#outside of lectures i mean

[immortalsins]

self-isolation during times of stress is pretty bad actually shame it took me 2 years of uni to realise this

[lazy-toad]

Heart breaking: guy has to actually do work towards degree he's paying to do

[10-dutchies-12-bicycles]

>:c

checking the weather forecast for tmrw so i can get my stupid 30 mins of outside time for my stupid melatonin production

[1o1percentmilk]

i got into public health ethics for next q :)

[em1i2a3]

Carry The Zero

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry (or The Void) x Avengers!Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Bob are sharing a room while the Avengers Compound is under renovations, which brings on a slew of new things to learn about one another.

Warnings: Semi Spoilers for Thunderbolts I guess because Bob is in here. Other than that there is nothing too extreme happening in here, it’s a bit emotional, but there is fluff in here, I would kind of describe this as a Hurt/Comfort fic than anything. There are mentions of abuse and there is also some heavy petting maybe? I mean, I’ll put that in here to cover my booty lol.

Authors Note: My second viewing of Thunderbolts truly got my mind racing for what to write in regard to Bob. Thought I would put out this lil blurb and probably add more to it later in another segment or something! Anyways! Enjoy y’all and happy premiere weekend!!! :)

Word Count: 6,784

The room wasn’t built for two people, that’s what you knew for sure. It used to be a storage space, at least that is what you assumed judging by the various filing cabinets that lined the area, the dented lockers that were near the door, and the strewn papers that nobody decided to throw away in preparation for the move-in. The only thing that was the saving grace was the fact that the place had a window that let you look out onto the city. But it still didn’t truly make up for the cramped space, even though they were able to shove two twin sized beds inside it and call it a room–which showed how effective their planning was throughout all the chaos.

The Avengers Compound was still under renovations after a security breach took out part of the living space, meaning everyone needed to be shuffled like cards in a losing deck. Room assignments were given unwillingly to everyone, and you had been paired with Bob.

It was weird to be rooming with someone who had the power of a million exploding suns as people liked to say, because even though he carried that on his sleeve sheepishly, his personality certainly didn’t match that of a person who could take down the entire world. He was shy, quiet, and careful, tip-toeing around you like you were going to snap at him at any second–which was not the case at all.

Compared to the other options you had you actually preferred to be rooming with him.

The first few days had passed in near silence. You didn’t talk much, you’d only go into your room to sleep or change, and when you would do something outside of those two things Bob would rush out pretty quickly, apologizing nervously under his breath, like he thought you were obligated to time alone.

He’d go to bed early, and you’d catch him reading beneath the awful buzzing lamp that was left in the room from before the two of you moved in. You never really asked him what he was reading because the title was always changing, like he couldn’t finish anything, or he had so much time to himself he was finishing books like they were snacks.

Then there were little things you began to notice.

He’d pace a lot, wring his hands in his lap, or pick at the skin on his fingers. He was clean, he never left shoes in the middle of the room, and always lined them up neatly under his bed frame, even yours. He would flinch at loud noises, like if there was a childish argument happening in the communal kitchen and things got too high in volume he would get a little twitchy. He was observant, and paid attention to everything around him–sometimes you would hear him talking to himself, repeating fragments of conversations from earlier in the day, like it grounded him in some way.

He had his routine and you respected it as much as possible, but tonight was entirely different.

You were coming in late from training, and a med bay visit.

The scrape on your shoulder wasn’t serious, but it was bad enough to have Bucky send you down to get checked out. It was standard–some antiseptic, a lecture from one of the nurses about being more careful and aware of your surroundings, and then you were released with a warning, and a fresh bandage. You were exhausted, sore, and annoyed with yourself for not paying attention and letting your guard down during a simulation, especially because the past few nights had been like that.

By the time you reached your floor, the halls were quiet. There wasn’t any bickering or discussions happening in the kitchen, nobody was lingering in the living room with post-mission jitters, it was just peace, for once.

You stopped at the fridge to pick yourself up a bottle of electrolytes, then paused, eyeing the row of them. You bit your inner cheek, and after a second of hesitation you grabbed another one for Bob, tucking it against you.

You figured he would be awake like he always was when you were on your training nights. You weren’t sure if he was just waiting for you or if he was just incapable of resting when you weren’t accounted for, but you never asked.

Slowly, you moved down the hall, twisting the cap off your drink with a wince when you strained just a little too much, causing the bandage to sting beneath your shirt. You gritted your teeth and let out a frustrated grunt.

“Gotta take it easy on yourself.” You heard Bucky say from behind you. You turned on your heel, seeing he was still in his training gear, also holding a bottle of electrolytes as well, “You’re gonna burn out if you don’t take breaks.” You shifted under his gaze.

”I want to be better, that’s why I’m training. If you got your ass handed to you on the field you would be doing the same.” He shook his head.

”No. I would be resting and seeing what I could do better the next time. Don’t come to training for the rest of the week, just relax and recoup, we’ll revisit your regimen when you’re better.” Before you could say anything he typed his code in for his room, and was out of your sight. You could feel your body seething as you turned back around to continue making your way down the hall. You’d seen it coming from a mile away just by the way he was watching you during the simulation but you never thought he would say anything to you like that. It just added another layer of annoyance as you reached your room.

You pushed the door open gently, careful not to let the hinges creak too loudly. The room was dark, which was unexpected, Bob’s light wasn’t even on. The only thing that was illuminating the room was the shimmer of city lights, casting silver-blue shadows across the floor.

Bob was in bed, lying on his side facing you, with his blanket tugged up to his neck. His face was soft in the low light–features relaxed, eyes closed. Sleeping, or at least you thought he was. You lingered in the doorway for a moment, squinting in the dimness of the room to see him a bit better.

His light brown hair looked a little messy, like he’d been shifting around for a while before finally settling on the position he was in now. You wondered how long he was lying like that, or if he had been waiting for your return but fell asleep in the process, and now you felt even worse than before.

You let the door close softly behind you with a gentle click, removing your shoes slowly, one at a time. Every motion felt heavier than it should have–dull with fatigue, and edged in frustration. You padded across the narrow space, keeping your steps quiet, with the extra bottle of electrolytes tucked against you, the condensation seeping through your training jacket.

You crouched slowly beside Bob’s bed, biting back a wince as your muscles tensed in protest, while you placed the bottle down on the floor, angling it so he’d see it when he woke up. It was a small, quiet offering, just something kind, a consideration in a way. You took your next moves slowly as you stood up and turned to your own bed with a tired exhale, putting the cap back on your drink and throwing it onto your bed. One hand rose to the zipper of your training jacket, pulling it down in a swift movement, teeth grinding while you pushed the fabric off your shoulders, feeling pain erupt from your ribs and shoulder now, the muscles pulsing with burning heat.

The cool air of the room hit your skin instantly, and your tank top didn’t do much to hide any of your injuries from the environment. Your back arched with the grating sting that came through you, and one hand came up to press against the bandage, making sure it was still on properly and not tugging at your skin. The ache was sharp and pulsing, and when your fingers came away damp, you already knew there was blood seeping through the gauze. You grimaced but didn’t consider making another trip to the med bay. You were too tired to care at this point, and it wasn’t something that would cause you to bleed out, so it was a morning issue to deal with.

You turned toward your dresser, collecting a pair of cotton shorts and an oversized sweater that smelled faintly of sage, throwing both articles of clothing down onto your bed with a soft plop. You rolled your shoulder gently, testing the range of motion in it with a quiet wince before reaching for the hem of your tank top, peeling the rough fabric up your skin carefully, trying to avoid the worst of the sting, though even at your slowest pace you could feel the movement pulling at the wound.

The cotton clung briefly to the tape of the gauze and the dried sweat that coated your skin before finally giving way, and coming off completely. You let out a sigh of relief, as you let the fabric fall to the floor, reaching for your sweater next. The bandage on your shoulder throbbed with every shift you made, but it was the deeper bruises scattered across your body–ghosts of impacts from the past few days–that ached beneath your skin like an echoing thunder. You glanced down at yourself, taking in the way they bloomed across your ribs, stomach, and hips, at this point you could see more bruises than your actual flesh at this point, and they were tender, dark and swollen. Maybe Bucky was right, maybe you really did need a break…

Your fingers curled loosely into the hem of your sweater, but you didn’t think to pull it on yet, you just continued to look down at the wreck that was your body, and the longer you stared, the more numb you became. It was easy to take a break but it wasn’t deserved, you couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes during missions, and you knew you weren’t going to listen to Bucky, you would keep training until your body gave out.

You closed your eyes for a moment, before lifting the sweater towards you, ready to retreat into its softness, ready to disappear and call it a night, but then you heard it.

A breath. Sharp and quick. You froze in your spot.

Then came the sound of movement, the shuffling of the blanket, the mattress creaking under the shifting weight.

Your eyes darted toward Bob’s bed instantly, seeing that his back was now turned towards you. His blanket was pulled up around his shoulders, almost covering his whole head, but there was tension in his posture now, like he was more alert, and less relaxed.

Another breath was inhaled, only it was thinner this time, and wet, followed by a muffled sniffle. Your brows furrowed, and you worked quickly to throw your sweater on without hurting yourself so you were covered up completely, before making your way to his bed, crouching down on the floor, keeping your attention fixated on him. His shoulders were rising and falling now in uneven motions, and now you were piecing together that he was actually crying.

”…Bob?” You whispered, voice soft and low, like if you made it any louder than the volume you were at now it might shatter him. You could see the shuddering in his shoulders halt at the way you said his name, and he pulled the blanket higher over his head, like he was trying to shield himself from your eyes.

”I’m sorry…” Your brows pulled together in confusion as you leaned against the bed a little more, watching the outline of his frame beneath the covers, seeing the small tremors still running through his shoulders. You bit the inside of your cheek as you reached out, your hand hovering for a breath before resting gently against the curve of his back. He was radiating heat through the blanket, but he was stiff beneath your touch, like he didn’t know what to do with the comfort you were offering.

“Bob…Why are you apologizing?” You asked softly. He took in another shaky breath, but didn’t answer. You let out a sigh, rubbing your hand up and down his back like your mother used to when you cried, trying to soothe him, to calm him as much as you could.

”I…I saw the bruises.” He said, barely a whisper. Your hand on his back froze for a moment, “I-I didn’t mean to look, I swear, I just-“ His breath hitched, realizing that you were probably throwing daggers into his back with your eyes, “I just woke up…And saw them, and I couldn’t…Couldn’t stop remembering…” He couldn’t finish his sentence, it was just too much, as another set of sobs escaped his throat. You could feel your gaze soften at the noise, almost like a piece of your heart was breaking for him, continuing your movements along his back, pressing just a little harder into the muscle.

“Is there anything I can do? Do you want some electrolytes or something?” He shook his head.

”No…P-Please just stay…” His voice was hoarse, cracking under the thickness that coated his throat from the tears. You nodded even though he couldn’t see you, staring at his shoulders as he continued to cry, curling in on himself beneath his blanket.

You continued rubbing his back, keeping a steady and consistent rhythm. The heat of him radiated through the blanket like a furnace on the verge of burning itself out. Every time your hand passed over his spine, his shoulders seemed to loosen by a fraction.

“C-Can I ask something…Kind of w-weird?” His voice broke through the quiet again, in such a timid whisper that you barely heard it.

“Sure.” You replied, hearing him sniffle again. There was a long pause, and you could feel the hesitation, like he was trying to put his words together properly so whatever he was going to say didn’t come off creepy. You continued to run your hand over his back, waiting patiently for him, watching his figure rising and falling beneath the blanket, still seeing it shaking. In your mind, you were worried, you hadn’t seen him like this before, and there was a moment where you considered calling Bucky or Yelena to come help you, but then his voice broke through the thoughts.

”…Could you…” He took another breath, “Could you…Please hold me?” The question came out strangled, like it had clawed its way out of his throat before he could second-guess it again. You blinked slowly at the request, not because you were unsure of your answer, but because the way he said it was so gentle, and embarrassed it caught you off guard in a way.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting him to say, you thought maybe he was going to ask you for a tissue, but this was something far more vulnerable, something you never thought would come from Bob of all people, even though you knew he was sensitive. Inside you hesitated only because you didn’t want to hurt him by possibly doing the wrong thing, yet your heart ached watching him break down beneath his blanket which at this point was drowning him because of how much he had curled up beneath it.

“Of course…Just let me change out of these training pants first okay? It’ll just take a second.” There was no response to that, just movement. He shifted towards the wall so he was giving you enough space to get in, still hunched over like he felt guilty for the area that he occupied. You quickly stood up, and made quick work of shimmying out of your training pants and putting on your cotton sleep shorts, which was probably the best idea since you felt him burning through the blanket he was wrapped in. You brought your attention back to him soon after, returning to the side of the bed, your eyes roaming over the lump that resembled his body.

With a gentle hand, you tugged the edge of the blanket down just enough to uncover the top of his head, revealing his light brown hair again which looked dampened with sweat beneath the illuminating city lights that shined through the window. He didn’t say anything, or protest being exposed to you, so you took that as a good sign to continue.

You slid into the space he made for you, careful not to jostle the cocoon he made for himself too much, and eased your bad arm underneath his pillow so your scraped shoulder could rest in a neutral position where your bandage wouldn’t rip off your skin completely. You pulled up the blanket slightly, getting in behind him, scooting closer until your chest met his damp back.

His navy blue t-shirt was soaked through completely, and it wasn’t helping that he was wearing long pants to bed either. There was a fear he was gonna pass out from heat stroke or something, but he had mentioned it several times that he ran hot in general, you just didn’t see it to this extreme. He smelled like a salty rain storm, or like ozone, it was something indescribable to you in those moments, but it was what he typically radiated, it was familiar.

Slowly, you brought your arm over his torso, placing your hand onto the hard plane of his sternum, the muscles beneath his shirt twitching against the unfamiliar touch that you introduced to him.

Neither of you spoke, you just laid against each other in pure silence, listening to each other's breathing–his trembling, yours steady. He could feel your hot breaths against his neck and tried to pay attention to it, as you pushed down the blanket a bit with your elbow to shed the makeshift shield from his body. It took him a while to compose himself enough to speak again, but when he did, you were hanging off of every word.

”…When I saw the bruises…” He rasped, “All I could think about was me. When I was a kid…” The mentioning of his childhood immediately felt like a blow to your stomach. He had said something about how he was raised in passing, but it was an off handed remark that nobody really paid attention to. You figured it was something he didn’t want to talk about, but hearing him say this only made you dread what he was going to continue with.

”After he’d hit me…I’d go over to the mirror, just to see how bad it was. I’d tell myself it didn’t hurt, even if it did, I’d just lie to myself, because I knew if I cried, he’d just get angrier. He was always in the mood to beat me up so when he had a reason I think it made him feel justified in some…Messed up way.” Your chest tightened at his words, thinking about how scary it must’ve been for him, and how terrified he must’ve felt not knowing when his own father would strike. You didn’t speak right away, but you did shift, sliding your hand up higher on his chest, so you could press your palm flat over his heart. His shirt was soaked there too, yet beneath it all you could feel the frantic fluttering of his pulse, like a bird rattling against its cage.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, your breath tickling his neck again. He didn’t respond, though he didn’t recoil either.

“None of that should’ve ever happened to you,” You continued softly, brushing your thumb along the fabric against his heart, “You were a child, and you didn’t deserve that.” He let out a breath like he was trying not to begin sobbing again.

”You don’t have to say that.” You raised your head a bit, almost in disbelief that he truly thought that what happened to him was somehow okay or justified.

”I do, Bob.” You murmured, inching just a little closer, feeling your body screaming in protest as your injured shoulder moved the wrong way, causing you to hiss through your teeth. Bob noticed instantly.

”You’re hurting,” He said quietly with guilt sinking into every syllable.

”I really couldn’t give a crap about that right now Bob, trust me I’ve been through worse. You’re hurting right now too and I’m not going anywhere. Do you understand?” You replied back, your voice low, but lacking bite, not that you intended to have it sound stern or anything.

Bob shifted beneath your touch, slowly rolling onto his back like the weight of your words cracked something loose inside him. You adjusted carefully to give him space, keeping your injured shoulder angled away from the impact of his back pressing against your arm, even though the ache felt like white noise beneath the tension that was beginning to rise in the room. When he settled on his back you adjusted yourself so your chin rested against his chest, keeping your hand splayed in the same position over his heart.

His eyes didn’t find yours at first, they stared blankly at the ceiling, the soft glow of the city lights catching the shimmer of the tears that were still pooling in his eyes. Now that you could see him fully, you realized how bad things really were. His skin was blotchy, and flushed from how hot he was. His cheeks were stained with fresh tears, mixing with sweat that created this overall sheen on his skin in general, which made his hair cling to his forehead. A long, old kind of hurt settled over his face, the kind that hid quietly within the corners of a person.

He inhaled shakily, and every exhale got caught somewhere between exhaustion and restraint. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your chin, and it made you ache in a way that put a hole deep in your chest.

”Bob…” You murmured, barely louder than the sound of the city humming outside the window, “Look at me.” At first he didn’t move, keeping his eyes fixated on the ceiling, distant and confused, still taking in those short bursts of air. Your hand left his chest, bringing them up to his jaw, coaxing his attention with the lightest touch you could give him.

“Look at me Bob,” You whispered again.

Then slowly, his eyes shifted downward until they found yours. The moment his gaze landed on you, something cracked open between you both–it was quiet, and delicate, but present and grounded in the center of it all. His expression was drawn, and his lashes were clumpy and wet with tears, framing his shimmering blue irises.

The skin surrounding his eyes were raw, almost a blood red, like someone had scratched it and left their marks streaking down his flesh. You didn’t flinch away from it though, you just looked at him with such focus, like your gaze could settle the storm that was in him. You could see his lip tremble slightly under your gaze as he tried to hold himself still, tears brimming in his eyes again, threatening to spill.

”I hate remembering…I can’t stand it. I don’t want to remember this stuff…I don’t want to think about it anymore, and I don’t want you to associate me with being weak.” You raised your eyebrows, now raising your head up to you were looking at him a little better, resting your hand against his chin now.

”I don’t, ” You stated, watching a set of tears flow out of the corners of his eyes, swallowing loudly, “I don’t associate you with weakness.” You whispered, brushing your thumb along the smooth skin of his cheek.

”I associate you with patience…With overwhelming kindness, and with strength so deep it doesn’t even have to be displayed. You could burn the sky down…You could use all the pain inside you to destroy the planet…Yet you help, you listen, and you keep going. That’s not a weak person Bob.” You wiped one of the tears away with your thumb, feeling him hesitate before leaning into your touch.

“Y/N…I’m not right in the head…You don’t understand…You’ll never understand.” You shook your head, and sighed.

”I don’t have to understand everything to care about you,” Bob’s eyes squeezed shut for a moment, like the words that you said hit him like a truck. You could feel the tension in his jaw, as he clenched it tightly, trying to contain himself a bit.

“I used to think that if I could just bury everything deep enough maybe it wouldn’t make me feel so contaminated…But then when I got the serum…And The Void came…And that awfulness manifested into something bigger…I realized that it just wouldn’t go away. I’m dangerous Y/N…I’m not someone that can be fixed. I know you care, but I can’t risk hurting you.” You shifted closer to him, moving up slowly, dragging your chest along his. His eyes followed your movements, turning his head when you settled near his shoulder, feeling your hand leave his cheek.

“You don’t scare me Bob. You’re just saying this stuff because you think it’ll make me give up on you, but I’m not that easy to sway.” You whispered, reaching down to touch one of his hands, which caused him to flinch. He was already bracing himself, preparing to be pulled into one of your memories, but it didn’t happen…It was like…Things were quiet. Just pure emptiness, and the only thing he could see was you. He stared at you as you wrapped your fingers around his hand, seeing his brows draw together.

“H-How are you…Doing this?” He asked quietly, like he was afraid he was going to disturb the peace and get thrown into your mind out of nowhere.

”I locked it out.” He shook his head at you quickly.

”That’s impossible…It always gets in…” A small smile came up on your lips, hearing the disbelief in his voice, the way he was almost entirely taken aback by what you had just said. You leaned in a little closer to him, like you were going to tell him a secret, feeling his breath fanning over your face.

“Before I was recruited, I was part of a different team. Black-ops, kind of like what the X-Men used to be, but very much under the radar. It was just…Constant missions, we were a clean up crew basically, picking up the scraps that nobody else wanted…” You smiled faintly, the corner of your mouth twitching with the memories of your team, how close you all were, how none of you took crap from anyone…Similar to what you had now, just a little better because of the tether you all had between each other.

“We ran into a lot of people with gifts. Telepaths. Empaths…Stuff like that. Some didn’t even know they were projecting until it was too late. Others weaponized it. Pulled secrets out like stitches and drove people insane without ever touching them.”

Bob was still staring at you, eyes wide and brimming with tears, his chest rising beneath you in short bursts.

“It was mandatory,” You continued. “To train in mental shielding. Neural control. The discipline to lock down your own mind so tight it’s like a vault. We trained until our thoughts didn’t even echo. You learn to breathe around psychic pressure, to mask trauma with static, to reroute memories into dead space. You learn to feel someone reaching for you…And then cut the line.”

Bob swallowed hard, hearing the way you explained everything to him step by step, while still holding his hand, running your thumb over the back of it.

“I wasn’t trained to stop the Void,” You said gently, “But I was trained to stop something similar to it. And apparently, it’s just close enough.” You watched his lashes flutter like he didn’t know whether he was going to cry again or if he was just going to sink into the mattress and disappear entirely.

“…That’s why the mental noise isn’t so loud when we're alone in a room together…” He whispered under his breath, almost like everything was clicking in his mind, as his hand began to tighten around yours now, matching the same hold you had, “…Mental shielding…Who knew that would be the thing that makes everything go quiet.” You smirked at his comment, already hearing the tension in his voice wavering, feeling his breath sticking to your cheeks, shifting in front of him so your noses bumped slightly.

“Technically it’s still quite an experimental thing, but…It works when needed I think.” You can see his lip twitch slightly, drawing into his mouth just a little bit, as if he wanted to get a taste of your breath that coated it.

“It’s…Amazing.” Was all he could muster up to say, continuing to hold onto your hand tightly, like it was anchoring him to this quiet space in his head that he had not been able to reach since taking the serum. “…All I hear, and all I feel…Is you and I had no clue until now…” The sound of his voice made your spine tingle, and goosebumps raise on your skin.

It was shocking that moments ago he was this wreck, then suddenly it was like he was on top of the world. Maybe it was because he hadn’t been touched like this in so long, or maybe it was because he finally had a break from all the noise that kept draining him, you had no clue…But what you did know is how soft his eyes had become, and how deep his breaths were now that he was a little calmer, and not being treated like a threat of some kind.

You shifted again, getting almost unbearably close to him now, the fabric of the blanket sliding down slowly, exposing your clothed bodies to the silvery-blue light just a little more. Bob didn’t move, but his eyes never left yours, he kept every ounce of attention on you, waiting for your next action, hanging on every moment. His breath hitched when your knees bumped gently against his thigh, as the warmth of your bodies radiated like twin heartbeats pressed just barely apart.

Your noses were brushing against one another, and if you tilted your chin up by just a little bit, you’d be kissing.

”I’m glad I’ve been able to make it go quiet for you…Even if it’s not permanent.” A faint smile slowly appeared on his face–crooked, and trembling, but so genuine.

“It’s more peace than I thought I’d ever get…So thank you.” He replied back, his hand squeezing yours, not in desperation, but with something closer to awe, like he still couldn’t wrap his head around the situation that was happening in front of him. His breath brushed across your face as he watched your eyes roaming over his. You couldn’t help but stare at him, to take him in now that he wasn’t crying, to admire the person who was in front of you. It was hard not to lose track of time studying his features, and how they were just…Him.

There was a long pause between the both of you, a snippet of time suspended into the universe where nothing else existed beyond the narrow bed and the hum of the city beyond the window. His chest rose slowly, puffing out warm shallow breaths against your lips, and for a second it felt like he was hesitating on something…But then, he leaned in.

It wasn’t fast, or sweeping like he was trying to catch you off guard. It was careful, like every little millimeter he closed between the both of you was an offer for you to pull back, but you didn’t take it.

When his lips met yours, it was a soft, trembling brush of mouths that lingered more in intent than execution. He kissed like he was afraid you were somehow going to disappear, but you could feel how much he truly wanted this. His lips were warm, and slightly parted, and you could taste the faintness of tears and salt, still hesitating to go the full mile.

There was a moment where he was about to pull back, and that’s when you took the opportunity to fully lean into the kiss and throw logic out the window, just for this one cut of time

Your lips moved against his, answering the softness of his approach with something more certain and grounded. The taste of him was still there, but now it was amplified tenfold from how much more pressure you were placing on the kiss now.

He was stiff at first, the tension in his jaw made it evident, like he was unsure of what he was allowed to do, what he was okay to give back, or like he was bracing himself for the possibility of you pulling back before he could even try to meet you where you were at. But then your hand let go of his, and slid up to cup the side of his face, and he let out the smallest gasp of disbelief against your mouth. Your thumb brushed gently beneath his eye as your lips molded to the shape of his mouth with a tenderness that shattered whatever restrain he’d been holding onto.

Your arm shifted beneath the pillow, bending just enough so you could lace your fingers into his damp hair, pulling him in more with such grace that it made him groan. His hand moved to your neck then–his shaky fingers pressing softly just below your ear, his thumb brushing over the curve of your jaw as he located your pulse instantly. His touch wasn’t possessive, it was filled with care, and curiosity. He wanted to feel the warmth of your skin, the steady–or not so steady–rhythm of your heartbeat beneath his fingers, he craved to be closer to you, and every moment that passed was giving him the signal that you wanted that too.

He shifted gently, slowly turning onto his side without breaking the kiss, being cautious not to put anymore unwanted pressure on your arm beneath him as he wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you in until your bodies were flush against one another. You could feel the dampness on your sweater from his shirt, and your bare legs brushing against the cotton of his sleep pants, which only overwhelmed you more, knowing it was going to be a challenge to stop this from going too far.

His hand splayed out on your back, twitching against the fabric that covered it as you parted your lips for him, allowing his tongue to brush against yours with the softest flicker of hesitation, tasting you like he was drinking something sacred. The breath he let out against your mouth made your skin prickle beneath your sweater, and it only encouraged your response.

You angled your mouth to his, encouraging him to continue, feeling him follow suit in an instant, matching your energy bit by bit, syncing with the way you moved against him. When your hand slid further into his hair, and curled within the damp strands, gently tugging, he let out the smallest, softest moan–it was so quiet and desperate it sounded like it had been buried within him for years. It made your head spin hearing it, and it only made you shift yourself towards him even more, feeling his thigh nudging between your legs so the both of you can completely mesh together. It was such a subtle move, but it lit up every nerve ending in your body like it was nothing.

Bob’s hand slid beneath the hem of your sweater, craving the feeling of your skin beneath his touch. His fingers traced the small of your spine, barely putting enough pressure on it, yet he still managed to send shivers through your body. He was getting bolder, but kept his awareness at the forefront, like he was cataloging every reaction you gave him, terrified that he might cross an invisible line and ruin the moment.

You felt the muscles in his arm shift as he pulled you even closer, putting more pressure between your bodies until you felt every rise and fall of his chest, and his heartbeat pulsed through you. His knee shifted again, nudging further between your thighs, pressing it gently into the thin cotton fabric that covered your most sensitive area, eliciting a gasp from you now. You could feel yourself falter control for a moment, moving your hips just a little to test the friction that you wanted, and that’s when you both realized just how far this could go–and how close you already were to getting there.

His hand tensed against your back, and the kiss slowed down, until he found the correct moment to pull back, just a few inches. His lips were still parted, only now they were swollen and wet with saliva. He was out of breath, and you mirrored the same sentiment, as the both of you tried to even your racing hearts before they exploded. His pupils were dilated, and in the dimmed lighting you could only see a faint glisten of blue that rimmed the darkness that took over, the burn was there, the want was there, but there was the looming fear that you both were going from zero to one hundred really quickly, and that’s when regrets could be made, and neither of you wanted that.

”…We can’t do this…” He whispered, his voice cracking from being the first one to speak. You nodded faintly, your fingers still toying with his hair, reluctant to let go completely, but understanding him.

”I know,” You murmured, “Not like this…Not tonight.” You clarified. He closed his eyes, a soft exhale brushing your lips as his fingers twitched against your pulse point on your neck again.

”It’s not that I don’t want to,” He added quietly, “God I do…You have no idea.”

“I know,” You said again, running your thumb along his cheek, soothing the skin there, “Me too…I want to as well…But we’re not ready. Especially after being in the headspace that you were in a few minutes ago.” He nodded slowly.

”I don’t want it to be something that will be confused for a moment of distraction.” You stared at him, hearing how serious he was about it, “And I don’t want to ruin anything.” He added softly, opening his eyes again to look at you.

”You’re not ruining anything, we’re just pressing pause…And that’s completely fine, and it’s the best decision to make for right now.” He gave a small, nervous smile at that and leaned forward to rest his forehead against yours, “We’ll talk more about it later…But for now how about we just relax hmm?” He let out a shaky breath, the heat from it hitting your lips and invading your mouth for just a split second.

”Yeah…I’d like that.” You smiled faintly, as your bodies untangled just a bit from one another, removing the both of you from the intimate position you had found yourself in moments before. His knee shifted out from between your legs, and rested against them instead, letting the tension unravel and disappear slowly.

He wrapped both arms around you now, carefully noting your injury, and you folded yourself into his chest, letting your hand rest on his ribs as he pulled the blanket up to shield the both of you.

You both stayed there, nose to nose, breath to breath, hearts beating unevenly against one another until sleep came over you like a harsh wave.

[wandasaura]

SINFULLY

summary — it’s been a tantalizing exchange of passion and tension for seven days. they’ve pushed you to the edge, forced you to the cliffs peak, but in a moment of weakness, you become the problem in need of solving, and it only spirals from there

warning(s) — porn with plot, established relationships, threesome, dom/sub, bdsm elements, age gap relationships, professor maximoff, personal trainer natasha, beefy!natasha, innocent!reader, brat taming, choking, pussy inspection, punishment, daddy kink, professor kink, faux pity, manhandling, pussy spanking (w/ rings), spanking, edging, verbal humiliation, light anal play, plugs, ruined orgasm, orgasm denial, masturbation, voyeurism and exhibitionism, threats of bondage, vibrators, dildo, mean dom wanda, crying, begging, dirty talk, name calling, praise kink, subdrop, anxiety, aftercare, men/minors dni

authors note — i definitely missed some tags but i think you get the hint that this is absolute filth regardless of if i mention anything else. enjoy ;)

“Sorry.” You apologized when your phone pinged with a message from your girlfriend. The one with fiery red hair that encapsulates the effects of her unrelenting passion; not the one with blonde hair that falls around her shoulders in a choppy cut she did herself two weeks ago. Your eyes glance down at the screen, not needing to guess what Wanda had found to warrant texting you so randomly in the middle of the afternoon.

You’d been waging an internal bid since that morning, when you’d enveloped her waist in a tight possessive claim and rested your head on her shoulder beneath her craned head so sweetly she didn’t notice your hand dipping into her pocket and discarding the yellow panties she’s picked out for you that morning, wondering if she’d notice then, or in the car, or in the middle of a lecture with students around to watch her flush and darken with lust. Natasha hadn’t noticed then either, and she’d been standing at the front door, already halfway outside with a thermos of coffee and a yoga mat under her bulging bicep as she waited. She dropped Wanda off at campus on Fridays. You should know. The first time you’d established that the cute girl you were seeing at the gym was your college professor's girlfriend, was on the street corner at 7th and Park on your way to a Spanish lecture. Natasha had all the windows down, but the roof still protected her sports car from seasonal rain, and her hair had been red at the time, peeking out through the windows as the wind blew. She was wild, reckless. Wanda was never that. Wanda had sat in the passenger side of the car with her hair pulled back in a bun. You’d known it was her because her side profile is haunting, encapsulating, delicious. You see her on campus, from down the hall, around the corner, across the parking lots. It’s not a big school, not by any metrics, but its big enough to never have her classes. It’s big enough for you to have swallowed the guilt of fucking a professor to allow you to boldness to leave your panties in her pocket before a lecture.

“Are you okay?” Kate frowns, glancing at you from across the table. You're in the library, a free period granted by your American History professor who actually has a brain on his shoulders and recognizes that sometimes students just need structured time to get their assignments done, or at least started. Your paper is filled with notes scribbled in purple ink, and the document you have opened on your laptop is highlighted with that dusty pink color that’s third from the bottom on the color gradient in Google Docs. Even with the lack of panties between your legs, the wetness you can’t deny dripping onto your denim shorts that feel like a nightmare against your sensitive clit when you twinge just slightly in your seat, you’ve been productive enough to make Wanda proud if she asks how you day at school went. ”You’ve been kind of quiet today.” Kate frowns, her eyes squinting like she’s trying to find an answer beneath the surface of your features. It’s not something that she can directly name. You’ve laughed at all of her jokes, smiled and teased her all like normal, but there's something that hangs over you that she knows isn’t right. “Oh god, is Wanda sexting you?”

Your face flushes. You’re suddenly aware that you’re not empty, not entirely at least. Your core clenches, slick walls pleading for friction, but your ass is full. It clamps down hard on the flared base of a silicone plug Natasha worked into your ass before she’d peeled herself out of bed to take a shower. It’s not one of the bigger ones, not one of the red princess plugs that came in a set of five that Wanda seldomly pulls out for intense scenes you’ve already discussed at length. It’s small, insignificant enough to be worn daily without much interference. It’s more a reminder of control than an interference, but right now it sparks every nerve in your belly and reminds you that you’ve been wanting for days. Four days.

Four days ago, on Monday, Natasha had pinned you up against the wall and touched you for the last time. She’d dipped her fingers beneath your denim shorts because it had been warm enough to bare your legs for her to ogle, and she’d worked you up on her fingers until arousal was dripping down her knuckles. She’d pulled away before you could cum. That was the third time she’d done that. The edging started Saturday night. For no reason. Wanda had come home from a pilates class at Natasha’s gym, which ironically was never run by Natasha but instead of best employee Pepper, who is actually named Virginia, and had taken you on the couch without even consulting Natasha who’d watched from the door frame with yearning eyes. She said nothing when she fucked your cunt with her tongue, her nose inhaling your scent as it bounced against your clit clumsily, and then she’d stopped and walked away like nothing happened, going into the kitchen to finish up dinner that Natash had thoughtfully already started. It hasn't ended since. It happens like this sometimes. It’s days of edging and denial until eventually Wanda explodes, but it’s never been like this before. It’s never reached the seventh day and still nobody’s let you cum. It’s thrilling. You think. Kate’s question catches you off guard. You’re emboldened by their experience, you allow them to corrupt you however they want, but in the absence of their dominating presence, you're just the innocent girl they plucked up off the streets.

“No!” You snatch your phone off the table like if it sits there any longer, Kate might develop a sixth sense for deception and absorb all the contents of your text chain with Wanda. You’d die if that happened. You have a hard enough time telling them what you want in explicit enough details to satisfy their vulgar desires, you wouldn’t be able to look at the Kate the same if she knew what the text said.

You decided to be a whore today, huh?

It’s simple but chilling. Eight words have unraveled you entirely, but you still have twenty minutes before you can sneak away to your car and drive back to Natasha’s house. It’s not their house, despite having been together for six years. Natasha had told the story as such — one day Wanda came over to spend the night and she never went home, the end. Legend has it, the redhead has a highrise apartment somewhere upstate, but she’s never ventured there with you in tow, and you’ve never seen a picture to prove it either. It’s basically your house now too though. Like Wanda, one day you’d gone over to spend the night, and then you’d never returned back to your dorm where Kate basks in the glory of single living. You think she’s pushed your beds together at this point and made a Queen for herself out of the two Twin XL’s, but you haven’t been back to check on the state of your belongings to know.

“She’s just telling me that Natasha wants meatballs for dinner, so she’ll send me money to get something on the way home.” You shrug, and it feels bad to lie, it makes your belly burn with guilt you don’t typically feel so intensely, but with your period four days off from ruining your entire month, you don’t dwell on the intensity of tears thrusting to prick your eyes and you deceive Kate for no reason. There’s no reason to lie, but you find yourself doing it anyway. There was no reason to leave your panties in Wanda’s pocket and risk her job, but you did it anyway. You’re impulsive without them guidinging you. It’s been months since you’ve been distanced enough to remember that.

“I wish Yelena would sugar mommy me.” Kate sulks, and you make a face as if to say they’re not even together, but Kate pointedly avoids glancing into your eyes to find the unspoken taunt. “Who sugar mommy’s you more? Natasha or Wanda?” She questions, and amusement fills your cheeks with hot air as you close your laptop and throw your highlighters and pens back into your pencil case, aiming to start wrapping this conversation up so that you can get home once your phone pings with the end of the allotted essay period.

“Well, Natasha owns her own business and Wanda’s a teacher so…” You break down the logistics of their finances, because it feels imperative that you remind Kate that regardless of anything else, Natasha still trumps both you and Wanda with inconce rates. Kate should know that though, she’s been obsessed with Natasha’s younger sister since your freshman year, and Yelena’s only finally giving her enough attention for lunch dates to be delusionally morphed into plans of marriage. You’re going to hate the day she learns Yelena’s asexual, and she has a better chance of fucking a fire hydrant than the blonde.

“She’s a professor!” Kate interjects, and your eyes roll. “They get paid more, and it’s hotter.” She’s had the hots for Wanda since she took Slavic Languages last semester on a whim after failing Spanish for the second time. You’ve only ever heard impeccable things about Wanda’s reserve when she’s giving a lecture, so even though your blood boils every time you remember other girls think about Wanda the way only you get to have her, you never can say you blame her for fantasizing about the lengths the redhead goes to romantically.

“Neither one of them really sugar mommy me.” You shrug, finding your voice again after Kate. You hope she doesn’t notice how your hips shift against the leather cushion beneath your awkwardly distributed weight, but you don’t think you’re entirely subtle as you attempt to alleviate pressure on the plug. Thankfully, you’re entirely certain Kate doesn’t even know the first signs to look for. She talks a big game, but you’re certain her last kiss was some douche bag at NYU before she was expelled. “I mean, I guess Wanda pays for dinner when we go out, but other than that it's pretty even.” Your words are a breathless huff when you move and the cushion expands without your pressing weight, and presses against the plug when you least expect it.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kate frowns, once again drawn to how something just isn’t completely right with you. It comes in waves, and it makes her uncomfortable for a reason she doesn’t know. You don’t even notice the way she shifts like she wants to retreat to basic elementary school survival skills and go find a trusted adult to confide in. You’d find it funny that sexual tension makes her uncomfortable, especially because all she does is yearn after Yelena Belova and some girl in her chemistry class named Maia, but it doesn’t even crash upon the surface of your mental shorelines. You’re so far from what's actually happening she could call you out on your horny bullshit right now and you wouldn’t know she saw through you.

You’re not great at being deceptive, in fact you’re pointedly bad at selling a lie even when you believe it fully, but something keeps you on your toes now, something like Natasha’s quick wit and self-preservation skills finally rubbing off on you. You find something in your head that’s not entirely a lie, and it falls off your lips before you can consider the implications of this potentially backfiring on you later on. It’s not a big deal, she’s not going to care that you’re horny because you’re in a lovely, healthy relationship where you try new things, but you’re making it a big deal and you don’t know why. ”Yeah, I just remembered I left the Zyrtec in Wanda’s trunk.”

“Oh, you’re still dealing with those allergies?” Kate frowns, and you deflate in immediate relief that you’ve managed to salvage the conversation and her worries all in one go. You let her guide the conversation from there, because you’re not sure you can focus on much of anything outside from how your clit graces against the inseam of your shorts when you cross one thigh over the other and shift your weight until your thighs become one. It’s humiliating. You’re humiliating yourself without their influence. Your cheeks burn. How have you fallen so far? How did you get to this point? If Natasha were beside you, you know she’d be grinning like a devil watching you squirm. If Wanda were here, you know she’d scold you for being so naughty in public, for being so needy that you can’t even sit still like a good girl while your friend tries to talk to you. They’ve ruined you.

Kate walks you to your car despite trying to part ways at the door. She’s kind as she tells you about all the events coming up on campus that you’re certainly going to avoid going to at all costs, but she tells you any way so that you feel included. It wouldn’t have bothered you any other day, but you’re certain that the crotch of your shorts is a shade of blue darker than the rest of the denim material, and you can’t face the realization of her knowing you’re so honry yoru thighs are slick with arousal and it’s your fault. You can’t help but think that you should’ve never left those panties in her bag, because now your thighs glimmer beneath the sunshine of June, and your arsenal that slips down your thighs in tantalizing beads are like high beams for anyone to lock in on at their own will. You’d never know if someone stole a glance from across the parking lot, if they took that image home with them and got off on it in secret, or if they didn’t even wait, just slipped into their office and worked it out then and there. You hate that Wanda’s convinced you that’s a hot possibility. You hate that it only makes the coil in your belly grow more and more until you’re clenching your fingers into fists and forcing back tears as Kate drags out her goodbye at the driver's side door of your little car with hardly any life left in it.

The commute back to Natasha’s has never felt so bumpy, and you’re ashamed that by the time you pull into the driveway, you’ve broken out into a hot flash that turns your cheeks cherry red and threatens to push you over the edge into a touchless orgasm that shatters you completely. The plug in your ass has nearly been pushed out twice, but the force of your ass meeting the seat as you bump against the unevenly paved highway forces it back into place. It’s never been a distraction like this, but your senses have also never been on overdrive like this away from your bed or the exotic spots chosen by your girlfriends with caution. It feels like there are fireworks before your fingernails, burrowed deep into your cuticles and unwilling to move. There’s an agonizing pressure in your belly that is enough to riddle you with tears and hiccuping sobs. You’re desperate, on the verge of an orgasm from roadside construction instead of your girlfriends, but just like they’d been doing to your body all week, the drive home ends before you reach your peak, and for the millionth time, you're edged and left stranded in the middle of blinding electricity and somebody forgot to flip the breaker.

Wanda isn’t home yet. She should be, but she’s not. A part of you is worried that she got fired, That she pulled the panties out at the wrong place, or at the wrong time, but she’d never texted you again, and you have the slightest hope that if she were facing unemployment she’d at least give you a heads up. When you’d slipped the panties into her pocket, you’d wanted someone to see them, but that thought swallows you up and echoes in the back of your head now like a demon willing you down a tainted path. It’s too late now. You’re already down it.

Natasha is home though, and the light gleams through the window and tells you she’s waiting in the living room. Maybe she’s not waiting though. She might just be watching TV, she might not even know that its one o’clock and you’re never home any later than one-thirty. You push through the front door like it weighs a million pounds, and there’s not one second to consider if Natasha knows what happened today or not. The minute you glance at her all comfortable on the couch, her biceps bulging as she crosses her arms over her belly and hides the handfuls of skin on her hips from you, you know that she knows, and she knows that you know that she knows. It makes your head swim. You want her with a burning passion.

“Oh, you’re home?” She asks, already rising from the couch though her tone feigned disinterest. You swallow thickly, shrinking beneath her stare. It feels so hot, so heavy. She’s unmaking you entirely, and yet she doesn’t seem to give a fuck whether you’re coming or going or somewhere in the middle. Her eyes sweep over your frame, and you know she’s reading every miniscule emotion portrayed across your demeanor, so you try your best to appear unassume, innocent, even if your belly churns knowing evidence of your disobedience stains your car seats now and your inner thighs. Your denim shorts feel heavy around your waist, the center weighed down by arousal that continues to collect. It’s uncountable, sticky. There’s no hiding the difference in hue anymore, sodden denim exposing your desires.

“I’m home.” You whisper, your throat bobbing as you swallow dryly. It doesn’t help anything. Your head is no clearer and you find your words no easier, but you force yourself to swallow again and hope that this time it helps. Natasha quirks an eyebrow, and the uninterested reserve drops entirely as her green-blue stare — you can never decide which color she wears more authentically — darkens into mystical lust that almost resembles charred ashes.

“Were you proud of yourself?” Natasha backs you up against the door. She’s not a tall woman, she’s only a handful of inches taller than you depending on what kind of shoe you’re wearing, but you feel impossibly small beneath her right now as your back meets the hard wood of the door and one of her buff arms comes up to frame the side of your face. It slams against the wood at first, hard, aggressive, aimed to startle you, and then it slides so slowly you think she may be tracking a fly, before it settles on your cheek with a burning weight that has you itching for more. It doesn’t last there for long. Natasha’s never been a woman skilled with stillness. She’s always moving, always finding ways to keep herself busy, so it doesn’t surprise you that she can’t even keep her palm on your cheek for long enough to capture your attention the way she wants. Instead, she trails it down to your throat, and you know then that you’re entirely screwed. She squeezes, not tight, but firm, and your eyes become wide as your reel beneath the easy dominance. “Were you proud of yourself when you snuck those pretty panties into Wanda’s jacket? I bet you wanted everyone to see them, huh? You probably couldn’t help but think about them falling out onto the floor during her lecture, or maybe you thought she’d find them during her meeting. Yeah? While she was sitting right next to Eleanor Bishop talking about you, and your major, and the future of your program.” Your belly is suddenly filled with a weight you know is guilt, and Natasha can see that. She’d aimed to let the reality of your decisions wash over you, and only when she’s satisfied that you’ve sat with the realization long enough does she lean in to kiss you and simultaneously work the button of your shorts open with the hand that's not around your neck.

“I didn’t think-“ When she pulls away from the bruising kiss that makes your head spin and the coil in your belly threaten to wind up again, you desperately try to find confirmation on your tongue that will assure her you’d never wanted anything to happen to Wanda outside of a little frustration. Even then, you weren’t sure what your aim had been this morning. Maybe it was to get her back. To make sure she knows how much this is killing you. Maybe you’d just wanted the attention. You don't know.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it, moya lyubov? You don’t think. You just let this cunt tell you what to do, even if it gets you in trouble. I bet she’s wet, huh? Oh yeah.” Natasha groans when she cups your core through the denim shorts, not even having to attempt to prod at your entrance through the thick layers, she can feel the moisture and heat radiating onto her calloused skin just from the possessive grip she’s initiated. “You’re always wet, always so easy to fuck. It doesn’t take much does it? I bet that plugs been driving you crazy all day, and you thought you were gonna be a brat and outsmart Wanda, but I bet not having any panties on only made it worse, huh, princess? I bet you’ve been wet since you left. Did you break my rule, baby? Did you touch this cunt without permission?”

A gasp falls off of your lips when Natasha cups your core harder, grinding the heel of her palm into your clit just hard enough to move the inseam of your shorts with it, forcing pleasure on you thats too rough and too intense all at once. Tears prick your eyes, but there’s still a question to be answered, and you’re not gone enough to have forgotten that if nothing else, she expects you to find an answer for her. “N-No!” You wail, frustration bubbling up inside of you when the pressure ebbs into nothing and your clit is left unsatisfied again. “I didn’t!”

Natasha’s tuts, clicking her tongue against her front teeth as she cranes her head at you sympathetically. The hand around your throat eventually trails away, cupping your face and then wiping the tears off your cheeks. “See, I don’t believe you, detka. I’m gonna have to check for myself. Open your legs wider.” She removes her hand from between your legs all together, tapping your hip in warning as she gives you space to comply with her request. When you just stand there, floundering for something to grasp onto and pull you through the dark waters with, Natasha huffs. “Open your legs wider. Now.”

You do as she asks, because it’s only natural that you do. You had half a mind this morning to do that exact opposite of what they asked, and yesterday, you’d pointedly avoiding doing what Wanda asked until there was no other choice but to comply or stand beneath her disappointed glare from across the kitchen, but that wingless push of confidence has evaded you now. It’s nowhere to be found even when you try to find the courage to stand up to her in your fingertips.

Your zipper doesn’t stand a chance against the force of her fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your panties until he bypasses your clit and france’s her fingers along your labia. There’s a distinguished squelching sound that meets the air when she dips just one knuckle into your entrance, filling you up for the very first time since Monday afternoon, and you gasp with so much relief that you don’t even recognize the sinister smirk on her lips as she reads your expression like a book she’s memorized dutifully.

“You’re so wet.” She comments, “Are you sure you didn’t touch yourself?” She knows you didn’t. The way you contract against her fingers as she eases another one into your walls and spreads you out like she’s preparing for a game of rock paper scissors tells her that you’ve not had an ounce of real pleasure since the last time she’d allowed it. She thinks it was two days ago. You’re unaware that she’s seemingly lost in a haze of days and mundane adult routine.

“I didn’t! I didn’t! Daddy, please!” You gasp, your back arching off the door when her fingers scrape along your walls. She makes an interested sound high in her throat, like she’s surprised to find that your sensitive there, and does it again, this time with full intention to overwhelm you with pleasure.

”Oh, are you sensitive right there, detka? Is that your spot?” She coos, and it feels so wrong so be treated like this by her. Natasha isn’t soft, but she’s not cruel, and right now she’s wearing Wanda’s condescension with her blonde hair that tickles your cheek when she drops her forehead against yours. “I didn’t know.” She pouts, and you wonder why for a second, but then it makes perfect sense when she pulls her fingers away and you’re left clenching around nothingness. She’s apologizing for giving you pleasure with nothing else. She’s pretending to care that she’s just wound you up for the hundredth time this week and left you high and dry in the middle of a puddle with wild electricity sparking in the close distance.

A broken sob leaves your lips and your hips chase her fingers but its useless. Natasha doesn;t care that you're desperate, she doesn’t care that nobody’s fucked you good in days, it’s not about that right now. You lost the right to her sympathy when you decided to be a brat. Again. She remembers the last time you were in this position. She remembers leaves changing colors and apple cider always being in the fridge because you love it more than apple juice in the middle of October, and she remembers how your ass had gleamed red for days after Wanda bent you over the island because you just wouldn’t watch your mouth and mind your damn manners. It’s been a while since either one of them had dished out a punishment that actually forces you to think about your actions. It’s been a while since either of them have really fallen hard on their swords as dominic acts and truly sacrificed you to the wolves of letting go.

Natasha will never apologize for loving you to deeply to keep her roles separate. She will never apologize for loving you so much, she gives into your pouting face and crying eyes when you just need her more than anything else in the world. Wanda won’t either, and she’s notorious the hardest nut amongst you to crack. None of you care that your dynamics have been muddled with pathetically sweet domesticity and romance for months at this point, but its beginning to catch up with all of you now. You have all of these limits beneath your belts, all of these wild impulses that you only ever indulge in with each other, these kinks and desires are derived from real trauma, and real connection, and real willingness to be the most unapologetic version of yourself no matter how socially unacceptable, and she’s allowed all of you to forget that the beauty of building a dynamic outside of romance is the freedom to hold grudges and correct behavior. She won’t give in so easily anymore, because before you, she never would’ve allowed anything less than perfect obedience and that had been the one thing that lured you back to her workout classes.

“Please, Daddy!” You beg, and Natasha can’t help but smile at how desperate you sound for her already. She’s barely touched you, and she knows that's your problem,that the root of your begging is the pointed lack of attention her and Wanda have been giving you since Wednesday night in her head, but there's nothing you can do about it right now when she has the cards and its her body that pins you to the door and keeps you immobile beneath her.

“Turn around.” She muses without interest for your tears, she’s already wiped them away once, it wouldn’t be the first time she told you to strop cry before she deems it acceptable. Your cheeks always flame when she does that, like its your fault that she’s unmade you to the point of tears.

