satoru—he’s done nothing wrong,”

The words feel hollow, desperate, as if you’re grasping for some semblance of control in a situation where you have none.

Naoya’s expression darkens, the cold veneer of civility slipping as a more menacing presence takes over. He leans in closer, the air around him growing colder, heavier with the weight of his intentions.

“Satoru and his family deserve whatever’s coming to them,” he hisses. “You just have to decide whose side you’re on. Corporate malpractice, insider trading, possibly even a cover-up. The Gojo family has skeletons in their closet, and I intend to expose them. But to do that, I need information. Inside information.”

“No, Naoya,” you say more forcefully, your voice trembling slightly but growing steadier as your resolve hardens. “That would destroy Satoru.”

For a moment, there’s a flicker of something in Naoya’s eyes—frustration, perhaps, or irritation at your defiance. But it’s fleeting, quickly replaced by a darker, more calculating expression.

“You think this is a game, y/n?” his voice drips with disdain. “You think Satoru won’t throw you to the wolves the moment things get tough? He’s a Gojo, through and through. They protect their own, and you’re not one of them.”

A cold dread washes over you as his words echo in your mind, sinking into the darkest corners of your thoughts.

Wait…is he actually, right?

No—you push back against the rising tide of doubt. Satoru wouldn’t do that. He’s been nothing but kind, patient, and understanding. He’s given you no reason to believe he would ever abandon you, especially not in a moment of crisis.

But… then there’s the stipulation in your contract. The one that states any poor publicity to his name would result in being cut off from all financial support.

The words of the contract flash in your mind, stark and unforgiving.

You had brushed it off as a mere formality when you first signed it, a precautionary clause meant to protect his reputation. But now, under the weight of Naoya’s words, it feels like a ticking time bomb, ready to go off the moment anything goes wrong.

Doubt seeps into your veins, intertwining with the fear that Naoya’s threat might have more truth to it than you’d like to admit.

Could Satoru really turn his back on you if the situation spiraled out of control? Would he prioritize his family name, his legacy, over you and Haru?

Seeing the flicker of hesitation in your eyes, Naoya’s expression softens, adopting a mask of concern. His voice lowers, becoming almost gentle, as if he’s offering you a lifeline.

“But if you help me,” he continues, silky and persuasive, “you’ll have leverage—real power. You’ll be in control. Think about Haru. Think about what’s best for her.”

“I… I don’t think I can do it,” the words escape your lips in a trembling whisper.

Naoya’s eyes narrow, and his voice hardens.

“You don’t have much of a choice, y/n. You’re in this mess because of your own decisions. Instead of relying on me you chose him. But lucky for you, I’m offering you a way out—a way to keep Haru safe. But if you refuse, I will use every legal trick in the book to take her from you. And believe me, I will win. I always do.”

The finality in his words leaves no room for doubt—Naoya isn’t bluffing.

He’s a man who gets what he wants, no matter the cost, and the ruthless determination in his eyes tells you that he’s more than willing to destroy your life to achieve his goals.

“You’re a monster,” you murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

Naoya’s response is immediate, his smirk widening with satisfaction.

“I’m a lawyer,” he corrects, his tone dripping with smugness. “And I’m very good at what I do.”

You look down, unable to meet his gaze.

“What exactly do you want me to do?” you whisper.

Naoya’s eyes gleam with triumph as a victorious smirk curls upon his lips. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a slim envelope.

With a deliberate slowness, he slides it across the table, the paper making a soft, ominous rustle as it comes to a stop in front of you.

“Inside this is everything you need to help me. I want information, y/n. Information on Satoru. His business dealings, his vulnerabilities—anything I can use to gain leverage over him.”

The envelope sits there between you, a tangible representation of the impossible choice you’re being forced to make.

Your hands twitch at your sides, but you can’t bring yourself to reach for it—the burden of its contents is far too heavy.

Naoya leans back in his chair, watching intently for any sign of hesitation, his gaze unyielding. He presses you again, his voice a smooth, sinister whisper.

“You help me, and I’ll make sure this custody battle disappears. You’ll never have to worry about losing Haru.”

Your hand trembles as you extend it, hovering over the envelope. Naoya’s grin widens, his eyes gleaming with triumph, anticipating your surrender.

But just as your fingertips brush the envelope, you stop.

The smile slips from Naoya’s face, replaced by a flicker of surprise, then annoyance, as you push the envelope back across the table. The cold edge of the paper scrapes against your skin, the sound eerily loud in the tense silence between you.

“I’ll need some time,” you say finally, your voice quieter now, more controlled, though it takes everything in you to keep it steady. “This isn’t a decision I can make lightly.”

Naoya’s expression darkens, his patience clearly waning. With a swift, almost irritated motion, he snatches the envelope and tucks it back into his coat pocket.

“I’m not a patient man, y/n, you know this,” he warns, the threat clear in his tone. “You have one week. If I don’t get an answer by then, the custody battle begins. And trust me,” his tone drops to a menacing whisper, “you don’t want to fight me in court.”

“I’ll let you know,” you murmur, unable to meet his gaze as your eyes are fixed on the table between you.

Naoya’s smirk returns, a slow, victorious curve of his lips.

It’s a look that says he’s already won, that he’s confident you’ll bend to his will.

“Good girl. I know you’ll see reason. I’ll expect your call soon.”

He stands with a deliberate calmness, smoothing the front of his jacket before tossing a few bills onto the table as if this entire conversation has been nothing more than a routine business transaction.

The casualness of his movements, the ease with which he holds your fate in his hands, only serves to deepen the pit of dread forming in your stomach.

“Think it over, love. I’ll be in touch.”

With those final words, Naoya turns and strides out of the coffee shop, leaving you sitting there, feeling as though the walls are closing in around you.

You can’t shake the feeling that no matter what you decide, something precious will be lost.

ꨄ

It’s much later than you intended—a few hours past the time you told Satoru you’d be home. But after your meeting with Naoya, you simply couldn’t summon the strength to face him.

How could you possibly stand before him now?

The very thought of looking into his eyes feels like a betrayal in itself, as if the truth you’re hiding might spill out just from his gaze alone.

