#which is like. i live and breathe for that shit | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

arminsumi · 3 days ago

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HIS BABYSITTER FANTASY COME TRUE!

𝖘𝖚𝖒.ㅤ★ Dilf!Gojo fantasizing about taking his babysitter's virginity 'till it becomes a reality and oops... now he's fucking you off the bed 'n taking this to the floor like a wrestler!

𝖜𝖈ㅤ★ 6.7k (beefy like his di-)

𝖈𝖜ㅤ★ strictly NO under 18s, smut, virginity loss, plot, fucking the babysitter trope, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms/creampies, cunnilingus, aftercare 🫶, age gap (Gojo in his 30s, reader in her 20s), solo masturbation, pet names (good girl, slut, etc.), breast play, subtle breeding kink, daddy kink, big d!ck Gojo, he um... fucks a pillow while you give him an innocent massage

"I've always liked older men. Boys my age just don't get me, you know? Neither do they know how to fuck me."

That was one of the first things you said to Gojo Satoru.

And he nearly had a heart attack. Choked on his drink so hard that he had to spit half of it back into the glass.

How could you say something like that with such an angelic voice? It didn't match up, your words were nasty but your face was innocent.

Wiping his mouth, Satoru tried to recompose himself.

"Is that so...?" is all that he could manage to reply with.

He tugged at his baby blue shirt's collar, unbuttoned one button 'cause he couldn't breathe. His blood was pumping. His heart was thumping.

"How old did you say you were again?" you asked softly.

"Thirty-two." he replied. "And way too old for you."

"Perfect." you smiled.

"Huh?"

Mmm... now what did his best friend say about you? "Oh Satoru, I know a babysitter that you and the kids will just adore. She's a real sweetheart."

A sweetheart... uh, yeah, well Suguru didn't warn him about the fact you had a thing for dads. Didn't warn him that you might be crazy. Touch-starved. A way too horny and provocative twenty-something year old virgin.

Maybe Suguru didn't even see this side of you... maybe it was just Satoru that you were throwing yourself at. Surely Suguru would have told him all about a heated affair that he had with a babysitter... right? Or was he the only daddy that you fantasized about fucking your pretty brains out?

Just the thought of that being true made his ego swell and his blood rush down to his heavy cock. He loved thinking about the obvious fact that you laid in bed touching your pussy to the thought of him.

He endured your flirting. Held his hands behind his back. Bit his tongue. Told himself that he can't make out with his hot babysitter on a random Sunday afternoon, as much as he wanted to, because that was diabolical.

You were sitting on the couch alone some nights, ensuring his kids were entertained and fed and happy, while he was at work. You watched their favorite cartoons until they felt drowsy and then you had to tuck 'em into bed and read three separate bed time stories for each of them because Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara all liked different stories.

It was exhausting, but such a joy to babysit such sweethearts.

After they fell asleep, you'd wander a lonely path back downstairs and look at the time — 8:45 PM — then yawn big and snuggle up on the couch and... wait. And wait. Anddd... wait.

Satoru would always come home late from work.

You'd hear the click of the front door and have an almost Pavlovian reaction. Oh, daddy's home.

You'd strain your ears to hear his footsteps as he walked down the hall, hear the satin hiss of his loosening tie, the sound sparking your over-active imagination. And, pushing a stressed-out sigh past his lips, Satoru would walk into the living room to see you looking drowsy and messy after a long day of taking care of his three kids.

And it's that messy sight of you which made something click in Satoru's mind. That's what really sold him on you. Sure, you were a crazy hot mess... but you had this undeniable motherly quality about you that just made him wonder.

What if he gave you his babies?

Shit. Sorry. Random Friday night thoughts. Forgive him. He's been working at a desk all day and now he's feelin' a bit woozy.

He looked at you, mumbled a sweet but gruff "Hey." and then took a seat right next to you on the TV-lit couch. He sat a respectable distance away from you at first... but then, uh, the next second you had already scooched over to his side until you two were almost pressing thigh against thigh.

Exhausted. Apprehensive at how close his flirty babysitter liked to sit next to him, while at the same time getting half-hard at the thought of tearing off your tiny clothes and showing you just how frustrated a tease like you makes him. Satoru sat and endured.

Underneath all that teenage-like sexual tension, he was feeling welcomed home by you. He almost forgot how nice it felt to have someone waiting up for him.

"So, how was work?" you asked.

He grumbled. He sighed. He was half-hard and full-frustrated. No one had asked him that question in a long time in such a caring voice that it actually tugged at his heartstrings a bit. Just a bit.

"It was... um, yeah... like any other day. Long and hard."

"Long and hard..." you nodded, trailing off and letting the innuendo fill the air.

He gave you a look.

"Exactly how long and hard?" you asked.

He couldn't believe that your stupid jokes like that made him chuckle. And what a sight his smile was; his dimples, the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners, making the slightest age lines appear on his pale face.

"Ah, finally I got a smile out of you."

"And that's the only one you're getting." he shook his head.

Satoru brought his big hand to massage his shoulder, letting out a tense groan from his thought.

Oh, the pitiful look that you gave him made him wanna crawl onto your lap and weep. He'd worked so hard all week with scarce breaks, and all he wanted was a sweet, soft woman to lay upon, to be loved by, to fuck stupid, to use like a good stress-relieving fleshlight — ya know? Just a nice way to wrap up a hard week.

"You..." you began, pressing one long decorated nail into his firm pecs, "... look like you're in desperate need of a massage."

"Ahah... no, no..."

He stuttered, smiled a big toothy smile that made you wanna bite him. God, he really looked like that old photo of himself right then — that one you stole, remember? His graduation photo. He just looked too hot and you had to have a memento of him for your memory box.

Shit. You were crazy.

Satoru had no fucking idea whether you were making a dirty suggestion or just genuinely offering him a massage.

Either way, the thought of your hands on him got the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

Though the rational side of his brain was telling him to refuse your offer, the ghost of the crazed fuckboy that he used to be forced him to accept — like, fuck, what kind of idiot would you be if you refused a pretty girl to work her hands on you, Satoru? Don't put your past self to shame, he thought, you're only gonna get older one day and then that thing ain't even gonna sit up like a good boy without some treats... yeah... that's right... you're gonna be real fucking old one day, Satoru... think about it...

"You know what, actually...? Yeah, I'd love one... but you better be good." he said in a low rasp.

"Oh, don't worry — I'm the best." you grinned like a sweet little devil.

I'll fucking bet you are, cheeky slut, he thought.

He looked like he was holding back all his raw lust. Like if you said just one more thing like that then he would tear your clothes right off your slutty little body and fuck you until every thought flew out of your head except for thoughts of him.

****

Yeah, that martial artist discipline of his really came in handy once you started massaging his shoulders and back. If he hadn't been so strict on himself, he would have...

"Gosh, you're sooo tense, Mr. Gojo... relax."

... I need to fuck her brains out. That's the first thought that he had to push out of his head.

"... let me take the weight of your shoulders..." you nearly whispered, working your hands into his meaty muscle.

Ooh he slipped, he totally gave in.

"Mmm..." he let out a purring moan, feeling the pressure of your fingertips sink into his sore muscles. "That feels good... keep going."

You were trying to keep it cool and professional... er, as professional as you could with your hands exploring Gojo Satoru's muscular back.

Having the lights down low didn't help much. Everything was turning you on. Your clit was already buzzing and begging for attention from behind your thin panties.

This was babymaking atmosphere.

You were going insane, soaking your panties and twitching 'cause you've got a hot dad groaning under your touch.

"Y' can go a little harder..." he muttered in a rough voice.

"M'kay..."

"Mmm..." he let out that purring moan again, this time stretching it out.

Something was so erotic about giving him a massage, even though it wasn't supposed to be — uh, it really wasn't supposed to be, right? Right? It's not like you planned this out all night, not like you were scheming while watching cartoons and waiting for Gojo Satoru to come home.

Ah c'mon... he's an overworked man in need of a massage. Just listen to him, he's moaning like he's — oh, he's closing his eyes, too? He must be really feeling it. His breath is becoming choppy, too.

"Just a bit more..."

"Like this?"

"Yeahhh... just like that."

His mouth hung open in bliss. He squirmed a little. Shit... he could feel himself throbbing. Even slightest friction of his pants shifting along his painfully hard cock was already intense enough to make him clench his jaw.

You smirked, catching a delicious glimpse of the prominent outline of his bulging cock right before he instinctively covered it up with a pillow.

Damn, how does he keep such a monster hidden under such thin dress pants?

Sticking your tongue out in focus as you deliberately massage a spot on his back that makes him moan out the most, Satoru rolls his eyes back and dies a little orgasmic death.

"Yeah... th-that's it... right there... right there... you can go harder."

"Like this?"

"Yeahhh... good g- uhhh, th-that's good." he purred, holding back his tongue just in time because oops, he almost called you a good girl without even thinking.

Oh, that pillow coverage sure helped to keep his boner out of sight but then he had a new problem... the pleasurable friction of the pillow and the fact his stubborn hips liked to move on their own.

Without trying to make it obvious, he was getting off with the pillow, shifting it as inconspicuously as he could but he just couldn't get enough friction — shit, when was the last time that he was so horny he could even enjoy fucking a pillow? It was insane how hard he was, how much his cock oozed sticky precum, how every inch stood at attention asking politely to stretch out some good babysitter pussy.

He shut his pretty blue eyes when started feeling reaaally good. Like, god, he needed this more than he needed air. It was such a shit day at work, but now all the stress that he had built up throughout the day just melted away with each subtle thrust of his bulge into the pillow, and your soft hands digging into his muscular back.

I wanna fuck her so bad.

"Uhhh, fuckkkkkkk...!" he let out a broken moan.

You stopped massaging his back, eyes blown wide open, trying to hold back your shock and snickering. He had worked up a subtle sweat. His muscles were twitching. He was gasping. It was so obvious to you what had just happened.

"Mister?"

"Huh?" he blinked the stars out of his eyes, coming-to as if his orgasm knocked him out for a second.

"Are you okay...?"

He opened his eyes and... oh, there was a wet patch on his dress pants where he just came. Oops. A little massaging and pillow-fucking and he came all over his thigh? Well, that had never happened before. Guess his cock was just super sensitive after not having sex for so long — but you didn't hear that from me...

Satoru gulped. He abruptly stood up, acting as nervous as a bird, "Um, uh... it's late, isn't it? I've gotta drive you home..."

"Aw, okay." you frowned at him, wiggling your hips like you were expecting more.

And he looked at your wiggling hips, your slightly spread apart legs, and then he let a nasty thought pass his mind, and nearly caved and asked you if you wanted to...

****

God, you had your legs apart and he could smell your ovulation. No no, don't call him crazy. He could smell it.

And as he went upstairs to wipe the cum off his inner thighs and change into new pants, he couldn't stop thinking about the fact that you must have been soaked. You must have had the prettiest pussy ever.

Oh, he threw his head back and groaned when he met you back downstairs because while he tried acting professional, now you were all worked up and in an outrageously flirty mood.

You were about to say something outrageous again but he stopped you dead on your tracks.

"Shut up, I don't want to hear it. Let's go." he said, grabbing his keys.

You saluted him playfully, "Yes, daddy."

He did a double take. "What?"

"Nothing." you smiled innocently.

His eyes caught yours, then he rubbed his cheek like he was stressed out.

It was really obvious why he liked you, but Satoru was aching to ask why on earth you like him so much.

Didn't you think he was an egotistical asshole? That's how his ex-wife described him, anyways.

*****

"So you're a Sagittarius, huh?" you ask, little voice dripping in sultriness and setting off alarm bells in the fuckboy side of his mind. "That's hot."

"Uh-huh."

He's driving you home. 60 mph. Switching lanes. Bright blue eyes blind-spotting to the left. Next they're side-eyeing you. Catching on your pretty baby angel face. Trying to keep it together, but his cock is starting to make a bulge in his pants again. Something you've discovered is that the poor man doesn't even change out of his suit most days; when he comes home he just faceplants into bed and falls asleep.

"A december baby?"

"Yup. December seventh." he replies curtly.

Relax, Satoru. It's just conversation. Just innocent, professional conversation with the babysitter who just witnessed you fucking a pillow and cumming in your pants.

After a steadying inhale, he politely returns the question, "What about you? When's your birthday?"

Satoru pays you a brief glance before bringing his gaze back to the speedometer. 50 mph.

Just that one question turns into a deep exploration of your psyche.

"... I just don't like guys my age... like, god, they don't even turn me on anymore."

You give a dramatic pause before looking at him with a nympho fire in your eyes.

"Hey, you're an old man — got any sage advice for me?"

"Hey, who you callin' an old man?"

"Sorryyy, I'm just being cheeky."

"I can tell."

"Sooo... what's your advice?"

Satoru furrows his brows. "For what?"

"For getting older guys to pay one small glance to a sweet girl like me?"

He tenses up and doesn't reply.

You're insane. Worse, you're even more insane than he was when he was your age.

His cock is throbbing against his inner thigh. Again. Precum. Everywhere. How dare you? He's in-between throttling you and stopping off on the side of the highway to bend you over his car's hood to show you he ain't no old man. What a cheek...

"This is your turnoff, isn't it?"

"... yeah."

You watch him flick on the turn signal. You catch his eyes just before he blind-spots again.

As he's pulling off the highway, you pull a dumb joke out of your brain, eager to get a response from him.

"It's my turnoff. But ya wanna know my turn-on?"

"..." he doesn't reply, just gives you a look, then tears his eyes off you and rubs his fingers over his mouth.

"C'mon." you encourage, "You're so uptight; let me humor you a little."

"I'm pretty sure I can guess your turn-on."

You tilt your head at him expectantly. He purses his lips. Drives down your street. Pulls into your driveway. Parks. Unbuckles his seatbelt with a tantalizing slowness that sparks your imagination — d'you wonder if he unbuckles his belt that slowly, too?

Satoru offers one lazy guess. "Older men?"

"Bingo!"

He stifles a smile, shakes his head, thinks you're crazy, and then opens his car door and steps out, leaving you to giggle and unbuckle your seatbelt alone.

He swerves 'round the hood of the car over to your side, and reappears at your window to open your door for you.

"Wow. Handsome and chivalrous? Why'd your wife let a gem like you go?"

"... that's not really any of your business."

"Aw, c'mon... I'm just dripping with curiosity."

He doesn't reply again, just walks you silently to your front door. His heart is beating faster as he eyes out the curve of your ass. That tight sundress shows just the faintest hint of a thong underneath.

Just a thin sundress? A tiny thong underneath? God you're so fuckable, he thinks. So, so fuckable. And the worst part is that you're one of the girls who knows you're hot. That's why you bounce around in front of men like him like you're a reckless bunny.

He's trying so hard to block out wild fantasies of ripping the fabric off your tight body and fucking you into a dumb, slutty mess.

Block it out, Satoru, block it out.

Finally, he replies to the question you posed earlier.

"I'm full of myself, apparently." he says bitterly.

"You're full of yourself?" you tilt your head, a light confusion glossing over your features.

He's so patient and fatherly to his kids; a jovial and wholesome man. I mean, he takes his kids to every place they wanna go, makes gingerbread houses with them in the festive season, plays pretend with them, sets up outdoor adventures in his backyard, gets dressed up in a ridiculous costume for Halloween and takes them out trick-or-treating every year without fail. For god's sake, he bought a hot pink set of baking cookware just because Nobara fancied herself a chef.

He gives his all to his kids, how could anyone think he's full of himself?

"... seems like your wife was wrong about you." you reply.

"Ex-wife. And nah, you'll probably agree with her if ya stick around me long enough — " he speaks self-deprecatingly of himself, but then you interrupt him.

"— mmm, if I stick around ya for to long... y'think I'll end up being full of you, too?"

He stutters. Blood rushes to his cock.

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing."

Satoru blinks at you in total disbelief. Again, an innocent face like you saying such outrageous shit is just insane to him.

"You've got a nasty conscience, you know that?"

"N'aw, don't mind me. I'm just having fun, being a little silly." you giggle, eyes all over him and his pretty, rideable face.

"Well, I wouldn't call flirting with older men being 'silly'..."

"And I wouldn't call pillow-fucking being 'professional'..."

Oh god. Oh my fucking god. He's breaking in two like a kitkat.

Satoru is rendered fucking silent. He's stunned. He's red.

"Goodnight." is all he replies with. And then he leaves. What the hell else is he supposed to say to that? You're crazy.

Now you got him all worked up and he doesn't know what to do. If younger Satoru knew that one day in his thirties he'd meet a slutty babysitter... oh, god. Younger Satoru would be pumping his fist in the air.

But he's gotta keep playing it cool, 'cause there's no way he can fuck his babysitter... there's NO way...

... so there he is that very night tucked in his black satin sheets, leaky cock in his fist and jaw slacked, face sweaty, fucking himself to supposedly real "I fucked my babysitter" erotica stories. No, he's not one for porn videos. He just wants to lay back and picture your pretty face with no disturbances. He just wants to lay wayyy back on his king-sized bed, fisting his cock with soft fwupfwupfwups while picturing his babysitter's pussy sitting pretty on him.

He groans at his dirty little fantasies as he slides his hand up and down his shaft, getting so lost in the idea of taking your virginity that he forgets all about the erotica story he's reading and jus' closes his eyes, head thunking back against the headboard in bliss and cock dripping like a leaky faucet, practically drooling all over his lower abdomen.

"Good girl; take it all, just like that..." he mutters.

He slides his thumb over his leaky tip and holds it over the hole, smearing precum everywhere as it oozes out, getting his cock wetter before going back to stroking it at a steady speed. His breath gets ragged as he lures his orgasm out.

He's never met a virgin as slutty as you before, that's for sure.

Shit, he really shouldn't be thinking about fucking his babysitter. He really shouldn't tease his cock to thoughts of taking your virginity. It shouldn't bring on his orgasm to picture you trapped underneath his heavy muscles, cumming all over his mature cock.

"... ugh!" he moans out, shifting down the headboard and curling his toes. "Fuck! Fuck... oh, shit, baby..."

Just like that, his jaw slacks in pleasure 'n his cock shoots out thick ribbons of cum and he's creaming all inside you — oh, sorry. That was just in his fantasies.

In reality, he's just cum all over his abs and chest. It shot up so high that it almost reached his neck.

He pants and looks down at the wasted seed that he coulda pumped inside you.

Groaning as he comes down from his high, Satoru lays with his long legs spread out on his bed for a while and curses himself for thinking of fucking his babysitter.

And then he starts weighing the pros and cons of actually doing it.

Yeah, he stares up at the ceiling after jerking off for like thirty minutes, cum splattered on his abs, thinking about how bad of an idea it would be to actually fuck his slutty babysitter.

No, Satoru. You can't. Absolutely no — no fucking the babysitter. Satoru? Bad boy. Don't do it. I know she's fuckable but you cannot fuck your —

****

— so like a week later, he's spreading your legs and crawling inbetween them.

He's placing rough kisses against your lips like he's almost angry about being this horny.

"Nn!" you whine, feeling his fingertips press against your clothed pussy, pushing against your entrance.

"Aw, you're soakin' your panties just from a little bit of kissing? Aren't you cute." he murmurs on your skin.

"Sh-shut up and fuck me... I can't take this teasing." you spit back, pulling him back into a rough kiss.

He chuckles into your mouth, tongue slithering over yours and tangling up with it for a few seconds before he pipes up;

"I'm just getting back at you for all the teasing I endured from your slutty ass."

Biting your lip. Pulling away. Letting out a purely erotic noise. Sliding his big hands down your sides and gripping you like you're his woman.

Oh now your breath gets caught in your throat.

"Let's get you nice and ready for me, hm?" he husks, lips dangerously close to your clothed pussy.

Oh now your heart rate spikes to an alarming rate. Fuck. You're actually doing it. You're actually gonna fuck an older guy.

He plants a rough kiss on top of your pussy, chin pressing against your buzzy clit.

"Mm...!" you press your lips together, trying to keep some sort of composure but you can't 'cause you've got Gojo Satoru between your legs — who the hell would be able to stay composed in your position?

Damn, it drives him crazy when your inner thighs graze the sides of his cheeks. You're ruffling up his hair. He's going down on you.

A moment later, he's pushing your panties aside and lapping at your pussy. Another moment later, he's curling his tongue up inside you.