“No.” You choke on a desperate cry, reaching out to attempt to tangle your fingers into her hair, but she intercepts before you can succeed, and her grip on your wrists is strong as she pins your hands above your head and glares deep within your eyes like she can see every part of your soul and the privilege doesn’t astonish her. It does astonish her. She can’t believe that you;ve given all of yourself to her like this, but who would she be if she allowed you to read the gratitude rolling off of her so easily? “No, I want to touch you!” You cry out, trying to fight her, trying to convince her to let you win. Natasha knows you well. She knows when you’re being bratty, and she knows when you’re just so overwhelmed with pleasure and emotion that you just don’t even process what they’re saying to you. Sometimes she thinks you make up conversations in your head, but she knows that you’re just drunk on sensations they’re withholding and your body is desperately trying to make up for the lack of stimulation however it can. You’re somewhere in the middle right now. It’s not bratty defiance that keeps you and her in a standstill, wasting precious minutes before Wanda gets home, but its not entirely blind submission either. Your trying to keep yourself above the tide, key word is trying, because you’re failing faster than you even register, and Natasha knows if she plays her cards right you’ll be putty before Wanda even gets in the door. You’ll have no idea whats in stores or you then, and she knows you need that. You need to be caught off guard. You need to be grounded, and humbled, and reminded of your place beneath them. “I want to touch you, Daddy!”

“Daddy gets to decide when you’ve earned the privilege to touch me, and you haven’t yet, little girl, so turn around and stop whining before I give you a reason to stick that lip out at me.” The threat hangs in the air before you and it paints your face white with shock as your eyes meet hers with crystals of tears brimming in your waterline. You don’t have to think about complying on your own regard, because Natasha tugs you how she wants you against the door and doesn’t think twice before pushing your shorts down your legs once your cheek is flush with the wood she’d once thought about painting green after moving in.

You gasp when her hands brace against the globes of your ass, not making any pointed moves, but you know what she’s aiming for when she pulls your cheeks apart and allows cold air to assault your dripping, glimmering core. A whine escapes your lips when she drags a finger down the crack of your ass to your entrance, collecting wetness of the pads of her fingers that she then spreads around your puckered hole that holds tight to the princess plug keeping you open. She circles the jeweled base of the plug with disinterest almost, never grabbing at it, never pushing at it, she just circles it to remind you that it's there, that she’s the one who placed it there and gave you firm orders to keep it where it was until she took it out. At least you’d listened to her. She’d know if you didn’t. You can’t get the plugs in yourself, and it enrages you to no end when she’s away on a business trip and Wanda has no desire to pull them out of the closet where you keep all of the toys you cycle through routinely and healthily. This is Natasha’s fortier, it's one of the only things that she can give you that you haven’t learned how to give yourself. She hopes you never get comfortable enough with the plugs to put them in yourself. She hopes you always gasp and squirm like it's the first time anything has ever breached your puckered hole when she bends you over to do it herself from time to time. It’s intoxicating. you’re intoxicating.

The jewel is a baby pink color, shaped like a heart, but what matters most is the shade that you’d never thought specifically about until Natasha leaned in close to kiss you with lips glittering in arousal to tell that it matches the pink of your cunt after Wanda fucks you raw with the strap and she gets to lick you clean. You’ve never been able to keep your composure around baby pink since then. You still can’t now just imagine the sight she’s seeing as she spreads you open for her and fiddles with you however she pleases.

“How did it feel? Wearing this pretty plug to class today?” Natasha asks, leaning in to let her lips trail along the clammy skin of your neck that only aquires a thicker sheen the longer you stand without any airflow on parts of your body that matter. It’s hotter than hell in the house, or at least it feels that way to you, but the air that continuously brushes against your core is cold and unwelcoming.

”We had a study period in the- in the library.” You gasp when Natasha grabs the base of the plug and turns it clockwise just slightly, enough to let your ass feel the stretch of the plug as sit spins within you. The pleasure is intense, but only because anything would be enough to push you over the edge right now. “I— Daddy, please.” You beg when she presses the plug deeper into you once, and then twice, and then it seems like shes setting a tempo as she taps her fingers against the jewel.

“Keep telling me about your day.” Natasha directs, unbothered by your frustration and arousal, unaffected by the fact that she knows it's hard for you to think straight with her hands holding you apart like you’re some object to ogle, not even considering your prolonged frustration and desire. “Be a good girl for me.”

“I couldn’t sit still.” You whisper and your cheeks flame with embarrassment that you know she enjoys every second of. “Gave Wands m-my panties and was so sticky, Daddy! Please, it hurts. It was dripping all down my legs, and I just hope Kate didn’t see. Please Daddy, I need you.”

“Oh, so now you gave Wanda your panties. Spinning the narrative, are you?” Natasha quirks and eyebrow, and she pulls your gaze back to look at her with a tight grip on your hair. You whine, wince, your entire body tenses and becomes a light with electric sensitivity that has you gasping and moaning and writhing against the door with no reprieve. She slams you back against the door, her tongue clicking against her teeth as she reminds you to stay still, to be good for her, you’re not being good right now.

“I don’t know!” You cry out, dropping your face against the front door again when she lets go of your hair and instead grabs the base of the plug and plucks it free from the confines of your ass without any chance to adapt to the stretch or subsequent emptiness.

”You don’t know anything, because all you are is a slut for Daddy to play with.” She sighs against the shell of your ear like this isn’t a new development for her, and your chest burns with shame as you moan and thrash.

“No, please! I want it back, please Daddy. Please, I want it back. I want to feel good. Please, please. I want to feel good, I want you to make me feel good.” You're a mess of tears and pleas when it finally dawns on you that your ass spasms and clenches around nothing — that the only consistent pleasure you’ve found all day, for the first time in a week, has now been ripped away without so much as a soft, fake apology.

“Shh, come away from the door.” She guides you away softly, affectionately — the gentlest she’s addressed you since you first stepped inside the house. You think it’s because she’s giving in, letting you win, getting ready to led you to the couch or the bed nad make up for seven days without relief, but instead she forces you to stand still beside the front window where Wanda’s somehow appeared despite Natasha’s car still being in the driveway beside yours. She didn’t pull you away from the door to cut you a break, or even pretend to feel pity for your tears and quivering lip, but only so that Wanda could come inside and destroy you in her own way. “Hi, my love.” Natasha smiles brightly when Wanda steps inside the house, her hair glowing with the radiance of summer sunrays brightening her naturally vibrant waves. She drops her briefcase by the door, and you notice for the first time that she brought the meeting bag with her, not the bag she brings that had daisies on it and is filled with extra handouts she expects her students to have lost between their last meeting. You hadn’t noticed that this morning. You’d been too consumed with need that was left untouched.

“Hi.” Wanda smiles, drawing Natasha in for a warm kiss that makes you wonder if she’s still frustrated and mad about your disobedience and boldness. It’s evident that she’s still mad when she doesn’t glance in your direction, instead keeping her eyes on Natasha as both of them pretend like you’re not within ear shot. Wanda fishes the panties out of her pocket, and your cheeks burn as she holds them up to the light for Natasha to see clearly as well. “Ten minutes in these and they’re ruined.” She hums, and you whine like you’re incapable of formulating any kind of response or rebuttal. It’s futile, they're not talking to you, or even paying you any ounce of attention, but you still feel the need to interject because you just haven’ t learned that they’re not going to cave yet. That’s their fault, but you’ll learn.

“She was humping my fingers like a bitch before. I’d say she only made it worse for herself. The little exhibitionist was hoping that people would see her. Was hoping someone would notice that she’s dripping down her thighs like a slut. Couldn’t even behave herself and sit still in the library with Kate, apparently she was all over the damn seat trying to rub one out.” The words are vulgar and they cut against your sharply, enough to have you shaking on your feet by the television, hardly even aware of the face that your ass and your hips are in perfect sight for anyone outside to see.

“Oh yeah?” Wanda quirks an eyebrow, and it takes you a minute to realize she’s addressing you. There isn't an ounce of warmth in her tone as she crosses her arms and unmakes you with a cold sweep of her crystal eyes across your half naked frame, but she’s not looking at you like she hates you either. It’s sheer dominance and lust that overcomes her now, and it's a combination you’ve never seen so deadly and aimed solely at you. Natasha's been on her shit like like this before, but never you, never their good girl, their angel who has only ever seen herself over their knee for punishment four times in an entire years long relationship. Someone should be picking up on the signs, but nobody is. Not you, not Natasha, not Wanda. “Come here.” Wanda arches a finger when she realizes that you’re directly in front of the window and don’t even seem to register it. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve toyed with the idea of giving the neighbors a show, but even with the cold reserve she’s giving you, untempted by her love to go easy on you, it unsettles her to take your vulnerability for granted in any way, especially like this. If you seemed to realize you were giving anybody a show, if it seemed like showing off was an underlying current in the scene, maybe she would’ve left you there for a while after realizing, but she can’t stomach to do that now. She’s mean, she’s cruel, but she’s not a monster and there’s still boundaries to her wild fantasies that unmake you from the very inside out.

You only come close enough for her hands to reach you if they try, but she doesn’t invite you any closer when you stop to look at her uncertainty, so you take her silence as rejection and continue to stand on your own — cold, but so uncomfortably hot. “Is Daddy telling the truth? Were you acting like a slut in the library? Hoping anyone could see how wet you were?” She taunts, and the words creep up your veins until they reach the middle of your belly where pleasure and frustration and emotions you’re too hazy to name take over entirely.

“No!” You plead with her to believe you, because it had never been your intention to be anything but good for them in the library, but you just couldn't help yourself when your clit caught on the inseam of your jeans or you shifted just right on the chair, and you’d hoped Natasha would see the honor and integrity in your coming clean, but instead she’d weaponized it into this. You were in enough trouble without her meddling, and it turns your lips downwards, but you never have any leeway to say that it’s more than just the teasing that’s weighing you down, so Wanda never stops to consider your pout or sparkling eyes.

“So now Daddy’s a liar?” She digs deeper; sinks her claws into you unrelentlessly without even touching you at all. She doesn’t need to touch you to own you. You’re beneath the wings of her control so beautifully right now she almost hates to be so cruel. Almost. It’s a fleeting moment of hesitation that allows you to think you’ve found reprieve from punishment for a moment, but then she remembers that this is what she really loves when you peel her layers back like an onion, and just like an onion she makes you cry but you keep coming back for more because it adds something, it spices things up, it makes dishes complete and she completes you. And for a moment you think that maybe she’ll bend, that maybe she’ll wind you up with this teasing and condescension and then she’ll let you down soft, let it all be some elaborate mind fuck that renders you a blob beneath their touch, but then she sets her gaze on the staircase beneath your body, and her jaw is locked so tensely you think she might chip a molar. “You’re digging yourself a deeper hole the more you open that mouth, so why don’t you keep it closed and go wait for me upstairs. I want you naked and on the bed waiting by the time we get up there.”

“But I want—“ You’re ready to tell her exactly what you want. It takes a lot to get you to this point of open communication. You’re their shy girl, their innocent angel that still blushes when it comes to asking for sexual acts from your girlfriends, but they have you wanting enough to throw caution to the wind and scream to the entire town that you’re a whore; their whore. You haven’t been broken down entirely, but you’re so close to the edge of fuzzy bliss that you have no morals to stand firm on. You’re malleable in their hands, and they know how to make you into exactly what they want.

“I didn’t ask what you wanted. I gave you a direction, and I expect you to follow it. Am I clear?” Wanda takes a step toward you. Just one. She’s taller than Natasha. You know this, and you love this, but sometimes you forget that she’s only a couple inches away from reaching six foot, and she towers over you with a completion and complex you can’t even begin to mimic to even unsuspecting strangers. She’s alluring. That’s the simplest way to put it, and she unmakes you even further as she sizes you up and makes you feel small like you’re nothing to her. It’s been a while since you’ve fallen so heavily into these roles. It’s been a while. It’s an echo in your head, a warning to tread carefully, but you don’t see it as anything more than a reason to fight harder, claim victory and finally find release in your center.

Your head bobs — just once. It feels so simple to think about motions as numbers right now. One pass of Wanda’s eyes over your exposed thighs and hips. Two taps of Natasha’s heel on the hardwood as she waits for you to comply with the direction you’ve been given. Four seconds before you realize that Wanda’s waiting for words, and that you still haven’t moved even with your nonverbal acceptance. “Yes.” You whisper when you find the words on your tongue, and you think that it’s going to satisfy Wanda, that maybe she might praise you for finally finding the right choice to make, but instead she clicks her tongue against her teeth, and she cranes her head to the side, and her eyes squint as you like you’ve just done the worst thing you could do; not try at all.

“I know it’s been a while since we’ve played like this, but I didn’t think my angel was dumb enough to forget such a simple rule. Are you dumb, princess? Or are you just too needy to think straight?” Wanda sneers, and your face flushes with heat that makes your belly twist with something sickeningly sweet. It’s all encapsulating. You can feel it in your toes, and your gallbladder, and your left lung all the way into the very back section of your brain that probably does something really important and specific. You don’t know. It doesn't matter. The sky could be green and chickens could be flying, and still all that would matter to you would be Wanda and Natasha.

“Not dumb.” Your voice is breathy, soft enough to be delicate and breakable. Wanda knows you, she knows what you can take, and so she lets her eyes sweep across your body until they meet your eyes, and when she finds nothing but bubbling tension beneath your surface, she hardens her glare and crosses her arms over her chest, forcing her tits farther into your line of vision. She’s wearing a generic t-shirt, but she’s dressed it up with a pair of black slacks, kitten heels, and a blazer that you think she’s probably only worn for the commute there and back. Her bra is black, the thin strap sticks out from the collar of her shirt when she moves her arms, and the cups push her full breasts up even further. It's almost considered sinful by your standards, and that's a hard metric to meet, but Wanda does it without breaking a sweat.

“Then address me properly.” She settles you, and there’s nothing you can do to get out of this corner you’ve backed yourself into, so without any other choice, you submit to what she wants of you, and with that last ounce of control out of your grasp, your brain goes fuzzy around the edges until you’re taking the stairs one at a time at a pace that's almost robotic, but Wanda and Natasha are tuned in enough to know that you just can’t move any faster without your thighs creating friction that gets you in even more trouble. They laugh as you retreat, and the sounds of their echoing amusement following you into the dark, empty and cold master bedroom leaves a chill in your bones that you're not sure is ever going to warm again.

“Yes, Professor.” Your words echo in Wanda’s head even after you’ve disappeared into the bedroom. She assumes you’re doing what she asked, getting further undressed and settling into the bed with full intentions of being good for her, but she gives you time to marinate regardless. She kicks off her heels, kisses Natasha twice, three times, four times, until they’re backed up against the wall ripping off layers until it's bras and panties on both of them and t-shirts scattered on the floor beneath slacks and leggings. They don’t go any farther. As mean as they’ve been, as cruel as they still plan to be, it feels premature to go any farther when you’re waiting upstairs and Wanda hasn’t touched you since Sunday.

She thinks that Natasha took care of you. She was under the impression that you’d been given as many orgasms as you were allowed by Natasha while she was at work, handling end of year papers and exams that she just couldn’t focus on in her office at home. Her absence at home had been planned for weeks, she’d forearnderd you the day before she packed up all her favorite red pens and headed for the office that the next couple of days were going to be long without her home, but you had persevered and she had thought that your lack of whining over text meant that Natasha had satisfied you. Natasha just couldn’t keep the days straight without Wanda home to be nagging in her ear about recycling day and bulk collection day and how Pepper always goes to Yoga on Thursdays so she needs to stop counting on her to get finances in for the pilates class at her gym. She hadn’t realized that the last time she touched you was cruel and unsatisfying and four days ago, she has no reason to dwell on the specifics and she doesn’t even now. Not when Wanda breathes against her lips that she’s so happy its Friday, that she’s so relieved the semester ends next week and exams are two weeks afterward. It’s a small tidbit left undiscovered in a glass bottle on the coast. Her eye hasn’t caught the sparkling reflection of sunbeams bouncing off like warning signs.

Natasha enters the bedroom first. She glances at you, and she almost smiles when she finds you on the center of the bed, naked like Wanda asked, but holding a yellow throw blanket over your body as you shiver in direct line of the air conditioner that points toward the bed. She pads over to the thermostat without saying a word, turning the air off entirely though she knows that’s a dangerous game to play for later on when you’re all hot and sweaty and too tired to peel your bodies out of bed and deal with numbers and math and perfect temperature debates that never get settled but instead mulled over with compromises and grumbles of annoyed and reluctant compliance. For right now, she’s okay to sacrifice future comfort for present comfort, but there’s hardly enough time to take note of her wordless gesture because Wanda comes stalking in after her, and she pushes the door closed with enough force to have the sound reverberating through the bedroom. You flinch, grab the blanket a little bit tighter, and for a moment Natasha frowns, narrowing her eyes, trying desperately to see if there’s something beneath the surface that she’s missing, but your eyes are blown with lust, and you crane your body towards Wanda’s with a yearning desire that is so automatic you don’t even seem to realize you’re closing the gap between your bodies until the mattress dips beneath your ebbing weight and you nearly topple off of the bed.

“Drop the blanket and come here. Edge of the bed.” She clicks her tongue, her fingers too. It’s degrading. It makes your belly do flips and your eyes glaze over. “Spread your legs. Wider. Wider. Stop trying to hide from me.” She growls and the first touch of her skin against you is harsh and cruel and demanding as she spreads your thighs wider and opens up your cunt completely. Arousal drips from your entrance onto the bed sheets, pearls of glittering desperation unable to be hidden between your thighs any longer, and now that the moonlight shines upon those inches of skin too, evidence of lust is painted against your skin and it looks like it’s been that way for hours with the way your skin is red and raw with moisture. It’s pathetic, and it’s so unbelievably hot that Wanda isn’t even embarrassed to moan wantingly.

”She’s dripping.” Wanda hums, glancing over her shoulder to look at Natasha who hasn’t taken her eyes off of you yet, though she isn’t intent on unmaking your inner emotions anymore, but rather watching as Wanda sinks a finger between your thighs, spreads your labia, and prods your weeping hole with a featherlight touch only long enough to collect a bead of arousal on her fingertip and hold it up to the light. She pinches her fingers together, rubs the moisturized pads together until they’re both effectively lathered in slick, and then she pulls her fingers apart like they’re a sizzling mozzarella, and the pull of arousal following both of her fingertips makes your cheeks flame worse than any cheese pull ever has. You whine. It’s desperate, and wanting, and so small, but it only fuels Wanda further. She needs to feel you now. She needs to have her way with you for the first time since Sunday and remind you that you’re hers until the word goes up in flames. “You’re so sweet, princess. I could just eat you, but I won’t. No, I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson yet. Right now, I’m going to spank that pretty pussy raw, and then I think I’m going to fuck Natasha, and you’re going to watch it happen, and you’re not going to get more than I give you, and you’re not going to break me down, and you’re not going to complain. Do you understand me, detka? This is your only warning.”

You don’t have the words to answer her, so instead your fingers tap against your thigh twice, and for the very first time her lips curve into a smile and she nods like you’ve done something right. “Can’t find your voice? Too dumbed down to think straight?” She sneers, and her eyes are filled with something that you can’t decipher. Natasha knows its pride. She can practically see it dripping off of Wanda as she basks in your obedience even after deliberate disobedience for days on end. Again, neither of them realize that it’s been nearly a week since you’ve found peace with their touch. Again, neither of them realize that they’ve failed to communicate with each other and in turn left you stranded out in a sea you don’t know how to navigate on your own.

Neither of them realize you are giving them exactly what they want right now because it’s the only thing you can think to do to get any ounce of attention anymore.

Your fingers tap against your thigh again. Two times. Wanda nods acceptingly. “Good girl using your signals.” The praise washes over you like a blanket, and if you’d forgotten how you got into this mess at all, you remember now with every sense you have left in your head. The praise is warm, like sunshine or cinnamon rolls fresh out of the oven and homemade in the dead of autumn. It wraps around your bones first, just hot enough to warm them for a moment before the feeling travels and it drowns your sensitive little heart in lightness that can only mean good things. It’s a momentary encouragement, but it’s enough to get you further into the scene at least. “Show me what stop is.”

Your fingers tap against your thigh twice, and then you stop, and then they tap three more times. Wanda doesn’t acknowledge you at first, so you repeat the action, and this time she nods with satisfaction that you remember. She doesn’t offer you any ounce of praise again, instead she just sinks behind you on the bed and wraps her arms around your waist until you’re flush against her chest and even more spread out than you were before.

There isn’t a warning before her hand comes down on your core with full force, her palm open, aiming to hit all of your sensitive parts with cruelty. It only takes one hit for you to realize that she wore rings today; more than just the promise ring Natasha had gifted the both of you on your respective one year anniversaries. The sting of metal is conflicting. It’s cold, sharp, what you imagine a venomous snake bite to feel like in the wild when it catches you by surprise and flashes through your veins with lighting speed. It’s a quick sensation, but it lingers on your labia and your clit and your weeping cole that caught the brunt of the friction from her palm that’s always rough with dryness.

Your hips jerk upwards, they chase her palm because the sensation is sharp, and it's painful, but as it ebbs away, it’s so sweetly pleasurable that your core jolts with burning desire to find more, to drown in it until there’s nothing left to feel or process besides euphoria. Wanda doesn’t like that. She doesn’t like that your hips jerk, and she wasn’t expecting them to. She doesn’t like that you’re still finding ways to misbehave even beneath her touch.

“Stay still.” She warns, her teeth nipping at your earlobe sharply. It stings, and she never soothes the ache with her tongue, and you whine so earnestly that Natasha almost feels bad, because she’s mean, but not as mean as Wanda, but she doesn’t feel bad enough to save you, and so nobody tends to the ache in your ear, or the pinch in your cunt when another slap doesn’t land in quick succession like you’d hoped. “Can’t even take a punishment. It’s like you’ve forgotten everything I taught you. Did you forget, detka? Do we need to start from the beginning? Reintroduce everything? Do you want to go back to only getting Daddy’s fingers because your tight little cunt can’t handle the strap?”

Your head shakes frantically, and you must look absolutely wild beneath the light that spills in from outside. The city is bright, shiny, dazzling, but Wanda Maximoff is a burning star and Natasha Romanoff is the very universe she explodes in and lights up with brightness that’s too hot to touch let alone look at nad see the full picture without being blinded and breathless and useless and you’re spiraling, you’re spiraling so far down into darkness that your train of thought abandons you and in the very moment that you lose all sense of where you are, drowning the scent ofWanda, and your arousal, and Natasha pacing across the room, apologetic but not enough to intervene, another slap lands between your legs and you howl with pain that becomes licks of tantalizing pleasure you can’t get enough of. You manage to stay still this time though. You don’t jerk, don’t chase her palm. You tense, you tighten, you bite down on your bottom lip until you almost taste copper, but you never move a single muscle.

Another slap comes down, and then another. She didn’t ask you to count them, so you lose count after the sixth. There must’ve been a nineteenth, because that number always makes Natasha laugh, and through thick tears in your eyes you registered her shoulders jostling from across the room before she’d turned away from the sight of you so completely unmade against Wanda’s chest to rummage through the closet. It weighs on you that she doesn’t even stick around to watch you be taunted and pulled apart so slowly and cruelly, it burns in your belly like shame, and for the first time you gasp in pain that has no pleasure, but before you can spiral, grasp onto sensations that have always been beneath the surface, that have fueled your every action since Wednesday afternoon, your brought back beneath the current of lust and willingness to do whatever the the hell they want when a slap comes down on your pussy that perfectly hits your clit. You're close. So close. Wanda knows. Of course she knows.

“Little sluts gonna cum from getting her cunt spanked!” Wanda calls out to Natasha, and your face burns with humiliation when you hear the thick laughter rumble from the closet. She slaps your core again, directly against your clit again, and that’s enough to have you dangling over the edge. You’ll take this orgasm. This orgasm that's going to be painful not just right now, but tomorrow morning when there's no pleasure left and only swollen lips and bruised skin, but for right now you’re willing to take it because it's the only thing they’ve given you outside of half asleep cuddles since Monday.

A gasp falls off of your lips when Wanda’s hand slaps against your clit again, but not with the same cruel pressure. It’s light. Deliberate. Your hips attempt to follow her palm when she retreats, her skin sparkling with slick, but she’s faster than you now, more coherent and intune with her body and its functions. She holds your hips down, forces your thighs wide. Your orgasm crashes over you and then it's gone, ebbing away into waves of pleasure that never dwindle, but never quite crash against the surface either. You’re sobbing, a mess of snot and tears, but no words escape you, and your fingers never tap your thighs, and your hands desperately shoot to Wanda’s wrists and try to pull them back to your core that weeps and drips lips a faucet or a widow, you’re not sure which one it is at this point — an inconvenience or a tragedy.

“Oh, you didn’t think I was just going to let you enjoy that orgasm, did you?” Wanda frowns, cupping your cheeks and bringing her thumbs against the damp skin, clearing away tears that are like diamonds on your flush skin. “Silly girl, you didn’t even ask for permission.” She clicks her tongue, and your brain is too fuzzy to comprehend that she’s blaming you for the ruined orgasm. She’d expected you to ask permission when she knew from the start that you couldn’t vocalize your wants even if you tried. It’s a thick blanket of something uncomfortable that smothers you when you realize that it had been a trap from the very beginning. You can’t handle another trap, another bout of teasing and creautly, but Wanda still has half of a plan to hatch, and you know she’s not going to stop unless you call it completely, but no part of you has the cognition to do that right now. Your brain is muddled, your thoughts aren’t your own, and the only thing you can process is them. Professor and Daddy. Professor and Daddy. Professor. Daddy. You need them. You need them fully and spiritually. You need them sinfully.

“Get on your belly.” Wanda moves away from you until her feet are on the floor and it's just you in the bed that feels too big for just your body. You do as she asks, even if you barely comprehend the task, and let your weight sink into the mattress as you finally lay down. It dawns on you now how tired you are, but Wanda can’t see your face, and Natasha watches your hands closely, but they never tap at your thighs in any fashion. You’ve always spoken up when something was too much. You’ve always used your signals when you were too deep into subspace to drop. She trusts you, and you’re showing clear trust in them, so they keep going, their reserves don���t break, and nobody sheds an ounce of pity as you whine and drip onto the comforter beneath your knees that Wanda props up like you’re just a doll for her to manipulate.

Somebody settles something between your legs, and only when your knees are guided back down and your hips are repositioned do you realize that it's the vibrator Wanda apparently bought three weeks after meeting Natasha. It’s big, and bulky, and you think superpowered though you have no proof, and when somebody flicks it on, you’re not sure who, it nearly sends you flying over the edge before somebody taps the button once, twice, three times and changes the setting to a low pulse that fades and goes at an uneven and deeply unsatisfying rhythm that you think must’ve been invented by a clueless man with no hobbies in life.

“You move a single muscle and I tie you up, understand?” Wanda waits for your fingers to tap against your thigh, even when it takes a full minute for you to process that she asked you a question at all. You tap twice, a silent confirmation of your understanding and acceptance, and so nobody thinks twice before they move on, Natasha pouncing on Wanda and stripping her out of her bra and underwear whilst Wanda does the same with her. They work in tandem. They always have. Wanda moves one way, Natasha moves the other. Even when Natasha’s searching for something dominating in Wanda, allowing her softer edges to shine through, they still move in harmony like its a practiced dance they’re showing you and ever so slowly teaching you. Even though you can’t see them, your face still buried in the blankets as your hips fight to remain still, you can imagine that they’re not moving with any less harmony and unity right now than any other moment you’ve witnessed them in. It makes everything ten times harder to handle, but when you finally do glance to the side, needing air that wasn’t restricted by the fabric that genuinely attempts to smother you in plain sight, you erupt into a whole new world of isolation when you watch Wanda hammer a dildo into Natasha’s cunt while the blonde’s fingers are burrowed between her legs, aiming to pull a quick and harsh orgasm from the redhead who doesn’t seem to have any complaints about not wasting time.

“Please!” It’s the first time you’ve spoken in a while, and your throat is scratchy and dry as evidence. You sound utterly pathetic, you look even worse, but there’s something soft about you as you fight to keep your head held up, twitching and jerking and so utterly helpless but in full control of your body. It’s addicting, alluring, intoxicating. It fuels Wanda on, but she doesn’t say a word, just rubs her thumb harder against Natasha’s clit and works the dildo faster, rougher, angling up to hit that spongy part in her walls that makes her head spin.

You can hear the vulgar squelches of their cunts as they work each other to orgasm, but you can’t distinguish which incessant squeak is Natasha’s and which is Wanda’s. They’re both moving too fast, with rhythmic paces that appear chaotic and unorganized to you right now. The soft tufts of hair between Natasha’s legs are red, ginger really, and they curl just slightly when she lets the bush grow out in the winter, but for summertime, her bikini line is cleanly waxed and her mound is adorned in only short strands of coarse hair that Wanda finds intoxicating to run her fingers over in the middle of the night aimlessly.

You’re still watching them when Wanda leans forward and captures Natasha in a kiss that looks bruising and rough and all encompassing, and your reserve breaks entirely when you watch them both come undone in climaxes that look satisfying and rewarding and soft as their fingers move slower and their wrists snap softly and they work each other through the height of blinding pleasure sweetly and tenderly — everything that you want, that you’ve been denied. It’s like they don’t care about you anymore. Do they not care about you anymore?

Suddenly it's hard to breathe, and even though Wanda never followed through on that threat of tying you down, you feel like your limbs are shackled to the bedpost and even though every nerve screams with oversensitivity from sensations you haven’t even been awarded yet, you can’t seem to move away from the vibrator that still torments your clit.

Natasha catches it first, the way you break,the way your knees lose their tension and your elbows unlock and your head drops against the bed like you just can’t bear the weight, and its confirmation that you’ve been off all along that has her rushing to your aid on the bed and quickly pulling the vibrator out from between your legs. “Hi, my love.” Her words are soft, sweet, so gentle you don’t recognize them and you continue to sob, gasping for breath, clawing at your throat, looking at her like you can’t even see her, twitching beneath her hands like you can’t feel them at all.

Natasha pulls you up into her lap, and apologizes when your clit catches on her thigh and pleasure shots through you so intensely that it hurts and you cry harder, coughing, spluttering, probably covering her with splatters of saliva but she doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t close her eyes and try to avoid the spray of your unruly emotions. She just lets you feel, and she lets herself feel, and she grounds herself in this moment because how did she not see it before? You’re never bratty. You’re never blindly disobedience nor are you rash or sexually impatient enough to do something as bold as slip Wanda your panties.

“It’s Friday.” Natasha blanches, her eyes trailing toward Wanda. She doesn’t let go of your cheeks, but she recognizes that you can’t hear her right now, that over the blood rushing in your ears and the sensitivity in your core not just from arousal but from Wanda’s unrelenting spanks too, you can’t even begin to process anything she’s saying. “I… I knew it was Friday, because I drove you to work, but I was convinced it was Wednesday because Pepper rescheduled the newsletter. Fuck.” Natasha pales, but Wanda’s still confused. Wanda still doesn’t know that you haven’t been properly touched in a week, or shown any kind of affection really, and so while she has sympathy and concern for your state, and her heart aches wondering where she went wrong, she’s not picking up on what Natasha’s trying to get across to her.

“What?” Wanda stalks closer. She’s unbalanced, slightly wobbly, but she doesn’t let it bother her anymore than she can control. You’re her entire priority, her entire world, and Natahsa’s scaring her immensely the longer she dances around the truth in burning shame and personal disappointment.

“I.. the last time I touched her was Monday. Did you let her cum at all?” She whispers and Wanda’s face pales, it’s her turn to realize that they’ve neglected you for days after scenes that warranted aftercare all on their own, let alone when they were strung together so closely and pointedly. She’d wanted to drive you crazy, she’d wanted to fuel you up, but then life had gotten busy, and it’s no excuse, but she’d forgotten all about your sexual escapades because it was just easy to move on with you. You take what life throws at you, and you always do it with a smile on your face — even when it’s breaking you apart.

“No.” Wanda shakes her head, and her hair falls over her shoulder and tickles her cheek as it sways and shifts with the motion of her head. “No, I told you to let her cum. I thought you did. Oh, my baby.” Wanda frowns, rushing the bed with a desperate urge to feel you and protect you. She can see it now, what she couldn't before, or perhaps didn’t want to. The blind devotion, the emotional withdrawal, the attitude and bratting. All the signs were there in theory, but you were just too damn good and appealing to their every desire. You were too damn good at sacrificing yourself for them even when the entire premise of your relationship is to do exactly the opposite. “It’s all done, moya lyubov. All done. Come back to me.”

It doesn’t happen right away. Not for a couple of minutes. But, eventually you begin to recognize hands on your cheeks, and you recognize hands on your lower back and thighs. Wanda touches you everywhere; wherever you can reach. Natasha stays in one place, she never moves, never even brushes her thumbs against your cheeks to clear your tears, she just holds your cheeks and keeps your eyes on hers even when Wanda moves around in your perphieral vision.

The ginger appears entirely calm, cool, and collected in your peripheral and hazed sense of cognition, she always appears so perfectly put together, but you know that she’s not somewhere deep inside of you. That small voice of reason doesn’t find a way out in this moment, instead, you drown in the promise that Wanda knows what to do, that Natasha won’t let you fall, and that they’re the only things that exist in this entire world even if they’re mean. that’s all you can think. Mean, mean, mean. You’ve stopped crying, but then your bottom lip begins to tremble again, and Natasha makes quick work of shaking her head and guiding you back to calm collectedness.

“Can I ask you a question, honey bee?” Natasha whispers, scared to hurt you, to scare you, to break you anymore than you already has. She recalls how you’d flinched when Wanda slammed the door unnecessarily and her heart clenches. She should’ve stopped the scene then. She should’ve trusted her gut in that single moment and stopped before it got to this point. Before it broke you so sinfully. She may like to see you cry, but she hates when it’s because she’s hurt you, failed to see you fully like she promised she always would. She loves when you tremble, when you twitch and jerk beneath her, but not when it’s from anxiety, when it’s because you’re so on edge and wound up that you don’t even know how to regulate your own emotions without her full guidance and attention on you. Wanda fares no better, but she can handle the mistake with grace because she has to, but Natahsa’s one tear away from joining you in your deep pit of darkness — dom drop. Wanda’s about to be playing a dangerous game if she doesn’t get the both of you under wraps before chaos really ensues.

“Natalia.” Wanda cuts in, and your eyes shot to her in alarm, a whine falling off your lips at her harsh tone. Wanda melts beneath your attention, scooping you up into her arms and leaving Natasha alone on the bed and still half dressed. “Idi, perevedi dukh i prinesi yey stakan vody. Tebe nuzhno uspokoit'sya, poka ya ne poteryal i tebya, ladno? (Go take a breath, and get her a glass of water. You need to calm down before I lose you too, alright?)” Wanda lets the words fall out naturally, like it takes no effort to switch back to Sokovian Russian and dance with Natasha intimately and personally. It dazzles you, it’s the first true glimpse at relief you’ve felt, and Wanda’s not lost on how you always seem to fold whenever her native tongue or accent comes out. You’re worse when its Natasha, and there’s evidence in your reaction as you whine and melt into Natasha like you’re just a little kitten desperate for warmth.

“I’ll be right back, printsessa.” She whispers, and her words are husked with a twinge of Russian that drives you absolutely crazy and clears the fog in your head just a little bit, but not enough to earn your voice back or pull away from Wanda’s chest at all. You nod, blink slowly, and grab at Wanda’s bra strap desperately until your knuckles are white and there’s no chance she can leave.

“I’m sorry we didn’t realize sooner, angel.” Wanda whispers once Natasha is out of earshot. Natasha may not be an outwardly emotional person most times. You can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen her cry, but you’ve learned that she’s more sensitive to failure and human mistake than Wanda is. If you were any clearer headed, you would’ve recognized that she’s beating herself up over this, but you don’t, so instead you just accept Wanda’s apology and believe her when she follows up with a whisper of, “It’ll never happen again.”

When Natasha comes back, she’s carrying two glasses of water and a protein bar that she only makes you eat when you don’t have enough energy to fight her because you hate the chalky taste. She feels like an asshole for bringing it to you now, but she always worries about you eating enough, call it a Russian stereotype, and she definitely would have brought Wanda one if she thought the ginger would’ve humored her for a second and even grabbed the bar when she handed it over. You weren’t as tuned into your surroundings, your cheek flush against Wanda’s chest as you cuddle as close as you can into her, desperately leeching her warmth. That’s another sign she missed, or maybe wanted to ignore. You’re always hot, their little furnace, but the second she’d come up to you shivering and hiding beneath the yellow blanket, she should’ve known something was wrong. She can’t change it now, and she can tell that Wanda’s already amended all that she can when you’re still so floaty, so she doesn’t waste time on another apology when you’re only half awake as it is, mindlessly chomping your teeth together because she’d fed you a bite of the protein bar when your eyes were closed.

“Off.” The first word off off of your lips is a breathy plead for more contact with Wanda, and she doesn’t hesitate for a second before she’s reaching behind her and unclasping her bra with one hand, freeing her breast for you to cuddle into all while Natasha merely admires the sight like she’s never seen it before. Not Wanda’s breasts, although she does spare a couple of seconds to admire them, but just how tender you are with them, how you let yourself be loved and comforted even when they caused it. She doesn’t deserve you, but she cherishes that you picked her regardless of her worth.

“Take a sip of water.” Wanda coaches when Natasha raises the glass to your lips but you refuse to drink, keeping your lips firmly pressed together and your hands on her breasts, squeezing, touching, just trying to feel as much as she’ll let you. She shifts when your weight becomes too much for her thighs, pins and needles shooting through her limbs, and you gasp when your clit catches on her thigh, and you're reminded of the sensitivity that is simultaneously blinding need. “Nu uh, not tonight, my love. Tomorrow I’ll make it all better, but we’re all done tonight. You were so good for me, so good, but it’s time to rest, so have a sip of water, and then were going to lay down and rest our eyes. We’ve had a long week, huh? You just need some cuddles and sleep to make it all better. I know. I know everything, baby girl. You never have to think when I’m here, so just stop, okay? No more thoughts, take a sip of water.” Wanda pauses, waits for you to comply, and when you do, greedily gulping down half of the glass when you realize how thirsty you are, she smiles. “Good girl. Such a good girl, my perfect girl. My best girl. That’s it, one more and then we’re going to lay down.”

You push Natahsa’s hand away after the last sip you take, feeling full and probably very buoyant fi you tried to go for a swim out back, but you don’t even think to move when you realize you have to pee, or that Wanda and Natasha haven't peed yet despite always going after a scene. You don’t have the entry to remind them, and Wanda, the stickler of the two, doesn’t seem to mind, so you don’t say anything that doesn’t need to be said. She guides you down into a laying position, soft and slow, cautious of the sensitivity in your head after so much crying. It makes you dizzy regardless, and you whine into her chest as she shifts and gets you comfortable.

“Shh, I know. I know. You’ve had such a long day, my brave girl. It’s all over now. All you need to do is close your eyes.” Wanda’s fingers tickle your back, gentle patterns that mean nothing but hold the potential of everything luring you to sleep until you jolt with sudden anxiety, reaching out for Natasha who seems too far away and too clothed.

“Off.” You huff again, and she laughs, but this time not like she did before, when it was cruel and mean and uncomfortable to handle and stand beneath without wilting. It’s soft now, charming, that laugh that fills you with light and love and energy, but there’s no energy right now. You’re tired, burnt out. You settle equally into her chest and Wanda’s when she takes her bra off, throwing it onto the floor to be added into the laundry later on along with your clothes and hers and Wanda’s that are still downstairs in the living room in a heap.

When your eyes finally close, and you fall asleep, you don’t wake up until one o’clock the next afternoon, but Wanda and Natasha are still beside you, wrapped up in bedsheets and t-shirts that drown them and conceal their chests from sunlight. For the night though, their skin is yours to feel fully beneath every inch of your body, because it had been far too long since they gave into this instinctive pleasure that keeps you all going. Never again would they let a week pass without prioritizing this — you. You’re everything to them, and Wanda tells Natasha as much before her eyes close, sleep winning the battle as you breathe deeply and evenly between them.

[arilevenatz]

Silent vows| K.Y.S

Pairing: Mafia!Yeosang x Reader

Genre: Arranged marriage, slight enemies to lovers, fluff

Word count: 22.4k

Warnings: forced marriage, emotional abuse, stalking, jealousy, implied violence, insecurity, yeosang is THE husband, we all want him

AN: Ok so happy belated birthday to my boy yeosang. The most prettiest, angelic mf I've ever seen. Like how can a man be so pretty and handsome at the same damn time. Also this was kinda like a prompt but I can't for the love of god find the comment. But you know who you are, thank you

Masterlist

“I’m not doing it.”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them, sharp and fast, cutting across the heavy air in the room like a blade. The study smelled like old leather and wood polish, the same way it always did when your father called you in for his lectures. But this wasn’t a lecture. This was something else. He sat behind that heavy desk, wearing the same expression he always wore when he made decisions for other people’s lives— calm, practiced, untouchable.

“This isn’t a request,” he answered, barely sparing you a glance. “It’s a responsibility.”

You could’ve laughed. Honestly, you almost did. Responsibility. That word sounded hilarious coming out of his mouth. What did he know about responsibility? The only thing he was responsible for was dragging this family name around town like it was some royal crest, acting like being respected by neighbors counted for anything real in the world.

“You don’t get to sell me off like I’m a—”

“Enough.”

Just that one word. Quiet. Heavy. And somehow louder than your shouting could ever be. Your mother was standing near the window, arms folded like she was cold even though the room was warm. She didn’t speak. She never did, not in front of him. Just stood there looking outside, twisting her rings like she could disappear into the carpet if she tried hard enough. You hated that you weren’t even surprised.

“This marriage will benefit this family,” your father continued, smoothing his sleeves like this was some business meeting. “We’ve built this name for generations. And you will protect it.”

You clenched your fists tighter, nails biting into your palms. “Your reputation doesn’t mean anything outside this stupid town.”

It slipped before you could stop it, but you didn’t regret it. You meant it. All these formal dinners, these family events, these endless talks about legacy— all of it felt empty. Like a dying empire pretending it was still a kingdom.

“This family has survived longer than you’ve been alive,” your father shot back, finally meeting your gaze with steel in his eyes. “And you’ll do your part to make sure it stays that way.”

You could feel the walls closing in. You could feel your freedom shrinking, curling in on itself, suffocating before you could even scream.

“Kang Yeosang.”

The name hit you like a slap. Sharp. Direct. Cold. You knew that name. Everyone did. Not because he was some loud, reckless criminal—no, worse than that. He was dangerous in a way that didn’t make noise. Dangerous in the way silent oceans are. You don’t notice how deep they are until you’re already halfway sunk.

“Why him?” you asked, throat dry.

Your father barely blinked. “Because his family’s name will keep ours alive.”

Alive. Like this was survival. Like marrying you off to someone you didn’t even know was a favor. Like it was a gift. You hated how calm he was about it. You hated how your mother still hadn’t said a single word. You hated how small you felt in that moment, standing in a house you used to believe was home.

“I’m not going to his house,” you muttered finally, stubbornness flaring even when your heart was hammering in your chest. “You can make me marry him, but I’m not moving in with some— some stranger.”

For a second, you thought maybe—just maybe—that would get a reaction. That something in him would soften, crack, break.

It didn’t.

Instead, he stood. Calm. Slow. Adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with careful precision, like he was bored of the conversation already. “You will,” he said softly. “You’ll go to his house, you’ll be his wife, and you’ll do what’s expected of you.” “And if I don’t?” you pushed, lifting your chin like you weren’t breaking inside.

His gaze sharpened just enough for the threat underneath to show, sharp and cold as glass. “Then I’ll handle it my way.”

You knew what his way meant. Not blood. Not mafia violence. But ruin. Reputation torn apart. Family turned against you. Friends pushed away. He knew how to break you the polite way, the respectable way. Quiet destruction in the form of shame.

You swallowed thick, hot air that didn’t want to go down.

“I hate you,” you breathed.

But your father was already walking away, steps quiet against the polished floor.

“I can live with that.”

Your throat burned with all the things you wanted to scream, but only one thing came out. “What about my studies?”

It sounded small. Weak. But it was the only lifeline you could grab onto in that moment. Something that was yours. The one thing you had left that wasn’t part of their family dinners, or reputation games, or polite handshakes pretending to be alliances.

University was supposed to be your escape. Not glamorous. Not perfect. But it was freedom in its own, small way—early mornings, long commutes, paper deadlines, friends who didn’t care about who your father was.

Your father barely reacted.

“You can continue after the wedding,” he answered flatly, as if you were asking if you could have dessert after dinner.

You stared at him. “After?”

“Yes. You’ll still attend.”

But you knew what that meant. You knew the weight behind those words. After the wedding. After moving into a stranger’s house. After taking his last name. After your life wasn’t yours anymore. Technically, sure—you could go back. Physically, you could sit in the same classrooms, scribble in the same notebooks. But it wouldn’t be the same. Not with whispers curling behind your back. Not with people watching you like you were an exhibit. “That’s her—the girl who married into them.”

It would hang on you like invisible chains. Dragging behind you everywhere you went.

And worst of all—you wouldn’t be able to come home. Not really. Not to this family. Not to your old life. You’d have a new last name, a new house, a new set of rules written by someone else’s hand.

The walls of the study felt like they were closing in.

“I don’t want this,” you said, quieter this time. No yelling. Just raw honesty, like a last ditch effort to claw your way out. “This isn’t my life.”

Your father looked at you the same way he looked at accounts on paper. Math. Numbers. Problems to solve, not feelings to fix.

“It is now.”

Simple. Unforgiving. Final.

You could almost feel the weight of your choices shrinking down to nothing. Every dream you used to picture folded neatly into a little box, pushed aside for family names and legacy dinners with strangers in pressed suits. Your stomach twisted. Hot. Cold. Rage and panic mixing together until you couldn’t tell which was worse.

You wanted to shout, wanted to break something, wanted to drag this perfect little empire down brick by brick just to prove you could—but you stood there frozen, fists clenched, staring at a man who would never, ever see you as anything but his tool first.

Come to the house.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Yeosang sighed, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “Alright. Be there in twenty.”

It wasn’t unusual—getting called over like this. His father didn’t waste words, didn’t waste visits. If he was calling, it meant something needed handling.

By the time he got to the mansion, the gates were already open like they always were when they expected him. The house was quiet, the same way expensive places are—grand, but not loud about it. Just old money tastefully sitting in every piece of polished wood.

His father was already in the study when Yeosang stepped inside, standing by the window, one hand in his pocket like it was muscle memory by now. Glass of whiskey in the other. Of course.

“You’re early,” his father said without turning around.

“You said now.”

His father finally looked over, gave him that familiar once-over like he was assessing a report. “Fair enough.”

There was a beat of silence. Not tense. Just quiet.

Then—

“There’s going to be a wedding.”

Yeosang blinked once. “Yours?”

His father gave him a flat look, one eyebrow raising the way it always did when Yeosang was being difficult on purpose. “Yours.”

Yeosang huffed a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, stepping further into the room. “That supposed to be funny?”

His father didn’t smile. “I’m serious.”

Yeosang stood still for a second, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Is that what you dragged me here for? Could’ve sent a text.”

“This isn’t a text conversation.”

“You’d be surprised what can be said over text these days.”

That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of his father’s mouth. Approval, maybe. Maybe not. Hard to tell with him.

“It’s arranged,” his father said, cutting through Yeosang’s deflection cleanly. “Her family’s name still matters in this town. Not rich, not influential in our way, but solid. Traditional. The kind of people who care about reputation more than their own comfort.”

Yeosang tilted his head slightly. “So… charity work?”

“Strategy,” his father corrected smoothly. “They need stability. We don’t need much from them, but it keeps everything clean.”

“Clean,” Yeosang repeated under his breath. He crossed his arms, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. “And I’m guessing I don’t get a vote?”

“You get an understanding. That’s enough.”

Yeosang didn’t argue. Not because he agreed, but because he knew there was no point. This was how it worked. Give and take. Favors. Names. Quiet deals behind closed doors.

He exhaled through his nose. “Who is she?”

“Y/L/N’s daughter.”

Yeosang’s brow ticked. “Didn’t know they had one.”

“Not surprising. They keep her out of sight. Books, classes, family dinners. But they need her to secure their name before it fades.”

Yeosang thought about that for a second. Reputation marriages were common enough. Boring, mostly. People shaking hands over other people’s futures like it was stock trading.

“You’ve met her?” he asked.

“Briefly. Enough to know she’s going to fight it.”

“Great.”

His father glanced at him then, sharp. “Not your job to like it. Just your job to make it work.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” Yeosang muttered, rolling his jaw. “I’m just saying… if she’s gonna be difficult, it’s gonna be annoying.”

His father’s gaze didn’t soften, but there was a certain understanding there. “You’ll handle it.”

Yeosang let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah,” he said, pushing off the doorframe. “Guess I will.”

As he turned to leave, his father added quietly, “This isn’t punishment.”

“I know.”

And he did. This was just how things worked. Fair or not—his life wasn’t completely his own anymore. Yeosang sat behind the wheel, thumb tapping against the steering wheel as he pulled out of the driveway. Headlights cutting clean lines through the dark street, smooth turns, muscle memory driving him home while his mind drifted elsewhere.

Marriage. Arranged.

He scoffed quietly to himself, shaking his head once. What was he supposed to do with someone else’s family name attached to his life?

Some sheltered daughter of a traditional family, probably the kind who spent too much money on handbags and complained when the AC wasn’t cold enough. He could already hear the whining. Could already see the way she’d expect to live in his place, treat it like a hotel, float through his routine like an expensive perfume he didn’t ask to wear.

No, that wasn’t happening.

Maybe he’d buy her an apartment somewhere else. Nothing fancy, but decent enough. They could do the whole photo ops thing, wear the rings, play nice for the public, then go back to separate lives. Paper marriage. Clean. Or worse—she could be one of those girls who latched on for money. Gold digger. Probably already imagining his credit cards with her initials on the back.

He pressed his tongue to his cheek in irritation. God, he hated gold diggers.

Maybe she’d show up to the first meeting with some designer bag acting shy, but batting lashes like she knew exactly how to play the game. All wide eyes and fake humility. Great. Just what he needed—another headache in heels.

And the name—YN.

It felt familiar. Couldn’t place it, but the reputation was old enough to echo through town. Traditional. Reputed. The type of family that prided themselves on manners but ate each other alive behind closed doors.

The kind that smiled with their teeth.

He drummed his fingers once more, sharp taps on the leather, jaw set.

Alright.

If he was going to be stuck with this arrangement, he might as well know what he was dealing with. And he wasn’t about to walk into it blind. He had resources. Skills. Connections that didn’t come from LinkedIn profiles or polite family dinners. If they thought he was going to just sit back and play along without checking her first, they clearly didn’t know him well enough.

Fine. If she was going to be part of his life, even on paper, he’d find out exactly who she was—before she even stepped in the same room as him.

He flicked his blinker, turning toward his penthouse, already thinking about who to call first.

Let’s see what Miss YN was hiding.

By the time Yeosang finished, he knew more about her than her own family probably did.

University—small, local, nothing flashy. Biology major. Not exactly the typical rich family trophy daughter. No branded handbags, no influencer lifestyle. Her socials were barely active. Private, even. Most of her posts were old, nothing more than the occasional picture of a sunset or food she cooked. No thirst traps. No fake aesthetic feeds.

She liked drawing. Had an old art account that hadn’t been touched in months—messy sketches of flowers and animals, all pencil or black ink. Crochet too. Random photos of half-finished scarves stuffed in a drawer. Cooking—simple recipes, home stuff, not the kind of thing you post to show off, just to remember.

Her friends? A few from university. Small group chats. Normal conversations. Mostly about classes, complaining about assignments, nothing interesting. No clubbing pictures. No vacation shots with secret boyfriends tagged under fake accounts.

