#u can see the dimple in his chin

[teex]

[forlix]

𝐝𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞・b.c.

— incurable playboy turned doting boyfriend was a character development arc nobody saw coming for christopher bang, including (especially) his frat brothers.

words・2.8k pairing・frat president!chris x gn!reader genres・fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, college!au, fuckboy!chris, boys being boys, kissing, implied sex so mdni warnings・substance use, talk of past heartbreak

a/n・here is "nobody believes you're dating" w/chan, requested by none other than my @rachalixie for my 2k event !! anny, i hope u love this fic as much as i love u; thank you for allowing me to write something so self-indulgent <3

In the deafening throes of one of Phi Mu Alpha’s spring kickbacks, Minho finds Jeongin and Seungmin standing in motionless silence by the kitchen counter. Both boys are gaping at something with an intensity that dips egregiously into the realm of creepy. He moves to pour himself a shot.

“What the fuck are you people looking at?”

Seungmin prods a pointer finger in the relevant direction. It takes a few seconds of scanning the scene for Minho to find what he’s referring to. He digs a knuckle into his eye, instantly confused by what he’s seeing. Maybe the gaping is justified.

The windows and doors have all been thrown open to invite the balmy April weather into the foyer of the frathouse. There’s a large crowd of people huddled around a long, foldable table stationed before the stairs; Jaehyun clutches a ping-pong ball between his fingers, singular eye squinted shut as he takes aim. The number of remaining solo cups dwindles rapidly, as does the players’ sobriety.

Something—someone—is missing.

Not to say “beer pong virtuoso” was one of the reasons Chris was elected frat president, but you’d think the guy had a career path in basketball with how he’s given the entire Greek life community alcohol poisoning by courtesy of two or three plastic balls alone. Minho has never known him to miss a shot, let alone miss out on a game.

Today, however, the reigning champion is only spectating, seated above the ongoing match on one of the steps of the main staircase.

A beautiful stranger is sitting beside him, cheek pressed to his shoulder as you peer at the match through the bannister.

You say something inaudible. The laugh it earns from Chris is bright enough to pick up from a few streets down. He leans in to murmur something in return, and you slide your hand over his nape to pull his mouth onto yours, light blush crawling up and over your ears. The way Chris melts into you can only be described as familiar, his eyes slowly fluttering shut, finger hooking delicately beneath your chin, grin going lopsided as your lips part—

“That’s enough,” Minho hisses, tearing his eyes away with considerable effort. “Aren’t you ashamed? Just fucking ogling.”

Jeongin shakes his head, grinning. “It’s dinner and a show. We’d be idiots not to.”

By dinner, he must mean the gallon of chocolate milk he’s been drinking from for the last hour. He now holds out said gallon with the intent to cheers. Seungmin picks up the entire handle and does the same.

Minho sighs, clinks his glass against theirs, and they throw back their respective refreshments in unison.

“Anywho.” Jeongin swipes the back of his hand over his mouth before going on. “You guys know who that is?”

Minho resurfaces with a wince, relishing in the bitter aftermath, then motions for Seungmin to give the bottle back straightaway. He arrived to the function late and he’s not nearly as drunk as he’d like to be.

Seungmin obliges Minho only after another heady swig. “No clue. Probably just another fling, no?”

“Mmm,” Jeongin hums in assent. “It’s Chris we’re talking about, after all.”

"Agreed. Case closed.”

There’s an air of finality in Seungmin’s voice—but Minho isn’t so sure.

Perhaps because he has never noticed that Chris had dimples until now; or because you fold so naturally into Chris' side after your kiss ends, head nuzzling against the crook of his neck and hand seeking out his to hold in your lap; or, most likely, because Chris' eyes seem to return to you when he looks at you, as if his gaze drifting anywhere else is but a momentary departure from where it really belongs. As if he comes home every time you come into his line of vision.

Whatever the reason, the idea coalesces in Minho’s mind, even as inebriation begins to fall over his cognitive faculties like a curtain, that the boys have got it wrong.

Jeongin utters his name, jolting him out of his trance. There’s another shot lifted halfway to Minho’s lips that hasn’t budged in minutes. “Whatcha thinking about?”

Minho looks at Jeongin first, Seungmin next, then back at Chris and his stunning companion. He’s not inclined to answer the question in full, but he can in truth. A coy smile crosses his face.

“Threesome?”

Jeongin laughs hard enough to collapse onto the kitchen island. Seungmin drags a hand down his face. “Come on, man.”

In the corner of his eye, you’ve gone back to kissing again, slow and sweet and secretive. Chris' gentle hold on your jaw shields you from view but fails to hide his lovesick smile. Dimly, Minho thinks that maybe his friend has met his match.

Then, he takes four shots in rapid succession—and stops thinking altogether.

Christopher Bang’s love life is like a horror movie and romcom spliced together: a fiasco of a film to which his housemates have front row seats.

The frat’s upperclassmen live in sets of four-bed, two-bath suites comprising a small common space with a kitchen and a sitting area, sandwiched by bedrooms on either side. It is in that common space that Changbin, Hyunjin, and Jisung often see or hear Chris stumbling home after a night out, entangled with a different attractive stranger every time—so often, in fact, that they’ve come to believe that he’s deathly allergic to anything bigger than a one-and-done hookup.

They can’t judge. In part because they’d be throwing stones from glass houses, but also because the man’s penchant for empty physicality is far from unfounded. His past self gave pieces of his heart to the wrong people, contracted first-degree burns from the guileless warmth he sought out. Now, his version of “intimacy” is less a connotation of closeness than it is a self-contradiction, for it should be impossible for so much distance to remain between two people in a single bed.

Chris hasn’t vocalized any of this. Nor have his housemates discussed it with each other. The knowledge simply exists in the air between the four of them like something akin to taboo, dipping in and out of acknowledgement depending on the circumstance.

This might be the circumstance of all time.

At around 11:40 A.M. on a Saturday, three doors in the suite open at once. Hyunjin and Changbin aren’t coincidence—the latter is coercing the former to go to the gym again—but they lift their eyes to the opposite side of the living room, and the slice of milk bread dangling from Hyunjin’s lips very nearly takes a fatal fall. Changbin manages to snatch it up with an extended hand.

Chris has just emerged from his room as well. Your silhouette follows close behind, your mouth stretching into a yawn as you massage the sleep from your eyes. You’re sporting a mesh green sweater identical to one Chris owns. They find Chris' accessories more interesting than his clothes, though: two hickeys peeking out from beneath his jaw and the base of his neck.

Chris sees Hyunjin and Changbin right away, and his expression goes utterly blank, not unlike their faces as they watch you close his door meticulously. You turn around and gasp.

The four of you stare at each other for what feels like multiple business days. At least, Hyunjin, Changbin, and Chris stare at each other; your eyes dart between the men on the other side of the room and the man next to you, silently pleading for him to say something. He does not for a long while.

Then, he lunges for one of the throw pillows on the couch and flings it at Hyunjin like a shot put. It ricochets off his chest and lands on the floor rather anticlimactically.

“Distraction!” Chris yells anyways, grabbing your hand and tearing towards the exit, wild grin on his face. “Go, go, go!”

Your raucous laughter lingers even after you’ve been hauled away, accompanied by an unintelligible, breathless shout of something along the lines of my toothbrush—and then the front door clicks shut, and there are two.

Changbin and Hyunjin lock eyes, struggling to process what just happened. Hyunjin is the first to move, wandering hesitantly into the bathroom that Chris and Jisung share. Nothing about the place looks out of the ordinary.

“Well, shit,” Hyunjin says out loud.

That is, aside from the two toothbrushes slotted in the holder on Chris' side of the counter.

Something moves in the bathroom window, catching his attention. Hyunjin looks over just in time to spot you and Chris dart out onto the lawn two floors below. Chris has his arm draped over your shoulders, yours wrapped around his waist. Your smile is discernible all the way from here, and Hyunjin sees a perfect mirror of it on his friend’s face when Chris glances at the frathouse over his shoulder. 

Has he always had dimples?

Moments later, Changbin joins him in peering out the window. A high-pitched cackle erupts from the older boy’s lips. “Look at that idiot.”

Standing off to the left is a tiny, astonished Han Jisung, his arms full of groceries, jaw sitting squarely the grass and whites of his eyes on full display as he watches you and Chris stroll away.

Hyunjin laughs with his whole fucking body. Changbin whips out his phone and takes a picture.

When you finally breach the topic, it’s because you don’t think you can physically study for another minute—but also because, after multiple long months of fruitless sparring, your curiosity finally wins.

Your boyfriend is seated in your desk chair, feet kicked up onto your mattress with his laptop propped up on his thighs. His features have rearranged themselves into an expression of intense focus as he pores over his production homework. You can hear music blaring through his headphones from all the way here.

You uncross your legs from below you, scootch across your bed, and lift your hands to cradle his cheeks. He startles as if coming out of a trance, then begins to smile when he reads the words hi, Channie off your lips.

His headphones fall around his neck. He sets his laptop down onto your desk with a dull thunk. The next thing to drop is you when Chris seizes you by the waist and tackles you into the mattress. The somber atmosphere of your study session is shattered by your muted laughter and Chris pressing his lips to every inch of your exposed skin he can. He saves your mouth for last.

“Hey, beautiful,” he answers, but only after kissing the living daylights out of you, the syllables soft and silky with adoration. “Missed me?”

You drag your eyes from his brown irises with blown pupils to his sloping nose, from his disheveled dark locks to his cordate lips, so plush and warm against your own that you swear you still feel them there. You brush a hand over the back of his neck, your head now spinning so badly that you barely remember what you wanted to ask him.

“Always,” you say. “I was starting to feel jealous of your homework.”

He chuckles. “Shit, I’ll drop out of college right now, baby. Just say the word.”

“You’re perfect,” you hum.

“Says you,” he murmurs, nudging the tip of his nose against yours.

Your lips find each other’s again—needless to say, your study sessions aren’t known for their productivity. Some time passes before you come up for air. Even afterwards, Chris doesn’t let you go far, pulling you into his chest by the curve of your waist, nuzzling his cheek into your hairline. You only need to whisper for him to hear your question.

“Can I ask you something?”

“'Course,” he returns, and you’re close enough to sense him tighten with apprehension. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, don’t worry.” You print a kiss to the side of his neck for extra reassurance. “It’s just…I’ve been meaning to ask how your friends feel about me.”

He tightens with something else now: surprise, you’re guessing; you’re hoping. You hadn’t seriously considered that the answer could be negative, but it’s dawning on you now that the possibility of that isn’t zero.

“Where’s this coming from?” Chris inquires, his tone opaque.

You hesitate, mentally reviewing your interactions with your boyfriend’s social circle. Hyunjin and Jisung can’t make eye contact with you when they speak to you. Minho does nothing but make eye contact with you whether he’s speaking to you or not. Jeongin and Seungmin can maintain small talk for about ten seconds before they start looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. Changbin is the only one you’ve held a conversation with, and only because you were going up the same stairs at the same time and the alternative would have been mind-numbing silence.

What is the best way for you to say this?

“Well,” you begin, “I can’t help but notice that they act a little—when I’m around, they’re a bit, uh—”

“—crazy,” Chris offers. “Completely fucking bat-shit crazy.”

“Yes. Exactly that.”

Chris threads a hand through your hair, the comforting gesture doing nothing to assuage your worry. It seems there’s some truth behind your impressions. Your next words are tinged with a quiet sadness.

“I’m not imagining things, then?”

“No, angel,” he sighs. “But not for the reasons you think.”

A beat passes. Chris perceives your silence as a chance to backtrack, to opt out of this conversation if it’s one he’s not ready for. He would’ve leapt at the opportunity once.

But he realizes in that moment, with your voice gentle against his ears and your touch so doting upon his skin, how much has changed since he met you: from the color of the sky to the word home and everything in between, including his cynicism towards love and all the iterations of forever it holds. 

With that epiphany comes another, then another: he wants you to know why his friends are acting insane, wants you to know about him and his past and all the wounds of his you never know you healed, wants you to spend the rest of this forever with him.

His pointer finger dusts beneath your chin, a wordless request for you to look at him, and he nearly liquifies when you do and he finds entire constellations in your eyes. 

“It’s a lot,” he mumbles, though he suspects you know that already; he suspects you know about the other stuff, too. 

You bring your hand to the side of his face, bring your forehead to rest upon his. Your closeness washes over him like a low summer tide lapping over sandy shores, a soothing balm spreading over scorched flesh. 

“It’s you,” you breathe. “I will love it just the same.”

Chris' held breath comes out in shudders.

So this is warmth.

Minho and Felix are watching anime on the couch when a knock comes at their door, unfortunately during a pivotal moment of a pivotal episode. 

Minho hits pause with a ghastly groan. Felix laughs and rises to his feet, dashing into his room to grab the two silver necklaces he’ll be loaning out for the evening. “Coming!”

Outside, Chris is standing alone, hips and thighs accentuated by a pair of tight-fitting dress pants, sculpted chest and collarbones framed by a thin, cream-colored shirt with the top three buttons undone. Most of his hair has been pushed off his forehead, leaving a few locks free to fall over his right eyebrow. He’s rolling up his sleeves when Felix opens the door, veined forearms flexing as a result of the effort.

“Well?” He asks. Minho cranes his neck to look past Felix.

Both boys start to holler and whistle like excited macaques.

“What in the Calvin Klein is this?” Felix shouts, spinning Chris around by the shoulders. “You look insane, bro. Holy fuck.”

“What’s the occasion, young man?” Minho inadvertently sounds like a gruff uncle. “Where are you going dressed like that, huh?”

Chris' laugh comes easier nowadays. What’s more, it comes in a way that reaches the rest of him, that ends in a tiny, high squeak that you really have to look for in order to hear.

Felix and Minho can't help but replicate his smile. Those clothes look good on him, yes—but happiness looks better.

“You guys are silly,” Chris giggles. Dimples indent his cheeks as he accepts the necklaces from Felix. “Thanks, man. I’ll give ‘em back tomorrow.”

“No rush,” Felix replies, grinning. “Have fun, yeah?”

“We will.” Chris starts to retreat down the hallway, hands moving to clasp the jewelry around his neck, but not before he blows the both of them a kiss.

“Be back before ten!” Minho hollers; Chris laughs again, turns a corner, and disappears.

Felix closes the door. His smile falters fast. Minho has brought his face mere centimeters away, his expression thoroughly humorless.

“Tell me only the truth, Lee Yongbok,” he deadpans.

“O-okay—”

“Is Chris in a relationship?”

“—oh.” Felix frowns. “Well, yeah.”

Minho blanches. “How—how long?”

“One year, give or take? Anniversary’s today.”

Minho is stunned. Felix is stunned that Minho is stunned.

© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · liked this work? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support ♡

[satoruhour]

While I know Suguru is the og girldad, there’s something so endearing about Satoru with a daughter.

First time she’s in his arms and it’s like somebody put the sun into his palms. She has his white hair and six eyes but in shape of your facial features, his loud and boisterous personality and his sweet tooth, and there’s not a thing on this planet he cherishes more than her. Spoils her, wants to be her “superhero” dad children look up to, you best believe everything she draws for him is kept secure in a folder in his room. He never lets anyone treat her as inferior to boys (knowing the misogyny in jjk universe), and both of them love you to piecessssss🥹

Like I just randomly imagine him baking a cake with his little daughter for your birthday and MY HEARTHNSJ😭

WHEN US MEANS MORE THAN ME & U

a/n: literal tears. bye. i love dad gojo sm. wrote this through tears while listening to this. tagging @crysugu @jabamin @hyomagiri @seeingivy ✶

wc: 3k plus?? man idfk cant see thru my tears

✶ dad!gojo . . .

. . . who ages so well the more he grows older. if you think he looks good at 28, just wait until he’s 34, or 40. although he still has a baby face, his features have matured way more, now, crinkle lines on his forehead and around his lips that accentuate his dimples even more. he just looked… so damn good, truly keeping his physique well into his thirties, except you wouldn’t have known if his hair is turning grey, though, since it’s already white, but you can tell he’s happy when his body hair is not just white upon white.

. . . who has the palest skin, so when he starts to grow a noticeable moustache and goatee he shows you the short strands excitedly, pointing to the various parts of his face with an excited finger and a beaming smile. he annoys you by rubbing his chin and cupid’s bow along your skin in the morning or when he returns home — it’s a little funny seeing you jump in surprise.

. . . who only lets you dictate whether he should keep the facial hair and when you hesitate even one moment (“nope! let’s shave it!”) you’re pulled into the bathroom and handed a shaver and shaving cream. he hums when the blade glides along his skin, knowing you were too afraid to be too rough. gojo liked the tenderness of these moments, you perched upon his lap and bottom lip caught in between your lips as you focused on his chin and cupid’s bow. the grip on your waist is firm, loving the way your thighs close around his own so snugly.