"Oh my god th-that feels good..." you gasp, feeling his slippery tongue writhe inside.

"Mmm, I know it does."

He feels smug hearing this, pressing an open-mouthed smile against your pussy lips as he sticks his tongue as deep into you as he can possibly go, eyeing your blissed-out expressions. Sliding his tongue out, spitting on your pussy, rubbing sloppy frantic circles on your clit, Satoru's acting like a total show off.

It makes you hide your face between your palms.

"Ah-ah-ah... I want you to watch." he growls, "Don't you dare take your eyes off me, m'kay? That's a good girl."

Tip of his nose nudging your clit as he tongue-fucks you into hazy bliss, you're moaning like you never knew you could.

And he's just in heaven, 'cause he's got your juices dribbling down his chin and glossing his lips better than his favorite lip gloss — uh-huh.

"Mister! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck — nnn! G-gojooo!" you start mewling his name and he goes faster, trying to chase your orgasm out with full intent to leave you hanging.

Your breath is staggering, pussy pulsing with that edge of pleasure and oh, suddenly he's retracting his tongue from your weeping, spasming hole before you can cum all over his face.

Yep. He leaves you hanging.

"Wait — ! Nn, I was gonna c—"

"— y'know, princess" he interrupts, wiping your slick off his cheek with his fingers and licking it off right before your wide eyes, "I really think we're past the formalities; call me Satoru."

Half-dazed and ditzy on the pleasure of a missed orgasm, you watch as Satoru pulls away from you, his knees digging into the mattress and weighing it down.

Veiny hands find his belt and smoothly undo it, whipping off with a loud crack.

"O-oh?" you breathe excitedly.

He smirks, seeing how your eyes are glued to his bulge, "Aw, ya gonna perv on me while I strip for ya?" he teases, then clicks his tongue in regret when you reply with a lamb-like look, "Hahaha, don't get shy on me now. I'm just teasing."

Absolutely drooling over his physique as he strips his clothes off tantalizingly slowly, Satoru's been so composed up until now; as he unbuttons and unzips his long zipper, you notice how ragged his breathing actually is. Like he needs it bad. Like his cock is getting strangled by his clothes.

After hastily taking his pants off, Satoru quickly frees his eager cock from his boxer briefs.

And your eyes go wiiide.

"Oh."

Pale. Pink. Stiff. Leaky. Bit of an upper curve. Thick veins. What's that, like maybe a nine? No, no, there's no way. Actually, on second look, maybe?

"C'mere, let me have you." he rasps, one hand gripping his dummy big cock.

"That is not gonna fit inside me."

His ego swells. Ah, how many girls have said that to him in his life? And it never gets old.

"Nah, it'll fit."

You twitch excitedly, breath catching in your throat as Satoru comes closer to you and snuggles his slim waist between your legs which you just keep spreading wider and wider, so ready to take him even though you're nervous as hell.

"Ready to get ya cherry popped, cutie?" he asks.

He taps his cock against your entrance, coats it in your slippery juices, teases that hot tip in 'n out.

"Yeaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhfuck! Holy shit! Um! Uh!"

"What is it?" he throws a smug smile your way.

He watches intently as your pouty lips move, "'Big, 's really fucking big...! Ooh, god! Nn! Nnn!"

"You're so cute." he arches over you, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

His head starts to spin as he slides inside you.

Fuck. He's actually doing it. Sure, he fucked that flight attendant once. Yeah, he had a couple flings. He was a nasty, sex-crazed fuckboy in his youth. And yet... nothing felt as nasty as this.

This is everything he ever fucking needed. This is the sweet and nasty girl that he's craved for all his life. The rest were too nasty, some too sweet, but you? A perfect slut.

Satoru's curving up into you and teasing your sweet spots with his tip like he's letting 'em know that soon they're gonna get bullied with his hard-hitting strokes.

And your pussy's happily getting stretched out, walls clinging to every inch he pushes in like she's so thankful that you finally gave her something besides your fingers or toys to clench around.

"Ah, fuck, that's tight."

"I'm sorry!"

"No, no, it's a good thing... just relax a little more, 'm gonna push it deeper, is that okay?"

"Yes, please... oh please, fuck, yes give me everything!"

He grins, "No need to ask twice." he murmurs, right before he's sinking another few of his inches into your struggling pussy.

Satoru just comes undone at the feeling of being inside you.

His big hands come to squeeze your breasts, jiggling them around with a playful tongue poking out his mouth like he's just tempted to put his mouth on them.

So he does, y'know he's already lost enough self-restraint to the point where he's fucking his babysitter, so of course he's gonna give into his urge to suck on your breasts.

His hot, wet mouth envelopes your sensitive nipple, tongue flicking against it 'till he draws out cute whimpers from you.

He's pulling his mouth off, kissing the curve of your cleavage, groping a handful of your breasts, looking down at you like he knows damn well no boys your age are gonna fuck you as good as him — shit, scratch that, ain't fuckin' nobody in your whole life gonna fuck you as good as he will.

When your walls permit him to go deeper, Satoru stutters out like he's the virgin here, "F-f-fuck, there you go, baby, jus' take my cock like you're meant to, yeah?"

He moves his hips, relishing that sloppy sound of your pussy gushing around him — oh god you're bucking your hips to meet his hips 'n you're driving him crazy makin' him think for a split second about remarrying.

Like, he's going insane, he's actually going insane.

Hardly ten minutes later and he's fucking you into your first orgasm, loving how you can't even control how hard you cum on his cock. He's ruthlessly rubbing your clit throughout your orgasm, eager to make your eyes roll back completely. And it's making you freak the fuck out, 'cuz no one else has done this to you. No one has brought you to a real orgasm before.

And he can tell.

It makes him twitch and dive deeper into your sopping hole, eager to lure out as much juice as he can 'cause there's nothing he loves more than a creamy mess on his cock.

He's bending and pushing you into the positions he loves, thrusting at a steady pace that you can keep up with at first but sometimes he'll go harder, harder, harder until you're sobbing and wailing out so loudly that he needs to clamp a hand over your mouth.

He chuckles, "Quiet down, princess. You're gonna wake up my kids at this rate."

" 'm shorry!" you mumble into the palm of his hand, feeling his cock drill into your sweet spots and pressure your walls like crazy.

"No, no. Don't be sorry. It's cute. You're taking me so well," he praises, "Doing so so well for me, princess."

Those soft coos don't match his nasty strokes. He's railing you like he's trying to fuck every last bit of virginity out of your pussy, 'till it remembers the shape of his cock, 'till it clings to him, 'till it knows who's ya daddy.

Especially while prone-boning you. Damn, who forgot to give this guy the handbook on How to Fuck a Virgin? He's pounding into you and grunting like he's gone psycho... ohhhhehasn'thaddpussyinlikeayear. Okay. Makes sense.

"Ah, fuck — fuckin' look at me while I fuck you," he commands, sweaty cheek pressing against yours. Satoru grabs your jaw and makes you look at him, loving your lewd expressions. "Haha, such a fucked-out face... cute."

He thrusts faster into you, not even letting much of his cock in 'cause he knows form experience that virgin pussy just can't handle all of that. So he's easing out each time he accidentally dives in too deep.

And when he pounds up into you like that, it makes sense why the phrase "fucking your brains out" came about. His cock has got you in a crazy back arch, got you seeing stars. No thoughts. Just pussy spasms.

"Harder!! 'want it harder! Please! Fuck me harderrr!!" you plead, totally cockdrunk on Gojo Satoru.

"Are you sure 'bout that, sweetheart? 'Cause I don't think you can handle it..."

"Please!!" you beg.

"Aw... 'can't say no to that fuckable face, can i?" he throws your leg over his shoulder, repositioning himself, grinning, "Take a deep breath. You tell me if it's too much, m'kay? Y'can tap out at any time."

"Yeah, yeah! I know!!" you respond so eagerly it makes him giggle.

As instructed, you take a deep breath. But honestly, did it really prepare you for getting fucked this hard? Um, no.

"Fuck, fuck!! Nnn... god, fuck me! Yesyesyes, just like that please!!"

"Ah, shit, baby..."

"God, you're gonna — you're gonna break the bed, 'Toruuu!"

"I'm gonna break you first." he moans, pounding every last inch of his cock into your happy little pussy, gives your g-spot a beating that has your whole body on the brink of insanity.

"Ughhh... fuck!" you choke up, you hiccup, you sob and wail — and he has to kiss you quiet.

My god did you need this. You needed to indulge in this nastiness, 'cuz who the hell else is ever gonna give you the fucking of a lifetime? Uh, yeah, that's right...

"Yeah, keep enjoying my fucking cock. You know nobody else is gonna fuck you as good as this, little slut." he whispers into your ear, cheek sticky with sweat 'n pressing against yours.

What kind of man did his ex-wife think he was? Full of himself? Nah... he wasn't that full of himself. C'mon now...

"... fuck you look so good cumming on my cock like that. Aw, you shaking? Can't handle it? Am I just too good at fucking you, huh? Wanna cum again? Come on, use your words, you're a big girl. You wanna cum again, don't you? I know you want it. I know you love my cock, 'course you do... 'm fucking perfect, baby. 'N you're gonna take every perfect fucking inch of me."

Oh. Okay. Maybe he is full of himself.

Well, he's full of himself and now you're full of him, too.

Satoru isn't shy about pumping a thick, gooey cumload inside you. He isn't shy about frothing up his creampie during round two, either. And he isn't shy about flipping you into missionary and pushing your trembling legs back and sliding his cock in again.

"Can ya do one more for me, baby?"

"Y-yeah!"

"Aw, but you look exhausted..." he grins. "I wouldn't wanna break my favorite babysitter on accident."

"I'm okay, I swear! I can take it!" you start babbling.

Sweat is dripping off your bodies and soaking the bed. The room smells like sex. His muscles are pressing into you. He's diving into you like a swimmer and grunting and making a dent in the wall 'cause that headboard is banging into the wall just as hard as he's banging into you. Neither of you even notice the dent in the wall. You're just stuck together, connected in that one place, fucking like bunnies.

You palm at his abs, pressing flat against them and melting at the feeling of his mmmaturemusclestwitchingohgodbless, you're so gone after feeling his sweat gather on your hand and catching a glimpse of the bulge his cock makes inside you.

Satoru blanks when your small hand feels up his muscles. Now his thrusts got your lower tummy shuddering and you just wonder what he's thinking when his brows furrow together in such serious focus at your fertile pussy.

"Ohmygodohmygodyou'regonnafuckingbreakme!!" you squeal, fisting the pillow and nearly crying into it.

He giggles, slowing his thrusts to a pace your poor, abused pussy can handle better, "Sorry, doll, you jus' got me too excited when you touched me like that."

"Nn!!" you fist the sheets in your hand, realizing just how far he fucked you to the edge of the bed — the two of you were nearly falling off the bed until uh, oops, you were on the floor?

"Ahh-ahhh! Ah! AH! Wh-what kinda... wrestling move is this, Satoru! Fuck, go easy on me!! 'M gonna cum again!!"

He's too into it to bother getting the two of you back on the bed. Now he's just pinning you down on the plush carpeted floor, railing your tight cunt from behind like he owns it. He may as well, honestly.

"Oh yeah?" he grunts, "Cum again on my cock. Lemme see you work it out on my cock. C'mon, isn't this the cock you wanted so badly? Put on a show for me, baby."

"Ahh!!" you sluttily cry out, bouncing your hips up and down and working your pussy on just six of his nine inches.

"Fuuuck... look at that back arch... haha, you already runnin' outta stamina? Yeah, tell me about it. It's hard work fuckin' a big cock, isn't it? Okay, okay, spoiled princess..." he mutters, hearing your exhausted pleas, "Perk that ass up, lemme show you how it's done."

"But this position is so — AH!" you kick your legs as he slides deeper with each quick stroke.

His tip's prodding at a spot you don't even recognize; a sweet gummy spot that's like your off button. You can't keep your mouth shut and now you're getting so loud that he's gotta clamp a hand on your mouth again, pushing you into the carpeted floor and not stopping his hard-hitting thrusts for a looong few seconds, driving it deep.

He picks up his pace, balls slapping into your clit so loudly that he can't even complain about the loudness of your moans. That skin-slapping 'n squelching could wake up the neighborhood.

"Fuck," he grunts, "Ah, ah... stay right there, 'gonna make you a mama..."

You thrash your legs around, "Nn! Please!" you squeal, feeling his warm seed pour into you again without warning. Just that feeling makes you cum. Hard. Satoru's cock freaks out at the feeling of your pussy's milking contractions along his length, making his tender tip spurt out a little bit more cum against your cervix.

It's so bad. You really shouldn't love getting creampied by an older man this much, let alone your... uh, boss?

Worse. He shouldn't have such a big fucking smile on his sweaty face. He shouldn't be rolling his eyes back in satisfaction like that, like he finds it so funny that he actually did it.

"God, you sure loved milking me, huh?" he smiles wide, bangs soaked and sticking to his sweaty forehead.

"Nnn..." you nod, totally exhausted.

He watches you trying to catch your breath, gulping and gasping. He slides his softening cock out of your over-creampied pussy, earning a small whimper from you. Oh, you feel so empty now, it's crazy. Just how did he pack all of that cock inside you? He can't figure it out, either.

"You okay, sugarplum?" he asks sensitively, stroking your cheek with the back of his hand.

"Yahhh..." you weakly whimper back, wiggling your foot cutely, "Need t' cleanup... need help w-walking..."

All his creampies bubble out your pussy.

He stifles a laugh, feeling a bit guilty. Satoru presses a kiss to your back, peeling you off the floor and practically carrying you to the bathroom — floor and walls black tiles, every corner spelling 'rich boy' in bold letters.

Carefully and slowly, Satoru helps to clean you up, massaging your sore parts with his big hands, peppering your neck in the sweetest little kisses as if he didn't just rearrange your guts and ruin your pussy for other men.

"So... how's it feel, not being a virgin anymore?" he asks with a dirty big bad fuckboy smile.

You simply blush and smile shyly in response. It makes him laugh.

"Aw, are you all shy now, pookums? Shit, I think I fucked tha nasty outta you..."

You nuzzle him, looking about ready to sleep, and it just melts his heart.

"Mm, y'know... Suguru was right about you; you're a real sweetheart. I think I might just have 'ta keep you around for a long time."

ㅤ🍒 x 🐇 x 💗@𝖆𝖗𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖎

ㅤ𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

@screampied (I KNOW IT'S BEEN LIKE A YEAR SINCE I LAST MENTIONED THIS FIC SORRY LOL) 💗 @pickledballer 💗 @wakashudou 💗@miseryyouth-99 💗 @ilovelokism 💗 @yuji-baby 💗 @natsuw181 💗 @madamechrissy 💗@magical-girl-bunny 💗@arminswifee 💗 @msheds0519 💗@nariminsstuff 💗@strychnynegirl 💗@satorupi 💗 @lvstru 💗@buniibloom 💗@tojijibaby 💗@peach-olic 💗 @mandistromboli 💗 @bwunniibell 💗 @nezukochaaann 💗 @valentine4738 💗 @katthekat1234 💗 @aryanaaa 💗 @astxrismstar 💗 @delusionalandabnormal 💗 @shadykittyperfection 💗 @pettypinkprincessblog 💗 @chososgf04 💗 @eliengoddes 💗 @peachmangoe 💗 @dollyschii 💗 @palegardenrebel

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bitterrfruit · 21 hours ago

Text

splinter [3]

ghost x f! reader. 4.7k words cw: none. 18+ mdni [masterlist]

Her quick squeal cut through the walls like they were made of paper.

He might have jumped straight to concern if he didn’t hear a characteristic chill in the treble of her voice, through the thin plasterboard walls of the cabin — followed immediately by the thunk of the shower lever, and the bubbling hum of water pumping through the pipes under the floorboards fell silent.

His head rocked over the back of the armchair as he exhaled irately. Knew what that sound portended. The temptation to elbow his way into the bathroom and shut off the water inflamed with every minute past the first five she was in there — had the sense, though, that she would never settle in if he forcibly violated her privacy in the first ten hours of her stay, no matter how justified it was to do so.

He paused the twenty-year-old Xbox game he had been mindlessly playing in the meantime, once he heard the patter of her footsteps approach as she ambled in from the hallway.

“You have the worst water heater,” she groaned, “I was only in there for like, ten minutes.”

Closer to twenty. Her tea was probably cold.

He tilted his head to look at her as she stood beside her disembowelled suitcase, pile of snow-soaked clothes under her arm and her towel wrapped around her head. She had changed into something much more sensible — cable knit sweater and thick flannelette pyjama pants. Even had a pair of woolly socks on. Surely, he thought, not the kind of outfit she’d don if she intended to run off into the snow and steal his truck.

“Did you use all the fuckin’ hot water?”

She huffed petulantly. “You didn’t tell me you have the world’s smallest boiler.”

He rubbed his brow with white-knuckled fingers.

“It takes two bloody hours to heat back up,” he said indignantly.

“So?” She spat. “You’ve got nowhere to be.”

He almost laughed at that. Earnestly surprised his mood could shift that quickly in spite of her waspishness, though perhaps that was exactly why. He much preferred it to her artificial politeness, anyway, which she must have been employing in the interest of self-preservation.

“Is there somewhere I can hang these up to dry?” She asked flatly, jostling her lump of wet clothes.

“Clothes horse in the cupboard.”

She frowned. “The hell is a clothes horse?”

“Drying rack.”

“Oh,” she said, face smoothing over in understanding. “Duh. Thanks.”

He returned his attention to Halo while he heard her clambering about in the hallway, swearing under her breath, no doubt trying to free the wonky wire rack from where he had last haphazardly shoved it in. The living room was the only place in the cabin with room for it, so she came shambling in with the rack in tow, and unfolded it beside the fireplace.

“Is that what you do all day?” She asked, as she started tossing her damp clothes over the rack.

He looked down at the worn controller, one that had seen several hands since it was bought for the safehouse in the early aughts.

Normally, the answer would be no. Seemed there was always an unending list of chores that living off-grid demanded; chopping wood, clearing snow off paths, exercising the dog, maintaining the generator, patching holes in the roof, on and on and on. He was still technically on duty, too, a field operative in all but practice; so that demanded dedicating an hour or two a day connecting to his commanding officers via sat phone, or pottering about on a rugged laptop to look at files with tight security clearance or reply to encrypted emails.

But a blizzard was something of a fortuitous holiday from all of the above. Poor signal and worse weather hindered his ability to do any of it. Left him with hours upon hours to fill up with hobbies he hadn’t partaken in since he was a teenager.

“Shit all else to do when you’re snowed in,” is all he said.

“Looks old,” she remarked, watching the game on the telly once she had done hanging up her clothes.

“Mh. Bet you were still pissin’ in nappies when this one came out.”

“So you would’ve been starting college, then?”

He snorted. The mockery in her tone hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Not that fuckin’ old.”

“Then why do you have all this old shit?” She asked, more curious than insolent, and as his eyes flicked over to her he noticed her perusing the bookshelves beside the TV unit.

A fair question, though not the easiest to answer. All the books on that shelf would have been released in the previous century, because he certainly hadn’t bought any to add to the collection. Wasn’t much of a reader. She moved on to the CD rack, flicking through the jewel cases like cards.

Needless to say, the fact that the cabin was a military safehouse was confidential. As was his duty as a covert spec op, ostensibly laying low to avoid foreign and home-born retaliation alike after the catastrophic failure of their last mission.

His instinct was honesty. Despite the demands of his career, lying was not connate to him. His inborn nature was as irrepressible as the need to breathe. Still, not a secret he could share, even if he wanted to.

“Isn’t my house,” is what he settled on, but it sounded admittedly unconvincing when he spoke it aloud.

Her head jerked around and she squinted at him fastidiously. “What d’you mean? Whose is it?”

“Friend’s old place,” he replied, fib quickly spun. “Was his dad’s.”

“Oh,” she hummed, gentle in tone, likely making the assumption that either the imaginary friend or his imaginary father had died. Better than what he thought she’d assume — that he had instead killed the previous owners and was squatting on their land. “Why stay here?”

“Why not?”

She gestured out the window. “This exact reason,” she said facetiously. “That and, I mean, you’re out in bum-fuck nowhere. Must be pretty lonely.”