The further he dug, the more it annoyed him—not because he found anything bad, but because he didn’t. No scandals, no secret plans to social climb, no hidden motives that screamed gold digger or spoiled brat.

She was just… boring.

Boring in the way people are when they’re not trying to be noticed. And for some reason, that irritated him more than if she had been a problem.

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, tossing his phone on the table. Elbow propped on the armrest, hand running through his hair, frustration curling at the edges of his jaw.

Great. Now he was stuck marrying some quiet, awkward, crochet-making biology nerd who probably spent more time reading textbooks than thinking about designer clothes. Not exactly the chaos he was expecting.

But that was fine.

Boring or not, it didn’t change the situation. Didn’t change the fact that she probably didn’t want this marriage any more than he did. Didn’t change the fact that, like it or not, she was about to become his problem.

The small cafe tucked between two old bookstores smelled like cinnamon and burnt espresso, the kind of place you’d miss unless you were looking for it. Y/N liked it that way—quiet, steady, familiar. No loud music, no influencers with tripods. Just people who liked good coffee and minding their own business.

She stepped up to the counter, eyes scanning the pastries before glancing at the girl behind the register. “I love your hair,” she said softly, a small smile pulling at her lips. “That color looks really good on you.” The girl blinked, caught off guard, then smiled wide. “Oh! Thank you—I just dyed it last week.”

Y/N nodded, pleased. Compliments were easy. They made people softer. And the girl was pretty, her pastel blue curls tucked behind her ear like she wasn’t sure yet if she liked them. Little things like that made the world feel less sharp.

She ordered her coffee, tucked herself into the corner seat like she always did, pulling her notebook out of her bag. Pages filled with messy diagrams, doodles in the margins, recipes scrawled sideways between molecular structures.

What she didn’t notice—what no one noticed—was the man sitting at the table near the window, fingers idly circling the rim of his untouched cup, black baseball cap low over his brow.

Yeosang watched all of it with that same steady, unreadable expression he always wore when he was thinking too much. He wasn’t even sure why he was there. Habit, maybe. Curiosity. Boredom. The fact that the more he found out about her, the more it didn’t add up with what he expected. Normal girls didn’t compliment strangers just because. Normal girls—especially daughters of families clawing for reputation—were supposed to be fake polite. Smile, nod, move on. But she meant it. He could tell. You didn’t fake that kind of tone.

He watched the way she curled into herself, scribbling in that notebook like the rest of the world didn’t exist, lips pressed into a soft frown of concentration.

Just a quiet girl who looked like she was holding herself together with coffee and stubbornness.

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee, jaw ticking once. This was going to be annoying in a completely different way. Y/N didn’t notice him when she left.

He watched her go, watched the way she shrugged her bag higher onto her shoulder, thumb absentmindedly rubbing at a little ink stain on her wrist from writing earlier. She moved like someone used to being unnoticed, like she liked it that way. The door chimed behind her, soft and forgettable.

Yeosang waited a beat, then stood, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as he stepped out onto the street. He wasn’t planning to follow her. Not really. That wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t the lurking type. But something about the whole thing felt unfinished—like he’d walked into a movie halfway through and now he needed to know how it ended, even if it was boring. Especially because it was boring.

She turned down one of the smaller streets, familiar paths clearly mapped in her head. She didn’t hesitate. Not once. Like she’d walked this way so many times her feet didn’t need permission anymore.

Normal. Predictable….Except for the part where, in a few weeks, her life wouldn’t be.

That was the thing gnawing at the edge of his mind. She didn’t know yet. Not fully. Probably knew about the arrangement, sure, but she didn’t know what marrying into his family meant. What marrying him meant. She looked like she still had hope things would be fine. Like she still thought she could negotiate her way out of it if she used the right tone with her father.

Cute.

He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t the type to tear down someone just because he could. But he wasn’t about to let someone walk into his life acting like it was optional.

This marriage was happening. She was going to be his. And the sooner she realized that, the easier it was going to be for both of them.

Yeosang sighed, pulling his cap lower as he turned the opposite direction, heading back toward his car. No point in being seen. Not yet. He’d play it properly, like he always did—let the introductions happen the way their fathers arranged, act like this was his first time seeing her. Civil. Normal.

For now, she could keep her quiet cafes and notebooks full of diagrams.

Soon enough, she’d be sitting across from him at a dinner table pretending she wasn’t thinking about escape routes.

And when that time came—

He’d enjoy watching the fight leave her eyes when she realized there weren’t any.

The dining room was too polished. Everything in it felt like it belonged in a magazine—heavy chairs, polished forks, crystal glasses that didn’t belong to people who used them often. It smelled faintly like expensive old wood and control.

Y/N sat straight, shoulders set, jaw locked like she’d been preparing for this her entire life. Polite daughter. Obedient. Chin slightly tilted up—not too much to look rude, just enough to show she wasn’t going to shatter on command.

Across the table, Yeosang sat with his elbow resting lazily on the armrest, fingers tapping slow against the tablecloth. His gaze was on her, not in the obvious way, not wide-eyed or curious—more like someone reading a file they already memorized but going over it again for fun.

“So,” his father started, formal tone sharp around the edges, “this is long overdue.”

Her father chuckled lightly, already halfway sunk into the leather chair like this was a golf meeting. “We’ve been meaning to sit down properly.”

Yeosang barely blinked. “Mm.”

Y/N didn’t look at him at first. Her eyes were trained on her plate, expression soft but unreadable, like she’d pulled politeness over herself like armor. When she finally did glance at him, it wasn’t shy—it was calculated. Brave. Probably spent the last week practicing it in the mirror.

Didn’t matter.

He knew everything already. Biology major. Draws on the side. Probably keeps her yarn stuffed in a drawer somewhere in that tiny bedroom of hers. Ordinary, and for some reason, that irritated him more than anything else could have.

Their parents carried the conversation like businessmen. Deals, family names, subtle remarks about strengthening ties. It wasn’t a dinner—it was a contract, disguised in roast chicken and overpriced wine.

Yeosang’s eyes didn’t leave her.

Y/N shifted her grip on the napkin under the table, folding it tighter in her palm. Eyes stayed low—not on purpose, not because she was scared—but because eye contact always felt like permission for people to ask more questions. And she wasn’t in the mood to explain herself to anyone at that table.

Yeosang sat across from her, speaking with her father like he wasn’t being sized up for marriage. Confident. Comfortable in a room full of expectations. His voice was steady, like someone used to being listened to, used to having the final word in a conversation. The kind of steady that didn’t need raising.

His father said something about ties between families. Her father hummed in agreement. Someone poured more wine. The edge of Yeosang’s gaze cut toward her briefly. He didn’t stare. Just checked. Like someone glancing at a watch to see how much longer they had to stay.

“So,” his voice finally reached her side of the table, low, smooth, without decoration, “biology.”

Her fork hovered, not quite raised, not quite lowered. “Yeah.”

He waited. No explanation followed. No polite rambling about how she got into it, what she wanted to do with it, how hard it was balancing studies with life. Just that quiet confirmation, like she wasn’t going to give him more than that unless dragged.

Something about that pulled a faint curve to the corner of his mouth—not a smile, not even close, just interest. Her fingers folded the napkin tighter.

“You gonna finish that?” he asked, eyes flicking to the untouched half of roasted potatoes on her plate.

Finally, her eyes met his. Not soft, not flirty—flat. Careful. “Do you want it?”

He shrugged once. “Didn’t think you were shy about eating.” “I’m not.”

He raised an eyebrow, mildly amused. “Good.”

Silence again, heavy but not uncomfortable. Just two people used to not needing to fill it. Her father started speaking about how she could continue studying after marriage, casual, like saying we’ll paint the guest room next week. She didn’t bother correcting him, though the heaviness in her chest said she wanted to. No way it would actually work that easily.

She didn’t say anything else for the rest of the meal. Yeosang didn’t, either.

He just watched her, like a lion watching something small—not because he wanted to pounce, but because he was curious if it was going to run. Neither of them moved first.

Yeosang watched the way her fingers kept folding the napkin tighter and tighter, like if she could just make it small enough, she could disappear into it. But her expression didn’t match the tension in her hands. She didn’t look flustered. Didn’t look desperate. Just… controlled. Like someone who’d been living with locked doors their whole life and knew better than to jiggle the handle too loud. Interesting.

“Do you usually not talk,” he murmured, cutting into the silence, “or is that just for me?”

The faintest breath of humor pulled at her nose before she could stop it. “Depends.”

“On?”

She let her gaze flick up—not to his eyes, just above them. “Whether or not the person across from me deserves it.” His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, and for a second, he almost laughed. Almost. This wasn’t what he expected. Spoiled daughters didn’t sit at tables folding napkins into perfect squares like they were holding knives in their laps.

And she didn’t look at him properly, not even once. Not because she was scared. Because she didn’t care. But she would.

Not in the way girls cared about him normally. Not wide-eyed or hopeful. No, she was going to care when she realized exactly how much of her life was about to be decided for her whether she folded napkins or full pages of essays. And the funny thing was—he didn’t want to break her. He just wanted to watch how long she could hold that line before she blinked first.

After the dinner dragged itself to its dull, polished conclusion, with the adults shaking hands over dessert like they’d just signed a treaty, Yeosang leaned back in his chair, elbow resting against the polished wood, fingertips brushing his jaw like he was thinking something over. And maybe he was. But the look in his eyes said this was calculated.

“So,” he said casually, but with the kind of weight that immediately drew the attention of both families, “how about next Thursday?”

The words dropped into the space between them with a deliberate softness, like a stone hitting still water. No one moved. His father raised a brow slightly, clearly pleased with the display of initiative. Her father smiled, the kind of smile fathers wear when they think their daughter’s life is finally falling in line. And Y/N—Y/N kept her fingers on the edge of her plate, eyes flickering up to Yeosang, finally, properly, but only for a second.

“Thursday?” she echoed, like she needed to make sure she heard him right, even though she absolutely had.

He nodded once, slow, composed. “Next week. You’ll be free, won’t you?”

It wasn’t a question. Not really. Not with the way every eye at that table turned toward her, expectant, waiting for her to be agreeable. Marriage was already settled like property; a casual dinner date wasn’t going to shake the foundation of that, but somehow, this felt worse.

Her jaw tensed before she could stop it, irritation curling hot under her ribs—not because she didn’t expect him to test her, but because he chose Thursday. Her only weekday off. Her only breathing space. Her only time where nobody expected her to be anything, say anything, do anything. She studied late on Thursdays, sometimes sat in the library doing nothing but scribbling messy notes on scrap paper that didn’t mean anything, just because she could. And now he was looking at her like he knew that. Like he’d planned that.

“I suppose,” she muttered, voice clipped, polite, lined with quiet annoyance that no one but him seemed sharp enough to hear. “Since you’ve already picked the day for me.”

Their fathers chuckled, pleased at the display of future marital bliss like they were in on some great joke. His father gave him that approving glance—the good, take responsibility look that was passed between powerful men in rooms like this. But Yeosang wasn’t watching anyone else. Just her. Measuring. Testing. Curious how far she could fold before snapping.

“You’ll like it,” he said simply. No tease. No apology. No smile.

She didn’t respond. Just folded the napkin in her lap one more time before setting it neatly on the table like she was handling something fragile. She didn’t look at him again, not because she was shy, but because she knew better. If she did, it’d feel like she was giving him something.

And right now, she wasn’t in the mood to give him anything. But she was curious now. Why Thursday?

Yeosang saw everything. He wasn’t sitting there with that calm posture and steady gaze for show—he was trained for this, raised on discipline sharper than any blade, molded under the expectation that one day he would carry the weight of something much heavier than family name. He was observant. Always. And while everyone at that table was busy patting each other’s backs over the success of an arranged marriage neither party asked for, Yeosang was watching her like a map he was learning by memory.

It was the way she folded the napkin—not once, not twice, but over and over. Each time, pressing it smaller, sharper, tucking corners like she wanted it neat but not too neat, controlled but never pristine. People who folded things that many times weren’t trying to fidget—they were trying to manage something they couldn’t put words to. He’d seen it in tense meetings, watched rival leaders smooth the edges of cufflinks or touch their watches repeatedly when they were hiding nerves or holding in words they couldn’t say aloud.

And she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

But that wasn’t the only thing. He caught the tiny shifts in her posture whenever her parents leaned too close, a subtle lean away—not disrespectful, not obvious, just barely enough to create distance like muscle memory. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t recoil. She managed it. As if that small separation was the only thing keeping her breathing steadily through this whole suffocating display of family pride.

Then there was her food. The careful way she pushed it around her plate, not because she was picky or entitled, but because eating under watchful eyes wasn’t the same as eating alone. Separating textures, shapes, colors, almost like categorizing parts of herself she wasn’t ready to share yet. It wasn’t disinterest—it was control. She was being studied, so she gave them nothing. Not even in the way she chewed.

Most people didn’t notice these things. Hell, most people didn’t even know they did them. But Yeosang saw it all like someone reading subtitles under a movie no one else could hear. And with every fold of that napkin, with every subtle lean of her shoulder, with every glance that never quite met anyone else’s fully, he knew one thing for certain—

She was no ordinary girl.

No spoiled daughter. No meek little thing waiting for a husband to save her from some sheltered life. There was something under that careful silence, something sharp, something waiting. Not the loud kind of defiance—but the quiet kind that made revolutions possible if left alone too long.

Yeosang didn’t know what that thing was yet. But he wanted to. Not to break her. Not to tame her. Not even to get under her skin. He just wanted to see what would happen if someone finally pressed back. And he was more than prepared to be that someone.

But he was no saint, either. Sure, Yeosang was observant. Sure, he was sharp, disciplined, raised on a steady diet of politics, violence, and strategy—but he was also his father’s son. And that bloodline came with one very particular curse: the chronic, unrelenting need to poke at things just to see what sound they made when they cracked. It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t even personal. It was just in his bones.

And she—sitting there with her neat napkin folding and careful glances and that stubborn refusal to give him anything—was basically gift-wrapped for that exact kind of cruelty.

Admit it. He was intrigued by her, sure. But more than that, there was an itch under his skin when he looked at her, this annoying, bratty curiosity that made him want to press buttons just to see what she’d do. Not because he wanted to humiliate her. Not because he wanted to watch her fall apart. No, it was because she didn’t flinch. And that was interesting. Different. Everyone flinched eventually—but she just… adjusted.

And she looked cute annoyed.

Not the whiny, spoiled kind of cute. Not the bratty, helpless kind. The kind of cute that made him want to lean closer, just to see if her voice would crack the same way her napkin did under her fingers.

He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t even be here, technically, wasting brainpower on reading into a girl he was being forced to marry by family names he didn’t even particularly respect. But here he was, running mental diagnostics on someone’s napkin folding like it was part of a case file, and liking it more than he should.

And if he was going to be dragged into this circus of arranged happiness, he might as well have fun while he was at it.

Testing her? It wasn’t just strategy anymore. It was entertainment. Annoying her? That was just hereditary.

She really didn’t want to go.

Like—borderline, jump-off-the-balcony level of not wanting to go. Not because she thought it would fix anything, not because she was dramatic, but because the sheer dread of giving up the one day that belonged to her made her stomach twist. It was Thursday. Thursday was hers. Her one breath in a week full of held ones. Her one clean, unclaimed square of time where no one asked her to smile, or marry, or fold herself into something palatable.

But she didn’t jump, because that wasn’t how good girls act.

Her mother’s voice echoed in the bathroom as she brushed mascara through her lashes. ‘Be agreeable, Y/N. Don’t embarrass us. You’re not going to be one of those girls with tantrums and police reports. You’re better than that.’

Better. Whatever that meant.

So she got dressed. Pulled on clothes that said I didn’t try but I still look good because if she was going to be dragged into this, she was going to do it on her terms. She tied her shoes like she was tightening a tether around her own ankles. Did her makeup—not too much, not too little, just enough to look alive, to hide the exhaustion that simmered under polite nods and family dinners.

And when she finally looked at herself in the mirror, it wasn’t vanity staring back. It was survival. Thursday. Her Thursday. And now she was about to spend it across from him.

That annoying Yeosang with his sharp eyes and careful words, with his I’m watching you energy and the quiet smugness that didn’t need smiles or stupid flirting to make itself known. She could already hear his voice in her head, perfectly even, perfectly annoying.

And yet—she still tied her hair the way she liked it. Still put on her favorite necklace. Not for him. For herself. Because if she was going to war, she might as well wear armor.

She went down the stairs like muscle memory, footsteps light but steady, not really registering anything around her. Her parents said something—maybe a wish, maybe a warning, maybe one of those sugary “be good” reminders her mother loved so much. But it was all white noise, just the hum of life happening in the background of a mind that was already somewhere else entirely.

She didn’t ignore them on purpose. She was just zoned out. The kind of zoned out where you don’t even realize your keys are already in your hand, or that you locked the door behind you without thinking about it. Automatic. Like when you’re walking to class with music on and suddenly you’re already at the building, but you don’t remember crossing the street.

She didn’t remember leaving the front door. Didn’t remember if she’d even said goodbye, or if her mom had tried to fix the fold of her sleeve one last time like she always did. And she definitely didn’t see him until she stepped out onto the pavement and felt him.

There’s a specific kind of awareness that happens when someone’s eyes are already on you before you’ve noticed them. Like a silent tap on the shoulder. She glanced up—

—and there he was.

Leaning back comfortably in the driver’s seat of a sleek black car, windows down just enough to catch the breeze, one hand draped over the steering wheel like he had all the time in the world. Rap music playing in the background, not quiet but not obnoxiously loud. And that expression—not quite a smile, definitely not a grin, just that irritating curve of satisfaction people wore when they’d predicted something exactly right. Smug wasn’t even the word for it. It was too clean. Too Yeosang. Of course he was already here.

Of course he was watching her like he knew she wouldn’t have noticed him until now. She blinked once, slow, lips pressed in a thin line, and then kept walking. Didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t offer a greeting, just moved like she was late for something even though she wasn’t.

He leaned slightly forward as she approached, tapping his fingers once against the steering wheel, eyes glinting with that silent, irritating amusement.

You walked towards the car, your steps slower than usual, annoyance bubbling up at the sight of him sitting there, looking far too comfortable. You crossed your arms and leaned slightly against the door, giving him a flat look.

“I wasn’t aware you were picking me up,” you said, trying to keep your voice neutral. It came out a little sharper than intended, but you couldn't help it. This whole thing felt off, like you were being dragged into a game that you hadn’t agreed to play.

Yeosang just looked at you with that annoying, cocky expression, the one that always made your blood boil, and shrugged a shoulder. "Well, you should've been. It’s not like you had many options."

You felt a flicker of irritation, but it quickly settled into a calm mask. You weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of showing how much he got under your skin. Moving towards the backdoor, you reached for the handle, ready to slide in and get this over with.

Before you could even touch it, the car locked with a loud click.

You froze.

What the hell?

You looked up at him, surprised. He just sat there, still with that casual air, his eyes gleaming as if he was waiting for a reaction.

“Excuse me?” you said, narrowing your eyes.

Without missing a beat, he simply pointed to the passenger seat with an almost lazy gesture. "Sit there."

You blinked at him. You were about to say something—probably something rude—but you stopped yourself. There was no way you were going to let him mess with you like this. Still, you didn’t argue. You didn't have the energy to fight him over something so trivial. The car door opened with a quick swipe, and you slid in, your gaze still sharp but subdued.

Yeosang didn’t speak again as you buckled your seatbelt, his attention shifting to the road as he put the car in drive. The silence between you felt heavy, but you couldn’t bring yourself to break it. It was better this way. Better not to engage, better to keep things surface-level.

The ride was awkward. Well, for you, at least. Yeosang didn’t seem to feel it. His posture was relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear, like he was driving down to the beach with friends and not chauffeuring his future wife to some forced date neither of you wanted.

But you sat there, arms crossed, eyes out the window, chewing the inside of your cheek. And then it hit you. Wait. Is that Kendrick Lamar’s Reincarnated playing?

You blinked, eyes flickering toward the dashboard like you could confirm it with just a glance at the stereo. The beat was unmistakable, that heavy bass, sharp snare, and those layered vocals riding smooth over the instrumental. Of all the people to be playing Kendrick Lamar at full volume—it had to be him.

The irritation in your chest shifted slightly, replaced by something… warmer. Familiar. For a second—just a second—you forgot you were on your way to spend your Thursday afternoon with the most annoying man alive. You knew this song. Knew it.

Mentally, you started mouthing the lyrics in your head, matching every bar, every breath, every sharp flip of cadence like muscle memory. Word to word. Clean. Like second skin. It wasn’t loud in your expression, but your mind was in full concert mode, rapping like you’d been waiting for this exact song to save you from the awkwardness.

And for the first time since you sat in that car, you didn’t feel bored.

Without even realizing it, your fingers had started tapping against your thigh, following the beat with this natural kind of ease that only happens when something feels right. The awkwardness melted just slightly—not completely, but enough that you didn’t feel like throwing yourself out of the moving car anymore.

But then—

The song ended, and before you could even mourn the silence—another Kendrick song started playing. Different album. Same vibe. Same unmistakable energy. You frowned slightly, eyes flicking to the stereo now like it had betrayed you. Two Kendrick songs in a row? Coincidence?

You sat there for a second, staring ahead, lips pressing into a thin line as your brain worked overtime. Sure, it could’ve been a coincidence. Everyone liked Kendrick, right? But this felt… deliberate. Like someone had put it on a playlist. Was he doing it on purpose? Is he a fan too?

You glanced at him, cautious, like you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of catching you interested—but curiosity was starting to override irritation. He was just driving like usual, one hand lazily adjusting the volume like it was background noise to him. But something about how casual he looked felt rehearsed.

It didn’t sit right with you. Could’ve been random. Could’ve been a setup. Or… could’ve been both. But either way, you weren’t about to ask first. Nope. Not happening.

You just leaned back against the seat, eyes steady out the window, tapping your fingers again, this time not just because of the beat—but because you were thinking.

Yeosang was way too pleased with himself.

Not that he showed it outwardly—no smug grin, no teasing comments just yet—but inside? Yeah. He was damn near proud. Everything was going exactly how he wanted. Calculated. Controlled. Planned with the kind of precision that came from years of watching, learning, and frankly—being too damn good at reading people.

He knew everything he needed to know about you. Hell—he probably knew more about you than you did. He knew Thursday was your free day. Knew how you carved it out for yourself like it was holy ground. That’s exactly why he chose today to drag you out. Not because he wanted to ruin it. No—because it would be the one thing you couldn’t say no to. You’d either have to cancel your only peace of the week or face him—and he knew you’d pick facing him. Pride. Predictable.

He knew you didn’t like going out—not with family, not with friends, barely even by yourself. So, he came to you. Made it easy. Familiar car. Private. No excuses to back out last minute because “I didn’t feel like taking a cab” or “the bus was crowded”. Nah. He had you cornered, comfortably.

And the music? That wasn’t a coincidence, either. He’d seen the playlist. Hell, he’d memorized the damn playlist. Kendrick Lamar was your favorite in the rap genre, and it just so happened Kendrick was on his heavy rotation too, so it didn’t even feel forced. Just enough familiarity to make you settle in, just enough to make your fingers tap without realizing, to get you thinking maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.

He didn’t need to ask you what you liked. He knew what you liked. Yeosang’s father didn’t raise fools—and Yeosang wasn’t about to start disappointing now.

He kept his eyes on the road, face clean of expression, like he didn’t know exactly what you were thinking. Like he hadn’t already played this scene out in his head a dozen times. You were stubborn, yeah—but he was patient. And precise.

He didn’t want to break you. Nah. That was boring. He wanted to watch. Watch how long you could act like you didn’t care. Watch how long you could pretend you weren’t curious. Watch how long it took before you realized—you weren’t the only one with sharp edges.

And yeah, he liked rap too. Lucky you.

The car rolled to a smooth stop, the hum of the engine cutting off and leaving behind the faint echo of Kendrick’s verse lingering in your head. You looked around, blinking slowly. Parking lot.

What kind of parking lot? You didn’t know. Big building, a few cars around, that slightly industrial vibe, but nothing familiar. You didn’t go out enough to tell which part of town this was, and frankly—you didn’t care. You just wanted to get this over with.

With a sigh, you reached for your seatbelt, pressing the button to unclip it…Nothing.

You pressed it again, harder this time, like maybe the extra force would convince it to listen to you. Nothing moved. “Oh, come on—” you muttered under your breath, tugging at the strap now with growing frustration. Typical. Typical. Of course this was happening. On today of all days. And the last thing you wanted to do—the very last—was ask him for help. But pride had limits, and you’d already used up most of yours agreeing to this disaster of a “date.”

You glanced at him reluctantly. “It’s stuck.”

He didn’t even pretend to be surprised. Didn’t flinch, didn’t chuckle—just leaned slightly toward you, unbothered, one hand moving with irritating ease to the buckle. The button clicked effortlessly under his fingers like it had just been waiting for him to do it.

“See?” he murmured, voice low, that smug little undertone threading beneath it. “I knew you’d need me eventually.”

Your jaw clenched, and you shot him a look that could’ve killed a weaker man on the spot. “It was broken.”

“Of course it was,” he replied, tone dripping with mock sympathy, before pushing his door open and stepping out like nothing just happened.

You sat there for a second, heat prickling at the back of your neck, wishing the ground would swallow you whole—but no such luck.

Fine. Whatever. You pushed your door open too, standing straight, brushing down your clothes like you hadn’t just been humiliated by a seatbelt. You wouldn’t let him have the last word. Not yet. Not ever.

You followed him, not knowing where you were going, but very aware of two things:

1. This was going to be a long day.

2. You hated how nice his stupid cologne smelled when he walked ahead of you.

But you had no intention of making this easy for him.

So, as soon as you both started walking, you slowed your pace—not obviously, not dramatically—just… enough. Enough to make it mildly irritating. Enough to make him notice. You weren’t even really doing it on purpose; he was just tall, and apparently, tall people had no concept of walking like normal humans. His strides were three of yours combined, and you refused—refused—to jog after him like some lost puppy.

If he wanted to drag you around, he was going to work for it. But the irritating thing? He didn’t say a word. Didn’t huff, didn’t throw a glance over his shoulder, didn’t tell you to hurry up like you half expected. He just walked, silent, hands in his pockets like this was the most casual thing in the world.

Until suddenly, about ten steps ahead, he stopped. Just stood there.

You narrowed your eyes, fully prepared for some passive-aggressive remark or maybe a sarcastic clap. You were ready for it. Bring it on. But instead—he just turned around and… held out his hand. You stared at it like it was something you didn’t understand.

The hell was that supposed to mean?

Your eyes flicked up to his face, searching for the usual sharp comment or hidden smirk—but nothing. He just stood there, hand out, expression unreadable but steady. “Grab on,” he said, like it was obvious. You blinked, caught between being offended and… genuinely confused. “What?”

“You’re slow,” he said simply, like he was pointing out the weather. “So grab on.”

You stared at his hand, then back at his face. “I’m not slow. You’re just fast.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he said under his breath. “Now grab on before I make you.”

You didn’t move for a second. Pride screamed no, but practicality… well, it was tired of jogging every five steps to keep up. And something about the way he said it—firm, low, steady—not mocking, not playful, just… expecting—it made that prickling nervousness crawl up your spine again. You hated that tone.

But your hand moved anyway, slipping into his, your fingers curling awkwardly, like you didn’t know what to do with yourself. His grip was steady, firm—but not crushing. Not controlling. Just… leading.

Without another word, he started walking again, pulling you gently but efficiently alongside him, adjusting his pace—not entirely slowing down, but enough that you didn’t have to scramble. You hated how… easy it felt. Hated it more that your hand stayed there.

The deeper you both walked, the clearer it got—it wasn’t just some random building or a casual cafe. It was a restaurant. A fancy one.

Not just white tablecloth fancy, but crystal glasses, piano music playing softly in the background, waiters dressed better than your uncles at weddings kind of fancy. And honestly? It was too much.

Your dad never took you to places like this. Never. Said restaurants were a scam, said home food was better, cheaper, cleaner—but you knew better. You’d seen the unpaid bills, the receipts stuffed into drawers, the phone calls with that low, desperate tone he didn’t think you could hear. Gambling debt didn’t leave room for filet mignon or imported wine. You’d spent your life quietly excusing it, brushing it off, pretending you didn’t want this kind of thing anyway.

But standing here now, in this giant pristine place with soft golden lighting and tables spaced way too far apart, you felt like an imposter. Like you were wearing someone else’s shoes in a room you didn’t belong in. It was overwhelming. Too bright. Too clean. Too silent. Everyone here looked like they belonged. And you—you didn’t even know which fork to use first.

You hadn’t realized it at first, but your body did. Instinctively, without even thinking, you found yourself scooting closer to him. Not dramatically—not enough to look weird—but just enough that the space between you narrowed. Like proximity alone could make you smaller, safer, less obvious. The worst part?

It felt natural.

You hated that. Hated that the man you were mentally arguing with for the past hour was now also the one person here who felt vaguely familiar.

Yeosang noticed, of course he did. The tension of your shoulder brushing barely against his arm, the shift of your body tilting slightly toward his—he clocked it instantly. But he didn’t comment. Didn’t give you that teasing remark you were bracing for. Instead, his fingers adjusted slightly around yours, like he was anchoring you there. Silent. Steady. Just a solid presence beside all the marble floors and velvet chairs.

He didn’t say a word. But you felt it anyway. ‘I got you.’

Some guy—manager, waiter, whatever—showed up then, all polite smiles and expensive cologne, greeting Yeosang like they were long-lost friends or something. Said something about the table being ready, offered some words you didn’t really catch because your brain was too busy buzzing with nerves.

You weren’t listening. Didn’t want to. Everything felt too sharp around the edges. Before you could even process it properly, Yeosang had your hand again, guiding you forward with that same casual grip, not giving you the chance to hesitate. It wasn’t forceful, just… confident. Like he already knew you’d follow.

And you did.

He led you through rows of softly murmuring people until you reached a table—not entirely private, but tucked into a little alcove, partly hidden by frosted glass panels and low plants. Enough separation that you didn’t feel like fish in a tank, but not so hidden that it felt awkward. It was nice. Comfortable in a way you hadn’t expected.

Yeosang didn’t miss a beat. He stepped around you and—of course—pulled out the chair. You hesitated for half a second, eyes flickering up at him. No teasing expression. No sharp remark waiting. Just a simple gesture, like this was routine.

You sat down, the chair gliding smoothly beneath you, and he pushed it in with practiced ease. For a brief second, you hated how nice that felt. Not because of him. But because no one had done that before. Not dates, not family, not anyone.

You adjusted your sleeves awkwardly, trying not to fidget, while he walked around and took his own seat, leaning back with that effortless comfort like this was his living room and not a restaurant with menus you probably couldn’t even afford to read.

He picked up the menu with one hand, flipping through it casually like this wasn’t his first time here—which, judging by how the staff greeted him, you were sure it wasn’t. His eyes scanned the pages, sharp and focused, while the other hand rested lazily on the edge of the table. After a moment, he looked up, right at you. “What do you want?”

It shouldn’t have been a complicated question. Normal people would just… answer. Say pasta, steak, whatever. But for some reason, your throat tightened. It wasn’t nerves—not exactly. Just… indecision.

All your life, someone had chosen for you. Your mom, mostly. Always ordering for you at restaurants—never asking, just assuming. Always brushing off your opinions as “It’s not good for you,” or “You won’t like it.” Somewhere along the line, you stopped bothering to decide. It felt easier that way.

So you did the only thing that felt natural, default almost. “Whatever you’re having.” Yeosang paused.

His jaw ticked slightly, almost like he was holding back a sigh—but not in frustration. More like… patience. “That’s not how this works,” he said, voice lower, steady, like someone reasoning with a kid who was trying to eat candy for breakfast. “You don’t just copy.”

You shrugged, defensive, staring at the polished wood of the table. “I don’t know what’s good.”

“It’s not that deep,” he finished for you, lips twitching slightly—but not in mockery, just amusement. “It’s just food. Pick what you want.”

The thing was… no one had ever given you choices like that. Not explained them patiently. Not acted like your opinion actually mattered, even in something as small as dinner. It made your chest feel weirdly tight. Like you wanted to be mad, but couldn’t quite find the reason.

Yeosang didn’t press further. Just leaned back again, waving over the waiter with a lazy flick of his fingers, like this was the most normal thing in the world. But you sat there with the menu still open in your hands, staring at it…

That’s when it hit you—the slow, creeping embarrassment settling in the pit of your stomach.

You didn’t know how to read menus.

Not like literally not knowing how to read, but… you didn’t know how to understand them. Fancy restaurant menus weren’t in normal language—they were in that rich people language. Words like confit, beurre blanc, something-something reduction—you didn’t even know if you were ordering food or furniture. The more you stared at it, the worse it got. Everything blurred together until it just looked like noise on paper.

Your hand twitched slightly on the edge of the menu, the corners of it curling under your fingertips. You didn’t even know how to begin. Finally, you gave up. Quietly. Awkwardly. You placed the menu down and looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time all evening. Gone was the irritation, the stubborn defiance. Instead, it was something softer. Not defeated, but pleading.

“Can you just… choose?” you asked, voice low, almost hoping he wouldn’t make a scene about it.

For a second, he just stared at you. No teasing, no smug smile—just studying you. Calculating. Then, instead of making a big deal about it, he nodded once, sharp, like this was all perfectly normal. “Alright,” he murmured. “But you’re still gonna have choices.”

And then, like it was muscle memory, he listed things off. Simple. No complicated words, no long-winded chef specials.

“Do you want red sauce or white?”

“Chicken or beef?”

“Want dessert or not?”

Just basic questions, no extra fluff. Like someone breaking down rocket science to math tables. By the time he was done, it actually sounded like a meal, not a puzzle.

And without realizing it, you’d started folding the cloth napkin again. Neatly. Sharply. Fold, unfold, fold, unfold. It was muscle memory at this point—your fingers always needed something to do. Something to control, even when nothing else made sense.

Somewhere along the way, he’d passed you his napkin too. You didn’t even notice it. Just that at some point, your hands had another one to work with. Your mind didn’t register it; your body just accepted it, thankful for the extra fabric to keep you grounded.

It was quiet. Subtle. No words, no glances, no gestures. And while you kept folding and unfolding that napkin like your life depended on it, he just sat there across from you, arms resting lazily on the table, ordering both your meals in that steady voice like this wasn’t even a thing.

He didn’t act like he was helping. And you didn’t notice you were being helped.

While you were busy poking at the carefully cut chicken on your plate—eating but not really tasting—Yeosang sat across from you, trying not to lose his mind.

Cuteness aggression. That was the only way to describe it. Like he wanted to bite something or hit the table—not out of anger, but because you were just too much.

It wasn’t just the way you’d quietly surrendered, letting him order for you like it was nothing. It wasn’t just the way your fingers kept working that napkin like you didn’t even know you were doing it. It was the whole picture—the you of it all. Sitting there, looking like the softest thing in the sharpest world.

And that cardigan you were wearing? Please. He could tell by the stitching it was handmade. Probably by you. The unevenness of the cuffs, the slightly imperfect patterns—no brand could fake that kind of charm. You didn’t even know how much that cardigan was giving you away, how much of you was stitched into every row.

It made something in his chest tighten, like he wanted to tuck you somewhere safe. His pocket. A drawer. Somewhere you couldn’t get overwhelmed by menus and loud places and useless fathers.

But he still played it cool, leaning back a little, eyes glinting as he ran his thumb along the edge of his fork like he wasn’t thinking borderline insane things about a girl he just met. He glanced at the cardigan, then back at you, voice dropping casual but knowing.

“You make that?”

You blinked, pausing mid-bite. “What?”

“That cardigan,” he said, tone light, like they were talking about the weather. “You made it?”

You hesitated. Not because you were embarrassed—more because no one really noticed that kind of thing. Definitely not guys like him. But… you nodded. “Yeah.”

A lazy grin, sharp but not mocking, pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Figured. Looks like you.”

That sentence alone made your stomach flip in ways you didn’t have the energy to process. You didn’t even know what that meant. Looked like you? Quiet? Crocheted? Awkwardly stitched together? You didn’t ask. You just looked back down at your plate, busying yourself with another bite, folding that second napkin again like it was holding the fabric of your nerves together.

Meanwhile, Yeosang sat there, feeling way too satisfied with himself. You were dangerously cute. And he was dangerously aware of it.

He dropped you off, making sure you got to your front door before pulling away. You didn’t say much—a quiet “thanks,” barely audible—but you didn’t run away either. Progress.

But by the time he pulled into his father’s estate, parked the car, and stepped into the over-polished marble entrance, he was losing it. Hand over his mouth. Jaw tight. Muscles flexing like he was holding in a scream or something equally embarrassing. What the hell was that?

That wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be annoying. Spoiled. Bratty. Some daddy’s princess with acrylic nails and too much perfume. You were supposed to be the type he could dump in a nice apartment and visit once a month with gifts so you’d stay quiet about the whole arrangement.

But you weren’t. You were a mess. An organized, pretty, cardigan-wearing mess.

And worse, you didn’t even know you were cute. You weren’t even trying. You just sat there in that chair at that fancy-ass restaurant, folding napkins like they were some secret escape plan, wearing that handmade sweater like it wasn’t making him feel like an insane person.

And now? Forget that whole buying-another-place plan. That idea was dead the moment he saw how small you looked sitting across from him. No way. You were staying where he could see you. Reach you. Annoy you on purpose if he felt like it. Which he did.

He stood in the foyer of his father’s mansion, hand dragging down his face, pacing a little in his boots.

God. He felt like squealing. Like actually kicking something, or punching the air, or rolling on the expensive carpet like a twelve-year-old with a crush.

“This is insane,” he muttered to himself, like saying it out loud would make it make sense. It didn’t.

You were in his head. Neatly folded like that stupid napkin you kept twisting around your fingers. And for the first time in a long time, Kang Yeosang didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh, scream, or marry you right now.

The moment Yeosang stepped further into the house, hand dragging down his face, muttering like a lunatic, he heard it—the unmistakable voice of his old man echoing from the sitting room. “Why the hell do you look like a teenage girl who just got her first crush?”

Yeosang didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even stop pacing. Just waved his hand dismissively, as if to say don’t start. His father stood there in his usual crisp shirt, whiskey glass in hand like always, giving him that unimpressed look fathers reserve for sons who don’t follow in their exact footsteps.

“I’m serious,” his father huffed, stepping forward. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Why are you here anyway? Thought you liked hiding in that overpriced shoebox you call an apartment.”

Yeosang finally dropped his hand from his face, side-eyeing him, unimpressed. “Renovation,” he grumbled. “It’s getting fixed up. You want me to sleep on the street?” His father scoffed, taking a sip of his drink, shaking his head. “You could’ve stayed at one of the hotels we own.”

“Right. And let everyone think I’m homeless now. Good look for a mafia heir.” The older man narrowed his eyes, recognizing that tone. That annoying tone Yeosang always used when he was about to get smart-mouthed. “So why are you pacing around here like some lovesick idiot?”

Yeosang clicked his tongue, glaring at the floor like it personally offended him. “It’s your fault.”

“My fault?”

“You’re the one that set me up with her.”

His father’s brow lifted. “Did she bite?”

“She didn’t even blink.”

That made his father laugh. Really laugh. Like belly laugh, hand pressed to his chest, deep and loud in that expensive, echoey house.

“God,” Yeosang muttered under his breath. “You’re actually enjoying this.”

“Of course I am,” his father smirked. “Finally met someone who doesn’t fall apart under your pretty-boy nonsense. Good. You needed that.”

Yeosang rolled his jaw, annoyed beyond belief, but honestly? His dad wasn’t wrong. His father waved his glass toward him. “What’s the problem, then? I thought you were going to dump her in a penthouse and get on with life.”

“Yeah, that plan’s dead.”

“Why?”

Yeosang just stood there, defeated. “She’s too—”

“What? Petty? Weird? Mean?”

“…Soft.”

His father blinked, confused. “Soft?”

Yeosang didn’t elaborate. Didn’t have to. Soft in a way that made him want to ruin someone’s life if they made you cry. Soft in a way that made him want to drag you closer by the wrist when you got overwhelmed. Soft in a way that pissed him off because he liked it too much. His father just shook his head, amused, like he knew exactly what kind of hell Yeosang was walking into. “Good luck with that, Romeo.”

“Shut up.”

You did not expect this. A casual text? Fine. Him calling you just to “check in”? Annoying, but tolerable. Even him dragging you out on those stupid dates now and then—you could live with that. But this? Showing up to your university?

What the actual hell was wrong with him?

It wasn’t even subtle. Of course it wasn’t subtle. Not with that stupid black car of his parked right at the entrance, shining like a beacon of unwanted attention. Not with him leaning against the door like he was shooting a damn commercial, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses pushed into his hair, looking like every other man’s nightmare and every other woman’s distraction.

And people noticed. Oh, they noticed. Girls whispering, eyes widening, phones coming out to take sneaky pictures. A group of guys near the library basically breaking their necks trying to get a better look. And you?

You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. He had the audacity to wave at you. Like this was normal. Like this wasn’t blowing up the very careful life of low attention, quiet exits, don’t talk to me I’m just here to graduate you had built for yourself.

You speed-walked. Not even pretending anymore. Walked up to him so fast it looked like you were about to commit a crime. “What the hell are you doing?” you hissed under your breath, shoving at his shoulder, eyes darting around like you were being followed by paparazzi.

“Picking you up,” he said, casual as you liked, like this wasn’t the most embarrassing moment of your life unfolding in real time.

“Get in the car,” you snapped. “Now.”

And, the bastard, he laughed. Laughed like this was a game.

Still, he obeyed, sliding into the driver’s seat like he was doing you a favor. You yanked the passenger door open, practically diving inside, head ducked like you were avoiding a sniper.

The moment the door shut you rounded on him. “Are you insane?”

“I missed you,” he said, like that explained anything.

“You could’ve— texted me or something! I don’t need the whole uni thinking I’m with someone rich”

“You are with someone rich,” he corrected, one hand casually gripping the wheel, the other resting over the gear like this was a Sunday drive.

The car came to a stop in front of this sleek-looking storefront, all black glass and warm lighting, like one of those places you only see rich people walk into on TV shows. And because your life apparently wasn’t embarrassing enough, Yeosang parked like he owned the building.

You looked at the place, then at him. “What is this?”

“Jewelry,” he answered flatly, already stepping out of the car. Jewelry. Jewelry. As if that explained anything.

Before you could argue or even think, he came around, opened your door, and like a villain from a drama, dragged you inside by the wrist—not harsh, but determined. The cold from the street clung to your clothes, your boots crunching against the salted sidewalk, but the moment you stepped inside—it was warm. Not just warm, but that kind of luxury warm, where the air smells faintly of expensive perfume and everything feels soft, even though nothing should be.

And you? You immediately felt your whole body loosen, just a little. It wasn’t even intentional. The cold had been biting, sharp against your ears and the tip of your nose, and this? This was dangerous. Comforting. You could rot here, honestly. Just melt into one of the velvet chairs and stop existing.

Yeosang noticed.

Of course he noticed. He didn’t miss anything about you. The way your shoulders relaxed. The way you almost—almost—let your head drop forward like you could fall asleep standing there.

He wanted to bite you. No, seriously. Bite. His jaw clenched just thinking about it. You looked too cute. With your knitted cardigan, snow-dusted boots, fidgety fingers already tugging at the sleeves. It was criminal. Illegal. Someone should lock you up for being this dangerous in public.

But he was strong. Barely. Barely holding himself back from grabbing you by the face and just—squishing. Maybe even kissing that stupid annoyed expression off of you. Would’ve been worth it. You were too busy shaking the snow from your sleeves to notice him battling for his sanity two feet away.

An employee walked over, all smiles and professional greetings, asking what you both needed today. You blinked at her like a deer caught in headlights.

Yeosang spoke first. “Rings.”

You snapped your head to him. “What?”

“For the engagement,” he said calmly, like duh, obviously. Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “You dragged me here for that? You could’ve warned me—”

“And ruin the surprise of watching you panic in real-time? No thanks.” You glared daggers into his skull, wishing you could teleport out of your own skin. “You’re evil.”

“Mm,” he hummed, eyes lazily drifting over the display cases. “Yours?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Ring size.”

“I—I don’t know!”

His lips quirked—not a smirk, you banned those, but just that annoying, knowing twitch that told you he was enjoying this too much. “Figures. Guess we’ll find out together.” You honestly might combust right there on the jewelry shop floor.

Yeosang walked toward the counter with the same energy as someone about to close a business deal. Calm. Focused. Casual power.

You stayed frozen for a beat, still stunned at the whole situation, until your feet moved on their own. Before you realized it, you were right beside him, eyes locking onto the display.

And that’s when it hit you. The rings. They were gorgeous. Not just shiny-for-the-sake-of-shiny—but delicate, beautiful. Rings with elegant stones, simple but detailed bands, not the overdone flashy stuff but the kind that made you think: if I wore that, maybe I wouldn’t feel so small.

You leaned in without realizing, gaze scanning over each one like a kid at a candy store—but also a little sad. You never let yourself want things like that. What was the point? Your parents could never buy you things like this. You grew up being handed the practical, the necessary. Wanting was a waste of time.

But Yeosang saw it. All of it.

The way your fingers twitched at your sides like you wanted to reach out but didn’t. The slight glassiness in your stare—not tears, but that lost look people got when they wanted something badly but were too used to swallowing it down.

To him? Your eyes were sparkling. Bright, full of that light people only showed when they forgot to hide. He couldn’t stop looking at you. The whole room could’ve caught fire, and he wouldn’t have noticed.

He leaned closer, voice lower. “See something you like?”

You snapped out of it, blinking up at him like you’d just been caught stealing. “I—I was just looking,” you muttered, instantly defensive, shoving your hands into the sleeves of your cardigan. “Didn’t say I wanted anything.”

But Yeosang wasn’t even listening to the words coming out of your mouth. He was too busy cataloguing everything you didn’t say. The spark. The hesitation. The soft way your lip pressed against your teeth when you held back from speaking. You weren’t loud, weren’t clingy, weren’t bratty like he thought you might be—you were quiet. Observant. Someone who shrank herself just to survive.

Yeah, no. You weren’t leaving his sight ever again. “Good,” he said, nonchalantly signaling to the employee. “Because we’re not leaving until you try some on.” You shot him a glare. “What is this, Pretty Woman?” “More like Pretty Annoyed Fiancée.” His eyes flicked down to you, sharp and amused. “C’mon. Humor me.”

You stared at the rows and rows of rings like they were mocking you. Every shape, every color, every shine — how the hell were you supposed to pick one? Your fingers hovered over the glass, not touching, just hovering, like maybe the right one would start glowing or something. But nothing did.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like them. It was that you liked all of them, and also none of them, because your brain kept whispering, what if you pick the wrong one? What if you regret it? You didn’t get choices growing up, not real ones. Every decision was always someone else’s to make for you — your clothes, your food, even your damn hair. The few times you got to choose something, it was met with criticism or disappointment. No wonder your chest felt tight standing here.

“I can’t,” you muttered under your breath, frustrated. “They all look… I don’t know.” Yeosang watched, hands tucked in his pockets, silent. But not with judgment. More like studying. He could see it happening—the way you kept retreating into yourself, that familiar shrinking posture like you were bracing for someone to yell at you for being annoying or difficult.

He didn’t like that. Not one bit.

Without warning, he stepped closer, leaning down near your ear, voice lower, firmer. “We’re not doing that here.” You blinked up at him. “What—” “We’re not doing that thing where you act like you’re a burden for existing,” he continued, tone steady but not harsh. “You like something, you say it. You don’t like something, you say it. You don’t have to know what you want right now, but don’t stand here apologizing for breathing.”

Your throat went dry. No one’s ever talked to you like that before. Not mean. Not fake sweet. Just… steady. Like he meant it. Like he wasn’t going to move until you heard him. “I’m not apologizing,” you finally muttered, defensive. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re folding into yourself like someone’s about to slap your wrist.”

Your jaw tightened. “That’s just how I stand.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, not convinced for a second.

You wanted to shove him. You also wanted to crawl under the display case and disappear. But somewhere deep down, embarrassingly deep, you also wanted to grab his sleeve and lean into him like a tired stray cat. But instead, you just shoved your sleeves up higher and looked at the rings again. “Fine. I’ll try some.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, barely loud enough to catch, but you caught it. And you hated that you liked how it sounded.

You picked up one of the rings, delicate and shimmering with tiny embedded stones. It wasn’t flashy in the way rich people wear things—it was pretty. Simple. Something you could see yourself wearing every day.

But then it hit you like a slap. The price. What the hell were you doing? Just choosing whatever looked nice like you weren’t broke half your life? Like your mom didn’t yell at you for picking snacks that were ₹20 more expensive than the local brand?

You started searching the display, eyes darting, looking for price tags like a madwoman. But it was one of those places. No prices on anything. Which only meant one thing—if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

Panic started tightening in your chest. You weren’t stupid. You knew this whole setup was expensive. Expensive coat racks, expensive chairs, expensive air. And here you were like some idiot playing dress-up, picking rings you couldn’t afford in three lifetimes. “Uh… what’s the price on these?” you asked quietly, almost hoping he didn’t hear you.

But of course he did.

Yeosang, standing beside you with his annoying posture of “I own everything I touch,” just glanced down at you, one brow raised. “Why?” You gave him a look. “What do you mean why? They’re probably… crazy expensive. I don’t wanna-” “You think I brought you here to worry about prices?” he interrupted, eyes sharp now.

You blinked. “Well, yeah? This isn’t a grocery store, I can’t just-” “Do I look like the kind of man who’s going to let you think about numbers right now?” His tone wasn’t harsh. But it wasn’t soft, either. It was just… Yeosang. Calm, slightly amused, slightly annoyed, fully in charge.

You hated how warm your ears felt.

“I don’t—”

“I said pick.”

His voice was low this time. Not rude. Not cold. Just that tone that slides down your spine and makes your stomach clench in the weirdest way. Firm. Dominant, even. But not because he was trying to be macho—it was just who he was. You stood there frozen for a second before whispering, “They don’t even have prices on them—”

“They don’t have prices,” he cut you off, leaning closer so only you could hear, “because the people who shop here don’t need to ask.”

You swore your knees nearly gave out.

“And right now,” he added, hand lightly brushing your lower back as if guiding you forward, “you’re with me. So that makes you one of those people. Pick.” You swallowed hard, looked down at the rings, then up at him.

His gaze didn’t waver. “Or,” he added, eyes glinting, “do you want me to choose for you again?”

God help you—you almost said yes.

The wedding was hectic.

Not in the “fun chaos” way you saw in movies—no, this was suffocating. Your cheeks hurt from fake smiling at people you didn’t even know. The scent of flowers was so strong it made you lightheaded. The jewelry was heavy, and the outfit? Beautiful, yeah, but you could barely breathe.

After the ceremony, when the music was loud and people were starting to eat, you sat in a corner. Just existing. You were chewing blandly on some sweet, not even tasting it. The small cushion under you was probably worth someone’s rent, but you sat like you were at some boring family reunion.

Yeosang did ask you last month if you wanted to invite your friends. You had been fixing your cardigan sleeve at the time and barely looked up. “Don’t really… have any.”

It wasn’t sad when you said it. Just a fact. You said it the way someone says, “Yeah, I don’t like tea,” or “I’ve never been to Goa.” Just plain. But you felt it sting more now, seeing his friends—8 of them—laughing on the other side of the venue like this was just some party.

Meanwhile, you sat with your cousin. The only one in your family who didn’t belittle you constantly or make subtle comments about you being “too old to be unmarried” or “too quiet for your own good.” He didn’t say much either. Probably didn’t even care. But you preferred that. Quiet company was better than company with sharp tongues.