“okay — last one,” you voice out softly, eyes squinting because it was so difficult trying to see white hair from skin. gojo simply giggles at your struggle and you tsk, telling to stop moving! before you’re yelping and the shaver leaves your hand, the soft, plump lips of satoru moving against yours. behind you, there’s a plop! of water, and gojo just laughs when he sees the shaver lodged into the toilet. “ah. well, let’s use yours.” and your mouth twists, “no! i use that to shave…” you trail off and you swear you can hear gojo’s grin and the insult of pervert on your lips. “well! all the more to use it!” ✶

. . . whose vision from the start is slowly turning true. the jujutsu world is in the good hands of his students that he’s able to spend time with you and the (unborn) baby more. he smiles more freely now that he works less missions, but still as cheeky and playful as ever, squishing your cheeks and moving them around as he plants kisses on them. he also shows his feelings more, not afraid to bury his face in your neck and ask for head rubs or tell you he might be thinking about suguru a little too much; the first time satoru put his head to your swelling belly and heard the kid kick he teared up right away, baby talking to the baby bump like the sap he is.

. . . who at first hated his family name because it was only ever associated with his powerful father and then him, with both of his renowned techniques, how it pointed straight to him being the strongest and a cog in the machine to overwork. but now, gojo rather likes it, referring to you as “my wife” and “mrs. gojo” more times than necessary. you gave him his surname meaning by saying your vows and slipping his (rather expensive) ring on your fourth finger. you gave the family name a sense of warmth and homeliness whenever he’d come home to you humming a tune from high school and cooking up some dinner. you gave ‘gojo’ a worth that means more than just the six eyes and limitless — that it’d mean that gojo was the penthouse in some far off tokyo district coupled with you and the baby growing in you.

. . . who when first handed his baby girl, cried full on tears in the hospital, both arms wrapped so snugly around his baby because he was afraid he was going to hurt her or drop her in some way. gojo is generally pretty large in stature that he makes your baby girl look so small that it’s endearing. your cheeks hurt from smiling so much at them, not having the energy to capture the moment since you just quite literally delivered. but satoru much rather have his girls in the picture, handing the baby back to you before he reveals his phone to snap a picture.

“w-would ya look at her?” satoru coos, rocking and bouncing his body gently to ease your baby back into slumber. there’s an ugly show of a mess on his face — snot falling everywhere and tear stains lining his cheeks. but there’s one final thing that has gojo choking up all over again; the baby is curious and feels up his hand, your husband letting a finger out before she curls her small fist around his finger. “oh my god.” it’s cute seeing gojo so distraught as tears spring to his eyes again and he can’t even form words. it makes the baby laugh and he sobers up a little, sniffing and raising a brow. “love seeing your papa cry, huh?” and the baby sputters again and giggles and satoru swears he ascends to heaven and mutters a promise more to himself than your darling girl. “i’ll protect that little smile for as long as i live, okay?” ✶

. . . who is entirely enamoured with his baby girl, carrying her a little too much when she should be in the crib, singing her little songs or pointing out the colours of the sky in the nursery. you watch the scenes like a proud wife and mother, still not used to the beautiful scenes and childlike decorations of the room — only because satoru would not let you in after learning why ellie from up couldn’t conceive even if the paint now was safe. but you don’t have the heart to turn away your husband when this is what you get out of it, reminiscent of when gojo had playfully done to tsumiki and megumi before (“the scenery is beautiful today, gojo-san!” vs. “i already know what colours are, dumbass.”). 

. . . who only asks you to rest while he takes on most of the diaper-changing and feeding duties. you weren’t even that old to begin with, but it seemed like just like you were pregnant, satoru found it offensive that you’d think of even lifting a finger. you let him, for a while, until you find out he’s putting on the diaper wrongly and putting a little too much formula in the bottle, but you simply pat his cheek when he tears again. by god, he doesn’t want to mess this up, he doesn’t want to mess you up, he doesn’t want to mess her up, but you show him with your hands wrapped around his. one, two, three, and a half cups into the bottle; wrap around her right, then her left and secure it with the provided adhesive.

“satoru, baby,” you sigh, going on your tippy toes to kiss away the tears spilling from his cheeks, “you’re not a bad dad because you didn’t know how to make her food or change her diaper.” your fingers are as light as dewdrops, always in awe of his flawless skin and looks, and now, in awe of his consideration and love of your baby girl. “but—” you put up a finger, “no buts— remember? we promised each other not to be sorry if we can’t help it. you are human, my love.” gojo heaves a shaky sigh and swallows away the sobs, nodding against your hand as he covers it and leans into your touch. “i am human,” and a little later after quelling the baby’s cries in bed, “thank you.” ✶

. . . who, when she’s old enough, takes her on flying mishaps, hands tucked under her arm pits to guide her through the house in exaggerated flight. it feels like dad is superman, the sofa, high chair, even mama is all too far away from her and she’s onto her next exciting adventure. the bubbly giggles from your darling girl is the only sound that matters to satoru, alongside your laughter as you watch the two in play while dinner simmer besides you. higher! higher! she asks when she can speak and he does just that with his imposing height, but gojo’s tallness never intimidates his baby girl; no, not when gojo satoru is her hero and you, her solace.

. . . who gives nothing but a multitude of praises when his girl is leaning more into the artistic side, asking for colour pencils and crayons and paint to explore her creativity that with each drawing she shows him, he gasps, falls to the floor, and cries out how it should belong in a museum! gojo is doing the most — hands on his chin and pointing to various parts of the drawing and discussing the “meaning” behind it when all your girl wanted to do was draw the three of you as a happy family. he’s buying the frame, making a plaque for the artwork to be hung; when he’s making copies of the artwork to keep in a folder, he’s crying his eyes out (“she just wanted to draw us, us! as a family!” you giggle, “yes, satoru, that’s what we are.”)

“girlssss! i’m home!” satoru grins when your baby runs up to him, swooping her up before she can crash into his legs and twirls her around. “papa! look at what i drew today!” you’re emerging after cleaning up her very passionate creative space after she swore on finishing it before your husband came back, smiling when she bounces on her heels. “woooow!” he clutches his heart, one knee and then the other before he croaks out “ooouhhhh! why isn’t this masterpiece in a museum yet?! it’s a crime!” if you were in high school, the gojo then would definitely barf at how cheesy he was being at the moment, “very compelling use of colour, here, miss gojo. hmm, yes, yes, i see how you used multiple colours for the sun — very effective in showing the many colours of the sunset!” you’re cheesing so hard at the display because he does this every. time. and it never fails to make her yell in excitement, running over to you as she gives you a big fat kiss on your cheeks, “mama helped me!” a raise of the eyebrow before you finally get your well-awaited kiss to your lips, “i’m sure she did, honey.” ✩

. . .who teaches her the basic things, not shying away from the harsh realities of the world and jujutsu society. he tells her about boys who make fun of girls and think it’s acceptable, or teachers that would only like the strong boys to carry the chairs to the centre of the classroom. he thinks that if he’s going to do this parenting shit, he’s going to do it right, not the way his parents did it, not the way the higher-ups “looked” over young sorcerers. he covers self-defense, verbal comebacks as well as a rejected raise of her hand to threaten a punch (you were the one to stop him from teaching her that — you could only thank it wasn’t a middle finger instead), praising and rewarding her with candy and blown raspberries into her skin.

. . . who teaches her mama is as important as he is, but your darling girl already knows the value of her mother who holds her tight when she has a nightmare, or the airplane on mama’s airline that always holds delicious food. she knows how much her mother loves her when you’re sharing a smile with her at the dinner table as satoru chokes again on his food, and when you pat her to sleep while telling the story of how you and gojo met. that’s why she was the one to suggest that they both bake you a cake for your birthday — with her as the head chef and satoru as her sous chef. 

“it has to be perfect, papa! no more burning the pancakes in the morning or putting too much sugar.” gojo stifles a laugh at that; it seems that his baby girl had heard the many trivial mishaps that had happened in the kitchen, snapping out of his daze when his daughter lands a light slap on his cheek. “pay attention!” satoru fully laughs now, okay, okay! he says and they read through the recipe together — a family recipe passed down to you — and they try their best. the flour is a little messy, the sugar is a tad too much and satoru thinks he may have preheated the oven too high a heat, but then there’s the familiar smell of the vanilla extract and the rise of the cake in the tin. your baby cheers, collapsing into gojo’s arms in front of the oven and together on the floor, they watch the cake ascend.

“careful, baby, it’s hot.” gojo brings her away when the cake is finally done, dramatically smelling and letting out a sigh at it, “it smells really good, ain’t it?” she purses her lips and points to herself, “all due to me!” and gojo hums in agreement. he’s content to let his baby girl take all the credit when she’s looking as adorable like that, finding that her confidence is looking more and more like his while your kindness shows when she’s propped up on the kitchen island and saying, “but papa was the one who helped me pour everything! so maybe it’s because of both me and papa.”

the “thank you” that satoru whispers into his girl’s temple is a whisper, and the house falls into a comfortable, more calm atmosphere as they work on the icing together. it’s clear that all her excitement has caught up to her and she’s now feeling a little sleepy in between, only shooting up when gojo’s announced the icing’s all mixed properly. “happy . . birthday . . mama,” she draws out in the air with satoru’s finger clutched between her fist, a clear layout in her young mind that he had no choice but to listen (he would always listen), lathering first the white base icing before the pressuring job comes and his darling girl is looking at him with narrowed eyes, “don’t mess it up, papa!”

“i won’t—” and before gojo can start on the lettering, you’re depositing the house keys into the bowl your husband gifted you in high school, letting out a chuckle at the scene before you: the sorcerer’s face caked in white, vanilla extract and broken egg shells on the island and in the middle of it, your husband and your daughter looking like deer caught in headlights.

“hi, mama,” they say in unison and your grin only widens. you could hardly be mad when this doesn’t happen often, already knowing the occasion, but they seemed to be a little bummed out from being found out so you only hope your hug can make it up. your baby girl goes first: she squeals when she’s scooped into your arms, smile so bright it could mirror any angel in heaven. while she still pouts, she’s more than happy to wish you a happy birthday. “thank you, baby. was baking with papa fun?”

she nods so hard her whole body moves in your arms, “papa is very bad at measuring stuff, though.”

you burst out laughing while your husband falls into a greater pout than your daughter did, brushing off the flour from his arms and taking the both of you into his embrace, “she’s so mean to me, sweets.”

“i’m not, just telling the truth. mama, i was the head chef, so i get to say what he’s bad at.” gojo’s pout worsens and you coo, pulling him closer.

“yes, but daddy did help with everything, didn’t he?” you whisper, brushing away the strands that fall over her face. you’ve never really taken the time to take in everything: her white hair, those blue eyes that are a little darker, the lines at the side of her smile that look like yours. instinctively, your forehead rests against hers and upon feeling her nod, you think that this is all you need. “thank you, darling.” and your girl grins again when she feels your peck on her forehead. gojo only can look at his girls with a content smile, pout stretching into his face while his hand never stops caressing your back. “can daddy have a kiss too?”

that night when she’s put to sleep after much protest (you both give in and end up watching your favourite movie together as a present), you’re drawing circles on gojo’s bare chest which also has grown a little bit of hair. his lips upon your hair feels like a divine blessing; he speaks.

“happy birthday again, baby,” a kiss, “only if you came home a liiittle later, though.”

you laugh softly, “actually, i sort of heard your shenanigans when i was standing outside the front door.” satoru jerks from the comfortable position, prompting your head to hit the headboard in a loud ‘thud’.

“oops sorry, baby— but what?!”

you shake your head, roll your eyes, pull him back to tuck yourself under his chin, “you’re so damn dramatic. i just didn’t want to interrupt the both of you. you mean a lot to her, you know.”

gojo sighs, moving away a bit for your head to tilt up and his heart still pulls and tugs like so many years ago. if he recalls correctly, it’s just exactly like this that you shared your first kiss together, the line between friends and lovers blurring so much that all it took was your eyes staring into his to make him notice he never had infinity on around you.

“you made me forget what i was gonna say,” satoru mumbles, a laugh cutting through his features when you smile sheepishly. he copies your outburst, “you’re so damn beautiful.”

“and you mean a lot to her, too. we mean a lot to her — it’s the least we can do when you’ve brought such a beautiful baby into the world,” gojo mutters — it’s late and he’s slurring his words from the fatigue. his eyes glow under the night light and he holds on to you just a little tighter, “to give her a normal life.”

his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and there’s the sheen of his tears again. “we will succeed, don’t you worry.” you silence his doubts with a kiss, “you’re doing a great job of a father, ‘toru. i will keep reminding you until my voice turns hoarse and i can’t speak.”

normally, he’d tease you but all it does is make the tears full spill over; but they’re happy this time. satoru only lets you catch his lips in a deep kiss, quietening his sobs as your hands fumble at his undercut and his face. you can hear the faint “thank you”’s he mumbles and you’re also close to crying, pulling away to admire him — god, you loved him so much you feel like you could collapse. he loved you so much he would do it all over again if it meant having you in every life.

“thank you for having me. thank you for loving me, baby,” satoru whispers, wiping at your tears as did you and he laughs, “dunno why we’re cryin’. s’pposed to be a happy moment.”

you huff (of course, he’d say something funny now), but that’s just one of many things you love about him. all you do is hold him closer that night and mutter a prayer — to virgin, to buddha, to anyone who would listen.

it might get difficult along the way: one of you may need to take on more missions, your baby will be growing up and heading to school. there will be difficult talks, puberty, tantrums, none of you were truly ready. and yet, despite it all, you’d still have your satoru, the one who made tsumiki and megumi into what they are today. despite it all, you’d still have each other and your darling girl, your family of gojo’s whose definition changed from suffocating to belonging. despite it all, as long as galaxies are created and supernovas happening and the planets revolve around the sun, it’d take light years for your love to diminish even one speck.

your love for each other could surpass the cosmos — that in itself is enough.

part two

[stariekis]

let me show my love for u.

🛋️ pairing : 엔하이픈 ot7 + gn!reader . genre : fluff . cw : physical contact, kisses, skin ship .

— synopsis : things enhypen members would do to show how much they love you

— note : nothing to add bbies just hope that you enjoy this post <3 reposts and feedback is appreciated as u might know by now ⟡ 🤲🏻 thank you so much mwah !

heeseung : holding / hugging your waist

he is such a waist hugger god ... his arms and hands were made to hold you and you only and he proves it every single time. no matter where you guys are or with how, his arms would be around your waist not letting you go any moment. he does this in a kind of possessive way but only when there's no one he knows around, most of the time he does it unconsciously he is so used to it that now he can't get his hand off you (and you don't want that ~)

jay : holding hands / his wrist

jay has pretty big hands in my opinion so he would have his hand intertwined with yours all the time, giggling every time when he looks at how his hand covers yours completely. but, if he is holding something and both of his hands are occupied the would ask you to hold his wrist, he just want you hands on him every second.

jake : hands on the back pockets of your pants

this can be seen as a very possessive action but it's not the (only) reason why he does that. for him it's a good way to keep you close to him and he loves to keep you close as much as he can so, whenever you guys are out he would keep his hand in your pocket. and also .. why not showing every person that came across you two that you are his only ~

sunghoon : holding pinkies

i don't see sunghoon as a very affectionate person, he is better with words than physical contact. that's why i choose this ) : is a very cute and discrete way to hold hands and i know that he would love to walk around with your pinky finger intertwined with his, a small smile on his face every time he look at your hands.

sunoo : hugs

he is like a big teddy bear u guys ) : sunoo would be hugging you all the time and he wouldn't let you go until you have to go to the restroom like for real ... and he wouldn't control himself even if u guys are in public, he would be walking with you with his hand around your figure or, if you are out with the members, you will probably be on his lap with his arms around you waits. he don't care at all he loves hugging you <3

jungwon : kisses

neck kisses, cheek kisses, forehead kisses, every single type of kisses are his favorite. he loves having his lips pressed against you all the time, he swears that he could spend hours kissing your lips or your chubby cheeks. and the other way around ! he loves when you kiss him, specially when you kiss his dimple ) : is his and your favorite feature of him ~ he feels so loved whenever you or him kiss each other <3

ni-ki : back hugs

he is tall tall and we all know that ... he would surely take advantage of his height, hugging you from behind while resting his chin on top of your head. he does it just as an affectionate gesture or to tease you a bit, always lovingly obvious 🫷🏻 he thinks that your high difference is so cute ) : he would also leave kisses on your nape and caress your arms with his hands.

[catcze]

No but ehat if like wriothesley had an s/o or maybe someone hes romantically interested in who he sees mostly in the fortress and then they go outside together one day and he's like "i never realized how beatiful you are in the sun" and hes all cute and blushin and shit OUGGH OUGH OUGH I'VE BEEN SHOT THROUGH THE HEART WRAAAAAGHHSHDH

OUGHHASDAS YOU AND ME BOTH U AND ME BOTH

Reblogs are greatly appreciated !!

When you set out on your day off, you weren't expecting to run into your boss— certainly not in a cafe, of all places.

"Your grace?" you ask hesitantly, approaching the table that Wriothesley and Sigewinne occupy. There's a litany of small desserts before them, as well as a teapot and two tea cups filled with rather aromatic tea. You run a hand over your top, trying to smooth any wrinkles that there may be. You certainly hadn't been expecting to run into him here! Oh, if you knew you would have dressed a little bit better. As it is, you were just here to hunt down an afternoon snack, and you certainly looked it.

But Wriothesley lights up at the sight of you, a small smile curling the edge of his lips. Sigewinne grins too, waving in welcome.

"Hello there!" She says pleasantly. "We weren't expecting to see you here!"

You chuckle. "Same here."