He let out a longer breath than intended. “Fine by me.”

“What, being alone all the time?”

He grunted in place of affirmation.

“Explains why you’re such a dick,” she commented, and he chortled at that.

“You’re no angel,” he retorted.

She mumbled something under her breath, milling about the open living and dining room like the entire space was a museum, picking things off shelves and opening cupboards just to poke about at what had been stuffed inside them. He hoped he hadn’t left anything related to his mission lying around for her to find.

It was a while before she spoke again, in which time she had flicked through the pages of three books, as though hoping she’d find something interesting half-way through them.

“It’s cold in here,” she commented.

When he had no response for her, she sighed mournfully, slotting the book in her hand back into its gap on the shelf.

Felt her glancing at him. “Don’t you think?”

He let out a derisive huff. “Is that your way of asking me to light the fire?”

She shrugged innocently. “Couldn’t hurt.”

He was hot-blooded, so he was content with the temperature within the cabin, especially now that he had put on his sweatshirt. Still, a fire wouldn’t hurt, but he didn’t feel like indulging her impudent way of requesting it.

“Ask, then,” he pressed, pointedly condescending.

She huffed impatiently. “Can you start a fire?”

“I can,” he replied, unmoving.

She scoffed as if to ask seriously. “May you please start the fire, sir?”

He snickered, satisfied. Tried to brush off how her spiteful sir made heat flare up on the back of his neck.

“Alright,” he grunted as he stood up from the armchair, dropping the controller onto the coffee table. “You can take the dog out for a piss for me, then.”

Absurd that the dog perked up from his bed at the word piss, because Simon was such an unrelentingly crude shit of a man that the husky had associated the word with an outing. Let’s go for a piss, as Simon would say every morning, before sending the dog out to dig around in the snow until he got bored or tired.

“Okay, sure,” she relented. “Can I borrow your jacket?”

“You don’t have your own damn jacket?” He asked incredulously, grabbing a handful of splintery kindling from the basket by the woodburner.

“I didn’t exactly plan on going out into the snow.”

“The fuck did you plan for, then? You were driving around in a goddamn blizzard.”

“Nothing, I guess,” she snipped, deflated. “I left in a hurry.”

He exhaled at that, looking at her over his shoulder. “Left where?”

“Doesn’t matter. Can I borrow your jacket or not?”

“Bit big for you.”

“So?”

He returned his attention to the pyramid of kindling he built in the ashes. “Knock y’self out.”

She offered no thanks as she went to snatch his coat from the hook, but he supposed he hadn’t earned one. He busied himself with the fire, stuffing in bunched up newspapers before tossing in a lit match to get the kindling burning.

“C’mon, Johnny,” she chirped, high-pitched baby talk, and it made his throat close. Dog was upright immediately, though, shooting out from his bed and hurrying to where she waited by the front door. “Good boy.”

She had stuck her feet in his snow boots. Cartoonishly huge on her, made even more absurd by the ludicrously oversized jacket that swallowed her, and he couldn’t help but snort at the sight.

“What are his commands? Like, what do I tell him?”

Simon shrugged. “He’ll figure it out. If he gets too far just gi’m a whistle.”

She nodded once, returning her gaze to the dog and beaming like the sun. Fucking dog seemed to love her more than him, hopping on his paws and yelping in thrill, wagging his tail so vigorously it might have disconnected from the root and flown off into the wall.

“Ooh yes, so exciting, isn’t it? Pee time!” She cooed, opening the door and heading out before shutting it behind her. Heard her puppy-talk fade as the distance grew, and he felt lead in his stomach. “So much snow, eh? Yes! Ooh aren’t you such a good boy…”

He gritted his teeth as he added a log to the burgeoning fire, before swinging shut the creaking hatch.

If he counted his blessings, that dog was one of them. No doubt she’d be much slower to warm up without him, and Simon might have lost the capacity for warmth at all if he never adopted him in the first place. To think he almost didn’t, had Gaz not all but insisted. Can’t be all alone out there, mate, he had said, bad for the soul.

Never gave much merit to the notion. Not until now, anyway.

It was fifteen-odd minutes before the two of them returned, during which time Simon just about went out bare-footed to hunt them down, but reluctantly decided to trust her instead.

Good thing he did.

There was a breeziness about her when she pushed open the door, bright in her eyes as she pulled down the hood of his enormous black jacket. Meant he was slightly less irked by the nice pile of snow she left on his doormat. Perhaps she had fostered some trust of her own — a testament to his willingness to let her venture out without chasing and tackling her like he had done earlier that morning.

“Sorry,” she breathed, as the dog shook himself off and sprayed powder in all directions, before immediately bolting towards Simon and jumping up to greet him. “Went for a bit of a wander,” she stopped to giggle, “he’s a maniac.”

“Mh,” he grunted in response, rubbing the dog behind his furry ears. “That he is.”

“It’s so pretty out there,” she hummed, as she slipped off his jacket and hung it back on the hook. “I kind of get why you’d stay, now.”

He nodded as he went to check on the burner again, reminded to tend to it now that she had popped back in. Needed a new log. “A lot prettier in summer.”

“I bet,” she said, pulling his giant boots off her wool-sheathed feet. “I, um, I did some thinking while I was walking around.”

His brows tightened at that, watching as she perched herself on a seat at the small circular dining table.

“I just thought that — if I’m going to be stuck here for a few days, we should get to know each other a bit.”

His ribs loosened. “Yeah?”

“I mean, might as well.”

“Not dyin’ to run off into the mountains anymore?”

“No, I—” She pouted as she thought about it, “I dunno. I was in denial, I guess.”

He chuckled. Cute way of putting it.

“I’m not dumb,” she snapped, frowning when he laughed at her. “Big fucking dude throws me in his truck and takes me to the middle of nowhere, and tells me I can’t leave — can you blame me?”

He was surprised by but glad for her pragmatism, despite lingering apprehension that it was either manufactured or exceedingly fragile. That with one wrong move she’d be jetting off into the snow again — or, that her newfound confidence was rooted in something else.

“Where’d you put the gun?” He asked, abruptly, no rising inflection.

“Um,” she hesitated, playing with her fingers. “I hid it.”

He scoffed in laughter, frowning incredulously. “You what?”

“I didn’t want it near me, thing scares the shit out of me. And I feel better now that you don’t have it either.”

Decided not to tell her there was a veritable arsenal of weapons in the garage, and even more dotted throughout the house; under the floorboards, in the bottom drawer of his dresser, in his bedside table. If she felt better thinking there were none, so be it.

“Plotting to kill me in my sleep, are ya?” He asked, electing to entertain her — did hope she wouldn’t attempt such a thing, because he doubted it would end well for her.

“Maybe,” she replied impishly, eyebrows raised. “Maybe not.”

“You’re a scary bird,” he jeered, shuffling over to sit in the chair opposite her, leaning back in it insouciantly.

“Well, at least now we’re on a level playing field,” she said frankly.

He tilted his head, eyeing her more scrutinisingly than he should have. Not what he would call level, given that she was half his size. All soft and squishy. Bet she was malleable, that he could fold her in half with little effort. Bet the dough of her thighs would pillow out between his fingers.

“Sure,” is all he said.

“Tell me about yourself, then.”

He sighed exasperatedly, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb. Not what he meant.

“Not much to tell,” he grumbled.

She gaudily rolled her eyes. “Come on. Job? Family? You’re from the UK, right? How’d you end up in the boonies?”

There was, he remembered, some manufactured backstory he had been prescribed by the special agents to go along with his fake passport. Bill Greer was the name he was supposed to tell her, that he worked remotely doing operations work for some lumber company — already forgotten the name of it — and had been working that same job for a decade. That he had emigrated from the UK in his twenties and spent a few years in Vancouver before moving up north.

He didn’t think he could tell her all that with a straight face, though. Talking wasn’t his strong suit and lying through his teeth in such detail was no easier.

Settled on nothing. “Long story.”

“Seriously?” She groused. “You in a hurry?”

“Don’t feel like talking,” he exhaled.

Something in her stare made his stomach churn and his temples hot. Not quite suspicion, nor judgement — but it was discerning all the same, eyes raking over him like she might have found the answers she wanted written somewhere in his skin. Her curiosity evanesced the longer he didn’t speak, and it was supplanted by patent defeat.

“You really won’t tell me anything?”

He drummed the table with his knuckles in place of an answer, and she huffed indignantly.

“Fine, whatever. I tried,” she snarked, pushing herself up from the table with a pointed scrape of the chair on the hardwood. “What do you have to eat?”

“Cornflakes,” he said. Smirked when she groaned in disappointment.

“Isn’t there anything else in your truck?”

He folded his arms over his chest as he watched her open the fridge, fingering through the containers of leftovers and bottles of beer. “Fuckin’ fussy, aren’t ya?”

She shot daggers at him. “No I’m not. I just haven’t eaten in — I’m just hungry.”

Explained her enduring pique. “Mh. What’ll fill you up?”

“Ummm,” she mused, poking around in the pantry. “Pancakes. Oh — or something with bacon.”

“Alright,” he huffed, standing up from the table. Lucky that he was on board with the suggestion. “Pancakes and bacon, then.”

Might have melted under the warmth of the look she gave him if he were made of butter.

“Really?” She questioned, some doubt in her tone.

“Uh-huh.”

A pleased smile stretched in her lips, but she corrected it quickly with a nod. Didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, he supposed, but it was too late for that.

“Thank you,” she said politely.

“Whatcha thanking me for? You’re the one cooking it.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Oh — right.”

“Unless you’d rather unload the truck,” he suggested, through a grin. “Got a few logs that need chopping, too.”

“No, that’s okay,” you insisted, tiny smile returning. “I’m happy to make it.”

“Lovely,” he grunted on his way to the front door before putting on his jacket. Still a little warm from when it was wrapped around her. “I like my bacon nice and crispy, yeah?”

She snorted. Sent him off with a derisive, “yes sir.”

Her sunshine had clouded over by the time he finally clambered back into the cabin, snowblown and encumbered by the tub of freshly cut pine he carted in from under the lean-to.

She sat on the couch with her knees folded, mug of something hot in one hand and a folded book in the other. Narrow eyes pinned to him as he dumped the wood by the fireplace and brushed off his palms.

“Hope you like cold pancakes,” she muttered, turning unbothered back to her book.

Grouchy again. He checked his watch, though, and saw he had taken more than forty minutes. Glanced at the table to see she had already eaten hers, while his untouched meal was placed at the seat opposite, knife and fork tucked neatly beside the plate.

He might have apologised if he thought he had done anything wrong. Having his breakfast cooked for him was not something he was used to, and it wasn’t as if he ever had to tailor his comings and goings around another person.

“Smells good,” he settled on, dropping into the chair at the table and folding a pancake in half with his fork.

She’d made the pancakes with blueberries. Must have gone digging around in his freezer for them. The thought almost made him smile. Quiet followed, though not awkwardly so, as he shoveled his luke-warm breakfast into his mouth and she kept her nose in her book.

“Bacon’s a little burnt,” he murmured, mouth full. The rashers were a little black around the edges.

She cocked her head to glower at him, brows pulled together. “You said you wanted it crispy.”

“Yeah,” he taunted. “Not charcoal.”

She sucked her teeth scornfully. “Piss off.”

At that he chuckled. Kept prodding. “Waste of good bacon.”

“Feed it to the fucking dog, then.”

Found himself earnestly laughing as she scoffed and turned back to her book. Shouldn’t have found it as amusing as he did, purposefully winding her up, just to see her get all stroppy and blustering — he simply couldn’t help it. There was something endearing in the way her lips twisted up when she was in a huff.

“You’re hilarious,” she murmured grumpily. Finally recognised he was taking the piss.

He left her be while he finished his breakfast, which was, despite his teasing, quite delicious. He scarfed it all down in about six mouthfuls, before stacking up the plates and dropping them in the sink with cold water and dish soap. Tugged up his sleeves as he took the sponge to the cast iron pan.

She watched him inquisitively over the back of the couch for odd intervals, quietly observing, finally catching his eye as he put the plates away in the cabinet beneath the peninsula.

“What.”

She hummed. “Nothing,” she said, then immediately capitulated. “Didn’t expect you to wash up.”

“No?”

“Thought you’d tell me to do it.”

“Why, ‘cause you’re a bird?”

She shrugged, all but saying pretty much.

He chortled. “Wanna work the kitchen for me, do you?”

“Not really.”

“Thought not.”

She swallowed a breath. “I do, um, I kinda feel like I owe you, though.”

“That’s ‘cause you do.”

Surprise plastered itself in her face like a slap, somehow still shocked at his inveterate boorishness. No use in waffling about it, though, in pretending he was happy to serve her like a live-in butler — he was a man of fairness, after all.

“Yeah, I s’pose you — you know, saved my life, or whatever,” she said, visibly reluctant to admit every word of it.

He grinned. About time she acknowledged it. “You’ll have to make it up to me then, won’tcha?”

She looked askance at him, brows all tight like he had said something illicit. Perhaps he had, if he thought about it for long enough, but whatever implication she had gleaned from the comment was not one he had intentionally put there. He didn’t think.

“I don’t — do you mean…”

He snickered. Eyed her a little too hard. Quiet for a beat too long.

“Get your head out of the gutter,” he jeered.

The rest of the afternoon passed unremarkably, to his astonishment.

After her tiff in the morning, he anticipated the rest of the day to be spent wrangling her like loose cattle. Locking all the doors and windows, looping a length of rope around her ankles to prevent her from killing herself in the frozen wilderness — which he feared she would deem preferable to staying with him, big old beast that he was.

But, mercifully, she was perfectly tame. He might have even mistaken her placidity for contentedness, as she pulled a tartan blanket over her knees, licking her fingertip to flip the pages of her book. Left him to find things to entertain himself with — which ended up being more wood chopping, then finally taking his shower once the water had heated up, then microwaving some baked beans for lunch, then re-sorting the tool bench in the shed, and finally plonking himself on the couch for some more Halo: Combat Evolved by the time four p.m. rolled around.

She had yawned performatively from her perch on the armchair a few times before he deigned to comment on it, and when he refused to give her an inch, she finally requested that she be allowed to take a nap on his bed.

On, she had clarified — wouldn’t want to overstep, or anything, just wanted something to sleep on for a bit, because she didn’t sleep well on the floor, or whatever, and since he was sitting on the couch, just wondering, surely being on top of his blankets would be acceptable.

She could sleep wrapped in his sheets for all he cared, but she insisted that on top was fine. Worried, he supposed, that she’d set a slippery precedent. She wasn’t sleeping in his bed, of course not, just lying atop it like the dog would. Nothing untoward. No boundaries broken.

It wasn’t until a few hours after sunset that she finally shuffled out of his bedroom, eyes all puffy, with the woolen blanket that layered on top of his duvet wrapped around her shoulders.

“What time is it?” She yawned.

He looked at his watch, leaning the wooden spoon against the wall of the casserole dish. “Ten past seven.”

“Oh. That’s okay. I thought it would be like, midnight, or something.”

He chortled. “Thought I’d just let you keep the bed, eh?”

“I dunno.” Still a little fuzzy from her nap, he supposed, because her words were coming out all gooey. “Smells good in here. Is that dinner?”

“Beef stew,” he said.

“Ooo,” she hummed, pottering over to the stove to peek into the dish he stirred. “Aren’t you a domestic goddess?”

He snorted. “Uh-huh. You hungry?”

“Mm. Yes,” she nodded.

“Siddown, then.”

Did as she was told, taking the blanket with her as she plopped herself down on one of the dining chairs at the table. “Sure you don’t need me to do anything?”

“Yep,” he said, as he grabbed two bowls from the cupboard. “You’re doin’ plenty.”

“Doing what?” She asked, frowning bemusedly.

“Sitting pretty.”

She looked winsomely at her feet, and he might have seen a little smirk in her lips if he was any closer. “Ha-ha,” she drawled, as if he had been kidding.

Probably shouldn’t have said it, but much like everything else that came out of his mouth, there was little thought preceding it. She was sitting pretty. So pretty. Impracticable not to say so.

Her brows piqued as he lumbered over with the filled bowls and plonked one down in front of her, leaving a trail of steam from the kitchen.

“Thank you,” she chirped, immediately plucking her fork from his fingers and tucking in as he sat himself in the chair to her left.

“Get used to it,” he said dryly. “This’s dinner for the next three days.”

“That’s fine,” she mumbled, shrugging, mouth full of potato. “It’s good.”

Most of the meal passed in silence, muffled noise of chewing notwithstanding. He watched as she blew on every hot mouthful for a few seconds longer than necessary, amused by the thought that it would probably be cold by the time it made its way into her open mouth.

He was halfway through his meal by the time he noticed she was poking at a few chunks of meat that she had nudged to the edge of her bowl.

“Somethin’ wrong with it?” He grunted.

She blinked up as though his voice had startled her. “No, it’s — I just don’t really like the, um, the gristly bits.”

He snickered. “Gristly bits?”

“The like — the chewy bits.”

“Right,” he said, gesturing with his fork, “give ‘em here, then.”

She nodded, lancing each hunk off beef with her fork and dropping it into his bowl. “Thank you. Sorry.”

“S’alright. Can’t have you eating any gristly bits,” he derided, feeding himself two chunks at once.

She tittered, finishing off her meal, and he wondered if he gave her too small a helping. She picked up his bowl unrequested once he had scoffed down every last morsel, and left the blanket hung over the chair as she went to start stacking up the dishes in the kitchen sink. It was only fair, after all — he cooked, she cleaned. Made him smirk to think that he didn’t even have to ask. Learning the rules already, clever girl.

“I might go to sleep now,” she sighed, once she had finished, wiping her hands off on the towel hung over the oven handle. “I’m still pretty tired.”

Took him a moment to realise why she had told him so, until he understood that it was her way of telling him to get out of the room, since it was the only place he had given her to sleep.

He exhaled in thought, tapping the dry wood of the dining table with his fingers. Shouldn’t ask what he was about to, but it slid out anyway.

“You gonna be alright on the couch?”

She blinked at him. Lips twisting. Considered it for a little too long.

“Um,” she wavered a bit, “yeah, thanks. Couch is fine.”

He nodded. “Suit yourself.”

#yes the og xbox shoutout is nostalgia bait for myself #real ones remember halo ce #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod smut #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x female reader #bella writes

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ggukivrse · 1 day ago

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MOVED ON | JJK

summary. in which it’s been two years since you left, but jungkook’s aching heart still can’t grasp the fact that you’ve moved on

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader

genre: exes au, angst

word count: 3.8k

warnings: break-ups, jungkook’s kinda the problem, alcohol consumption, smoking, this entire fic is a warning atp, written in jk's pov

note: can you tell that writing is how i cope lol. anyways this is dedicated to everyone who’s never moved on from anything in their lives. i love you <3 likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are very appreciated!!! enjoy (?) reading my angels, mwah <3

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist.

October 4th.

Jungkook can never forget that day.

He doesn’t mark it on calendars anymore — hasn’t for the past two years — but it still lives in the back of his mind, like a splinter he can't dig out. The kind of memory that shows up uninvited, every single year.

The day he lost you.

The sky is painted in shades of dull grey that make it hard to tell if it's morning or evening. Somewhere between smog and rain, but not enough of either to matter. He sits on the edge of the roof, one leg hanging over, the other bent against his chest. A beer balances against his knee, half-warm.

He takes a drag of his cigarette and lets the smoke slip past his lips slowly. The taste is sharp, a little bitter as it clings to the back of his throat.

He doesn’t even really like smoking. Not anymore. He just does it when he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands, or when the silence gets loud enough to make him feel like he's drowning in it.

The wind isn't even cold yet, but he pulls his hoodie tighter. The sleeves are frayed at the cuffs, a seam near the wrist unravelling. It's the one you used to wear all the time. You’d always complain it was too big, but you wore it anyway, sleeves bunched up past your fists.

He can still see you in it. Sitting cross-legged on floor of your once shared apartment, laughing at something dumb he says. Tossing popcorn at him with absolutely zero aim and giggling when he somehow manages to catch them in his mouth anyway.

That version of you — his version — only exists up here now. Four floors above a rust-stained alley and a busted intercom. In the one place he can still breathe without someone asking if he's okay.