Your eyes wandered across the room. Yeosang was standing with his friends, of course. One of them threw his arm around Yeosang’s shoulder, laughing about something. And then Yeosang glanced at you. It was brief—but he looked. And when his gaze met yours, it wasn’t pity, or amusement, or even awkwardness.

It was… knowing.

Like he knew you didn’t want to be there. Like he understood exactly what it felt like to be surrounded by noise and not feel like you belonged in it. And for a moment—just a second—you didn’t feel alone in that room. Of course, the moment passed when your cousin nudged you and asked if you were going to eat your chicken.

You gave it to him without a word, gaze still lingering on the man across the room who, apparently, now belonged to you.

The ride home was torture. Your jewelry felt like chains, the embroidery on your dress scratched at your skin with every small shift, and your hair—oh god, your scalp was screaming. You sat awkwardly, pressed up against the door, knees at an angle because the fabric wouldn’t let you sit properly.

And Yeosang? He just drove like it was a normal day. Relaxed hand on the steering wheel, other resting against his thigh, occasionally glancing your way. He didn’t say anything, but you knew he noticed you shifting every two minutes like you were sitting on needles.

By the time the car pulled up at the apartment complex, you were two seconds away from just tearing the sleeves off like some dramatic soap opera character.

It was late—too late for nosy neighbors or anyone else to be hanging around. The whole building was quiet except for the low hum of the elevators. You followed him silently, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. And when the elevator doors opened to his place—

Yeah. Pinterest board aesthetic.

It wasn’t over-the-top, but it was intentional. Clean lines, warm lighting—not those harsh white bulbs like your home had. The couch looked like it cost someone’s college tuition, blankets folded neatly on the armrest like it was straight out of a home decor photoshoot. Shelves with actual books. Art that wasn’t mass-produced prints. Little ceramic things on the side tables that you didn’t know the use of but looked expensive anyway.

It didn’t smell like dust or old carpet or fried onions like your house did after your mom cooked. It smelled like sandalwood and something slightly musky. Like him.

You just stood there by the entrance like a misplaced sticker on a clean page. He casually dropped his keys in a tray by the door and started undoing the buttons on his sleeves, rolling them up forearms first. “You wanna change?”

Did you wanna change? You were two seconds away from climbing out of your own skin. You nodded silently.

Without a word, he pointed to a hallway. “Third door. Closet’s in there. Pick whatever. Bathroom’s attached.” As if it was nothing to offer someone full access to his wardrobe. As if he hadn’t just brought his brand new wife into his home like someone bringing home takeout. You shuffled off like some fancy-dressed raccoon, already planning which oversized shirt you were gonna steal first.

You padded out of the bathroom, freshly freed from that suffocating dress, now wearing a soft oversized t-shirt that smelled like detergent and someone else’s cologne, paired with pajama pants that pooled a bit at your ankles. Your hair was a mess, makeup slightly smudged from your tired hands rubbing your face. But you couldn’t care less. Comfort first.

Yeosang was already lounging on the couch, changed into a black t-shirt that hugged his shoulders just right and grey sweatpants, one ankle lazily crossed over the other. Casual. Comfortable. Infuriatingly attractive. You stood there, awkward, arms crossed, twisting your fingers like you always did. “Where… where am I supposed to sleep?”

He didn’t even hesitate. Just pointed with two fingers toward the hallway. “Second room on the right.” You nodded and started walking, but something tugged at you. A gut feeling. Something wasn’t right. Second room…

Curiosity dragged you to peek, and when you opened the door, your stomach dropped. Black sheets. Black pillows. Black walls. Not pitch dark, but matte—sleek. Expensive. His room. You didn’t need to ask. That man screamed black-on-black energy. You stormed back into the living room, eyes narrowed. “That’s your room.”

He looked up from his phone slowly, mouth twitching—not into a smirk, just that faint amusement he always wore when he knew he was pushing your buttons. “Yeah. I know.” You stared at him, blinking. “Why did you point me there?” He set his phone down like this was about to be a full conversation. “We’re married now. Married people share a bed.”

You gawked at him. “That’s not a rule.”

“It is now.”

God, you hated that. That casual dominance. Not loud, not aggressive. Just matter of fact. Like he said it, so it’s law now.

“You’re annoying.”

“You married me.”

“We were arranged.”

“Same thing.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they almost got stuck, turning on your heel to storm back to the room. And yet… you didn’t really argue more, did you? Because deep down, under the irritation, you couldn’t help but feel that same stupid warmth creeping up your neck.

If he wanted to be cocky, fine. Two can play that game.

You marched back to his room like you owned the place, plopped yourself dead in the center of the king-sized bed, limbs spread like a starfish, sinking into the expensive sheets like you were born for this. If he wanted drama, you were going to give him cinema. Moments later, the door creaked open, and you heard his footsteps approaching. You didn’t look. You just knew from the way the air shifted, from the scent of his cologne mixing with the faint smell of fabric softener on the bedding.

Silence for a second. Then—“Really?”

You cracked an eye open. He was standing at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, the faintest curve on his lips—not quite a smile, not quite mockery. “You’re gonna starfish in my bed?”

You yawned, stretching even further like a cat on a sunny windowsill. “You said it was our bed,” you said pointedly, throwing his own words back at him with venom-laced sweetness. “I’m just following instructions.”

He looked at you for a beat longer. Then, very slowly, very annoyingly, grinned. “Fine,” he said, voice deep and lazy. “But if you stay like that, I’ll just sleep on top of you.” Your eyes snapped open fully, heart jolting so fast it almost echoed in your ears. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.”

It wasn’t even a threat—it was a promise. That calm tone, that glint in his eyes—he meant it.

You groaned and scrambled to your side of the bed, flustered beyond measure, hating him more with every second and somehow hating yourself for feeling heat crawling up your neck. “You’re insane,” you muttered, adjusting the pillow aggressively.

Behind you, you could practically hear his satisfied smirk, even though you weren’t going to turn around to give him the satisfaction of seeing your face.

“Married life, sweetheart,” he murmured, climbing in on his side, making the mattress dip. “Welcome to it.”

You didn’t know what devil possessed you to say it, but the words just slipped out, dripping with faux innocence as you looked straight at him.

“I have weird sleeping habits,” you murmured casually, adjusting the blanket like it was the most normal conversation. “Like… I’ll keep rubbing my leg on yours until you put your leg on top of mine.”

Silence.

You didn’t dare look at him yet, but you could feel the way his posture stiffened beside you, like your words short-circuited something in that annoyingly sharp brain of his. Then—softly, almost too casual—came his voice, deep and quiet, “Is that a threat or a promise?”

You slowly turned your head to him, blinking, pretending to be confused. “What do you mean?” His jaw tensed slightly, like he was holding back a laugh—or something else. “I mean—” he leaned in just a bit, enough for his voice to drop that octave lower that made your stupid heart stutter, “—if you keep talking like that, I’m gonna start wondering if you want me to put my leg over yours.”

You hated that heat crawling up your skin, hated that he was good at this stupid game, hated that he was better at it than you, hated that you wanted to keep going anyway.

So you did.

“Why would I want that?” you shot back, voice steady, gaze sharp but your hands fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “It’s just a habit.”

“Right,” he said, laying his head on the pillow now, one arm tucked behind his head, looking absolutely unbothered. “Just a habit.”

You laid down too, facing the other way, stubborn. The tension between you two was thick, and you both knew it. Then, after a beat, you felt it—the slow weight of his leg draping lazily over yours. “I’m just helping with your habit,” he murmured, so close you felt the warmth of his breath by your ear.

“I’m serious,” you said, voice flat, not backing down. “It’s true. I can’t sleep unless someone’s leg is over mine. And I always hug something too. It’s like—comfort or whatever. Dunno. Been like that since forever.”

Honestly, you thought that would be the final straw. That he’d roll his eyes, scoff, maybe throw a pillow at you and head to the couch like any sane person would. Maybe you were hoping for that. Maybe you didn’t want to admit how weirdly safe this felt. Either way, you braced yourself for irritation, for that cocky remark, for something.

But nothing came.

Instead—you missed it—the way Yeosang stared at you like he was physically restraining himself. Like some internal monologue was yelling don’t say it, don’t call her cute, don’t ruin it, don’t scare her off. But how could he not? You? Looking like that? Saying stuff like that? In his bed? Wrapped in his blanket, in his shirt? Talking about hugging things like you weren’t already curled up like a goddamn kitten?

He was having a crisis.

“Okay,” he finally said, calm. Too calm. Suspiciously calm. You frowned, glancing back at him. “Okay?” “Yeah.” He adjusted slightly, the mattress dipping with his weight. “Leg’s already over yours. Go ahead. Hug something.”

You glared at him. “I don’t have anything to hug.” His lips quirked slightly at that. Barely. But you caught it.

“You’ve got two arms, don’t you?” You wanted to slap him. Genuinely. But also—not really.

Fine. FINE.

You stubbornly grabbed the pillow, hugging it tight to your chest and trying to sleep. Silent. Annoyed. Flustered. All of it. And Yeosang? He laid there, eyes on the ceiling, teeth sinking into his lip just to physically restrain himself from smiling like an idiot. If only you knew how close he was to dragging you into his chest just to see how flustered you’d get then.

Cute. Way too cute. He was so screwed.

You were out. Completely gone, knocked out like you hadn’t had proper sleep in weeks. Leg tucked neatly under his like you said you would, hugging his pillow like your life depended on it, your face mushed against the fabric, lips slightly parted in a soft pout you didn’t even know you had.

Yeosang was having a spiritual crisis. What was this? What was this feeling? Cuteness aggression? Probably. He felt like he could actually bite you. Not to hurt you—god no—but just to—argh—because how could one human look that cute doing absolutely nothing?

His jaw flexed, teeth grinding softly as he stared at you, eyes darting between the way your fingers curled into the pillow, to the little crease forming on your cheek from the way you were pressed against it.

It wasn’t fair. It shouldn’t be allowed. He felt like punching the wall just to let some of the weird, frustrated fondness out of his system. The urge to squeeze you like some plush toy was nearly overwhelming.

And the worst part?

You didn’t even know.

Didn’t know the way you’d completely tangled yourself around his leg without a second thought. Didn’t know how absolutely tiny you looked curled up in his bed. Didn’t know how soft your breathing sounded in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

Yeosang stared at the ceiling for a good minute, breathing slow, eyes closed, fighting the very cellular urge in his bones to scoop you up and just—keep you. Like, forever. Pocket you. Protect you. Instead, he carefully shifted, tucking the blanket around you a little tighter, letting your leg stay right where it was. He glanced at you one last time before shutting his own eyes.

Completely, utterly ruined by the universe. Absolutely smitten. And you? You just drooled a little on his pillow.

Perfect.

Morning light spilled through the sheer curtains, soft and annoyingly gentle. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the brightness—and then it hit you.

You were holding something warm. Something that breathed. It wasn’t a pillow. It was him.

Your heart stopped for a solid second. Somewhere between falling asleep and now, the pillow had betrayed you—replaced by Yeosang. Your arm was across his torso, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his shirt. Worse, one of your legs had completely decided that boundaries were optional and had hooked over his, practically hugging him like some oversized teddy bear.

What the actual—

You moved so carefully, like one wrong twitch would make the earth explode. Slowly untangling yourself, your breath hitched when you saw his hand resting lazily over your arm, like he’d pulled you closer in his sleep. That just made it worse.

Finally, finally, you untangled yourself, slipping out of bed like a secret agent on a stealth mission. The floor was cold beneath your feet, but your entire body was flushed with embarrassment anyway. Without sparing him another glance, you practically ran into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.

The second you were alone, you let out a silent scream, face buried in your hands. God. Why. Why you. You turned the shower on, letting the sound of running water drown out your embarrassment. Maybe you could drown in it too while you were at it.

Meanwhile, back in the bedroom, Yeosang cracked one eye open, staring at the ceiling with the smallest ghost of a grin.

“Thought so,” he whispered to himself. That damn pillow never stood a chance.

Yeosang lay there, staring at the ceiling like it had all the answers to life’s greatest mysteries. His hand absentmindedly touched the part of his shirt where your hand had been curled into just moments ago. The warmth was gone, but the imprint of it — of you — stuck like some permanent tattoo on his chest.

What the hell was this feeling? No, seriously, what was this feeling?

He had always thought love was supposed to be a slow thing. Like aging whiskey. Like taking your sweet time to ruin someone in a chess game. But this? This felt like a truck hit him. A small, anxious kitten-shaped truck with pouty lips and messy hair in the morning.

It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. You were barely in his life for what? Few months? And yet here he was, already thinking like some washed-up romantic lead in a drama. It wasn’t even funny anymore.

He dragged a hand across his face and groaned softly, staring at the bathroom door where steam was now rolling from the gap under the frame. The thought of you in there — wearing that sleepy pout, probably muttering under your breath about your parents or about how annoying he was — it made his chest feel tight in the weirdest, most annoying way.

Was this how his dad felt about his mom? Cause that man always did dumb shit just to annoy her, but never went a day without holding her hand.

He was whipped. Fully, entirely, embarrassingly whipped. And he wasn’t even fighting it anymore. Hell, he was enjoying it. “I swear to god,” he muttered to himself, eyes shutting like he was trying to meditate through the emotional breakdown, “if she ever figures this out, I’m finished.” But knowing you? You wouldn’t. You were too busy folding napkins, avoiding eye contact, acting like you weren’t the most precious thing to ever annoy the hell out of him.

And god—he liked having a wife. A wife.

He let that word roll around in his head like a marble, both terrifying and oddly satisfying. If you stayed in that shower any longer, he might just combust. And honestly? He’d die smiling.

You came out of the bathroom with damp hair sticking slightly to the sides of your face, the oversized t-shirt hanging loose on your frame, sleeves falling a little off your shoulders, pajama pants riding up slightly at the ankles. You rubbed your hand against your face, trying to wipe off the last remnants of sleep, but honestly, your head was still foggy. You weren’t even fully functioning yet.

And there he was. Still in bed.

Liar. You could tell he wasn’t sleeping anymore. Before, he was on his back, legs spread out like some rich brat on vacation. Now? He was on his side, perfectly composed like he was acting asleep. And he was good at it. But not good enough for you.

With irritation bubbling up — mostly because you were up, and why should you be the only one awake suffering in awkward new-wife-land — you stomped over to the bed and stood over him with crossed arms. You stared at the messy strands of hair falling into his stupidly handsome face. His lashes were thick, unfairly so. And his lips slightly parted like he wasn’t living rent-free in your nerves already. He looked expensive even while pretending to be unconscious. Ugh.

Annoyed, you bent down and gave his shoulder a shove. “Wake up.”

No response. Another shove. Harder this time. “Wake up.” Finally, his eyes opened. Lazy, slow, like he was waking up from a peaceful dream of girls feeding him grapes or something. His voice was rough from sleep, deep in that way that made your brain short circuit for a second. “What?” he rasped, like you were disturbing his peace.

Your mouth opened, about to say something snarky, but then you paused. Why was he hot like this? Who gave him permission to be hot right after waking up? Hair a mess, voice low, sleep still hanging off his features like a silk sheet draped across expensive furniture. You forgot what you were gonna say for a second. Caught yourself blinking at him like an idiot.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. A smug little grin spread on his lips, lazy and cocky at the same time, like he was the main character in every stupid romance movie. You cleared your throat and stood up straight again, brushing invisible dust off your pants. “What… what do you want for breakfast?”

You hated how quiet you sounded. Like you were suddenly soft just because he was attractive. Which — you were soft, but he didn’t have to know that. He sat up properly now, running a hand through his hair like he was in a commercial. “You’re making breakfast?” he asked, raising a brow.

You shrugged. “What else am I supposed to do? I’m awake.” He leaned back on his arms, eyes not leaving you for a second. “I didn’t marry a housewife, you know.” Your jaw clenched. “I’m not—” you stopped yourself. “I’m just making breakfast because I’m hungry.”

“Yours?” he said suddenly, tilting his head.

You blinked. “What?”

“Breakfast. Yours or mine?”

You frowned. “...What’s the difference?”

He grinned, teeth showing this time. “Yours is probably, like, toast or boiled eggs or something. Mine’s pancakes, bacon, syrup. Fancy shit.”

You deadpanned. “Who the hell eats pancakes on a weekday?”

“I do,” he answered smoothly, without missing a beat. “I’m rich, remember?”

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your own brain. “Fine. Yours. Whatever. Pancakes.”

Yeosang stepped into the bathroom, the door creaking softly behind him as he entered the faint warmth she left behind. The mirror was still fogged at the corners, drops of condensation trailing down lazily like the room itself hadn’t quite woken up yet. The air smelled faintly of her—something floral, something sweet, and something unfamiliar but weirdly comforting.

He exhaled through his nose, steady and controlled, walking up to the sink. His eyes automatically landed on the toothbrush holder. His black toothbrush standing tall, firm, exactly where he always kept it.

And beside it… her pink one.

Smaller, softer looking, like it didn’t belong. But it did. It really did. He stared at them both for a second, lips slightly parted, eyebrows drawn faintly together—not confused, but thoughtful. Something about seeing them together in the same cup twisted something warm in his chest. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t fireworks or explosions or heartbeats racing so fast he couldn’t breathe. It was… steady. Fulfilling. Quiet in the most dangerous way.

He loved it.

Not the pink color or the softness of it. He loved what it meant. Her using his things like they were hers now. The shared space. The toothbrushes leaning like companions. It was stupid—something small, something everyday—but it was theirs. And for someone like him, someone who always knew how to calculate every move, who always knew how to observe and stay steps ahead, this feeling was something he couldn’t predict.

He picked up his own toothbrush, fingers brushing against the handle of hers. He stared at that pink brush for a second longer, a lazy grin curling on his lips before shaking his head at himself. Who the hell gets soft over a toothbrush?

Apparently, him.

He started brushing his teeth, leaning over the sink, letting the familiar minty sting wake him up properly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought—he could get used to this. He wanted to get used to this. Her hair clogging the drain, her random skincare bottles invading his shelves, her leaving the bathroom all steamy and warm like this every morning.

It was stupid. Domestic. And yet… it felt like power in the quietest, most dangerous form. And Yeosang was nothing if not addicted to power. Especially if it looked like her.

He came down wearing a black fitted turtleneck, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, paired with tailored dark slacks that hugged his waist just right. His silver watch gleamed faintly against his wrist, hair slightly messy from towel-drying but falling just perfectly like it was meant to. He didn’t put in effort—but somehow looked like he walked straight out of a photoshoot. Sharp jawline, long legs, expensive cologne that smelled like trouble and money.

And then—that smell hit him.

Pancakes. Sweet, buttery, thick in the air like a hug you didn’t know you needed. Warm vanilla mixed with something fruity. And then, there she was. (Do pancakes even have scents? Idk)

Hair tied up lazily, a few strands falling loose, wearing one of his black aprons that looked like it was made to fit her. Bare feet padding softly on the kitchen floor, navigating his sleek, modern, borderline cold kitchen like she’d been living there her whole life. She didn’t hesitate with the drawers, the utensils, even reaching up to grab plates from his overhead cabinets with a little difficulty like she knew where everything was. Like she belonged.

He leaned against the wall for a second, arms folded, watching her. His kitchen was matte black, sharp edges, minimalist design, way too clean for someone who actually lived here. It was the kind of kitchen that screamed money but not home. Until now.

Until her.

Now it felt warm, felt used. And for some reason, that domestic image made something stir in his chest. Not in a soft, sentimental way—no, Yeosang didn’t do sentimental. It was more like—possession. Admiration. Like—yeah, that’s mine. His quiet, irritating, soft-voiced girl, right there, using his kitchen like she owned it. And she didn’t even realize how good she looked like that. The apron tied at her waist, sleeves rolled up as she worked carefully over the stove, flipping pancakes with precision.

How the fuck did she even know where everything was? He barely cooked. Eating out was his thing. Restaurants. Friends. Loud tables. Fancy places. But this? This made him crave home-cooked meals in a way he didn’t know he could. Made him crave coming home to something like this. And the worst part? He didn’t know whether he wanted the pancakes more or her. Probably her.

Definitely her.

He didn’t even realize she’d caught him staring. Sharp reflexes, top of his class, trained to pick up on the tiniest shit—and yet here he was, caught like some lovesick loser at the doorway of his own damn kitchen. She didn’t make a big deal out of it though. Just glanced over her shoulder, flipping another pancake like it was routine. “Oh, you’re here. Sit down or something.”

He blinked for a second, caught between embarrassment and awe, and then muttered under his breath, “Yes, ma’am.” Low enough that she wouldn’t catch it. Good. His pride was intact. Barely.

When she finished, she casually served two plates—one in front of him, one in front of her. No big presentation, no waiting for him to start first like those rich girls he was used to. Just sat down, scooted her chair in, and started eating like it was another regular morning. Like they’d been doing this for years. God, why did that feel nice?

The pancakes were good. Like, scary good. Slightly crisp on the edges, soft in the middle, syrup on the side, not drowned in it like an amateur. She knew what she was doing. Each bite made him feel weirdly cared for, and he didn’t like that one bit. It felt… vulnerable. Exposed. He wasn’t used to this shit. Halfway through, she lifted her gaze to him. Not fully—just under her lashes, barely holding eye contact before glancing away again.

“I’ve been meaning to ask…” she said softly, cutting into her pancake with that annoying, neat little precision of hers. “What do you actually do? Like… all day?” He chewed slowly, buying time. No one ever asked him that. Not seriously. Everyone just knew who he was. Son of that family. Part of that business. It was understood. Expected. Even his friends didn’t bother asking.

But her? She didn’t care about any of that. She genuinely didn’t know—or maybe she did but wanted his version of it. Wanted to hear it from him, not just whispered behind closed doors or Googled with a headline next to his face. So, he swallowed, set his fork down carefully, leaned back slightly in the chair.

“What do I do?” he repeated, eyes glancing over her face like he was trying to decide how much of himself he wanted to give her. “I manage the boring rich guy stuff, apparently. Assets. Investments. Real estate. Help with family business bullshit.”

She hummed softly, almost dismissively. “Sounds annoying.” That caught him off guard. He huffed a laugh through his nose. “It is annoying.”

They sat in silence for a second, just the quiet sounds of cutlery scraping against plates.

Then she added, still not fully looking at him, “Sounds lonely too.”

That made something sharp twist in his chest. Annoyingly accurate. He stared at her, at the little crease between her brows as she focused on cutting another piece, at the way she subtly folded the napkin next to her hand without thinking about it. Always fidgeting, always folding.

She didn’t even mean it like that. It was supposed to be just a question. A throwaway thought while she was chewing, cutting another bite, syrup glistening against the fork like she was focused on literally anything else except him. Like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t going to completely rearrange the wires in his damn brain. “After I graduate… can I see your office or something?”

Just that. Simple. Plain. Like she was asking to borrow a pen.

But Yeosang? Yeosang heard that in HD. Dolby Atmos. Surround sound. Can I see your office echoed through his skull like she’d just proposed marriage again or something. Why was that affecting him so much? Why was his immediate internal response Yes. Yes, of course. Come sit on my lap in the stupid leather chair. Take over the entire desk, I don’t even like working, I’ll retire now, I’ll build you a whole new office, you can have my whole name—

He blinked. Dangerous thoughts. Dangerous. She didn’t even know what she’d done. But he couldn’t just say all that, obviously. He couldn’t wrap her up in a blanket and tell her she was the cutest thing alive for wanting to be in his space, in his world. He couldn’t tell her that no one—no one—had ever even bothered to ask about that part of his life. His office. His work. His real world outside of the titles and money.

So, he kept it cool. Cool and bored. Always the bored one. Mr. Nothing Affects Me.

“Sure,” he said, cutting another piece of pancake, stabbing it with his fork, stuffing it into his mouth like that would hide the feral urge he felt to grab her face and kiss the absolute life out of her. “Really?” she asked, finally glancing at him properly this time, eyes sharp and unreadable. “It’s not like a private office?”

Private office? Private office? Woman, you’re in my home. You cooked in my kitchen. You slept with your entire leg tangled around mine. And you’re asking about privacy?

He swallowed. “It’s my office. I decide what’s private.”

Another bite. Another casual shrug. Another act like he wasn’t two seconds from folding completely. Folding like the damn napkin she kept playing with next to her plate. “Sure,” he said again, this time softer. Almost like a promise. Almost like anything you ask me, ever—I’ll give it to you.

You both didn’t know one thing. You both were falling.

Maybe Yeosang knew it. Kinda. Somewhere in the background of his usually sharp, calculating mind — the same one trained to notice weaknesses in deals and flaws in contracts — there was this soft hum, like static turning into a love song. He knew something was happening. Maybe not fully, maybe not yet in words, but the pull toward you was starting to feel less like curiosity and more like instinct. Breathing. Natural. Familiar in a way nothing else had ever been.

But you? You didn’t know. You didn’t realize what was happening. You didn’t realise that while you sat here with syrup on your fork and pancake crumbs on your fingers, you were starting to heal something that he didn’t break.

Yeosang didn’t grow up with softness. His mother was the only person who offered that to him, that kind of gentle warmth that made a person feel safe, and when she left—so did that warmth. His father tried to raise him with ambition and success, not comfort. Not home. Yeosang had everything: wealth, education, sharp looks, friends who could buy out entire hotels on a dare—but not this. Not this thing he was starting to feel around you.

And you didn’t realize that you were going to get something you never thought possible, either. That here, you were healing too. Because all your life, you were raised in pieces. Your parents clipping parts of you before you could even grow. Told that your interests were silly. That your opinions didn’t matter because you were a girl. Always “too much” or “not enough.” They called it upbringing. Respect. But it wasn’t. It was shrinking. You adjusted. You bent around it like vines climbing a crumbling wall, finding space wherever you could, making a way even when there wasn’t one.

But here?

Here, no one was going to call you too much. Here, no one was going to shrink you down into something manageable. Here, no one was going to make you feel small for having hobbies or dreams or random thoughts that didn’t make sense. Here—you weren’t going to adjust anymore. You were going to thrive.

And you didn’t even know it yet.

Days blended into something that almost resembled normal life. Morning routines settled. Nights had their own rhythm. You handled your stuff—university lectures, deadlines, notes scribbled on the backs of receipts when you couldn’t find proper paper. He handled his—meetings, calls, those frustrating dinners where people tried to get on his good side for favors he never planned to give.

The two of you orbiting each other like satellites, not colliding, not quite distant either. Somewhere between strangers and something else you both refused to name yet.

But then there were nights like this.

Nights where assignments piled higher than your patience. Nights where caffeine felt like medicine, where eye bags were unavoidable, and sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with books spread around you felt like survival mode. The glow of your laptop screen threw harsh shadows across your face, highlighting the slight furrow between your brows, your bottom lip caught lightly between your teeth as you tried to figure out whatever academic nonsense your professor thought was appropriate for midnight.

Yeosang came home late that night. He had texted you. ‘Running late. Don’t wait up.’

He didn’t expect much. Maybe you’d already be in bed, curled up, hair a mess, hugging that ridiculous pillow you’d claimed as yours. Or maybe you’d be curled on the couch, knocked out with some random video playing softly in the background. But no.

He walked in, loosened his tie, and paused.

You were awake. Awake and working. Glasses slipping down your nose. Notebook covered in tiny handwriting, pages curling at the corners. For a split second, irritation sparked in him. Not at you—at himself. Why were you still up? He told you not to wait. And yet—

Then he saw it. The laptop open to some assignment, words scrolling by, academic jargon that even he didn’t have the mental energy to pretend to understand. You weren’t waiting for him. You were fighting a deadline.

Silently, he toed off his shoes, rolled up his sleeves, and went to the kitchen.

The machine hissed softly as the coffee brewed. The comforting, bitter scent filling the sharp black lines of his modern kitchen again. This time, coffee. Warm, grounding, familiar. He made it just the way you liked—two spoons of sugar, a splash of milk. Not too sweet, not too bitter. Balanced. Like you.

He poured one cup for you, one for himself, and padded back across the living room, setting the mug down next to your scattered pens and half-crumpled sticky notes.

You barely noticed at first, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you,” eyes still on the screen.

But Yeosang? He just stood there for a second, hand in his pocket, watching you. Watching how you stubbornly refused to give up, even with dark circles forming under your eyes, even with your knee bouncing from stress, even with your exhaustion creeping in like slow fog.

“Can I help?” His voice was soft, breaking through the quiet hum of the laptop fan and your messy thoughts. You blinked, finally tearing your eyes away from the screen to look at him properly.

Help? You weren’t used to that word being offered like that. Especially not for things like your work. No one really asked if they could help—you were always expected to figure it out yourself, get through it, push harder. Alone. You stared at him for a second, eyebrows furrowed slightly like you were trying to figure out if he was joking or being sarcastic. But he just sat there, leaning forward, coffee resting on his knee, expression neutral but serious. Waiting.

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want help. Just… it felt weird. Someone wanting to take on something with you instead of at you or despite you. But you were tired. And behind all your stubbornness, you knew you could use it.

“…You can help with a couple things,” you murmured, barely above your breath.

His lips twitched slightly at that—almost a smile, almost—but he didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. Just sat up straighter, pushed his coffee aside, and motioned for you to show him.

It wasn’t even difficult stuff. Mostly organization. Proofreading. Finding references. And Yeosang, for all his cocky behavior and sharp-tongue antics, was ridiculously smart. He picked up on things quickly, helping you untangle confusing parts, correcting small mistakes you didn’t even notice you were making in your sleepy haze.

With him there, the work didn’t feel like a mountain anymore. It felt doable. Manageable. Like he was one more set of steady hands holding up the mess before it could collapse.

You didn’t talk much. Just handed things to him, pointed at the screen when you needed help cross-checking something, let him scroll through research tabs while you typed furiously to finish the parts only you could write. By the time you reached the end, you realized it had gone faster than you expected.

And… it didn’t feel heavy anymore.

As you saved the file and finally let yourself lean back against the cushions, stretching your aching fingers, you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. His sleeves were still rolled up, tie loose, hair falling slightly over his forehead. He looked relaxed. Like this wasn’t a burden. Like he didn’t mind being here at all.

“Thanks,” you said finally, voice quieter than before.

He just hummed, reaching for his now slightly-cold coffee again. “Told you,” he muttered, taking a sip, “I’m not just here to look pretty.”

You rolled your eyes at that, a small breath of laughter escaping despite yourself. And for the first time in a while, the stress didn’t feel suffocating. For the first time, you didn’t feel like you were carrying everything alone.

But now you didn’t want to move. Not even a little. Your body felt like it weighed triple, bones filled with sand, limbs heavy from the hours of grinding through assignments, deadlines, typing until your knuckles hurt. The soft hum of the laptop fan was starting to blend with the background noise of the apartment—the occasional creak of the walls, the soft ticking of the clock. So you just laid down right there on the couch, curling slightly onto your side, pressing your cheek into the cushions like they could swallow you whole.

“You shouldn’t sleep here,” his voice broke through gently. Not nagging. Not demanding. Just a low, careful suggestion. “It’s bad for your back.”

“Yeah…” you mumbled. You knew. Of course you knew. But knowing and moving were two different things. The soft, tired sound of your own voice felt distant to you, like it was coming from somewhere underwater. “M’fine… Just…gimme a minute…”

And then, you felt it. Arms sliding under you, one beneath your knees, the other curling easily around your shoulders. The couch shifted beneath you as he moved, and suddenly, you were moving too. Your eyes snapped open halfway, heavy-lidded with exhaustion but sharp with shock. What the—

He picked you up. Like it was nothing. Like you weighed absolutely nothing. Effortless. Smooth. As if this was something he did on a daily basis, as if you weren’t dead weight with tangled limbs and messy hair and exhaustion practically dripping off your skin.

You knew he worked out. You’d seen his arms, the way his shirts sometimes hugged his shoulders, the way his forearms tensed slightly when he rolled up his sleeves or carried grocery bags with one hand like they were weightless.

But this? This was a whole new experience.

You blinked up at him, groggy but vaguely scandalized, too drained to fight him on it but still indignant enough to grumble, “I can walk, you know…”

“Doesn’t look like it,” he muttered back, voice lazy but steady, gaze fixed ahead as he carefully maneuvered you toward the bedroom. His jaw was set, clean lines of his face shadowed by the low lighting, and that stupid, faint grin on his lips—like he was enjoying this a little too much.

You were too tired to argue more, head lolling lightly against his shoulder, his cologne filling your nose. Clean, sharp, warm.

“Put me down,” you murmured weakly, only half meaning it.

“No.”

That’s all he said. Just no. Simple. Firm. No teasing this time. Just—no. Because you were tired, and because he wanted to carry you. Because whether you liked it or not, this was part of who he was now—your husband. And part of that role, apparently, included picking you up like a princess when you worked yourself to exhaustion doing university assignments at midnight.

You didn’t realize when your eyes slipped closed again, but the warmth of his hold and the soft shift of the apartment around you made it easier.

He set you down gently on the bed, the mattress dipping softly under your weight. The second you hit the covers, your whole body sighed in relief, muscles unraveling like thread, tension slipping out of your shoulders as your eyelids fluttered heavily.

You barely registered him leaving, the soft rustle of fabric as he changed, the faint clink of his watch being set down somewhere on the nightstand. The apartment was quiet except for those soft, everyday sounds—the kind that made a space feel lived in. Real. And then the bed dipped again, the warmth of him close, his scent following like gravity itself. Before you could fully register it, his arm snaked around your waist, firm but not rough, and he pulled you in.

Your eyes opened halfway, brows pinching lightly. “Yeosang…”

“No complaining,” he murmured, voice low, brushing near your ear. “I know you need it.”

That shut you up real quick—not because he was being cocky, but because… he was right. You did need it. And that annoyed you more than anything, how well he was starting to read you without effort. Like this connection was some secret language only he could pick up on while you were still figuring it out. You wanted to argue. Maybe just out of habit. Maybe because that independent part of you hated the idea of needing someone this badly. But… God, it felt good. It felt safe. Not like being trapped, not like obligation—but like comfort. Like warmth. Like someone saying, It’s okay. You don’t have to hold everything up alone tonight.

So you didn’t say anything after that. Just let yourself sink into the pull of his chest against your back, his hand splayed warm over your stomach, his steady breathing brushing against the back of your neck. Everything fit a little too perfectly, like puzzle pieces you didn’t even know belonged to the same set.

And that night… that night, you both slept better than you ever had since this whole marriage thing started. No weird dreams. No uncomfortable tossing and turning. No stress lingering sharp at the edges of your thoughts.

Just… sleep.

You didn’t know how it happened, but somehow, somewhere in the middle of the night, your body betrayed your stubbornness. You woke up curled against him, face pressed gently to his chest, his scent filling your lungs like something you’d been secretly addicted to. His arm—God, his arm—was draped around you, hand cupped protectively over the back of your head like instinct. Like he was shielding you, even in sleep. And it wasn’t awkward. That’s what surprised you most. It felt natural. Not forced, not weird, just… like safety.

You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, hear the soft, even rhythm of his breathing. And as much as you hated to admit it… he looked pretty like this. No, scratch that—annoyingly pretty. Long lashes resting against sharp cheekbones, lips slightly parted, hair tousled from sleep in that effortless way guys pull off without even trying.

Gross. Beautiful. Disgusting. Infuriating.

You blinked a few times, brain slowly booting up for the day, before carefully untangling yourself like a thief in the night. His arm loosened its grip like he was reluctant even in his sleep, but eventually let you go. You got up, showered, got dressed, doing your whole morning routine as quietly as possible. University wasn’t going to wait for you to bask in your soft domestic crisis. And you definitely weren’t about to stand there and gawk at his stupidly handsome sleeping face for too long. Absolutely not.

By the time you were adjusting the strap of your bag, tying your hair properly, you heard movement from the bedroom. A few minutes later, Yeosang walked out, freshly showered, damp hair pushed back, wearing that clean, crisp button-up with the sleeves rolled just enough to make you want to scream into a pillow. Grey slacks, black watch, rings back on his fingers, that usual lazy confidence laced into his posture.

He looked at you, eyes dropping down briefly to your outfit, then meeting your gaze again like it was nothing.

“I’ll pick you up later,” he said, fixing one of his cuffs. “After uni.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Date,” he said simply, like it was obvious. “We deserve one.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it, unsure of what reaction you were supposed to give. A part of you wanted to roll your eyes, say something sarcastic—but another part… another part felt weirdly happy about it. Happy in that annoying, fluttery kind of way you weren’t ready to admit yet. So you settled for a quiet, “Okay,” adjusting your bag again, looking at the floor to hide the small smile trying to creep up on your lips.

“Good,” he said, smirking now—but this time it wasn’t cocky. It was something softer, warmer. “I’ll see you later, then.” And as you left the apartment, the weight of the day felt lighter somehow. Like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t dreading things as much anymore.

Yeosang sat in the car, one hand lazily draped over the steering wheel, the other tapping faintly against his thigh. The sun was starting to dip, casting that golden hour glow over the edges of buildings, making everything look softer, warmer, like a scene out of some movie. But Yeosang wasn’t paying attention to the scenery. Not really.He’d had a day. Meetings that dragged. Calls that felt like someone was reading tax documents aloud just to torture him. Endless signatures, fake smiles, the whole act. All he wanted right now was peace. Quiet. A good meal. And you.

A proper date with his cute wife, nothing more, nothing less. Just you sitting across from him in that way you always did—half avoiding eye contact, sleeves of your cardigan slipping past your wrists, probably fidgeting with your napkin again. That was the peace he wanted. Not luxury. Not power. Just that.

But then…

His eyes narrowed. He saw you. And you weren’t alone. There was a guy. Some nobody. Same-age, maybe older, walking beside you, too close for Yeosang’s liking, talking like he knew you well. And you—God—you were smiling. Not the full kind, not the ones Yeosang secretly hoarded like precious stones, but still smiling. Like you were comfortable. Yeosang’s jaw tightened. His fingers, the ones tapping against his thigh, stopped moving. What pissed him off wasn’t just the guy talking. It was the way he was talking to you. That casual, easygoing posture, like he thought he was funny. Like he thought he was charming. Like he thought he deserved to be walking next to you, making you smile like that.

And maybe you didn’t even realize. Maybe you were just being polite. But Yeosang saw it all. The way the guy leaned slightly in when he spoke. The way his hands moved while explaining something, animated like he wanted your full attention on him.

Yeosang didn’t like it. Not one bit.

The expensive black car, polished to perfection, stood out like a punch to the face in front of the university gates. People kept throwing glances, some doing double-takes, whispering. Whose car is that? Who’s that guy? But Yeosang didn’t care. Let them look. Let them talk. His gaze stayed locked on you and that idiot next to you. Calm on the outside. A storm brewing underneath. You didn’t know it yet.

You spotted him the moment he stepped out of the car. Yeosang wasn’t the type to make a show of himself, but somehow—he did. Maybe it was the way he stood, sharp lines of his suit catching the light, hair pushed back neatly, expression unreadable. Maybe it was the car behind him, polished black, practically humming money and influence. Maybe it was just him. Either way, heads were turning, eyes flicking between him and you like something wasn’t adding up.

You swallowed, nerves prickling up your spine. Before you could react, before you could even introduce anyone properly, he was already moving. His hand found yours—firm, warm, possessive without being rough. It startled you. Not because of the touch—you were used to that by now—but because of the timing. Calculated. Precise. Like everything he did. “This your friend?” he said calmly, looking not at you, but directly at the guy.

Before you could speak, Yeosang gave the poor guy a small, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nice to meet you,” he said smoothly, tightening his grip on your hand just slightly. “I’m her husband.”

And then, for good measure, he added his name. Kang Yeosang.

You could see the shift instantly. The recognition behind the guy’s eyes. The flicker of panic mixed with surprise. Everyone in this city knew that name—or at least the ones who mattered did. Not just because of the wealth, but because of what that name meant in certain circles. Reputation. Power. Authority. Not just a businessman—something more. Something sharp underneath the polished surface.

“Oh,” was all the guy could manage, awkward, unsure of where to put his hands now, stepping back half a pace instinctively. “Yeah,” Yeosang finished softly, expression pleasant, dangerous in its restraint. “Good talk.”

Without another word, he guided you toward the passenger seat, opened the door like a gentleman, helped you in, and shut it carefully behind you before rounding the car and getting in himself. He didn’t look at you at first. Just started the engine, pulled out of the lot with practiced ease.

What you didn’t see, however, was the slight tilt of his head down as he flicked open his messages. His fingers moved swiftly, effortlessly, typing out the guy’s name, sending it to an unknown number. No emojis. No fluff. Just a clean instruction.

A name and a dot. That’s all it took.

Then the phone slipped back into his pocket like nothing happened.

He glanced at you finally, features softening just slightly now that the irritation had passed, hand casually resting on the gear shift..

"You ready?” he asked, like none of that had just happened. You didn’t answer immediately. Your heart was still somewhere between confused, flustered, and maybe—a little impressed. And Yeosang?

He was perfectly at ease. Because no one touches what’s his.

The date itself was simple, nothing extravagant—just the way you liked it. Dinner somewhere not too loud, warm lighting, food you could pronounce, chairs that didn’t make your back ache. He didn’t drag you to some elite chef’s private villa or a high-rise with twelve spoons and seven forks. Just… normal. Comfortable.

But of course, it wasn’t normal, not with him sitting across from you like that. Rolling up his sleeves just enough to show off the veins in his forearms, leaning forward slightly when you spoke, giving you that attention that made your stomach twist in a way you’d pretend was annoyance—but you knew better now. You were far too aware of his every move, his subtle glances at your lips when you talked, his faint smile whenever you fidgeted with the sleeves of your cardigan or neatly arranged your utensils.

And he was losing it.

Internally.

Watching you talk softly about nothing—ordering dessert, choosing between tea or coffee, or even just adjusting your bracelet—like it was the most adorable thing in the world. You didn’t even have to try. That’s what drove him crazy. You could breathe and he’d be on the verge of melting into his seat like some fool.

But what really started creeping under your skin wasn’t the food or the conversation or even the comfort of the evening.

It was after.

Back in university, you started noticing something odd. The guy—the one from the parking lot—gone. No hellos in the hallway, no passing glances, no awkward waves after that weird encounter with Yeosang. Vanished. Just… gone.

You weren’t naïve. You noticed patterns. You noticed behavior. You might’ve been quiet, but you weren’t stupid.

So, you asked him. One evening, after he’d made both of you coffee, when the room was quiet and warm, you just casually dropped it like spare change on a counter.

“By the way… that guy I was talking to last week? Haven’t seen him around.”

His reaction was instant, which already gave him away. That sharp, barely-there twitch of his lips. His fingers curling ever so slightly around the mug handle.

And then—he laughed.

That annoying, deep, pretty laugh that was all throat and no apologies.

“Don’t know,” he said with a shrug, voice lazy, too smooth to be true. “Weird, isn’t it?”

Liar. Absolute liar.

And that’s what did it. That’s what made you fall.

Not the expensive car. Not the handsome face. Not even the whole husband thing.

It was that. That dumb, cocky, lying laugh paired with the soft way he helped you out of your coat or refilled your water glass without saying anything. The combination of someone who could ruin a man’s whole life in one text but still remember that you liked your toast slightly burnt.

It wasn’t fair.

And maybe, just maybe, you found yourself falling.

Not all at once. Just—a little more.

Dangerous. Warm. Annoying.

Yours.

Taglist: @jujusreader @nkryuki @lover-ofallthingspretty

Dividers from @/cafekitsune

[kingkaisen]

suggestion for your dad gojo series?idk if it’s too heavy so feel free to skip!!reader is chronically ill and/OR the kids worry that she has a terminal disease because she’s been very sick and weak lately, so they call gojo (who’s away on a mission) with over exaggerated claims on reader’s health and practically beg him to come back home. This could be either an actual illness or maybe something more lighthearted, like reader just has the flu etc and the kids are just being dramatic

“IS SHE GONNA DIE?!”

♡ —𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: This fic is part of my dad!gojo series, but reading the other parts isn’t necessary. All you need to know is that you & Satoru recently adopted two of Satoru’s students: Megumi & Yuji, and you also have young biological daughter.

♡ — 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Satoru gave your son, Yuji, one job: keep everyone safe while he was gone. So why, just why, were you practically on your death bed?

♡ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: Tiny bit of angst but this is overall lighthearted, suicide joke, general descriptions of being unwell, your family loves you much they assume the worst when you sneeze to be honest!

♡ — 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 4K

When Satoru Gojo wasn’t around, Yuji considered himself to be the man of the house, thank you very much.

Did anyone officially bestow such a title upon him? No, not technically. But Satoru was parting on a month-long mission to a different continent, and before he walked out of the front door — and after he showered your face with kisses, playfully tossed your daughter in the air, and ruffled Megumi’s hair — he, too, ruffled his other student-turned-adopted son’s head of pinkish hair and said, “keep everyone safe, Yuji.”

Yuji’s brown eyes widened but then closed as he smiled brightly.

“You got it!” He gave Satoru a thumbs up, and that was that.

Therefore, when it came to day eight of Keeping Everyone Safe, Yuji found himself pacing back and forth outside of the bathroom door, gripping strands of his messy hair with his trembling hands.

He heard a few faint coughs from the other side of the door. He halted his footsteps. Knocking gently, he waited for a response, but one never came.

“Mom? Are you okay?” He called out. “You’ve been in there a while.”

No response.

Yuji pressed his ear against the door, listening for any sign of life, and yet again, only silence acknowledged him.

He took several steps back, preparing to launch himself at the door to break it down. If you got upset with him for doing so, so be it — at least your lecture would mean that you were alright.

“Three . . . Two . . . One . . .” Yuji thought, but before he could break out into a sprint full-speed ahead, Megumi suddenly turned the corner of the hallway, giving Yuji a puzzled look.

“What are you doing now?” Megumi scratched the side of his head.

“Stand back, I’m about to bust the door down.”

“Why?”

“Mom’s been in the bathroom for a long time,” Yuji turned his head to look at Megumi’s expressionless face. “I don’t know if she’s throwing up or bleeding out or unconscious . . . and she won’t answer me, so I’m gonna break in.”

Yuji looked the door up and down as if sizing up an opponent.

“What if she’s leaning against the door? She’ll get hurt,” Megumi said.

“Got a better idea?”

“Yeah. It’s called respecting her privacy. If she’s not feeling well, just give her a little time.”

“But she’s not answering me.” Yuji frowned. His face resembled that of a kicked puppy. Turning around, he leaned his back against the bathroom door. “She’s fine, right? She probably just ate something bad for dinner last night, right?”

Megumi glanced down at the floor, his brows furrowed — a telltale sign that he was thinking. “If that was the case, I think we’d all be sick, considering we all ate the same thing.”

“No, no, remember a couple months ago when we ordered pizza and-”

“And you got sick, and I didn’t. I remember. I’m pretty sure that was because I had one slice, and you ate the majority of the box without pacing yourself. But, putting all that aside, if she is sick, it can’t be from something she ate. She’s been coming down with something for four days now, at least.”

“Huh?” Yuji raised his eyebrows. “How do you know?”

Megumi sighed. “It’s been taking her a long time to do simple tasks. Her eyes are sunken in, and she’s been pretty quiet lately as well. She also-”

“Oh my god, she’s gonna die.” Yuji found himself sitting on the floor, his fingers, yet again, pulling at the strands of his hair. “She’s been dying for four days and you didn’t tell me?”

“I’m sure she’s not going to die-”

“Megumi, If she dies, I’m just gonna end it all, ‘cause I won’t be the one to tell dad that his wife died. No way. I had one job, to keep everyone safe! She could already be dead, you know, just lying on the bathroom floor, dead. Our mom. Deceased. How do we explain this to Maya? To Dad? Remember how he reacted when she caught a cold? This is bad, this is really-”

Suddenly, the door opened. Yuji nearly fell backward onto the bathroom floor but quickly caught himself before turning around to stare up at you.

“I can hear you,” you mumbled.

Oh, how pitiful you looked. Your eyes were sunken, your voice barely above a whisper.

Megumi gathered that, perhaps, you were replying to Yuji earlier, but if your current volume was as loud as your voice could get right now, it was no wonder he couldn’t hear you through the door.

“Mom! Are you okay? What’s going on?” Yuji sprung to his feet.

“I think you should see a doctor,” Megumi added.

“I’m fine, boys,” you whispered, slowly walking past them, and making your way down the hallway. “I’m just . . . I need to lay down.”

Yuji and Megumi exchanged a look. A slew of dangerous missions carried out alongside one another had gifted the two brothers the ability to tell an entire tale with just their facial expressions. One twitch of the brow and flicker of the eye, and Megumi knew just what Yuji wanted to ask him: Should we call the doctor anyway?

Yuji however, often struggled to read Megumi’s expressions, as the black-haired boy’s face was as blank as a fresh canvas more often than not. And right now, as Megumi did nothing more than glance back and forth between a worried Yuji and your slow-walking figure, disappearing into the depths of the house.

He didn’t know what to do.

Three hours later, Yuji ran his knife through the prepared sandwich sitting on the wooden cutting board on top of the kitchen island, slicing what would become his little sister’s dinner into two triangles.

“I’m not a chef, you know, but I made you the best sandwich ever, trust me.” Yuji put the halved sandwich on a plate. He then passed it to the young girl standing beside him, or at least, he tried to.

Though Maya had tugged on his pants leg ten minutes prior, pouting because she was hungry and you were still asleep, she folded her arms and poked her bottom lip out, refusing to take the plate.

“No,” she mumbled.

“What’s wrong?” Yuji frowned, tilting his head a tad. “Didn’t the best girl on the planet just tell me she wanted a super-duper-awesome sandwich?”

“I don’t want that! I miss mommy, and I miss daddy too. Can you get them?”

Oh, he understood.

Of course, Satoru was away, and poor Maya missed her dear dad even when he was gone for a couple of hours, let alone eight days.

He was the person she ran to when she came home from a playdate or preschool. He was the person she ran to when she woke up from a nap. When she wanted to share her snacks. When Barbie did something super-duper-awesome in her favorite movie.

And never, not once, had he greeted his little muffin with anything less than a big smile, no matter how he was feeling. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to run up to Dad and be lifted into the air and spun around and around as he talked to her sweetly and she giggled wildly.

However, you were still home, but in a lot of ways, you weren’t around either, hardly any different from an introverted ghost, haunting the hallways but not truly engaging with the residents who occupied it.

For Maya to turn down food because she missed you, must have meant she had grown tired of sandwiches and whatever else Yuji and Megumi tried to give her today. She wanted your cooking — for her mother to hand her a warm plate of yummy and nutritious food with a heartwarming smile and a forehead kiss.

“Mom’s sick right now, remember?” Yuji said gently. “So we need to do what we can to make things easier for her. And Dad will be back before you know it, you’ll see.”

The young girl still refused to take the sandwich.

Yuji got down on his knees. He, once again, tried to hand her the plate.

“C’mon, Maya Papaya. Don’t you wanna grow up to be big and strong? Only way to do that is to eat your sandwich.”

“Nuh-uh,” she shook her head.

Yuji sighed, rising to his feet. Perhaps, Megumi could coax her into taking a few bites, at least.

However, just as Yuji was about to shout his name, he heard slow-moving, shuffling footsteps approaching the kitchen.

“Mommy!” Maya squealed excitedly at the sight of you.

She ran for you, the gentle pitter-patter of her feet was yet loud enough to snap you out of the daze-like state you were in, almost as if you were sleepwalking. Introverted ghost.

Your daughter wrapped her small arms around you.

“Hi, sweetheart,” you mumbled, reaching down to ruffle her hair.

“Forget about the sandwich, Yuji. I can cook,” you gave your worried son a tired smile.

“Are you sure?” He asked, frowning.