"But it seems like you've come at quite the opportune moment," Wriothesley says, beckoning you into one of the empty chairs of the table. He straightens a bit, slouching less in his seat, and leans forward on his elbows. That smile is still on his lips, and his gaze hasn't left you for a second. "I'm afraid we may have gone a bit overboard with our order. You'd be doing us a favor by having some." Sigewinne nods in agreement. You feel the blood rush to your face though, turning it warm.

"Oh, I couldn't impose like that, your grace—"

"Sure you can," Wriothesley's smile broadens then, and you get a hint of his canines in his smile. A slight hint of a dimple on his cheek. "I already said that you'd be doing us a favor, didn't I? Besides, you can drop the 'your grace' while we're here. Treat this like... a serendipitous meeting between friendly parties, rather than between coworkers."

And oh, if you thought that your face was warm before, it had practically doubled in temperature now. Not wanting him to hurry you any further, you plop in the seat. Sigewinne giggles, pouring you a cup of tea and handing it to you which you take with a word of thanks.

"Here," says Wriothesley. He gestures for you to hand him your plate, and as you do so, your fingers brush. It sends tingles up your arm, and you damn near drop the plate out of reflex. Wriothesley, judging by how he clears his throat, his ears turning several shades redder, is not unaffected either.

He fills the plate with lots of confectionaries, desserts, finger foods, and sandwiches, and all sorts of other things. Sigewinne points out some things for him to give you on occasion, and he happily takes her suggestion and gives you some. Well. You've certainly got your afternoon snack and thensome.

As Wriothesley hands the plate back to you, he pauses just as you've taken hold of the other side.

"You know... I think this is the first time I've seen you in broad daylight," he muses. His cheeks redden a bit, and he chuckles at himself under his breath. "The sunlight makes you look even more stunning than usual."

And you make an embarrassed noise, because archons, you might just be in need of medical assistance by the end of this, because there is no way the flipping of your heart is normal. You take the plate, looking down and away so he doesn't see your flustered expression, but he has anyway, if his small laugh is any indication.

"If you ever want to come back here, feel free to say so. My treat." Wriothesley offers, gazing at you with his chin resting on his palm. He looks at you like he never wants to look away. "I'd be happy to see you in this sunshine again, if you'd let me."

[pupkashi]

pizza time!

or the one time satoru tries to make pizza from scratch and is effectively banned from trying ever again

a/n: hi friends !! enjoy this little one shot inspired by somewhat of a true story, sort of meshed two things that happened to me together LOL hope u guys enjoy !! :3

wordcount: 1,470

masterlist

“‘toru? you home?” you ask, placing your keys on the keyholder and slipping your shoes off, sighing in relief as you walk further into your shared home. you can hear soft music coming from the kitchen as you step closer, smiling when it finally comes into view.

“well hello handsome,” you whisper, making him smile and turn around, flour on the tip of his nose. you wipe it off gently, kissing his nose right after you do.

“hey pretty,” he grins, catching your lips in his, dimples on full display from the second he saw you, “how was your day?” he asks, listening intently to your every word.

“what are you trying to make by the way?” you ask, brows furrowed as you see the packs of yeast and flour on the kitchen counter.

“pizza dough! i was thinking we can make it from scratch, have a little pizza date tonight?” the excitement in his voice is enough to make you perk up, grinning at the idea.

“that sounds amazing angel boy,” you smile, “let me change out of this and we can start, yeah?” satoru nods excitedly, continuing to set out the ingredients you two would need.

when you come back to the kitchen there’s three bowls full of cloudy water and no pizza dough in sight. instead there’s a defeated white haired man sitting on the floor, hunched over replaying a YouTube video.

“‘toru?” you ask, stifling your laughter as you walk into the kitchen. he looks up at you, blue eyes sparkling at you, a pout evident on his lips.

“it won’t bubble! i added in warm water and sugar and it’s not working,” he huffs, standing up and handing you the packet, “look they don’t even give directions!” he groans.

you inspect the packet closely, biting your lip to hold back a smile. “satoru this is active yeast, you know that right?”

“those words mean nothing to me, sweetheart.”

“you don’t have to add water to this, you just add this into whatever you’re making,” you state, watching as his frustration faded into one of astonishment and soon into a blushing mess.

“they should really put that on the packets,” he mumbles, throwing out the bowls of ruined yeast and changing the video on his phone to a different one.

“okay let me see how much flour we have to add” he mumbles, looking at the back of the bag before grabbing the scale. he’s cautious at first, adding bit by bit before losing patience. the scale goes from 30g of flour to 300g in a couple seconds.

“satoru!” you gasp, laughing as you attempt to put some of the flour back into the bag, satoru giggling as he adds the water into the flour.

“watch and learn angel boy,” you grin, grabbing the bag and pouring the flour in, stopping after a couple seconds, the scale reading an even 250g. there’s a smug grin on your face and satour wants nothing than to kiss it off your face.

he rolls his eyes, “yeah, yeah whatever,” he mumbles, adding the rest of the things he needed into the mixture before mixing with with a wooden spoon, following the exact movements on the lady in the video he was watching.

the soft music filled the comfortable silence between the two of you, only occasional comments or jokes being the conversation between the two of you as you covered the dough, setting an timer for two hours to let it rise.

the two of you plop on the couch, giggling when satoru pulls you into his lap with ease, kissing your shoulder before resting his chin.

“god i missed you,” he mumbles, voice a bit muffled by your shirt.

“i was only gone for a couple hours,” you smile, wiggling so you could face your boyfriend without hurting your neck too much. there’s a pout on his lips and you can faintly see his dimples.

“still too long,” he frowns, “wanna spend every moment of my life with you.” there’s no point in hiding the huge smile on your face as you raise your brows at him.

“do you now?” you giggle, he only smiles widely back, dimples on full display now, peppering kisses over your face as he hums in agreement.

“can’t imagine a life without you baby,” his tone is soft and comforting, you can’t help but melt at his words, kissing him softly.

you both smile into the kiss, giggles filling the room as he tells you of his day.

the two hours seem to fly by, your timer going off before the two of you knew it, heading to the the kitchen and rolling out the dough. you both mold the dough into hearts satoru arranging his pepperonis into a smiley face, grinning proudly as he showed off his creation.

you can’t suppress the yawn that escapes your lips, blinking away tears as you try and wake yourself up, willing yourself to at least finish off the toppings before you take a nap.

“go take a nap sweets, i can handle two measly pizzas” satoru smiles, “the ovens already preheated too!” you’re hesitant, satoru is quick to pick you up and throw you over his shoulder, already heading towards the bedroom and paying you down.

“you do know which trays to use right?” you ask, worry etched on your face as he rolls his eyes. “yes sweetheart i know the ones.”

you’re about to open your mouth again when he’s placing a kiss to your lips, pulling the blanket over you and walking out, “have a good nap pretty!”

it takes a mere three minutes for you to knock out, deep in your sleep when you swear you smell something burning.

you try to ignore it, chalking it up to your paranoia. but the smell seems to get more intense as you stir awake.

you’re eyes are still a bit hazy when you sit up, rubbing the sleep out of them as you open the bedroom door, the smell hitting you full force.

“oh my god what happened?” you shriek, walking quickly to the windows and opening them full, trying your best to clear the living room out of the smoke.

“i may or may not have forgotten about the pizzas” satoru smiled at you nervously, the two burnt pizzas sitting sadly on the kitchen counter. no tray in sight.

“where’s the tray?” you asked, satoru’s eyes widened, face flushed as he chuckled.

“you look so beautiful today, did i tell you that?” he smiles. you only cross your arms over your chest, making him frown a bit as he points at the oven.

the tray he grabbed was not the metal one he thought it was.

the plastic was melted, the only parts not completely destroyed was the two areas where the pizzas had been. you couldn’t help but laugh a bit, your hand flying over your mouth in shock.

“i leave you alone in the kitchen for not even 30 minutes!” you laugh, shocked at the amount of tragedy that had taken place in your absence.

satoru can only smile sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck, his black t shirt practically white with the amount of flour on it. you’re nodding your head, laughing as you rest your head on his chest.

“what am i gonna do with you, angel boy,” you smile, the two of you walking over the couch, sitting down in silence.

“we could always order in?” satoru suggests, grinning when you burst out laughing again.

twenty minutes later there’s a knock on your door, two boxes with perfectly cooked pizzas in them.

“next time ill definitely check them more often,” satoru mumbles, the words make you turn and face him slowly. you state state at each other, blinking slowly before you speak up.

“you’re banned from pizza making in this home,” you state, satoru’s mouth falls open, gasping at your words.

“it wasn’t even that bad!” he defends, watching you got up from your seat, grabbed one of the pizzas and knocked it against the counter.

“this pizza is harder than fucking diamond im pretty sure!” you laugh incredulously, “i genuinely think the pepperonis disintegrated in the oven.”

satoru pouts, “everyone makes mistakes, some worse than others.” he can’t help but smile, knowing there was no way he’d ever even try to make pizza again, not on his own at least.

“no yeah those are fucking terrible” he laughs, getting up and grabbing what was supposed to be his pizza. “oh my god you’re right!” his eyes wide as he realizes he can’t find any of his pepperonis.

satoru only tried to make pizza once after that, only to realize he liked Pizza Hut so much better, effectively giving up on his pizza making endeavors for good.

taglist (send an ask to be added!): @chilichopsticks @anime-for-the-sleepless @4sat0ruu @safaia-47 @nanamikentoseyebags @fushironi @nineooooo @the-mom-friend-dot-com @gojoshooter @sat6ru @beautiful-is-boring @sweetheart-satoru @luna0713hunter @torusmochi

[todorokies]

2:48pm - satoru gojo

contents: fluff, established relationship, fem!reader, teen!gojo or adult!gojo u can imagine whichever, found family trope, megumi & tsumiki are some vv young lads here (they’re like 8 & 9 years old), this is a kinda unserious ngl

a/n: the found family trope will always hold a special place in my heart

“what the hell are you doing?!”

the sight in front of you was absolutely distasteful, nothing could’ve prepared you for the horrors that displayed in the comfort of your own home. not even a trip to the ninth circle of hell could mentally equip you with strength to deal with this troublesome…mess.

satoru’s elongated body currently rests in a downward dog postion as his hands are occupied with his left being on a red circle and the right on a blue circle.

you would think the children that you left in his care would be participating in the child’s game of twister, but that was far from the truth as satoru’s hostages —megumi and tsumiki— sat criss-crossed off the game mat as they shared the same puzzled look with you.

“oh hey baby! we missed you- megs gimme a hand here and spin the wheel for me.” your mouth comically drops so fast you’d think you were in an episode of a cartoon.

with a deep scowl present on his face, the young megumi reluctantly shifts closer to the spinner giving it a weak twirl that eventually lands on ‘right foot, green.’ miraculously, satoru is able to cross his foot over on a green circle in a way that shouldn’t be considered humanly possible.

your boyfriend is gonna break a bone or two if you don’t stop this tomfoolery.

you crouch down to be face to face with him. “you do realize you’re supposed to be looking after the kids while i was gone…not traumatizing them, right?” he raises his head to look at you, “traumatizing them? nonsense! a good game of twister always builds character.”

“a good game of them watching you play alone will build character for them how exactly?”

“well obviously i couldn’t let them play. i wouldn’t want to risk toppling them over and letting them lose in a game that requires skill.”

with that, tsumiki and megumi gets up from their spots on the floor and make their way to the entryway to pick up the snacks you dropped in disarray upon arrival. “but you lost to both me and megumi before…i don’t know why he’s lying.”

ego bruised, he dramatically collapses on the twister mat, “you weren’t suppose to tell her that!” a genuine belly laugh escapes from your mouth, heading towards the couch to high-five the kids who just finished putting away the groceries and had two family sized potato chip bags in their laps.

“good job guys! next time record it on his phone for me.” they both nodded with enthusiasm.

satoru dramatically whines while planting his face in the palm of his hands while striding over to your dvd rack to choose a movie for the night. “cut me some slack, did you really expect me ruin the game for the kids?”

you quizzically contemplate your answer with a finger on your chin and satoru could practically see the sfx question mark above your head. “oh come onnnn!”

you then walk over to the now sulking white haired boy to delicately place both of your hands on his smooth face earning a groan from megumi combined with fake gagging sounds from tsumiki.

“if it makes you feel any better i think they secretly enjoy your antics. tsumiki told me about the tea party you guys had; with tiaras and everything yeah?” he slowly nodded unsure of what you’re trying to get at.

“and you bought megumi that nintendo ds he was subtly hinting for…my point is that they appreciate you so much even if they act like they don’t; i appreciate you.”

satoru’s whole demeanour does a turnaround. smiling gleefully at you as his dimples showcase in all of it’s glory. “i mean, yeah, they don’t wanna admit it to your face in case it’ll hurt your feelings…” his hand inches towards to your neck lightly ghosting above your velvety skin whilst slowly leaning in as his eyes flicker to your lips. “…but i think i’m their favourite parent.”

before his soft lips could capture yours two potato chips come flying in your direction as a sour expression sits upon tsumiki and megumi’s face. “ewww guys! remember we still need to pick something to watch.”

megumi huffs, “and can we not watch ice age for the millionth time i don’t care how much gojo likes that movie.”

reblogs & feedback is appreciated!! <3

[katsu28]

hi my dear kait i was hoping to request something!🍭 + lying on the couch on top of eachother, one combing their fingers through the other’s hair as they watch a movie + hangman please? he's been on my mind lately LOL thank you and congratulations once again<33

lola my dear thank you!!! i too have had hangman on the brain lately. it's a blessing and a curse tbh. please enjoy the mushiest gushiest hangman i've ever written, just for u <333

jake "hangman" seresin x reader, reader has hair that fingers can comb through, 0.7k of lovey dovey pile of mush bagman

Whenever Jake came home from deployment, the only thing he really wanted to do was relax and spend all the time he could with you. There were times when he’d been gone so long, neither of you left the house for days from the second he got back, just wanting to be with each other in the place you loved most—your home. But really, you were his home. 

Today was no different. He’d just gotten back yesterday after being gone on a mission for two whole months, and now here you were, laying right on top of him, a comfortable weight blanketing him as the two of you watched a movie in the middle of the day. 

Jake didn't think he'd ever been more content in his life. 

Your cheek was smushed against the hard plane of his chest, hands tucked under either side of his body as your legs tangled with his. From his position, Jake could bury his nose into your hair, inhaling the achingly familiar scent of your shampoo if he wanted to, but he settled for threading his fingers into your hair, scratching your scalp lightly in a way that he knew you always loved.

The movie was honestly just background noise for him, because he’d stopped paying attention to it ages ago in favor of simply looking at you, taking in every feature, every slope, every soft angle of your face, just so he could commit everything to memory. The crinkle of your eyes when you laughed at a funny scene, the scrunch of your nose at more serious ones. The curve of your lips that always had Jake dying to kiss you until you were both breathless. 

It was the simplicity of things that made Jake the happiest—being with you, doing nothing but bask in your presence. 

“I can feel you staring at me, Jake.” 

You spoke without looking at him, but he was so busy admiring you, he didn’t even notice you’d paused the movie. 

“Good. ‘Cause I really do like what I see.” He hummed, smoothing his fingers through your hair one more time before letting his hand drop down to rest at the curve of your waist. 

You crawled your way up his body until you were chest to chest, nose to nose. If he angled his chin up even a millimeter, he could kiss you right now. Your elbows planted themselves on his pecs, but he didn’t mind the pressure even one bit. Jake always loved being as close as humanly possible to you. 

“I’m so happy you’re home.” You murmured, ghosting your thumbs along the light scruff on his cheeks until they pressed into the dimples of his smile. You loved a clean shaven and smooth cheeked Jake, but there was nothing better than when he went a few days without shaving, because it meant he was home with you for a little while longer. 

That made him grin even wider, and he turned his head to kiss both of your palms. “I’m so happy to be home.” 

“Never leave me again?” 

“I can’t guarantee you that, darlin’. But I can guarantee that I’ll always come back to you.” 

“You better. Or else I’ll be really pissed at you.” 

Jake’s deep laugh boomed through the room, vibrating from his chest to your own body. He gave your hip a teasing squeeze. “Well, we can’t have that, now can we?” 

“No.” You shook your head. “We can’t. Otherwise I won’t kiss you.” 

“Oh come on, honey, we both know you can’t resist me.” 

“I can.” 

“You can’t.” 

“I’m doing it right now.” You moved to pull yourself off him, but his arms circled around your waist before you could get very far, bringing you back down on top of him and finally, finally connecting his lips to yours. You couldn’t help it, you kissed him back immediately. How could you not? 

Jake’s hand slid around the back of your neck, thumb stroking along your skin idly despite the firmness in his kiss. He felt you sigh against his lips, melt into him even more. He didn’t even have it in him to be smug at the effect he had on you, because you had the same one on him. 

You stopped kissing him just for a moment, pressing your forehead against his before speaking. “I love you.” You whispered, a promise of forever and more passing from you to him. 

“And I love you, darlin’. I promise to always come back to you.” 

“Always?” 

“Always.” 

[silverstonesainz]

hello pls give me sleepy charles crumbs ok thanks bye i love u

his eyes are closed, but his lips are smiling. he likes the way your fingers feel against his scalp, your slender digits weaving through his brown locks. he hums contentedly, letting you know he's away if his dimples didn't already do it for him.

"morning," you whisper, leaning down to press a chaste kiss against his lip.

he smiles, peeking up at you through one eye before shutting it immediately. he just catches a glimpse of you looking down at him, chin the palm of your hand and hair in utter disarray. he loves you like that, bed head and all.