Naoya’s words continue to echo in your mind, twisting around your thoughts like a serpent coiling tighter with each passing moment.

You can almost hear the whispers of scandal creeping through the corridors of the Gojo Corporation.

Surely this custody battle would bring poor publicity to Satoru’s name… knowing Naoya, it would be a spectacle—a media circus designed to tarnish every aspect of Satoru’s life.

Your heart races as you picture the headlines splashed across every tabloid, the relentless swarm of reporters, cameras flashing like a thousand tiny daggers aimed at your very soul.

They’d dig into every corner of your lives, twisting facts and fabricating lies until the truth is buried beneath layers of sensationalism.

You’ve seen Satoru’s world—perfectly organized, meticulously maintained, a reflection of the man himself. But Naoya has the power to create cracks in that perfect image, to expose the vulnerabilities hidden beneath the surface.

He would ensure it—he’d savor every moment of watching Satoru’s pristine reputation crumble, brick by brick.

What would Satoru do if you told him Naoya’s intentions?

Would he support you, or would he choose to protect himself, his legacy, over you and Haru?

The very thought makes your heart ache, a sharp pang of fear twisting through your chest—fear of losing the delicate balance you’ve found with Satoru, of watching it all unravel because of Naoya’s malice.

What is the right choice to make?

The question loops endlessly in your mind, a never-ending cycle of doubt that gnaws at your resolve.

You don’t know what to believe any more.

You need time—something you don’t have an abundance of right now. After all, you can’t avoid Satoru forever—he’ll wonder where you’ve been, what’s kept you away for so long.

And so, reluctantly, with a heart heavy and unresolved emotions, you return home.

ꨄ

The faint ticking of the grand clock echoes in the house as you creak open the door and re-enter. The sound, which usually blends into the background of your day, now feels loud—almost deafening in the silence of the home.

Rounding your way to the living room, the dim glow of the television casts flickering shadows on the walls—the only thing that seems alive in the stillness.

But the sight you are met with is something entirely unexpected—something that pushes away the darkness inside of you, if only for a moment.

Satoru sits on the couch, his posture relaxed but his expression one of bemused helplessness, as though he’s found himself in a situation that he’s not quite sure how to navigate.

His long legs are stretched out in front of him, but there’s a tenderness in the way he holds his arms around the small figure resting against him.

Haru, curled up on his lap, is nestled against his chest, her tiny body rising and falling with each gentle breath as the steady rhythm of his heartbeat seems to lull her deeper into sleep. One of her small hands clutches the fabric of his shirt, as if seeking comfort even in her dreams, while the other is tucked close to her body, holding her favorite plush toy—Pikachu.

The TV is on, but the volume is muted, playing some late-night rerun that neither of them are paying attention to as the soft flickering light illuminates against them.

Satoru glances up as you enter the room, eyes brightening as he spots you. A sheepish smile tugs at the corner of his lips, a mixture of relief and quiet joy at your return.

“Hey, welcome back,” he says softly, careful not to disturb Haru.

It’s moments like this, that make it impossible to doubt him. The warmth in his voice makes the knot of tension in your chest loosen, if only a little.

You manage a small smile in return.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

As you begin to set your things down—your bag, your coat—Satoru’s gaze follows you, soft and attentive.

“Did you enjoy your time to yourself?”

It’s such a simple question, yet it’s loaded with the weight of the lie you’re living.

You force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look as strained as it feels, and nod, trying to keep your voice steady and light.

“Yeah…it was nice to have a little break.”

A tender smile curls upon his lips, his relief evident as he nods back.

“Good. You deserve some time for yourself.”

The words are filled with such warmth and care that it almost breaks you. But you swallow down the guilt, knowing you can’t afford to let it show. Not now.

As you make your way towards him, your gaze softens, drawn irresistibly to the sight of Haru. You kneel down beside the couch, your eyes tracing the delicate lines of her face, so peaceful and content as she rests in Satoru's lap.

“She fell asleep?” your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, shifting slightly but careful not to wake her.

“Yeah. We were watching Digimon like I promised, but she conked out halfway through. I didn’t know what to do, so I’ve just been sitting here for the past two hours.”

Your heart swells at his words—the thought of Satoru sitting there, his world seemingly paused just to let her sleep undisturbed, truly that is real… right?

You reach out and gently brush a strand of hair from Haru’s face, your fingers lingering for a moment on her cheek.

Her skin warm and smooth, her breathing steady and calm, the gentle rise and fall of her chest—each element is a testament to the trust she’s placed in this space that Satoru has helped create.

She looks so at peace, so completely untroubled and…it’s all thanks to Satoru.

You can’t stop the words from slipping out, even though they’re laced with the bittersweet ache of everything that’s happened.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your eyes meeting his. “For everything.”

He smiles at you, that soft, understanding smile that always seems to reach his eyes.

“Of course. She’s a wonderful kid. It’s my pleasure.”

Leaning down, you gently scoop Haru into your arms, cradling her small body against you. She stirs slightly, her little face scrunching up in sleep, but she doesn’t wake, simply burrowing closer to you as you hold her, seeking the comfort of your warmth.

“I’ll put her to bed,” you murmur, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

Satoru watches you with a fond smile, his eyes following you as you move towards the stairway.

“y/n,” he calls after you, his tone a little hesitant.

You turn back to face him, noticing the subtle way his expression has shifted—an unspoken concern lingering in his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“There’s something I need to tell you…” he begins, rubbing the back of his neck—a gesture you’ve come to recognize as his way of showing uncertainty. “It’s kind of short notice, but we were invited to a big charity gala tomorrow night. It’s a pretty important event, and they’re expecting us to attend. And, well… we’re anticipated to do an interview this time.”

Ah—the discomfort returns in an instant, like a cold shiver racing down your spine.

The weight of his words settles heavily on your shoulders, adding yet another layer of complexity to the tangled web you find yourself ensnared in.

The thought of standing in front of cameras, of answering questions about a relationship that is already so fraught with secrets and lies, sends your mind spiraling into a storm of anxiety.

But you can’t let any of that show. Not now.

Not when Satoru is looking at you with such sincerity, his blue eyes filled with a quiet expectation, clearly relying on you to be by his side through this.

You force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look as strained as it feels.