Because he isn't. He's the farthest thing from okay.

He wakes up every day pretending otherwise, going through the motions like it means something. He smiles when he has to, talks when it's expected. But it's all noise. All static.

No one really sees the hollowed-out parts — the places your absence carved open.

He takes another sip. The beer has gone flat, but he drinks it anyway.

There's something about being tipsy on rooftops at night that makes it easier to admit shit. Not out loud, but to himself. Maybe it's the distance; from the street, from people, from expectations. From the version of himself he keeps pretending to be.

Jungkook tilts his head back and stares up at the clouds. No stars tonight. Not that he expects any.

You once told him you hated the city sky. “Feels empty,” you said.

Back then, he’d told you about how once he made it big enough, he’d buy a place by the countryside so that you could gaze at the stars as much as you wanted.

Ha. Well, at least now, he doesn’t have to move to the countryside anymore, right? There’s nothing to do there without you anyway.

The rooftop doesn’t have a railing. It probably should, but no one in this building cares enough to file a complaint. The landlord barely fixes leaks, and Jungkook figures that if someone falls, it’ll just get swept under the next rent increase.

He’s not up here for the view — a sea of brown rooftops and blinking neon signs in the distance isn't exactly the prettiest thing on the planet. But it’s quiet, and that’s something.

He stubs the cigarette out on the concrete, the ash sticking to his fingers before the wind catches it. He watches it drift off the edge and disappear.

It’s always around this time of year that things start slipping. He goes about his days, mostly fine — half-awake, work, gym, studio — but then something hits. A scent, a song, the way someone laughs on the street.

It isn’t dramatic. That’s what people never understand. He doesn’t collapse in the middle of the sidewalk or scream into pillows or punch walls. It’s just this dull, gnawing thing inside him that starts clawing at his aching heart every once in a while.

There have been girls since you. One-nighters, mostly. A few who stay long enough to learn how he takes his coffee or where he keeps the scissors. But none of them ask real questions. None of them know how to be still with him.

He can’t blame them — he’s not really present anyway. He's not sure if he even knows how to be anymore.

You used to sit with him in silence and never make it feel like absence, running your fingers through his hair or humming under your breath. That’s something he’s never found again.

His phone buzzes in his hoodie pocket. He ignores it. Probably Taehyung, maybe Yoongi. Both have this unspoken rotation of checking in when the weather starts to change. They know what October means. They never say your name, though.

No one does. It's like an unspoken rule between all of his friends, and he still doesn't know if he hates it or if he's grateful.

There was a time when he thought he’d find you again. That maybe you were just giving each other space. Maybe you’d show up at one of the smaller shows he does, or finally call. Maybe you’d send one of those weird videos you used to make when you were bored at work.

You didn’t. You never reached out. And it took him an embarrassingly long amount of time to finally accept that you meant it when you left.

That he just wasn’t someone people came back to.

His lighter clicks once, then again, before the flame catches. Another cigarette.

He didn’t even smoke when you were around. Said he didn’t like the smell on his clothes. You hated it, too. You used to wrinkle your nose and wave your hand in front of your face like he was committing a crime.

He used to laugh when you did that.

He hasn’t laughed like that in a while.

The wind picks up, now beginning to bite into his skin. And when he blinks, suddenly it’s not the rooftop under him anymore. It’s pavement. A streetlight. The sound of his car engine idling.

The day he started to lose you. The beginning of the end, if you will.

He was late — again. You’d been waiting outside his place for nearly half an hour. Still in your work clothes, shoes pinching your feet, bag slipping off your shoulder. He remembers because when he finally pulled up, your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You still kissed him, though. Still laced your fingers through his when you got in the car, and said, ��Hi, baby,” with a smile on your face, like nothing was wrong.

He didn't say sorry. Not properly, at least. He'd just mumbled something about the traffic being shit, and you nodded and looked out the window.

The restaurant was noisy. Some dim-lit spot you picked out weeks ago. You had to mention it three times before he remembered to make the reservation. He didn’t really taste the food that night. Can’t even remember what he ordered. All he can remember is how quiet you were on the ride home.

Not angry quiet or visibly sulking. But he could tell you were tired, and guilt had wrapped its tendrils around him immediately.

He kissed you in the elevator, arms around your waist, his mouth against your neck. You let him. Even leaned into it.

But when you got inside, you went straight to the bathroom and closed the door.

He waited for ten minutes. Maybe twelve.

By the time you came out, your makeup was off and your eyes were red.

He didn’t ask, and you didn’t say.

That was the problem.

He flicks ash off the edge of the roof and watches it spiral down. It’s strange how light it looks — how effortless. It makes him think of the way you used to pull away from arguments.

You were never one to slam doors or yell. You simply apologised the moment things started escalating, even if was blatantly Jungkook's fault, and he let it be instead of figuring things out properly.

He regrets that now. He regrets a lot of things now.

The shift didn’t happen all at once, though he knows it started that day. It crept in as missed dinners and late replies. As days where he chose the studio over your anniversary and thought you’d understand, because you always had before.

You always understood.

And maybe that’s why he took you for granted.

He came home to cold food on the stove and your side of the bed already turned down. You never stopped waiting — you just stopped expecting. There’s a difference that he didn't notice it until long after it mattered.

One night, you left a note on the fridge.

i can’t keep doing this, kook

He didn’t read it right away. He found it after a long session, around three in the morning, and he stared at it under the dim light of the kitchen, heart thudding somewhere in his throat.

He didn’t text you. Didn’t call.

Instead, he showered — he still remembers crying as water ran over his head, finally knowing what it felt like to have your whole world crumble in on you — and got into bed, telling himself he’d talk to you tomorrow.

He didn't.

You didn’t come home.

The next morning, your keys were still on the hook.

Jungkook remembers staring at them for the longest time, because they felt like a puzzle missing half the pieces. It didn't make sense.

You didn’t come back, but you didn’t take them either.

A part of him thought, maybe you just needed air. Maybe you'd come back after work, and he'd make dinner that night, say the right thing, and this wouldn't turn into something bigger than it had to be.

But, he stayed late at the studio that night again. Half by accident, half on purpose. There was something safer about being there — surrounded by sound, by people who didn’t ask how he’s really doing. He could hide behind headphones and half-written lyrics and not think too hard.

When he got home, it was almost midnight. Your shoes weren't by the door.

Everything looked more or less the same, but it felt different. The towel you always used was missing from the rack. The shampoo he teased you for hoarding was still lined up on the shelf, but the scent of it had already started fading.

He didn't sleep much that night. Just lied on his back, staring at the ceiling. He kept his phone in his hand, checking it every minute even when he knew there weren't any new notifications.

At some point, around three or four, he started drafting a text.

Kook: Are you okay? Kook: Can we talk? Kook: I’m sorry. Please come home.

He deleted them all.

Not because he didn't mean it, but because none of it felt like enough. For the first time, he wasn't sure you’d answer.

Two days later, you met him at that café on your street.

It was cold that day. Not winter cold, but chilly enough that the wind creeps in through the fabric of your clothes and settles in your bones. You were already there when he arrived, hands wrapped around a paper cup, half-empty. You didn’t look up right away.

He stood there for a second, unsure if he should sit. Unsure if he deserved to.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft, like it might set you off. Like he’s afraid of breaking what little is left between you.

“Hey.” Yours was quieter.

He settled across from you. No hug or reaching for your hand. There was a time he wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but in that moment, even breathing felt like a misstep.

You didn't draw it out or ask him to explain. You’d waited enough. Months of waiting, actually. For late texts and last-minute cancellations. For him to show up and just be there.

“I’m not doing this anymore,” you said, eyes on the table. “I can’t, Kook. I’m tired of feeling like I’m always the one holding on.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but there was nothing in him that could make it better. Nothing he could say that wasn't too late.

“I know,” is all he managed.

Because he did know. You didn’t have to list every dinner he missed, or every birthday you spent alone. He remembered. Maybe not in the moment, but all of it caught up to him as he sat in front of you in that fucking café.

“What happened to us?” he asked, even though he didn’t deserve the answer.

It took a few seconds for you to respond.

“You forgot to show up. Over and over again. Until I stopped expecting you to.”

You said it so gently, Jungkook was sure it would've hurt less if you had just screamed at him.

He nodded, eyes settling on the table as he swallowed the lump in his throat.

He was chasing everything — albums, rehearsals, deadlines. You asked for space in a way that didn’t even sound like asking. You were never demanding. Never loud about what you needed. You just waited.

And waited.

Until you couldn’t anymore.

“I kept thinking you’d notice,” you said, looking out the window now. “That one day you’d come home and just see it. See me.”

“I saw you,” he said, almost a whisper.

You turned back to him then, sad eyes finally meeting his.

“No, Jungkook. You didn’t.”

With that, you stood slowly, wrapping your coat tighter. The chair scraped quietly against the floor. For a second, he thought you might hug him. Say something else. Give him something to hold onto.

But you just said, “Take care of yourself, okay?”

And with a soft click of the café door closing behind you, you were gone.

The cigarette burns out between his fingers.

He doesn’t even notice it’s finished. Just sits there, letting the filter smolder until it singes his skin. He drops it. Rubs at the mark with his thumb, but the sting stays.

Jungkook digs his phone out of his hoodie pocket.

He stares at the screen like it might stop him. Like the weight of it might snap him out of this, but it doesn’t.

He scrolls past unread messages and missed calls from two days ago. Past people who wouldn’t understand, until he finally stops on a familiar name.

Jimin-ssi.

He hits call.

“Hey,” Jimin answers, his voice groggy. Jungkook can hear the faint sound of his sheets rustling and a fan humming in the background.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He simply lets the sound of someone on the other end calm the shake in his fingers.

When he does eventually speak, his voice is hoarse. “Hyung…”

A pause. Then Jimin, sounding more alert now, “Yeah?”

“Should I call her?”

The words come out before he can organise them.

“I mean— not like, call call. I don’t know. Maybe just text.” He exhales, the cold catching in his throat. “Just to say sorry. Or that I’ve been thinking about her. Or— fuck, I don’t know.”

Another pause. Jimin doesn’t interrupt.

“I’m kind of drunk,” Jungkook adds. “Not wasted, but enough that if I regret it tomorrow, I can just blame it on that, you know?”

He’s rambling. He knows he’s rambling.

“But I mean it. That’s the thing. I really mean it. I just— I keep thinking about all the shit I didn’t say and didn’t do. And it’s been two years, hyung. Two fucking years and I still remember her birthday before I remember to pay my fucking water bill.”

Jimin sighs gently through the speaker.

“I just wanna tell her I’m sorry. And that I hope she’s okay. And that if she ever wondered whether I cared, I did. I do. I would— I would never treat her like that again.”

His voice cracks, barely audible now. “And I hope she’s happy. Because if anyone deserves that... it’s her.”

The line goes quiet.

Jungkook stares out at the rooftops across the street. A neon sign flickers off and on, the “O” in MOTEL stuttering.

“Kook,” Jimin finally says softly. “Look— if you need to text her, I’m not gonna stop you.”

He pauses.

“But she’s doing good now. She’s happy. She’s where she’s supposed to be. She’s already moved on.”

Jungkook doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t speak.

He sits there, phone still warm in his hand, the words looping in his mind endlessly.

She’s already moved on.

He lets out a breath through his nose.

The realisation doesn’t come with a dramatic crash. It's more of a quiet collapse. Something folding inward, something final. He’d told himself he knew, had even said it out loud once or twice, but some part of him was always holding onto the idea that maybe, in some small, fragile way, you were holding onto him too.

Now he sees it for what it really is — hope clinging to memory, not reality. He’s been carrying the weight of a door that’s been closed for years, waiting for a knock that was never coming.

He feels stupid for taking so long to finally understand.

“I figured,” he says eventually. Voice flat, but not bitter. He’s not mad. Not at Jimin. Not at you.

Not even at himself, really.

He’s spent enough nights picking apart the past like there’s still something to salvage from it. Enough early mornings staring at the ceiling, playing conversations that never happened, apologies he never gave. None of it changes where you are now.

Where he is now.

He tucks the phone under his chin and leans forward, elbows on his knees. The wind tugs at the frayed edge of his hoodie sleeve again. He watches it flutter, then still. Then flutter again.

“I think part of me just wanted to hear someone say it,” he says, more to himself than to Jimin. “Like I knew. Of course I knew. But it’s different when someone else confirms it. Makes it real.” He lets out a dry chuckle.

“You still there?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Jimin says. “Still here.”

“Cool.” He nods, swallowing. “I don’t think I’m gonna text her.”

“Okay.”

“I wanted to.” He presses his thumb into his palm like he can ground himself with the pressure. “I really fucking wanted to. But I think I’d just be doing it for me. Not for her.”

The words taste like something between clarity and defeat.

“I don’t wanna drag her back into my mess just because I’m feeling sorry for myself on a rooftop with a shitty beer.”

“You’re not a mess,” Jimin says.

Jungkook gives a humourless laugh. “I’m not exactly a blueprint for stability either.”

There’s quiet on the other end again.

Jungkook looks back out across the city. Nothing has changed. Same cracked skyline. Same humming traffic four stories below. But for the first time in two years, something in his chest has settled.

“Thanks for picking up, hyung,” he says.

“Always,” Jimin says. “Get some rest, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He ends the call.

The moment the call disconnects, the silence comes back colder. He doesn’t notice it until it presses into the sides of his head, dull and dense.

He sets the phone down beside him on the rooftop, screen down this time.

His shoulders curl in.

For a few minutes, he just sits there — body folded, arms hugging his knees like he’s trying to take up less space in a world that’s already decided it doesn’t have room for him in yours.

She’s already moved on.

He closes his eyes. The words feel different now. They’re not just a sentence anymore. They have mass. A shape. They carve themselves out between his ribs and make room where hope used to sit.

It’s not the fact that you’re happy. He wants that for you. Truly, he does.

It’s the fact that you’re happy without him. That your life keeps going when his stays stuck in that final moment — your coat, your chair scraping, the soft click of the café door as you left.

You didn’t look back that day. Not once.

A car horn echoes in the distance. Laughter from the street below follows it.

His mouth feels dry. He reaches for the beer can behind him, only to realise it has tipped over, the last of it soaking into the rooftop gravel.

Just his luck.

He sits back, arms stretched behind him for support, fingers gripping the edge like it might keep him grounded. He doesn’t trust himself to stand.

Because the truth is that he’s not okay.

And hearing that you are — somewhere out there, maybe in a new apartment, maybe with someone who remembers the little things without needing to be reminded — feels like the world has moved on without telling him.

He thinks about what you might be doing right now. Asleep, probably. Or on the phone with someone who asks about your day and actually listens. Maybe you’ve already forgotten what his voice sounds like.

He kind of hopes you have.

Because if you still remember him, it would hurt even more to know you don’t want to come back.

He stays there until the rooftop turns dim with early morning, that bleak hour where the city looks washed out and unreal.

His fingers have gone numb. Not from the wind, but from stillness and the weight of everything he hasn’t let himself feel until tonight.

He’s no longer part of your story. Your name still lives in his mouth while his has long since left yours. You get to outgrow the version of yourself he broke, and he has to live with the one he ruined. You stopped looking for him in crowded rooms a long time ago.

And fuck, does admitting it to himself hurt.

The city below starts waking. Lights blinking on in apartment windows, buses sighing at curbs, a dog barking somewhere far off.

Eventually, he gets to his feet a little stiffly. Every part of him feels heavier now, like his body has caught up to the grief he kept stuffing down all this time.

His phone buzzes once in his pocket. He doesn’t check it.

There’s no one he wants to hear from. No one who can say anything that will make it feel less like loss and more like something survivable.

He looks out across the rooftops one last time, taking in the rising sun before forcing his gaze away.

He makes his way to the stairwell door, pushes it open, and disappears into the hollow echo of a building that has seen too many goodbyes.

The rooftop behind him stays quiet; the wind doesn’t carry his name.

And he walks back down into a life he can’t undo, carrying a love that will never come home.

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lucydixon · 1 day ago

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Sit still

Eddie Munson Masterlist 𐴱 Main Masterlist 𐴱 Taglist 𐴱 Reading List 𐴱 Pinned Post 𐴱 Moodboard side-Blog

A/N: This was supposed to be a blurb, but somehow it turned into a one-shot, lol.

Summary: When Eddie learns that you've never seen any porn, he takes matters into his own hands and somehow, you wind up cockwarming him while watching a dirty movie on his couch Warning: NSFW, Unprotected P in V, Cockwarming, Porn, Praise kink (Always)

"I dunno, I've never watched porn." You shrugged, thumbing through a magazine on the worn couch in Eddie's living room.

"You've-" Eddie's brows pulled together. "What?"

"I've never watched any porn, so I wouldn't know." You reiterated without looking up, thinking he just hadn't heard you correctly.

"Not even a nudie mag?" He balked, eyes wide as his thoughts raced with ideas before he settled on one and immediately felt his jeans tighten. "Do you want to?"

"Do I want to what?" You scoffed, peering over the top of the page with a raised brow. "Watch porn?"

"Yeah." Eddie had a goofy smile on his face, and you knew better than to indulge him when he got like this, but you were bored, and sometimes, his crazy ideas didn't end terribly.

"Sure." You squinted at him suspiciously. "Why?"

"Oh man." Eddie sprang to his feet excitedly and pecked you on the forehead before running down the hall. "Don't move!"

You dog-eared your page in the magazine you were reading and waited patiently for Eddie to return.

It took him a few minutes, but eventually, Eddie emerged from his bedroom with an armful of VHS tapes and dumped them all on the couch next to you.

"What-" You picked one up and dropped it like it had burned you. "Eddie!"

They were all dirty movies.

"Jesus Christ," You grumbled, wiping your hands on your pants, looking horrified. "Why do you have so many?"

"I'm only a man." He waved you off. "I've heard way freakier shit come out of your mouth than I ever have in one of these."

You gaped at him.

"Remember the time I was beating you at pool and you tried to trip me up and whisper in my ear about how-"

"Shut up!" You gasped, lunging at him with burning cheeks, "You said you were never gonna bring that up again!"

"You're yelling at me about my porn collection!" He defended, caging you into his lap before you could get a swat in while struggling not to laugh.

"Are you listening to yourself?" You cackled, "You're collecting porn!"

"I have needs!" He exclaimed, blowing a raspberry in the side of your neck while you squeeled, "Sometimes you're busy!"

Eventually, you both stopped laughing and just sat there staring at this pile of porn together.

"So…" Your brows pulled together. "What's the plan here?"

"Pick one and we'll watch it." Eddie shrugged, anything but nonchalant.

He was already hard, you could feel it beneath you every time you shifted in his lap.

"You wanna watch porn together?" You raised a brow, but couldn't deny the rush of warmth that spread through you at the thought.

"Yeah," he cleared his throat, glad you couldn't see his pink cheeks. "You want to?"

"Okay." You drew the word out, eyes scanning the covers of the tapes. "Which one's your favorite?"

Only minutes into the movie, Eddie's hand was already creeping up your thigh, hot against your bare skin.

You were still in his lap, back resting on the arm of the couch, while your legs were bent at the knee on the other side.

You could hear his breathing getting deeper. More ragged as time went on, and fought the urge to look at him.

It wasn't lost on you that the girl on the screen, who was already writhing on the mattress while her partner pistoned his fingers into her at a brutal pace, looked like you.

Not quite a spitting image, but the same hair. Same build.

You shifted in his lap, squeezing your thighs together.

"You alright there, Sweetheart?" You could hear the smirk in Eddie's voice, but his voice was raspy. Strained even.

"Mhmm," You hummed, dragging your fingers along his bicep absently, while his dug into the skin of your thigh. "Are you?"

"Could be better." He muttered, prying your legs open gently so he could hook them over his knees and maneuver you so that you were leaning back into his chest.

You let him, shuddering when you felt his warm breath fanning over the side of your throat.

"You paying attention?" Eddie whispered to you, trailing his hand further up your thigh as he opened his own legs, spreading you wide open so he could pull your shorts and panties to the side, running a finger up your slit.

"You are!" He chuckled lowly at the breathy whine that fell from your lips at the feeling "you're soaking wet, you dirty girl."

"Oh, you poor thing," he teased, just barely touching you while you squirmed, desperate for friction. "You want some help with that, sweetheart?"