"morning," he mumbles. his voice is thick with sleep, scratches against his throat. his eyes are still shut when he says it, but he pictures your smile, and counts the seconds until he'd feel the warmth of your cheek against his chest. two seconds.

your fingers never leave his scalp, they scratch in such a soothing pattern he could almost slip back into a dreamland. but he doesn't. he holds onto consciousness so he can commit the moments to memory. he might not see, but he can feel. he feels his heart thumping against his ribs. feels you all over him, cheek on his chest, fingers in his hair, half your body over him. he can smell. he smells your shampoo, the floral scent. he smells his detergent that cling on to the sheets, slowly fading into the mix of you and him. and he can hear. he hears your soft breathing, the way it's slowed and rhythmic in a way that tells him you're slipping into a stream of unconsciousness.

he turns his head into your arm, pressing a kiss against the inside of your arm.

"i love you."

your cheeks puff up in a smile, exhaling through your nose. "i love you charles."

[spaceistheplaceart]

Body Swap - The Exorcism Part Two

wanted to do a bit more but ough i am TIRED... this took a lot out of me lmao but i hope y'all enjoy! lmk what u think in the tags/replies/asks :)

masterpost

previous

(Please Reblog! Leave a comment in the tags! They make me very happy :)

SUMMARIZED ID: Reigen and Mob are shown the client's living room, it is in disarray. Reigen begins investigating the room, but begins to feel the presence of spirits... They keep a sharp eye out, as something moves about the room quickly.

FULL ID UNDER CUT

START ID:

(This is a body swap, so I'll be referring to the characters as who they actually are but keep in mind that Reigen is in Mob's body and vice versa.)

Mob watches Dimple fly leave, then goes inside Hiroto's house by shutting the door.

Cut to inside, Hiroto is opening a door for Mob and Reigen. Reigen has his hands on his hips. The client says, "This is where it's been happening." The room inside is moderately sized with a triple pane window on the far left wall. There is a fireplace, a couch, a ripped up armchair, two carpets- both rumpled and one torn, a doggy bed, a toy train, some balls, a tipped over coffee table, some askew and fallen paintings, some shelving units, and a chest of drawers on the right hand wall that has upon it multiple knick knacks. A drawer is missing from it and laying on the floor. There is a book with some pages torn out as well. All in all, it's a room that has seen some damage.

Hiroto lifts a nearby painting, showing three long scratches that were seen previously in the comic as a flashback. "See?" He says, looking at Mob. Mob looks at the scratches, somewhat narrowing his eyes. "Hmm..."

Reigen steps in, leaned over with his hand on his chin, looking at the scratches. Hiroto looks down at him, a little surprised. Reigen asks, "Hmm... have you noticed any strange smells?" "Smells?" The client repeats.

"Yes, like something rotting or damp. Spirits can sometimes carry over scents from their bodies, and that helps us determine which kind of ghost it is." Reigen says, gesturing with one hand while pointing upwards with the other. Hiroto shrugs, smile askew. "No, I haven't smelled anything strange..." He turns to Mob. "What do you think?"

Mob stands in the middle of the room, looking up. "Hmmm. I... don't feel anything." His speech bubble is overlapped by Reigen's, "AHAHA!!!" Reigen laughs, moving to Mob's side and resting one hand on Mob's arm, smiling wide and nervous as he explains to Hiroto: "They must be so weak that my Master is having a hard time picking up on them, but I can sense something in this room... ah, I can sense weaker spirits-- you know. I take care of them for my Master."

Mob gives Reigen a deadpan look. "Is that all you do?" Reigen's smile dims and he sweats.

"Al... right. Well, I'll leave you two to it... I've got to run to the store for a bit..." Hiroto crosses his arms. "And those ghosts better be gone when I get back."

Reigen waves a hand dismissively, using his customer service smile. "Don't worry, Mr. Hiroto, we'll have your spirit problem taken care of in no time!"

Hiroto begins to shut the door. He smiles nervously. "Sure thing..." He leaves.

After a moment, Mob looks down at Reigen, who is now crouching and looking at the scratches. He joins him on the floor.

Reigen says, "Hm... This guy could have a mouse problem. Or termites, possibly... hopefully not."

"I don't think mice could tip over chairs, Master."

"True, but the dogs could chase the mice and knockk over the chairs...." Reigen holds up a finger, his eyes are shut as he lectures Mob. "Always rule out the probable, Mob! Then, you can start looking for the less probable." Mob looks unimpressed.

Reigen stands up, hand in his pocket. "You do have a point, Mob. Although I hate to admit it... This could be a real hauntiiii-IIING!" His speech transitions into a yelp as his back straightens and eyes go wide. The background of the panel is dark with white wisps darting across it. Reigen crosses his arms and glares off to the side, his hair floating up due to his psychic abilities. He shudders. "Do you think the client would notice if we turned his A/C up? It's freezing in here!"

"I'm not cold." Mob responds.

Reigen grits his teeth and narrows his eyes, still tense. He's shivering. "Huh? It's freezing! Are you anemic or... something? Sensitive to cold?"

"No, I think the cold is probably the spirits."

Reigen flinches, then looks off to the side, smiling nervously. "Oh! Yes! Yes. The spirits! I recognize it now. Uh... you don't feel anything, do you?"

"Nope."

"Great." He puts his hand to his chin in thought. "What do you see, then? Anything?"

"Master, I don't have powers right now, remember?"

Reigen stares at Mob, his hair floating up due to his powers again. The background is dark and shadow-y, with the colouring of Reigen being all white. He's pale.

The next panel is of a similar style, dark and silent as they both look at eachother.

Mob angles his head down, looking at Reigen through his bangs and sweating slightly. "... Because we've switches bodies, I only have your powers right now... not mine?" The panel colour is lighter, and Reigen's hair calms slightly.

"Right." Reigen says, sighing and turning away from Mob, arms crossed. The panel is nearly white again, like normal. Mob is looking to the side, too, eyes downturned with a sweat drop on his cheek.

A view of a model train set, turned over. The carpet is rumpled and there is a painting sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. Reigen speaks, "I definitely feel something in this room... but I don't see it. Keep a sharp eye out, just in case. Even if you're having trouble with my powers, I'm sure you can still pull something off."

Mob and Reigen stand back to back, glancing around the room. Then something 'wooshes', represented by a panel with a dark gray background and white lines flowing across it with the text 'woosh' on it.

Reigen startles, turning to look at the far side of the room. There is nothing of note there. He sees only the window, the couch, and the chair.

END ID.

[whatsnewalycat]

Designated Person | Chapter 8

Pairing: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 8: Invitation

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 10.3k+

Content / Warnings: Frankie POV, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship, angst, food, AA meeting mention, jealousy, alcoholism, lying, conflict avoidance, crying, unprotected piv sex, dirty talk, internal conflict, suggestion of sexual assault, trauma response, verbal argument, we're gonna pretend i know what i'm talking about w the criminal justice system but lets be real i don't

Notes: HEY HI! First of all big thanks to @frannyzooey for beta reading for me, I appreciate you with all my heart. Ok so up until a few days ago, this chapter was going to be this plus the birthday party. But I made an executive decision I think it will be better. So here's this and just know I already have a pretty solid head start on the next chapter lol. ANYWAY let me know what you think, ok love u bye.

[ Previous ][ Series Masterlist ][ Next ]

“…Happy birthday, dear Sarah, happy birthday to you!”

Sarah’s pudgy little feet patter in place on the seat of the dining room chair. Frankie rubs her back and says, “Blow out the candles!”

“Wait sweetie, let me just,” Angie scoops Sarah’s long chestnut curls into a bundle, “Ok go ahead.”

She leans over the small, two-tiered cake and blows them out one at a time.

“One… Two… Fwee… Four!”

All three of them cheer as the ribbons of black smoke dissipate into the air. Sarah claps her hands and squeals, looking up at her parents with big, sparkling eyes. Frankie can’t wipe the smile from his face. His heart aches with adoration.

While Ang plucks the spent candles from the cake and cuts it into sixteenths, Frankie takes a seat next to his daughter and asks, “Did you have a good day today?”

“Yes,” Sarah nods, watching her mom slip a chef’s knife under the biggest slice of cake and plop it onto a plate. Angie slides the plate in front of her and gives her a fork.

“What was your favorite part?” he asks.

“Ummm,” Sarah stabs the chocolate sponge cake with her fork and manages to tear off a wobbly chunk, “The penguins.”

“The penguins! I never woulda guessed,” Frankie chuckles, glancing up at Angie when she hands him a plate, “Thanks, hun.”

Sarah carves a line into the air with her nose, a smile digging out dimples in her chubby cheeks.

“Got to stay at the aquarium for a long time today, huh? What kind of penguins did we see?”

“Mmm,” she pauses her attack on the cake to scrunch her face up and think about this, then resumes as she tells him, “King penguin… rockhopper penguin… emperor penguin… little penguin…”

“So many penguins!” he grins.

She giggles, “Yes.”

“And then we got pizza, and opened presents, and now we’re having cake.”

She wriggles around in her seat and giggles some more, “Yes.”

“That’s a good birthday, huh?”

Sarah nods and plunges a finger into the pink strawberry frosting.

“Use your fork, sweetie,” Angie reminds her, taking a seat adjacent to Frankie. 

Sarah sticks her finger in her mouth to clean off the frosting, then obediently picks up the fork.

“What should we do after cake?” he asks Sarah before taking a bite. 

The little girl hums thoughtfully, tapping one confectionary-coated finger to her chin, “We can… watch Happy Feet?”

Her big, dark eyes sparkle, a mirror of his own, and Frankie grins from her to Angie, “What do you think, Mama, should we watch Happy Feet after cake?”

She checks the smartwatch on her wrist and shrugs, “Sure, we can watch it for a bit before dropping Daddy off.” 

A pleased smile spreads across Sarah’s face as she digs her fork into the cake. Frankie turns his attention to his own plate, and a content silence falls over the table as the three of them eat. 

The silence is broken when Sarah asks, “Daddy, why don’t you sleep here anymore?” 

He stops chewing and looks over at Angie, who just tilts her head at him like she, too, would like to know the answer to this question. 

“Well,” he swallows a mouthful of cake and clears his throat, “Daddy, uhh… Daddy did something bad and got in trouble with the police.” 

She frowns at her cake, seeming to consider this, then looks up at him,  “Like when you and Mommy were fighting?” 

The response zaps him. Stuns him. His lips part to respond, but he finds himself speechless. 

What the fuck is she talking about? 

He combs through his memory and hits a snag. 

They just got back from some kind of a trip. Ang was giving him the cold shoulder. He recalls drinking in the garage, fuming by himself, trying to work up the courage to confront her. Yelling. Not just him, though, Angie too. Both of them just fucking screaming at each other. Blue and red lights outside. Doorbell. Cops. 

The scraps of his memory bind together and he remembers… it wasn’t a trip they all went on together. It was just Angie and Sarah. Not a fun vacation, either. More of a spur-of-the-moment trip to her parents’ house in Texas, inspired by his recently uncovered infidelity. 

Wasn’t Sarah sleeping? How the fuck does she remember that? 

Frankie shifts in his seat, glancing at Angie, whose face is inscrutable, then back to Sarah, “No. Well, kind of, I guess. Except worse. They took me to jail.” 

Her dark eyes go wide, “But bad guys go to jail.”

“Yeah, sometimes.”

Leaning forward onto the table, he presses his fingertips to his lips and watches her sponge-like brain absorb this information. He’s getting into the weeds. Keep it simple. 

“They let me go, but now I have to have a babysitter like you do. That’s why I don’t sleep here,” he reaches over and tucks a loose ringlet behind her ear, “Does that make sense?”

Her brow furrows, “Is Chacha your babysitter?” 

Jesus fucking Christ, this kid. Asking all the right questions to make him squirm. 

“Yeah,” he nods, “Yeah, she’s pretty much my babysitter now—”

Angie scoffs. 

He shoots her a sharp glance, “Until we know how much trouble I’m in, at least.”

“I saw Chacha at the park,” Sarah informs him, as if he wasn’t there. 

The nickname makes him chuckle. She hasn’t used it in forever, now twice in one night? 

When he thinks about how your face will light up when he shares this news with you, warmth sparks in his guts. 

“You did see Chacha at the park,” he gives Sarah’s arm a playful pinch, “She told me she was happy to see you, and that she misses you.”

At this, Sarah giggles, dimples and all. 

And, at this, Angie shoves her chair out behind her and stomps out of the kitchen. Like a fucking child. 

I don’t want to do this anymore. 

The thought strikes him square between the eyes. Brief, but distinct. He sweeps it under the rug of his mind to deal with later. 

“Mommy don’t like her,” Sarah tells him in a loud whisper when the bedroom door slams closed.

He has to stifle laughter. 

“Don’t worry about that, princesa,” he waves off the petulant outburst, leaning in to ask, “Would you like it if Chacha came to your birthday party?”

Sarah studies him for a moment. When the question registers, she smiles wide and nods, “Yes.” 

“I’ll talk to Mommy about it later, ok?” 

“Ok.”

“Whaddaya think, should we finish our cake in the living room? Put on Happy Feet?” 

She giggles, hopping off the chair to spin in circles and clap her hands. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he snorts.

Once the birthday girl is sufficiently distracted, Frankie follows his wife’s warpath to their bedroom. He pauses at the closed door, hand hovering over the shiny knob, grimacing at what will follow. 

Did Sarah hear their whole argument that night? 

What else does she remember? 

Does she remember the days he’d call off work to take the two of you to the butterfly house? Or how he would sneak up behind you when you were cooking and kiss your neck? Does she remember you scrambling out of the house, half-naked, gasping for air, while Frankie held Angie back?

Probably not. 

Hopefully not. 

He takes a deep breath and twists the knob, pushing the door open. 

Inside, Angie is sitting at the foot of the bed, texting furiously. Frankie enters the room, closing the door behind him. He approaches cautiously and sits down beside her. Brings his hand to the small of her back. 

She doesn’t acknowledge his presence. 

“Amor,” he murmurs, sliding his palm up and down her rigid spine, “You can’t get pissed at me every time she comes up in conversation. It’s not—” 

He cuts himself off with a thick gulp. 

This catches her attention. She tosses her phone aside and blinks, “It’s not what? Not fair? Is that what you were gonna say?” 

“Fuck, I don’t know, Ang,” he shakes his head, leg bouncing, “It puts me in a weird spot. Whether you like it or not, she’s a part of my life—” 

“Oh, for fucks sake—”

“And—and Sarah, she picks up on that, you know? That you don’t like her—”

“I don’t give a shit if she knows I hate that bitch, Francisco,” Angie spits, “Why shouldn’t I, huh? Give me one good reason I shouldn’t.” 

Answers deadlock his throat. 

Because I care about her, and Sarah cares about her, and she cares about us. Because she has helped me more than any other human has, more times than I deserve. Because she saved my life, and you should be fucking grateful. 

The thought makes him shiver as it replays. 

You should be fucking grateful.

He tries to bypass the question, clearing his throat before taking Angie’s soft hand and meeting her eyes, “I know this arrangement has been hard for you.” 

Her features sharpen. She pulls away and crosses her arms in front of her chest. Unease rings out his stomach. 

But a sense of familiarity dawns on him, too.

It reminds him of conversations he’s had with you the past two months. Those “State of the Union” discussions that loom, dark and terrifying, but end up making him feel ten pounds lighter when they’re all said and done with. 

And, fuck, he wants this to feel better. Wants to be in the same room as his wife and not feel like he’s walking on the razor’s edge. 

“Hey,” he takes back her hand, “Stick with me, ok? We can talk about this.” 

Angie glares at him, but waits. 

“We are friends. That is it. Just like Santi and Benny and Will—”

“Remind me, did you fuck any of them?” 

I don’t want to do this anymore. 

He stares back into her piercing gaze, with pleading eyes, “Ang.”

Her jaw clenches and she shakes her head, but doesn’t storm off or start screaming at him, so he continues. 

“I know I fucked up by having sex with her. It was—It was a mistake.”

Angie’s features soften. Relief floods his veins, warm and buzzing and sedative. Like the first drink at the end of a stressful day. 

And, much like when he would finish his first drink, he aches for more. 

“It was impulsive. I was so fucking numb, I needed to feel something, and she was around. I’m not, you know, into her, or attracted to her—”

Angie scoffs.��

“I know it sounds like bullshit. I know,” he squeezes her hand, “But if I could go back in time and do anything over, it would be that day.”

She studies him, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. 

I don’t want to do this anymore. 

“It didn’t mean anything, amor. I love you. I mean, fuck, I’m here, aren’t I? I’m trying.”

Her shoulders slump. She swallows hard and looks down at the floor. Her nails twitch against his palm and the rush it gives him flips his stomach upside down. 

“I’m sorry, Ang.” 

“You’re sorry you got caught.” 

“I’m sorry I betrayed you. I’m sorry I broke your trust. I’m sorry I was so fucked in the head I found comfort in someone else. I took you for granted, and I’m so sorry.”

Angie lets out a little sob. He should feel remorse. At the very least, he should feel something other than sick satisfaction at her finally breaking. Just a little bit more. Almost there. 