“Another gala, huh?”

He nods, his expression softening slightly, but the tension doesn’t leave his eyes.

“Yeah, this one’s for a good cause, and, well, appearances matter. It’s important that we present a united front.”

Appearances matter. A bitter reminder of Naoya’s taunting words.

Satoru is a Gojo after all—and for a Gojo, appearances are everything. The pristine image he maintains is not just for show; it’s a fundamental part of who he is, of the world he navigates with such ease.

But where does that leave you? What happens the moment you mess up?

You’ve always been terrible at public speaking, and now you’re expected to partake in an interview?

Will his soft expression turn cold the moment you fail to meet his expectations?

Your heart races, but you push the fear down, locking it away behind a carefully constructed mask of composure.

“Okay,” you swallow. “We’ll figure it out.”

Satoru’s expression softens with visible relief, and he stands up, stretching slightly after having sat in the same position for so long. As his arms extend above his head, the hem of his shirt lifts, revealing a fleeting glimpse of his toned abs.

“Thanks, y/n. I know this whole public thing isn’t easy, but… I really appreciate you doing this with me.”

“Of course,” you manage to say, forcing the words past the lump in your throat. “…we’re in this together, right?”

“Yeah. Together.”

The words feel like a betrayal, a dagger of guilt twisting in your chest.

How can you say that when you know what you’re hiding?

How can you say that when you doubt the very man in front of you?

Pushing those thoughts away, you try to focus on the moment, on Satoru’s gentle, almost boyish grin. Despite it all, it’s the kind of smile that makes you want to believe everything will be okay, that makes you want to cling to the hope that maybe, just maybe, you will get through this.

There is a beat of silence as you shift Haru’s weight slightly in your arms.

You study his face—the subtle vulnerability there, the softness, it makes you think—maybe, just maybe, you can open up to him. Test the waters, gauge his understanding.

Let’s start small… what if you told him your fear of public speaking?

The words hover on the tip of your tongue, a confession that feels both terrifying and necessary.

Would he laugh? Would he brush it off with one of his easy, confident smiles?

Or would he understand, see the anxiety that lies beneath the surface, and offer the reassurance you so desperately need?

Your heart races as you weigh the options, the fear of rejection battling with the desire for connection.

Finally, you take a deep breath, deciding to take the plunge. It’s a small step, but it feels monumental in the moment.

“I’m… I’m not really good with public speaking,” you admit quietly, your gaze lowering to the floor. “Maybe we could practice a little? Just so I don’t mess up.”

For a moment, there’s silence.

When you finally dare to look up, you see Satoru’s expression softening even further, a gentle warmth radiating from his eyes as he gazes at you.

The way he looks at you, so full of understanding, so free of judgment—it makes your chest tighten.

“Of course, we can. I actually prepared a script earlier today, just in case you may need it. We can go over it together after you put Haru to bed.”

You let out a small sigh, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly.

“Thank you, Satoru… that would really help.”

Why did you doubt him?

Did Naoya instill that doubt? Or has it always been there, lurking in the shadows of your mind, waiting for the right moment to surface?

The question lingers, a quiet whisper that carries both regret and self-reproach.

He had anticipated your need, had prepared for it without you even asking.

On one hand you feel relief that he’s so understanding, but guilt practically consumes it because now his trust feels like a weight you can’t bear.

It seems at this point, there is no winning for you.

No matter which way you turn, you’re trapped—caught between the desire to commit to him completely and the fear that you’ll inevitably fall short of his expectations.

Your mind is at a constant battle.

“No problem,” he says, his voice pulling you back to the present. He reaches for the remote, turning off the TV, the screen fading to black as the room is cast into a quieter, more intimate atmosphere.

He glances back at you, his expression warm but focused.

“Meet you in the study after you put Haru down?”

Not trusting yourself to speak, you nod, and turn, heading up the stairs towards Haru’s bedroom.

In the quiet of Haru’s room, you smooth the covers around her small, peaceful form and press a soft kiss on her forehead.

You take a moment to just sit there, watching her sleep—a moment to collect yourself before you return to Satoru.

The soft rise and fall of her chest, the slight twitch of her fingers as she dreams, it all serves as a reminder of the innocence you’re trying so desperately to protect.

You can’t risk losing her. Haru is everything to you.

But how long can you maintain this lie, this pretense that everything is okay, when the truth threatens to tear it all apart?

The mere thought of Haru being taken away, of Naoya sinking his claws into her life, makes your blood run cold.

Right now, you want nothing more than to break down, to cry, to let the tears that have been welling up inside you finally fall.

But you can’t afford to do that. Not now.

Sometimes the difficult thing about being a parent is putting on a front that everything is okay... that everything will be okay, even when it feels like it will not be.

You have to be strong, not just for yourself, but for Haru. She needs you to be her rock, her anchor in the storm, even if you feel like you’re barely holding on.

You pull back, your hand lingering on the edge of her bed for just a moment longer, savoring the last bit of peace before you straighten up, steeling yourself for the next challenge that you must face.

ꨄ

As you enter the study, the door closes behind you with a soft click.

Satoru looks up, sitting at the large mahogany desk, papers spread out in front of him as he offers you a small, reassuring smile. He gestures to the chair beside him.

“Ready?”

You nod, pulling out the chair and sitting down, the leather cushion sinking slightly under your weight.

Leaning forward, Satoru props his elbow on the table as he studies you with soft, focused eyes.

“So, let’s start with the basics. They’ll probably ask how we met, what drew us together... you know, easy stuff.”

He slides the script over to you.

You take the paper, your eyes skimming over the questions—questions that are so casual on the surface.

They’re questions that, for most couples, would evoke warm memories and easy smiles. But the simplicity of these questions only highlights the complexity of the situation.

They should feel easy to answer—answers that would roll off the tongue naturally if your relationship was carved from normal circumstances.

But, that’s not the situation you find yourself in.

The reality of your arrangement makes each question feel like a test—a hurdle you need to clear without revealing too much.

If only it were different—if only the answers could come from a place of truth rather than a carefully constructed narrative.

But it’s not.

This relationship is a contract, a charade—a web of lies.

You nod again, the knot in your stomach tightening.