You nodded eagerly and turned your head to kiss him, but gasped when he lightly spanked you in between your legs.

"Keep your eyes on that screen." He instructed, nudging you to sit up a little so he could get his pants down just enough to free his cock.

You weren't a hundred percent sure what the plan was here, but you were happy to go along, desperate for something. Anything.

The couple on screen had moved on to fucking and were moaning loudly as the man thrust into her with hard, long strokes.

Eddie's hands found your hips, guiding you to hover over his lap.

You gasped when he lined himself up with your weeping hole and slowly let you impale yourself on his cock.

"That's it." He exhaled shakily, trying not to rut into you.

"Ah, ah-" Eddie tsk'd when you tried to rock your hips and pulled you pack until your back was pressed up against his chest "don't move, Sweetheart."

Your brows furrowed, and your walls clenched around him, drawing a soft groan.

You waited for him to move or direct you to, but instead, he just sat there, buried inside you and still watching the movie over your shoulder.

"Eddie." You whined, squirming, "What are you-"

"Shh," He breathed into your ear, so close that you could feel his lips lightly brushing up against the shell of it when he spoke, "You're gonna sit right there and watch the movie, just like this."

You shuddered, but nodded.

"Be a good girl for me and sit still." his lips curled upwards, knowing damn well how worked up you got when he called you that. "Can you do that, Sweetheart?"

"Can you at least-"

"Quietly."

You huffed, but leaned back into him, trying hard not to move.

The movie wasn't helping.

If anything, it was making it worse.

You had nothing to distract yourself with, and watching the couple fucking was just turning you on more.

He had her pretzeled into positions you didn't even know existed, but found yourself picturing trying them with Eddie and moaned softly.

"You like watching porn while you sit on my cock?" Eddie cooed into your neck, pressing his lips to the flushed skin. "My dirty, dirty girl."

You didn't even have to answer. The way your walls fluttered around him was enough to convince him that you did.

Eddie wasn't doing much better.

It was taking everything in him not to flip you onto the couch and fuck you until you were a drooling mess.

But he loved the little needy sounds you were making, and it was surprisingly cozy sitting like that. You were so warm and wet and gripping him like you were about to start begging for it.

And God, he loved it when you begged.

He let his hand fall between your thighs and just barely brushed the pad of his thumb over your clit.

You jolted, whimpering cutely as his other arm tightened his grip on your writhing body.

"You're a needy little thing today, aren't you?"

"Eds, Please-" you whined pathetically, rocking your hips as well as you could while he had such a tight hold on you.

"Please, what?" Eddie teased, nipping at your shoulder. "What does my girl want? huh?"

Your cheeks burned.

He knew how flustered you got when it came to dirty talk when it was your turn. Usually, Eddie did enough for both of you.

"Go on," He urged gently, smirking to himself despite starting to sweat. "Use your words, Sweetheart."

"Touch me?" You panted, eyes still fixated on the TV. "Please?"

"I dunno," Eddie hummed, bucking into you just once, drawing a shark inhale from both of you. "I think you can do better than that, don't you?"

"Please, Eddie." you whimpered, melting into him, "I want you to touch me, please."

"Need you to-" You were cut off by your own gasp when he bounced you in his lap.

"Doin' so good for me," He grunted, gripping your hips to use as leverage. "Such a good girl usin' your words"

"Sat so pretty for me."

You were a mess of whimpers and mewls, completely cockdumb once his thumb returned to your clit, making quick, jerky circles in time with every thrust.

Your hips rocked as you lost yourself in the feeling, and Eddie's muttered praise in your ear between every grunt and groan.

"Eyes on the TV." He hit that special spot inside you, and you cried out, eyes snapping open just in time to watch the girl on TV cum so hard her legs shook.

It was enough to push you over the edge.

No warning. Just your walls clamping down around him, pulsating as you came hard.

"Jesus, fuck-" Eddie was frantic with his thrusts, trying to chase his own high while you were still riding out your orgasm. "Fucking love you-"

"Gonna Fill- ah"

He was rambling, only half of it registering as you felt him paint your walls white.

He held you all the way down on his cock, clutching you tightly to his chest while giving you a few more lazy, sloppy thrusts, breathing heavily against your throat, still muttering half sentences under his breath.

You both sat there, limp on the couch for what must've been a full five minutes before either of you moved.

"You okay, Sweetheart?" Eddie squeezed you lightly, loosening his grip on you as he pressed his lips to the back of your shoulder.

You hummed, tucking your head under his chin.

"Wanna stay like this for a minute, or get cleaned up?" He smoothed your hair and kissed the top of your head.

"Stay like this for a minute."

"Hey, Eddie?" You muttered after a minute.

"Yeah, Sweetheart?"

"I still think your porn collection is gross."

"I know." He sighed dramatically, biting back a laugh.

Dividers and Banners by me on my side-blog @dividers-are-us

Taglist: @justalotoffanfiction @s1mp-4-ga11y @farrowroyale @awkward00noodle @shokihomin @jjmaybankswifes-blog @mdurdenpitt @buckyswife108 @walleloveseve @zroberts13 @gxpsywitch19 @monkeylaura627 @iith1um

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie x reader #eddie munson x you #stranger things fic #eddie munson au #eddie stranger things #stranger things x reader #eddie the freak munson #eddie x you #stranger things #eddie munson fluff #stranger things headcanons #stranger things eddie #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson stranger things

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barcaism · 2 days ago

Note

could you write some angst/comfort where jannik and reader had kind of a big fight which they usually don't have

Lines Crossed | J.Sinner

synopsis: following a loss at roland garros and a quote taken out of context, you and jannik have your biggest fight yet.

pairing: jannik sinner x f!journalist!reader

warnings: agnst with a happy ending, intense arguing in the beginning, cursing

author’s note: thank you for requesting! i made jannik mean this one time, sorry i think i got carried away with this. hopefully it was what you wanted! please enjoy!

words: 1,529

The Paris sky hung low and grey, a heavy blanket threatening rain but not delivering. The Roland Garros crowd had just thinned, murmuring through the corridors like bees whose hive had been kicked. Jannik Sinner had lost.

You didn’t need the scoresheet to tell you he wasn’t happy. You’d watched the match from your usual position, not courtside, but close enough to feel every vibration of tension humming off him like static. He was off today—tight, impatient, and clearly battling something internal.

You’d done your segment like always—professional, impartial, well-informed. You’d mentioned the pressure. You’d praised his opponent. And yeah, you’d said the nerves were visible, because they were. It was your job. And you’d done it well.

But when you returned to your shared hotel room, slightly deflated but looking forward to wrapping your arms around your boyfriend and just being there, you didn’t expect the storm waiting on the other side of the door.

The second you walked in, Jannik slammed the bathroom door behind him and threw his shirt onto the floor.

“Don’t even fucking say hi, then,” you muttered under your breath, tugging your earpiece out and tossing your blazer onto the chair.

He turned sharply. “Hi? That’s all you’ve got?”

You froze, blinking. “Sorry, didn’t realize I was the one who lost a five-setter.”

He laughed bitterly. “Yeah, must’ve been easy for you. Especially since you were so unbiased in your little segment.”

Your blood cooled instantly. “What?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb.” His voice was low and bitter, laced with an anger you hadn’t heard from him—not like this. “I read the article. Your name was quoted. You said I cracked under pressure. That I let the moment get too big for me.”

“I never said that—”

“They fucking quoted you!”

You stared at him. The hotel room felt like it shrank around you. “Do you seriously think I would throw you under the bus like that? Do you know me?”

Jannik paced toward the window, his hands in his hair. “All I know is that I gave everything out there and came back to find my girlfriend twisting the knife on live TV.”

“That’s bullshit,” you snapped. “You know damn well I didn’t twist anything. I have to talk about the match—you were part of it. I was objective. Someone took a sentence out of context and ran with it. That’s not on me.”

“But your name’s attached to it,” he said sharply, turning back to you, eyes red, fury barely restrained. “And that’s what everyone’s reading.”

You walked closer to him, trying to steady your breathing. “You think I wanted this? You think I don’t get shit every day for even being a woman in this industry, let alone a respected voice? And now, on top of it, the guy I’m secretly dating is accusing me of sabotaging him?”

“You didn’t defend me,” he muttered. “You just went with the narrative.”

You stared at him, like you didn’t recognize him anymore. “Wow.”

He scoffed, “You know what? Maybe you never had my back. Maybe this has just been one big convenient arrangement for you.”

The sentence hit you like a slap. Silence filled the room, heavy and cracking.

You nodded slowly, jaw clenched. “That’s the worst fucking thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Jannik looked at you then, and some part of him seemed to know he’d gone too far—but his pride, his frustration, whatever it was, wouldn’t let him take it back. Not yet.

You turned, opened the closet, and started packing.

His voice cut through the air like a blade. “Oh, that’s it? You’re just gonna fucking run?”

“I don’t even know you right now,” you said, not turning around. “You think the worst of me. You don’t ask, you just assume and lash out. I’ve never seen you like this, Jannik.”

He didn’t answer.

You zipped your bag and grabbed your phone. “I’m not doing this right now. I can’t.”

You moved toward the door, brushing past him. His eyes were glassy, full of fury and something deeper—hurt, confusion, shame. But he didn’t stop you. You left.

•

He hadn’t slept.

The hotel room felt colder without you. Your pillow was untouched. Your side of the wardrobe, empty. Jannik sat with his head in his hands, the buzz of his phone taunting him with every notification: articles, tweets, texts from his team. But none from you.

He hadn’t just snapped. He’d burned the bridge.

Because she did have his back. Always had. Late-night ice packs. Talks through injury and pressure. Celebrations in secret, behind closed doors because no one could know. She had protected him, always, and he’d thrown all that trust in her face.

He hated himself for it.

He checked the time, grabbed his hoodie, and left the hotel.

You were at a quiet café a few blocks away, hidden behind sunglasses and an oversized jacket, sipping bitter espresso you didn’t want. Your phone was on silent. You’d been crying for hours, then stopped, then cried again. You didn’t know what emotion you were anymore—angry? Heartbroken? Numb?

Then you heard his voice.

You looked up. He stood there, slightly out of breath, hands in his pockets, eyes dark with exhaustion and regret.

“I didn’t think you’d find me,” you said, voice flat.

“I had to.”

You looked back at your coffee. “Why? More accusations? Ready to tell me how I’ve been using you again?”

Jannik swallowed hard and sat across from you. “I was angry. I was so fucking angry. But not at you. Not really. At myself. At how the match went. At how it felt like I failed.”

“And so you took it out on me,” you whispered.

“I did,” he admitted. “And I said things I didn’t mean. That I didn’t believe.”

Silence. The sound of a spoon clinking in another cup a few tables down.

“I hurt you,” he said, voice shaking. “And I’ll hate myself for that for a long time.”

You stared at him. “Yeah. You did. You really did.”

Jannik reached across the table, his fingers brushing yours. “I miss you. Every second you’ve been gone, I’ve missed you. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just… I just want to start fixing it.”

You looked down, his hand warm against yours. Your chest ached, like your ribs were splintering from trying to hold your emotions inside.

“I’m not ready to forgive you yet,” you whispered.

He nodded. “Okay.”

“But I don’t want this to be the end,” you added, tears stinging your eyes again. “So maybe… maybe we can start somewhere.”

Relief washed over his face like a sunrise. He squeezed your hand, and this time, you didn’t pull away.

•

Back in the hotel room, you both sat on the bed in silence. Not tangled together like usual, but close enough.

“I still meant what I said on air,” you told him quietly. “That I believe in you. That this was just one match. You’ll bounce back.”

He looked at you, his voice soft. “I believe in you too. I always have. I just forgot it for a second. And I’m going to spend a long time making up for that second.”

You leaned against him, not entirely okay yet—but healing.

It wasn’t fixed. Not yet.

But love, real love, wasn’t perfect. It was honest. Painful. Worth fighting for.

And the two of you?

You were going to fight for it, even if things got hard.

You lay curled up together under the duvet, the city sounds a distant hum outside the window. Jannik’s arms were wrapped tightly around you, one leg tangled with yours, as if he couldn’t bear to let you drift even a few inches away.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered into your hair.

“You almost did,” you said, no malice in it—just truth.

His fingers traced light shapes along your spine, over the cotton of your t-shirt. “I don’t want to ever feel that again.”

You tilted your head, kissed the underside of his jaw. “Then don’t give me a reason to leave.”

“I won’t,” he promised. “I love you so much it makes me fucking stupid sometimes.”

You let out a real laugh this time, small but real. “Clearly.”

He smiled against your forehead, then pulled the blanket higher around both of you. “Let me take you to Lake Garda after Wimbledon,” he murmured. “No cameras. No press. Just us. We’ll eat too much gelato, sleep in too late, and I’ll tell you I love you a hundred times a day until you believe it again.”

You looked up at him, the ache in your chest finally beginning to ease. “Deal.”

He kissed you again, long and lingering, then settled with you back against his chest, your head tucked under his chin.

Outside, the city shimmered, and tomorrow’s headlines would talk about his loss.

But in this room, with your heart slowly stitching itself back together in the arms of the boy who broke it—this was the win that mattered.

And somewhere in the quiet, you both knew: love like this didn’t break forever.

It just needed time to heal.

#jannik sinner fluff #jannik sinner imagine #tennis x reader #jannik sinner #jannik x reader #tennis imagine #jannik sinner x reader #jannik sinner agnst #agnst

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pittsick · 2 days ago

Text

── KILDARE'S CAMPUS KILL .ᐟ

PART IV "DON'T MISS YOUR CUE"

summary: a masked killer is stalking students at Kildare University. the parties keep happening. the bodies keep showing up. Rafe Cameron? he throws the one that changes everything. people are dead. someone’s lying. and you? you might be kissing the killer.

pairing: rafe cameron x college!reader.

cw: murder, blood, trauma, stalking, manipulation, grief, unreliable narrator, implied sex, emotionally toxic dynamics, knife imagery, fear of death, survivor’s guilt, gaslighting, power imbalance.

join our newsletter for more information right now! @imperishablereverie, @userhotd, @lvve-talks, @prismozo, @bluestrd, @shahabaqsa0310, @222col, @yardofbrunettes, @lexiiscorect, @rafesgreasycurtainbangs, @peachy-skully, @nonbeliever1, @tinythebunni, @cherryzweig, @davinashifts333 @deansbeer @a-lovers-card @rafe-cameronswife

The lakehouse looked almost peaceful.

The water was still. The trees hung heavy with dusk. There were no cars in the gravel driveway—just the crunch of your boots as you stepped out of the Uber and pulled your coat tighter around you. You hadn’t told Jess or Mira where you were going, which truly, was stupid on your part. You couldn’t explain it. You just had to know what Rafe meant when he said there were things he hadn’t told you.

The front door creaked open before you knocked.

He was waiting.

Rafe leaned in the frame, hoodie pulled halfway over his head, a cigarette tucked between his fingers. He didn’t say anything at first—just looked at you like you were a question he couldn’t quite answer. Like he’d expected you not to come.

You walked in without speaking.

Inside, the lakehouse smelled like cedar, smoke, and something faintly citrus. There was music playing—quiet, melancholic. Something acoustic. The kind of music that made silence feel heavier. The fire was already lit in the living room, casting flickers across the dark leather furniture and wood-paneled walls. You didn’t sit down.

“You said you had something to tell me,” you said, voice low. You didn't know if you really wanted to be here alone with him, even if a small part of you was sure Rafe would never hurt you.

He nodded. Took a long drag. Exhaled. Then said: “It’s not the first time someone’s worn that mask around me.”

You blinked. “What?”

He motioned for you to sit, and you did—perched on the armrest of the couch, heart pounding. He walked to the opposite side of the couch, eyes hooded, not too close.

“I was eighteen. Back in Outer Banks. My dad had just bailed me out of a fight, and I spent the summer basically alone. I was seeing this girl. A bit older. Weird. Smart as hell. She liked true crime. Horror movies. She got me into all that twisted shit.”

Your breath caught. “What does that have to do with—?”

“She had a thing for masks,” he said, voice quieter now. “Not just sex, though yeah—sometimes that too. I’m talking ritual. Control. She made me wear one once. It wasn’t that Ghostface one. But it was close... like a prototype or something.”

You stared at him like you couldn't believe any of the shit he was saying.

He didn’t look proud. He looked tired.

“She died that summer,” he went on. “Boating accident. Or that’s what they said. But the week before, she sent me this video. It was dark. Shaky. Someone in a mask was following her through the woods. She was laughing at first, probably thought it was a bad joke from me. Then she was screaming.”

You felt your throat tighten. “Did you tell anyone?” (DON'T TRUST ANYONE)

He laughed, bitter. “My dad? The cops? No one would’ve believed me. They barely believed I was worth the air I breathed.” (DON'T BELIEVE ANYONE)

A long silence settled between you.

And then Rafe looked at you—really looked at you—and something in his expression softened. That hollow look from the party faded, if only for a moment. And in its place was something else. Something fragile. It reminded you of the way he used to look at you last semester, when you both hid under the bleachers of the football field to makeout. Before he ghosted you all of the sudden.

“I’m not asking you to trust me,” he said, voice low. “But I didn’t kill Colton. Or Sasha. And if someone’s out there wearing a mask again? It’s not a coincidence.”

You didn’t answer, you just crossed the room slowly and sat beside him.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The fire cracked. The music shifted. His knee brushed yours. You weren’t sure who moved first—but suddenly his hand was on your cheek, and your mouth was on his. It was like muscle memory, like nothing had changed between the two of you during those weeks.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t drunk. It was slow. Like he was trying to memorize the way your lips fit against his again. Like you were the only thing keeping him anchored. His thumb traced your jaw, and your hands curled in his hoodie. You kissed him harder, deeper.

Somehow, you ended up in his bed.

No words. Just heat, touch, the quiet ache of bodies trying to forget. You let yourself fall. Because for a moment, being with Rafe felt safer than the rest of the world.

And maybe that was the most dangerous part of all.

The next morning, fog curled off the lake like smoke.

You pulled his hoodie over your tank top as you stepped outside to call a car. Rafe was inside, making coffee, moving through the house like someone trying to play human. You didn’t speak much. You didn’t have to. It just felt like a mistake to you; because how could you trust him? You weren't dumb enough to believe his story and his pretty face.

And when you returned to campus, everything had changed. Again. There was too much people around for a Monday at 7:45AM. Police tapes, ambulances, and Jess' Instagram story. Something had happened.

Jess met you outside your dorm building with wide eyes, breath fogging in the air. She was in pajamas, phone in hand. She seemed nervous, on-edge; but with everything happened, it was pretty normal to feel like that.

“Where were you?” she hissed.

You swallowed. “Off-campus.” Why couldn't you tell her? Were you scared of her judgement or the fact that you knew it had been a stupid idea to leave to meet Rafe all alone?

“With who?”

You didn’t answer.

Jess stared at you for a long time before sighing, then shoved her phone in your face. The white screen screamed at you. So did the tweet.

You scrolled through the replies, fingers trembling. No names released yet.

But a photo taken by a camera on campus showed the back of one girl’s head—long dark hair, black hoodie. Looked like she’d been trying to run. A sick feeling twisted in your gut.

Jess was still staring. “Tell me it wasn’t Rafe.”

Your voice barely came out. “I don’t think it was.” You knew it couldn't have been him, you had stayed all night in the lakehouse with him, in his bed. But there was a feeling inside your chest that wouldn't go away.

“You don’t think?!” She scream-whispered at you.

You looked up.

The crowd on campus was forming again—press, students, admin trying to maintain order. Behind the caution tape a few feet away, two covered bodies were being wheeled into the coroner’s van.

You saw Mira, standing alone near the library steps, looking around with an empty expression on her face. Like she could care less of you had died.

And then you saw a figure across the lawn.

Rafe. Watching you, expression unreadable. Your eyebrows furrowed at his face, but your attention got called away when you felt your phone buzzing in your hand.

A message hit your phone.

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viviansturns · 2 days ago

Text

just forever ☾.

...a summer series in which you reunite with a past summer "fling" continuation series of just for the summer

(series masterlist)

𝓟reviously on… just for the summer

After spending an entire summer with Chris sturniolo, you find yourself back in Toronto, living a busy university life. You tried to keep the relationship up long-distance, but it fizzled out on his end.