“But that day is behind us now, and what I have with her is entirely platonic. She has Rory, and I have you, and we are friends. She’s helping me out right now by giving me a place to live, and driving me places while my license is suspended, and just being… a really, really good friend to me. I know that’s hard for you, and I’m sorry that it makes you uncomfortable, but I promise that’s all it is.” 

“I hate it.” 

“I know,” he nods, pulling her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles, “I know, baby. I just need you to trust that I’m doing this for you and Sarah. The two of you are everything to me. I love you.” 

Angie sniffles and straightens her spine, then looks over at Frankie, “Can you promise me something?” 

Her warm gaze is glossy and full of emotion. He leans into it, answering, “Anything.” 

“When the trial is over, and you leave her house—I don’t want you to talk to her ever again.” 

It sobers him instantly. 

He pulls back, shaking his head, “Ang, I can’t—”

A fire comes to life in her eyes.

“If you give a single fuck about our family, you can and you will. You told me your friendship with her is a means to an end. Is that still true, or no?” 

Slowly, he nods, but it feels wrong. The dull blade of guilt rips his belly open. 

This isn’t what was supposed to happen. 

“Then you cut ties with her when this is done. Do that for me and I will put my feelings about her aside.” 

That’s what Angie tells him, but what he understands is this is a reprieve. A stopgap. It buys him some time to figure out what the fuck he’s going to do because—

I don’t want to do this anymore. 

He swallows the thought down with a thick gulp and says, “Alright.” 

Angie blesses him with a peacemaking smile. 

Despite his churning stomach, he returns the smile and squeezes her hand, “Can… Can you do me a favor, though?” 

“What?”

“Let me invite her and Rory to Sarah’s party.” 

She stares at him like she doesn’t understand, then scoffs, “No.” 

“Why not?” 

Jumping to her feet, she shouts, “Because she fucked you in our bed, Frankie, do I really have to explain that?” 

He stands too, “You just said you’re putting those feelings aside, and she’ll be with her boyfriend, I don’t understand what the big deal—”

“Why does she even want to go?” Angie crosses her arms and scowls. 

“She misses Sarah. And Sarah obviously misses her, too. I mean, you heard her at the table earlier.” Frankie approaches her, placing his hands on her waist, searching her face, “I’m with you, amor. I promise. This would just mean a lot to both of them. Especially if they won’t be able to see each other again.” 

She softens a little. Her jaw ticks to the side, then she sighs, “Fine.” 

He represses the smile from his lips and murmurs, “Thank you,” before pressing a kiss into her forehead. 

She hooks her hands behind his neck and drops her eyes to his mouth. His pulse jumps as she captures his lips in hers, alive and wanting. The sugary sweetness of strawberry frosting makes his taste buds perk up and want more. 

Her long, red nails work into the curls at the nape of his neck, scratching that deep, aching itch for her favor. That’s the thing about Angie. She gives her affection sparingly, and when he earns it, it feels so fucking good. 

He can’t remember the last time she touched him like this, with enthusiasm and hunger. 

It was before he quit drinking. Before the failed attempts at marriage counseling. Before Angie came home from work early and caught her husband fucking the nanny.

It’s strange how something as trivial as early dismissal can alter the trajectory of so many lives. His own path seems to be an infinite freefall, always bracing for impact but never meeting the ground. 

Drinking more. Fighting more. Pushing you away again and again and again while trying to transplant these feelings into the right relationship. 

I don’t want to do this anymore. 

Especially now, when Angie kisses him, and all he can think about is your lips, your tongue, soft and slick and writhing on his. The heel of your hand kneading against his stiffening cock. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, eyelids fluttering open to meet her gaze, not yours. 

He wishes it was you. 

But he closes his eyes and lets her guide him back to their bed, settling for the next best thing. 

Frankie hears the buzz of an incoming text message from his pants pocket. He kisses Angie’s sweaty forehead and departs from her body, snatching the discarded jeans off the floor. 

> MARIPOSA:  > Rory is over here fyi, let me know when you’re on your way 

A nagging, confusing spring of jealousy bubbles up in his chest. Something else, too. Like guilt, but deeper. An infection festering away inside him. 

“I should get going before the birthday girl falls asleep. I don’t wanna have to wake her.” 

“Can’t you stay?” Angie asks, stroking his arm, “I mean, really, Francisco. Your PO won’t ship you off to jail for spending the night with your wife, will he?” 

Her gentle touch is a branding iron on his skin. Searing. Territorial. He has to stop himself from lurching away. 

He slides his pants back on and shrugs, “I don’t really wanna find out.”

“So fucked up.”

“I know, baby,” Frankie fishes his shirt off the foot of the bed, tugging it over his head, “I have to, I’m sorry.” 

She releases a sigh and pulls her shirt back on, “Oh, don’t forget, on Thursday my parents will be here.” 

Nodding, he stretches his arms above his head. How could he forget? 

“Try to get along with my dad.” 

He rolls his eyes before turning to face her, “Tell him the same, yeah?” 

She snorts and fastens her jean shorts, raising an eyebrow, “I will, but you know how he is. Don’t take his bait.” 

Frankie grunts in response while buckling his belt. Fully dressed, they meet at the door. Angie looks him over, giving him a rare warm smile before telling him, “I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” 

She kisses him, and he places that rotten feeling: shame. 

Frankie walks up the cement path, craning his head up towards the cloudless sapphire evening sky, admiring the way it contrasts the tangerine siding of your post stamp of a house. The sun hangs just at the horizon, and its absence lends relief from the stagnant July heat. 

It’s a nice night, but he’s still a little surprised to find you and Rory are sitting out on the front porch swing, his arm draped around your shoulder with you all tucked into his side. Sure, it may be better than coming home to your closed bedroom door, with just the indistinguishable murmur of your voices to drive him crazy, but still… not ideal. 

The sight causes something deep within Frankie’s chest to clench and pulse, growling, “MINE.” 

Fuck, he couldn’t be more a hypocrite. 

“Whatta we have here, a couple of swingers?” he jokes while climbing the front steps.

It’s a bad joke, and in poor taste given the circumstances, but the sneer on Rory’s lips gives him a rush of satisfaction. 

Conversely, you light up when you see him. Your smile is fucking luminous. A goddamn heat lamp. He feels himself melting into the floorboards. 

Jesus fucking Christ. 

You sit up and put a little space between Rory’s body and yours, “Hey! How’d it go?” 

“Good,” he crosses his arms, leaning against the banister with a shrug, “Went to see the penguins, had pizza, presents, cake, all that.” 

“Did she like her gift?” 

“She loved it. She said she’s going to sleep with it tonight—Oh, that reminds me—Ang gave the green light for you two to come to her party on Saturday if you still want to.” 

“Holy shit, really?” you ask, eyes widening, then chuckle and shake your head, “Sorry, I’m just surprised. She really said that’s ok?”

“Yeah,” he smiles despite the guilt condensing in his stomach, and asks Rory, “Know if you can make it?” 

Rory’s head jerks back a little, and he frowns, “Well, this is the first time I’m hearing about it. But, yeah. I have nothing else going on,” he looks at you, “If that’s ok.” 

“Yeah, of course.”

Your words come out airy and unconvincing. Rory studies your face.

Frankie calls your attention back to him, “Guess what she called you earlier.” 

You avert your gaze from Rory’s, tucking your hair behind your ear before you chuckle, “Oh god, did she learn it from her mother?” 

He laughs at this, shaking his head, “No, she called you Chacha.” 

“Shut the fuck up, did she really?” you gasp.

Frankie nods, “Hand to god.”

You sit with this for a few gleeful seconds before your smile falters, and you say, “I miss her.” 

“She misses you, too,” he tells you, “She’ll be happy to see you this weekend.”

You nod, then look to Rory, whose mouth is flattened into an unamused line. He stares at you a beat too long for comfort. The air around the porch swing seems tense.

Frankie glances between you and Rory, then clears his throat and says, “Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair.”

You mumble a brief, distracted, “Oh, ok,” before he walks into the house. 

As he closes the door and leans back against it to untie his work boots, he hears you ask, “What?”

Both the sharpness in your voice and its volume make Frankie halt. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the curtains rustle from a light breeze. Quietly, he pulls his boots off and sets them on the shoe tray. Morbid curiosity keeps him rooted in place, barely breathing as he listens in on your conversation. 

“You didn’t tell me we were invited to his kid’s birthday party.”

“He said he would ask, but I wasn’t going to invite you until I knew for sure whether or not we could go.”

More silence, then your voice again, “Oh my god, what is your problem?” 

“I don’t like how you are with him.” 

“How I ‘am’ with him? What the hell does that mean?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb. You know what I mean.” 

“I really don’t, could you explain it to me?”

Rory pauses for a beat, then says, “You’re flirting, both of you, right in front of me. I don’t like it. And—and I want it to stop.”

“What am I doing that you think is flirting?” 

“It’s not just you—”

“What he does is irrelevant, he is his own person—”

“It’s fucking disrespectful.”

The silence that follows writhes under his skin. 

This is private. He shouldn’t be eavesdropping. But he can’t bring himself to move. Some fucked up part of him wants to hear what you say to Rory about him. How do you defend yourself? Do you throw him under the bus, too? 

Are you just as bad as me?

Your voice comes through the window again, metered and firm, but shaky. 

“What am I doing that you consider flirting?” 

Rory scoffs, then says, “It’s the way you look at him and talk to him. Always smiling at him, and joking with him, and asking him how his day went—”

“Wow, how dare I ask my roommate—my friend—how his day was.” 

“That’s not what I mean. It’s—it’s—I know it when I see it, ok? There’s obviously something going on between you two.”

“Obviously,” you deadpan, “Because I smile and joke with him, and ask him how he’s doing, we are so obviously fucking. You’re totally right, Rory. You caught me.”

“He’s a fucking loser, you know that, right?”

Another long pause. 

“I want you to leave.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Seriously, get the fuck off my porch.” 

“I don’t have my—”

“I’ll get your shit.”

Frankie hears the porch swing creak and his heart jumps. He launches himself forward and manages to collapse on the couch as you swing the door open. 

You freeze when you see him. Your eyes flick from him, to the open window, then back to him before you scoff and stomp off to your bedroom. 

Rory steps into the doorway, standing at attention with his hands shoved in his pockets. Frankie stares at him. Something protective and instinctual, almost paternal, wells up inside him and fine tunes his nerve endings.

From the back hallway, you holler, “What the fuck are you doing? I told you to get the fuck off my porch.”

Frankie can’t stop himself from laughing.  

Rory glares at him, “Fuck you.”

You steamroll into the room wielding a backpack and shove it into Rory’s chest, “LEAVE.”

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“I sure am. Get the fuck off my property.”

Rory holds your gaze for an intense moment before turning to go. You slam the door behind him and deadbolt it, then go to the front windows and do the same with them. 

“I’m—”

You hold up a hand to Frankie and exit the room. A few seconds later he hears your bedroom door click shut. 

After scrubbing his skin raw in the shower and changing into pajamas more comfortable than he deserves, Frankie tries to go to sleep early, but finds himself restless. 

He stares at the ceiling, at his phone, at the walls. When he hears running water in the bathroom, he wonders if you’re getting ready to go to bed. Wonders if you’re ok, and if you would accept his company. 

He thinks about his wife. Her nails digging into his shoulder blades, her hot breath on his cheek. The electric squeeze of her cunt as he came inside her. 

What would you do if you knew? 

Would it tear you apart, or could you care less?

Fuck, why does he feel so guilty? 

For the sex just as much as the tentative agreement he made. 

You know he intends to stay with her, and there’s nothing going on between the two of you. Not really. Nothing certain, at least. Right?

Sure, there was the slip up the week after he moved in. And the panties. And, yeah, some flirting. Not intentional when Rory is around, despite what he may think. And maybe you got off next to each other once. Then there’s the cuddling, and the hand holding, and this deep, aching, maddening desire to spend every ounce of his free time with you. To know all of your favorite things, and your life story, and your ticks. To make you feel happy and appreciated and safe and loved. 

And loved. 

I don’t want to do this anymore. 

His muscles and tendons vibrate with anxious energy. 

It brings him to his feet and compels him to wander through the dark, silent house, into the living room, confirming its vacancy. He starts off towards your bedroom. The light from your open door slices through the dark back hallway like a beacon. Floorboards creak under his step as he makes his way towards it, and when he arrives, he leans against the door frame. 

You’re stretched out horizontal across your bed, belly-side down, facing away from him, hovering over a thick book. He studies the curvature of your body, lingering on the generously exposed swathes of soft skin that lead to the hem of your shorts. 

“Are you just gonna hang out in the doorway like a weirdo?” you glance over your shoulder, then back at your book. 

“Sorry, I, um... I wasn’t sure if I was interrupting.” 

“You’re not,” you sit up and crawl to the head of your bed, tapping the empty pillow beside you, his pillow, his spot. “Come on in.”

While he walks over to the furthest side, you plump the pillows on your side of the bed and stuff them behind your back, then resume reading. 

“What’s that?” he asks as he stretches out across your bedspread.

You lift the cover to show him and sigh, “Still chipping away at Doctor Sleep.” 

“It any good?” 

“Terrible, that’s why I’m reading it.”

Frankie snorts and shakes his head while digging his phone from his pajama pants, “Are you doing ok?”

“Wow, you’re full of great questions tonight, huh?” 

“Maybe you’re just full of sass tonight, ever think of that?” 

“Doesn’t sound like me.” 

He raises his eyebrows and murmurs, “No comment.” 

“That’s, like, actually a comment though, in itself—”

“Weren’t you reading?” 

“Weren’t you—I don’t know, reading the news or whatever dads do on their phone?”

“Looking for car parts,” he corrects. 

“Same thing.”

Frankie drops his phone on his chest and looks at you, “Not even close.”

You peek around the corner of your book, “It’s like, equal levels of dad-ness, though, so basically, yeah.”

“Levels of dad-ness,” he chuckles under his breath, shaking his head, “You’d know something about that, huh?”

“About what, how daddy you are?” you laugh.

He shrugs, meeting your eyes. You hold his gaze, mouth cracked open in a mischievous smile, then shake your head and look back at your book, “No comment.” 

Grinning like idiots, you both go back to reading and browsing, respectively, although Frankie can’t concentrate for shit with you next to him. His skin aches with the heat of your body so close. 

He listens to every breath you take, every wet swallow, every microscopic wiggle bringing you closer. Minutes go by, but he doesn’t hear your page turn once. 

Eventually, you let out a powerful yawn, and it spreads to him. 

You grab the bookmark off your nightstand and tuck it between the open pages before closing it, “I should go to bed soon—” another yawn interrupts you, “It’s getting late.”

“Yeah,” he sits up, stretching his arms over his head, then looks back at you, “I’ll see you in the morning?”

Your features melt and soften, lips parting as you meet his eyes. This invisible force keeps him anchored there, tugging at his chest, urging him to move closer to you. He glances at your mouth, at the pink flash of your tongue wetting your lips. 

He doesn’t want to go. 

He wants to stay and kiss you breathless, to fall asleep with the warmth of your body lining his, to wake up in your bed and never fucking leave. 

He wants to take back everything he said to his wife earlier today, to defend your honor like he should have, like you would do for him, like you did for him. 

Fuck, he doesn’t deserve you. The hole he dug for himself is a just punishment. He needs to let you go and allow you to find peace with someone else who won’t hurt you like he has. Like he will inevitably do again. 

You reach out and place your hand on his arm, thumb grazing his tingling, heated skin, “Do you want to stay?” 

The contact floods him with feel-good chemicals that his hungry synapses gobble up. 

“I, umm—”

His throat swallows around his thudding pulse. It fucking hurts how bad he wants you right now. He finds himself leaning back on his elbow, gravitating closer to you, resting his hand in the dip of your waist as you roll on your side to face him. 

“Is that a good idea?” he asks. 

“Probably not,” you search his face, your gaze catching on his mouth.

His heart skitters and he doesn’t really notice that his fingertips dig into your side until your whole body shivers in reaction. Doesn’t really notice he’s been inching closer to you until your breath grazes his lips. 

The sound of your ringtone cuts through the thick air between your bodies. 

You sit up and shake your head, trance broken, then reach for the source of the noise with shaky hands, “It’s Rachel. She’s full bridezilla mode, this might take a while.”

“Ok,” he nods, “I’ll go.” 

You look over at him, apologies written all over your face. An impulse yanks hard on his body and urges him forward. Before he can talk himself out of it, he slips a hand behind your head and pulls you into a kiss. 

Your lips are soft and warm, fucking perfect, just how he remembers. They barely have time to respond before he draws back and tells you, “Goodnight.” 

You watch him crawl out of your bed, stunned silent for a moment, then answer the phone, “Hey, Rach—what’s wrong?” 

Frankie glances up at you as he closes the door behind him, and sees you tracing the dumbfounded smile on your lips. 

When he turns out the lights in his room and crawls under the covers, even though he knows damn well he won’t find sleep for hours, he does the same. 

Frankie is at work, elbows deep in the engine compartment of a Bell 407, when the call from his attorney comes. 

“Your case is on the docket,” the voicemail tells him when he returns to his small, shared office space, “Trial is scheduled for Wednesday, September 6th. We might still be able to find a favorable plea deal, so I’ll get working on that, but either way, I’d like to set up a call with you early next week to discuss your options moving forward. Give me a call when you get this, thanks.” 

He takes a seat at his desk and stares at his phone for a minute, then replays the message to make sure he heard correctly. He did. 