“Alright,” Satoru says, his tone encouraging. “Let’s give it a go. I’ll ask, you answer.”

He clears his throat and starts with the first question.

“So, y/n, how did you and Satoru first meet?”

You take a deep breath, the familiar answer already on the tip of your tongue.

This one is easy because it’s part of the story you’ve both been telling from the beginning. Still, your fingers fidget with the corner of the script, as if grounding yourself in the words.

“I was looking for a new job, and Satoru needed someone with my expertise. It was professional at first, but we just… clicked. Like it was meant to be.”

“Perfect,” he says, tone approving.

He leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand as he raises an eyebrow at you.

“Now…what drew you to each other?”

You hesitate, your gaze dropping to the script in your hands. The paper crinkles slightly under your fingers as you try to commit the answer to memory, but the words feel heavy, loaded with the pressure to say the right thing.

Satoru notices your pause and tilts his head, a gentle smile lingering on his lips.

“I was thinking we keep it simple,” he suggests, his eyes locking onto yours with a reassuring calm. “I’ll talk about how I admire how you always put Haru first. People eat that stuff up.”

“Right,” you nod, your voice a little lighter now. “Then how about I talk about how you’re always so supportive and how you’ve made Haru and me feel safe.”

Satoru’s grin broadens, the corners of his mouth curling into a familiar, playful expression. He lets out a contemplative hum, as if considering your words carefully, and then reaches over to tap the tip of your nose playfully.

The touch is light, almost teasing, but it carries with it a sense of warmth, of genuine affection.

“And you can say something about how I’m the most charming, good-looking guy you’ve ever met.”

A soft laugh escapes your lips, the sound carrying with it a sense of relief you hadn’t realized you needed—like exhaling a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Your heaviness lifts, replaced by a lightness that feels almost foreign in the midst of all the pressure.

Satoru always seems to know how to break through your tension.

It’s one of the things you’ve come to appreciate about him during this arrangement—the way he can make you laugh, even when everything else feels like it’s falling apart.

“Of course, because modesty is your best trait,” you grin, and without thinking, you poke his side gently, eliciting a small chuckle from him. “If I say that, I’m certain it would only go straight to your head.”

“Hmm, what can I say? Confidence is key,” he grins, eyes twinkling with that mischievous spark you’ve come to recognize.

You lean back and fold your arms across your chest in a mock gesture of contemplation, your eyes narrowing slightly as you consider his words.

“Confidence? Or arrogance?” you retort, a smirk playing on your lips. “It’s a fine line, Satoru.”

He gasps dramatically, placing a hand over his heart as if you’ve struck a mortal blow.

“Arrogance? Me? I’m wounded, truly,” he declares, his voice dripping with exaggerated hurt, though the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth betrays the act.

“Right…I think I might have to bring you back down to earth,” your voice carries a note of a playful challenge.

“Glad to know I can count on you,” he replies, leaning back slightly as he comfortably puts his hands behind his neck in a relaxed confidence. “But let’s not forget—you’re the one who’s supposed to be singing my praises. Remember? Charming, good-looking…”

“And don’t forget humble,” you add, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Ah, yes, the humblest,” he agrees, nodding solemnly as if he’s just imparted some great wisdom.

But the solemnity only lasts a moment before he breaks into another grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I’ve always been known for my humility.”

You can’t help but laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief at his antics. This fleeting sense of normalcy was everything you needed. It almost makes you forget the storm of emotions raging inside you.

“Wow. At this point, I think your ego has its own zip code,” you quip, rolling your eyes.

He grins, but then, with a small, exaggerated sigh, he drops his head down onto the table, resting it on his folded arms as he pouts dramatically.

“Okay, okay, I’ll try to keep my ego in check,” he mumbles, his voice slightly muffled.

Here is a man who commands boardrooms and makes decisions that influence entire industries, pouting like a child in front of you.

It’s kind of cute, actually, that the powerful CEO can be this… unguarded, this silly, this human.

In these moments, all the layers he wears—of strength, of authority, of responsibility—seem to peel away, leaving behind just… Satoru.

After a moment, he lifts his head just enough to look at you, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous glint.

“You know… people tell me I’m charming and good-looking all the time, but… I think it’d feel different coming from you. I wouldn’t mind hearing it… just once.”

Your breath catches for a fleeting moment as you observe a glimpse of something in his eyes, something deeper than the usual teasing.

The way he says it, with that mix of playfulness and sincerity, makes your heart flutter in a way you’re not entirely prepared for.

Would it be so bad to indulge him?

“You’re… easy on the eyes,” you say, your voice softer, almost shy.

It’s not quite the grand compliment he was fishing for, but it’s enough to make him smile—the kind of smile that lights up his entire face, making it impossible not to smile back.

“Well, I’ll take that,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm, and for just a moment, everything else falls away.

But then, as if unable to resist, Satoru props his head up in the palm of his hand and leans in just a little closer, his smile turning slightly smug.

“You know, you could say it again if you really wanted to. I mean, I’m all ears.”

You raise an eyebrow, a grin tugging at your lips as you catch onto his game.

“Don’t push your luck, Satoru,” you warn, though your tone is more amused than serious. “Let’s get back to work.”

Satoru chuckles, leaning back with a mock surrender.

“Alright, alright. Back to work it is.”

The world outside fades away—the complications, the secrets, the uncertainty of what tomorrow holds—all of it dissolves into the background as you share this brief moment of connection with Satoru.

It’s as if time itself has slowed, allowing you to bask in the warmth of this exchange, to let the comfort of Satoru’s presence ease the weight of your worries.

But the moment can’t last forever.

The reality of your situation looms just beyond the edges of this moment, reminding you of the stakes, of the careful balance you’re trying to maintain.

After all, there’s still work to be done, and as much as you’d like to linger here, in this bubble of lightheartedness, you know you need to keep moving forward.

ꨄ

The hours slip by, and you go over each possible scenario, each potential curveball the interviewers might throw your way.

The script between you becomes both a shield and a lifeline, something to cling to as you navigate the complexities of everything.

Satoru’s voice is steady and reassuring as he guides you through your responses. When you stumble—when the nerves threaten to get the better of you—he’s there with gentle corrections.