You nodded, making your way to the kitchen sink once Maya released you. It was filled with dishes unsuitable for the dishwasher, such as precious mugs.

“You don’t have to do that, I was gonna wash ‘em,” Yuji said. Cleaning wasn’t his favorite activity, but he loved the idea of chores. It was domestic. Loving. Parents gave their children chores, and therefore, having them was his reminder that he was, indeed, someone’s child now.

He always helped fold laundry or took out the garbage with a smile on his face.

“I got it.” Your voice was weak. “Can you take Maya upstairs?”

Maya frowned, whining, “but mommy.”

“I promise I’ll . . .” you paused, resting your hands on the edge of the sink. Yuji watched the unsteady rise and fall of your shoulders. “I promise I’ll play with you later. We’ll sing, I’ll tuck you in, anything you could want. Just give me a minute. Please.”

“C’mon, Maya,” Yuji took the young girl’s hand, and though you couldn’t see your son’s face, he gave you a sympathetic, anxious look, silently praying that you were okay. “Let’s give mom some alone time, okay?”

They left the kitchen with much hesitation, but the alone time Yuji spoke of didn’t last long. Two minutes, to be exact.

You recognized the footsteps easily, a sound that blended in with the sink’s running water. The footsteps were soft, and they weren’t accompanied by a greeting, a sigh, a clearing of the throat, or any sort of noise that would unintentionally announce his presence.

Your quiet son joined you at the sink without a word, picking up a wet, clean dish with one hand and a drying rag with the other.

“I can do it myself, Megumi.”

“You always let me help,” Megumi paused. “You don’t have to overwork yourself. You shouldn’t be working at all if you want to feel better.”

It was true. You always let him help. Bonding with Megumi wasn’t the easiest task in the world. Unlike Yuji, who saw you and Satoru as parents and your house as his home even before you officially adopted him almost a year ago, Megumi struggled to fit in, to get used to parental love and family games and movie nights. But slowly, and quite slowly he was adjusting to being a son. Your son.

And washing dishes together was one activity you both did together regularly. It had gotten to a point where you left the dishwasher completely abandoned and void of dirty dishes that cluttered the sink all so you could prolong your time with your quiet boy.

It was a comfortable silence more often than not, but when he was in the mood to chat, he would tell you about his day. His plans for the week. How well he was recovering from his latest mission. And that little chatter? It made your day.

And he knew it.

Therefore, for you to attempt to dismiss him made him all the more worried about your health, as if he could get any more worried. After all, while Yuji was making their little sister a sandwich, he was surfing the web, googling endlessly about your symptoms.

It was pointless. All of his results ranged from a small cold to stage four cancer.

Megumi’s steady eyes trailed over your weakened frame. Your hands trembled around the dish they attempted to scrub. You blinked slowly. Along with that, your voice was so soft, he could barely hear you.

You suddenly dropped the dish into your hands. It hit the sink harder than you attended. You closed your eyes for a long period, long enough for Megumi to reach over and tap your arm.

“I’m not sick, honey. I’m going to . . .” you whispered. “I’m going to fold the laundry, cook the kitchen, and clean dinner. I mean . . . I’m gonna cook dinner and . . .”

Your words trailed off into nothing.

Megumi put down the glass plate in his hands.

Your head started to move back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Nonsensical mumblings fell from between your lips.

Your field of vision, which amounted to a blurry mess, suddenly became vast darkness. You went weak at the knees, and started to fall backwards.

“Mom!”

Your fainting spell lasted a couple of seconds in truth, but that was enough time for you to find yourself on the couch with a blanket draped over you, staring at the hazy living room ceiling with two things on your mind: the bizarre realization that you had, in fact, fainted, and the even more bizarre realization that Megumi had, in fact, — though in a panicked state — called you mom. For the very first time.

If you had the energy, you would have smiled.

But truth be told — and you tried shoving away the undeniable truth for quite a while — you barely had the energy to open your eyelids.

The only reason you fought to keep your eyes open was to show your boys that you were, indeed, conscious and alive, to hopefully, ease the muffled, panicked voices of your sons arguing right beside you, though you could hardly make out their words.

“I’m calling Dad.”

“Yuji-”

“No, no, no, I don’t care what you say-”

“If you’d let me speak for once, I was going to say that I should call Satoru, and you call an ambulance,” Megumi folded his arms across his chest, grateful that, according to Yuji, Maya was occupied with her dollhouse right now.

“This is bad. Is she gonna die? She can’t die, Megumi,” Yuji approached the couch, tears brewing in the reddened waterline of his light brown eyes. As he pulled the blanket higher until it practically touched your chin, he said, “I’m so tired of losing people. We can’t let her die.”

“Don’t call,” you mumbled.

“Mom,” Yuji sniffled.

“Don’t call.”

“You just fainted!” Yuji glanced back at Megumi who stood a little ways behind him. “Me and Megumi aren’t . . . we don’t know what to do.”

“We don’t want you to die,” Megumi brought his hand to his lips, fighting the strong urge to bite at the skin around his thumb. “I’ll make some tea.”

“Yeah, tea’s good, get her some tea! Hurry!” As Yuji spoke, he pulled out his phone and opened his dial screen.

“Yuji, please . . .” You weakly turned your head to face him.

Your boy’s hair was starting to grow longer. Time for a haircut. He also looked more pale than usual. Pale with worry, perhaps? Worry . . . worry . . . That’s right. You were worried about their school uniforms. They needed to be washed soon, by tomorrow, at least. You were worried about the groceries, or lack thereof. A run would need to be made soon. Megumi and Yuji’s favorite snacks and meals were predictable, but Maya, what would she want? Oh goodness, she was no longer a fan of sandwiches anymore. Maya . . . that’s right. You promised your sweet girl you would spend time with her, where was she? Did she truly want you, though, or were you nothing more than a substitute for her favorite person, Satoru? How was Satoru doing on his mission? He texted you earlier, but you forgot to respond. You needed to message him back. What else . . . what else was there to worry about? Oh.

No one had a proper dinner tonight. You needed to cook. And those dishes, they needed to be put away into their proper place . . . wait, just wait. You needed to wash Megumi and Yuji’s school uniforms tonight, because tomorrow, you would be too busy taking Maya to daycare. At least grocery shopping could be done afterward- damn it. No, it couldn’t. Tomorrow was Parent Day at Maya’s daycare, a day filled with bonding activities, and you’d show up, even if it killed you. You’d just have to grocery shop afterward, but those uniforms? They needed to be washed tonight . . . and dinner-

“What’re you mumbling about?” Yuji asked.

Only then did you realize your racing thoughts were trying to be vocalized. You shook your head and tried to get off of the couch, but Yuji gently gripped your shoulders and guided you back down.

“No, no, no. No moving. You need to go to the hospital. You’re so weak, and-and you can barely speak. I’m trying not to freak out.”

You didn’t have the strength to argue, but the look of despair on your face at the idea of being hospitalized was enough to make Yuji hesitate.

“I’m gonna call Dad, at least. Don’t try to stop me.”

Yuji kneeled beside the couch, watching you with worried eyes as he pressed his phone against his ear.

Satoru answered after a few rings.

“Dad? I’m pretty sure mom’s dying-” Yuji stopped speaking abruptly. “You’re already on the way home?”

—

When your eyes fluttered open again — only then did you realize they had closed — your blurry vision wasn’t attempting to focus in on the ceiling this time around. But at your husband’s black blindfold and pouty lips.

His concerned face was merely inches away from yours. His long fingers suddenly curled around his blindfold, and he pulled it down, revealing his worry-filled blue eyes and pinched brows.

Just how long had it been since Yuji called him? Did you blink, and he seemingly appeared in an instant? Or did you slip into a realm of unconsciousness for a couple of days?

What were the terms and conditions regarding his teleportation ability? Surely he couldn’t have done so all the way from . . . just where was he, again? Africa? Australia? How long had he been gone this time around, anyway? Wait a second . . . if Satoru didn’t teleport, and days have flown by, then you were falling behind! The laundry, the groceries, and Parent Day. Oh no, did you miss Parent Day? On top of breaking your promise to spend time with Maya? But no . . . it seemed like it was the same day, as if time hadn’t changed . . . and what day was that again? Sunday? Was it-

“Baby,” Satoru stroked your cheek softly as he leaned down to kiss your forehead. He knew you better than he knew himself, and that look in your exhausted eyes told him that your mind was wandering endlessly. It was no wonder you ended up in your current predicament. “Stop worrying. Try to relax that chaotic mind of yours.”

“She’s dying, right?” Yuji rubbed his face with his hand out of pure exhaustion. “Does she need to go to the hospital?”

Satoru couldn’t help but look back at Yuji and frown. When the teenager called him, his voice laced with sheer panic, Satoru’s entire world stopped. He thought he was going to lose you, the amazing woman who was his first crush, who made him blush and fumble over his words when he was a lovesick first-year, who later became his girlfriend, then his wife, and the mother of his children. Describing you as the love of his life wasn’t enough; you were his soulmate in every lifetime. He was certain of it.

But you weren’t lying on the side of the road, bleeding to death after a drunk driver swerved and slammed into you like he imagined, nor were you suffering from an incurable, terminal illness.

“She’s just dehydrated.”

Megumi and Yuji widened their eyes at Satoru’s words.

“What?” Megumi blinked.

“All this time, she’s just been thirsty?” Yuji paused. “That’s it?”

“You could put it that way, yeah. My overworked wife forgets to drink enough water to make up for the amount of work she does. This has happened before. Twice, actually. I’m not surprised her blood pressure dropped and she fainted. Poor thing’s exhausted.” Satoru rose to his feet, scooping you up in his arms. “I’m gonna take her to get some IV fluids. But don’t worry, she’ll be fine.”

Megumi sighed with relief. Yuji collapsed on the couch, tossing his arm over his eyes.

“She’ll be fine,” Yuji repeated Satoru’s words in his head. “She’ll be fine.”

“Get some rest, you two,” Satoru said to his sons, glancing back and forth between both of them. “Unless you wanna end up like your poor mom.”

And with that, Satoru left.

When a healthcare professional inserted an IV into your veins, slowly, but surely, you started to feel like yourself again, as if you were being revived. You looked at your dear husband’s face.

And it wasn’t the same look of calmness and reassurance he had around Megumi and Yuji. That brave face no longer existed. Instead, his rosy cheeks were wet with tears. Redness circled the blue of his eyes, and his white hair was a fluffy mess. He was a mess.

“Don’t scare me like that again.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled. “I wasn’t trying to die of thirst, I promise.”

With a trembling hand, he reached out and ran his thumb across your knuckles, releasing a shaky sigh. After all, this was the same man who could hardly pull himself together when you had a small cold.

“Not gonna lecture me?” You said with a tired, yet small grin.

“Can’t do that,” Satoru sniffled. “This is my fault at the end of the day. If I was home, I would’ve been able to help you out, and-”

“Your work is important, Satoru,” You paused, leaning your head back against your chair. Darting your eyes to the bag responsible for injecting fluids into your vein, you said, “Don’t let something as silly as me forgetting to chug enough water get in the way.”

“Excuse me?” Satoru looked at you, baffled. As if you had suddenly slapped him. “You’re my precious, amazing, beautiful wife? The best thing that’s ever happened to me? I will always prioritize you over anything. My world stops when I hear you cough two times in a row.”

“Seems like you passed that urge to panic over my health on to our kids as well,” You smiled, then suddenly your smile grew brighter. You didn’t know it, but the sight of your grin made Satoru’s heart skip a beat, just like it often did back when he was nothing more than an awkward teenager with a crush on you.

“Speaking of our kids, guess what Megumi did?” Your eyes glistened with excitement.

“What?” Satoru smiled.

“Guess.”

“Okay, umm,” Satoru leaned back in his seat, looking up at the ceiling. “He actually told you he needed something?”

“Nope.”

“He . . . Oh, I got it, you two did the dishes together again. That always makes you happy. That’s gotta be it, right?”

“Nope!” You shook your head. “Well, we did, but that’s not what I wanted you to guess.”

“Fineee, I give up,” Satoru said.

“He called me mom.” Your joyous words were accompanied by teary eyes. “He was worried, and it just slipped out, but he did it, Satoru. Should I bring it up and tell him how much it meant to me, or should I pretend it never happened? Probably the latter, right? I don’t want him to feel embarrassed. I think I’ll cook him something special to eat, kinda as a way of acknowledging what happened and letting him know I’m grateful without actually bringing up the fact he called me mom. Do you think it’ll happen again?”

Suddenly, Satoru rose from his seat, leaned over, and planted a soft kiss against your lips.

“What was that for?” You asked though you couldn’t help but grin.

“You’re just so . . .” The words were lost- no, not lost. Mere words simply weren’t strong enough to describe you, and his mind went blank as he leaned in, giving you yet another soft kiss. “God, and you have the nerve to wonder why everyone freaks out over the idea of something bad happening to you.”

Another kiss. Then another. Each one deeper and lasting longer than the one prior.

Your husband wasn’t one to shy away from public affection, and though you were in a private urgent care room, you couldn’t help but grow nervous over the idea of getting caught.

“Cut it out, we’re in public. Have some decorum,” you mumbled when he pulled away for a brief moment, strands of his white hair tickling your head.

“Yeah, yeah, something decor, I hear you,” Satoru kissed you yet again. “One more.”

One more turned into three, but eventually, he sat back down in his own seat. There, he stayed, holding your hand, using his thumb to toy with the wedding ring on your finger.

@marvel-girl3 @goldenglow149 @luaqsv @sstoru @pinkfemdolly @satorusgummies @therealmrsgojo @leehriie @iminlovewqr0w @odessa-is-my-queen @melodycelos @stoneaf

[tonyzaret]

How are you able to make so many relatively accurate observations about fandom culture?

Because I have been researching fandom culture for over a year (using only Reddit arguments as a source) and this is what I’ve learned:

Fandom does not mean being a fan of something. Fandom refers to a group of adults creating and consuming romantic (also known as “shipping”) “smut” (p*rnography) content based on a handful of commercially-produced intellectual properties catering to the Teen Demographic.

Although these intellectual properties are marketed to 12-16 year-olds, fandom “spaces” are NOT for teens. This is because when minors are in fandom spaces fandom adults cannot comfortably share their Shipping Smut, due to Purity Culture.

The relationships in this shipping content may feature 2 or more canon characters (that is, characters created by people outside of Fandom) or a mix of canon characters and “OC’s” (characters created by someone in fandom). However, if you make shipping content that contains ONLY original characters, what you have created is not fandom but “mainstream media.” This means that the rules of fandom etiquette such as “ship and let ship” and “don’t like don’t read” no longer apply to people who consume your work. You made the mistake of, for example, creating a webcomic with 5 readers that earns you $0.84/month and now your fandom is free to harass you for ruining their comfort characters and head canons. Also, do NOT complain about people making smut out of your OC’s as you will get a lecture about the Death of The Author.

But the good news is, even if everyone is making smut out of your OC’s, at least your name & likeness will be left out of it, right?

WRONG. You, the non-fanwork content creator, are now a “public figure,” making your private life fair game for RPF (real person fan fiction), which hopefully you will never see unless one of the billions of internet users unfamiliar with fandom etiquette sends it to you.

So, in conclusion, fandom is a joyful and creative space for anyone over 21 who wants to get into endless arguments about which cartoon characters are ******* each other

[tddyhyck]

sudden urges [ l.dh ]

pt 1 (can be read as a stand alone)

pairing ⇢ enemies with benefits!haechan x afab!reader

warnings ⇢ 18+, car sex, squirting, wet & messy, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, oral (m receiving), light nipple play (kinda), food play (ig), unprotected sex, oppa kink, crying, mean names and pet names, pussy slapping, hair pulling, cheating/affairs mentioned, creepy old man mentioned

word count ⇢ 6.9k

playlist ⇢ red line_5sos / turn your phone off_pinkpantheress & destroy lonely / sweet as sin_ten / bite_troye sivan

a/n ⇢ how do we feel about 1 more regular part and then maybe a part from hyuck’s pov?? also, in my world hyuck is the readers oppa so it’s not really a kink all the time

masterlist

you didn’t want to call him but you didn’t really have anyone else who you could call. well you did but he was the first person you felt like talking to. which wasn’t how it was supposed to work. shivering on the curb while your finger hovered over his name on the screen. sighing you tapped it crossing your fingers and toes that he picked up.

“hey,” he whispered lazily as if he didn’t pick up halfway through the first ring.

“uh hey,” you poked at a hole in your tights.

“miss me?”

“can you come get me?” you blurted before he could even finish. the line was silent for a moment then you heard rustling.

“send me your location.” you breathed a sigh of relief, shoulders relaxing as you pulled the phone away to send a quick message. the line was still silent while you waited for it to say read.

“what are you doing over there?” you could practically see his face, eyebrow quirked up and jaw tense big brown eyes staring through you.

“just had to drop some papers off.” it was half true. you did ride the bus over and drop off a stack of papers to your professor.

“that’s all?”

“stop interrogating me, goddd,” you groaned, tugging the hole on your tights, ripping it more. “i’ll tell you when i see you.”

“i’ll be there in 5 i guess.” you heard keys jingle.

“i’m on the sidewalk near building F,” you offered.

“he just made you wait outside? what an ass can’t even drive you home and leaves you to sit outside in the snow?” haechan grumbled into the phone.

“he uh,” you pause realizing how bad it was about to sound.

“wife?” he simply asked. you’d only talked to haechan before about it mainly because he always pried and because you didn’t want lectures from everyone else. there wasn’t a desire to make him like you so you didn’t hide the bad things from him.

the professor was married and you knew that from the beginning, but he had swore they were separated. you believed him until his wife invited half the department to a dinner party where she flashed heart eyes and he doted on her. it made you sick, she was maybe a few years older than you while he pushed retirement.

it wasn’t that you felt obligated to agree when he asked but he was the one giving you credit hours and promising to write recommendations. when he first approached you it made you feel special and admired like you were a four leaf clover picked in a field. now it didn’t feel so special when you realized he did this all the time.

“unhuh,” you murmured. the line stayed silent and you could hear him turning on a blinker “thanks for coming. i didn’t want to bother anyone, they're all so stressed and losing their minds over that exam.” it wasn’t a lie they were prepping for an exam, but for some reason you wanted him to distract you with banter.

“i took the bus though you know, and brought like the biggest stack of papers i finally finished grading. but it stopped running- the bus, guess it was the weather.” you tried to fill the silence rambling on about nothing.

“didn’t think i would take so long, but i had to bring them by i dunno why he makes me. it’s so much easier to just file them away in the office but he always has me come by so he can check them. like i’m incompetent. i wrote the key so i would know.”

“because he wants to fuck you.” haechan mumbles.

“huh?” you ask.

“i’m here.” he pulls into the parking lot and hangs up. you shiver when you stand up before he pulls up in front of you. opening the door you slide in savoring the warmth.

“what did you say?” you question before putting your bag down.

“i said he wants to fuck you. that’s why he makes you bring some bullshit papers.” he rests his elbow on the window leaning his head on his hand looking at you lazily. he turns the heat up while you buckle your seatbelt.

“i know that but he won’t give me the credit unless i bring them by,” you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest.

“that’s so fucked up. you should report him.” he eases off the brake pulling away from the sidewalk.

“it’s not a big deal.” you sigh still picking at the hole on your leg. “it’s just sex.”

“is he better than me? actually if he is don’t tell me,” you roll your eyes hitting his chest.

“shut up,” you shift in your seat.

“well is he?” he smirks, coming to a stop, looking over at you, hands low on the steering wheel. you shrug but he can read the answer on your face. he reaches over, snapping his fingers in your face and pointing to his own.

“i asked you if he fucks you better than me,” he emphasizes.

“no,” you mumble, looking away again. you know he’s smiling to himself gloating.

“where do you wanna go? are you hungry?” you shrug in response, cheeks pink from your admission. “ice cream?”

“can we eat it at the park?” you ask perking up at the thought of a cool and creamy sweet treat.

“of course.” he turns the wheel heading to your favorite ice cream spot. “can’t believe you want that when it’s like, negative degrees.”

“my love for ice cream is greater than my desire to be warm. plus we’re in a car you have heat we’re fine.”

“can’t believe he made you sit out in this,” he motions with a hand to the sky. grey and dreary, clouds full of snow and sleet that had been spilling periodically throughout the day.

“she would have seen me.”

“well he should have thought of that before asking you to come over. what if you get sick or hurt or someone snatchesd you. then who will grade his papers?” you roll your eyes at his dramatics. he pulls into the familiar parking lot, the neon sign bright but missing the i-c-e so it just says “homemade cream.” he pulls in behind a car already waiting at the window.

“probably some other pretty but stupid girl. it doesn’t matter i’m fine and you picked me up.” you grin nudging his shoulder. “did i wake you up?”

“well not exactly i was going to nap but then my phone rang and this hot girl was on the line all like ‘oppaaaaa please can you come get me from this evil villains house and take me for ice cream and can you pay for it pleaseee ooooppa.’” you gawk at him mimicking your voice quite well for what it’s worth.

“i do not sound like that,” you groan, hitting him again.

“you kinda do though,” he grins, releasing your wrist.

“so you think i’m hot?” you smirk teasingly lean close to him.

“no i just hang out with you because of your personality,” you hit him again, but he grabs your hand when it meets his chest. you rip away before he can interlace your fingers.

“if you keep hitting me i’m gonna hit you back and that would look bad to future employers.” he turns away as you smile, listening to him give the order. strawberry on a cone for you as always and a hot coffee for him. when the worker leaves you lean forward chin on his shoulder.

“i like it when you hit me sometimes,” you whisper. you swear you can feel the hair on his neck stand up. “you know down there.”

“shut up,” he nudges you away before the worker brings his card and receipt then leaves again to make the order.

“just being honest, oppa,” popping the p sound before running fingers over his knee. he jerks, bouncing the leg and brushing your hand away. you huff, air blowing on his ear making him shiver. the window opens and he grabs your ice cream, passing it to you before he grabs his drink with a thank you.

“mmmm,” you moan when you taste the ice cream. sweet and creamy and perfect.

“look at the sign,” pointing to the burnt neon with a grin.

“you know a thing or two about homemade cream,” grinning he taps your leg.

“and you know a thing or two about begging for it.” you smile to yourself, leaning back in the seat crossing your legs.

“begging seems dramatic doesn’t it?” he questions. you grab your phone ready to find the familiar voice memo he had sent you. you up your volume fully before pressing play.

‘heyyyyy, i’m like so fucked up right now,’ he tries to grab your phone as his voice plays from it. ‘i’m walking to your place at least i think i am. fuckk- are you even awake. i’ll sit outside, i don't care.’

“turn it off, oh my god,” he groans, one hand clenching on the wheel while the other presses against his ear..

“nuhuh.”

‘i had a dream about you. i think it was a dream i don’t know. um, wait but there was you, you were there and you finally rode my tongue. i want you to so bad. you’re too freaky to not ride my face at least once. do i need to beg on my knees for it?’

“you’re evil,” wincing as he hears his slurred voice playing back.

‘if i do will you? please. you taste so good and fuck - like so good. now i’m thinking about it. getting hard like a loser over thinking about pussy.’

“i sound so pathetic.”

“yeah you do. it’s hot.” grinning before taking another swipe at your ice cream.

‘shit - anyways uh i’m coming over i know you’re alone. at least i think you are… what if you have a guy in your bed. i’ll jump out of your window then when you look at him you’ll get sad. that’s fucked up but i want you alllll to myself sometimes.’

you turn the audio off before he starts professing his feelings. you’d never talked about the last few minutes of the voicemail. a quiet acknowledgment of the open secret between you both. you weren’t actually sure if he remembered all that he said.

that night you’d opened the door to him on his knees begging for you, but he fell asleep on your couch 10 minutes later with a silly look on his face.

“i still want you to ride my face,” he admits.

“you’re obsessed with eating pussy.” you laugh into your ice cream.

“is it such a crime to love your pussy?” raising his hands after parking in your usual spot turning the car off.

“we’d all be arrested if it was.”

“we can share handcuffs.” he offered a wrist to you and you held yours next to his.

“not the first time,” you tease as you pull away. you tug the lever beside you leaning your seat all the way back and kick your feet up on the dash.

“hey hey no shoes on my baby i just got her detailed,” he scolds grabbing your ankles and lugging you off. groaning, you lift your feet and rest them over his lap.

“yeah i didn’t care about these sweats anyways,” he deadpans looking at your shoes.

“they’re not muddy,” you say, pulling your legs away before reaching down to pull the shoes off. you put your now shoeless feet on his lap again and he doesn’t complain. silence settles for a moment aside for him sipping his coffee and you licking your ice cream contentedly.

“how long are you stuck grading his papers?”

“eh maybe two months. i hope he gets sick of me before then.”

“unlikely.” he mutters to himself, reaching up he fiddles with the sunroof, opening the shutter letting in the orange glow of the street light.

“do you think his wife knows?” he turns his head at your question. “she’s got to right? he probably did the same thing to her too.”

“do you want her to know?” the ice cream is melting too quickly.

“maybe. i don’t know. what’s better? it would be best if they were in an open relationship and she knew but was okay with it.”

“well that’s best case,” he leans his own seat back looking over at you at eye level.

“worst case?”

“she knows and hates you?” he suggests, making you groan.

“she’s so sweet too. fuck, i’m so terrible.” you close your eyes not wanting to look at his.

“he’s a manipulative geriatric asshole and you were vulnerable and naive. he’s terrible for taking advantage of all these girls.” he reassures, patting your arm softly. a weird moment of humanity between both of you.

“i’m not going over again.” you announce.

“good girl,” he pats your head now.

“don’t do that.”

“what?”

“be nice.” he laughs a real full belly laugh and it makes your stomach twinge weirdly.

“i’m soooo nice.” he looks up out of the car sunroof.

“yeah and i'm a worm,” you roll your eyes and his hand slides over your leg he laughs again

“you think i'm mean,” he pouts, poking your leg.

“name one time you were nice to me?”

“hmm,” he pauses a finger tapping his chin before he leans over cupping your ear to whisper. “what about the time i made you cu-“

“lalalala i can’t hear you,” you cut him off, pushing his face away.

“you need new tights,” still smiling as he prods at one of the holes in the sheer material covering your skin.

“you don’t think it gives me an edge?” lifting your leg slightly showing off the ripped black fabric.

“you don’t need an edge, you're mean enough.” you fein surprise trying to kick him but he grabs your leg before you can. squeezing your thigh when he pulls it against his warm body.

“you think i’m mean?” you copy him.

“i can name at least 100 instances.” you roll your eyes. “ok, just one?” he grins over at you before saying.”probably when we met and you called me the hunchback of notre dame.”

“but it made you work on your posture.” you point out. he nods in response. “you were just as mean, i only said that after you said i looked like helga from hey arnold.”

“you were wearing that same pink outfit,” he defends.

“i was a powerpuff girl,” you grumble.

“how’s the ice cream?”

“devine.” he’s looking over at you with big stupid brown eyes. staring back at him you lick over the remaining creamy treat. swirling over the cone collecting the pink cream on your tongue. you’re being overly provocative letting some of the ice cream slide out of your mouth and onto your lips.

“if it’s so good don’t let it go to waste.” thumb brushes over the drip, swiping it into your mouth. you don’t hesitate to suck the melted strawberry off of his finger moaning at the taste. he pulls away spit sticking to his thumb before he licks it. he’s so disgustingly gross and sexy it’s annoying. what light that shines from the sunroof makes him look too golden, too delicious, too warm.

“so sweet,” he sighs. big brown eyes still watching you when you wrap your lips around what’s now a sad hill instead of a full scoop.

“can i have some?” before you can answer he leans in grabbing your face pulling you to meet him. his tongue laps into your mouth collecting the cool sweet liquid. it makes you burn, hot cheek in his hand as he leads you. turning your head to deepen the kiss. the melting treat drips over your fingers as his lips melt into yours.

using the hand that is still on your leg, now gripping the flesh, he pulls you over. settling you on top of him, mouths still open exchanging hot breaths and spit. pulling away you sit back feeling the bulge pressed against you. catching your breath as you look down at him, lips red and puffy, eyes dazed. you press a finger to them to see how soft they are and he licks your digit.

“do you want some more?” moving to switch your hands. bringing the pink sticky fingers to his lips. he sucks them greedily, tongue splitting your fingers licking between them lewdly. watching as you grind against him, knees pressed tightly on his sides while he holds your hips. trailing your fingers from his mouth you slide them over his lips and down his chin. slippery still from his spit you move them finger painting his neck.

“did you fuck him?” it catches you off guard but you keep your fingers on his neck feeling his pulse under them. “like today did you?”

“no. he-“ you pause, deciding if you should share. “he came in his pants and then his wife called.” haechan laughs hard, making you shake on him.

“what a fucking loser.”

“why do you ask?” you bring the messy cone to your mouth again tasting what’s left.

“i don’t want to sound weird.”

“tell me,” you pout bouncing on him. he groans, squeezing your hips to stop you. you can feel his growing hardness against your inner thigh and it makes you clench.

“is it jealous if i say i don’t want to fuck you if he just did. i don’t want my dick near his.” he offers.

“who said we were going to fuck?” raising an eyebrow at him.

“please, mommy,” he whimpers, sitting up face in yours, clasping his hands making puppy dog eyes.

“stupid,” you mumble, pushing his face away, head hitting the seat with a thud.

“can i be honest?” he nods eagerly, hair bouncing against the headrest.

“i don’t even know the last time we did. he keeps nutting before i even get his pants off. plus it’s kinda small, no hate to the micros but like,” you pause using your finger to measure around 4 inches.

“it’s not doing anything.” he’s giggling under you again, this time his cock pressing against you with each shake of his body. you can feel the wetness slipping from you pooling in your tights.

“god, how can a guy like him be married and seduce beautiful young women while having a fast finishing micro. double homicide but he gets rewards.” he shakes his head.

“money,” you rub your fingers together.

“so i’m bigger?”

“obviously.” you roll your eyes finishing the last of your ice cream at least what hasn’t turned to soup.

“so let’s see.” you lean back putting the cone in the spare cup holder. he peaks under your skirt noticing your lack of panties.

“see what?” you watch him stare between your legs so you flip the skirt up for him. “this?”

“don’t distract me.” he closes his eyes, pressing his head back. “i can fuck you better, have a way bigger dick, and buy you ice cream.” he counts each “pro” on his fingers.

“what’s your point?” reaching for his lifted fingers you pull them to your core rubbing them over your tights.

“just that.” he pauses moving his fingers against you letting the seam of your tights brush against you cunt. “i’m a much better option.”

“like to date?” you laugh loudly but continue grinding down seeking more of his touch. you don’t catch the way his eyes dull at your reaction. the idea of him being more than whatever he was to you a joke. he could still dream and dwell on you for hours and days and weeks.

“ew no, just to do these activities,” he replies his other hand slithering over your ass.

“yeah we hate each other, remember?” you smirk down at him as he grabs your ass kneading the flesh.

“oh yeah sorry. don’t let me forget how much i despise you.” he groans pressing the tips of his digits against the tights. moaning when the seam catches against your clit again, you grind down.

“wouldn’t be so fun if we liked each other, or something.” breath catching in your throat as he swirls around your clit. you don’t see the way he looks up at you when you say that. he wonders if you can tell. it makes him mad the way your so oblivious to his affection for you.

“yeah people who like each other don’t do this.” he moves his other hand to your center, gripping the tights and yanking. the middle seam tears easily exposing your cunt to the cool air of the car.

“haechan,” you squeal. “i liked these.” you pout slapping his arm. he keeps going sliding his fingers between your lower lips, collecting slick.

“i told you.” he pauses a finger teasing over your entrance, tapping your waiting hole. “you need new ones.” he fucks a digit into you hard. you whine as he begins to flick his wrist curling the pad of his middle finger into you.

“but i liked these,” whining and digging your nails into his shoulders.

“you can keep them.” his fingers are fast moving to curl against your sweet spot. “wear them for me.”

“i hate you,” voice shaky as you grind down, his palm pressing against your clit.

“i know,” he leans up, lips ghosting over your neck. using his other hand he unzips your oversized hoodie making you shiver.

“i do. fucking hate you,” you moan when he bites your now exposed skin. you grab his hair in response, tugging him away.

“tell me all about it baby, let it out,” he looks up at you. finger working faster in you.

“hate when you look at me like that,” you whimper, closing your eyes, savoring the ghost of his thumb over your clit.

“what about this?” thumb rubbing circles around you swollen bud while his finger continues curling inside of you. grip tightening on his shoulder and in his hair with a gasp.

“hate it,” peeking down watching his wrist flicking fast and hard. your tummy tightens hearing the squelch of your cunt filling the car.

“and this?” he has that grin on his face watching you melt in his hands like your ice cream when he adds a second finger.

“so much,” you whimper. “hate it so much.”

“poor baby. let it out,” he licks over your neck nibbling lightly at the bare skin. the heat spreading over your tummy feeling the knot tightening. so close and you want it.

“hate me so much you’re gonna cum?” he tuts. you hate him you really do. his hand slithers pulling the top of your camisole down letting your breast spill out. squeezing the flesh before pinching your nipple. clenching around his fingers at the tug of his pointer and thumb on the hard nub.

“you think about me when you’re alone, don't you?” he questions, thumbing your nipple and clit at the same time, sending shockwaves through you. “gushing in your panties when you think about how much you hate your oppa?”

“fingering your cunt wishing it was me?” his words make your toes curl more than his fingers. you’d never admit it to him, your mind trailing to him when you can’t sleep. opening yourself up imagining he was there telling you dirty things. your vibrator is fine but he’s so much better.

“or do you hump your pillow thinking about me? it’s not as good is it?” you shake your head mouth opened gasping.

“leaves you wanting more? wanting your oppa’s cock to help you.” his words pull you closer. you bounce on his hand chasing the release.

“moaning for your oppa all alone.” leaving open mouth kisses along your neck when he whispers, “gonna let it out for your oppa?”

“hate you,” releasing onto his fingers with a whine cunt tightening around them. your fingers tug at his hair and he moans into your neck slowing his hand but still slowly pumping into you. thumb still swirling around your nipple when you look down watching the slow flick of his wrist and see the wet spot on his sweats.

“don’t tell me you came in your pants too?” you tease, breathily.

“all you, sweet cheeks,” pulling his fingers out sticky string connecting to your pussy as more slick dribbles out onto the grey material. he brings them to his lips savoring your taste on his tongue. his other hand falls from your chest settling on your tummy rubbing circles with his thumb. your tit still hanging out as you release the grip you had on him your fingers quickly find his waistband. pulling down the fabric you release his cock.

“no panties?” looking up at him grinning as he leans back head resting on his arms.

“i was trying to be fast.” you take his cock in your hands pumping the length. pushing your ass back to bend down and take him in your mouth. he hisses between his teeth when you wrap your lips around his tip. bobbing your head he reaches down to brush your hair out of your face. you pull back releasing him before spitting messily onto his cock.

“fuck,” he groans as your hand speeds up using your spit and his precum to glide over his length. you look up at him through your lashes watching him bite his lip. he stares back at you, before taking him back in your mouth, sucking him slowly.

“you’re so fucking hot,” gripping your hair with his voice raspy. “i hate you too,” his hips buck when you laugh, mouth vibrating around him. continuing you bob your head letting his cock bump the back of your throat when your nose touches his pelvis. you linger swallowing around him.

“fuck fuck fuck,” he groans, using your hair to pull you away. releasing his cock with spit dripping out of your mouth onto his pants. his chest heaves your hand lazily pumping his length. you wipe your mouth before sitting back up. you wiggle forward on him sitting so your cunt presses against his member.

“do you have condoms,” you turn rummaging in the glove box.

“maybe,” he mumbles, watching the way the head of his cock disappears between your folds.

“bro,” you lift a pair of your panties from the box.

“oh yeah you left those,” he says nonchalantly, holding your hips dragging you over his cock. rolling your eyes, continuing to look, attempting to ignore the hardness bumping your sensitive clit, searching for a foil packet but only finding ketchup.

“can we just do it raw?” you side eye him contemplating. “i’ll pull out.”

“it’s gonna be messy.” you sigh, shutting the compartment.

“you like it that way,” his eyes are staring between you. you're grinding on him without his help so he moves his hand to spread your pussy watching the slick coat his member. a mischievous look on his face when he tugs at the ripped tights opening them more.

“hey,” you shriek, slapping his hand. he doesn’t flinch, hands laying across your thighs as he moves his thumb to lift the head of his cock against your clit, groaning at the pressure. you keep your pace hips rocking back and forth. you grip the hem of his shirt pushing it up on his chest.

“shit,” he whimpers, precum pumping from the slit as he grabs your hips to stop you.

“up,” you lift yourself shimmying forward. he holds himself guiding to your entrance and lifting his own hips while you slide down. you groan in unison when you sit fully. you don’t move for a second savoring the fill of his cock. but his impatient hips jump, jostling you over him, making you double over.

“fuck,” you whimper leaning over him hands under his shirt, your hair falling in his face. you push against him, nails digging into his skin and start riding him. ass slapping against his grey sweatpants any sound muted by the fabric. the head of his cock bumping your sweet spot with every bounce.

he reaches around gripping your ass using what’s left of your tights to move you up and down faster, deeper. moans fill the car along with ripping fabric beside the building steam.

“so deep,” you whine. he leans up, hips meeting yours, face now only centimeters away. you shriek when his hand slaps against your ass.

“like it when i hit you down there,” he repeats your stupid comment from earlier has him hitting your skin again. he grips your tights pulling you up and down on him.

“i meant,” you lean away pushing on his chest for leverage with one hand the other going to your clit. “here.” you wince slapping softly over your sensitive bud.

“let me try again,” his hair falls in his face and he leans into you. his mouth latching onto your nipple and slapping your clit harshly. you shake overwhelmed by the suction on your chest, repeated hits to your g-spot, and slick fingers thrumming your clit.

“there?” he asks, releasing your nipple while still tonguing the bud. you nod furiously, tears building in your eyes overwhelmed.

“aww don’t cry little doll,” he teases using his teeth to pull the other side of your top down before sucking the nipple into his mouth.

“so much,” you whimper, hands threading in his hair roughly.

“thought that was how you hated me?” his breath is so hot like the tears you feel on your cheeks. he continues pounding into you, hips driving deeper with each thrust.

“yeah,” you can’t form a thought just his hands, and his tongue, and his fingers, and his cock, his dick, him, him, him.

“cat got your tongue,” tugging your bottom lip. you mumble nothing but everything at the same time feeling yourself come undone slowly but all at once. whining again when his tongue laps at your nipple. his fingers swirl quickly on your clit.

“s’ full,” you moan. he slaps your clit again making you shake clenching tightly around him.

“oppa’s cock to much for you?” you shake you head, core tightening as your release approaches faster and faster.

“want it,” you whine, nodding mouth opened spit dribbling down your chin, cock drunk.

“gonna cum because you hate me again?” he grins up at you. you squeeze around him in response, hearing him hiss. speeding up his finger on your clit sending you over the edge.

“oppa,” you whimper, arching into his hold as you cum. hot pleasure fills your body as your hips jerk. pussy pulsing around him but he doesn’t slow down continuously bumping your sweet spot over and over.

“let it out for your oppa,” cooing, he feels the puddle growing on his pants. the pads of his fingers don’t stop causing your release to spray over his lower half.

“oh my god,” you whimper leaning into his shoulder. hips shuddering as he still moves in you.

“you’re so tight,” your cunt still squeezing around him as he slows. heavy breathing into his neck while you come down he slowly ruts into you. finally pulling back looking at the mess you made on him.

“sorry,” you whimper, overstimulated from the fullness.

“it’s fucking hot,” he replies as you push him back to the seat. he looks pretty brown eyes blown wide and staring up at you, his hair sticking to his forehead. you’re determined to have him fill you up. suddenly needy for his hot cum in you. your fingers move the hem of his shirt farther up, pads brushing his nipples making him shiver.

“what are you doing?” you start moving your hips again, swiveling them.

“what does it look like?” you deadpan fingers pinching his nubs. he whines head tipping back with closed eyes.

“cum in me.” you whisper against his stomach. tongue flicking over his sticky skin as you bounce on him. he peers down at you watching you slither up his chest before tonguing his nipple.

“fuck,” he whimpers biting his lip. his hands holding your hips start to pull you up and down on him. quivering from sensitivity with each drag of his cock.

“nuhuh,” you move your hands to stop his. “let me.” you lift your ass up before slapping back down the squelch and slap of skin fills the car. your hands hold his wrists hovering over your skin, but he reaches for you needily.

“wanna fuck you.” you whine flicking his nipple with your tongue. “make you cum.” pausing licking up his chest to his collarbone. “fill me up, oppa,” you whisper into his ear.

he’s keening at every word and every squeeze of your tight cunt around him. pulling back, releasing his hands, using yours to press l against the steamy window for leverage and the other finding your clit.

“feels so good, oppa,” you whine when his cock hits your sweet spot again. he finally moves his hands using his thumbs to spread your pussy watching the sticky connection as his cock disappears in you.

“fuck i’m gonna cum,” he groans as you pull him closer to the edge.

“cum for me oppa,” you whimper fingers circling your clit and nipple.

“love it when oppa fills up my cunt,” hips fucking into you and his head falls back as he pumps hot seed into you with a moan. you keep moving your hips, milking his cock. letting the tip abuse your insides trying to cum again.

“unhuh,” you whine, overstimulating him as his cum starts to slip out of you. it sticks to your inner thighs, strings connecting you.

“shit, stop, fuck,” he grabs your hips stopping your movements.

“i’m so close though,” you whine, fingers still padding against your clit. he pulls you off of him with a groan, cock lazily slapping onto his pelvis. you move your fingers fucking two into your puffy pussy but it’s not enough it never is.

“help me,” you whine and he adds a finger beside yours fucking into your cunt pumping his load back into you. you bounce down meeting creamy digits as he curls them.

“let me show you,” he coos using his finger to push the tips of your own into you making you moan instantly.

“it’s gonna,” you moan out, gripping his wrist. “come out.”

“what happened to that tight little cunt? did oppa fuck you loose?” you whimper and he adds a second finger watching your hole swallow four fingers with ease. the pads of his fingers helping you curl yours, pressing just right. you feel so close just a little more you think rubbing your clit faster and harder.

“fuck i’m,” your hips start to shake. “i’m.” you can’t finish, crying out.

“one more time, for your oppa,” he directs more than asks.

you garble out curses as you cum. squirting onto your hands and his spent cock. your wrist slowing but he keeps going coaxing the streams out of you. you can’t think of anything, your body buzzing and shivering with waves of pleasure. it feels like it’s never going to end each bump of your own fingers inside you makes you spill more.

“no more, can’t,” you mumble, grabbing for him. mind numb and cunt pulsing out small dribbles.

“so greedy,” he tells you, pulling out with you, one final spurt hitting his dick. you lay your hand on his thigh but he slaps your cunt making you cry. his sticky fingers rubbing against you slowly. he feels what’s left of his cum start to pool on his fingers, mixing with all you gave him.

cupping his fingers he scoops it from you making you quiver again. before he can move his hands you grab his wrist pulling his fingers to your mouth slurping the mixture onto your tongue.

“fuck,” he hisses, watching you diligently sucking every drop from him. “so fucking nasty.”

sitting back on his thighs with a huff looking down to inspect the damage. his pants are practically dark grey now and his shirt even has damp spots. your fingers spread your lips so you can peak at your pussy, wet and swollen still slightly pulsing.

“i gotta put some towels or something in here. this is like the fourth time.” you giggle pushing your hair out of your face.

“sorry,” you puff.

“next time i'm just going to open the door and let you make a mess on the pavement.” you roll your eyes but the thought of him holding you up for anyone to watch while you squirt makes you tingle.

“you're so freaky. don’t tell me you want me to,” he reads your mind.

“shut up,” you push him away.

“next time i’ll just bend you over the hood.” you whine legs squeezing his. your both still catching your breath the air in the car hot and muggy. you groan as you slide from his lap into your seat.

“i’m going to have to get her detailed again.” he mutters looking between your legs where the slick rubs on his seat.

“sorry,” you grin. he looks around to see if anyone is outside but it’s empty. he always parks far away from the entrance, behind the permanently closed pool. it’s rare that anyone pulls up near you. he tucks himself in his ruined sweats lifting his hips to pull them up before opening the door. the rush of cool air hits you, making you close your legs quickly.

haechan rummages in the trunk, he did keep towels and a change of clothes. after the first time you made a mess he secretly stockpiled items for you. a sweater here, some pants there, a duplicate of your favorite blanket.

he pulls out one of his sweatshirts, tugging his own shirt off, tossing it in a small basket he put back there. he shivered pulling the clean one on quickly. he grabbed two towels before walking back to the door handing you one.

“i thought you didn’t keep towels in here?” you question grabbing the towel and shifting it under you.

“i’m not known for telling the truth.” he wipes over his seat cleaning up the mess. he walks back to the trunk as you lean your head against the seat, sighing.

he puts the towel on top of his shirt, grabbing wipes and two pairs of sweatpants he closes the trunk with an elbow.

“here,” his voice makes you open your eyes. he’s holding wipes up and you grab them. pulling them out you wipe over his seat, he’s standing outside swiftly pulling off his pants. you look up his ass in your face and you can’t resist slapping it.

“b word,” he shrieks, turning to you, almost falling, he hopes on one leg, tugging the pants over his shoes. his refusal to call you a bitch makes you laugh. he’s so tender.

“hey you can only call me that during sex,” you scold.

“that seems like the last place i should call you that,” he points out, stepping into the sweats.

“but i like it,” you pout, closing the wipes watching him jump into his pants.

“because you,” leaning in before tapping a finger on your nose. “are a freak.” you bite at his finger but he pulls away too quickly grabbing something off the roof.

“here,” he holds your own pants to you.

“i’ve been looking for these,” you groan, ripping them from his hands. “how long have you had these?” he shrugs getting back into his seat. not bothering with your tights you slip your skirt down letting it pool on the floorboard. he sits his seat back up starting the car again and blasting the heat. you pull the pants over your legs enjoying the soft warm fabric.

“why do you have my pants,” you prod poking his side.

“in case you needed them,” he states plainly.

“awww you’re so sweet,” you pinch his cheek. “do you like me or something?”

“gross,” he blurts, side eyeing you. “do you want me to drop you at your place?”

“please,” you respond, scrolling on your phone. the car is quiet except for the heat blowing through the vents. “thanks for picking me up by the way, and the ice cream.”

“no worries,” he mumbles, turning the wheel.

“do you have more of my clothes?” you open the glove box pulling your panties out.

“just some leggings and shit in the trunk,” he tells you casually.

“why are you stealing from me,” you sigh, making him chuckle.

“i’ll just get pee pads instead. is that better?”

“god that’s weird. i never do that with anyone else,” you admit.

“wait what?” he stops at a light, looking at you grinning.

“i mean i’ve come close but never like,” you pause motioning, “that. the first time was with you.” you see his ego growing beneath his skin already regretting what you said.

“you’re saying only my dick, my fingers, my tongue can get you like that,” he’s smiling to himself and it’s so annoying you want to slap him and kiss him. you shake your head, getting the last thought out of your head.

“don’t get a big head or anything. i shouldn’t have said it.” you roll your eyes picking at fuzz on your pants.

“if it helps you’re the only one who can make me cum by just playing with my nipples.”

“i’m sure you can do that all by yourself.”

“i’ve tried.” he says flatly.

“you’re too impatient. you just want to nut as fast as possible when you’re alone.”

“well duh why would i want to drag it out if i’m alone and not playing with you. i don’t even jerk off that much anymore, i just edge myself for you.” you dwell on what he said. he makes it sound like you’re the only one he’s hooking up with.

“you don’t edge yourself for-“

“no.” he interrupts you before you can start listing people. “i don’t hook up with anyone else.”

“what?”

“i don’t hook up with anyone else.” he repeats.

“i dunno, that’s a little too intimate, haechan,” you tease, trying to seem like you don’t care. part of you wants to think about what it actually means and another part wants to ignore him and be oblivious.

“is it? i like being intimate with you,” he meets your eyes quickly, fingers crawling up your leg.

“that sounds so serious,” you breathe deeply.

“don’t tell me you didn’t like that?” recalling how you felt less than 15 minutes ago. squeezing your legs together and your eyes closed. “i know you. you hate that i do, but i know how i make you feel. i’m confident in that.”

you stay quiet the only sound coming from the heat and wheels on pavement. his hand still rests on your thigh, fingers softly thrumming. you don’t really have an answer or any witty remark. he’s right. he does know your body better than anyone you have ever been with. you hate to admit he knows you better too. reading your mind with ease and his humor is just as dirty and weird. deep down you know how you feel for him but you can’t, it breaks the unspoken rule between you too.

“why do you have to be so,” you groan, his hand smooths over your leg.

“i think you know how i feel about you,” he mutters, turning onto you street.

“huh,” you heard him.

“we’re here,” he pulls up beside your apartment.

“thanks,” you whisper, grabbing your bag and shoving your panties in. opening the door and haechan rolls the window down as you slam the door.

“don’t forget,” he holds your skirt up and you grab it from him.

“thanks.”

“good night.”

“good night, and just so you know, i don’t know how you feel about me.” you tell him, pulling back before turning to walk to your door. you want to look back and see his face but you get your keys out and turn them in the lock.

he sits watching you turn the door knob and disappear into your house. he sighs, eyes closing and leaning his head back rubbing his eyes with his palms.

[cherrynpink]

freak like me

pairing: nerdy!dino x f!reader

genre: project partners, mutual pining, lots of daydreaming, smut (with a bit of plot) MDNI!

warnings: shy cutesy dino who has my heart (he is a secret freak!), idk how american uni works so just go w it pls, dino and chan are both used interchangeably, oc has nerd kink (ahem), forward oc, cursing, a bit of manipulation?, too many thirsty thoughts, kissing, choking, spit kink, unprotected sex (do not do this!), oral sex (m. receiving), fingering, clit stimulation, brat!oc, brattamer!dino, mean dino, he calls oc slut/whore, dirty talk!!!, riding, missionary position, creampie, size kink?, crying, hair grabbing, ass slapping, orgasm denial, cum eating, it is honestly filthy, lmk if i missed anything!

w.c.: 5.4k

playlist: freak like me

for more of my work, check out my masterlist!

note: thank you so much for liking the last fic so much :( didn't expect such a positive reception so i was super motivated to write this one! plus these pictures of him did something to me like y'all don't get it like i do bcs i went crazy and HAD to write.

also u can message me here or comment if u want to be part of my taglist! my requests are open if u have something u wanna read, or just talk. feedback is highly appreciated hope u like this one hehe :3

“Right, so the semester end project will be a group project.” Your professor says as the whole class sighs in disappointment and annoyance.

“I know you all don’t like these group projects, but it’s compulsory guys, it’s worth 30% of your final grade. If it’s any consolation, I requested the dean to let it be done in pairs, so be a little grateful, I don’t want anyone coming up to me after class asking to change partners.”

Great. The only thing you hated more than group projects were the ones done in pairs. In spite of all the arguments in groups, atleast you didn’t have to do any work if you didn’t feel like it. But now not only will there be conflicts with your partner, but you’ll have to do half the work too. Just great.

“Y/n? miss y/n?” your professor calls pulling you out of your zoned out state as you raise your hand in confusion.

“You’ll be partnered with Mr. Chan.”

Oh. This was going to be fun. Not only was Chan really REALLY good at studies, but also so cute. You first met him just on the second day of class, when you asked him for a pencil because being klutz you are, you had forgotten you had that class that day and had practically rolled off your bed as your roommate woke you up minutes before it started, reaching a bit late and resulting in your professor scolding you. Chan had coyly given you the pencil, later passing you a note in the middle of the class written “you can ask me later if you have any doubts about what was taught before you arrived as you were a bit late :)”. Oh, he was so cute.