The earth tilts. 

Everything seems to crumble as reality dawns on him. All he can see are cold steel prison cell bars and stiff orange jumpsuits. Angie’s words from the other night echo in his head:

“When the trial is over, when you leave her house—I don’t want you to talk to her ever again.” 

A vast, unshakable hollowness overtakes him.

Or… or maybe it’s the opposite. 

Maybe he’s so heavy and full he’s just sinking deeper and deeper into the dark, endless pit of his mistakes, down, down, down… 

He unlocks his phone to return his lawyer’s call, but pauses when he tastes the salt of his own tears. Confused, he wipes his eyes and stares down at his damp hand.

Frankie just sits there for a moment, watching tears splatter onto his palms, stunned. When did he start crying? Why did he start crying?

He knew it was just a matter of time before the consequences of his actions became real. Now it’s happening and he’s blubbering like a baby. 

I need to get my shit together. 

He stands and shoves his phone in his pocket, shaking out his hands.

A string tugs at his chest, leading him to Michael’s desk. He watches the closed door as he carefully pulls open a drawer. Inside, he finds a half-empty bottle of whiskey. The string pulls taut, urging him to do it. 

He thinks about Angie. How her sour attitude always poisons his mind. How this thing between them feels so distant, so vacuous, he doesn’t know how he will ever restore it. 

He thinks about Sarah. How much he’s failed her as a father. He thinks about his own father and wonders if it’s pointless for him to keep resisting fate. Was it always going to be like this for him? Does it matter if he tries to be better, or is this all futile? 

He thinks about you. His chest aches and he feels tears burn behind his eyes again. He wishes you were here. You’d know what to say or do to make him feel better. 

Frankie takes the cell phone from his pocket and dials your number. He glances up at the door again as the line rings. 

“Hey,” you answer, sounding slightly confused, “What’s up?”

Kids squeal in the background as he tries to find his voice. Words catch in his throat, the only thing that comes out is a rasp. A sob. He’s fully crying now. Staring at the whiskey. 

“Frankie, what’s wrong? Are you ok?” 

Your concern is audible. It reaches through the phone and coaxes him to speak. 

“I, um,” he swallows hard and shakes his head, “I don’t know. I’m kind of freaking out right now.” 

“Why, what’s going on?” 

“I just got my court date,” he sniffles, clears his throat, then says, “I feel… hopeless.” 

“Where are you?” 

On your end of the world, Frankie hears a door click shut and the chaotic background noise becomes muted. 

“In my office.” 

“What’re you doing?” 

He pauses, so you repeat the question. 

“I’m staring at a bottle of whiskey,” he admits quietly. Just a whisper. 

“Ok,” you breathe, and he can hear your mind start to whiz into action, “Ok. Did you drink any of it?” 

“Not yet.” 

“Thank fuck,” a sigh of relief crackles in his ear, “Ok, that’s good. Good job. Can I come get you? I—I mean, do you want me to come get you now? Because I can—”

“No, sweetheart,” his eyes flick to the ceiling, trance broken, and he pushes the drawer closed, “You don’t have to do that.”

“But I will—”

He turns towards his desk, “No, really, it’s ok—“

“Oh my fucking god,” you huff, “Look, I am responsible for you. Not only that, but I—I care about you, Frankie. I need to know that you’re safe. And dry.” 

Warmth sprouts up beneath his sternum and branches out under his rib cage. 

“And—and it’s ok if the answer is no, because I can just come get you and bring you h-home,” you stumble a little on the last word, but you recover quickly, “Are you safe?” 

“Yeah. I just needed to, um,” he turns and leans back against the desk, pressing his fingertips to his mouth, then drops them and says, “Thanks for picking up.”

“You promise you’re not falling off the wagon?” 

“I promise.” 

“Good,” you say, your sweet, soft voice tinged with a smile, “If you’re lying to me, though, I’m gonna break your thumbs.” 

“Break my thumbs?” he chuckles. 

“Yeah, you know how many bottles you can lift with broken thumbs? None.” 

He snorts and shakes his head, “Alright, alright. Don’t get out your vice grips just yet, buster.” 

You laugh and Frankie feels his heart swell with adoration. There’s a bit of an awkward pause when your laughter fades out, then you murmur, “Thank you for calling me. Instead of… you know.” 

“Yeah.”

“Still need me to pick you up from your meeting later?” 

“If that still works for you.”

“Of course it does,” you coo, and he can hear the smile in your voice again when you say, “So, about my movie pick for tonight...”

He grins, “Uh-huh. You got a good one?”

“Well, the thing is, I was going to pick The Shawshank Redemption, but that seems a bit too topical now—”

Laughter bubbles up Frankie’s throat, and he shakes his head, “Hey, maybe it’ll give me some pointers for tunneling my way out of a prison.” 

“That is so true. In that case, maybe I’ll keep it. We’ll see,” you chuckle, “Ok, well… I’ll see you tonight, then?” 

“I’ll be there.” 

When Frankie sees your car pull up to the strip mall coffee shop that holds his Friday night meeting, a few thoughts populate his head almost instantaneously. 

At the very forefront is the reminder that he kissed you. 

It was a peck, really, just a quick kiss goodnight. But for three days, the first thought on his mind when he sees you or thinks about you or breathes or does anything really is that he fucking kissed you. 

After being notified of his court date, Frankie should only be thinking up ways to see minimal jail time. But every time he finds a still moment, before anything else, he pictures you sitting on your bed, rubbing your lips and smiling as he leaves your room. 

The thought that follows this one, on par for the past three days, is that he fucked Angie. 

Has anyone ever felt this fucking terrible about having sex with his wife?

Then, on top of that, he said shitty things about you and let Angie do the same. He knows he didn’t just betray you, but he betrayed himself, too. It wasn’t just wrong, it was disingenuous. That knowledge fills him with a heaviness so profound, at times he thinks it might break him. 

Which brings up the last thought that shotguns through his head following the kiss, then Angie: 

I don’t want to do this anymore. 

What “this” is, he hasn’t quite figured out yet. His marriage? His obsession with you? Sobriety? Life itself? 

Fuck, all of the above? 

All he knows is he means it, and that “this” is not sustainable. 

He built a timebomb with no countdown. If he concentrates hard enough he can hear it ticking in his bones, whispering in his ear: 

I don’t want to do this anymore. 

Frankie opens the passenger door to your car and sits down, closing it behind him, “Hey.” 

“Hey,” you throw the car into reverse, craning your neck around to check for oncoming traffic, “How was your meeting?” 

“It was… good, actually,” he stretches out in the seat and shrugs, “Yeah. I, uhh, I think I needed that today.”

“Yeah?” you glance over at him, “So your opinion that it’s, and I quote, ‘total bullshit’ has shifted a bit?” 

He chuckles, “I guess so.” 

“Wow, look at you. A changed man,” you smirk, “You’re almost two months sober, you know that?” 

“Feels like centuries,” he taps his lips, then tells you, “But also days, sometimes. I don’t know. It’s weird.” 

“Is it getting easier?” 

Not at all. 

The thought surfaces from the hungry part of his brain. The beast that just wants and wants and wants, regardless of the cost. But that’s not necessarily accurate, even though it’s the loudest part of him. 

“Sometimes,” he admits, “Sometimes I can’t imagine being that person again. And—and sometimes all I want to do is drink until I don’t care about anything anymore.”

“But the meetings help?”

“Yeah, they do.”

“What step are you on?”

“Well… I haven’t actually started the steps. So, zero.” Before you can ask, he adds, “I don’t know why. I should. I mean, I’ve been thinking about it.” 

You nod in acknowledgement, then a few seconds pass before you tell him, “Last time I talked to Ralph, he suggested I check out an Al-Anon meeting.”

“Oh yeah?” 

“I’ve been thinking about doing it,” you glance between him and the road, “Would that be weird?” 

“I don’t think it would be weird at all,” he answers, tapping his fingers against his knee. 

“Really?”

“It might be helpful, talking to other people in similar… situations, I guess.”

“Ok. Well, yeah, maybe I’ll check it out.”

“You should,” he gives your arm a playful pinch. 

A smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. Your hand moves towards his, then the fingers curl back and you mutter, “Sorry,” before returning it to the steering wheel. 

Frankie studies your face, watching your jaw gnash around like you’re chewing on your goddamn tongue again. He lays out his hand, palm facing up on the center console. 

You look at it, then release your white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel to place your hand in his. 

Once you do, he interlaces your fingers and pulls your clasped hands to rest on his leg. His thumb absentmindedly works against your skin as he looks out the window at storefronts and restaurants rolling past. And, for the first time all day, he feels sated and calm, like he knows everything will turn out ok.

As the end credits to Moulin Rouge! run, Frankie looks down at you sleeping peacefully with your head on his lap. He rubs your arm, murmuring, “Sweetheart.”

You wake with a start, jolting upright, and clamber to the other end of the couch. Your wide, frightened eyes glow with the ambient light of the TV. Every muscle in your body is rigid and guarded. You look like a cornered animal. 

“Hey,” he holds up a hand, “It’s just me.”

It takes a moment for you to recognize him and your surroundings, but when you do, you slacken, burying your face in your hands, and release a sob.

He stares at you, afraid to move, not wanting to rattle you further. A minute goes by like this, while you cry and he sits there frozen and uncertain. 

“Sorry,” you sit up and wipe your eyes, shaking your head, “That was fucking weird I’m sorry.” 

“No, don’t apologize. It’s ok.” 

“Ok,” you stand on shaky legs, “Well, goodnight.”

When you walk past him, he calls out, “Hey, wait,” and grabs your hand, “Are you ok?”

You don’t say anything, but you don’t pull away, either. For a moment he doesn’t even think you’re breathing. When your breath returns, it’s a sob that racks your body. You shake your head and choke out, “No.” 

“Do you want me to stay with you?” 

You nod, so he stands and follows you to your room. The lights stay off as he crawls into bed beside you, ushering you into his arms. You feel so warm there, fit so perfectly, even with your stuffed panda bear cuddled into your chest. 

When he thinks about your nightmares, your panic attacks, the times like this when you seem stuck somewhere far away, he desperately wants to know who did this to you. 

He can connect the dots. He doesn’t need you to tell him the gory details. If he could put a name and a face to the scars in your psyche, though… 

He cuts his thoughts short, not wanting to see all the methods of vengeance his volatile brain can come up with. Not with you right here, safe in his embrace, drifting to sleep. 

The long, slow breaths expanding and contracting your rib cage lull him into a hypnotic state, and sleep comes to him easily, the way it only does when he’s with you. 

Frankie wakes in your bed at dawn.

Eyes still closed, he frowns when a breeze slices through the thick, stagnant air and cools his skin.

He mutters to himself, “You stole the goddamn blanket again, didn’t you?”

One eye peaks open and confirms his suspicion. At some point overnight, you managed to twist yourself up into a cocoon on the opposite side of the bed. 

“Hmm?”

The noise is muffled and groggy. He chuckles and shakes his head, “Nothing. Go back to bed.”

The heap jiggles a little. Your hand pokes out from underneath it and grabs around for him. He scoots closer, peeling back a poofy duvet layer to reveal your serene, still mostly sleeping face. You wince at the dull light of day, but a smile ticks across your lips when you make contact with him, smoothing your palm against the heat of his chest before worming your way into his arms. He pulls the blanket with you, draping it over himself, even though the air is hot and soupy, just to feel your warmth because it’s yours. 

You mumble something into his shirt. The words all stick together when they dribble from your comatose lips and he can’t make out a single one. 

He smirks, “What’s that?”

This time, you tilt your head to the ceiling, notching the crown of your head between his collar and jaw, smacking your mouth a few times before repeating yourself. 

This time, he understands. 

“IIiii love you.” 

His heart skitters electric through his fingertips. 

He tries to keep his countenance calm when he peaks down at you. Your eyes are closed, breath passing through your slack lips in long, halting strokes. One foot in the door of consciousness, if that. 

Fuck it. 

“I love you, too.” 

Every synapse in his brain shoots off like the grand finale of a fireworks display when he says it. A sweet, sleepy hum sounds from your throat as you feel around blindly for him, patting up his arm like you’re searching for a light switch in the dark. 

When you reach his face, your wobbly fingertips twitch a little. They graze his stubbled cheek, then follow the curve of his smile. Your eyelids flutter open, and it takes a moment for your eyes to focus, but when they do, you don’t go to move or push him away like he was half-expecting. 

No, instead, your gaze slides to where you trace his lips, your own parting with a sharp breath. 

If he says anything, he’ll fuck this up, he’s sure of it. And he wants to squeeze every last drop from this moment. So he just watches you and tries to subdue the wildfire scorching his bones to dust.

“I had a dream about you,” you tell him in a hoarse whisper, as if someone might overhear. 

His pulse surges. He feels his limbs wiggle a little closer to you as he asks, “A good dream?”

You nod.

“What happened?” 

The answer tucks into the corners of your mouth and spreads across your face in a big party banner smile, “I dreamed that you, um…”

You lick your lips and shrug, raking your nails along his jaw, reeling him in closer. He doesn’t want to be the fool that makes the first move. Not unless you want him to be. 

“That I what?”

The question leaves his throat in a rumble. Permission, he needs your permission, baby, please—

Then you kiss him. Delicate and hesitant, like a question: “Do you want this?”

“I do,” every cell in his body cries, aching with restrained force when his lips move in response, pressing hard against yours like a declaration, “I don’t just want this, I need this. I need you.” 

A moan bows your vocal cords, vibrating onto his tongue as you yank on his shirt and roll onto your back, pulling him on top of you. It’s like second nature, how his hips arch into yours, the dull edge of your pubic bone grinding against his already stiff, throbbing length. 

He keeps expecting you to come to your senses and shove him away, but you don’t. You keep kissing him, pulling him closer, tongue rolling soft and wet against his—morning breath be damned, thank fucking god. If you tried to shoo him now, he might die, too much inertia from this pulsing, maddening energy rippling beneath his skin, it would tear him to shreds. 

Your lips part from his and you peer up at him through your lashes, studying his face as you tug at his cock over his shorts. His whole body shudders, a groan spilling from his chest, and you smirk, “Take them off.” 

“Are you sure?”

You glance at his lips, then meet his eyes, “No, but do it anyway.” 

Frankie sits up and strips off his clothes, watching you do the same. You pull him with you as you lay back on your elbows, lips meeting again and again in frantic, desperate kisses. His cock nudges against your slick entrance, and you whine, “Please—” 

He pushes forward, swallowed up by your tight, wet heat, catching the whine of “Fuck yes,” that escapes your mouth. A thick wave of pleasure rushes up his spine, and your hips work against his, taking him faster, the shared movements quickly escalating. 

“So fucking good,” he pants, nipping at the column of your throat as your head falls loosely back, “Sweet girl, you take me so well, don’t you?” 

“Yes,” you gasp, nodding up at the ceiling, mouth hanging open slack, eyes pinched shut, “Oh my god, yes, Frankie—”

“That’s it, baby, say my name,” he growls, this insane gush of hot, writhing ecstasy flooding his body, “Look at me.”

Your head snaps up and you meet his eyes. He slips a hand behind your head and cradles your skull, holding you here, fucking you in deep, long strokes, asking you, “Whose pussy is this?”

“It’s yours, Frankie,” you gasp, nodding, “It’s yours, it’s always yours, fuck—”

“Fuck yes it is,” his voice sounds far away, babbling all on its own as he grapples with the fire growing inside him, “Does your little boyfriend fuck you like this?” 

You let out a pathetic whimper and shake your head, “No.”

“Do you think about me when you fuck him?”

A nod, continuing frantically when he asks, “Think about how you wish it was me to make yourself come?” 

“Fuck, holy shit, Frankie—oh my fucking god—”

You’re so fucking close. His muscles start to clench at the overwhelming pleasure. 

“That’s it baby, come on, let it go, it’s ok, be a good girl let me feel you come on this dick—”

Your moans grow louder, matching his fervid thrusts, and he feels you suck him in, the spasming squeeze of your plush, hot walls yanking him violently over the edge. Liquid static condenses, then pulses through him, and he lets out a guttural noise as he fucks his load into you. 

The rhythm of his hips slow, then come to a stop. 

He looks down at you, panting, and brushes his thumb against your cheek, searching your face for signs of regret, and notices you’re studying him in the same manner.

You smooth your hands over his shoulders, then pull him into a sweet, lingering kiss. When your lips depart his, you release a heavy sigh, dragging your nails through his damp bed head as you ask, “What time do you have to go?” 

An old, familiar ache returns. Reality setting in. He realizes what the day holds in store for him. Sarah’s birthday party. Spending the day with family and friends, playing pretend. 

When he thinks about being around you and Angie simultaneously, how he will have to act neutral or even cold towards you, his stomach twists and a sour taste rises in his throat. He’s been here a million times and it always leaves him nauseous with shame. It doesn’t feel right. It never felt right. 

I don’t want to do this anymore. 

Everything seems to click into place. He understands what he has to do. 

“Pablo is picking me up around 9.”

Your throat bobs and a crease forms between your brows as you avert your gaze, fingers still working through his hair, “Today’s gonna be a fucking nightmare, isn’t it?” 

“Mmm,” he presses a kiss into your forehead, right on the little worry lines, mumbling against your skin, “It’ll be ok.”