His words never harsh or critical, but rather encouraging, help you find your footing again. And whenever he senses the tension rising—the anxiety creeping into your expression—he cracks a joke, designed to draw you back from the edge of your worry.

You find yourself leaning on him more than you expected, his confidence bolstering your own, his belief in you seeping into the cracks of your self-doubt, and with each passing hour, the fear that had settled in your chest begins to ease, replaced by a cautious optimism that maybe, just maybe, you’ll be able to pull this off.

After running through the script for what feels like the hundredth time, Satoru leans back in his chair—the soft smile tugging at his lips telling you that he’s genuinely pleased with your progress.

“I think you’re ready,” his voice is filled with a quiet confidence. “You’ve got this. Now, you should probably get some rest... it's getting late.”

His words are a welcome relief, washing over you like a balm after the tension of the evening. You nod, feeling the exhaustion from the long day finally catching up to you—all you can think about is the comfort of your bed.

But as you begin to stand, you notice that Satoru remains seated. His posture, which had been so relaxed just moments before, now seems slightly more tense as he appears to be focused on something distant, something you can’t quite place.

The shift is subtle, but it’s enough to give you pause.

“Aren’t you coming?” you ask mid-step, your voice tentative, a hint of concern creeping in.

Satoru looks up at your question, the distant look in his eyes fading as his focus returns to you. His expression softens, the edges of his smile returning, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“No,” he replies, tone gentle but firm. “I’ve got some other business I need to take care of. But don’t worry about it,” he adds quickly, as if sensing your concern. “You should get some rest. You’ve done more than enough for tonight.”

There’s something about the way he says it, the way he brushes off your concern so easily, that makes you hesitate.

Is there something he’s not telling you? Or perhaps, choosing to handle on his own?

There’s a slight droop of his shoulders and his fingers absently drum against the armrest of his chair—a silent rhythm betraying the thoughts running through his mind.

You want to push, to ask him what’s really going on, but something holds you back.

Maybe it’s the way his eyes seem to plead with you to let it go, to trust him when he says it’s nothing you need to worry about.

Or maybe it’s the exhaustion that’s finally settling into your bones, making it harder to think clearly, to muster the energy for another round of questions.

So, instead, you nod again, offering him a small, understanding smile.

“Alright.  Just… don’t stay up too late, okay?”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm, and though it eases some of your worry, it doesn’t completely dispel it.

“I’ll try not to,” he promises, though you’re not entirely convinced. “Go on, get some sleep. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

Making your way down the hallway, the soft light of the bedroom is a welcoming beacon at the end.

The prospect of finally getting rest is almost too tempting to resist, but as you near the door, something tugs at you—a nagging feeling in the back of your mind that refuses to be ignored.

It’s not fair, you think to yourself—pausing just before the threshold of your bedroom.

Satoru stayed up late, helping you with the interview questions, guiding you through each potential challenge with patience and care...and now, he’s left alone to handle his own business needs while you get to sleep.

There was a weariness in his eyes that you hadn’t noticed before, a quiet weight that he seemed determined to hide from you.

Why is he shouldering the responsibility when you agreed you would lead Gojo Corporation together?

The thought gnaws at you, making it hard to turn away.

You sigh, torn between the exhaustion weighing you down and the guilt pushing you forward.

Finally, you decide it’s only right to offer your help, even if just to make sure he’s not taking on too much by himself—and so, with renewed determination, you turn on your heel and quietly make your way back down the hall.

As you approach the door to the study, you’re about to knock when you hear his voice, low and serious, coming from inside. You pause, your hand hovering just inches from the wood, and listen.

“No. That’s not an option. We can’t afford any negative press right now, especially with everything that’s happening.”

Satoru’s voice is firm, almost biting, a tone you’re not used to hearing from him. The usual warmth that so often laces his words is gone, stripped away and replaced by something colder, more calculating.

There’s a pause, and you can faintly hear the murmur of someone on the other end of the line, though their words are indistinct through the phone.

Whatever they’re saying seems to only harden Satoru’s resolve.

“I don’t care what it takes,” Satoru continues, his voice dropping lower, the words coming out with an icy sharpness that feels almost like a threat. “Take care of it. Make sure this stays under wraps. My image can’t take a hit like that, not now.”

Your heart skips a beat, an uneasy feeling creeping up your spine—the warmth of the moment you shared earlier evaporating in an instant.

He sounds different—distant, devoid of the tenderness you’ve come to know… cold.

The man who just hours ago was patient and supportive, who made you feel safe and cared for, now seems like someone else entirely—replaced with this man who seems to care more about maintaining an image than anything else.

Whatever the voice on the other end of the phone says next makes Satoru sigh, a tired, almost frustrated sound.

You inch closer to the door, your breath shallow as you strain to hear more, but his voice drops lower, slipping into a tone that’s more guarded, more secretive.

“Yes, I know it’s not ideal, but it’s necessary,” Satoru says, his words clipped, as if he’s weighing each one carefully before letting it fall. “We have to protect the Gojo name at all costs. And that includes… well, you know what it includes. Just handle it.”

You freeze, your heart pounding in your chest.

…what does that include? The vague words hang in the air and you feel a sharp stab of anxiety.

You feel a lump form in your throat as you back away from the door, the doubts you’d tried so hard to push aside earlier now crashing back with full force, overwhelming you.

What is he talking about? What could be so important that it needs to be kept under wraps at all costs?

Questions race through your mind, each one more unsettling than the last.

And what did he mean by “protecting the Gojo name”? Is that all this is to him—just a carefully crafted image that needs to be maintained, no matter the cost?

The thought stings, a sharp pain that cuts deeper the more you dwell on it.

You can’t help but wonder, as you stand there in the dimly lit hallway, if you’ll ever truly know where his priorities lie.

The man who once seemed so open, so transparent with you, now feels like a stranger—someone who might not be as trustworthy as you’d hoped.

Will he choose to protect you and Haru, or will he always put his image, his family name, first?

The doubt gnaws at you, growing with each passing second, until it feels like a weight you can barely carry.

You retreat further, your heart pounding in your chest, the sound of it almost drowning out the murmured conversation from the study.