Recently, and unlike the previous summer, you got an internship with no plans to stay in morrow’s landing like last year.

However, your aunt has re-invited you to her cottage for a weekend while you soak in a bit of summer before going off to the internship in vancouver…

𝓒hapter one - Fever Season

⋆˚꩜｡

⟟ 𝑀orrow’s 𝐿anding

𝓒urrently ༺ ——— 7:20 𝒫𝑀

“You know, he’s been waiting for you.”

“What?”

“Chris, he’s been waiting.”

“Oh”

“I’ve seen him wandering around near the cottage"

“Oh”

“Are you excited?”

“...”

“y/n?”

“Yeah, I’m excited.”

The radio crackles, and just like that, you can feel summer crash down over you again. It’s just before dusk, so the sky is tinted orange, but still blazing hot. Your aunt speeds down the winding road to Morrow’s Cove in her convertible, causing your hair to fly around your face.

Golden grasses line the path, letting a wishy noise out into the air. Every breath feels warm and comforting, and you find your tense muscles relaxing. Because you’re here—back to where you spent all of last summer.

You felt a familiar ache of missing Chris. You’d see him this weekend, of course, but you’d be whisked away to the internship back in Canada in a couple days. And just like that, a summer would pass without talking to him.

The distance between Boston and Toronto seemed unbearable, like a taut string that pulled at your skin at every movement. But you had tried your best to focus on your school—your future. It felt as though every time you worked hard academically, you were punished.

You’re snapped out of thought as the car makes a turn, causing the blazing sun to shine in your face.

“Ugh! Holy shit it’s so much hotter this year,” you groan, blocking the piercing sun with your hands.

The wind does little to prevent yourself from sweating, and you groan inwardly at the reminder that Aunt Marie has only one air conditioned room in the whole cottage. And it was the washroom. She was into naturalist “connect with the earth” stuff, so it was expected, but god was it going to be miserable.

She shakes her head, making a tsk tsk tsk sound. “Watch your language, y/n. And—yeah, we’re in the middle of a heat wave right now. They say it’s going to last for the next couple weeks.”

You sigh, then shrug. “I guess I’ll be in Vancouver by then.” She looks over at you, noticing your slight frown.

“Why, you sad about it?” you wince that she noticed your expression, but shook your head in denial

“Well—no, I’m happy that I’m doing the internship…” you pause.

“But…?” she eggs on. You don’t say anything, choosing to look out at the scenery instead. The car’s near the edge of the cliff—Morrow’s Cliff, and you can see the whole lazy beach town. It hasn’t changed much. The blue green waves, sandy beaches, and pale, sun-baked buildings.

“Is this about Chris?” she asks suddenly. Your head snaps around at her sudden accusation. Opening your mouth to say something, you’re interrupted by Aunt Marie.

“Look—he’s a great guy and all, but your education is far more important. As far as you know, he could be dating some other girl right now, and—” she stops herself, realising she’s gone too far as you tense up next to her.

You hadn’t really thought of the idea that Chris would date another girl. Surely not—you guys weren’t exactly online dating, but you were still talking, exchanging occasional “I miss yous.” It’s not like he didn’t have the right to, but he would have told you.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant you shouldn’t focus on him.” You just shake your head as a wave of heat rolls over the car.

“I—” you start, “—let’s just get to the cottage, Marie.” She takes this as a sign not to say anything else, opting to turn up the radio and spend the rest of the ride listening.

“Sex, Drugs, Etc. by Beach Weather”

Chris loved that song. Fuck.

You threw your head back into the seat of the convertible somewhat aggressively, closing your eyes. Just feeling the smothering sun is practically already tanning you, the hot wind directly on your skin, and the blinding light shining through your eyelids.

⋆˚꩜｡

By the time the two of you reach the cottage, the sun has just barely set over the huge hills that surrounded the cove. They cast a shadow across the town, but it was still unbearably hot. Each step felt like you were swimming in a bowl of fucking chili, and you wanted nothing but to go somewhere air conditioned.

You dragged your suitcase up the stairs to the guest room, mainly because you broke the wheels on them. The top floor is a bit better because of the windows which are wide open, allowing some breeze but still unbearable.

You thought for a second, then pulled your phone out as you absentmindedly unpacked your clothes. Tapping on the message app, you go back to your past texts with Chris.

then, with some hesitation, you text him

With a sigh of reminiscing and exhaustion, you decide to text him. It’s far too hot to sleep in the house tonight—your Aunt might be able to, but not you.

You spend the next couple minutes sitting on the porch of the cottage. You can’t tell what’s worse—inside or outside, but you decide you should be there for when Chris’ car pulls up. Obviously you were only here for the weekend, but you couldn't help but make sure you looked nice for Chris.

Not outfit wise—anything other than shorts and a tank top right now was unbearable, but you tried to do your hair and makeup. You sat there in apprehension, staring out at the scenery. The cottage was one of the cheaper ones—futher from the beach, but also further up on the hills, meaning you could overlook the small town.

Just a bit later, you hear the nostalgically familiar sound of tires on gravel as Chris' car drives up the last bend leading up to the driveway. His dark red car pulls up into the driveway, windows rolled up, implying the AC was on, thank fuck, but you could only see his figure in the car as you waited standing on the poarch with a goofy grind.

Almost in slow motion, he opens the driver's door and steps out, eyes meeting yours immediately. You’re barely able to study him as he closes the distance in a couple long strides, pulling you into a hug.

“Y/N!!! Oh my god, it’s been so long,” he says, voice muffled by the crook of your neck as he pulls you in more. You practically groan into his chest at the contact. It’s been fucking forever, and you feel the ache in your chest slowly dissipate as he holds you for longer.

“Chris I—,” you can’t really say anything with your face muffled by his shirt, so you just stay there until he lets go and looks down at you.

“I missed you so—,” your voice fades as you see him—really see him this time. He looks completely different, yet the same all the while.

His curls have relaxed slightly since last year, but his hair looks so very soft, framing his blue eyes. The seem to have darkened—both in colour and intensity, and right now his eyebrows are drawn up in a perhaps yearning look?

As for the rest of him, he’s grown at LEAST 2 inches. You seemed to have stopped growing awhile ago, so now the height difference was…well…different.

He can finally grow some hair on his face—as opposed to the 19 year old version of himself last year, and now he’s got this (sexy ass) slight scruff that adorns the sides of his face.

He’s wearing a black tank top and jeans, his arms being significantly more toned than last time you saw him, and you realize you’ve been staring once you look back up at his face, which is grinning down at you cockily.

“You were saying? You miss me so much?” You immediately blush and shake your head, trying to avoid his piercing gaze.

With a giggle, you add. “Yeah yeah, I missed you fuckface.” You look back up at him, just standing there, watching you, as you walk towards his car. “Now drive me to your cottage, its so hot I might melt“

He chuckles, following you towards his car, practically unable to drag his eyes away from you. It’s not like you’d had a complete “glow up” since last summer, but you’d—matured. He unlocks the passenger door with a cheeky nod as if he was being a gentleman, then walks over to the driver's side, plopping down into the seat.

“Oh my god this feels so much nicer,” you practically groan, soaking in the coolness of his AC. Chris just sighs with you, grateful to be back into the cold after the mere minutes in the heat.

“Jesus, how are you surviving this heatwave? It’s terrible out.”he shrugs, turning the fan up.

“I don’t fuckin’ know, we stay inside all day ‘till like 10.” You roll your eyes as you lift your duffel onto your lap.

“So you’re being lazy all day is what i’m hearin’”

“Wha— I wouldn’t say bein’ lazy! Just, conservative.” You scoff, but it’s understandable—the night time was probably far nicer. With a squint of his eyes, he notices the duffel bag you’ve got on your lap.

“Why y’got that? Shouldn’t you drop everything off at your place first?” he cocks his head, but looks confused when you smile.

“Welllll can’t I just sleep over at yours tonight? Y’know it’s sooo hot at my cottage, and your place is fully air conditioned…” You blink at him with doe eyes, curling your lips into a smile.

Chris sighs and immediately gives in, igniting the car and pulling out of the driveway.

“That’s pretty forward, y’know,” he adds teasingly, looking over at you with a twinkle in his eye. You gasp, slapping him on the arm.

“Um that is not what I’m trying to do! It’s true! There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep somewhere without an AC today. It’s your house or my bathroom’s floor.” He laughs, and starts the car down the path towards the beach, and subsequently his cottage.

The two of you catch up immediately—you tell him about the prestigious internship you’d gotten this summer in Vancouver, how your studies were at the University of Toronto, drama with your friends, the fact that you’d gotten into rollerblading, and everything in between.

He told you about his youtube career. Back last year, it hadn’t really taken off yet, but now, it was a real thing. Him and his brothers were doing amazingly, and had just hit 1 million subscribers. They planned to move to LA at the end of this summer, and you felt that familiar pang in your chest of missing him.

“Wow. That’s like, amazing Chris! You could’ve told me this earlier, we should’ve texted more…” your voice trails off as you remember the fact that you guys had barely kept the relationship or anything up during the whole year.

“Y-Yeah, sorry about that,” he mumbles, not making eye contact. “I just—I think we were both busy, y’know? Me with youtube, you with uni…” You nod your head in understanding, but you don’t say anything else.

Maybe that’s just how it worked out, and maybe that’s how it would work out after this weekend too.

⋆˚꩜｡

You flopped onto the big cushy couch in his room, groaning. “Oh my godd your house is so AC-ed.”

He laughs, flopping down right next to you. “AC-ed? Don’t think that’s a word.”

“It is so!”

“Is not.”

“Whatever,” you say, tucking your legs up into your chest. You both just sit there for awhile, soaking in each other's presence. Your eyes meet him for a second, and he’s got this stupid grin on his face.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he adds softly, his eyebrows relaxing as he talks. “And I’m sorry for not texting recently—that’s on me, things were getting pretty—um, busy.” You nod understandingly, sliding over to lie down on his couch.

“Me too.” With a grunt, Chris gets up and walks towards the kitchen, presumably getting water or something. You sit back up on the couch.

“Get me whatever you’re having!” you yell through the walls. A couple moments later, he returns with two…beers. You squint, making a face.

“Beer? Isn’t it early?” he flops down next to you, arm coming naturally on the back of the couch, close enough that it could be around your shoulders.

“Um, no? It’s 9 already. We can head out to the beach for a lil walk soon.” you raise your eyebrows and take the beer, popping it open. You feel a bit nervous as to what a “little walk” with him entailed, but hey—just because you were leaving in two days didn’t mean you couldn’t kiss him one last time.

⋆˚꩜｡

“Fuck! What is that! EW!” you cry, giggling and horrified at the same time. There’s this massive moth with long ass legs that won’t stop flying around you and landing on you as you swipe it away. Chris laughs with you trying to swat it again as it flies around you.

“These fuckers won’t leave as alone at night,” he adds, eyeing it down as it finally flies away into the distance. It’s about 10 now, so the carnival is long closed, the shops locked up and the surfers back home. The only things alive in the town were the bonfires and parties, but the two of you were on the quiet side of the beach.

Chris is telling you a story about Nick falling over a tree stump or something, but you’re not paying much attention. Your eyes keep flicking all around him. His jaw, his scruff, his lips, his droopy eyes, even the way his jeans looked on his waist.

He cuts your thoughts off with a loud laugh, far louder than the joke was funny.

“Chris you’re such a fucking lightweight! It’s been, what, two beers?” he just shakes his head, unable to stop laughing. His face is practically molded into a grin from the amount of smiling he’s done today.

“No m’not! I’m just sooo funny,” he says, clearly a bit tipsy. “C’mon. Let’s sit on that bench over there, the view’s nice.” You turn to where he’s looking—it’s a nice two seater that rests on the edge of the boardwalk, looking out to where beach and water.

Quietly, the two of you walk over to it sitting next to each other. Your legs are pressing on his, and you feel hyper aware of every sensation on and in your body. You’re looking out into the ocean, but you can feel his gaze burning into the side of your head.

Finally giving in, you look towards him. You’re almost surprised every time you look at him—he’s grown a lot. His dark eyes are trained on you, flicking from your eyes to your mouth and back. Your breath catches in your throat as you watch him. His body leans in slightly.

“y/n,” he says, breathily.

“Yeah?”

“I-I know you’re leaving really soon,” he says, one of his arms sliding up the bench back to rest on your lower back. “But can I kiss you? Just one last time?”

Your eyes tear up at the way he said last time. Surely this wouldn’t be the last time? You thought for a second as you remember that next year, you would probably still be doing the summer internship. You could still visit, right? But you slowly remember that he’s moving to LA. A place that was thousands of miles away from Morrow’s cove. He might never come back.

And with that, you nodded ever so slightly and leaned in, brushing his lips into yours.

His lips meet yours like he’s been holding back for years. Because really, he has

His hand splays over your back, dragging you closer, the other hand coming up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek before slipping behind your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. He groans quietly when you kiss him harder, and the sound sends a shiver down your spine.

You feel the scruff on his jaw scrape against your skin as he tilts his head, rough and scratchy and stupidly hot. It makes your lips tingle, your skin burn, and you press in like you need more of it—of him.

His hands are everywhere—your back, your waist, slipping under your shirt to splay across warm skin. You feel his fingers dig in slightly like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on tight.

Slowly, you pull away from him, and look into his slightly closed eyes. His pupils look dilated, and his breath comes in small puffs.

“I-I missed you, Chris,” you whispered, your hands wrapped around his neck. Without waiting for an answer, you lean in again and kiss him again, a hand coming up to ruffle his soft hair.

“Missed y’too,” he says, muffled against your lips. Just a couple moments later, the two of you pull away again.

You can’t help but let out a yawn—it was a long drive up here. “Woww,” Chris says with a laugh. “Yawnin’ after making out with me?”

You laugh along, slapping his arm affectionately as you stand up. “I’m jus’ tired! We drove for like 7 hours, mind you.” he stands up with you, arm immediately coming to rest on your waist.

“Let's go back then,” he says comfortingly.

You’re surprised at how easy it is for him to get back into this couple-y rhythm. One you had practiced with him a year ago, but it still felt new to you. You almost want to tell him to stop—tell him that him kissing you, touching you, like this would only make it worse when you left again. But you didn’t.

⋆˚꩜｡

You let out a sigh as you slipped on your nice, cool pajamas. You just finished taking a cold shower, your hair still a little damp but refreshing. Walking over to Chris’ room, you look over at all the family photos adorning the walls. Only his older brother—Justin was in the house this weekend, but he was in his room.

“Hurry up!” he called from within the bedroom. “I’m getting tired too. Wanna sleep.” Making your way to his doorway, you walk in and stop at the foot of bed. He looks at you expectantly, eyeing you down, then gesturing to the empty space beside him.

“Chris.” you say sternly.

He grins at you boyishly cocking his head and squinting. “What? We’ve done it before. You scared?”

You roll your eyes and scoff. “Well—fucking obviously, we’ve done way more than sleep in the same bed,” you continue as the wicked grin on his face widens.

“But—don’t you think it’s weird now? We’re not exactly—well—dating.”

He sits up fully, practically crawling to the edge of the bed where you are, then letting his legs hang and spread off the bed, ankles now around yours.

“C’mon baby,” he says in a deeper tone, hands coming up to rest on your waist. “We don’t gotta make it weird.”

You try not to let his tone and words get to you, so you keep egging him on. “And what do you mean by weird?”

He groans at your fake not understanding . “Like—puttin’ a label on it. We’re both tired…n’ the AC is pretty cold…”

You know you’ve already given in fully. How can you not? Practically the sexiest man alive is sitting on the edge of his bed, staring up at you lustfully with a cocky grin, hooded eyes, begging you to come sleep with him.

“Chris—it’s been like a year. Don’t you think it’s weird to be jumping into everything so quickly?”

“Not at all. Feels like we were never apart.” Something in you believes this too.

He whispers one last time. “Cmon.”

⋆˚꩜｡

“Y’smell good,” he mumbles, nose pressing into the back of your now-dry hair. He’s completely spooning you, one arm wrapped around your waist, pressing you into his chest. Every once and awhile, he presses a soft kiss into your neck or on your shoulder.

It feels all too intimate but not enough at the same time, and you find yourself just drifting to sleep in his warm body and arms, in his dimly lit bedroom. You just barely hear one last thing just before falling asleep.

“I missed you,” he whispers. “‘m sorry.”

a/n - i love this so much i might pass out

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literary-dolly · 2 days ago

Note

I’m so excited to read your work 😍

Can I request a combination of 5-29-77?

thank you guys sm!!! i got these two requests with near enough the same prompts - so i figured i would combine them into one. I hope you guys enjoy, and thank you again for taking part!

jason todd x fem!reader warnings: injury, a bit of arguing word count: 1k prompts: (5. the seediest motel) ( 29. "I would kiss you if I wasn't furious.") (77. forced proximity)

This was a nightmare. An actual living, breathing, honest-to-god nightmare. You hated recon missions as is, they’d always felt like a lot of unnecessary loitering, redundant sneaking about – in your opinion, there were much easier ways to gather information.

A recon mission with Jason Todd? Whichever demon you pissed off to end up in this situation really knew how to hit you where it hurts. (You know the demon quite well; his name is Bruce Wayne).

If you thought you were impatient, Jason gave a whole new meaning to the word. He had zero interest in waiting around for your target and no appetite for meaningless chitchat, as soon as you’d lost eyes on him, he’d gone rogue, diving into the hideout you’d been casing without even a nod in your direction. Naturally, it had ended in a fire fight so big it would make Deadshot jealous, and now here you were digging shrapnel out of your calf. And it fucking hurt. Even more than that, you’d completely lost contact with the asshole about half-way through, so you had no real way of even knowing if he was alive or injured or otherwise. All you could do was dip back to the shitty motel the two of you had prepped in to lick your wounds and hope that he would slink in at some point.

But it had been hours, and you’d be a bare-faced liar if you said you weren’t a tad worried about him making it back unscathed.

“Worried about little old me?” comes a snide voice from the doorway, you hadn’t even heard it open, but you hear it slam, “You look like shit.”

“Jason,” it’s a bit breathless, both with surprise and the crackle of pain that had flared in your leg when you’d slammed it down to stand and meet him. You ignore it as you start towards him, “You selfish fucking bastard!”

“I don’t think that’s anyway to talk to your hero,” his arms are crossed tight across his chest, and he’s drenched in blood – it’s not all his own, but based on the way one shoulder seems to be hanging lower than the other it’s safe to surmise he’d taken a few shots in the fray. There’s that condescending smirk plastered across his lips, the one that drives you absolutely mental. In which way, you’d never dare admit out loud.

“You could’ve gotten us both killed–”

“I didn’t though. Good job with that, by the way.”

“You’re selfish, inconsiderate, reckless. You don’t care about anyone other than yourself. It’s no wonder I don’t trust you. I would–”

It’s at that moment that he thrusts his hand out in your direction, motioning for you to come closer. As you hobble as best you can towards him, he unwraps his fingers one by one to reveal nothing more than a shoddy, cracked piece of plastic. A tiny USB.

The tiny USB that you had been told there was no way you were ever going to get your hands on.

“– I would kiss you if I wasn’t furious. How on Earth did you know that was in there?”

Jason seems to lose connection for a moment, staring down at you, completely frozen. Nothing on his features shifts other than the jittering of his pupils, scanning up and down over you as you half-lean on his hand for support – there’s something oddly forlorn written in the lines of his face, something reminiscent of shock or surprise. You try not to think too much about how it makes your pulse thrum where your hands meet.

He shakes it off quickly, eyes narrowing into something more calculated, “I have my ways. You should know that by now.”

“I just wish you would’ve told me,” you mutter exasperatedly, huffing out something akin to a laugh, “you know I would’ve backed you.”

With that he seems to soften, his body opening up somewhat, the slope in his shoulder becoming more prominent, “Trust is a two-way street, sweetheart.” His voice drops an octave, coming out breathlessly quiet, “I’m sorry you got hurt.”

“Perks of the job,” you tease, your muted laughter harmonising with his delicately around the small space, “I think we might have to crash here tonight.”

“You might be right,” he concedes, finally dropping down against the mattress, all of the tension in his body bleeding out onto the bed covers. That, and the actual blood festering on his shoulder.