“Yeah,” you scoff, “We just fucked, now we’re gonna spend the day with your wife and daughter, what could go wrong?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he chuckles, but you don’t find it funny. 

You flinch and look down, hands curling to your chest. Frankie tilts your chin up. When he meets your eyes, they’re bloodshot and watery. He opens his mouth to say something, frantically searching his brain for some kind of band-aid, but the box is empty. He’s not sure what to say to comfort you. All that comes out of his stupid fucking mouth is, “I—fuck, sorry.” 

“No, it’s ok,” you wipe your eyes and sit up, so he draws back, watching you scramble to put your shorts back on, “I, um… I’ll go make some coffee.” 

He wants to assure you it will be ok, that he’s going to fix this, make things right. Something he should have done years ago. But the words lodge in his chest. What if he can’t fix it? What if it’s another promise he can’t keep? 

So he just sits there and lets you walk away for the millionth time. 

After taking a shower and getting dressed, Frankie pours a cup of coffee and walks into the living room, where you’re scribbling in your notebook, limbs twisted up into a tight knot. Uncertainty paralyzes him in the archway between rooms. He takes a step back, pauses, then steps forward. 

You smack the notebook and blink at him, “Oh my god Frankie, just sit down, you’re making me nervous.” 

He nods and strides over to the couch, lowering himself onto the cushion beside you with a groan. Meanwhile, you return your attention to the notebook, furrowing your brow as you write.

Curiosity flips his stomach. Is it about him? About what just happened? 

Desperately, he wants you to share your feelings on the matter with him like you would your journal. The unfiltered truth. 

Do you want this like I do?

He takes a big, burning sip of coffee, then asks, “What’re you writing about?”

Your eyebrow arches and you continue to scribble as you narrate, “Dear diary, he’s gonna be super fucking weird about this now, isn’t he?”

Frankie snorts, shaking his head while you spear your pencil down the notebook’s wired spine and smirk at him. He tugs at one of your ankles, and you welcome the invitation, stretching your legs out across his lap and he scoots closer. 

“Am I being weird about it?” he asks, glancing down into his steaming mug. 

You exchange the notebook for your coffee and raise it to your lips before shrugging, “A little. But I think I am, too, so…” You take a loud sip, then lower your mug and ask, “Do you regret it yet?”

He doesn’t even think about it. The answer barrels from his heart to his mouth. 

“No.” 

A timid sort of smile curves your lips. It reminds him of the way a neglected animal would react to an outstretched hand. Cautious. Not sure if he’ll slap or pet you, but hopeful. 

“Really?”

He nods, searching your face, “What about you?”

“No. But—” your smile falters, eyes dropping to your coffee cup, “But I’m scared.” 

Guilt pools icy cold in his guts. His throat bobs on its own accord. He takes your hand, weaving his fingers with yours.

Your face twists into a pained expression and you croak, “What are we even doing here?” 

“I don’t know yet,” he shakes his head, “But give me some time—”

“I can’t be your mistress again,” you whisper, shaking your head as tears pool in your eyes, voice escalating, tinged with panic, “Please don’t ask me to do that again, it would kill me, Frankie, I fucking can’t—”

“Hey—no,” he sits up to place his mug on the table, takes yours and does the same, then scoops you up onto his lap.

You bury your face in his neck. Sobs work through your body with violent force—a horrible, tortured sound that pulverizes his heart. All he can do is squeeze you tight and do his best to restrain his own tears. It barely works. Self-loathing bubbles under his skin. 

His voice cracks as he tells you, “I won’t do that to you again, mariposa, I promise. I’ll fix it, I promise I’ll fix it, ok?” 

He clenches his eyes shut, cradling you as a few more strangled noises burst from your chest, each one driving the thought deeper: I don’t want to do this anymore. 

“Give me some time,” he rasps into your hair, “I promise I’ll fix it—”

“You’re just saying that because I’m crying,” you choke out in an accusatory fashion, then take a big, wet, gasping breath. 

“No, I’m not—hey, look at me.”

He pulls back to meet your eyes, but you shake your head in protest, covering your face, “I don’t want to, I’m ugly crying.”

“Ugly crying?” Frankie snorts, “I don’t know about that, let me see.” 

Your shoulders bounce with a soggy, muffled chuckle, “Shut up.”

He smirks at the spunky response as you sniffle and drop your hands, shooting him a glare he knows you don’t mean. Feigning seriousness, he pinches your chin to inspect your damp, puffy face. 

“Hmm,” he clicks his tongue and sighs, “Just as I thought. Too goddamn pretty for your own good.” 

To this, you roll your eyes and chuckle, “You’re a liar.” 

“Maybe,” he shrugs, thumb sliding across the plush of your bottom lip, “But not about this.”

Your gaze softens as you search his face, “Which part?” 

“All of it.” 

“Really?”

Frankie nods. 

You study him, brow furrowed, eyes welling up. Everything is so silent and still, he wonders if the world stopped turning. A fat tear rolls down your cheek and you croak out, “You better not be fucking with me, Francisco.”

“I’m not—”

“Because, I swear to god, if you’re lying—”

He cups your cheeks and holds your gaze steady on his, “I promise, ok? I’ll tell Ang later this week. But today…” He trails off, shaking his head, “I don’t know.”

A few tears break loose, so he wipes them away. 

The column of your throat bobs and you ask, “Do you still want me to go?”

He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear, “Do you still want to go?”

“You first.” 

“I’d like it if you did. And it would mean a lot to Sarah,” he slips his arms around your waist and leans back onto the couch. You follow, laying your head on his shoulder, melting into him as he pets your hair and says, “But it’s up to you. It might be hard.”

“Because you’re still… with her, right? Like this?”

His chest aches. You flatten your palm against his heart and he tells you, “Yeah. Well, kind of. It’s different, but yeah.” 

“Different how?” 

I don’t love her. Not like this. 

“I, um… I don’t know how to explain it. She’s just a different person. Our relationship isn’t like this. It’s kind of like it was, but, you know… worse.”

You’re quiet for a moment, then ask, “Do you still fuck her?”

“No.”

The lie slips out automatically. Immediately, his stomach drops to the ground. He wishes he could take it back, and for a second, he considers it. But, at the same time, you don’t need to know about a one-time fuck up. 

He shifts a little, looking down at you, “But we’re still… affectionate sometimes. Which could be hard to see. So, it’s up to you.” 

You smooth your hand up his chest, to his neck, and sit up to meet his eyes, “I’ll go.”

Frankie nods, searching your face. 

“We can behave, right?” your eyebrow quirks, and you glance down at his mouth. 

“Uh huh,” he leans closer, inhaling your breath, brushing his knuckles against your cheek. 

But when his lips meet yours, and sparks ignite under his skin, he knows it’s just another lie. 

[tyunkus]

these days i’m thinking about … fwb service dom tyun… finals week has been kicking your ass, and all of the stress from your different courses and whatever workload you have has been taking a toll on you mentally and physically. and everyone can see it - especially taehyun, who refuses to let you off the hook, and wants desperately to take your mind off of it all.

so he makes an offer.

let me take care of you. he says it when you’re both drunk on the floor of your apartment, trying to take the edge off the upcoming weeks. you had been whining about it all night, how stressed you are, and now he’s looking at you so soft, so serious, you’re taken aback.

obviously, you refuse. you know what he means by taking care of you - you’ve slept with him before. but you don’t need dick to get through finals season, you can handle it perfectly fine on your own!!! and you tell him this, and he nods, shrugging it off, but the air is so thick between you two you know he’s just itching to prove you wrong.

& he does. there’s this party you attend, the night of your last day of exams - it’s like your reward after so many nights of frustration and cramming. letting yourself loose, getting some drinks in your system, dancing away all your stresses, and taehyun’s there, of course he is, hand placed casually on your waist while you two eye the crowd, holding your drink for you when you slide over to the dance floor. taehyun takes care of you, watches over you like he always does. he even humors you, getting a whole bottle of alcohol and holding it barely above your lips while you tilt your head back and he pours it down your throat. holds your chin after and wipes off a drop from the corner of your mouth. you know, that sort of thing.

but then somewhere along the way it gets too much - the lights, the music, the heat. somehow the same feeling you came here to avoid - that sense of guilt, self-hatred, anxiety - bubbles up in you and robs you of all your energy. taehyun notices, probably from the way you stumble a little bit, and when he holds you close and your face is pressed close to his neck all you can muster is, “can you—can you take care of me now?”

and before you know it you’re locked in a random room with him and you’re on your knees. he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, peering down at you while you sit all pretty between his legs, and you can’t quite tell why or how it happened, not exactly. and now… now you don’t know how to feel. certainly the random surge of anxiety that had hit you earlier has disappeared, and now taehyun doesn’t look too worried anymore - but maybe that’s more concerning, his strange look of relaxation. like he has no care in the world.

then he leans over a bit, closer to you, and he cups your cheek, so gentle, so sweet. “you finally agreed,” he murmurs, his thumb sweeping over your face. “you don’t need to worry. you’ve done so well. you can relax now.”

you believe him. you really, truly believe him. you think about the past few weeks and suddenly none of it seems all that important anymore, not when taehyun’s holding you like this. like you’re precious. you melt a little into his touch and he just smiles, his dimples showing. “you’re ready, then? finally had enough? couldn’t take it anymore?”

you’re breathless, flushed, almost ashamed at the implication. sure, you’ve slept with him plenty of times before, but that doesn’t mean you need him, it doesn’t mean you-

“relax, baby,” taehyun interjects, breaking your train of thought. “let me take care of you, alright? just like i promised. it’s all that i want. it’s all i ever wanted.”

me & my obsession w transactional sex w taehyun that actually has feelings and both of u r too dumb to realize

[kyurizeu]

Dangerous game 3

(I’M FINALLY BACK OG MY GOD)

Pairing: Jungwon X Reader!Fem

Genre: Smut & fluffyish

Sypnosis: PART 3 OF DG

After you got caught with Jungwon he wants you to not feel uncomfy with his friends so you try to hang out with them but it doesnt really turn out as you intended… (this is not the last part🤭)

Warnings: Oral (m received), pet names, praises, kisses, marking, lingerie, grinding, making out a bit… (lmk if i missed something)

Wc: 1,2K

Order: all pics -> text

————————————————————

(I wrote this while watching love is blind s.4 so i had a REEEALLLY romance vibe and in love typa vibe)

THIS IS INSPIRED BY A POST I FORGOT THE WRITER

Pics are in the end of the page read the FIRST!!!!

As soon as you arrived to their dorm you rang the doorbell, instantly hearing loud footsteps running to the door.

“Y/N” Jungwon yelled opening the door and you instantly saw the excitement in his glowing soft eyes as he placed his hands on your jaw pulling you into the most soft and loving kiss. Pulling away from you he took a quick look at you up and down smiling. “You look so so so pretty.” He was so mesmerised by the way you looked. Your hair was curled, lipgloss was shining, dimples appearing on your cheeks and you were slightly blushing. “Thank you, Jungwon”. After you walked inside into their dorm Jays face popped into the doorframe whilst he was sitting on the couch and he gave you a quick “Hey y/n”.

“Hii!” You smiled back.

“So jungwon…” he gave you a quick hum as an answer “where. Is. The ice cream?” You smile at him plopping onto the couch next to Jay.

“You didn’t seriously come here for the ice cream..” he lifted your chin up with his finger playfully pouting.

“No i actually did” u cooed back at him sarcastically.

“Well bad news sunoo ate it all” Jay blurted out but kept his eyes locked onto his phone

“WHAT WHYY” Your jaw dropped and you got up to open the freezer.

“It was mint choco so…”

“Oh… ew… so what do i do now ugh..”

“Kiss me” jungwon leaned forward like he usually does and pulled you once again into a kiss but this one was oddly different.. even… lustful. “Ugh get a room idiots” jay cut the kiss with his comment

“Jungwonah! is a romance movie alright with you? I found this new movie-“ Sunoo walked into the kitchen, taking his eyes off of his phone and seeing you to super close to eachothers faces cut him off. “Y/n?? Youre here..?” You feel a little uncomfy because you dont know if he’s being unfriendly or not. “Oh yes.. i-is there a problem..?” You feel a bit concerned and look up at jungwon who is still holding tightly onto your waist.

“Yeah well we were all supposed to watch a movie together tonight..” Sunoo mumbles but doesnt really seem to care and just sips his drink.

“Oh i- i can leave i’m sorry!”

“Dont be silly you can watch with us!” Jungwon pressed his finger against your lips earning a disgusted groan from sunoo “Okay ONLY if you stop that” he even circled his finger pointing around us.

Fast forward a couple hours Niki, heeseung and Jake came back and as they saw you sitting on the couch nuzzling into Jungwon who was munching popcorn, they didnt even want to ask and just sat down to watch the movie.

You all watched the most boring cheesy romcom movie of all time and still somehow Sunoo was constantly giggling and commenting on it, Niki was probably already asleep, Sunghoon was next to Sunoo getting punched each time a cheesy scene took place and Jungwon was holding you on his lap playing softly with your arms in his.

When a spicy scene finally took place you unconsciously and accidentally grind on Jungwons thigh making him look at you a bit shocked. After you realised what you just did you felt your whole face burning red feeling scared to turn your head to Jungwon. His hands slowly travelled their way up your body from your hips to your waist only to press you down on his thigh again. You definitely couldn’t do this especially in front of the boys so you excused yourself to the bathroom but didn’t quite make it there.

In the kitchen you felt a hand grab your waist roughly and before you knew it, it was round 3.

Jungwon pulled u up on the counter and sat you down never breaking the steamy kiss.

“Mmh… Y/nn… You’re playing…. A dangerous game…” he mumbled in between kisses as it transformed into a heavy makeout sesh.

He kissed down your neck surely leaving big marks tracing down to your boobs. He saw what you wore underneath your clothes, which was lingerie that you knew he would like. He gave you a smirk which also ha d a hint of disbelief hidden in it. He dragged you into his bedroom and locked the door. “J-Jungwon i’m not so sure if we can do this… your members are here.” You tried to tell him but he kept roaming his hands all over your body making it harder and harder for you to try to stop him. He undresses your clothes leaving you in the lingerie you wore just for him. “Mnnghh!!” Your mouth let out the most intense Whine as you felt his hard length press on your cunt through his pants. “W-Won…” you placed your hand on his chest to stop him from grinding on you again. He hummed in response looking up at you with those damn cat eyes filled with lust. “C-Can i give you head..?” You blushed and looked away from him. His face was only 2 inches away from yours and you saw he smirked. You were suddenly facing his crotch and he was standing up next to the bed. “All yours sweetie..” You blushed even more and sat him down onto the bed getting on your knees to the floor. “I-i havent done this before.” You say shyly as he pulls his sweats down a little revealing his length making your eyes follow his pink tip swinging and slapping against his abs. Your mouth waters at the sight. “Go ahead sweetie.. just.. dont use your teeth.”

You didn’t even think twice before wrapping your small hands around it and pressing the base before taking the tip into your mouth. Kitty licking it made Jungwon Groan sweet sounds that turned you on so much that you just dove in and took him deeper. He admired you struggling to take him inside of your mouth and he softly caressed the back of your head. “Thats my good girl grhh…” he played with your hair before gathering it into his fist for a ponytail. “A-aghh doing so good princess..” his eyes were travelling around your body in your lingerie and your tits bounding as you bobbed your head further and further down his cock. He started pushing your head deeper onto him making you gag around him but also bringing him closer to cumming. “J-just like that mmhm..” he started full on moaning and you got a little concerned about the others hearing him. He started to thrust into your mouth even quicker and you already felt hot liquid in your throat. “ANGHH— ah…” he came in your mouth pulling out of your mouth. “Now swallow baby” he leaned down and wipes your tears caressing your cheek. You swallowed keeping the most intense eye contact with Jungwon. His gaze was burning into you lustfully and lovingly whilst yours was shy and soft. “Good girl baby.” He kissed you once more and let go of your hair. “I’ll clean you up sweetie.” He wiped your face and put your hair into a bun. He gave you his biggest t-shirt and helped it on you. “Can you just sleep over here and let me cuddle you baby? I miss you” “mmh okay then but i need a drive to school tomorrow” He nodded and pulled you in his arms and jumped on the bed tickling your stomach.

“OPEN THE DOOR DUMBAAS” Jay was banging on the door.

#Taglist

@aerii1i @wonvnz @cha0thicpisces

@Kimiplx @xiaoderrrr @lmaomaolmwosksjxjdk

[stariekis]

love novels.

pairing : non idol! jungwon + librarian!reader . genre : fluff . cw : none ! let me know if i should add smt . wc : 2.6k not proofread

— synopsis : who said that you can't live those things you always read in your romance novels ?

— note : long ass hiatus damn ... sorry for being so inactive babies but i've been pretty busy with uni and resting too ngl but i promise i'll repay u🤞🏻 <3 n e wayyys here u have a lil woni one shot :D hope u guys enjoy it! all kinds of feedback and reposts are always appreciated as u know 🤲🏻⭐

This new semester you decided on working for your college's library. You loved reading and you go there pretty frequently so you thought that this was the perfect job for you and you can also have some extra credits

The first days there you notice a particular student entering the library at the same time every day, five o'clock to be precise. At firts you didn't pay much attention to him, he was like every other students after all.

But as the time passes by you find yourself looking for him every afternoon, hoping to see him again at the same time.