The light at the end of the hallway seems so far away now, the warmth and safety you’d felt earlier slipping through your fingers like sand.

As you finally turn and make your way back to your bedroom, each step is heavier than the last—a shadow cast on everything you thought you knew.

The warmth of the bed offers you little comfort as you slip under the covers, and your mind replays the conversation over and over again.

As much as you want to believe in him, in the connection you share, the seeds of doubt have been planted.

You're uncertain if you're ready for what's to come—the interview, the public scrutiny, or the complicated feelings that have begun to tangle between you and Satoru.

But throughout all this uncertainty, there is one thing that is without a doubt evident.

You still have a decision to make.

a/n. poor y/n can't catch a break...girl is going through it. man i cannot tell you how much i enjoyed writing the coffee shop scene with naoya though, idk it was just so satisfying to write, i literally despise naoya so much lol. and satoru being so clueless with haru 🥲 he sat there for two hours 🤭 he's such a goof. anyways, i really hope you guys enjoyed this chapter and i hope you're ready for what's to come! thanks so much for reading 🥺 seriously, your comments make my day. much love 🫶🏻 → onto the next chapterꨄ

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[morganbritton132]

To make a few bucks, the Corroded Coffin boys pin up a flier on the bulletin board that they’ll preform a sing-a-gram for your crush the week leading up to Valentine’s Day. $5 per song. $3 if it’s metal.

A lot of people actually take them up on this so the guys are touting around their instruments, playing acoustic covers of songs they don’t like to a bunch of cheerleaders and jocks, and Steve Harrington. A lot to Steve Harrington, actually.

Steve gets a kick out of it every time, even though he never knows the names of the songs they sing to him. He gets red faced and bright eyed with a smile ten miles wide.

Every time he asks, “Who sent you?”

And every time they shrug, “Secret admirer.”

“Oh,” Steve deflates a little and asks pretty damn sincere, “if she does another one, can you tell her that I’d love to be her valentine if I knew who she was.”

“Sure, Harrington,” Eddie snarks, nearly hitting the jock with his guitar as he stomped down the hall to find Molly Patterson. “I’ll let her know.”

“Thanks, man,” Steve calls after him, oblivious or just ignoring Eddie’s pissy attitude. He stops Jeff when they start to follow Eddie, “Oh, George. Wait.”

Steve fished a five out of his pocket, “Can you… can you play, uh. Waiting For A Girl Like You? To her.”

“Umm…we don’t actually know who is sending the requests. They give them to Eddie.”

Steve deflates more and looks like such a kicked puppy that Jeff takes the five and says, “We can try to-“

“Thanks, man! Gotta run.”

“But no promises!” Jeff calls after him, and turns to his friends. “…let’s go find a girl?”

“Yeah,” Gareth says. “One that loves all of Eddie’s favorite songs.”

[queenariesofnarnia]

pretty boy🩵 {j.t}

a/n: i wrote this in my notes at 3 in the morning so its lowercase on purpose. its not the greatest but there’s a better fic for this pretty boy in progress also gif not mine

“hey pretty boy” that’s how you always greeted joaquín. along with other nicknames. he realized its how you talk to your friends but you have a special set for him pretty boy, sugar, and baby. yet the two of you aren’t together and it confuses the hell out of everyone but the two of you. sam wasn’t sure how much longer he could take watching the two of you act like this. 

“torres. do me a favor and make her your girlfriend” sam groaned interrupting joaquín’s story about the two of you going to dinner together the other night. 

“i don’t think she wants me like that” he said confused. sam looked at him like he lost his mind. 

“that girl who calls you pretty boy. hell i’ve heard her call you baby! and you’re gonna sit here and tell me she doesn’t want you like that? either i’ve gone crazy or you’re oblivious” sam rants. 

with you and your best friend on your end you’re asking which outfit you should wear for your next hangout with joaquín. 

“at this point i’m sure you could wear a potato sack and he’d love it” your best friend azalea comments laughing. 

“zay he would not” you say with a laugh, a little frustrated with the choices you’ve pulling from your closet. 

“petal, it’s joaquín we’re talking about here. he adores you. and you adore him. remind me why you aren’t dating him?” she questioned. 

“what if he doesn’t want me like that?” you ask self doubt seeping in. azalea sighed. 

“listen petal, i’ve never seen someone so enamored with a person like he is with you. he’s seen you in some of your biggest crisis moments. he’s let you cry your makeup off on him. that man loves you petal, you just have to see it.” she says sincerely, using her nickname for you. 

“i guess” you say nonchalantly, she can’t help but groan in response. 

a few days later 

you and joaquín are sitting at a little outdoor cafe enjoying a small breakfast. you were laughing at something he said when a girl came up to him clearly flirting like you weren’t there. you normally aren’t one for confrontation but what she’s doing is rude. 

“hey” you snap, they both look at you, pointing to the girl “walk away now, or i won’t be nice” she stands there mouth gaped like a fish “girl make like michael jackson and beat it” you almost growled at her. when she scurried off you tools sip of your drink like everything was normal. 

“cariño, are you okay?” he asked reaching across the table to hold your hand.

“i’m great pretty boy” you smile sweetly at him. 

“you just told a girl to beat it for talking to me.” he chuckled.

“well one it was rude for her to interrupt. two you’re my pretty boy, i don’t share. it’s not my style” you shrug 

“‘your pretty boy’ i like the sound of that” he beams and damn him for having the prettiest smile you thought to yourself. 

“i’m glad you like it. cause i’m not letting you go ever” you assure him squeezing his hand softly, the free hand holding his cheek “my pretty boy” you lean forward kissing his cheek. 

 joaquín smirks cupping your cheek “you missed” he closes the space between you capturing your lips in a proper kiss. 

[heliosunny]

hear me out! Hear me out!

Yandere!husband Anaxa x wife!fem reader

Fem reader as his housewife who is oblivious to his yandere things, she just thinking of him as a overprotective type, she like to shower him with kisses and other affection when he come home from work, prepare food for him to bring to his work. Just wife! Fem reader being a good and loveable wife 🤭.

Ohhhh good point!