“Let me take a look at that,” you clip, beginning towards the bathroom where you’d had the first aid kit.

“It’s fine, just leave it–”

“It wasn’t a question,” you relish in the way his eyes pop wide at your response. He simply silences himself, hunkering down lower into the pillows as you begin to set up everything you need. You get to work as quick as you can, cleaning and dressing the wound – he’s lucky the bullet passed straight through. Much luckier than you had been.

His eyes are screwed shut for most of it, it’s only towards the end that one of them cracks open, staring at you inquisitively, “I would kiss you if I wasn’t furious?”

“Shut up,” you can feel your cheeks getting hotter.

“No, no, that’s fine,” Jason begins, so irritatingly blasé, “I just wanted to be clear on where we stand.” He closes his eyes and settles down again.

“Okay.”

That one eye peers up at you again, “You know, because some people – I’m not saying me – could get mixed messages from something like that?”

“Okay, Jason.”

“So, if someone wanted clarification on something like that, how would you say they should go about it?”

Without making a sound, you lean down and press a soft kiss to his lips. It’s not particularly passionate or intense, it doesn’t even last longer than a second, it’s chaste. His entire body goes rigid in shock, which doesn’t really aid in your bandaging of his wounds. “Does that answer your questions?”

“Not at all. I’ve got so many – and I mean so many – more than I had like 30 seconds ago.”

“Going to be a long night then, hm?”

#dolly’s 500 follower celebrations #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #jason todd x you #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood imagine #red hood x you #red hood fic #jason todd fic

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vanilladollette · 3 days ago

Note

hiiii! I’m like constantly thinking of dad jae-joon so bad and your recent works made me think so hard even more…

could you write a platonic dad jae-joon x reader where its a situation as in the kid was just kind of dropped off with him.. the mother could’ve been one of his usual one night stands where she got pregnant but left the kid with jae-joon either after they were born or even a few years later? just kind of how he or even the others react to it/how he is as a ‘single’ father 😭 its a fun thought and I really enjoy your writing style, thank you!!

Daddy Dearest

Pairing: Single Father Jeon Jae-Joon x daughter reader

Summary: Jeon Jae-joon’s world is turned upside down when a baby girl—allegedly his daughter—is left on his doorstep with nothing but a note, forcing him to confront unexpected fatherhood in the middle of the night.

Word Count: 2k

Author's note: I might turn this in a part 2

The doorbell rang three times.

Not once. Not twice.

Three deliberate chimes—sharp, fast, impatient. Jae-joon, lounging in black silk pajamas with a glass of whiskey in hand, scowled as he padded barefoot across marble floors. It was nearly midnight.

“If this is some stupid delivery mix-up, I swear—”

He opened the door.

And stopped breathing.

There, on the floor of his penthouse hallway, was a basket. A real basket. Wicker, with a handle and a folded blanket and—

A baby. A real, breathing, squirming baby.

“What the hell...?” he whispered, stepping back out of instinct, like it might bite him.

She was tiny, red-faced, bundled in a soft lavender onesie with a fuzzy hood that had bear ears. Her fists jerked upward in reflex, and her mouth opened in a silent cry—no tears, just an outraged yawn.

Taped to the handle of the basket was an envelope. On the front, in messy handwriting:

“Jae-joon. She’s yours.”

He stared at the baby. Then the note. Then back at the baby.

She blinked. One eye opened slower than the other.

“...Oh, hell no.”

Fifteen minutes later, Jeon Jae-joon was pacing his living room, holding the note in one hand and a bottle of aged whiskey in the other. The baby was still in the basket, which he had awkwardly placed on his marble kitchen island like some cursed object.

She hadn’t cried. Not really. She just stared up at the ceiling, occasionally hiccuping and twisting her face like she was chewing on air.

Jae-joon called every woman he’d been with in the last year.

Voicemail. Blocked. Disconnected.

He flipped the note over.

“Her name is Y/N. I can’t do this. You’re the only one who can give her a better life. Don’t look for me.”

No name. No return address. Nothing else.

He sat down on the couch and ran both hands down his face.

“What kind of woman just drops off a baby like a courier package?”

He looked at her again.

Tiny. Pink. Smelled like formula and powder and a bit of spit-up.

“You sure you’re mine?” he muttered, like she could answer.

She blinked up at him.

It was 3:42 AM when he finally gave in and picked her up.

He’d googled how. “One hand supports the neck,” the video said. “Make sure her head doesn’t wobble.”

Wobble? That wasn’t the word for it. Her head rolled like a melon on a plate. But when his hand steadied her, her tiny fingers wrapped around his pinky like instinct.

Jae-joon froze.

“Shit,” he whispered. “You’re warm.”

She made a soft noise—mmmf—and curled slightly into his chest like it was the only safe place in the world.

And somehow... that scared him more than anything else.

The baby—Y/N, apparently—was asleep.

Somehow.

Bundled in a fleece throw Jae-joon had yanked from his designer couch, nestled into the corner like a burrito-shaped intruder, she made faint cooing sounds, snuffling against the silk cushion like it was made for her. His couch. His life.

“This is a nightmare,” Jae-joon muttered, then reached for his phone with trembling fingers.

There was only one person he could call at this ungodly hour.

One idiot loud enough, clueless enough, and disposable enough to be dragged into this kind of mess.

He hit the name: Myeong-oh.

It rang three times before someone picked up.

“The hell do you want?” Myeong-oh grumbled. “It’s four in the goddamn morning.”

“Get over here,” Jae-joon said. “Now.”

Pause.

“...Are you drunk?”

“I’m not drunk enough. Just come. It’s an emergency.”

Myeong-oh groaned. “This better not be like the time you called me to help ‘get rid of a body’ and it was just a pigeon in your fireplace.”

“Just come.”

Twenty-five minutes later, Jae-joon opened the door with bags under his eyes and his hair sticking out in all directions.

Myeong-oh blinked at him.

“You look like hell.”

“Come in,” Jae-joon muttered and stepped aside.

He followed Jae-joon into the living room, yawning, and then stopped dead in his tracks.

“…Is that a baby?” he said blankly.

“No,” Jae-joon deadpanned. “It’s a grenade in disguise. Of course it’s a baby.”

Myeong-oh stared at the infant now drooling into the throw pillow, kicking her feet in slow motion like she was dreaming of swimming.

“…What the fuck?”

“My point exactly.”

“What is this?” Myeong-oh asked, raising an eyebrow. “Some weird PR stunt? Like… ‘Jae-joon adopts a baby to seem like a better person?’ Because this is extreme, even for you.”

Jae-joon slapped a folded note into his chest.

“Read it.”

Myeong-oh read.

Then blinked.

Then reread.

“…Wait. Hold up. She’s yours?!”

“That’s what it says.”

“Who the hell leaves a baby in a basket like she’s f*cking Moses?!”

Jae-joon flopped onto the couch, rubbing his temples. “I don’t know. No name. No contact. Just this… thing.” He gestured to the baby, who hiccuped in her sleep.

“I tried calling every woman I’ve been with in the last year,” he added. “Nothing. No one picked up. Two numbers were disconnected. One girl literally blocked me last month after I told her her perfume made me sneeze.”

Myeong-oh snorted. “Wow. You really leave a lasting impression, huh?”

Jae-joon shot him a murderous look.

Myeong-oh held up both hands. “Okay, okay. Not the time.”

He peered cautiously at the baby.

“So, uh… what now?”

“If I knew that, do you think I’d have called you?” Jae-joon snapped.

Myeong-oh circled the coffee table like he was approaching a wild animal. “You sure she’s yours? I mean, she could be lying. Could be some scam. Maybe she’s not even real. Is she real?”

“Pick her up and find out.”

“Hell no.”

They both stared at her.

Silence.

Then she let out a soft sigh and curled in deeper.

“…I don’t know what to do,” Jae-joon admitted after a while. His voice sounded strange—raw. Like it was echoing from some unfamiliar, cracked part of him.

“I haven’t even held a baby before. I didn’t even want kids. I didn’t even want dogs growing up.”

“Yeah,” Myeong-oh muttered, flopping into an armchair. “You don’t seem like the dad type. You yell when your wine delivery is late.”

“I don’t yell,” Jae-joon said defensively.

“You hiss.”

“I don’t hiss either.”

Myeong-oh grinned, then sobered up. “So what do we do? You gonna take her to the police? What’s the legal thing to do here?”

Jae-joon opened his mouth.

Paused.

Then closed it.

The thought of dropping her off somewhere—of handing her to some social worker, some cold building with waiting rooms and strangers—made something twist in his chest.

“I can’t just abandon her,” he muttered, eyes flicking to her sleeping form.

Myeong-oh raised an eyebrow. “But she can abandon you?”

Jae-joon didn’t answer.

After a moment, Myeong-oh leaned forward, elbows on knees, and stared at her like she was some foreign creature.

“So… what do babies eat?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Milk, right?”

“Yeah, but what kind?”

“I dunno—cow? Almond? Oat?”

“She’s not a f*cking barista!”

Myeong-oh grabbed his phone and started typing. “Alright, alright… I’ll Google it.”

He mumbled aloud as he typed. “What… do… babies eat.”

Then: “How to tell if a newborn is cold. Do babies… breathe weird on purpose?”

He scrolled for a few seconds.

“Okay, apparently newborns are supposed to have formula every two to three hours. Or breastmilk.”

“Great. Where do I get breastmilk at 4:30 in the morning?”

Myeong-oh ignored him. “You also have to burp them after feeding. And change them. And, uh…” He squinted. “Hold their heads like you’re cradling a soft fruit. You can’t let their necks loll around or they turn into spaghetti.”

“Too late,” Jae-joon muttered. “Her head wobbled like crazy when I picked her up. I thought I broke something.”

Myeong-oh stared at him. “You broke the baby?”

“No, but I thought I did.”

They both turned as the baby stirred.

A low, whiny sound escaped her—somewhere between a mewl and a protest. She rubbed her face into the blanket, her nose scrunching up.

“Shit,” Jae-joon said. “She’s gonna cry again.”

“Did you feed her?”

“No!”

“Did you change her?”

“With what diapers, Einstein?”

“…Okay. Emergency baby run.”

Myeong-oh stood up, brushing his hands together. “There’s a 24-hour market a few blocks down. You stay here and… do whatever it is you do. I’ll get diapers, formula, wipes… pacifiers? I don’t know. Whatever babies like.”

“Get a thermometer too,” Jae-joon muttered. “Her face got hot when I picked her up. Is that normal?”

Myeong-oh made a face. “Babies are always warm. That’s their thing.”

“I don’t know that!”

“Now you do.”

He grabbed his wallet, tossed on his hoodie, and headed to the door. “Back in twenty. Don’t drop her.”

“Don’t take forever,” Jae-joon called after him.

The door shut behind Myeong-oh.

Jae-joon sat alone with the baby again.

She was awake now, blinking slowly. Her tiny fists pushed out from the blanket, and she kicked her legs once, twice, as if trying to swim through the plush cushion.

He leaned over her.

She looked up at him.

Those eyes—cloudy, unfocused, impossibly small—found his face. Or maybe just the blur of his silhouette. Still, for a second, she stared at him like she knew him.

Jae-joon swallowed.

“…Y/N,” he said softly, testing the name.

She blinked.

Ten minutes later, she was crying.

Loudly.

Screaming, actually.

Her face turned red, her fists flailed, and Jae-joon panicked.

“What the hell do you want?!” he cried. “You just ate! Wait—you didn’t eat. Shit!”

He scooped her up with the grace of someone holding a cactus and tried bouncing her gently. “Shhh. Shh. I don’t know what I’m doing,” he muttered into her hood. “I’m rich. I’ve never had to do anything myself.”

The baby screamed louder.

Then hiccupped.

Then screamed again.

“Where the fuck is Myeong-oh?!”

As if summoned, the door burst open.

“I got everything!” Myeong-oh panted, arms filled with bags. “Formula, bottles, warmers, wipes, two kinds of diapers, and this giraffe toy that said it ‘stimulates brain development.’”

Jae-joon didn’t look up. “Put the giraffe in the blender.”

“I spent 40 bucks on it!”

“She’s a week old! She can’t even see color!”

Myeong-oh dumped the bags on the kitchen island and pulled out a canister. “Okay. Formula. We need to mix this with warm water.”

“I don’t have bottles.”

“I bought bottles.”

“I don’t have a warmer.”

“I bought one.”

“…You’re not as useless as you look.”

“I take pride in my Amazon addiction.”

Together, they fumbled through the instructions—boiling water, shaking formula, testing it on their wrists like confused dads in a sitcom. Myeong-oh almost spilled hot water on the floor, and Jae-joon nearly used salt instead of formula powder.

Eventually, the bottle was ready.

Jae-joon stared at it.

Myeong-oh stared at him.

“Well?” Jae-joon said.

“I made the bottle, you feed her!”

“I don’t know how to angle it!”

“Just… stick it in gently!”

“That’s what she said.”

“She’s a baby, you asshole!”

They bickered their way through the first feed.

She sucked at the bottle with a kind of furious hunger that made both men stare in awed silence.

Jae-joon swallowed. “She was starving.”

“She’s like a blender,” Myeong-oh said. “With feelings.”

After she finished, Myeong-oh hesitantly tried to burp her. It didn’t work.

Then she spit up on his hoodie.

“GROSS—!” he yelped, holding her away like a dripping cat.

“She got you,” Jae-joon smirked.

“Buy me a new one,” Myeong-oh muttered, peeling it off.

Eventually, after diapers (which took twenty minutes and a YouTube tutorial), a lullaby from a white-noise app, and a failed attempt at rocking her to sleep, the baby finally dozed off again—this time in a crib-shaped cardboard box lined with blankets.

The penthouse was quiet.

Dim.

Still.

Jae-joon sat back on the couch, exhausted, staring at the makeshift cradle. Myeong-oh sipped the whiskey he poured for himself, looking like he’d aged a decade in two hours.

“So…” he said eventually. “What now?”

Jae-joon didn’t answer for a long time.

Then

“I don’t know,” he said.

“But I think… I think I have to figure it out.”

#netflix #kdrama #netflix kdrama #the glory #the glory part 1 #the glory part 2 #x female reader #x female y/n #the glory x reader #park yeon jin #lee sa ra #son Myeong-oh #choi hyejeong #Jeon Jae-Joon

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flvorieas · 3 days ago

Text

STAGE FRIGHT! [ Rockstar Eren x Popstar Reader ] Multi chapter !

[ 📸 ] Chapter 2

Summary : Fresh out of rehab and clawing back what's left of his career, Eren Jaeger is thrown into a reality show meant to clean up his image. You , pop's golden girl are his forced costar. America's sweetheart meets rock's favorite disaster. The world sees a perfect PR stunt. You see a man still burning from the inside out. Living in the same house under constant cameras, you're expected to smile, heal him, and play your part. But you're not sure who's unraveling faster-him, or you. Sweet doesn't last in a house built on damage.

Previous chapter : 1 [2]

WATTPAD VERSION

The city’s noise is distant from here.

A rooftop bar sits abandoned in the early morning gray. The usual crowd managers, execs, leeches in designer sunglasses haven’t crawled out of their hangovers yet.

But Levi’s already waiting, Tea brewing on the table , he dressed in black like he’s heading to a funeral.

And in a way, he is. Because the band is dead. And Eren Jaeger? Still breathing, but barely.

Post-rehab was the loneliest kind of silence. No more texts. No more parties. No more noise to drown out the ache. Just mornings that felt like concrete, and nights that tasted like dust.

No stage. No spotlight.Just his guitar . And the weight of not knowing if he’d ever belong anywhere again.

Levi doesn’t offer a greeting , “Do you even remember the last gig?” he says instead, voice flat.

Eren shrugs. “Flashes.”

“Flashes?” Levi exhales sharply, standing. “You OD’d in the dressing room.”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“No. You’re famous, which is worse,” Levi spits. “And now your name is mud. You’ve dragged Armin and Mikasa down, And Jean? He has another plan . and every brand deal we had ran for the hills faster than you did from your last piss test.”

Eren doesn’t flinch . He just stares off at the skyline. Like the view might offer an escape hatch.

Levi had watched it happen in pieces.The slipping.The silence.The way Eren’s eyes stopped lighting up when he played.

Eren Jaeger, the boy who used to scream poetry into a mic like it was a lifeline, became a man who couldn’t hold a job, couldn’t stay in a studio, couldn’t stay sober.

He moved from couch to couch, burned through every bandmate, every friend. Until there was nothing left.

Levi assumes that Eren has no place in this society . He can’t have a normal job to support his life , because he's a man who is fickle and full of paradoxical thoughts .

Levi remembers how he found him under the bridge , He found him there by accident. One night and the air is cold ,

He was sitting on the pavement, hunched under neon lights, strumming an old acoustic guitar like he was trying to make the pain leave his body through the strings.

Levi watched silently . Eren’s looking like he wants to give up on his life but his finger is still holding on to the guitar string . Since then , Levi recruited him to enter the Band and introduce him to Mikasa .

But deep down , Levi knows even then, Eren still didn’t want to be saved.

“You look like shit,” Levi mutters. Eren shrugs. “I feel worse.”

Levi tosses a file across the table. “Read it.”.

“You hear me Brat? Read it,” Levi repeats, with a colder tone. Eren sighs. Open the folder and start to read ,

LOVE ON TOP ! See your favorite celeberities in a luxury island !

Eren scoffs. “You want me to play house with some pop star princess? Dress up and kiss for the camera?”

Levi doesn’t blink. “No , I want you to at least TRY to save the band’s reputation”

“Fuck that. I’m not your PR puppet.”

“No,” Levi says slowly. “You’re a PR mess.”

Eren laughed once , it was humorless. “And this is your genius plan?”

Levi leans in while his hand reaches the teacup handle. “You want back in the band? You want a stage again? You want anyone to give a shit about your music ever again? Then yes. You’ll smile, strum your guitar, and pretend not to hate the world for once in your life.”

Eren don’t give any reaction towards Levi’s words ,

“It’s not just any island. It’s a curated, branded escape. They’re calling it Love on Top. Two stars. One house. Ocean views. Couple shit. Healing, bonding, looking pretty for the cameras. You both ‘fall in love’ while promoting the island as a honeymoon destination.”

Eren snorts, bitter. “Sounds like hell in high def.”

Levi shrugs. “Yeah, but the paycheck is heaven. And if you don’t do it? You’ll never step on a stage again.”

Eren closes the file slowly. His fingers twitch , Levi can’t tell anymore.

“…What’s her name again?” he asks.

Levi smirks faintly. “You already know.”

He does.Of course he does. The popstar with the perfect smile. America’s little sweetheart.

You. [ YOUR STAGE NAME ] .

And now he is about to be her fake lover on national television.

“So?” Levi asks. “You promise you will do everything I asked you to do, Eren?”

“I’ll do it.

You stare at the email.You read it once. No,twice.And then you throw your phone across the room.

“Hange!” you scream, storming into her office like it’s a battlefield. “You really want to kill me, don’t you?! Eren Jaeger and me? You’ve got to be joking.”

She doesn’t even look up from her tablet. “I don’t joke….. Not before coffee~ hehe!”

“There’s no way—no fucking way—we’re going to convince the world that we like each other” Hange sighs, finally looking at you over her glasses.

“You’re both professionals,” she says.

“No,” you hiss. “I’m a professional. He’s a tabloid disaster with a guitar.” Hange just sits and thinks about her previous conversation with Levi regarding this.

A week ago. Levi had sat across from Hange in a private meeting room, silent for longer than he needed to be.

“I wouldn’t ask,” he said finally. “If I had any other move left.”

Hange raised an eyebrow. “You think putting your unhinged frontman in a fake relationship with the pop darling of the year is going to work?”

“I think she’s the only one who can make the world stop hating him long enough for him to get his shit together.”

“And you think she’ll say yes?”

Levi didn’t answer , because he wasn’t sure. But he knew he was out of time and Eren was out of chances.

“Gosh , Four eye ... Just one time…Please help me” Levi grunt while looking at his shoes trying to not stare into Hange’s eyes .

Hange sighs , She’s not that heartless to let Levi drown in a pit of failure .

“[Y/N], Just for one month,”Hange says now, as you pace like a caged animal.