That was how your friendship started, though you never talked much outside of class- other than the occasional times he replied to your story or liked it, you and him were mostly formal with each other, never crossing the boundary of “classmates.”

Sometimes you would ask him for his notes, and being the nice guy he is, he would send the snapshots in a second. You would later leave an iced americano on his usual seat, as a gesture of thankfulness; and a note along with it. Sometimes when the professor’s voice cracked in the middle of the lecture, your eyes would find his- giving each other a slight smile.

It was always quick glances, polite words, and soft smiles, because you both never seemed to take it further. But you were tired now, tired of pretending you didn’t picture his face squished under your thighs, glasses all fogged up and your slick dripping down his chin. Tired of acting like you didn’t violate your poor pillow every other night imagining how he would sound with him in your throat.

Was he a head pusher? Or someone that just begged you to let him come? Would he let you tie him up? Or would he want to tie YOU up? you were sick of acting like he didn’t get you so so wet when he answered a question in class and fixed his glasses, and you had a plan to change that.

As the class ends, you see him coming up to you.

“Should we work at the library at 6 today? I’ll get us some coffee and snacks to eat while we work!” he says with a small smile on his face.

You could agree to the library at 6, after all he has pitched it so sweetly, but there is a devil on your shoulder that is actually so evil, because you hear a voice in your head saying no way you’re meeting him in a public place for the things you want to do with him.

“I’m a bit busy at 6 Chan, I-”

“Dino! You can call me dino too. All my friends usually call me that.” He says shyly.

You smile sweetly. “I’m a bit busy at 6 dino, I have my shift at the café.” You say pouting at him. They are blatant lies. You do not have your shift at the café today because it is closed, something about the owner being at a wedding, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“You can come over to my place at 10 if it’s okay with you? I doubt the library will be open till the time I get off work.” You feel a bit bad, but you’re just inviting him over because it’s more comfortable at home, right? Yeah! Nothing needs to happen just because you’ll be alone with him. (You are lying to yourself at this point because there is no way you don’t lose your mind at the thought of being alone with him.)

“Oh, okay sure! text me the address, I’ll be there.” He says with a sweet smile and you might crush him because of how much you want to squish his cheeks right now.

Dino might go crazy. He’s not even sure if you could see he wasn’t paying attention to a thing you said, because he was too busy staring at your lips the entire time, and then your collarbones, until his eyes travelled to your tits trapped in your blouse which was just a little too tight. Tight enough to accentuate the curve of your breasts; but not letting them spill out- just tight enough.

On top of that, if he’s left alone with you, he has no idea how he’s going to prevent a tent from forming in his pants, so he opts for a oversized hoodie long enough to cover him and a pair of grey sweatpants because it is your house after all, he can dress casual, and he doesn’t want you to know he took 20 minutes to decide what he wore so that his outfit says-“hey, I’m casual and comfortable” and “I’m put together” at the same time.

He is sharp on time, you say to yourself as the bell rings. You’re a bit nervous approaching the door in your small plaid skirt and sweater, knowing how he always stares at you whenever you wear a skirt to class. Plus, you’re wearing a something a little special underneath it, just it case. You push the self-doubting thoughts to the back of your head as you open your door and he is a sight to see. He looks so delicious in those animal print framed glasses and messy hair, there is a glow on his face and oh, those stupid goddamn grey sweatpants. It is OVER for you.

“You’re very punctual, it’s exactly 10.” You giggle. “Your hair looks a bit of a mess dino, coming from another girl’s place?” you say as you smirk, leaning against the door.

“No! No, I just came from the gym, my hair is still a bit wet from the shower.” He says as he ruffles his hair and comes in, setting his bag on the table in your living room. Oh? Pretty boy goes to the gym as well, is there anything he doesn’t do. He usually only wore oversized hoodies and t-shirts to class, never really revealing his true figure; nor did you ever see him much in parties despite his friends being a part of the frat, so this was a new side of him you were seeing right now.

“My roommate is gonna be home in a bit, so we can work in my room, mhm?” you ask, acting intentionally doe eyed and innocent. Lies. They are all lies. Your roommate isn’t going to be home in a bit, she’s at her girlfriend’s dorm. And she is not going to be home until tomorrow after class. And maybe if Chan was thinking clearly, he would’ve asked why your roommate would mind you working in the living room with him. But he’s not thinking clearly, too busy staring at your legs and imagining his face between your thighs; so, forgive him if he isn’t at his highest functioning brain activity right now.

He murmurs a quiet okay as he follows you to your room as you lead him. And your room is so you. He doesn’t know how to explain it, because he doesn’t know you so well yet, but as soon as he enters through the door, he sees plushies laid out neatly on your bed, and your scent all around him. He can see posters of bands and movies dressing up your walls and random Sanrio figurines all around the room. He lays his bag on your bed, taking out his laptop as you sit next to him on your chair, and your skirt rides up, revealing your soft thighs further. And maybe his eyes are playing tricks on him, but he can almost see pink lace fabric peaking from underneath your skirt. And maybe you’re just a bit cold, but he swears he can see your nipples peeking through your sweater.

Every passing minute, he is making it so hard for you to keep your composure. He keeps sharing his ideas about the project and telling you what you should work on. Why is hearing him talk about physics so sexy? You don’t know what it is, but you can’t help but think how hot he looks when he talks so passionately. Your panties are literally getting soaked as the time goes on. It’s been an hour, and he hasn’t even taken a second to look at you yet! You’re quite literally whoring yourself out for him and all he cares about is inductive motor or whatever the hell the project is about.

“Channie, can we move to the bed? I’m feeling a bit tired from my shift.” You say, fake yawning.

“Mmm? Oh sure.” It is over for him, he thinks to himself.

As you sit up on your bed, your skirt FULLY rides up, revealing your baby pink lace panties. You push it down gently, saying “oops” as you giggle. And something inside him snaps. All control he had, he’s lost it now and he physically cannot hold back anymore. His gaze darkens, as he pushes you down, his grip on your throat as he gets on top of you. You gasp as he takes you by surprise, but the shock lasts barely 5 seconds before you smirk.

You reach up as your lips find his, pulling him deeper into your mouth as you grab his hair. From the get go, it is passionate, and rough and messy, because both of you are left gasping for your breath- your cheeks rosy and your chest heaving. Deciding to tease him further, you bite his lip. He moans into your mouth, mumbling “brat.” Taking the opportunity, you slip your tongue into his mouth deepening the kiss, and it is so sloppy; neither of you willing to give up control. The heat between your legs grows because of the way his tongue fights with yours to take over, which has your head spinning.

“Channie” you moan, as you feel the hard press of his body against yours, the sound of your lips smacking together and your heavy gasping filling the room.

His hand reaches to lift your sweater slightly, fingers making contact with your bare skin as they keep moving upwards until they meet your lacy bra, delicately toying with the material.

“You wore this for me baby? Knew this was going to happen?”

All you do is giggle as you continue to kiss down his jaw, alternating between sucking and biting. But that doesn’t sit right with him, as his other hand wraps around your neck, squeezing just the right amount so that his grip is tight enough, but still allowing you to breathe, and suddenly you’re flooding your panties.

“This okay?” he asks, his eyes filled with concern and genuine worry, looking for any discomfort in your eyes, desperate for your approval to continue.

You nod, because it’s actually all you can do. He loosens the grip on your throat and begins to pull his hand away as he says “Fuck, if you want me to go on, you’re gonna have to answer me baby.”

You’re quick to bring his hand back on your neck, your head turning left and right in panic, “No! No, please I want it!” you say as he smirks at your desperate state.

“Yeah? Then answer me when I ask you a question baby. You wore this set for me pretty?”

“Just wanted you to notice me, pay attention to me.” You say between kisses.

“And you thought whoring yourself out would be the way to get my attention” he chuckles. “Thought it was a mistake when you flashed me, turns out baby’s just an attention whore.”

He gets off of you and the bed and a whine leaves your throat as he pulls you down by your ankles as your hips reach the foot of your bed in an instant as he begins taking off his glasses.

“No!” you protest. “don’t- don’t take them off, I like them.” You say timidly. He picks you up, flipping your previous position as he seats you on his lap, taking off his hoodie, and you cannot help but stare. You did not know he was SO built and buff, your eyes are practically eating him up as you feel drool building up in your mouth. Oh, you NEED to suck him off right now. And that’s pretty much all it takes for you as you get on your knees for him.

When you look up to him, there is hunger in his eyes, something you’ve never seen before, his gaze full of lust. He can’t remember how many times he’s pictured you like this, on your knees, so innocent, a pathetic expression on your face, waiting for him to give you your next instruction.

Those stupid man whore grey sweatpants, you need them off now.

You fumble with it’s band as you impatiently pull it down, revealing his Calvin Klein boxers, and you clearly have no time for this nonsense, rushing to pull his boxers down as well, all while he looks down on you, leaning back on the bed- hands on either side of him with a big cocky smirk on his face, because he cannot wait to see the next look on your face.

Your face: it’s so transparent, so revealing. It’s literally like you wear your heart on your sleeve. Everything you feel, you think, you want, it’s clear- plain as day on your face. And as soon as you pull his boxers off, there it is- pure amusement and shock, as his dick twitches at the sight of your wide doe eyes. You knew he was big, atleast that’s what you pictured in your nightly scenarios. But you did not know he was this big both in length and in girth as well, his angry tip staring at you, begging for your attention.

“Take your sweater off.” He demands. No pleas, no hesitance. An order. And who would you be to defy him? you teasingly take it off, all while a small smile adorns your lips as you throw the sweater somewhere on the floor alongside his hoodie.

You take his length in your hand, rubbing your thumb over his tip- spreading his pre-cum around it as your eyes go from doe like to those of a siren as they stare straight into his, spitting right on it seductively and oh, he thinks he’s in love. You pump it up and down and fuck- you can’t even completely wrap your hand around it, giving it a little squeeze as you go along, building the tension. But he doesn’t seem too happy about it as he sighs in annoyance. He’s sick of your teasing, because even after his multiple attempts to discipline you, you’ve decided to continue being a brat.

In the blink of an eye, he takes your hand off of him, grabs you by your jaw and squeezes your cheeks between his thumb and fore finger- the rest of the them lying on your jaw, forcing to you part your lips slightly.

“Do you trust me y/n?” he says softly, yet his voice dripping with dominance as you nod.

“Open your mouth, tongue out baby.”

And what he does next takes you by surprise, as he leans down, collecting a glob of spit in his mouth as it drips down from his mouth to yours, making you moan as you close your eyes, feeling the warm liquid on your tongue.

“Swallow.” he says as he caresses your jaw. And his wish is your command; you let out a loud moan as you feel it travel down your throat.

“Good girl. You’ll listen to me now, yeah? No more teasing. I’ve been holding back until now but if you don’t behave, I’ll have to fuck you like the whore you are. Better yet, I’ll eat you out, and get you so so close. I’ll be at it for hours baby, I have no place to be, but I won’t let you cum. So, tell me, you’re gonna be a good girl for me now?”

And all you can do is nod as he smirks, because now, he holds the power over you, and you want him to take over you. Don’t want to think about anything, just do whatever he says. And he can see that, see you fully slipping into subspace.

He holds his dick in his hand, and as your mouth chases his tip, he slaps it against your cheek. All he does is laugh, because you just look so pathetic under him. Tits spilling out of your see through pink lace bra, eyes on the brink of tears, fists balled up in your lap because he won’t let you touch him.

He grabs your hair in a makeshift ponytail and slaps his dick against your other cheek as he says “tap my thigh twice in you wanna stop, okay?” and finally rubs his tip against your lips, parting them immediately as you engulf it in your mouth, sucking on it as if it’s a popsicle, swirling your tongue all around it, making him groan.

Slowly, he pushes his dick in inch by inch until it hits the back of your throat, and its laughable, because half of it still can’t be wrapped around your tiny mouth even though your jaw is doing gymnastics to accommodate half of him and he lets out a loud moan due to the insane pleasure it gives him. Since he won’t let you move yet, enjoying the feeling of cockwarming your mouth too much, you drag your tongue up and down, making him hiss.

Finally, he decides to fuck your throat, sliding your mouth up and down his dick as if your mouth is just a fleshlight for him to use, making your eyes roll back. He starts slow, as to ease you in; but is quick to fasten his pace to meet his needs. But you want to do more, so your hands reach up to play with his balls, and oh does it take him by surprise. All he can do while fucking your mouth is mumble sweet nothings, praising you, telling you how good you’re being letting him use you like this. And his words are working, because at this point your slick is running down your thighs and your cunt is in a desperate need of attention, as you grind it against the heel of your foot and when you look up to him, you don’t think you’ve ever seen anything more beautiful. His glasses lay low on his nose as his head is thrown back in pleasure and his hair is messy, sticking to his forehead due to the sweat; yet his hand is precise is controlling your mouth by your hair. His buff chest heaving desperate for air as his ears and cheek are a pretty shade of pink for you.

Suddenly he looks down to meet your eyes staring at him in lust, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything hotter as he sees you grind against your foot pathetically all whilst he fucks your warm mouth. He can feel the vibration of your mouth as you moan around him, and he thinks he’s in heaven. You look so dirty, spit dribbling down your chin, pupils dilated and red with desire, tears streaming down your cheeks because of how deep he’s hitting it right now. He is just so close, but no way he doesn’t cum in your pussy today, so he pulls you off his dick as you welp, a string of spit connecting your lips to his tip.

“I’ll come in your mouth some other day baby, need to be in you right now.” He says responding to your cute pout as he pulls you up to sit on his lap, your legs on either side of his thigh once again.

His hands travel to your back to undo your bra in an instant as it’s thrown somewhere on the bed behind him. Immediately his mouth is attached to your hardened nipple as you let out a loud moaning, feeling his warm tongue on your cold skin.

“I’m so fucking sick of you parading around in this stupid excuse of a skirt that barely covers your ass y/n.” He says as his hands travel down and under your skirt, making contact with your dripping lace, running his fingers up and down. He can feel your slick on his own thighs.

“Oh? You’re already soaked, baby. But I haven’t even touched you yet, wanna tell me what got you so wet?” he says as he mocks you, still not taking his attention off your breasts, sucking them and marking them up with hickeys all around and all you can do is moan as you dig your nails into his back overwhelmed by the pleasure.

“You’re so sensitive, so responsive. I love it baby, so easy for me. Need you to answer me- what’s got you dripping?” he says as he finds your clothed clit, pressing hard against it over the lace.

He’s being so mean right you. The remnants of tears on your cheeks have barely dried up before you can feel yourself getting teary eyed already.

“You! Want you so bad channie! Been wet for you since you walked in the door.” You cry out desperately.

Finally, he stops teasing your covered pussy and pulls it to the side, inserting two of fingers with no warning making you scream out loud. He’s quick to press his thumb to your clit, flicking it as he pumps his fingers into you, all whilst he’s sucking on your tits. His pace is monstrous from the start, and he shows no signs of stopping as he continues to drive them in you, opening you up preparing you to take his big dick. All you can do is drop your head on his shoulder helplessly, taking what he gives you.

“Ah! So good Chan, so- so- fuck! Right there! Need you!” you say as he repeatedly hits your g-spot all while rubbing your clit.

You’ve lost all track of time. You’ve been so close to cumming ever since you saw him walk through your front door that even the slightest touch could get you to your high, and here Chan was, touching you right where you needed, enlightening all your senses.

“I’m about- gonna- gonna cum dino! Please, let me, oh- please let me cum!” you cry out loud, begging him as he pulls out his fingers in an instant and just like that you’re crying again, dropping your head in the crook of his neck.

“What, don’t cry baby.” He says, voice dripping with fake sympathy, because inside him he knows your tears turn him on even more. His hand reaches the small of your back as he caresses it, attempting to calm you down. “Want you to cum on my cock princess. Think you can do that, yeah? You promised you’d be a good girl for me.”

“I was- I was just so close.” You say timidly between your sniffles.

“It’s okay princess, I’ll make you cum real good on my cock.” He whispers, kissing you tenderly for the first time in the evening, and it makes your heart full, reminding you that in spite of everything, this is the same dino that you see in class every day, polite and sweet and beautiful; but you’re brought back to the present as he pulls away from you, shattering your illusion.

“You wanted my attention so bad y/n, you started it. So, you’re gonna take what you wanted- gonna have to ride me.” He says with a shit eating grin that just makes you so mad right now, but eager to give him what he asks for you get off your lap and begin to take off your skirt.

“Did I ask you to take it off? Still not behaving baby. Keep the skirt on; after all you made such a show of wearing them, wanna fuck you in it. Take off your panties.”

Once the pink garment is off, you sit on his lap again, as he slaps his dick against your poor swollen cunt, running his tip against your entrance.

“You know what to do right? It isn’t your first rodeo after all.” He says as he smiles.

God, he is so cocky. If you didn’t desperately need him in you, you would not put up with it for a second. (you would probably put up with it anyway)

You take his dick in your hand as you hover over it, your pussy clenching over nothing, begging to be filled by him as you insert the tip in him; and that alone is such a stretch for you, your legs might give up then and there. But you are anything but determined. Stubborn. Firm on proving yourself. So, you accept the stretch, stabilising yourself by placing one hand on his wide shoulder while you bottom out completely, burying himself into you in one go making him throw his head back and groan in pleasure as his hands reach out to hold your waist, not letting you escape his grasp.

Slowly but surely, you begin by grinding your hips against them, building up the tension as you try to maintain a steady pace; but dino doesn’t look amused, so you begin to move up and down on him, burying your freshly done nails into his shoulders. His hand moves down as you bounce on him, giving your ass a quick slap before finding it going under your skirt and rubbing your clit, making you gasp out.

“Fuck, lift up your skirt baby.” He says, and you comply- lifting up your skirt with one hand, whilst he continues to toy with your clit and you bounce up and down his dick, showing him the mess you both are making; and he loves it.

You’re so eager to please him, prove yourself to him as you continue to alternate between grinding and moving up and down; but the pleasure is SO overwhelming with his hand on your nub and you don’t think you can last. On top of that, you’ve been working so hard to maintain a steady pace for him, that your thighs are about to give out. And he sees that- sees your movement becoming sloppy and messy, your thighs shaking and your grip tightening on his shoulder.

“Tired, baby?”

Why is he such a tease. And why is he being so mean to you when he knows you’re totally spent. You think you’re going to cry for the third time in the night.

“You know, all you have to do is admit it. And I’ll take over. You know you want me to. I can make you feel so good baby, hit all the right spots and you don’t have to lift a finger.” He whispers in your ear before slapping your ass again as he lifts his hips to meet yours in a sharp thrust, showing you how much better he can make you feel.

“I- I- tired. I’m tired channie! Thighs hurt. P- please!” you say between hiccups as he keeps thrusting into you from beneath.

That’s all he needs to hear, before he’s flipping you on your back without taking himself out of you, pressing a kiss to your lips as he begins to actually fuck you. His hands roam all over you as if he’s trying to memorise every curve and dip. He’s thrusting into you with such a force your tits bounce back and forth with every drive of his hips into you while he mumbles pretty words in your ears.

“Pussy so good baby, absolutely squeezing me. Can’t believe you were letting those stupid guys have this while I was right there. Could’ve made you feel this good all this time. Fuck! Always wanted to bend you over the desk whenever you wore those stupid skirts to class. You know, everyone could see you baby. See how much needy you were. You’re probably just too much a slut to care, no?”

His mouth reaches down to bite your nipple, where you’re already so sensitive that you can’t help but cry out. You look so dumb for his cock right now, your nails are absolutely obliterating his back as your legs wrap around him not letting him go, a chant of his name leaving your lips with each of his movement. All you can hear is the sound of his balls slapping against you and your screams. You’re pretty sure you’ll get complaints from your neighbour tomorrow but who cares; he’s just too good. His thrusts get deeper yet sloppier as you feel him reach between your sweaty bodies and rub your clit in an attempt to get you closer.

“Fuck! Gonna cum baby. Are you close?”

“Yes! Channie fuck, love- love your dick so much! So big, need- I’m almost there!”

And that’s all the motivation he needs before he picks up his pace again, angling himself to hit you exactly at the spot that makes you scream, and before you know it, you feel tears streaming down your face again because of the overstimulation.

“Chan! Gonna cum! Please, please- fuck right there, please wanna cum!”

“Where do you want me princess?”

“In! In me, wanna feel you in me, fill me up! Please, need it in me!” you babble.

And that is all it takes for you to let go. Your eyes roll to the back of your head with a loud whine as your nails dig into him deeper, your back arching- the pleasure taking over you as you see stars in front of your eyes, screaming his name over and over again. It’s like you’re floating- because your body feels numb and completely spent. He feels you clenching so much around his cock as you cum, it’s like you’re milking him, before he’s filling you up full of him too, reaching his high, and he cannot stop. Even after you’re done, you’re still rhythmically squeezing him as he doesn’t stop coming in you. You feel him warm in you, and you honestly never want him to pull out, but unfortunately, he does- leaving you empty as his essence begins to spill out of you.

He gets between your legs, watching a mixture of your cum dripping out of you, admiring his work before he’s collecting it in his fingers, tracing your swollen sensitive centre as he comes up to you, and inserting his fingers in your mouth, while he kisses your tears. You can taste him and yourself on your tongue as you close your eyes, swirling your tongue around his fingers. The sight is so hot to him, his dick twitches against you once again before he’s pulling his fingers out and gently kissing you, as he leaves your bed to bring you a towel.

He lies besides you after he cleans you up as you turn you face each other.

“Sorry if I was too rough, got carried away a bit.” He says as you lay your head on his arm and run your hand through his hair.

“You were so good, I think I need to be a little bitchy again for you to put me in my place.” You say as you kiss him, smiling against his lips.

[gojosconsort]

loved ur older bf toji i need one for nanami RIGHT NEOW

OLDER BF!KENTO ♡ // HEADCANONS

⁀➷ CONTENT. you're kento’s sweet little controversial younger girlfirend.

♡ PAIRING. afab!reader x older bf!kento

♡ WARNINGS. mdni. age gap, bondage, fingering, spanking, oral sex (f and m), creampie, deepthroating, praise kink, size kink, possessiveness, degradation.

♡ AUTHOR’S NOTE. my frist request! hope you like it <3

OLDER BF!KENTO who meets you at a quiet café where you’re a part-time barista, fumbling an order because you’re distracted by his looks (understandably). he tips generously, leaving a handwritten note with his number on the receipt.

OLDER BF!KENTO who takes you out for a proper dinner that first night, all gentlemanly charm, but later pins you against his car in the parking lot, kissing you hard and murmuring, “been wanting this all damn night,” before sliding his hand under your dress.

OLDER BF!KENTO who’s huge—like, damn, how’s that gonna fit?—but he’s so good with it. takes his time, easing into you inch by inch, whispering, “you’re taking me so well, baby, fuck, you’re amazing—doesn’t hurt, right?” and it doesn’t, ‘cause he’s so slick with the prep.

OLDER BF!KENTO who smirks when you’re sore the next day, kissing your forehead and saying, “slept well? you’re so beautiful like this,” meaning fucked out. then he’s making you breakfast, all casual like he didn’t just ruin you the night before.

OLDER BF!KENTO who walks you home after every date, even if it’s just down the street, holding your hand and chatting about random things. he lingers at your door, kissing your forehead soft and slow, saying, “sleep tight, darling.”

OLDER BF!KENTO who brings you to his place after a long day, cooking you dinner—then bends you over the kitchen counter, hiking your skirt up, and fucking you deep and hard, whispering, “good girls get rewarded.”

OLDER BF!KENTO who surprises you with a weekend getaway to a secluded cabin with a “pack light” instructions—only to spend half the trip with you naked across his lap, spanking you for teasing him by the fireplace, then fingering you ‘til you’re a whimpering mess.

OLDER BF!KENTO who meets your friends at a chill hangout, and they pull you aside, “isn’t he kinda old for you?” you shrug and say, “yeah, but he fucks too good,” as a joke while he sips his drink, pretending he didn’t hear and prove to you later that he fucks you more than good.

OLDER BF!KENTO who loves to strip you down to just his oversized dress shirt, then tosses you on the bed, and eats you out like a man starved—holding your thighs down when you squirm, saying, “stay still, princess, i’m not done.”

OLDER BF!KENTO who’s always got a hand on your knee when you’re in his car, loving how small you look next to him—like his little passenger princess who doesn’t need to lift a finger.

OLDER BF!KENTO who loves when you deepthroat him after a long day, sitting back in his armchair, watching you struggle to take all of him. he doesn’t help, just pets your hair and says, “you take me so good.”

OLDER BF!KENTO who gets mistaken for a professor when he picks you up from a college class you’re auditing. he plays along, then pins you to his couch later, making you choke on his cock while he lectures, “good girls swallow.”

OLDER BF!KENTO who gets quite jealous when some young coworker flirts with you at a work event. later, he’s got your wrists tied, pinning you to the hotel wall, fucking you rough, “think that kid can handle you? say my name louder,” then spanks you for good measure.

OLDER BF!KENTO who’s waiting outside when you stumble out late from a girls’ night, frowning ‘til he sees you’re safe. he opens the car door for you, saying, “next time, you call me sooner—i don’t like you out here alone.”

OLDER BF!KENTO who tucks you in when you fall asleep on the couch, lifting you gently to bed and brushing hair from your face with a quiet, “can’t have my baby all twisted up out here.”

OLDER BF!KENTO who takes you to a stuffy work dinner where his colleagues whisper about “bringing someone so young,” but he just grips your thigh under the table, murmuring, “let ‘em talk.” because he genuinely doesn’t care.

OLDER BF!KENTO who loves when you’re bratty, pinning you down and spanking your pussy ‘til it’s dripping, then filling you up wiht a low, “this what you were after, huh? my attention—fucking take it then.”

OLDER BF!KENTO who ties you up with his tie after you tease him one too many times, binding your hands behind your back and bending you over before he pounds into you from behind, “tease me again, and i’ll leave you like this all night—fuck, you’re tight.”

OLDER BF!KENTO who loves to tie you up in his bedroom—black ropes crisscrossing your torso, arms bound tight behind your back, legs spread and tied to the bedframe, and then fucks you from behind, “you’re a fucking beautiful like this—can’t move, can you? good.”

OLDER BF!KENTO who wakes you up with slow morning sex, pinning your wrists behind your back and fucking you lazy and deep, always ending with a shuddered, “gotta cum inside you—shit, baby, you’re mine, feel it.” he stays buried in you after, kissing your neck all sweet while his cum drips out of you.

————— ୨୧ —————

⁀➷ masterlist

[shy9-29]

Crawling Back To You ☆ 이희승

“exes to lovers,” - enha campus series

✮ You both swore it was over—again—but somehow, it’s always one of you at the other’s door, breathless and breaking. It’s toxic, it’s inevitable, and no matter how far you run, you both end up crawling back to each other. ✉️ wc. 11.3k - 이희승 x f reader

🏷️ @kristynaaah @firstclassjaylee @chvconn3 @wonzzziezzzz @sheseung @blvengene @gvtdoll @a3r4-for3ver @sunghoon-cam @luvksnn @aaaaarmiiiiin @blckorchidd @marimariiisblog @pinknjm @starniras @dearestdreamies @bloomiize @doririsstuff @isagistar @rairaiblog @steddie-steddie @melodiessvy @starboy-library @deluluscenarios

Everyone at Seoul University knew your name—and not because you were loud or flashy. No, it was because you were his.

You and Heeseung were the couple people talked about in whispers behind lecture halls and in dorm stairwells. The kind of pair that made others stare, wondering how something so picture-perfect could exist outside of a drama.

He was the golden boy—top of his class in business, vocals that melted through the walls of the music building, and a face that made professors and students alike do a double-take. And then there was you. Quiet but sharp-tongued, fiercely independent, the one person who never swooned at his charm.

Maybe that’s why he chased you so hard.

It started with harmless teasing during your shared elective. Heeseung always had something to say, and you always had something sharper to throw back. People thought you hated each other. The truth was—you couldn’t stop looking at each other.

By the end of the semester, you were inseparable. Studying under cherry blossom trees, eating late-night tteokbokki by the Han River, sneaking into the music room just to hear him sing something only you got to hear.

“You’re it for me,” he whispered one night, arms around your waist, your head on his chest. “You know that, right?”

You did. You knew it.

But what no one saw—what even you ignored—was the fire underneath it all. The way love started to sound like accusations. The way you started counting the hours he took to reply. The way he noticed every guy who looked at you. The way you started to like when he got jealous.

And before anyone else could notice the cracks, you were already learning how to smile through the breaks.

The first real fight happened on a Thursday.

You’d forgotten about some lame mixer your mutual friend had invited you both to, and when you bailed last minute to cram for an econ exam, he didn’t take it well.

“You always have an excuse,” he snapped, arms crossed, his voice low but tight with frustration. “Do you even want to be with me, or is this just something you do when it’s convenient?”

You blinked, stunned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Heeseung ran a hand through his hair, pacing the small study room you’d claimed. “It means I’m always making time for you. Always showing up. And you? You don’t even try.”

You stood up, heat rising to your cheeks. “I’m not going to blow off my future for a night of watching you flirt with girls who laugh too hard at your jokes.”

The words hit their mark. His jaw clenched. “So that’s what this is? You don’t trust me now?”

You crossed your arms. “Should I?”

That night ended with slammed doors, unread texts, and a cold walk back to your dorm. But the next day? He was waiting by your class building with your favorite coffee and a half-hearted apology wrapped in a crooked smile. You took it. You always did.

Because no matter how bad it got, something about being with him felt impossible to let go of.

But fights like that kept happening—growing sharper, louder. You broke up once over a dumb Instagram comment. Got back together the next week after one too many drinks and a shared cab home. Then broke up again when he saw you talking to some guy from your lit class.

“You love the attention,” he said, venom laced behind the coolness in his tone.

“And you love being right,” you spat back.

Still, somehow, by sunrise, you’d be curled up in his bed again. Your clothes on the floor. His breath warm against your neck. His name a ghost on your lips.

It was toxic. It was exhausting. It was everything.

And you weren’t ready to let it go.

Neither was he.

Sunoo stormed into the café just off campus, eyes wide and expression dramatic as ever, practically vibrating with the need to spill. Jake, his girlfriend, and Sunghoon were already seated near the window, mid-conversation when Sunoo dropped his bag onto the chair beside Jake and huffed loud enough for the whole place to turn.

Jake raised a brow. “Let me guess. They fought again?”

Sunoo gave him a look. “Fought? Jake, it was like watching a K-drama unfold in real time—but with worse lighting and way more swearing.”

Sunghoon leaned back in his chair, arms folded, expression unreadable. “What happened now?”

Sunoo clutched his chest like the memory physically pained him. “Okay, so apparently Heeseung didn’t text Y/N back for like, five hours, even though she knows he saw her story, right? And she was already annoyed because she saw him walking around campus with that girl from his marketing group—what’s her name, Soojin? The one with the weird lip gloss?”

Jake’s girlfriend made a face. “Ew, her?”

“Exactly,” Sunoo said, pointing dramatically. “So Y/N confronts him outside the library, and he acts all confused, like ‘Why are you always accusing me?’ And she’s like, ‘Because you never take responsibility!’ and boom, they’re yelling in front of the vending machines like it’s their personal stage.”

Jake sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “How long did it last this time?”

“Long enough for me to finish my bubble tea and start a new playlist.”

Sunghoon glanced out the window, deadpan. “And they’re back together already?”

Sunoo rolled his eyes. “Give it twenty-four hours. Heeseung’s probably already typing a three-paragraph apology with a sad playlist link attached.”

Jake chuckled under his breath. “You’d think they’d get tired of the drama.”

Sunoo picked up Jake’s drink and took a sip without asking. “They won’t. You know why? Because they don’t know how to quit each other. And honestly? I’m sick of being the audience to their off-brand Romeo and Juliet sequel.”

Jake’s girlfriend grinned. “You say that now, but you’ll be the first one texting Y/N for updates.”

Sunoo didn’t even deny it. “Obviously. Someone’s gotta document this mess.”

What’s even crazier? Heeseung literally caught you making out with Jay in the janitor’s room—and somehow, you were back together in less than seventy-two hours.

You don’t even remember why it happened. Maybe it was the tequila. Maybe it was the way Jay looked at you like he actually wanted to listen instead of win. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way Heeseung had ignored you for two days straight after yet another stupid fight over a party you didn’t even want to go to.

You’d kissed Jay out of spite. Or desperation. Or both. It didn’t even last five minutes.

But then the door creaked open.

And there he was.

Heeseung, standing in the doorway like something out of a nightmare. His expression wasn’t anger at first—it was disbelief. Like he couldn’t even register what he was seeing. Then came the fury, slow and sharp, rising behind his eyes like a storm.

Jay had the decency to back off, muttering something about not knowing you were still together. Heeseung didn’t say a word. Not one. He just stared at you—like he didn’t know who you were anymore. Like maybe you didn’t, either.

You thought that was it. The end.

But it wasn’t.

Because three days later, he showed up at your door at 1:12 a.m., hoodie over his head, eyes red-rimmed, and voice barely a whisper.

“I hate that I still love you.”

And instead of slamming the door in his face like you swore you would… you let him in.

Because that’s what you two do.

You hurt each other. You leave.

And then you always—always—come back.

And then, of course, you made out.

It started slow—like neither of you were sure if this was a good idea or just another bad habit dressed up like comfort. His hands hovered over your waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you anymore, and you just stood there, heart thudding too loud for the silence.

But then he said your name. Soft. Shaky. Like it hurt to say.

That was all it took.

You grabbed the front of his hoodie and pulled him in, mouths crashing like everything you’d been holding back—anger, guilt, loneliness—was begging for a way out. His lips were warm, familiar, desperate. The way he kissed you was almost apologetic, like he was trying to undo everything with his mouth.

You let him. You kissed him like you hated him for making you feel this way. Like you needed him more than you wanted to admit.

And when you finally pulled back, breathless and wrecked, his forehead pressed against yours, he whispered, “I don’t want anyone else.”

And you hated that you still believed him.

You didn’t sleep that night—not really.

You laid tangled in his arms on your tiny dorm bed, the sheets kicked halfway to the floor, your thoughts louder than the silence between you. Heeseung had fallen asleep with his face buried in your neck, one arm slung over your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

And maybe you would’ve, if you didn’t feel so tired of running.

The next morning, you woke up before him. The light from the window spilled across his face, softening all the sharp edges that came out during fights. For a second, you just stared—at his long lashes, his parted lips, the way his fingers twitched every few seconds like he was dreaming.

It would’ve been so easy to believe that nothing had happened. That Jay hadn’t happened. That all the fights and the screaming and the nights you cried yourself to sleep didn’t exist.

But the bruises under your ribs weren’t from fists—they were from words. From love turned weapon. From trying so hard to be enough for someone who was always halfway out the door.

Still… you didn’t move.

Because when Heeseung opened his eyes and looked at you like you were the only thing that ever made sense, it was enough to make you stay a little longer.

Even if you knew the next storm was already on its way.

You don’t even remember how it started—only how loud it got.

It was after midterms, late evening, the campus buzzing with people blowing off steam. You were supposed to meet him outside the library, but he was thirty minutes late and reeked of beer when he finally showed up.

“I said I’d be here,” he muttered when you confronted him. “What, you don’t trust me to show up now?”

You stared at him, arms folded, heat rising in your throat. “I don’t trust you. Not when you spend more time at parties than actually being present.”

He scoffed, running a hand through his hair like you were the one being difficult. “Right. Because you’re perfect. Always playing the victim. You ever think maybe you’re the problem?”

That hit harder than you expected.

You laughed—bitter, sharp. “You caught me making out with someone else and still took me back. Don’t talk to me about problems like you’re not the biggest one I’ve ever had.”

His jaw tightened. “You never even apologized.”

“Because you never stopped hurting me,” you snapped. “Every time I looked at you, I felt like I was begging to be chosen.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. Just stared at you with this cold, unreadable expression. Then he shook his head, stepped back like you’d burned him.

“You know what? I’m done. For real this time.”

You didn’t stop him.

Not when he turned around.

Not when he walked away.

Not when you realized he meant it.

And for the first time, you didn’t chase after him.

You just stood there, heart pounding, hands shaking, unsure if you’d ever see him again.

And maybe—maybe this time was really the end.

The days after felt unreal.

Campus kept moving—students cramming for finals, couples holding hands under trees you used to sit beneath, laughter echoing through courtyards like nothing had changed. But everything had.

Heeseung was gone.

Not physically. You still saw him sometimes, across the quad or in the distance at the convenience store. But it was different now. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t even flinch when your eyes met. Just kept walking like you were a stranger he used to know.

The silence was suffocating. Not just from him, but from everyone else too. Your friends stopped asking about him. Even Sunoo didn’t say much anymore—just gave you quiet looks that said I know you’re still hurting, but I won’t make you talk about it.

And maybe that was the worst part. The quiet.

Because you were used to chaos with him—used to yelling, slamming doors, passionate apologies, messy kisses and promises you both knew would be broken. You weren’t used to nothing.

You told yourself it was for the best. That you needed to breathe without him taking up all the air.

But at night, when the world slowed down and there was nothing left to distract you, you wondered if he still thought about you. If he still played the songs he used to sing for you. If he ever regretted walking away.

You didn’t cry. Not really. Maybe once—quiet and quick into your pillow, just enough to let it out before shoving it all back down.

Because this time, it didn’t feel like a break.

It felt like goodbye.

It was two months. Two months of space. Two months of silence. Two months of trying to forget the taste of each other’s names.

You kept expecting him to show up again. Maybe outside your dorm. Maybe in the practice room where he used to pull you into his lap between takes. Maybe drunk at 2 a.m. with slurred apologies and soft I miss yous.

But he didn’t.

And it wasn’t until you finally worked up the nerve to see him—really see him—that you realized why.

You found him outside the campus café, leaning against the wall, sipping on iced coffee like this was just another day. And maybe for him, it was. But for you? Your heart hadn’t beaten this fast in weeks.

“Heeseung.”

He looked up. His eyes softened for a split second, then settled into something unreadable. Calm. Controlled. Different.

You stepped closer. “Can we talk?”

He nodded, motioning for you to sit with him on the bench nearby. It was awkward at first—quiet. The air thick with everything unsaid.

“I’ve been thinking,” you finally said, fingers nervously picking at the seam of your jacket. “About us. About everything.”

Heeseung nodded slowly, gaze fixed on the pavement. “Me too.”

You turned to him, hopeful. “Maybe… maybe we just needed time, right? To figure ourselves out. Maybe we can try again. For real this time.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you—really looked at you—with that same sad tenderness that used to follow every fight.

“I love you,” he said, voice low. “You know that, right?”

Your throat tightened. “Then why—?”

“Because we’re not good for each other,” he interrupted gently. “We bring out the worst in each other. And I can’t keep doing this cycle where I love you and hurt you at the same time.”

You blinked, stunned. “But… we’ve been through so much.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I know it has to stop. I can’t keep being someone who makes you doubt yourself. And I don’t want you to keep being someone who breaks just to hold me together.”

Tears welled up, but you didn’t let them fall. Not this time.

“So that’s it?” you whispered. “You’re just walking away?”

Heeseung shook his head. “No. I’m letting go. So that one day… maybe we’ll find our way back when we’re better people. Not because we need each other. But because we choose each other.”

You didn’t know what to say. You just sat there, stunned, as he stood up and gave you one last look—the kind that said I still love you, even if I can’t stay.

Then he walked away.

And this time…

You let him.

The glow from the fairy lights strung across your ceiling cast a warm haze over the room. You were laying belly-down on your bed, face half-buried in your pillow, while Yeon sat cross-legged beside you, painting her nails some muted sage green. A tub of melting ice cream sat between you, half-forgotten.

“I just don’t get it,” you mumbled, voice muffled. “He said he loved me. Like, what was the point of that speech if he was just gonna disappear off the face of the earth?”

Yeon raised a brow without looking up. “Girl, he literally said it was because you two were toxic for each other.”

You rolled onto your side, scowling. “Yeah, but he could’ve at least tried again. After all this time, nothing? No message, no check-in, not even a story view. It’s like I never existed.”

Yeon let out a sigh, blowing on her nails. “Do you even think he’s over you?”

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She finally looked at you, eyes sharp, tone flat. “You think he just flipped a switch and stopped caring? Come on. You guys were obsessed with each other. You still are.”

You groaned, flopping onto your back. “Then why isn’t he doing anything about it?”

Yeon shrugged. “Maybe he’s trying to prove a point. Maybe he’s hurting too. Maybe he thinks you’re the one who should come crawling back this time.”

You stared at the ceiling, biting your lip.

Then Yeon sat up straighter, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Or… hear me out… you could make him care.”

You turned your head slowly. “Yeon.”

She raised her hands innocently. “Not like anything dramatic. Just… see someone else. Post a cute pic. Let him know you’re moving on. If he reacts, there’s your answer. If he doesn’t… maybe it’s time to actually move on.”

You hated that the idea made your stomach flip. Hated that a part of you wanted him to care enough to spiral. To break. To fight for you.

You also hated that Yeon was probably right.

“Heeseung’s not the only one who can play games,” she added, reaching for her phone. “Now. Who’s single, hot, and dumb enough to fake date you for a week?”

And just like that, something in your chest—spite, maybe—snapped into place.

“Fine,” you said, sitting up. “Let’s see if golden boy really let me go.”

Jay was just the right guy to do it.

Handsome, charming, dangerously calm under pressure—and most importantly? Lee Heeseung’s best friend. Or, well… former best friend, maybe. The line had blurred ever since that night in the janitor’s room.

You weren’t exactly close, but you knew Jay. He was the type of guy everyone liked but no one could really read. And when you texted him out of nowhere with a simple, “Can we talk?”, he responded quicker than expected.

You met up behind the arts building, tucked away where no one really bothered to go. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, expression unreadable, like he already knew what you were going to ask.

“No,” he said before you could even finish the sentence.

“Jay—”

“I’m not getting involved in whatever mess you and Heeseung have going on again,” he cut in, eyes sharp. “It’s not my thing.”

You took a step closer, lowering your voice. “Please. I just need him to feel something. Anything.”

He exhaled hard, glancing away like he was trying to stay detached. “And what happens when he finds out it’s fake? Or worse, what if he doesn’t react at all?”

“Then I’ll know,” you said, quieter now. “I just… I need to know if he’s really done.”

Jay didn’t say anything at first. He just stared at you for a long moment, like he was trying to figure out what kind of mess he was about to walk into. Again.

Then he sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered under his breath, “This is a bad idea.”

You smiled—just a little. “So that’s a yes?”

Jay shook his head, but there was the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “You owe me for this.”

And just like that, the plan was in motion.

A fake relationship. A test. A game.

All to see if the boy you still loved would finally come crawling back—

Or watch you walk away.

It started small.

Just a simple story.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing that screamed revenge.

Just a quiet photo of you and Jay’s hands—intertwined, resting on the café table between two half-empty iced americanos.

No faces. No captions. Just the tag.

@jaypark.

You hesitated before posting it, thumb hovering over the “Your Story” button for a second too long. But then you tapped it. Sent it out into the world like bait.

And waited.

Within minutes, the views started stacking. Yeon replied with a row of screaming emojis. Sunoo sent you the skull. And then, like clockwork, his name appeared at the bottom of the viewers list.

Lee Heeseung.

No message. No reaction. Just a silent little view. But that was enough.

He saw it.

He saw you—your hand in someone else’s.

His best friend’s.

Your heart beat just a little faster. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was victory. Maybe it was that part of you that still wondered if he’d come running.

And across campus, not even an hour later, Heeseung was already plotting his move.

Because if you wanted a war, he’d give you one.

And this time, he wouldn’t be the one left watching.

Heeseung didn’t sleep much that night.

The image of your hand in Jay’s—Jay’s—looped through his mind like a broken record. He couldn’t tell if he was more furious or just sick. Like something was lodged deep in his chest and no amount of pacing or punching his pillow would get it out.

By morning, he wasn’t even mad. Just numb. Tired. But there was still something buzzing under his skin, and he knew exactly where to take it.

He found Jay in the gym locker room after class, slipping his duffel onto the bench like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t just posted up with you on Instagram like it was no big deal.

Heeseung walked up behind him, quiet but sharp, voice low and flat. “You serious?”

Jay turned, eyebrows lifting slightly. “About what?”

Heeseung scoffed. “Don’t play dumb. You and Y/N.”

Jay paused—just a beat too long—and that was all Heeseung needed.

“So it’s real,” Heeseung muttered, stepping forward. “You’re actually dating her now?”

Jay looked at him. Steady. Cool. Just like you asked him to be.

“…Yeah.”

Heeseung clenched his jaw. “Right after everything. You think that’s not messed up?”

Jay shrugged once, slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he should keep going or drop the act. “Things change, Heeseung.”

And somewhere in that moment—somewhere in Jay’s calm delivery and blank stare—Heeseung believed it.

You moved on.

With him.

And you didn’t even flinch.

Heeseung didn’t say anything else. Just let out a bitter laugh and shook his head before walking off, fists tight at his sides.

Jay sat down once he was gone, letting out a slow breath as he stared at the locker in front of him.

He texted you two minutes later:

he thinks it’s real. you sure about this?

And all you replied was:

yeah. keep going.

Because if he wanted to believe you’d moved on,

You’d make sure he felt every second of it.

Sunoo wasn’t snooping.

Okay—maybe a little.

He’d just been passing through the locker room looking for his water bottle (which he definitely left on the bench last night, thank you very much) when he caught a glimpse of Jay hunched over his phone.

Nothing suspicious. Until he saw the name at the top of the screen.

Y/N.

And then he saw the text:

“he thinks it’s real. you sure about this?”

Sunoo’s entire body froze. He ducked out of sight just as Jay hit send, his heart thumping with secondhand guilt.

So it’s fake.

She’s faking it. She’s really faking it.

He waited until Jay left, then took off in a straight sprint across campus. He found Heeseung behind the rec center, leaning against the fence with his hoodie pulled low over his face and that same blank stare he’d been wearing since the Instagram story dropped.

Sunoo didn’t even catch his breath.

“Heeseung.”

Heeseung looked up, annoyed. “What now?”

“She’s not really with Jay.”

Silence.

“What?”

Sunoo took a step closer. “I saw Jay texting her. He said you think it’s real and asked if they should keep going. Y/N told him yes. It’s all for show.”

Heeseung just stared at him, lips parting slightly. “You’re sure?”

“I read it, Heeseung. She’s trying to mess with your head. And you’re letting her.”

Heeseung didn’t say anything for a moment. He just looked down, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek like he was chewing on every terrible thought in his head.

“She really went that far?” he muttered. “Dragged Jay into it?”

Sunoo nodded. “And you’re gonna let her win?”

A beat of silence. Then—

“No,” Heeseung said, standing up straighter. “I’m not.”

And just like that, the idea clicked.

If she wanted to play pretend, he’d give her something to choke on.

The very next day, Y/N’s feed lit up with his story this time.

Heeseung, smirking at the camera, with a girl beside him—leaning into his shoulder, her fingers brushing his.

Your ex-best friend.

Ina.

Tagged. Smiling. And just sweet enough to sting.

You almost dropped your phone.

Because if this was a game— He’d just made his next move.

You didn’t even knock before you barged into Yeon’s dorm, practically throwing open the door like a hurricane. Your phone was still in your hand, and the red notification bubble next to Instagram made your heart race in ways you didn’t want to admit.

“Y/N—what the hell?” Yeon jumped up from the couch, startled, and then her eyes caught the expression on your face—the tension in your shoulders. The way your jaw clenched.

Without saying a word, you shoved your phone in her face. “Look.”

Yeon blinked, frowning at first, then slowly scrolled through the story that had just gone up. Heeseung, arms draped casually around a girl who definitely wasn’t you, smiling like nothing had happened between the two of you. It only took a second for her to piece it all together—Heeseung’s signature smirk, his usual cocky posture, and the way he was looking down at her as if she belonged there.

Yeon froze, eyes wide.

“What the hell?” she whispered. “Is he serious?”

You exhaled sharply, slumping into the nearest chair. “Apparently. He’s really doing this.”

Yeon scrolled back to the top of the post, trying to find something—anything—that would prove it wasn’t real. But the more she looked, the more it felt like it was. Ina. The same Ina who’d been your best friend just months ago, the same one who knew exactly what buttons to push to get under your skin.

“Wait,” Yeon said, voice sinking low. “You really think he’s doing this to get back at you?”

You looked away, blinking back the sharp sting of embarrassment. “He’s trying to make me jealous. It’s the same thing he’s done every time. But this time, he’s not even pretending to care. He’s moved on—for real—and he’s showing it.”

You stood up suddenly, pacing the small space. “I can’t believe he would post this. Just like that.”

The door clicked open just then, and you froze, expecting it to be Sunoo, or maybe someone else coming to check on you. Instead, it was Jay.

“Y/N, what’s going on?” he asked, walking in with that casual, easy smile he usually wore.

Without saying anything, you just shoved your phone at him again, and this time, he didn’t hesitate to look at it. The silence between you two stretched long as his gaze scanned over Heeseung’s post. Then his brows furrowed, and he rubbed the back of his neck, visibly unsettled.

“That’s… that’s your ex-best friend.” Jay shook his head like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “What’s he even trying to do?”

You watched his face closely, waiting for some kind of reaction, something that would show you if maybe he had a plan too. Maybe he could fix this. But instead, Jay’s face grew darker, and he let out a small laugh—almost nervously.

“Wait,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Sunoo… he was looking over my shoulder yesterday when I texted you.”

You paused. “What do you mean?”

Jay groaned, running a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated now. “I didn’t think about it, but now it makes sense. He must’ve seen what I was texting you, and then told Heeseung. The timing is too weird, Y/N. He must’ve told him to post that.”

Your stomach twisted at the thought. “You think Sunoo told Heeseung to do this?”

Jay nodded, a frown pulling at his lips. “Yeah. He’s been getting weirdly involved in this. He’s been watching us both too closely.” He paused, gaze drifting away like he was trying to piece things together in his head. “And now Heeseung is doing this. This is… this is his way of pushing us both into a corner. I can feel it.”

The realization hit you like a ton of bricks. This wasn’t just a post. It wasn’t just about Heeseung and his attempt to make you jealous. This was a game—a game that everyone had already been sucked into, whether they liked it or not.

“You think he’s manipulating all of us?” you whispered, barely able to comprehend how deep this had gone.

Jay gave you a look—half amused, half exasperated. “You know Heeseung. He’s not gonna sit back and let someone mess with him. He always plays dirty. This was probably his idea all along.”

Your mind raced. This was all too much. Too tangled. And the worst part? You felt like you were losing control of something that used to be yours.

You stared at the phone in your hand, the weight of Heeseung’s smirk on the screen staring back at you, daring you to react. You wanted to lash out, to post something in return, to prove that you could move on too. But the truth was, you felt like you were already too deep into a game neither of you should have ever started.

But you couldn’t stop now.

“I guess,” you said, voice colder than you meant it to be, “we’ll just see how far he’s willing to go.”

You were mad.

No—mad mad.

Heeseung thought he was slick? Using Ina of all people?

Fine. Two could play this game. And you were about to flip the entire board.

You had just gotten your nails done earlier that day—clean white French tips with tiny pink bows delicately painted on each ring finger. Cute. Sweet. Deadly.

And it just so happened to be Valentine’s Day.

The most petty, perfect, painfully strategic day of the year.

You texted Jay:

come over. wear black. don’t ask why.

He didn’t question it. By now, he knew better.

An hour later, you were leaning over him in the soft pink glow of your dorm, red lipstick in your hand, and vengeance in your veins. You tilted his face toward yours, studying him like a blank canvas.