Yandere!Anaxa x Wife!Fem!Reader

The morning sun bathed the grand estate in golden light as you hummed softly, carefully packing Anaxa’s lunch. His duties as a strategist to the kingdom kept him endlessly busy, but you always made sure he left with a full stomach and a heart brimming with love. As you sealed the final container, warm hands encircled your waist from behind.

“Darling, you’re spoiling me again” Anaxa murmured, his deep voice carrying a hint of amusement as he pressed a kiss to the nape of your neck.

You giggled, leaning into his embrace. “That’s my job as your wife, isn’t it?” Turning around, you cupped his face in your hands, admiring his sharp features and piercing gaze, softened only when he looked at you. “I want you to be healthy. Who else will come home for my kisses if not you?”

Anaxa’s lips curled into a smirk, but his arms tightened around you. “You always say such dangerous things, my sweet wife. You know I can’t bear the thought of being away from you.”

You pouted playfully, standing on your toes to pepper kisses all over his face. “Then hurry home today. I’ll be waiting with dinner, and of course, all the kisses you want.”

His eyes darkened, but you thought it was simply his usual overprotective streak. You never noticed the way his fingers twitched, itching to eliminate anything that dared to steal even a fraction of your affection. With one final, lingering kiss to your forehead, Anaxa departed for the palace, leaving you to your daily routine of keeping the house warm and filled with love.

That evening, as the sky deepened into hues of violet and gold, you stood by the front door, eagerly awaiting Anaxa’s return. When the heavy doors finally creaked open, your excitement turned to concern.

Anaxa staggered inside, his usually composed expression marred by exhaustion. His forehead glistened with sweat, his steps slow and unsteady.

“Anaxa!” You rushed to his side, pressing your palm to his forehead. “You’re burning up!”

He let out a breathy chuckle, though his usual confidence was dulled by his fever. “It’s nothing, my love. Just a long day.”

“Nonsense, you’re sick!” you scolded gently, already guiding him toward the bedroom. “You work too hard. I keep telling you to take breaks.”

He let you fuss over him, his eyes half-lidded as he watched you with adoration. You were so utterly devoted, so beautifully oblivious to the lengths he went to ensure your world remained untouched by anything unpleasant.

As you dabbed a cool cloth against his forehead, you sighed. “You’re always protecting me. But who’s going to protect you if you don’t let me take care of you?”

His heart clenched at your sincerity, at the way you loved him so purely despite his countless sins.

With what little strength he had, Anaxa reached for your hand, bringing it to his lips. “Only you, my love” he murmured, his fever making his voice raw yet undeniably affectionate. “I belong only to you.”

You smiled, unaware of the weight behind his words. To you, he was simply your devoted, overprotective husband. To Anaxa, you were the sole light in his world, a light he would destroy kingdoms to keep.

That night, you stayed by Anaxa’s side, ensuring he was comfortable as he rested. He was feverish, but the way he clung to you didn’t change. Even in his weakened state, his arms encircled your waist, refusing to let you stray too far.

“Darling, you should sleep” you murmured, brushing damp strands of his hair away from his face.

His eyes flickered open slightly, locking onto you. “Only if you stay.”

You smiled, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead. “Of course. I’m not going anywhere.”

Satisfied with your promise, he finally allowed his body to relax. His breathing steadied, and for the first time that day, he seemed at peace. You continued to stroke his hair, humming softly until you, too, drifted into sleep beside him.

The next morning, Anaxa was still unwell, though the fever had gone down. You insisted he remain in bed, fussing over him with the utmost care.

“You’re not going to work today” you declared firmly, placing a tray of warm porridge and herbal tea on the bedside table. “The kingdom can survive a day without you.”

Anaxa huffed a quiet laugh, clearly amused by your determination. “You truly are the only one who dares to order me around, my love.”

You pouted. “And you always listen, don’t you?”

“Of course” he murmured, his fingers tracing gentle patterns along your wrist. “Because everything you do is out of love.”

You beamed, pleased with his response, and leaned forward to press a flurry of kisses all over his face. “Good! Then be a good patient for me, alright?”

He sighed in contentment, basking in your affection. His fever may have left his body weak, but the warmth of your love filled him with a different kind of strength, the kind that made him certain he would do anything to protect this life you shared.

Anaxa remained bedridden for the rest of the day, much to his quiet frustration. His body was still weak, his mind dulled by the remnants of fever, but you were adamant that he rest. You spent the morning at his side, feeding him small spoonfuls of warm porridge and herbal tea.

“See? Isn’t it nice to be taken care of for once?” you teased as you dabbed a cool cloth against his forehead.

Anaxa exhaled softly. “If it means you’ll spoil me like this, I might consider falling ill more often.”

You gasped, lightly swatting his arm. “Don’t joke about that! I hate seeing you sick.”

His smirk softened into something more tender as he reached for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. “And I hate worrying you, my love.”

Your lips curled into a warm smile. “Then get better soon, alright? You’re not allowed to work yourself to exhaustion anymore.”

Anaxa chuckled but didn’t argue. He could never refuse you, not when you looked at him with such pure devotion. As the day passed, you busied yourself around the house, making sure everything was in order while also preparing a nourishing dinner for Anaxa. Every so often, you’d check in on him, pressing your palm against his forehead to ensure his fever didn’t return.

By evening, he was already feeling much stronger. Though you insisted he stay in bed, he stubbornly pulled you into his arms the moment you entered the room.

“You should be resting” you scolded lightly, though you didn’t resist as he held you close.

“I am” he murmured against your hair. “You’re the best medicine I could ask for.”

You giggled, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “You always say the sweetest things.”

Only for you, he thought. Only you deserved his kindness, his warmth. The rest of the world, those who threatened to take even a fraction of your attention away from him, deserved nothing but his cold, calculated ruthlessness.

Anaxa recovered quickly over the next few days, much to your relief. You resumed your usual routine, preparing his meals, seeing him off to work, and welcoming him home with your endless affection.

Everything seemed normal.

But something was different.

You couldn’t quite place it, but Anaxa had been acting a little… off. He was always protective, yes, but now it felt almost suffocating. His touch lingered longer, his eyes never strayed from you, and whenever you mentioned running errands alone, his expression would darken in an almost imperceptible way.

Then, one evening, the illusion of normalcy finally shattered.