He was pretty - a pretty handsome guy to be fair - so it was obvious that he would eventually catch your attention. He also has a unique and calm aura, making him more interesting to you.

This is how we ended up in this exact day. The day was pretty boring, not many people entered the library and you spent most of your shift seating behind the desk and organizing the shelfs.

The sound of the door opening caught you attention. It was him, the boy with pretty eyes. Looking at the clock you smiled, five o'clock, right on time.

He, as usual, when straight up to the 'romance novel' shelft. You wanted to talk to him so bad, but how he will react if you just approached him out of the blue ?. So, when you saw him grabbing one of your favorite books you knew you couldn't let this opportunity slide away.

— 'That's one of my favorites books' you said, standing behind his back. He turned around as soon as he heard your voice, smiling at you. He was tall, his frame almost towering you, and he was even prettier up close.

— 'Really? i didn't know that you were into this type of books' actually he knew it perfectly, he saw the same exact book on you desk the other day that's why he choose it.

You didn't notice but since the first time he entered the library he was enchanted by you. Images of you behind your desk with your glasses on and you hair up in a messy bun keep repeating on his mind since that day, he then started frequenting your workplace more.

— 'I actually love romance novels but this one is amazing really, the characters are so well written that you empathize a lot with them and the plot is like strangers to loves and-' you looked at him for the first time and you were shocked to say the least when you found him looking directly at you, totally hypnotized while listening to you. — 'I talk too much don't i?' you look at you feets trying to avoid his gaze.

Jungwon giggled, putting on of his hand under your chin and lifting your face until your eyes met again. You almost melt under his touch. — 'Not at all, i love hearing you talk' he said almost whispering, you didn't realize how closr both of you eere until he backed up a bit.

He handled you the book — 'Sadly I have to go now i have some things to do but i will come back to rent this book okey?'. You nodded, you were completely out of words and your heart was beating fastly. — 'See you around pretty librarian'.

Then he made his way towards the door and, before closing it, he gave your the sweetest smile ever showing his pretty dimple.

You stood there with the book in your hands. When you were about to put it back on the shelf you saw a piece of paper sticking out tje side.

You picked it up and opened it. You put your back against the shelf and slid down until you were sitting on the floor smiling at the note.

i've always wanted to talk to you so, if you want too, text me :)

+ xxx xx xx xx

pd. you are really pretty btw <3

att. jungwon

[planetpiastri]

ooo can you do 10 with hangman please??

anon this request grabbed me by the hair and threw me down the stairs and when i got up this blurb existed. i am merely a vessel here. i hope u enjoy!

10. sitting next to each other at their mutual friend’s wedding

word count: 2k

“You’re late,” hummed Mickey under his breath as you brushed past him, heading out towards the lawn.

“But they haven’t started playing music, so I’m not that late,” you shot back, pausing to catch your breath and scan the crowd sitting on the folded chairs spread across the greenery. “Which is Rooster’s side?”

“Left,” he said with a jerk of his chin, “but it’s not like you really have any other options. You’re on the end there.”

“Thanks,” you said, giving him a quick squeeze on the arm. “You’re the best usher ever. It’s good to see you.”

“Hurry up!” he chuckled, but you’d already started moving again. You tried not to focus on the fact that the one open seat was on the aisle towards the front, which meant everyone seated got to stare at you as you walked down the aisle. Instead you made eye contact with Rooster, standing under the white archway in his tux, and waved excitedly.

He very obviously stifled a laugh and shook his head in mock disapproval, mouthing, You’re late. 

Sorry, you mouthed back, quickly taking your seat and nearly colliding with your seat neighbor. Jeez, these seats were tiny.

“Well, hello,” said your seat neighbor, immediately stopping whatever conversation he was having and turning to give you a very obvious once-over.

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you turned and did the same to him—and immediately wished you hadn’t. Oh, shit. This guy was cute. He was broad-shouldered, with a strong jaw and bright green eyes. His blond hair was neatly smoothed back for the occasion, and he was dressed in a nice dress shirt suit jacket that seemed to be straining at the seams. There was a half-cocked smirk resting on his lips as he looked you over, and you felt your own jaw clench as your eyes met his.

“Hi,” you said.

“You know, you’re late,” he told you as if you were old friends.

“No kidding. I thought the ceremony started at—” you checked your phone, “three-twenty-four. That’s a normal time for weddings to start, right?”

He chuckled, but it sounded more like a scoff. He jerked his chin up towards the archway where Rooster was standing, fiddling with his hands nervously. “Which are you here for? Bride or groom?”

“I’m sitting on the groom’s side, aren’t I?” you shot back.

He fixed you with a look that made you freeze in place. “I wasn’t aware you had many options.”

Your cheeks started to warm, but you fought it back and cleared your throat, blinking and tearing your eyes away. What was that accent? It was faint, just barely there—Texan, maybe? “Me and Rooster are old friends. High school.”

“No kidding,” said your seat neighbor, throwing his elbow up against the tiny back of his folding chair. “He’s never mentioned you.”

“You don’t know me,” you reminded him.

“Jake,” he said quickly, holding out his hand. “I’m an old piloting buddy of Bradshaw’s.”

After a moment, you shook his hand and introduced yourself. 

“There,” said Jake. “Now I know you. And now I know for sure that he never mentioned you.”

“Well, he never mentioned you, either,” you said.

Jake laughed, and you were oddly pleased to be the inspiration of such a noise. “You know just how to cut a man deep, don’t you?”

“It’s a talent,” you admitted with a sly smile.

A dimple on Jake’s cheek twinkled as he gave you an appraising sort of look that went on for several seconds longer than might have been appropriate. Then he stretched out, saying, “So, old high school buddies, huh? What’s the deal there? Childhood sweethearts? Best friends who always wanted more?”

“No,” you said sternly, shooting him a glare.

“What?” he shrugged, laughing. “I’m just saying. Someone pretty as you—there’s no way Bradshaw’s never thought about it.”

As you scoffed and adjusted your outfit, feeling quite flustered, the bride’s entrance music began to play. Everyone shifted in their seats except for Jake, who kept looking right at you, pinning you with that green gaze. You finally said, “You’re extremely presumptuous, Jake. No wonder Rooster never mentioned you; you’re exactly the type of piloting buddy he would have told me to stay away from.”

“Bingo,” said Jake. “Best friends who always wanted more. I knew it.”

“That’s not—!”

“Ssh,” he interrupted, pressing a finger to his lips. Behind it, his mouth curled into a teasing smirk. “It’s rude to talk while the bride is making her entrance.”

Part of you wanted to wring his neck; another part of you was sure he could hear the way your heart was pounding in your chest, an excited, flirtatious flush coursing through your body as he watched you. But you maintained your composure and turned primly in your seat, turning to watch as Rooster’s wife-to-be slowly and elegantly made her way down the aisle.

The ceremony was lovely and beautiful, just as you knew it would be. Rooster had asked Maverick to officiate, something you knew meant a great deal to Rooster and probably more to the old captain. When it came to the reciting of the vows, you were fairly certain there wasn’t a dry eye in the house; even aloof, stoic Jake next to you dropped his cocky smirk, and you caught him subtly dabbing at his eyes once or twice when he thought no one noticed.

Once the reception began, you didn’t hang around to let Jake get under your skin anymore. It was wild to you just how quickly he’d figured out what buttons to push that made you squirm, and you didn’t want to give him any more opportunities to learn anything else about what made you tick. Instead, you rushed to find Rooster as soon as you could, throwing your arms around him and giving him a congratulatory kiss on the cheek before doing the same to his bride.

The hours plodded on, and soon everyone was at least three drinks in—or, as Mickey liked to say, the wedding had actually started. You split your time between dancing with him and dancing with Natasha, and you used slow dances as an opportunity to return to the bar and rest your feet for a bit.

You were nursing a tequila sunrise at the bar when you remembered the man from the ceremony. Come to think of it, you’d seen him on the floor a couple times, dancing with a bridesmaid or a couple of his bro-ey friends, but he hadn’t said a word to you. And why would he? Why were you still thinking about him? He was obviously just a flirt; he’d probably gotten under the skin of half the bridal party tonight.

“Stupid,” you muttered to yourself, stabbing your straw through the cherry in your drink.

“Whoa,” said a voice at your shoulder. “What’d that cherry do to you?”

“Jake!” you gasped, whirling around to see him leaning casually against the bar right next to you. His hair was tousled and his tie was loosened, the top three buttons of his dress shirt undone and exposing a sizable stretch of muscled, tan chest. His eyes were shining, and his cheeks were rosy. In short, he looked about as tipsy as you felt.

“Why haven’t I seen you all night?” he asked, shifting a little closer. 

“Trust me,” you said, “I’ve been around. You’ve just been busy, is all.”

His eyes lit up and he beamed. “Have you been keeping track of me?”

Fuck. “No.” You wiggled on your stool, moving out of his personal space to try and clear your head. You waved your hand in his direction. “You’re just very…noticeable.” Fuck, fuck, fuck, that’s not better! 

“You know, I’ve been told that before,” said Jake smoothly, accepting his whiskey from the bartender with a cool nod and taking a long drink, watching you over the rim of the glass. He motioned towards the cocktail in your hand. “Has this been your night, then? Drowning your sorrows at the bar because your best friend just married someone else?”

“Oh, my god, no!” You laughed, shaking your head. “Would you quit it with this ‘I’m-in-love-with-Bradley’ line?”

Jake held up his hands in a ‘don’t shoot the messenger’ position. “You said the thing about him not wanting to introduce us, not me.”

“That is not what I said.”

Before you could argue more, Jake leaned in close—so close your breath caught in your throat and you felt yourself paralyzed by those green eyes again. He smelled like whiskey, but it worked for him. He said, “D’you wanna dance with me?”

"Are you hitting on me?” you asked.

"I was hoping you’d pick up on that,” he said.

You coughed, taking a long sip from your cocktail before shrugging. “Okay.”

He downed the last of his whiskey in one gulp, which was an impressive feat since he probably still had two fingers left in the glass. Then he grabbed your drink out of your hand and placed it on the bar before leading you by the arm to the dance floor, where they were playing some classic love song—Here Comes My Girl by Tom Petty, you thought. One of his hands splayed firmly across your waist, and a swarm of butterflies burst into life in your stomach, but you tried to play it cool.

“When’s the last time you danced?” he asked, the judgment in his tone clear.

“I’ve had a lot to drink tonight,” you muttered, staring at your feet in concentration. “Gimme a minute.”

But a strong pair of fingers caught your chin, lifting your head till you had no choice but to look Jake square in the eyes. You were positive he could hear your heart pounding, sure he caught the way your breath hitched at the touch. But he just smiled, using the hand on your waist to help sway you to the music and said, “Don’t think. Just do.”

“You are unbelievable,” you heard yourself say.

“I get that a lot,” he replied.

You rolled your eyes and allowed him to lead you in a close, swaying dance, trying not to focus on the lyrics too much. Or on the fact that his cologne smelled really good, especially mixed with the whiskey. Or on his fingers at the base of your spine, or the way his other hand had twined your fingers together nonchalantly, like it was the most casual thing in the world.

You started talking before you could think twice about what it was you were saying. “Before, when I said you’re the type of guy Rooster would have warned me to stay away from, I didn’t mean it’s ‘cause he was protective of me, or there was history there, or anything like that.”

“Oh really?” His voice rumbled in his chest, reverberating through you. God, he made it hard to focus.

“Uh-huh,” you said.

“Well, then what would the reason have been?” He squeezed your hand, his lips so close to your ear that you could feel his breath on the side of your face.

You swallowed. “Because he knew you were exactly the type of guy I would have gone for.”

You felt more than saw Jake’s smile. “Is that so?”

“And you’d break my heart,” you went on, “and Rooster’d have to pick up the pieces.”

Jake didn’t have a snarky report ready for that. He kept swaying you, but it felt a little less self-assured now, a little more cautious, and strangely, more intimate. You let your eyes fall shut, trusting him not to let you fall, and enjoyed the feeling of being wrapped in his arms, dancing to a classic Tom Petty tune at your mutual friend’s wedding.

“So what now?” Jake asked finally, drawing you back into the moment.

You blinked your eyes open and pulled just far enough away so you could look him in his eyes. “I don’t know,” you said softly, allowing yourself a tiny smirk. “Are you gonna break my heart, Jake?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted softly, and you were surprised to see the confident facade had fallen away. It must have been the booze, you thought. It had to be the booze.

His eyes darted down to your lips before moving back up.

You really did smile then, wrapping both of your arms around his neck so that he could hold you fully by the waist. “Guess there’s just one way to find out,” you teased lightly. 

His stare was hot and intense, sending shivers up and down your spine. “Do you want to get out of here?” asked Jake.

You threw your head back and laughed before settling in his arms, resting your head on his chest. His arms tightened around you, and you said, “Let’s finish the song first.”

And you did.

[sashi-ya]

𝐇𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 ♡ ᴅᴀʏ 16 ➡ 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐒𝐘𝐑𝐔𝐏. nsfw .minors dni 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐣𝐢 𝐱 𝐟! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: @kwnblack asked: 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜, 𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛! 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝙵𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚂𝚊𝚗𝚓𝚒 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝙷𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚘 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍-𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞! ❤️ 𝐓𝐰: nsfw. food play. romantic. sweet sanji making love to you. devouring your chocolate covered skin. 𝐰𝐜: 876 ➡ hentober masterlist

Tastebuds that feel like climaxing, the dark chocolate with a spicy centre fills your mouth. “This is delicious” you whisper. The moon, the candles, and your personal prince feeding you his own creations from a platter. Cheese, chocolate, cranberries, special crackers.

“Nothing as delicious as you, my lady” Sanji says, with his usual chivalry and blushed cheeks.

He takes another bon-bon to your lips, and this time you bite it with just your front teeth. The filling oozes out, creating a sweet trail from the commissure of your mouth to your chin.

“My, my… let me clean it-“ the blonde says, smiling sweetly and grabbing a napkin. But you stop his hand right before it could get to your face. “Lick it clean~” you purr, putting his hand down, making it rest over your lap.

Sanji blinks a few times, and you can see how much he is fighting not to nosebleed to death. “O-Ok, my love” he stutters. Coming closer, with just the tip of his tongue he cleans the little sticky trail of filling. It makes you shiver, and you feel the tension starting to build in between your legs.

“Ah… I think my recipe is now complete” he whispers, with his lips lingering over yours. “Is it?” you ask back, also whispering and allowing your cupids bow to barely graze the start of his goatee.

He smirks, and he does it slowly. A little dimple marking over his cheek, and your heart beating as fast as it is humanly possible. -or maybe even more.

“See, the spiciness of the syrup needed a sweet flavor to balance it out, and your lips, (Name)-chwan, have naturally done it” he informs you. Sanji gets so incredibly sexier when he speaks about his passion, that is, at least for you, impossible not to jump to him.

And, you do. Your lips finally crush his. As if it was a game of who succumbed first, you did. You were the loser, or should I say the winner?

Both melt in a passionate kiss, little moans, specially from Sanji, scape your lips. And kisses turn into you two falling back onto the wooden deck of that cozy cabin in the middle of nowhere.  

At your feet, a lake reflecting the vast night sky, with millions of stars flickering around a full silver moon. A moon to which frogs and crickets sing, and a moon that now shine its light on Sanji’s and your naked skin.

“But it is also, the warmth of your skin, which turns the flavours all together” he finishes once your lips have become swollen but never satisfied of each other’s ones.

Chocolate syrup, that was supposed to accompany the fresh picked strawberries, is now being drizzled on your body. You squirm with the first drops traveling your flesh, and since Sanji will never, ever waste food, his tongue licks it out right, and straight from you.

Over your collar bones, down to your nipples. He sucks, he delights himself. His eyes almost in a heart shape; Sanji is always the one serving for the others, but, for tonight he is indulging in being served right by your own body.

Your back arches when his tastebuds now enjoy the flavour of your honeys mixed with the syrup. He goes feral, tracing circles around your bundle of joy, sucking and slurping everything that’s possible eating. Devouring you, using his fingers to spread but also to penetrate. In and out, and around.

You grab a fist full of his blonde locks, pulling, increasingly violently, as you reach climax. Sanji is only there to make his lover happy, and lord he does.

“More, Sanji-kun. Come here, please make love to me” you whine, when it’s too much to handle. You need him to be inside you, and you need it now.

“If that’s what my sweet dessert wants ~” he purrs, cleaning his chin of your honeys with his forearm. He guides himself in between your legs, showing his imponent beauty, blocking the silver rays of moonlight with his back.

His loving gaze, far from the childish play he uses to play whenever you are flirting with each other, shows you how much he loves you. No other woman has been able to catch his eye since his blue ones landed on you.

Sanji lends towards you to place his soft lips against yours, and while biting your lip with utmost care but lustful energy, he gets inside of you. Your clenching walls receive his length, and just when both have started feeling each other’s warmth, he starts moving.

Strong hips, legs with muscles that tense to regulate his thrusts. He doesn’t want to hurt you, even if his mind runs wild and begs for him to go feral. He goes slow, and then fast. Sanji goes up and down, Sanji stays deep inside you for some seconds while devouring your nipples.

The prince, the cook, knows exactly how to love your body. And because he knows, climax hits you. And with I love yous, and more sweet words, both melt in a beautiful limbo of pure ecstasy.

“I love you, my All blue” he whispers as you rest on his chest. “I love you, my sweet dream ~”