“—You’re not marrying him. You’re not stuck with him forever. And you’re not alone! there’ll be a hundred crew members. Script. Schedules. Everything is guided.”

You stop pacing. “Last year… our beef was trending on Twitter.”

“I remember.”

“There were memes! Entire edits of me side-eyeing him at the VMAs!”

“I saw it [Y/N] , My favorite was the one where someone dubbed in a cat hiss.”

You glare at her. “And now we’re doing this stupid show?”

Hange just shrugs. “Exactly. That’s the point. Everyone’s watching. You two are walking headlines. The tension’s already there. You just have to let them think it’s turning into something else.”

You groan. Drag your hands down your face.

“Hange!!!” She pats your shoulder like this is a mild inconvenience instead of media suicide.

“You’ll be fine,” she says with a suspiciously cheerful grin. “Smile for the cameras. Make eye contact. Pretend you don’t want to strangle him. Easy.”

You want to throw something again.Maybe yourself.Right off the side of this goddamn project. You were supposed to promote an island. Heal. Relax. Pretend to be in love.

But no one told you the man you’d be fake-loving was the same man who once called your music “plastic serotonin for insecure teenagers.”

No one told you the cameras would be rolling when the past came back with a smirk, messy hair, and a fresh set of PR chains.And no one told you that Eren Jaeger would be waiting for you at the end of the dock.

You looked like a starlet from a dream.

Vintage waves pinned just right, the ends of your hair curled like you stepped off a 1955 movie poster. Your dress shimmered under the vanity lights, liquid silver silk, off-the-shoulder, slit high enough to threaten headlines. Diamond drop earrings, red lip, no nerves.

You weren’t just attending the AMAs. You want to own the night.

“Babe, you’re going to blind people! How do you feel about my creation!?” Sasha said, circling you, smoothing the fabric like a proud mom.

“you make everything 100x better,” you teased.

Historia raised her phone for a selfie. “Post this and the internet dies. You’re welcome.

“You laugh , for the first time today. There’s music in your chest again. Just tonight, just this once, it’s about you. Not contracts. Not scandals. Not him.

“[Y/N], over here!” Flashbulbs glued your eyes , the red carpet filled with scream and the Microphones were everywhere.

You smile, step onto the carpet, every movement smooth, calculated, light as air. The interviewer greets you with practiced charm, mic angled toward your lips.

“So tell us ... Any truth to the rumors about your upcoming project? A certain show set on a tropical island?”

You open your mouth , try to answer it professionally . But then , you hear a familiar voice . Just Right behind you ,

“Hey, beautiful,” Eren Jaeger drawls, stepping behind you like a ghost in silk and sin. “What’s up?”

You freeze. The camera is still on live , there's a thousand eyes watching you both . At the moment , you feel how every inch of your skin crawls.

Is he….high? No, he looks clean. Too clean. His hair’s pulled back, black suit messy in the most deliberate way. The chain around his throat glints. He smells like expensive sin and danger.

And he just walks right past you like it means nothing.Jean follows close behind, shaking his head, laughing. “You’re so fucking annoying, man!”

Eren just smirks, never looking back.

Later on , You find him near the fire exit , alone . Leaning against the wall like he owns the place.

You want to scream.But instead, you walk up to him.

“What the hell was that?”

He doesn’t turn to face you. Just exhales smoke from a half-burnt cigarette.

“Wasn’t it obvious? I said hi.”

“We were on live, Jaeger.”

“I know.” He finally looks at you. There’s no apology in his face. Just that same crooked mouth, that same goddamn look.

“You looked hot, by the way.” his green eyes looking at you , up and down . He was stunned by your appearance ,

You want to slap him. You also want to scream. Instead, your voice comes out like ice.

“You’re not funny. You’re not charming. And this fake little love island fantasy we’re supposed to do? It’s not gonna work.”

Eren tilts his head. “Oh, you think I wanted this?”

“You think I did?”

“You agreed,” he says, stepping closer. “Just like me.”

You stiffen. “I did it for my team. My image. Not for you.”

He’s too close now. Close enough that you can smell the faint burn of nicotine under his cologne.

“Last year you called me a corporate doll on live radio,” you say.

“Last year you called me a washed-up junkie in Rolling Stone.” He grins. “Fair trade.

“Hm?” you started, voice dipped in mockery.

“Coming back from rehab, the public eye turning on you… your band’s been on hiatus for a year, and this is the stupid thing you pick?”

You paused as you saw the band of Titans finally walk in , but you just swallowed your breath and kept going ,

“Who’s the doll for the industry now?” That’s it , you feel satisfied with how you finally express your resentment towards Eren.

Jean snorted behind him. “Hey, pretty. Watch your mouth.”

You didn’t even look at him. Eren stepped closer, just enough to sour the air between you. Just enough to make your breath catch.

“Be careful,” he said, voice low, the words smooth and venom-coated. “Everything I touch gets ruined. Maybe you’ll be the next little thing that gets discarded”

You straightened your back , Chin is still high to keep going staring at Eren’s eyes .

“Don’t worry,” you said. “Nothing will be touched.”

Then he leaned in closer than necessary, smug carved into his face.

“Sure… sweetheart.”

“[Y/N]!”

Historia’s voice sliced through the tension, heels clicking against the floor. She was already reaching for you, already pulling you away from the TITANS like her life depended on it.

He buried his lips against the tip of the mic, exhaling a slow breath before the smile crept in lazy, confident, and just shy of cruel. His black leather jacket caught the stage lights like oil, and his hair, loose and damp with sweat, clung to his jaw in messy waves. He looked like chaos set to a beat. And he knew it.

You didn’t move. Not even a twitch. You already knew what was coming.

You knew he was going to turn the moment into a weapon. You could feel it before he said anything how the air thickened, how the audience leaned in, how every camera subtly shifted in your direction like vultures circling overhead.

They were waiting for him to mock you again. Waiting for the punchline.

You sipped your champagne, fingers trembling slightly against the glass, and forced yourself to look up at him. You refused to flinch. You watched him play the stage like it belonged to him. Like none of this was real.

Then he spoke.

“I have this one girl…”

He strummed a single chord. The note echoed across the arena like a warning.

The crowd cheered, loud and eager.

He smiled wider, eyes skimming the front row but never staying there. His gaze reached higher scanning the VIPs. Searching for you , You knew exactly where he was looking.

“…who’s been inspiring me through writing my new album.”

More cheers. Louder this time. No one knew where he was going with it. Not yet.

“This is Bloody Valentine,” he said, his voice rolling through the mic like thunder with a smirk tucked inside every syllable.

“Only for you, [YOUR STAGE NAME].”

The gasp that tore through the audience didn’t even sound real.Your name rang across the venue like a shot fired in a crowd.

You start to panic , spiralling in confusion . Gasoline to a stage already burning. You heard it immediately, voices hissing from the rows below.

“Wait—did he say (Y/N)?”

“He’s dedicating a song to her?”

“Didn’t he trash her entire album on IG Live last year?”

“He called her music ‘therapy for toddlers.’ What the fuck is this?”

The crowd didn’t know whether to scream, laugh, or riot. But they made noise anyway.

Camera flashes burst like fireworks. Phones went up. You saw one girl typing a caption before she even finished gasping.

And every single lens, every single eye, every single headline already forming . They turned to you.

Your body stunned in front of them , You couldn’t make any single move , You’re like a statue .

Your hand clenched tighter around the glass, the stem biting into your fingers. The music was just starting drums pounding, bass rumbling but you couldn’t hear it. Not properly.

All you could hear was your name.

Your name and His mouth. Tangled with each one another on the stage . The worst part of it , this was all on purpose. Eren Jaeger didn’t mean any single word he uttered towards you! You know it ,

The screams grew louder, but none of them were for the song. They were for the narrative. The chaos. The scandal in real-time.

You sat frozen, back straight, smile fake, glass trembling.

And somewhere beneath the noise, beneath the lights, beneath the glitter and fury of a weaponized stage, you felt the words leave your mouth before you even knew you’d said them.

“No fucking way.”

But even that felt too loud. Your chest was burning. Your hands curled into fists against your thighs. He didn’t even mean it. You knew he didn’t mean it.

He wasn’t complimenting you. He was claiming you.

And worst of all? You didn’t even get a say in it.

You feel Historia's hand grabbing you in a speed of light , “We need to go,” she said quickly, already pulling you toward the exit.

You nodded, numb, trying to ignore the way people turned to watch. The way your phone buzzed with notifications you didn’t want to read. The way your name was already trending beside his.

By the time the car door slammed shut behind you, you were shaking.

Historia shoved her phone into your face before you could seven process the air conditioning.

“Look.”

The screen was already flooded with a lot of comments.

@lilpopgirl2001 AIN’T NO WAY. This is a fever dream. I refuse

@titantrash69 This is literally the worst marketing campaign I’ve ever seen. Who approved this?? Satan??

@erenyellingagain This is just a setup. no way she willingly stood near that man without filing a lawsuit first

@glitterandgasoline this ain’t a PR stunt it’s a cry for help. from both sides.

@jeansjawlinefan f*ck this popstar girl idc. eren deserves better than industry plants.

@stagemicgirlx reply to @jeansjawlinefan YO AT LEAST OUR FAVE DOESN’T EAT DIRT AND CALL IT STAGE PRESENCE 😭😭😭

@ynblackcoffee reply to @jeansjawlinefan your fave looks like he smells like old batteries and you wanna talk???

@bubblegumblood we’re fighting about THIS??? they have the chemistry of a soggy towel and a brick wall

They attached your blurry face mid-sip, dead-eyed, right after Eren said your name. Your face shows that you’re disgusted by Eren’s words .

@popculturepostz the moment she disassociated mid-champagne sip 😭😭

@ynlovelife_ “does (y/n) even KNOW about this relationship???”

@vma_memes this face says “he’s dead to me” and “I’m collecting evidence for court” at the same time

@yngloversunited [Your dead face , zoomed in]

captioned: “me when the group project guy presents MY part wrong”

Your name was being ripped apart in real time.

Every headline. Every thread. Every stan account dragging your image through the dirt because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut for three fucking minutes.

And of course, no one believed the rumor.

They all thought it was a PR stunt. A gimmick. Just another chapter in some overproduced reality show script. Your fans were quick to defend you, quick to claim it was all marketing for the upcoming “healing couple” project.

No one would take you seriously anymore.Not after this.

You could feel the heat rising in your chest, crawling beneath your skin like fire with nowhere to go. You were furious. At the cameras. At the headlines. At him.

You felt like you could burn the whole island down and still not be warm enough to melt the ice forming in your gut.

Next to you, Hange was on the phone , “What the fuck was that?” she barked into the speaker.

“That is not what I signed off on. That is not even marketing. That is chaos.”

“I told you,” she growled, eyes wild. “That Eren Jaeger doesn’t know how to behave like a public figure—”

“Oh, Hange,” Levi’s voice cut in on the other end, calm and soulless as ever.

Hange sat up straighter. “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT, LEVI? You planned this? You planned for my sweet, sweet [Y/N] to be dragged into your PR stunt with your half-feral frontman?”

“I’m learning,” Levi said dryly. “You told me I needed to work on PR.”

“That’s not PR,” she hissed. “That’s a full-on media arson attack.”

“The show needed a real couple,” Levi replied. “The numbers look good. [Y/N] and Eren work. That’s all that matters.”

“LEVI YOU—!”

You didn’t let her finish. You snatched the phone from her hand and pressed it to your ear.

“Levi, you emotionally stunted demon man, I swear to God if I lose one brand deal over this—”

“Just act for one month,” Levi interrupted, unmoved. “It’s not a big deal.”

You stared at nothing for a second.

“You dumbass. I’m a woman in this dipshit industry. They’re just waiting for me to slip so they can throw me into the pit. They’ll call me a whore just for having a normal situationship, like any other person. And they won’t treat me the same as Eren. They never do!—“

Levi give you a beat of silence , you take a deep breath before continuing your sentence ,

“—They’ll call me a slut, a fake, an industry plant, again. All because your tattooed rehab case can’t keep his ego out of a microphone!”

There was a long pause on the other end , for a moment you hear Levi’s sigh trying to speak up ,

“You’re still [YOUR STAGE NAME]. You’ll bounce. Drop a breakup album. Everyone loves pain and Everyone will love you again”

Your knuckles were white.

Levi sighed. “Tomorrow is the briefing and photoshoot. Work with Hange efficiently. Please.”

You blinked. “Please?”

“Hange-san,” he added, just to twist the knife.

Hange exploded beside you. “HANGE-SAN?! SINCE WHEN DO I—”

Click.The line went dead but your phone’s still buzzing.

“Just looked at the damn news (y/n)”

“EREN JAEGER LEAD VOCAL FROM THE TITANS SPARK A DATING RUMOUR WITH [YOUR STAGE NAME]”

At this point , you just want to throw yourself into a pit of hell and wish you would become someone no one knows.

Historia leaned in beside you, voice small.

“…Gosh, [Y/N]. Everyone’s going to be talking about this for the entire week.”

You didn’t respond , You just stared out the window, wondering how long it would take to set a guitar on fire.

The studio still smelled like last week’s half-eaten pizza left to die in a greasy box under the couch, mixed with whatever strain Eren was smoking again .

The air was thick with dust, old amps buzzed faintly in the corners, and the walls were lined with soundproofing foam that had seen better years. Empty coffee cups littered the table. Someone’s hoodie was crumpled in the corner like a forgotten ghost. The space felt lived-in, but just barely.

For the Titans, this was home . A place where they could be themselves without worrying about cameras or paparazzi.

Jean leaned back on the couch, one foot up on the amp, watching Eren scribble lyrics on a coffee-stained notebook like nothing had changed.

“This shit is good,” Eren muttered, grinning to himself. “Might be our best track.”

Jean rolled his eyes, kicking at the leg of Eren’s chair. “Man, you should stop smoking that shit. You just crawled out of rehab last month. Try breathing air for once.”

Eren didn’t look up. He never did when he was in one of those moods wired on creativity, self-destruction, or both.

They all knew it by now. Rehab was just a time slot he disappeared into.A break between disasters. Nothing good stuck in his head . He’s still Eren Jaeger .

“You’re seriously going to that island with her?” Mikasa’s voice came soft, a whisper under the weight of bass hum and guitar feedback.

Jean pulled her closer with a dramatic groan. “You’ll make our Mikasa sound so sad.”

Eren groaned with a frustrated feelings , “What the fuck. I’m doing all this stupid shit for you guys.

“No ..Eren ,” Armin said from across the room, barely glancing up from the keyboard he was setting up. “You overdosed on tour. You set us back, Eren. You set yourself up.”

Eren let out a loud, theatrical sigh. “I said I’m sorry, didn’t I? This stupid reality show’s gonna fix it, just watch. Our image will bounce right back , boom.”

Jean scoffed. “No one fucking believes you’re gonna hook up with someone like her. Not for real.”

“I can fuck all the girls I want,” Eren shot back without flinching.

Mikasa stood then, annoyed, pulling herself away from Jean’s grip. “It’s a bad idea, Eren. We could’ve dropped new singles. Opened festival sets. Anything but this.”

“Levi told you to do this, right?” Armin cut in again, voice sharper now, hands still busy at the keys.

Eren didn’t answer at first. He leaned back in the swivel chair, eyes closed, head tipped toward the ceiling. Smoke curled out from between his fingers in slow spirals.

“It’s not my choice,” he finally muttered.

“But you’re just going along with it?” Armin asked, tone edged with something halfway between disgust and concern.

Eren didn’t flinch. “Hey, man. Shut the fuck up. It’s not like I’m gonna marry her. We fake a few kisses, film some sunset walks, slap a ‘healing’ tag on it, and we’re done. One season. One paycheck. Over.

“Man, she’s gonna write some sad-girl pop hit about you,” Jean muttered under his breath.

“Let her be,” Eren said, smiling faintly. “Might be her first real hit.”

Jean stood quickly , Eren noticed. His chair stopped spinning.

“You got something to say?” Eren asked, his voice was low but there’s sense of playfulness . Like he wants to test Jean’s madness.

Jean folded his arms. “Yeah. I’m thinking about doing some side sets. Playing with another band. Maybe getting actual gigs while you’re off screwing around with your ‘healing arc.’”

“The fuck did you just say?” Eren stood ,

“I said maybe I’m done waiting for you to relapse every other month. Maybe I want to work with people who show up.”

The room went tense. Thicker than the smoke.

Mikasa’s eyes snapped to Jean. Armin stopped typing. Even the fluorescent buzz of the studio seemed to die off for a moment.

And then , the door creaked open. Levi stepped in like a shadow with a clipboard.

Every pair of eyes dropped instantly. Jean sat back down without another word. Eren clenched his jaw, grinding his molars as he reached for his lighter again.

Armin started tapping keys , Mikasa sat back down.

Levi raised an eyebrow. “Everyone done with the dick-measuring contest?”

No one answered.

“Good,” Levi muttered. “Briefing’s tomorrow. You better show up sober and smiling, Eren. I’m not babysitting your reputation or your bandmates.”

He left as fast as he entered , The door clicked shut.

Eren grunted, the office chair creaking as he pushed himself up and staggered slightly half from the buzz in his head, half from frustration twisting through his chest. He muttered something under his breath and stormed out of the room like a fuse chasing a spark.

He found Levi pacing the hallway, phone in hand, already ten seconds away from lighting someone else on fire.

“Hey,” Eren called out, walking fast now. “Do you know where the doll lives?”

Levi paused mid-scroll. “What?”

“The pop girl. The sweetheart. The fake girlfriend.” Eren waved his hand in the air, agitated. “Do you know where she lives?”

Levi raised one eyebrow. “Why would I know that?”

“Maybe she lives near Hange or some shit. I don’t know…Do you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Why?” Levi’s voice was calm but already tired. “Are you planning to show up and throw rocks at her window like it’s a 2003 rom-com?”

Eren ran a hand through his hair, pacing now like he didn’t trust himself to sit still. “She didn’t follow me back.”

Levi raised his eyebrow. “Okay?”

“She didn’t even reply to the comment I left.”

“Even more okay.”

“She’s making everyone think it’s true. Like she hates me. And now all these assumptions are blowing up because she won’t do the fucking bare minimum—”

Levi cut him off with a sigh. “Why do you give a fuck?”

Eren stopped moving. His jaw worked, like he wanted to say something else. Something that wasn’t entirely made of ego and panic.

“I want to crash her house and scream ‘WHY YOU IGNORE ME?’”

Levi stared at him like he was watching a toddler throw a tantrum in designer boots.

“Jesus Christ.”

Eren threw his hands up. “I’m just saying, if this is supposed to be some fake couple shit, she could pretend a little harder.”

“Settle this tomorrow,” Levi said, already walking away again. “You have a photoshoot in the morning. Show up. Smile. Keep your dick in your pants. And maybe…don’t go feral outside her house.”

Later that night, Eren sat alone in the dark studio, guitar across his lap, fingers absently strumming the opening chords to Bloody Valentine. The sound echoed off the walls, soft and broken, half melody, half memory.

Performing a teaser for the song had seemed like a good idea , everyone in the VMAS went wild when they heard the first note of the song . Attaching your name to it? Maybe even smarter.

But thinking about you? That still felt wrong.

He yearned to know how you were handling it all the headlines, the comments, the assumptions flooding your name like poison.

Neither of you wanted this.Neither of you asked for it.

He hated how fame had turned him into someone people dissected instead of listened to.He hated that the world knew his name, not his music. He hated how every bad decision stuck harder than every lyric he wrote.

All he ever wanted was to be an underground artist.Screaming into dirty mics for a room full of people who didn’t expect anything from him.

But then one of his songs blew up and suddenly, the world started calling him a genius. They said he’d saved the rock genre, even as they labeled him a problem. It was all contradictions, and he couldn’t tell what was wrong or right anymore.

Everyone who knew him called it his lucky charm. A song that could hook strangers in seconds.But to Eren, it was a curse.

Even after everything, he still couldn’t find joy in any of it. No excitement. No sense of contentment. Every time he tried to write a new note, he felt the weight pressing down on him.

And he kept asking himself , why am I still here?

He still wanted to end it all. To make everything stop.But something kept holding him back.And the worst part was… he didn’t even know what it was.

And now, tomorrow morning, the cameras will start rolling. The lights would turn on. And the act? It begins.