Anaxa returned home late that night, his cloak slightly disheveled, his usual pristine gloves stained with something dark.

You gasped the moment he stepped inside. “Anaxa! You’re hurt!”

Rushing to him, you reached for his hands, but he swiftly pulled them back.

“It’s nothing, my love” he said “Just a matter that needed handling.”

Your brows furrowed. “But your gloves—”

“It’s not my blood.”

That should have reassured you. It should have made you sigh in relief. And yet, a cold shiver ran down your spine at the way he said it, so casually, as if it was an afterthought.

You swallowed, trying to push the unease away. “At least let me clean you up.”

He hesitated for a brief moment before finally allowing you to take his hand. You peeled off his stained gloves, revealing his pale, unscathed skin beneath.

No wounds. No injuries. Just blood.

You tried not to let your hands tremble as you wiped them clean, your mind racing with unspoken questions. Who did this blood belong to? What exactly had Anaxa done today?

You knew he worked as the kingdom’s strategist, handling delicate matters behind the scenes. But you had never questioned the extent of his duties. Not until now.

Sensing your unease, Anaxa suddenly lifted your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. His touch was gentle, but his eyes- oh, his eyes were unreadable.

“My love” he murmured, stroking your cheek with his newly cleaned hand. “You trust me, don’t you?”

The way he asked wasn’t pleading, it was a statement, a quiet demand wrapped in velvet.

You hesitated for only a second, and that was enough for his fingers to tighten slightly around your chin.

“Of course, I do” you answered quickly, offering him a reassuring smile. “I just… worry about you.”

Anaxa searched your face for any trace of doubt before his grip softened. “There’s no need to worry” he assured you, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “As long as I am here, nothing will ever harm you.”

His words should have been comforting. But they weren’t. Because as he held you close, whispering sweet promises into your ear, you finally understood. Anaxa wasn’t just protecting you from harm. He was eliminating anyone he deemed a threat—without hesitation, without remorse.

One morning, as you were tidying the house, you noticed that some of your letters were missing—the ones from an old friend who had recently visited the city. You frowned, searching through your drawers. Strange, you could have sworn you left them here.

Before you could dwell on it, the front door opened.

“I’m home” Anaxa’s deep voice rang through the house.

Your thoughts immediately scattered. Smiling, you rushed to greet him, throwing your arms around his neck. “Welcome back, my love!”

He wrapped his arms around you, holding you a second longer than usual. “You missed me that much?”

“Always.” You pressed a kiss to his cheek before pulling back. “You’re home early today. That’s rare.”

Anaxa hummed, his hand sliding down to rest at your lower back. “I had no reason to linger at the palace. Everything I do is for you, after all.”

His words made your heart flutter, and you laughed, leaning up to kiss him again. “Flatterer. Come sit, I’ll bring you some tea.”

Later that evening, as you set the table for dinner, you hesitated before asking, “By the way, have you seen the letters from my friend? The ones I left in the drawer?”

Anaxa, who was removing his gloves, paused for only a fraction of a second before continuing. “Letters?”

You nodded, glancing toward the desk. “Yes, I wanted to reply, but I couldn’t find them.”

His eyes met yours. Then, he sighed, shaking his head. “I had them disposed of.”

You blinked. “You… what?”

“They were unnecessary.” His voice remained calm, as if he were simply discussing palace affairs. “You don’t need to waste time on people who don’t matter.”

For a moment, you just stared at him, unsure if you heard correctly. “But they were my letters, Anaxa. My friend wrote to me.”

Anaxa exhaled softly, standing from his seat. In two steps, he was in front of you, tilting your chin up with gentle fingers.

“You already have everything you need right here, don’t you? You don’t need distractions.”

You forced a small smile. “You’re really overprotective sometimes, you know that?”

Anaxa’s lips curled slightly. “Only because I love you.”

He kissed your forehead, lingering for a moment before finally releasing you.

You didn’t press the matter further.

But that night, as you lay in bed beside him, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Anaxa had decided something for you. And you weren’t sure if you would ever be able to change his mind.

The air between you and Anaxa felt heavier than usual. You tried not to dwell on it, tried to convince yourself that he only acted out of love, but the unease remained.

Still, he was your husband, the man who cherished you, who came home every night to your kisses and warmth. You didn’t want this small rift to linger. So, you decided to mend things in the way you knew best: with love.

That evening, you prepared an elaborate dinner, filling the table with all of Anaxa’s favorite dishes. You carefully arranged everything, ensuring the presentation was perfect.

When he stepped through the door, his eyes flickered in surprise at the sight of the candlelit table.

“What’s this?” he asked, his voice smooth yet cautious.

You approached him with a warm smile, wrapping your arms around his waist. “A special dinner for my special husband.”

His gaze softened instantly, and he let out a quiet chuckle.

You led him to his seat, watching as he took his first bite. His expression remained unreadable, but the subtle way his shoulders relaxed told you he appreciated the effort.

As you ate together, you finally gathered the courage to speak.

“Anaxa,” you began hesitantly. “About earlier…”

He set his utensils down. “You’re still thinking about that?”

You exhaled, trying to choose your words carefully. “I just… I want you to understand that my friends aren’t a threat to us. I love you more than anything, but I also have people I care about.”

His expression remained unreadable for a long moment. Then, slowly, he sighed.

“I know.”

You blinked in surprise.

He leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “I know I can be overbearing” he admitted, his voice quieter. “It’s just… I can’t stand the thought of losing you. Even the smallest distractions feel like something that could take you away from me.”

Your heart clenched.

Oh. So that’s what it was.

You reached across the table, gently taking his hand. “Anaxa… you’re not going to lose me. Ever. I chose you. And I’ll keep choosing you, every single day.”

His fingers tightened around yours, and for the first time in days, the tension in his body seemed to ease.

“You promise?”

You smiled, standing up and moving around the table to sit on his lap. He stiffened slightly at first, but you cupped his face, kissing him sweetly.

“I promise.” you murmured against his lips.

Anaxa exhaled slowly, his arms wrapping around you, holding you impossibly close. Perhaps he was possessive. Perhaps his love was intense. But he was yours, just as you were his. And he was more than content.