“Hold still,” you whispered, then planted a soft, slow kiss on his cheek.

Then another.

Then one near his jaw.

And one by his temple.

Six lipstick marks—perfectly placed.

Jay just sat there, relaxed, one brow slightly raised. “This is for him, huh?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to.

You straddled his lap, hands gently cupping his cheeks. Your fresh nails—those glossy white tips and innocent pink bows—rested right under his eyes, framing his face with just the right amount of threat disguised as sweetness.

Snap.

One picture.

No caption.

Just @jaypark.

Posted to your story.

You stared at it once, twice. Smirked.

This wasn’t a game anymore.

It was war.

And you had just set the next fire.

Heeseung saw it within minutes.

He wasn’t even on his phone—Jungwon was. The two of them were mid-conversation in the common room, some half-hearted banter about classes and who was buying dinner, when Jungwon suddenly froze, eyes locked on his screen like he’d just witnessed something unholy.

“Dude…” he said slowly, cautiously. “You might wanna see this.”

Heeseung reached over without thinking, grabbed the phone, and there it was.

Your story.

His chest tightened immediately.

Jay.

His best friend—or what was left of that friendship—smiling, relaxed, and covered in your kiss marks like a walking Valentine’s card. Your hands—those cute little nails with the pink bows—framing his face so gently it looked like a scene from a damn K-drama.

Tag: @jaypark.

No caption.

Didn’t need one.

You knew exactly what you were doing.

Heeseung leaned back against the couch slowly, staring at the screen like it might change if he blinked hard enough. But it didn’t. It stayed burned in his vision, red and soft and sweet in the most infuriating way.

Jungwon raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

Heeseung let out a cold laugh—short, humorless. “She really went there.”

“You gonna ignore it?”

Heeseung didn’t answer right away. He stood up, hands in his pockets, jaw tense. “She wants a reaction,” he muttered. “She wants me to do something.”

Jungwon tilted his head. “So… are you going to?”

Heeseung paused in the doorway, eyes flicking back toward the screen one last time. He could still see the imprint of your lips on Jay’s skin, your nails against his jaw, like a photo burned into film.

“She wants war?” he muttered under his breath.

“Fine.”

And just like that, he pulled out his phone.

Because if this was how you wanted to play—

He was done holding back.

Heeseung’s fingers were already flying across his screen.

u still down to help? he texted her.

Ina replied in less than a minute.

always. what’s the move?

I need a story. Your place. You post it first. Tag me. Make it obvious.

obvious like…? she replied, with a winking emoji.

He smirked.

red lips. hands on me. I’ll handle the rest.

Within thirty minutes, he was at her apartment. The lights were low, her place smelled like overpriced perfume, and she was already waiting in a cropped sweater and glossed lips that matched your exact shade of red.

She moved fast—placed a kiss at the corner of his jaw, just below his ear, then added a second one right under his cheekbone. Two bold red prints. Then she sat sideways across his lap, her long nails trailing down the side of his neck, and pulled out her phone.

“Smile,” she whispered, grinning.

Click.

The photo was even worse—better—than yours.

More skin.

More closeness.

More everything.

She posted it right away. No caption. Just a tag.

@lee.heedeung

Within ten seconds, his notification lit up.

He tapped it, viewed the story once, and then hit “Add to Story” like it was muscle memory.

You’d started this round, but he was going to finish it.

And when his story refreshed—Ina draped over him like she was exactly where she belonged, her kiss stains darker, bolder, more deliberate—he didn’t even hesitate to add the final touch:

“She’s not the only one who moved on.”

Just words.

But he knew you’d see it.

He wanted you to.

You couldn’t think straight anymore. The war was on, and it felt like everything—every move, every word—was just pushing you deeper into a place you didn’t recognize. But you were determined. You were done playing games with Heeseung. You wanted to make sure Jay knew you weren’t trying to replace anything. This wasn’t a rebound. It couldn’t be.

You couldn’t let him see you fall apart again. You just couldn’t.

So you showed up at Jay’s dorm, heart racing, fingers trembling as you knocked on his door.

When he opened it, you didn’t hesitate. You barely even processed the look of surprise in his eyes before your lips were on his. It was desperate. It was reckless. Your hands were already pulling him closer, feeling the weight of the day’s chaos pressing against your chest. His lips tasted like mint, like the cold air outside, and for a second—just a second—it felt real. It felt like something could finally be simple.

But when you reached for his shirt, tugging it off over his head, he froze. His hands gripped your wrists, pulling them gently away from his chest, and pushed you back just enough to meet your eyes.

“Wait—wait,” he said, his voice tight, his breath shaky but controlled. “I don’t want to be your rebound, Y/N.”

You blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

Jay shook his head, stepping back just a little. “I’m not like that. You don’t need to use me to get back at Heeseung.”

His words felt like ice water, but you weren’t ready to let go yet. You grabbed his arm, pulling him back toward you, and for the first time, you felt yourself getting lost in the desperation. You didn’t want to feel like this anymore.

“I’m not trying to get back at him,” you whispered, voice pleading. “I swear, Jay. I don’t want him. I want you.” You paused, searching his face for any sign that he believed you. “Please… I need this. I need you right now.”

Jay looked down at you, his expression torn. “Y/N, think about it. You’re not in the right place right now. You’re hurting, and this is just… this is just—”

“I’m not,” you cut him off, grabbing his face with both hands, forcing him to look at you. “I’m not trying to replace anything. I swear.”

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes softening just a little. “Then what do you want? What are we doing here, Y/N?”

You took a shaky breath, your voice softer now. “I want to be with you. Not because of Heeseung. Not because of anyone else. Just because I… I want this with you. Please.”

Jay didn’t answer right away, his eyes drifting down to your hands still on his chest. He looked conflicted, like he was weighing your words against something inside himself.

“You’re sure?” he asked quietly, as if he needed reassurance more than you did.

You nodded, eyes locked on his. “I’m sure.”

But even as the words left your lips, you could see the hesitation in his eyes, the doubt still lingering in the way he held you—like he wasn’t sure if he should trust you or himself. You could feel the weight of everything that had happened, everything you were running from. And for a second, you thought he might pull away again.

But he didn’t.

He stayed.

“I just don’t want you to regret this,” he said, his voice a little softer now, but the distance in his gaze still clear.

You swallowed hard, fighting the emotions that rushed up. “I won’t.”

And for the first time in a long time, you were trying to believe that.

You could feel it, deep down. The gnawing ache in your chest. You told Jay you weren’t trying to use him, that you weren’t replacing anyone, that you wanted this—wanted him—but the truth was, you weren’t over Heeseung. Not by a long shot.

And you knew Jay could probably feel it too, even if you didn’t say it out loud. You could see it in his eyes as he pulled away slightly, his hands resting on your shoulders like he wasn’t sure whether to hold you or let you go.

“Y/N,” Jay whispered, voice steady but soft, like he was giving you space to breathe. “Are you sure about this? You say you’re not using me, but I don’t want to be a… a distraction while you’re still caught up with someone else.��

His words hit you harder than you expected. Caught up with someone else. You wanted to shake your head and tell him that he was wrong, that Heeseung was nothing but a memory now. But the truth was staring you right in the face, and you couldn’t lie to him—or to yourself.

You stepped back, taking in a shaky breath, trying to fight the rising tide of emotions in your chest. You had pushed yourself so hard to move on, to fight back against Heeseung’s hold on you, but deep down, it wasn’t working. You could tell yourself you were done with him. You could kiss Jay. You could hold his hand and pretend like you were over it. But you weren’t.

“I… I don’t know,” you finally admitted, voice small, almost fragile. “I’m not really over him, Jay.”

The words felt like poison on your tongue, but there was a strange relief in saying them aloud. You couldn’t keep pretending. Not to him. Not to yourself.

Jay’s face softened, but there was a hint of disappointment in his eyes—something that cut deeper than you expected. He took a step back, hands still resting at his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do next.

“You need time, Y/N,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “And I’m not gonna be the guy who waits around while you’re still stuck on someone else. You deserve more than that.”

The finality in his voice made your stomach twist. You wanted to argue, to beg him to stay, but you knew it wouldn’t be fair. Jay deserved someone who could give him their whole heart.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, feeling the tears you’d been holding back threaten to spill.

Jay nodded, giving you a sad, understanding smile. “You don’t have to apologize. But you need to figure things out—before you drag anyone else into your mess.”

And just like that, the moment was over. He stepped away from you, and you were left standing there, feeling more lost than ever. Because no matter how much you wanted to move on, the truth was clear.

You weren’t over Heeseung.

And you didn’t know if you ever would be.

You stormed back into your dorm, slamming the door behind you with a force that rattled the walls. Your mind was a whirlwind of frustration and guilt. Jay had been right. You weren’t over Heeseung. No matter how hard you tried to convince yourself, you just couldn’t shake the hold he still had on you.

You flopped onto your bed, grabbing your phone without thinking. Your fingers scrolled through your feed like it was a reflex, your heart pounding in your chest.

Then, it happened.

You saw it.

Heeseung’s story.

The notification flashed, and your breath hitched. You had been trying to avoid him, trying to move on, but there he was, like a goddamn magnet pulling your attention. You tapped it without a second thought.

And then you saw it.

Heeseung. Smiling.

But it wasn’t just a simple smile. No, this time he was holding hands with Ina, and she was pressed so close to him you could see the way they were looking at each other—soft, intimate, like they belonged in each other’s space.

The red lipstick marks weren’t just on his cheek anymore. Now, it looked like she had kissed the side of his neck, and he was almost wearing it like a badge. Proud, like he was showing the world that he was finally moving on. Finally free.

You stared at the story, unable to tear your eyes away. You wanted to swipe up and type something—anything—that would prove you weren’t bothered, that you didn’t care. But deep down, it stung. It stung in a way you couldn’t describe.

Was this still a game to him? Or did Heeseung move on.

And you were left sitting in your dorm, with the weight of everything crashing down on you.

You forced yourself to swipe past his story, ignoring the way your chest tightened, but it didn’t help. It never did.

What was worse?

You realized you were still checking his story as if you were waiting for a sign that he cared.

For the next few hours, Heeseung’s stories kept coming.

One after the other.

It was almost like a countdown, each post more intimate than the last. Him and Ina laughing in a cafe. Him and Ina walking side by side in the park. Her hand resting on his chest, his arm draped around her waist. Each photo, each story, carefully curated—designed to show you what you could’ve had, what you didn’t have anymore.

But here’s the thing: Heeseung expected you to do the same.

He was waiting for you to upload something—anything—with Jay, to prove to him that you weren’t bothered. To make a statement, to show that you were moving on too.

He thought you’d retaliate, maybe post a cute picture of you and Jay in the same way. Maybe make it obvious—show him you didn’t care, that you were fine.

But there was silence.

Your phone was quiet. No stories. No tagged photos. Nothing.

He checked again. And again. Still nothing.

He frowned. He refreshed your profile, then your stories. It was the same as it had been hours ago. Nothing.

What the hell?

Heeseung was confused. He had expected you to fire back—he had expected this whole thing to be like the rest of your relationship: a series of petty back-and-forths that always led you both back into each other’s arms.

But this time, there was no response. No tag. No post. No picture of you with Jay.

Why wasn’t she reacting?

His mind was buzzing. Was it a game? Was she waiting for him to respond first? Was she trying to play it cool?

He couldn’t understand it.

The silence was louder than anything.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Heeseung wasn’t sure what you were thinking. And that scared him more than anything.

It was past 2 AM when Heeseung heard the knock.

At first, he thought he imagined it. The sound was soft, hesitant, like whoever was on the other side wasn’t sure if they even wanted to be there. He lay still for a second, blinking at the ceiling, unsure if he should even get up—until it came again, this time louder. More frantic.

He rolled out of bed, threw on a hoodie, and padded to the door with a tired sigh. The hallway was dark, quiet. Everyone else in the dorms was either asleep or gone for the weekend.

But when he opened the door—his heart sank.

You were standing there, mascara smudged under your eyes, hair messily pulled to the side, a half-empty bottle of soju dangling from your hand. Your lips were red, like you’d been biting them too hard. And your eyes… they were glassy. Teary.

You looked broken.

“Y/N—” he started, stepping forward instinctively.

But you shoved him—hard.

Or at least, you tried. You punched at his chest with your tiny, shaky fists, but it wasn’t forceful. It was clumsy, uneven, and as soon as your hands hit him, your strength gave out.

“You—You asshole,” you slurred, fists still pressing weakly against his chest. “You don’t get to be over me—like that. Like it was nothing.”

Heeseung didn’t move. He let you hit him. Let you press against him like you were trying to beat the heartbreak out of your own body.

“Why didn’t you come back?” you cried, voice cracking. “You always come back.”

His hands hovered for a second—unsure if he should hold you or not—but then you collapsed. Right into him. Your knees buckled, your bottle clattered to the ground, and your face crumpled against his chest as the sobs started coming, hard and fast.

“I hate you,” you whispered, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his hoodie. “I hate you so much, Heeseung.”

He finally wrapped his arms around you, slowly, gently, like you were made of glass.

“I know,” he whispered. “I know, baby.”

The moment the word slipped out—baby—you just shattered.

You pulled back, looking up at him, your face streaked with tears. “Don’t—Don’t call me that,” you whispered, though your hands were still clinging to him. “You don’t get to call me that if you don’t want me anymore.”

Heeseung swallowed hard, eyes scanning your face, jaw tight. “You think I don’t want you?”

You nodded, quickly, like you were afraid he’d deny it. “You’re with her now. Ina. And you smiled in those pictures like—like I didn’t even matter.”

“You do matter,” he said instantly, voice firmer this time. “You always mattered. I just—” He exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “I thought I was doing the right thing. For both of us.”

You stared at him for a long time, lip trembling. “Then why does it hurt so much?”

Heeseung’s chest twisted. He’d seen you angry, jealous, wild. But this—this version of you—crushed him. You were soft and raw and honest in a way that stripped all his defenses.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “I thought letting go would fix us. I thought giving us space would help us come back better.”

You sniffled, wiping your nose against your sleeve like a child. “Then why does it feel like I’m dying?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because if he did, he’d tell you the truth—that every night he saw your stories, every time he thought about you and Jay, it felt like a blade twisting in his chest. That no matter how many kisses Ina planted on his neck, none of them felt like yours.

Heeseung looked down at you again. You were staring up at him with so much sadness in your eyes, and it physically hurt.

“Do you still love me?” you asked, voice just a whisper.

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

You blinked, like you didn’t expect that answer.

“I love you,” he repeated, holding your face now. “I never stopped. But yn, we’re… we’re so fucked up. We keep tearing each other apart.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I know.”

You leaned in again, forehead pressed against his chest, breathing ragged and broken. He kissed the top of your head gently, just once.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“So am I.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You just stood there—his arms around you, your body limp against him, your tears soaking into his hoodie.

Maybe it didn’t fix anything.

Maybe it didn’t change what came next.

But for that moment, it was just the two of you. No stories. No games. No pretending.

Just two broken people—still in love, still hurting—clinging to whatever was left.

Heeseung didn’t let go. Not right away.

You stayed like that—collapsed against him, your sobs slowing to soft, hiccupy breaths, his arms wound tight around your waist like if he let go, you’d vanish entirely.

“Come inside,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, one hand sliding to the back of your head as he pulled you in a little closer. “You’re freezing.”

You nodded weakly against his chest, your legs still wobbly, and he hooked an arm under yours, guiding you carefully inside. The dorm was dim, a faint orange glow spilling from his desk lamp, soft music humming low from a speaker that had been playing long after he forgot to turn it off.

He shut the door behind you and helped you sit on the edge of his bed. You looked around like the room felt unfamiliar—like it wasn’t the same one you used to sneak into at 3AM or sleep in when your dorm felt too suffocating.

You watched him move—quietly, naturally. He brought you a water bottle, then a hoodie you used to steal all the time, dropping it gently onto your lap before crouching in front of you.

“Drink,” he said softly.

You obeyed without a word, sipping just enough to wash the taste of liquor off your lips. Your hands shook slightly, and he noticed, his eyes flickering to your fingers before slowly moving up to your face.

Heeseung exhaled like the weight of everything that had happened tonight was finally settling in. “You shouldn’t have come here like this.”

You looked at him, eyes still puffy and red. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

He nodded slowly, like he understood more than he let on. “You always come here when you don’t.”

You laughed under your breath, but it was hollow. “And you always let me crawl back to you.”

Silence.

Heeseung rested his forearms on his knees, fingers laced, eyes locked with yours. “Why tonight, Y/N?”

You looked down at your lap, the hoodie untouched, your hands knotted in your skirt.

“I kept waiting,” you whispered. “For you to come back. For this to be just another fight we’d crawl back from. I thought if I held out long enough, you’d text, or call, or show up at my door again like you always do.”

You glanced up at him. “But you didn’t.”

Heeseung’s jaw flexed. He stayed quiet.

“And I know I messed everything up,” you went on, voice gaining a little more strength. “I dragged Jay into it, I made it worse, I was petty and bitter and angry. But I was hurt, Heeseung. I didn’t know how else to make you feel what I was feeling.”

“I was feeling it,” he said, voice low. “Every fucking second.”

Your throat tightened, and you blinked fast, but the tears still came. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

Heeseung stood up slowly and sat beside you instead, his shoulder brushing yours. He leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

“Because I didn’t want to love you halfway again,” he said. “We kept breaking each other. I thought… if we took time apart, maybe we’d figure our shit out. Maybe we’d finally get it right.”

“And did you?” you asked, eyes burning into him.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he turned his head, looking at you—really looking.

Your eyeliner was smudged, your lipstick faded, your cheeks still flushed from the crying and alcohol. But to him, you were still you. The same girl who used to fall asleep mid-conversation in his bed. The same girl who used to wear his shirts like they were hers. The same girl who knew how to ruin him and love him in the same breath.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, voice softer than before. “All I know is that seeing you tonight, standing at my door like that—I’ve never felt more like I still belong to you.”

The silence wrapped around you again, this time a little warmer, a little heavier.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, the alcohol finally wearing off and leaving behind nothing but exhaustion and a dull ache in your chest.

“I’m scared we’re never gonna get it right,” you murmured.

Heeseung turned his head, pressed his lips into your hair. “Me too, yn.”

You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t have to.

Because even if everything between you was a mess—even if you were toxic and chaotic and completely wrong for each other—right now, you were here.

And for tonight, that was enough.

The morning came too quickly.

You didn’t remember falling asleep, only the way Heeseung’s heartbeat felt under your cheek as you curled up beside him on the bed. You must’ve passed out mid-sentence, tears drying on your skin, the room spinning just enough to blur the shame, the ache, the regret.

When you opened your eyes, you were still in his hoodie. His room was quiet except for the hum of the heater, and sunlight slipped through the blinds in pale, thin lines. You didn’t dare move—not yet.

Heeseung was already awake. You could tell from the way his breathing had changed, slower, more deliberate. He was lying beside you, one arm resting behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

You swallowed hard. “You didn’t kick me out.”

He turned his head toward you, his expression unreadable. “Did you think I would?”

You hesitated. “Maybe.”

He didn’t respond to that—just watched you. His eyes flicked to your lips, your cheeks, your fingers tangled in the fabric of his hoodie. His gaze softened for a moment, like he was trying to memorize the way you looked in this exact second.

You sat up slowly, head pounding, throat dry.

“I should go,” you said, not meeting his eyes.

Heeseung sat up too, but he didn’t stop you. Didn’t say stay. And that silence said more than if he had.

You moved to the door, grabbing your phone off his desk. Notifications flooded the screen—messages from Yeon, Jay, a missed call from Sunoo. The real world was already waiting for you, and you weren’t ready.

You turned the doorknob, then paused. “Heeseung.”

He looked up.

You bit your lip. “Last night… was that a mistake?”

He looked like he wanted to say yes. Like maybe the mature thing—the right thing—was to draw the line here and now. End it before the cycle started all over again.

But instead, he just said, “I don’t know.”

You gave him a small nod, like that answer was enough. Like it had to be.

Then you left.

And the thing that gutted you most wasn’t that he didn’t stop you.

It was that you didn’t expect him to.

You didn’t go back to your dorm right away.

Your head was still spinning—half from the hangover, half from everything that had happened the night before. The streets were cold, quiet, students still asleep or buried in weekend study sessions. You walked aimlessly through campus, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, trying to breathe through the fog sitting heavy in your chest.

You replayed the night like a scene on loop—your fists on Heeseung’s chest, the broken way you sobbed into him, the way he held you like you were fragile and still his. How he called you baby without even thinking about it.

And how in the morning, he let you leave.

By the time you got to Yeon’s dorm, your fingers were numb and your heart felt heavier than ever.

She opened the door in an oversized tee and one sock, blinking in confusion. “Y/N?”

You stepped inside without a word, letting the door swing closed behind you. Yeon just stared for a moment, then crossed her arms and said, “Okay. What happened?”

You collapsed onto her bed face-first, groaning into the blanket.

“Was it Jay again?” she asked carefully.

You shook your head.

“Then… Heeseung?”

You let out a broken sound that could’ve been a laugh or a cry. “I slept over.”

Yeon’s eyes widened. “You what?”

“I was drunk,” you mumbled into the blanket. “Showed up at his dorm. Cried like an idiot. Told him everything. Begged him to love me back, basically.”

“Oh my god.” She sat down beside you. “Okay, and?”

“He held me. Let me stay. Called me baby.”

Yeon raised a brow. “And then?”

You turned your head, eyes glassy again. “And then he let me go.”

She didn’t say anything for a second. Just reached over and grabbed your hand, squeezing it tightly. “Y/N…”

“It hurts,” you whispered. “I thought—when I woke up, I thought maybe this time it meant something. That we could start over. But he just let me leave.”

Yeon looked at you like she didn’t know whether to hug you or shake you. “Because he’s trying, Y/N. He’s trying to be better. For you. For himself. And you’re out here getting drunk and showing up at his door like it’s still the same toxic game.”

You blinked at her, stunned.

“I’m not saying he’s innocent,” she added quickly. “He’s just as bad. You guys were fire and gasoline. But this? What you did last night? You weren’t trying to fix anything. You were trying to set it on fire again just to see if he’d still run through it for you.”

That one stung. Because she wasn’t wrong.

You curled deeper into the blanket, the ache in your chest flaring again. “So what now?”

Yeon sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Now? You stop playing games. You take a real break. Not the kind where you post bait on Instagram and wait for him to bite. A real one. Because if there’s even a chance you two have something worth saving, you need to come back to each other as different people.”

You stayed quiet.

Then, softly, you asked, “Do you think he still loves me?”

Yeon didn’t even hesitate. “God, yes. But I think he’s scared loving you will destroy him again.”

You shut your eyes. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel angry. Just… empty. Because if you were being honest with yourself?

You were scared of the same thing.

You weren’t good at listening. Especially when it came to Heeseung.

Yeon had begged you to take it seriously this time. To actually give yourself space, to heal, to breathe without him in your orbit. She told you to block his number for a while, to stop checking his Instagram stories, to quit looking for his face in every hallway like he was some phantom that couldn’t let you move on.

You nodded. You agreed. You told her you were going to try.

But you didn’t mean it.

Because it was impossible to “take a break” from someone who lived under your skin. Who you still dreamed about even when you hated him. Who you still saw in every goddamn song, every place on campus that still echoed with the ghosts of the two of you.

So three nights later, you were standing outside his apartment again.

This time, it wasn’t out of drunken impulse or heartbreak-fueled rage. It was worse.

It was loneliness.

It was craving.

It was addiction.

You hadn’t texted him. You didn’t warn him. You stood in front of the door, heart slamming against your ribs, hands shoved into the sleeves of your sweatshirt. You stared at the door like it owed you something.

You almost walked away. Twice.

But then it opened.

Heeseung was standing there in gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt, barefoot, hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed. The expression on his face flickered from confusion to disbelief to… that familiar ache you always saw in his eyes when he looked at you.

You swallowed hard.

“I—I know I’m not supposed to be here,” you said, voice small. “But I needed to see you.”

He didn’t say anything. He just stepped aside, and that alone said everything.

You walked in slowly, like you were walking back into a dream you didn’t want to wake up from. The apartment was dim again, warm, smelling faintly of laundry detergent and the faint citrus cologne you knew he wore too much of.

He closed the door behind you, leaned against it, and crossed his arms. “Y/N…”

“I know,” you said, holding up a hand. “Don’t say it. Yeon already gave me the whole speech.”

“So why are you here?”

You turned to look at him, eyes heavy, lips parted. “Because I’m not over you.”

Heeseung’s jaw tightened. He didn’t move.

“And I don’t think you’re over me either,” you said. “You don’t get to look at me like that—like that—and pretend we’re done.”

He was silent for a long beat.

Then, “That’s not fair.”

“I don’t care.”

You stepped closer, just one step, but it felt like ten.

“I know we’re a mess,” you continued. “I know we’re both too much and not enough and every time we try again it ends in fire—but Heeseung, I don’t know how to not come back to you. I don’t know how to let you go.”

His eyes searched yours. Slowly, carefully. And God, the way he looked at you—like you were the same secret he’d never stopped keeping—hurt more than anything.

“Y/N…” he said softly, but he didn’t finish.

You took another step, now close enough to feel the heat of him. “You said it yourself—we belong to each other. No matter how bad we break, no matter who we try to replace each other with. It always comes back to us.”

Heeseung reached up, ran a hand down his face. He looked exhausted. Like he was carrying the weight of every fight, every kiss, every night you spent in his bed just to disappear in the morning.

“I can’t do this again,” he murmured. “I can’t keep letting you back in just to lose you again.”

Your voice cracked. “Then don’t lose me.”

You closed the last bit of space between you and pressed your hands against his chest.

“Let me be selfish just this once,” you whispered. “Let me come back to you.”

He stared down at you, torn, his hands twitching at his sides like he didn’t know whether to touch you or throw up a wall.

“I don’t care how many times we fall apart,” you said, voice trembling. “I’ll always come crawling back to you.”

enhypen campus series | writing jays trope next. Let me know if you would like to be tagged.

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | college au [18+]

kickoff ch.12 how you get the girl

ᰔ pairing. college au - soccer player! gojo x film major! reader

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is the most popular guy on your college campus. he's tall, funny, hot, not to mention he's the most talented soccer forward the school has seen in years. but he's also a frat dude, which puts him in a world very different from your own, as he spends most of his nights partying while you spend most of yours working on your annoying film major assignments. but when he reaches out to you for a favor, you realize that helping him out might have something in it for you too.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem reader, fluff, angst, smut, college au, fraternities, sororities, partying, drinking/alcohol, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, opposites to lovers, friends to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, gojo being an idiot, marijuana use, sexism, sexual harassment (verbal only)

ᰔ chapter. 12/x (probably 18)

ᰔ words. 11.3k

a/n. man the color scheme for this chapter is kinda giving BRAT lolol...i mean gojo IS brat. anywho, i don't have much to say at the beginning of this chapter but i do have a LOT to say at the end of it sooo see y'all at the bottom!! hope u enjoy. also BIG THANK YOU to @whereflowerswenttodie who beta read parts of this chapter for me n convinced me not to scrap it lol

nav. masterlist

☾·̩͙꙳ moodboard no.1 :: ♬.*ﾟplaylist

11:03am you: hi! 11:03am you: good luck today 11:03am you: incase i don’t see you

11:05am Gojo Satoru: Why wouldn’t you? Aren’t you gonna be on the field for your newsletter shots?

11:07am you: i mean yes but idk where i’m gonna be stationed so 11:07am you: it might not be on UTokyo’s side of the field

11:08am Gojo Satoru: Okay then I’ll look for you before the game starts

11:10am you: no pls don’t. coach yaga thinks i distract you. i don’t want to get yelled at again. he scares me :(

11:12am Gojo Satoru: Haha you’re silly 11:13am Gojo Satoru: East side entrance at 2 11:13am Gojo Satoru: Be there

11:14am you: or be square?

11:15am Gojo Satoru: Yea whatever shape you wanna be in is fine cutie

It’s a bright sunny day outside, perfectly blue sky with a scattering of fluffy clouds seen outside the window of your shared room in your apartment, and you realize spring is fully here from the way birds chirp past the glass. You’re stuffing your camera case full of chilled Kodak film rolls, your last stash left, and it’s the last piece of equipment you pack before slinging the strap over your shoulder and heading out the door.

Mina had offered to give you a ride to the stadium since your car’s still at the shop, but you’re happy you opted for the bumpy bus ride and although you come close to low-grade concussions from the bang of your head to the window at every other speed bump, the music in your ears while someone else is operating a public transport vehicle helps you think creatively before shooting shots.

It was surprise enough that Mina of all people was going to this game, and when you questioned her about it in the morning, she looked at you like you were absurd to assume anyone from UTokyo wouldn’t be at this game, and sure enough, it’s all anyone on Instagram has been repping on their stories or talking about in the bustling minutes before lectures. Even Utahime was going to this game, and she hates all intercollegiate sports. You knew the game was a big deal, given the way Coach Yaga was yelled at via email by the Dean of UTokyo to make sure the team wins today because a multimillion dollar Nike sponsorship would be greenlit by the prospect (for some reason you were cc’d in an email chain among divisional higher-ups, but you weren’t opposed to snooping in on conversations that were entirely outside of your tax bracket).

It’s because it’s the second to last home game before the season ends, and apparently this has been statistically the best season the UTokyo D1 Men’s Soccer team has played since the new millenia. No pressure to the players on that fact, but failure wasn’t much of an option for them anymore. 

And you can feel the stakes the second you step inside the stadium. Packed would be an understatement, there were people flooding the aisles, overbooked for the sake of the university pocketing an extra buck no doubt, but spectators could care less since they were able to at least get in on the basis of that irresponsibility in the first place, despite the stadium’s capacity having long been reached before the pregame festivities even start. Banners and signs drape over railings with the school’s striking blue and golden colors, every single replay screen is lit up and brightly pixelated at every north, south, east, and west entrance for inclusive viewing. As you pass VIP security and make it into the lower field-level entry, the scattered chants from the crowd amplify in volume and you almost wince a little to yourself from the noise. The stadium felt like a living, breathing entity, pulsing with the collective heartbeat of everyone inside. 

You’ve never been more overstimulated in your life, except instead of finding it frightening, it was electrifying. And for once, you think you can understand what an athlete must feel when playing on their own home turf surrounded by those that are wholeheartedly rooting for them.

Hana is quick to spot you, panic clear across her face as she regards you with a couple pages with your assigned vantage points, a rushed briefing session, and then she’s darting down the sidelines to make sure equipment is set up appropriately where needed. She’s understaffed, given you told Utahime about Kai’s little intervention last week and she made a nasty point to the university (and possibly a handful of legal threats) and they relented in firing him. So now the three of you were down a photographer, and the extra work shows in the instructions she gave you as you skim the sheets. 

A glance at your phone tells you it’s close to 2pm, and your eyes take in the expanse of green on the field. UTokyo’s players practice kicking shots off to the right goal post, while YCU’s players practice shots off to the left. You can’t spot where Gojo is, but you faithfully head down to the East Side entrance like he asked you to. 

When you round the corner, you almost crash right into an Ichiko mascot, but swiftly dodge, and then you stop in your tracks when you see Gojo standing right at the concrete entrance. He’s leaning back against the adjacent wall, arms crossed at his chest, and he’s stretching his neck side to side with a creased brow, an intense look in his eyes, lost in serious thought, scanning the wall across from him like he’s mapping out plays in his head. 

When you approach him and catch the corner of his eyesight, he leans off the wall and flashes you one of his so extremely charmed to see you grins on reflex, and suddenly there’s nothing your senses seem to pick up on except him. Like everything else around you just disappears.

“Hey, you,” he says when he comes up to you, and you walk him like a dog back to a corner that’s tucked further away from noises and sights. You lean your back against the wall now, the coolness of concrete seeping through the fabric of your shirt, and he stands a step in front of you. Your hands toy with the strap of your camera.

“Are you ready to win today?” you ask him, and look off to the right into the flourishing seats that are still being filled to the brim, “clearly there’s no pressure.”

He breathes in deep, and releases it slowly, like there really was tension to relieve. “We’ve got no choice but to win.”

“Is that something Coach Yaga says to you guys often?” you ask him, because the man recited the same thing about five times in that email chain. “Also, apparently you take years off of his life.” Another thing he recited about five times in that email chain.

Gojo only addresses what he wants to address, as per usual. “Yeah, it’s something he says to us often.” 

“So,” you say, “what did you want to talk about?”

He looks at you puzzled, tilting his head to the side. “Nothing. I just wanted to see you.”

It’s hard to assume that he didn’t have something to talk about with the intention of telling you to meet him here, because this is the same place you confessed to him a few weeks ago, and so is also the place he so painfully rejected you. But maybe he doesn’t think about these kinds of things as much as you do. “I see.”

His tongue pokes to his cheek as he studies your anticipating expression, and then he sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. “What are we doing? I mean, I like you, and you like me too, at least I hope you still do. Why don’t we—…why don’t we just give it a go already? I don’t see how we can move forward if you won’t at least let me take you out on a date.”

Your hands stop fidgeting with your camera strap from his words, and you lick your lips, suddenly unable to keep eye contact with him so your gaze drifts down to his chest in front of you. His uniform is clean, no smudges of dirt or grass, just pure white fabric underneath heat-pressed blue and golden accents, and of course, that signature number 10. You’re sure he’s all you’ll ever think of when you see that number now for the rest of your life. 

You know when you want something so bad you don’t know what to do once you have it? Because it almost seems too good to be true? 

“I just wanted to let stuff between us breathe for a little bit,” you confess, “it’s just, it was a lot to deal with. Being around you when I thought you didn’t want me the way I wanted you. I don’t know if this is odd to say, and maybe I’m overthinking it, but I just feel like somewhere along the way, I kind of…forgot who you were for a little bit.” This kind of vulnerability would have you running away with your tail between your legs with anyone else, but not with him. Not after everything. 

His expression softens, melting away that confrontational energy he had earlier, and he nods slowly. He opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t seem to find words. The presence of them is there, though, you can feel them. But what good are his thoughts if not voiced? 

“I just wanted to spend a little bit of time getting to know you again, I guess.” You squeeze your arm in reassurance of yourself because he wasn’t giving it to you. You let out an awkward laugh. “I don’t really know what I’m saying right now, to be honest.”

You can tell he’s at a crossroads, and you think back to this week and his efforts to get you to open up to him again. You know how he feels right now, because it’s exactly how you felt when he rejected you. Like when someone is so close, yet so far, you can feel that they’re within arms reach but never truly. And they’re slipping away for some reason that you may never know, but all you can do is assume that it’s a fault of your own. You’re not really sure what he can do to make you feel secure about this whole thing anymore, and you can see the slight panic in his eyes when he realizes that too.

“I don’t mind waiting,” he tells you, rushed with a desperation entirely contrary to his words, “what’s a week or two when I want to spend a lot more of those with you anyways.” But he takes a deep breath, like he’s already mentally preparing himself for an agonizing wait in his head.

There’s a sound over the stadium speakers, something technical and sporty and goes entirely over your head in dismissal, but to Gojo it seems to have a different effect, as he’s suddenly attentive and stands up straighter, that focused expression on his face from earlier resurfacing. You realize he needs to get back to the field. 

“Can we continue this conversation after the game?” he asks you hastily, already turning towards the center of the stadium. And he adds an obligatory, “sorry.”

“Yeah, sure,” you quickly agree, suddenly feeling like you’re taking up his time. 

He gives you a small smile, unsure in its presentation but pure in its intention. But he can only take one step towards the field before you reach out and pinch the fabric of his jersey to keep him still. He feels the tug of it and fully faces you once again. 

“Um. Just a sec,” you say, “I have something to give you before your game.”

“Oh?” he looks at you with interest, “I fucking love things.” 

“You have to close your eyes though.”

“…what is the thing…” He squints at you with a what are you up to expression.

“Just close your eyes!” you snap at him.

“Okay, okay, jeez,” he holds his hands up in front of him in surrender, shaking his head to get his hair out of his face and then he closes his eyes. “You’re scary as hell sometimes. Excuse me for being cautious.”

You roll your eyes, useless because he doesn’t see it, and then take a step towards him. You cup his jaw with the palm of your hand, his cheek twitching slightly from the unexpected contact, and then you raise on your tiptoes to press your lips to his cheek. It’s short and sweet with the sound of a peck.

“For good luck,” you whisper, then you quickly lower yourself back onto your heels, take a step back and tuck some strands of hair behind your ear. The ground suddenly interests you.

He opens his eyes, blinking a few times with shock and his hand comes up to brush the tips of his fingers against the spot you kissed him, and then his gaze goes comically dazed when he reaches out to hold you. “Alright, c’mere you,” he says, closing his eyes and puckering his lips as he leans down to kiss you but you laugh and push his face away.

“No no no, only on the cheek for now,” you say with a small laugh.

He does nothing to restrain his frustrated groan. “You can’t do something that cute and then expect me to be chill about it.”

“If you win, then, maybe I’ll let you kiss me for real.”

“Maybe?”

“Yes. Maybe.”

He’s close, towering over you near this bustling east side entrance that he seems to like so much, and his eyes drop to your lips. “Alright. I like those odds.” 

You give him a smile and slip away from him to get back towards the field, and you feel his eyes on you as you walk away.

The pregame events are a blur, with blaring music accompanied by the sounds of the sports announcers clipping across the speakers, finally quieted down in time for the players to line up on the field for the national anthem which was then followed by UTokyo’s alma mater. 

You’re stationed on the same side of the field as Minato, UTokyo’s side, while Hana is covering the sidelines of the opposite end with the opponents goal post. Minato’s filling up a cup of Gatorade for himself at the athlete’s station and then he comes back around to find you.

“Are you ready to take your shots? I see Hana wanted you to shoot on film today,” he says to you as he sloshes around Glacier Freeze in a flimsy plastic cup.

You twist your aperture dial with your thumb. “Yesss, all set. I’ll try to keep up.” 

He nods at you in approval.

The atmosphere feels nerve wracking. Something felt different about this game, the stakes feeling high. Well, of course they’re high, because if they lose today then they’re out of the tournament. But the stakes feel high for other reasons too, an energy you can pick up on but can’t quite discern. 

Your eyes drift across the field where you can see a referee placing a ball at the center of the field. Off to the right, you can see Gojo standing with a few of his other teammates, including Geto, Nanami, and Choso, and they’re all gesticulating to various corners of the field as they discuss what you can only imagine have to do with their plays for today. And you realize— it’s their last college soccer season. Their second-to-last official home match before the championship, and for those of them that haven’t qualified for the national league, it may be their second-to-last match of this caliber for the rest of their lives. One of the final chances that they have to prove something of themselves. The determination was palpable. 

The chief referee’s whistle cuts through the air with three short chirps, and that gathers the attention of all the players on the field. UTokyo wins the coin toss, choosing to kickoff, and YCU’s players choose to attack the left side goal.

Your stomach churns with anticipation, the crowd hushing too as all the players take their places on the field. If you feel nervous, you can only imagine how the athletes feel. There’s a rhythm that you’ve learned over the past couple of months getting to know the sport, where players stretch out their necks and kick out their feet and take subtle deep breaths as they survey the stands. Idle moments before the start of the match where they have no choice but to look forward and only forward, so they take a moment to stay in the present for as long as they can gather. You’ve never been much of a sports spectator, and perhaps you’ve only recently had some personal interest in the team, but you realize you feel pride in your school as you stand behind chalk sideline and see UTokyo’s colors scattered across the field in uniform. And fuck, you wanted them to win. You wanted them to win with fierceness and wrath, and it’s a desire you share with the crowd. 

Gojo spends a minute talking to the referee before the black and white striped man pats him high on the back in the good sport and urges him towards the center of the field. He lifts his foot up onto the ball, rolling it back and forth underneath the spikes of his cleat, and you can see it in his eyes, even from all the way over here, that he seems to have different ideas in mind for this game too. High stakes. Pre-determined, set with will, evident in the clench of his jaw and the concentrated furrow of his brow as he surveys the field with his eyes, and you’re lost in the sight for what feels like forever because you can hardly register the chirp of the ref’s whistle. 

And then the kickoff starts. 

The ball is tapped to Geto to start the play, and the first few minutes were intense as the ball was passed back and forth between UTokyo’s players, placing pressure on YCU’s defense as they inched closer and closer towards the goal. A pass between UTokyo’s #4 was intercepted by YCU and the ball was rushed down towards the left side, the crowd’s horror evident in the uproar as they raise to their feet in fearful anticipation, and with ruthless offense, YCU’s forward takes a clear sink shot towards the goal, and the crowd holds their breath before they watch Choso lunge for it in air, gloved hands firmly grabbing the ball and then pulling it to his chest with a possessiveness you can only expect to see from a skilled goalie, before he crashes down into the ground and the crowd releases relief in the form of rowdy roars.

Ten minutes in, with everyone on their toes, each team tested each other’s defenses. UTokyo were known for stellar offense, especially within the past few years with players like Gojo Satoru and Takuma Ino joining the league as powerful forwards, but UTokyo’s overall offense was still statistically second to none other than YCU. And the pressure YCU was putting on UTokyo’s defense was wearisome to say the least. You glance to see Nanami, who is UTokyo’s best defensive player, huffing and puffing as he stands between two light-footed YCU players in an attempt to guard, and fails an attempt to steal the ball before it gets to the feet of YCU’s striker #6, passed in a split second off to his teammate, with a fake so seamless that it has Choso just a couple inches away from touching the ball before it’s sent flying into the net. 

The noises from the crowd are still loud, but dampened in spirit. 

With the referees hand signal up in the air, the current score is confirmed. 0-1, YCU. 

Coach Yaga calls for a sub, in which he switches Nanami out for who you believe is a 2nd-year defensive player name Yuta you’ve seen around practice with a promising statistical record for interceptions, and you watch as Nanami takes the bench before he swipes the sweat off his face in exhaustion. God. Just fifteen minutes into the match, and YCU already has UTokyo’s defense winded from play. 

You bring your camera up to your face, forgetting for a moment that there was still a job to do here, and you position the direction of the lens towards the center of the field, where Gojo takes his place at the ball once more. Yuta briefly passes by him, signaling some play to him by holding up a number three, likely something Coach Yaga asked him to pass on to Gojo, and you see him briefly nod, his mouth slightly agape as he breathes slowly and pulls his jersey up to wipe at the sweat at his forehead. 

The referee chirps the whistle, Gojo taps the ball to Yuta, and the play starts. 

YCU immediately puts pressure on UTokyo’s offensive play once more, with eager movements to steal the ball, but it’s passed between UTokyo’s players with ease, more practiced and more sure. The kind of play that you and the rest of the school was used to seeing from them. However, Geto loses the ball on a left-back pass, but right when YCU makes attempts to cover field in a long-shot kick towards the left, Yuta intercepts the ball and swiftly passes it to Gojo.

The crowd immediately rises to their feet in anticipation, watching as Gojo shuffles the ball down the field, dangerously close to off-field boundaries, a signature tactic he uses because he knows there’s not a single player in the league that can match him in precision and control to keep the ball in-field on a steal, and he swiftly passes it towards Geto with a side-swept kick, beelining down towards the goal post, in perfect time for Geto pass-back to meet his feet and when Gojo was this close to a net, there was no stopping him. 

He draws his right foot back, and explosively kicks the ball forward, chipping the grass under it in the motion, and it’s sent flying towards the goal, and then threaded past the goalie right to the back of the net. The cheers that erupt across the stadium rumble the ground beneath you. 

1-1, even match.

UTokyo spends no time celebrating, other than a few pats to Gojo’s back as he nods in acknowledgement, no emotion on his face other than pure concentration and greed. The greed to win, like a righteous sin. He stretches his neck out, panting slightly as he takes his place towards the right side of the field and the referee chirps his whistle to signal YCU to start the kickoff.

They quickly make attempts in moving the ball towards their scoring-end of the field, but face push-back from UTokyo’s defense, unable to make it much further past the midfield line, and you bring your camera up to take a snap of Gojo, who you see is still standing off to the right side of the field. But when you position it and peer through the viewfinder, that space he once stood at was empty. You pull your camera down, and blink at the sight, and then the crowd is picking up in volume once more.

Gojo sprints down the flank, cutting past every defender, and moves towards YCU’s attacking goal, which was a shocking place to be for a center forward, but you could feel his desire and determination to steal this back-and-forth ball, and succeeds when YCU makes an open pass, thinking they were in the clear, only to have Gojo sneak in at the last moment and get the ball at his feet. 

The play moves by in a flash, a blur that you or anyone else in the stadium could hardly keep up with it, movements so fast you were shocked a human being was capable of even running that far in such a short amount of time, and in an almost embarrassingly easy play, Gojo makes a fool out of YCU’s defenders as he slips the ball through the legs of his last obstacle before he struck it with sharp precision, sending it soaring to the corner of the goal, past the outstretched arms of the goalie, and into the net. 

2-1, UTokyo.

It was electrifying, the feeling that strikes through the stadium, one that reaches you in your own blood. You’re shocked, standing here, after witnessing Gojo score two goals within the matter of minutes, against one of the top three teams in the league. It’s a shock that reaches everyone, including Coach Yaga who’s standing about ten feet down the line from you, his arms crossed, and you see his eyes for the first time as he takes his sunglasses off to get a better look at what he’s seeing.

You trail his sight, dragging your gaze across the field until it lands at Gojo, who is barely acknowledging the encouraging pats and shakes and goodhearted shoves that his teammates were giving him, because he was focused. It might sound crazy to say, but you swear his eyes looked like a fiercer shade of blue, like they were lit up, and you’re insanely glad you’re not one of YCU’s defensive players at the moment because you feel fearful of him even just standing on the sidelines. 

Your gaze trails back to Coach Yaga, who slowly puts his sunglasses back on but his brows are narrowed tightly as he crosses his arms over his chest tightly.

The “athletic zone”... You’ve heard of it before. A state of pure focus, of peak performance, where an athlete experiences optimal concentration and a sense of effortless control over their actions. In which they perform at their highest level, where time slows down, any and all distractions fade away, and they’re completely immersed in their sport at hand. At the task at hand.

Coach Yaga seems to pick up on the fact that Gojo was on the edge of tapping into that state. 

YCU makes a substitution, and you watch in anticipation as they begin the kickoff. 

There’s fire in their veins with desperation to even out the score once more, rushing the ball down the off-field line, one of their center forwards mimicking Gojo’s signature attack pattern, and Yuta struggles to keep up with the expert dribbling of a fourth-year player with more experience on him, so much so to where he completely leaves the ball unguarded and there’s an open shot, but Geto places pressure at the last moment, in a fierce battle for the ball, before YCU’s center forward loses the ball over the goal line. 

Choso picks the ball up, tapping on it harshly a few times as he surveys his eyes down the field, and all offensive players begin to shuffle towards their attacking goal in anticipation for the goal kick. He signals his hand down and then holds up two fingers in the air before placing the ball down on the six-yard box. He tightens the strap of one of his gloves, eyes squinting, and you follow his gaze down to a part of the field where you note UTokyo’s best aerial players are located and being guarded by YCU’s defense. And with complete trust in his team, that’s exactly where he kicks the ball. 

Geto makes first contact with the ball, his chest colliding with two other YCU players as his head comes out on top and he headbutts the ball closer towards the inner field, and Gojo immediately gains access to it with a bounce of his knee. The crowd holds their breath, fear that they’ll lose the ball to a steal in the split second it spends floating in the air, but Gojo urges it forward with a bounce off of his chest and then rushes it straight down towards the goal post. 

You wonder what sight he sees right now. Where you’re dead center, at no angle, lunging towards the sight of an open goal with a sole goalie standing in the center, anticipating to block your shot, and three defenders on your tail. There’s no room for error, no time to think, only instincts that you cultivate in the last leading milliseconds. They say that, in sports, athletes channel one hundred hours of practice in just a brief second on the field. A split second success that was years in the making. You can’t even imagine possessing that level of perfection in your body, or possessing that level of confidence that you can follow through with it in a moment as dire as this.

It was unreal, the way Gojo fades away from all the defenders, and faces no fear when confronted with the sight of the goalie in front of him while drawing his foot back to kick the ball. You lift your camera up at the last second, no time to think about aperture or ISO, just like he had no time to second-doubt a single twitch in his muscles, and his foot makes contact with the ball so harshly that you can hear the explosive sound even among the delirious cheers from the crowd, before he hook, line, and sinks it straight past the goalie’s head, rushing by like a scarcely deflected bullet, and into the net behind him. 

3-1, UTokyo.

The whole stadium is momentarily speechless, all players and referees and recruiters and reporters and coaches and employees alike, before the most deafening cheers you’ve ever heard in your life scatter across the stands.

There’s a moment of brief reprieve, where the players can catch their breath while YCU makes yet another substitution, as if they’re just trial-and-erroring it at this point, and the cheers in the stadiums remain idle as you can’t tear your gaze away from Gojo.

It’s one of those moments where you realize that someone who you thought was so familiar to you was actually someone you hardly knew at all. You knew he was a talented soccer player, everyone on campus knows it, potentially one of the best to ever grace the league, and the amount of times you passively watched his plays on a lecture hall projector screen as your professor enthusiastically broke them down during class, even before you met him, was good enough for you to realize that he was insane, a one-in-a-million, a talent you cannot replicate, one you have by divinity. One you were born with. 

And yet, somehow, getting to know him these past couple of months, he just felt so human. For someone so seemingly beyond you, he felt so…close? In those moments where it was just the two of you, it was hard to imagine that he was capable of such greatness, and that so many people were rooting for him with wholehearted tears in their eyes and cheers from their hearts, because most of the time, when he was with you, he was just a dorky idiot. You find that your heart is beating fast in your chest, that feeling of being unsure of what to do with what you’ve been wanting resurfacing powerfully. 

“This is insane,” you hear Minato say from beside you and you jump a little from your thoughts being interrupted.

You twiddle with your camera straps. “I know…almost done with the first half and we’re up 3-1…I thought YCU are number one in offense for the league?”

“Oh, yeah, I mean, yes, that is insane too. But what’s even more insane is that three of the goals so far have been scored by one player.” He tips his chin towards the right sight of the field and you trail his line of sight. “By Gojo Satoru.”

Your brow furrows as you watch Gojo, his hands on his hips and his mouth slightly open as he indulges in a few shallow breaths to gain energy while YCU prepares for kickoff. Three goals, by just one player. Your eyes widen when you realize that is insane, especially for a D1 semi-final qualifying match.

“You know what the divisional record is for most goals scored by a single player during a championship match, y/n?” Minato asks you as he lifts his camera up to take a picture of the area Gojo was standing in. 

You shake your head and wait for his response.

He drops his camera down and glances at the photo on his screen. “Four. During Keio Uni vs. Osaka Uni, near the beginning of the tournament back in 1997 by Osaka’s center forward number 24, Yuji Nakazawa. Meaning no one’s managed to beat that record since the new millenia, for a couple decades. Although a few players came close.”

You blink at him, and Minato is jerking his chin over in the direction of Gojo again.

“I think he’s trying to beat the record.”

You can only widen your eyes at Minato in realization, and then the chirp of the referee’s whistle draws everyone’s attention back to the field. 

The sports announcers go wild on the speakers, the crowd raving all the same, standing to their feet like the team just won the championship match.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!! We are watching HISTORY in the making!! Gojo Satoru, UTokyo’s very own 3-year consecutive MVP, has scored his 34th goal of the season, highest of any player in this year’s season so far, and is now on the road to beat the league’s long-standing record for most goals scored by a single player in a championship match since 1997!!” And the crowd roars even louder as you stare out at the field in awe.

YCU starts the kickoff following the prompt short chirp of the referee’s whistle, and with two minutes remaining on the clock for the first half, make desperate attempts to book it down the field towards their attacking goal, one of their midfielders making a clumsy attempt to strike the ball to the net in the final minutes of the half, and Choso easily catches it in his arms, right before the buzzer of the timer sounds, and the match moves into halftime. 

All of UTokyo’s players immediately flock towards Gojo in sportful glee, finally having a chance to surround him and harass him with harsh pats on his back and ruffles of his hair for his play in the first half. Choso even puts him in a headlock because they all don’t know what else to do with their excitement and adrenaline rushing through their bodies. Their win for today was basically confirmed with the way he was playing. 

You catch a glimpse of him through the crowd of people, and he has a boyish grin on his face, reveling in the embarrassing amount of attention from his teammates, that focused look from before dissolving into his normal self again. But you can see through him, as well enough as you’ve learned to at least, and you can tell he’s not satisfied. He’s thinking it’s not enough. There’s still more to be done, and it’s not time to celebrate yet. 

His eyes scan down the sideline until they find you. 

Your heart jumps a second in your chest. He stands up straighter, despite his teammates still clinging to him, and there’s a twinkle in his eyes when your eyes meet. 

Cheerleaders take their place out onto the field, performing their numbers with loud music blaring, and the recruiters seated at their white tables get up to roam across the sidelines in discussion with referees and with Coach Yaga and with whatever players they can sink their greedy teeth into, as well as sneak at refreshments while they’re at it. You can see off to the right that Hana has reunited with Minato and she’s showing him some of the shots she took over at the opponent's side. 

UTokyo’s players start to make their way to the benches to grab for towels and drinks of water and to sprawl across in rest, and you hear loud familiar laughter approaching as you watch the players sprawl across the benches, so you avert your eyes towards the source of the sound. 

You see Gojo approaching the benches, two of his teammates slung with their arms around him in some type of adrenaline-drunken glee as they talk dramatically and theatrically which Gojo entertains with his own drunk-off-of-adrenaline glee. And you raise an eyebrow at his demeanor when he makes eye contact with you.

“There’s my freaky little photographer,” he says, and he’s standing up straight and—wait, is he puffing his chest out as he makes his way towards you? Oh for fucks sake.

Gojo has always been confident around you, for as long as you can remember, but in the fair few moments he’s been cocky, he’s been a menace. And you can only assume the testosterone-induced high of being on the verge of breaking a league record in front of the entire school then subsequently getting homiesexually praised by his teammates for the better part of the past five minutes, not to mention with the crowd and the reporters feeding his ego with a spoon across the speakers, he’s been transformed into the final boss of cocky.

His teammates surround you too, their hands on their hips as they assess you and Gojo when he meanders right up to you, arms held out to hug you, a sleazy sight you’ve seen probably six times this week, and you feel a rush of warmth in your cheeks as you place a hand on his chest to keep him away.

“You’re sweaty and gross, please stay away from me,” you reprimand him, “this is an expensive lens that is not humidity-proof.” 

“Hey, you’re the girl that Kentaro socked in the face with a ball the other day at practice, right?” one of his teammates asks, leaning in towards you to take a closer look at your face.

“Oh yeahhh, ‘cause Satoru wasn’t paying attention,” another one of his teammates chimes in teasingly, hardly heard over the loud remix playing in the background as the cheerleaders continue to perform on the field. 

You shrink a little from where you stand. Gojo’s got an irritated look on his face and he’s shrugging his teammate’s elbow off of his shoulder.

“I really hope you’re getting my good angles,” his teammate to the left comments before winking at you, and you purse your lips together. 

The one on the right leans in too, looking at your cheek with an assessing look in his eye. “At least it didn’t leave a scar on your cute face—”

Gojo shoves the both of them back and away from you by elbowing them in the chest, and they make deep eugh noises before stepping away and rubbing at their sternums with pouts on their faces.

“Get the fuck away from her,” he grumbles, “she’s mine.”

Your cheeks flush slightly with warmth at the attention, and you watch as his teammates scurry away to adhere to some social hierarchy Gojo seems to possess over them.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Yours?”

“Yes. Eventually. Whatever, did you see me out there?” he turns his torso towards the field and points behind himself with his thumb, “when I—”

“Oh god, you know what’s soooooooooo super sexy to me?” you interrupt him. “When guys are humble.”

“Oh c’monnn,” he curls his arm around your waist and pulls you to him, to where you stumble a little on grass and he holds you when you fall into him with more clumsiness than grace. “Tell me you aren’t at least impressed by me.”

You pout, because you are, and you’d really like to give him some reassurance and validation, but for some reason his cocky attitude is setting you off. “Satoru,” you sigh, wiggling a little in his hug, but he holds you tighter, “I’m working right now. Cut it out.”

He lets go of you at that, sober enough from the adrenaline to realize you’re being serious, but he steps into your space so only you can hear him. “What? Are you embarrassed?”

“Of what?” Your face twists with confusion.

“Of me. Are you embarrassed of me?” he asks.

“No. Why would I be embarrassed of you?” you ask with sharpness.

“I don’t know, just, sometimes I feel like you’re always annoyed by me,” he says with a sigh. “It’s like, you’re really sweet sometimes, and then kinda rude out of nowhere, and it’s sort of messing with my head.”

You pout. “You were messing with my head for weeks.”

“And I’m sorry about that,” he quickly interjects, like he already knew you were brewing up that counterargument, “but you don’t have to act like you’re all disinterested and indifferent just to get back at me for it.” He places his hands on his hips and wipes his temple on the round part of his shoulder when he feels a drop of sweat trickle down from his hairline. “You don’t have to act embarrassed around me either.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” you deny, and your cheeks feel hot, and for some reason you feel angry. “In fact, I’m the one that should be asking you that question. Because I still very clearly remember that time you said I was just someone you know in front of your friends.”

He groans and tilts his head back with frustration. “Can you just let that go? Things have changed between us since then. Move on.” 

“You kissed me and then pretended I was just a stranger to you in front of your friends,” you grit as you cross your arms. “That’s the level of sincerity that I know from you, Satoru.”

“Oh, okay, so there’s nothing else I’ve done that shows you that I’m serious about you?” he asks rhetorically with incredulity, throwing his hands up in the air in disbelief.

No. That’s not true, not true at all. But he’s pissed you off now and so all logic was to the wind. “Doesn’t matter. If you’re not embarassed of me, and if you’re really serious about me this time, then fucking prove it.” You’re speaking out of spite, and you fear you’ve just set him off too.

“Fine,” he says, and he grabs the microphone straight out from a passing reporter’s hand, replacing it with a gatorade bottle. The reporter stares at the bottle he’s now holding with confusion. “I will.”

“W-Wait—” you squeak out, feeling the hair at the back of your neck bristle in anticipation and a shiver gets sent down your spine. The cheerleaders are making their way off the field at the end of their routine, and you can hear the thumps across the loud boisterous speakers when Gojo whacks his palm to the microphone to make sure the thing was on before he jogs to the center of the field.

The crowd is already cheering, ecstatic to see the afternoon's star player and pride & joy of their school, and Gojo takes a moment to soak in all the glory in comical appreciation with bowing towards all 360 degree angles of the stadium.

“Uhhh,” you hear Choso from beside you, who’s strapping his thick goalie gloves tightly to his wrists, “Why the fuck does Satoru have a microphone while standing in the middle of the field.”

“It can’t be for any publicly decent reason,” Geto muses.

All you can do is watch.

“Hi, uh,” Gojo starts, static blaring slightly across the speakers and the crowd winces with him, “sorry. I’m Satoru, Gojo Satoru, you might know me from—uh, the game you’ve been watching?”

Cheers all around, because as if a single person wouldn’t know who he is. The stands were rowdy and most definitely drunk off of sidestep beers the stadium has been serving all afternoon long. 

Gojo is about to continue speaking, when he catches sight of the table of recruiters in the corner of his eye and he turns to face them out of respect. “Oh, yeah, uh, number 10,” he tugs his jersey up at the shoulder to stretch out the fabric, the 1 and the 0 flattened in view, “division player ID 233-997. Coach Yaga keeps my business cards in his purse if you want one.”

“SAAAAATTOOORRUUUU!!!!!” you hear Coach Yaga yell from somewhere in the distance.

“Anywho,” Gojo continues, and the music dims slightly, so he glances at the stop clock on the screen, which shows him he’s got roughly five minutes left to pull off whatever idiocracy he had in mind before the second half of the game starts. “Just here to say that there’s this girl I really like.”

The crowd gets louder, almost deafening, and sonically mostly feminine in (delusional) hope he’s gonna name call one of them.

Gojo’s voice is crisp and clear through the speakers as he clarifies. “She’s standing over there,” he says as he nonchalantly points to your exact latitude and longitudinal direction, “with the big camera slung around her neck that looks like it could pull her down to the center of the earth. Yeah. She’s super cute and I really like talking to her.”

“Uh-oh,” Geto murmurs from beside you, and you glance at him to try to get a read on the situation but you can’t.

Gojo starts to pace across the center of the field now, like he’s working the crowd. “But get this—she thinks I’m not fuckin’ serious about her!!!”

The crowd groans with him in unison. Yep, most certainly drunk. Or high off of glee. Either way, he’s playing them like a violin.

“Huh?” Gojo’s voice sounds distant now, away from the mic, and you can see on the large pixelated screen that he’s being interrupted by someone that looks like one of the videographers, “oh, what’s that? This is being broadcasted? Uh-huh. Oh. I’m not allowed to cuss? Oh fuck, okay. Er— shit, okay. Wait—shoot, okay.”

Choso’s smirk is heard from beside you, and you catch Geto and Nanami shaking their heads in your periphery.

“LIKE I SAID,” Gojo continues into the mic, “the girl I like thinks I’m just messing around, so. Uh. To show her that I’m serious about her, I’m gonna…” He looks up at the sky to ponder, and you can hear people shouting all sorts of suggestions of nonsense from the crowd. And instead of saying proclaim my undying affection for her through a romantic soliloquy straight from my heart in the presence of the entire school, he says—“I’m gonna strip. Yes. Down to my tighty whities, Imma strip.”

H–

Huh?!?!?

You don’t even have time to be horrified or scared, you’re just bewildered beyond belief that that’s what he came up with.

What the fuck kind of reassurance did you ask for. And what the fuck kind of reassurance were you about to get?

The crowd goes wild, it’s no surprise to say everyone and their mothers wants to see him naked, even the straight dudes would dig it for the gym inspo. And he points straight to you, sleazy look on his face and you’re going to ignore the fact that he just winked at you too as he crosses his arms to hold the hem of his jersey and pulls it up over his head in the most raunchy and slutty way a man can take his shirt off.

The music manager is quick with the bit, and is most definitely a fellow Gen Z college student, because Justin Timberlake’s SexyBack (ft. Timbaland) starts playing across the speakers and the crowd goes ballistic.

“Ayo why’s Satoru Magic Mike’ing the field right now?” one of his other teammates calls out through a mouthful of protein bar, “What the fuck did I miss?”

The cameraman does God’s work in a hella zoom-in of Gojo’s sweat glistened abs, then pans up the naked expanse of the perfect taut skin across his chest, and you can’t help but stare even among all your horror. It’s like when a male bird embarrasses the fuck outta himself to attract a female bird sitting on a perch, except instead of within the context of a NatGeo documentary, this was your real life. Everyone wants him, but he’s making a fool out of himself for you. 

He pretends to stretch his arms up into the air, a cover-up to flex his biceps, and then he kicks his cleats off, and the socks come off too. Entirely unnecessary, as showing one's ankles is simply too slutty, but alas he’s a whore. And when his thumbs dip into the waistband of his shorts, and there’s anticipating screeching from the crowd, he finally gets chased by security. 

Except he’s an intercollegiate D1 athlete, why the fuck wouldn’t he be able to outrun a bunch of dudes in black?

The camerawork on him is phenomenal as he runs across the sidelines of the field, eliciting a wave down the bleachers. So good in fact that you’re pretty sure the camera man could shoot for the Olympic track and field, with the way the stadium’s got a clear sight of Gojo mouthing the lyrics Them other fuckers don’t know how to act from the song still blaring with satirical rage on his face as he makes a fool of the men chasing him around the perimeter of the field.

And then he does it, drops his shorts, discards them with a kick, and he’s down to his tighty whities as promised. Cameraman has got to be displaying some previously undiscovered level of talent as he zeroes in on a shot of said tighty whities, with Gojo’s—forgive me, I need to be crass—huge bulge prominent in Big Dick Energy fashion except his tighty whities have little red hearts in rows across the fabric so do with that duality what you will.

He’s outrun security with a steady grin on his face as he eats up the drunken crowd’s cheers and riots and roars and you feel like you’re the only sane person in this stadium, or maybe you’re just not used to the fanatics of a college sports crowd. You peep the men in black trailed all the way on the left side of the field where they abandoned their pursuit of Gojo.

He taps imaginary pockets at his thighs, very muscular thighs you take indulgence in noticing, as if he expected to find something there, and he looks around when he doesn’t. He shrugs and grabs the microphone of the next passing sports commentator he spots, and then he makes his way back to you.

His breathing is a little shallow, and he inhales deep to catch his breath. “Baby.” The crowd SCREAMS at the way he purrs the word into the mic. “Will you do me the honor,” he’s huffing and puffing, heard across blaring speakers, “of being my lawfully wedded girlfriend?” And then he holds the mic to your lips.

“W-Wha—” you stutter, and there’s chanting across the crowd with words that barely make sense until you finally realize they’ve started to yell say yes! say yes! say yes! “Oh my gosh, okay, yes, fine, now please, for the love of god, put some freaking clothes on!”

The crowd goes wild with cheerful glees, and Gojo shoots fists up in the air in celebration as he runs all the way towards the center of the field with high knees, and you’re gawking at the sight, before he falls backward onto the grass and makes delirious snow angels on the ground. You see Coach Yaga’s vein popping in his neck from pure agitation as he storms off towards the center of the field to knock some sense into Gojo, but you know that Coach Yaga can’t kick him out, because they still have a game to win. The perks of being the most valued player in the league is getting to act like an absolutely insane idiot because you know they still need you in the end to bring it home.

You glance to the right, seeing his teammates nodding slowly then getting back to wrapping athletic tape around ankles and stretching out shoulders, with immediate acceptance of his actions like it wasn’t even out of character for him to do. And you realize again that you don’t know Gojo as well as you think you do.

And then the halftime timer is up.

You see Gojo approach the benches in a quick jog, squeezing some water into his mouth with his green gatorade squirt bottle, and when your eyes flit up to the screens on all four entrances, you see that the cameramen are still all focused on him accompanied by the continued buzz of conversation among the crowd following his public spectacle. But he seems to already be past any semblance of embarrassment as he takes the attention with ease, before he glances up to make eye contact with you and then lightly jogs right up to you.

“Did that prove to you that I’m not embarrassed of you?” he asks you, cocking a brow with a smug look on his face as he gets all up in your personal space. 

“I don’t know, but I’m certainly thoroughly and expeditiously embarrassed of you now,” you say, cheeks feeling flush when he leans forward so he can make eye contact with you at eye level. “I’ll have to move to a different country.”

His grin is relaxed. “Yeah well you asked for it.”

“Maybe. But I underestimated what a lunatic you are.”

“You’re my girlfriend now, you’ve gotta get used to it.”

Your heart skips a beat in your chest. “Satoru–”

“Tomorrow,” he cuts you off, “Hinode pier. I’ll pick you up at six. It’s a date, so wear something cute. And preferably easy to take off.” And then he’s attentive to the chirp of the referee’s whistle in the air before jogging backwards towards the feel and eventually turns on his heel towards the field while you’re left with warm cheeks and a heart that felt like it was moving at a mile a minute.

The timer for the second half refreshes on the screen while you loosely hold your camera in your shaking hands. It occurs to you that you haven’t taken a single photo of him before the start of the kickoff, and so you bring the piece of consolidated metal up to your eyes, peering through the viewfinder and focusing it on the center of the field. And there he was. Your muse.

Gojo lets out a breath, which you can see even from here that it’s shaky and staggered with resistance, and he lifts his jersey up to swipe at the sweat trickling down his face as he eyes the ball underneath YCU’s player’s foot just prior to the start of the second half. There it was—that look again of pure focus. 

3-1, forty-five minutes on the clock. And the referee chirps the whistle to start the second half.

It’s immediately evident that YCU has returned to the field following halftime with renewed energy, pressing high down the flank relentlessly past UTokyo’s defense, so fast it was hard for anybody to even keep a steady eye on the ball with the fluidity of their passes. The persistence pays off in the fake double-pass that slips past Geto’s feet, a moment of hesitation in the broken flow of UTokyo’s defense, and one of YCU’s strikers has the perfect line of shot towards the goal before digging his foot under the ball and sending it flying towards the corner of the goal post, scoring themselves a goal within just the first five minutes of play.

3-2.

The pressure mounts at the next kickoff, and with about seven minutes of solid play, with back-and-forth passes, multiple attempts at both goal posts to no avail on either side, it was clear that exhaustion was bustling in the veins of all the players.

One of YCU’s offensive players seems to capitalize on this, jumping on a defensive lapse of a pass Nanami attempted to make towards Yuta, and the ball is swiftly stolen then raced back towards the goal post. Choso prepared himself at the line, light on his feet paired with a solid stance, but in a millisecond of a moment, YCU’s offense unexpectedly passes the ball to a player racing up the midfield, and the player chips the ball neatly into the exposed corner of the goal despite Choso’s attempt to lunge for it in mid air.

Equalized, 3-3 game, momentary shock across the players’ faces, and the crowd bustles with something that sounds less like glee and more life fear. YCU was prepared to live up to and hold onto their title as the league’s number one offense, and as Minato explained to you during your time working in this job, an offensive team isn’t good at scoring goals, but rather exceptional at breaking down the other team’s defense.

Your eyes zero in on Geto, who stands in the center of the field for kickoff, and he’s huffing and puffing. He's the lead of defense for the team, and you can only imagine the level of pressure he feels right now. He glances around to his players, over to Nanami who seemed to share the same level of exhaustion, and then he glances towards Gojo who stood in front of him off to the right. Except you notice that Gojo looks relaxed, albeit still exhausted, but there’s a composed expression on his face even in the moment of heightened stakes. With locked eyes, Geto nods at Gojo and raises two fingers up into the air to signal a play, of which Gojo seems to respond to by closing more distance between him and the goal post prior to the kickoff, positioning himself almost directly in front of it, to which YCU’s defense immediately begin to guard him in a tight radius. 

The kickoff begins, with Geto making a few passbacks with Nanami as they close distance towards the field before passing it off to UTokyo’s string of offense and then receding back to their defending goal. UTokyo continues to close distance, raising stakes for YCU as their defense begins to falter under pressure, and the ball gets passed to Gojo, who only keeps it in possession for less than three seconds before he passes it back to Yuuji, a risky decision to make in the second half of a semifinal match, but the first-year swiftly unleashes a powerful shot that rockets past YCU’s goalkeeper, up towards the corner, except–

It bounces off the metal of the goal post, shot off with projectile speed back towards the center of the field, but with razor-sharp reflexes, Gojo headbutts the ball in air, twists his torso and strikes the ball with his foot past a dumbfounded goalie who can’t even move an inch to guard the ball that he already knew was going to sink right into the goal, and that’s exactly what it does. 

The stadium erupts with the momentum.

4-3, UTokyo. 

It was a sweet moment, one you manage to capture on camera of Gojo running up to Yuuji and ruffling his hair in reassurance, despite the missed goal. Your heart feels warm in your chest, feeling your own sense of melancholy that this was one of the last times they’ll ever get to play together on a team. 

Your eyes widen when you glance at the scoreboard, realizing that he’s tied. Gojo is tied for the most goals scored during a championship match. There were less than three minutes left on the clock. UTokyo either preserves their lead, or they risk moving into overtime, which, judging by the exhaustion on the UTokyo players’ faces in the wake of YCU’s relentless offense this entire game, moving into overtime would be a hefty, hefty risk. 

YCU’s center forward takes his place in the center of the field, fire evident in his eyes as he glances across the field. YCU are light on their feet, channeling everything in their bodies into these last moments of the game as they prepare to start the kickoff. You glance across UTokyo’s players, and although they look spent, there was a resolute look to all of them. It wasn’t the time to give up or feel at ease even near the end of this grueling battle. Now was the time to play. 

The referee chirped his whistle, and the kickoff began.

YCU immediately presses hard, as all their other plays have been all game, in their desperation to score. You can already see UTokyo’s midfielders move sluggishly in comparison to YCU’s offense, a drag to their feet as YCU pushes past the first layer of defense towards their attacking goal. Geto takes an aggressive approach, making moves to steal the ball while Nanami and Yuta guarded both flanks, and there was a relentless pass-off happening that ate up more than a minute of the remaining time.

Nanami succeeds in stealing the ball, but immediately loses it under his feet by a YCU midfielder, who makes a broad pass down the sidelines to YCU’s star forward who then powerfully kicks the ball towards the unguarded area of their goal, a dangerous shot that was clear towards the crossbar and Choso makes a leap for it, high into the air, his glove brushing against the ball, the entire crowd holding their breath in anticipation–

And the ball lands in the net. 

4-4, tied game. With one minute and seventeen seconds left on the clock. 

There was no time wasted in getting back to center field. No time spent dwelling in the horrific roars of the crowd as they watch with anxiety and fear. No time spent to process or consider or signal any plays. Not even a single second used to catch breath. When there is this much at stake, an athlete thrives on momentum. 

To your surprise, Gojo isn’t the one that takes place at the center of the field to start the kickoff. Yuta stands there instead, and you notice his eyes are erratic as he surveys all corners of the field. 

The referee chirps his whistle. 

Yuta immediately passes it off to the side to UTokyo’s midfielder, who curls it towards their attacking goal with a swift pass to Ino, who closes distance towards the goal, but one of YCU’s defender slips in, undoing any progress they had made in their offense by stealing the ball and sending it back towards mid-field. Forty-three seconds. The crowd’s roars heightened as YCU continued to push forward, thirty yards now from scoring, and UTokyo’s defense was desperate to stop them but their momentum was cracking in the wake of their exhaustion. 

It was a moment you don’t think you could ever fully or truly recall, one that you wish you had focused all your energy and attention to so that you could commit it to memory for the rest of your life. The image of Gojo pushing all the way to ten yards before their defending goal, a place where no center forward should really be at in a game like this, but it was exactly what their defense needed. It was exactly what the team needed. It was exactly what the school needed. For the ball to be in his possession.

With twenty-two seconds left on the clock, he steals the ball from right under YCU’s offensive feet, and then charges towards the opposite side of the field. The crowd rises to their feet, thunderous roaring that overtook any and all senses, as Gojo weaves through forwards, center forwards, midfielders, and defenders, covering the entire span of the field in lightning time. Fifty yards, forty yards, thirty yards, twenty hards, ten yards–

In a moment you couldn’t believe, he digs his foot underneath the ball, and sends it flying out towards the goal. There was not even a margin of an inch in which it slipped past the goalie’s hands, past his head, and swiftly flew right into the net.

With three-two-one seconds, the match was over. 

5-4, UTokyo’s win.

The final whistle blew, and for a moment, there was silence. As if the world paused to catch its breath. Then, all at once, the crowd erupted with glee that shook the entire stadium at its core. Flags waving, scarves held high, toasts of beer held up to the sky, it was deafening, and it almost makes you want to cry. Thousands of voices shouting in unison, celebrating the hard-fought victory of their school’s team. A type of pride that was fostered, and well-deserved, and long-lived.

You quickly glance towards the field again, and see Gojo standing right at the same spot where he had kicked the last and final goal, staring towards the net. You can’t see the expression on his face, but it surprises you how still he is. Like a statue, staring at the goal with the ball tucked into its corner. The very epitome of what it means to succeed in this sport was right in front of him, and it seemed like he wanted to soak the visual in for as long as he could.

His trance is abruptly interrupted when his teammates swarm in, rushing over like a wave of pure adrenaline. They slap him on the back, ruffle his hair, shout his name, the sounds of gleeful disbelief mixed with exhausted sighs of relief swarming into the air. And Gojo finally melts away from the tension of the match and into the celebration as he weakly returns the embraces of his teammates while he catches his breath. 

“IT’S OFFICIAL!! IT’S OFFICIAL!! UTOKYO’S VERY OWN GOJO SATORU HAS OBLITERATED OSAKA UNIVERSITY’S RECORD FOR MOST GOALS SCORED BY A SINGLE PLAYER IN A CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH!!” 

The speakers are blaring the voices of the sports announcers, along with ambient music to match the intensity of the match that everyone had just witnessed. 

You should probably be doing your job. You know, take a picture of the huddle of players on the field as they bask in the glory of a close victory, but instead your feet start moving on their own. Like a magnet drawn to him, you make your way towards Gojo, only a slight hesitation in your step as you stop about ten feet away, suddenly unsure. But when he makes eye contact with you, all that fear melts away.

He hastily pats the backs of some of his teammates, acknowledging their praise at the center of the huddle before tightly squeezing past them to make his way over to you. Your heart is beating fast in your chest, feeling an almost overwhelming sense of pride in your school’s team, but more importantly, in him. What was the acceptable thing to do? Run to him, into his arms, and hug him while he twirls you around? Tackle him to the grassy ground? Kiss him like your life depended on it? You have no clue what the acceptable or sane or normal thing to do is. But he’s made his decision for you when he walks right up to you, his hands holding your waist as he pulls you towards him. He smells earthy, of grass and salt and sweat and of all the hard work he poured into today, the wear and tear of the game evident in the wear and tear of his jersey. He only manages to huff out an exhale at the sight of you, like some relief washing over him just by looking into your eyes. Forget the fact that the crowd was all watching and that all of the screens you could see past his head were focused on the two of you, because all you could hear or see or think was him.

“I believe you owe me a kiss,” he says, huffing as he catches his breath but that doesn’t stop the smile that makes its way onto his face.

You nod your head, giving him your own version of a sweet smile as your arms slide up past his shoulders, crossing behind his neck, and he leans down to kiss you.

You hear a swell from the crowd, some teasing comments off in the distance from some of his teammates, you’re pretty sure you hear Coach Yaga yelling at him to get back to the benches, but it all melts away with the feeling of him smiling against your lips as he kisses you at the center of this stadium.

It was a moment so pure, so sweet, so picture perfect, and for once, you’re not the one behind the camera taking the photo. You’re the one that’s in it.

.

.

.

.

.

[end of kickoff ch12]

a/n. aaa thanks a lot for reading!! pls the fucking public stripping scene was so stupid i apologize on behalf of kickoff gojo for his behavior 😂😂 i’ll put him in his cage dw this chapter had some of what i consider to be the most challenging aspects of writing for me (internal conflict, grand public gesture, sports jargon) and so writing it felt like an uphill battle the ENTIRE time i wrote it and edited it. i considered scrapping it sooo many times cuz i just wasn't happy w it...but whatever i can't expect to be 100% happy w every chapter i put out there haha. i think kickoff has become a lil sacred for me since i've been working on it for a while now but likeee...sometimes u just gotta say fuck it we ball (tbh kickoff gojo probably says that to himself before a match) anywho, i am veryy thoroughly excited for what i've got planned for the chapters to follow, especially moving into the last angsty arc before the end of the series!! so i look forward to picking up momentum w this series again :0 honestly chapters 10 through 12 were the most difficult things i've written so far for a lot of reasons, but i have a feeling things will go more smoothly for me creatively going forward since what i've got planned falls well within my writing comfort range oh also there seems to be a little confusion about the number of chapters left, as i know i had originally said 12, but i anticipate that there will be about 18 chapters of kickoff total!! so still around six chapters left before the end :)) much lovee thanks for reading!!

OH WAIT ONE LAST NOTE I'M SORRY i didn’t really have a way of organically incorporating this into the story n i’m not sure if i’ll get a chance to in the upcoming chapters, so i just wanted to share this part of ch7 (gojo’s pov chapter) that is relevant to this chapter:

During the thrilling semifinal match between Keio Uni, Gojo’s father’s team, and Yokohama Uni during the end of his senior year, spectators witnessed a game that most college soccer enthusiasts would deem was a once-in-a-lifetime watch. Both teams engaged in relentless offense, and Gojo’s father was on his way to shatter the record of the most goals scored in a single championship match within the history of the league, but when he received a call from his wife during a timeout with the most life-altering news he could have ever heard, he abandoned everything on the field that day to go home and be with her. Grainy footage from the televised broadcast still exists online today—the moment he sprinted across the field, confused players glancing in his direction, amidst the uproar of the crowd. She called to let him know she was pregnant. 

the record that gojo broke in this chapter is the same record that his father almost broke before he got the call that he was going to be a dad :0 

➸ you're all caught up!

additional notes. please do not pressure me for updates or ask when i will next update (read rules); taglist is currently closed (consider subscribing to the story on my ao3 for email updates if you'd like! :0)

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[rongloa]

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢’𝐦 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭 (𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮) — m.grayson oneshot

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲. being mark’s best friend has always been difficult, he’s a nerd. but when he suddenly starts disappearing mid-hangout you can’t figure out what you’ve done wrong.

𝐰𝐜. 4.5k

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭. you’re acting like a doormat again, generous use of angst, big misunderstandings, feelings of abandonment, mark being a dickhead and not realising what he’s been doing is hurting you, swearing, and then they kiss, after arguing though

𝐚/𝐧. i actually had so much fun writing this darling ( @flwrch1d ), thank you sm! it’s not a lot but i tried my hardest for you 💪🏽

Before everything, it was always the three of you.

You, Mark, and William — the trio glued together by years of inside jokes, movie marathons, and a shared cafeteria table that was somehow always sticky. But really, it was you and Mark who were inseparable.

It wasn’t weird, not to either of you. It just was. Movie nights that turned into sleepovers on the couch. Falling asleep with your head on his shoulder while he quietly changed the TV volume. Late-night walks with no destination, sharing earbuds and arguing over which Studio Ghibli movie was objectively superior— you always won those types of arguments.

He wasn’t exactly popular, but Mark had that quiet, harmless kind of presence that didn’t invite trouble. He wasn’t the smartest, a little awkward, one of those nerds no one hated but no one really hung out with either—excluding you and Will.

But you were his person. The first one he texted when something stupid happened in math class. The one who knew what his hoodie smelled like and the kind of cereal he ate when he was stressed. You made space for him in your life without even thinking. And for a while, it felt like he made space for you too.

But then things changed.

Slowly at first. One missed hangout. Then another. Then a week where he barely answered your texts. He started looking tired all the time — eyes rimmed red, shoulders tense like he was bracing for something invisible. You asked if he was okay. He’d smile, say “just tired,” and change the subject to the newest Seance Dog comic.

You started doing more things without him. William did too. The table at lunch got quieter. Your weekends got longer.

And then you met Daniel.

It was dumb — your pen ran out of ink in chem lab, and he offered you his like it was a grand gesture. He had an easy confidence to him, the kind that wasn’t trying too hard. Funny, in a smug but charming way. You told him a joke Mark once made and Daniel actually laughed. And for a second, it felt nice. Like being seen again.

You never meant to start spending so much time with him.

But Daniel texted back. He showed up when he said he would, at that cafe you and Mark used to go to religiously. He didn’t vanish without explanation. And when you smiled at him, he looked at you like he knew exactly what it meant.

The hardest part? Mark didn’t fight it. He didn’t ask where you were going. He didn’t stop you. He just watched— from across the hallway, across the lunchroom—with that Mark Grayson-specific look on his face.

You’d convinced yourself he didn’t care. But that wasn’t Mark, not at all.

It still hurt, walking past his locker and seeing him laugh at something William said, only to fall quiet the second he noticed you looking.

It all started small.

Daniel offers to walk you to class one day when Mark doesn’t show up in the morning. You’re used to that by now — used to watching your phone screen go dim, unread texts hanging in your chest like anchors on sewing thread. Daniel doesn’t make excuses. He’s just there. Warm smile. Easy laughter. He knows your coffee order, knows you hate the sound of metal chairs scraping on tile. He starts waiting for you outside of lecture halls. Offers you half his lunch.

And you let him.

Because he makes you feel noticed. Present. Not like someone left on the back burner while other things pop up.

It’s not like you mean to pull away from him. Or William, for that matter. It’s just… easier, sometimes. Being around Daniel means no tight smiles, no dodging questions, no waiting for at least a ‘still alive’ text.

Still, every now and then — when Daniel says something funny and you laugh without thinking — you catch Mark watching.

He doesn’t say anything. He never does. But his eyes follow you like he’s trying to decode a language he forgot how to read.

It happens during second period.

You’re in the back row of your history class, seated beside Daniel like you have been for the past few weeks. Mark’s two rows ahead, and slightly to the left — close enough that you can see the curve of his jaw, the way he keeps tapping his pencil against his notebook, like he’s itching to be anywhere else. He always did hate Mr. Jace.

You try not to look. Or at least, not to be caught looking. But it’s hard. Not when a muscle flutters in his jaw like he’s thinking about anything but the Industrial Revolution.

Daniel leans closer, nudging your elbow with his. It snaps you away from Mark, away from the thought of Mark’s hair being longer than it was last time you hung out. Your heart stutters, is he gonna call you out?

“Tell me again why this guy thinks he can teach history through interpretive dance?” Oh.

You snort. It slips out before you can stop it—and for a second, you forget.

“That’s what I used to say to Mark all the time,” you say, grinning. “W–we had this running joke that Mr. Jace choreographed the French Revolution.”

You glance back towards your best friend—your old one—before you can help yourself.

He’s frozen. Completely still.

His pencil is hovering mid-air over the page, like he’s paused in the middle of writing. You see his shoulders stiffen — just barely — and then he presses the pencil tip to the paper hard enough that it snaps. The sound is small, but you feel it in the way Mark’s fingers tremble. In the way those brown hues are cast down straight at the shards of graphite scattered on his book.

He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t even flinch at the fact he just crushed a pencil in his fingers. Just calmly gets up, gathers his things, and walks out of the classroom without a word.

You blink. Flinching at the way he slams the door shut behind him. Little wooden bits scatter onto the floor, and a girl at the back of the class shrieks.

The teacher didn’t even notice he left, but he damn well does now.

Your heart starts pounding.

Daniel nudges you again, quieter this time. “Hey… what was that about? Is he okay?”

You shake your head slowly, the joke dying in your throat. “I don’t— I don’t know.”

But you do. You just don’t want to say it.

Because you remember that joke. The dumb one about Mr. Jace tap-dancing through history. Mark used to do it with a fake accent, arms waving dramatically in your living room until you were wheezing with laughter in the throw blanket Mark brought over. It was your little thing, one of many.

And now you’d handed it off — just like that.

You glance back at the door again, chipped at the edges and swinging on its hinges, as Mr Jace huffs and puffs in all his red-faced glory.

The hallway is empty.

You don’t see Mark after that class.

You check the hallway. The stairwell. Even the front entrance of the school where he sometimes stands, where he used to wait for you.

Nothing.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That maybe he just needed air. That he wasn’t angry, just overwhelmed. But the lie tastes bitter, and your phone feels impossibly heavy in your fingers. You glance up at your chem teacher—an older lady with large lensed glasses, she’s too nice for this school—then back at the screen. It’s a selfie of Will and you at Burger Mart, Mark standing behind the counter with your order held out like the world sent him a punishment in the form of his friends. You miss them, both of them. You breathe out a half-sigh half-laugh.

Swallowing your stupid sorrow, you unlock it.

You open your messages and stare at your last conversation with him—from nearly two weeks ago.

You: did you wanna go for lunch at that new cafe today?

You: markkkkk?

You: we can go somewhere else if you want

All left on read. You didn’t say anything after that, didn’t wanna bother him. Maybe he was finally moving on. Better friends or something.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. You type something. Delete it. Type again. Biting at your nail as you resist the urge to rip it off entirely.

Finally, you send:

you okay? i saw you leave class

Three dots appear. You sit up straighter, heart kicking like it’s on a timer. You spare a glance at Miss Lily to make sure she hasn’t caught you.

They vanished.

No reply. No message. No explanation.

Just that haunting “Read 2:33 pm” stamp glowing beneath your text like a ghost.

You shove your phone back into your pocket, frustration and something deeper rising in your throat. You sit back into your chair too hard, making the metal legs scrape across the scratchy linoleum, staring at the ceiling like the answer might be written in the cracks.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m all good Danny.”

It doesn’t stop you from thinking about him.

It’s worse at night. When the house is still and your phone’s gone quiet. You replay old voice messages—ones you never deleted, where he’s laughing too hard at his own joke or asking you where you are that time you got lost in the shopping mall.

You see him everywhere, too. In the hoodie at the back of your closet that still smells like popcorn and the cologne he used to borrow from his dad. In the half-empty slushie cup in your freezer from the last time he showed up unannounced and dragged you to 7-Eleven “just because.”

You sit at your lunch table now with Daniel sometimes. William stopped sitting with you last week. You don’t blame him. It’s not the same. Maybe Mark said something.

And the worst part is that you still look for him—in the hallways, at his locker, in the corners of your classrooms where he always slouched like the chairs offended him personally. Horrible posture even for a teenage boy. You tell yourself you don’t care. That if he wants to ghost you, fine.

But you do care.

You care so much it feels like grief.

And every time you check your phone, you still hope the read receipt disappears—replaced by something that feels like him again.

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the pavement as you and Daniel make your way down the neighborhood sidewalk, your steps syncing in that easy, casual rhythm that comes from walking the same way more than a few times.

Your backpack digs into your shoulder, but you walk slower than usual. You’ve been doing that a lot lately. Drawing out the silence between things. Trying to outrun your own thoughts.

He’s talking about something—a goofy movie, maybe, or how the vending machine still owes him two dollars and a grudge match. You nod along, offering the right laughs at the right places, but your heart’s not really in it. Hasn’t been, not lately.

Because your mind keeps flickering back to Mark.

To that pencil snap in class. To the unread messages. To the way he looked at you like you were a stranger.

Daniel notices your quiet. He always does. For a guy he’s a bit too in tune with your inner workings.

He nudges your arm gently. “You’ve been kinda spacey today.”

You force a smile. “Yeah, just tired. Long week.”

He buys it. Or at least pretends to. “Well, you sure you don’t want me to walk you all the way home?”

“I’ll be fine,” you say, slowing as you reach the corner where his street splits off. “Thanks, though.”

He hesitates, like he wants to say more, then just nods. “Alright. Text me, okay?”

You nod and wave as he heads off, then slide your headphones on, turning up the volume just enough to fill the empty space.

The music cushions your walk—from the odd 80’s song to something stupidly sad that you skip because you can’t handle that right now, to ‘Get down on it’ by Kool and the Gang of all things.

You laugh at that switch up, you remember that one time Will, and Mark, were playing blind karaoke and Will somehow, out of all the songs in the world, began singing Pitbull. You were dying on the couch, quite literally. You choked on one of the sour strips you were eating. Mark fell over himself trying to save the day. He did end up saving the day and ending your near-death experience, your ribs were so sore that night.

Your shoes crunch along the sidewalk. Your fingers trail over the stray flower bushes as you pass. You miss those dumb little sleepovers you used to all have. It makes you miss the group.

What you don’t notice, is the footsteps behind you.

Not until you reach your gate—the familiar squeaky latch already at the tips of your fingers—when a haggard voice cuts through the one quiet song in your playlist.

“Please wait!”

You freeze, nearly like a deer in headlight.

Your heart does a strange, sharp flip. He’s a little breathless, like he jogged to catch up, hands tapping at the sides of his sweater you know better than your own. He looks bigger, or maybe the sweater’s gotten smaller. You can’t tell. You slip your headphones off, scratching at the stupid little sticker he put onto it.

His brows are furrowed like he’s barely holding it together. His lip is split—not badly, but enough that you notice.

He’s standing at the edge of your driveway, chest rising and falling like he ran the last block to catch you. His hair’s a little messy, wind-tousled. There’s a quiet desperation in his eyes—the kind that makes your own throat tighten.

“I need to talk to you,” Those bay brown eyes you missed so much flickering all over your face. “Please.”

You stare at him for a second.

Then push open the gate, you take two steps in and when you don’t hear him behind you, you simply turn. Tugging at the loose threads of your cardigan as you watch him. Finally, finally he’s here and you don’t know what to say, or how to feel. So you spit out the first thing you can think of, the way you used to talk to him. Like slipping back into normalcy.

“You coming, or what?”

He blinks like you’ve just broken whatever trance had him frozen in place, then finally moves—quick strides crunching over the cement path behind you. The two of you slip through the side gate like you used to—like nothing’s changed, like the silence between you hasn’t cracked the foundation. The gate creaks shut with that familiar metallic whine, and the two of you are alone in the backyard.

The sky has moved slowly into dusk. The sky’s already dipped into shades of gold and lavender, the edges of the day softening like bruises fading. The backyard is lit by the warm glow of the string lights above flickering to life as they sense the dark. You’d put them up with Mark last spring, threading them between the beams with both your hands dirty from potting soil and pruning the gardens. Your hanging plants sway gently in the breeze—ivy and succulents and little flowering herbs you’ve been nursing for months. Longer than all this stuff, has been happening. Ferns and ivy hang from every corner.

Little ceramic pots painted by hand line the railing, overflowing with green and bursts of colour that slowly blur with the darkening of the sky.

It smells like rosemary and fresh dirt.

Mark lingers by the patio entrance as you step up onto the wood, slipping off your shoes before curling up into one of the cushioned chairs closest to the back door. You don’t invite him to sit. You don’t have to. You know he loves these chairs, not as much as you, but still.

He doesn’t, at first. Just stands there, watching you like you’re the only thing right this moment.

You break the silence. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

For a moment, a singular breath between you both, the only sound is the hum of the lights and the soft creak of the wind swaying hanging pots.

He exhales through his nose.

“I’m sorry.”

You cross your arms, eyes fixed on a chipped piece of the wooden patio floor. “For what?”

“For avoiding you, for not answering, for all this stuff that I’ve done.” He pauses, toeing at a stray leaf. He can’t even look at you as he says it. “I just want us to go back to normal.”

You laugh.

Not because it’s funny, but because it’s the only thing stopping your throat from closing. A dry, bitter thing that makes Mark’s shoulders tense.

“Normal?” you echo, your voice sharp. “Mark, you haven’t even spoken to me in weeks.”

“I know,” he says quickly, eyes snapping up. “I know, okay? But it wasn’t because I didn’t care—”

“Then what was it?” you cut in. “Because from where I was sitting, it sure as hell felt like you just didn’t want me around anymore.”

“I was trying to protect you!” he fires back, louder than you expected. He catches himself, fingers curling so hard his knuckles turn white. “God, I didn’t want to drag you into—into the danger, the pressure. I thought if I just… let you go a little, you’d be safer.”

“That’s not your decision to make,” Your voice starts to shake now. “You say you’ll meet me and you don’t show up. You never explain anything, you just disappear. You don’t get to disappear, an—and then act like we can just snap back to what we were.”

“I was doing my best!” He starts pacing toward the edge of the patio. “You don’t know what it’s like, okay? Balancing everything. Trying to be there for everyone and still not being enough.”

“And you think I don’t know what that feels like?” You’re on your feet now too, arms at your sides, fingers curled into fists. “I’ve been showing up for you, Mark. Even when you wouldn’t answer me. Even when it felt like I was screaming into a void just hoping for one text back.”

His jaw flexes. He turns, hands gripping the railing, back to you.

“I didn’t know what to say.”

You stare at him, your voice dropping, cracking. Like one of the pots he dropped when you were painting them.

“You could’ve said anything.”

The string lights buzz quietly above, casting halos around the plants you’ve poured your heart into, into him. The air feels heavier now, thicker, like it’s trying to hold the weight of everything that’s never been said between you.

“I felt like you hated me,” you say. “Like I did something wrong.”

He turns then, his eyes wide, like the idea guts him. “No. God—no. I never hated you.”

“Well, you sure made it feel that way.”

He’s breathing harder now, chest rising and falling like he’s been running, but this time, it’s not from chasing you down the block. It’s from running in circles inside his own head. And you’re just… tired.

“You don’t get to play the victim in this,” you say, quieter now, but firmer. “You ghosted me. You left. And you only came back when you saw someone else being there for me.”

That hits. You see it land, like a real punch.

His lips part like he wants to argue, but no words come out. So you just stare at him. And wait.

Because if this is going to mean anything at all—he needs to mean it.

“I was trying to protect you.”

“Bullshit,” you snap.

The word hangs in the air between you, sharp and ugly. You don’t regret saying it.

He doesn’t look away, doesn’t glance out at the garden. “You don’t get it. I couldn’t tell you. Not then.”

“Why not? What could possibly be so bad that you’d rather have me thinking you hated me?”

He chews on his words, opening his mouth more than once, it makes you angry. He can’t even find a good reason. Right as you’re about to start up again, he blurts it out. “Because I’m Invincible.”

Silence.

The word falls like a nuclear bomb in a suburb.

You stare at him.

“What?”

Mark steps closer, eyes flicking over your face like he’s watching you come apart. “I’m Invincible. The superhero. That’s where I’ve been. That’s why I leave. That’s why I’ve been gone.”

You’re frozen. Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“I didn’t want to drag you into it,” He’s jumping all over his words, speaking so fast it hurts your brain as you try and figure out, how? “I thought if I distanced myself, if I cut it off before it got serious, I’d be keeping you safe. But I was wrong. I just hurt you.”

You don’t say anything at first. You can’t. The boy you grew up with is a superhero? Invincible? He was scared of cockroaches. How—how could, why could— your brain muddles and flips.

Your chest feels like it’s caving in—everything you’ve been holding back for weeks, maybe months, starts clawing its way out of you in shallow breaths and a pressure behind your eyes that refuses to stop building.

“I thought you hated me,” you whisper.

Mark’s face crumples. “What? No. No, I—”

But it’s too late. Your throat tightens and the tears start falling, hot and fast. Not the kind you can wipe away and pretend never happened—these are ugly sobs. The kind that rip out of your chest in pieces, leaving your voice shaking and your hands trembling. You try to cover your face, embarrassed, but your body won’t stop heaving.

“All this time,” you gasp, “I thought I did something wrong. I thought I pushed you away or—God, something. You stopped texting back, you’d look right through me, and I kept trying to pretend it didn’t hurt but it did, Mark. It did, and you didn’t even say anything.”

Mark’s already moving before you finish—stepping forward, arms wrapping around you with a desperation that almost knocks the wind out of you. You don’t fight it. You collapse into him, fists gripping the front of his sweater, sobbing into his shoulder like you’ve been carrying this pain in silence for way too long. You have been.

“I didn’t hate you,” he whispers, over and over again, holding you like the world is ending. “I never hated you. I thought you’d be safer if I stayed away. But it just made everything worse. I’m so, so sorry.”

His voice breaks at the end.

You cling to him like you’re scared he’ll vanish again, shaking with all the weight of what’s gone unsaid. He just holds you tighter, like he needs you just as badly.

“I missed you,” you manage through the tears, voice muffled by his shoulder. “I kept waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m here,” Mark whispers, forehead pressing to yours as he holds you so lovingly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You sniffle, the sound ugly and wet and real, like everything else.

His thumb catches a tear slipping down your cheek. You open your eyes, and his are right there—wet and glistening, holding yours like they never stopped trying.

“I’ve been in love with you since the day you made me sit through that terrible romcom and you cried harder than the main character,” he says softly, lips curved with the smallest, saddest smile you’ve ever seen on him. “And I didn’t even care that it sucked because you were leaning on me the whole time.”

You let out a watery laugh, tears still spilling, and he cups your face gently, reverently, like you’re made of glass and starlight and a thousand things he almost lost.

“I didn’t know how to be both,” he murmurs. “A hero and myself. But every time I was out there—saving people, fighting monsters, almost dying—I just wanted to come back.”

You reach up and hold his wrists, holding him now. “You should’ve told me.”

“I know,” he breathes. “I was scared.”

“So was I.”

He leans in, foreheads still touching, your breath shared under the fairy lights of your backyard. The rosemary sways in the breeze, brushing against your leg like a memory.

“I love you,” he whispers.

You let out a broken sound—half sob, half laugh. “Say it again.”

He smiles through his tears, nose brushing yours. “I love you.”

And this time, when he kisses you, it’s like the sadness finally gives. It’s messy and tear-soaked and trembling, and everything you both have been holding back for too long. His hands are in your hair, yours around his neck, and the kiss is so, so soft but aching—like the words he couldn’t say finally found a way out. It’s messy, so messy but you need this. Need him.

When you break apart, foreheads still pressed together, you whisper, “I love you too.”

You don’t need to ask if he’s staying. You already know the answer.

.

[carnalcrows]

Yandere Perfect Student head-cannons

cw: yandere traits, mentioned sex, reader is a loser and a FREAK!!

disclaimer: I want to emphasize that I do not endorse or support this type of behaviour. This content is purely for entertainment purposes.

New oc based off this post

yandere ! perfect student, who’s always been at the top of everything—grades, charm, reputation, sex appeal (though he never cashes in on it).

yan ! perfect student, who prides himself on being untouchable. Who treats crushes like minor inconveniences. Who ghosted the student body president and his own debate partner and got away with it.

yan ! perfect student, who’s never once noticed you—until you laughed during a lecture. Alone. No one else was talking.

yan ! perfect student, whose eyes flick to the back of the room and find you, smiling faintly at your own desk like you're in on some secret joke.

yan ! perfect student, who thinks What the fuck? And means it in the worst way.

yan ! perfect student, who hears the rumours. That you're weird. Unsettling. That you doodle eldritch things in your planner and mutter in Latin during group projects. That you once got caught sniffing a book in the library. That you're probably failing three classes and yet always there, haunting the corners of lecture halls like a stray thought.

yan ! perfect student, who smiles when you finally bump into each other outside the cafeteria. You’re looking at a vending machine like it insulted your ancestors. He says your name, slow and deliberate. You look up, eyes bleary, and go, “Oh. Are you the guy with the stupidly linear eyebrows?”  He chokes on air. For the first time in his life.

yan ! perfect student, who laughs it off. Who plays the long game. Who starts sitting beside you in class, offering gum, correcting your notes, and making casual conversation. He expects resistance. You, meanwhile, hand him a heart-shaped paperclip and go, “It looked like your vibe.”

yan ! perfect student, who thinks, what the fuck is wrong with this guy.

 yan ! perfect student, who thinks, Why do I want to press him against a wall and see how fast he breaks?

yan ! perfect student, who learns that you barely eat lunch unless someone reminds you. That you’re always cold, even in summer. That you keep giving him small, weird gifts—stickers, cursed keychains, a CD labelled “sex dungeon ambience for wizards.”

yan ! perfect student, who starts wondering where you are when he can’t see you. Who starts glaring at people who laugh too hard at your expense. He doesn't mean to get possessive. You’re just… his. Obviously. Even if you don’t know it yet.

yan ! perfect student, who finally sees the shift in you—when you catch him staring.  When your lips curve just so. When you lean in and whisper, “You always look like you’re trying not to eat me alive. You’d be a terrible liar in bed, huh?”

yan ! perfect student, who swears under his breath. He goes home that night and can’t sleep.  Not with the image of your fingers tugging at your hoodie strings while you ask him if he’s “ever tried breathplay with someone who talks in their sleep.”

yan ! perfect student, who should have run the other way.  But you smile like a predator dressed as prey. And now he's the one following you.

yan ! perfect student, who corners you after class, fists clenched in his pockets, and says, “You think you're funny, don't you?” And you? You tilt your head, grin all teeth, and murmur, ���I think you want me to shut up. With your mouth.”

yan ! perfect student, who doesn’t know if he wants to ruin you or be ruined.

yan ! perfect student, who realises—far too late—that whatever game he started, he’s not the one in control anymore.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time and I take genuine effort to do them.

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