#woke up with this sitting in the notes app on my phone

[ghostlysoaps]

With barely a sound

Inspiration courtesy of @fludderpy and this artwork + snippet of theirs cont. where they left off. tw: explicit. 🔞 read at your on discretion.

Perhaps that's why he says it. To bring a sense of normalcy, a taste of their regular banter, the back-and-forth they'd perfected over months of missions together, into a still-life picture taken from a magazine. Or maybe it's as simple as him having little to no filter in the early mornings – whether they're in the field or on base. Words never fail to crawl their way out of his throat then, when he's at his most vulnerable, and what slips out always seems to be steeped in longing.

"D'ye wan' some help?"

He expects Ghost to sigh. Perhaps, if he plays into John's stupid game, he'd ask him to fetch Gaz for him as if Soap isn't well aware who his favourite sergeant is. Tell him to get fucked if he'd woken up on the wrong side of the sleeping bag.

"Alright."

Ghost drawls it, warps the first letter with his gravelly baritone until it resembles an o. And as if it were a siren's song, John takes an unconscious step forward. Towards the steam billowing from the cracked open door where a floorboard creaks. Ghost's hands still where they'd been rubbing over his face, one-quarter profile hidden in shadow. Through the gaps in his fingers, John finds him staring back at him with brown eyes so dark they rival the colours he wears.

Trembling, Soap undoes the velcro strap of his throat mic. It's too loud in a world holding its breath. As is the clink of his belt buckle. The swish of his shirt being dragged off. The rasp of jeans kicked to the side. 

He stands naked in the hall, teetering on the threshold under Ghost's burning gaze, unsure of what's expected of him.

Ghost tilts his head in a wordless beckoning and Soap heeds his call as if it were an order in the field.

The door clicks shut behind him but Soap pays it no mind. Even if it had been thrown wide open he wouldn't have cared, dishonorable discharge be damned. All that matters is Simon. Simon, who seems to falter in his confidence when Johnny draws near, as if John doesn't think him the most beautiful man in the world. Holding his breath when they're face to face as though Johnny wouldn't kiss him through his mask if that was the only way to have him.

He cups Simon's cheeks, strokes his thumbs over his cheekbones and the smeared paint there. Trailing his fingers further up, John rubs them through the suds in Simon's hair before bringing them back down again to work the stubborn grease off his skin – warm and malleable under John's attention. Even the scars are soft to the touch. He traces over them in silent awe. Drinks him in while Simon's heavy-lidded eyes return the favour, looking at John as if he'd been crafted by Pygmalion himself.

Simon's lips part. They're tinged a delicate pink, like that of peaches at the height of ripeness. Soap kinda wishes to take them between his teeth too. Lick at his saliva to see if it tastes as sweet as fruit juice when the rind breaks.

But he falters for too long and Simon shoulders the burden of command with the ease of expectation. He starts massaging shampoo into John's hair and scalp. Firm, short circles that liquify his brain right in the cradle of his skull. The world goes black and when it aligns itself again, Simon is smirking at him. Teeth glinting and charmingly crooked.

Soap blinks his bleary eyes with a dazed smile and steps into the spray of water to rinse himself off. He bats Simon's hands away when they reach for him again to lather his own and run them down the ladder of Simon's ribs. It earns him a full-bodied shudder. A gasp as light as the beat of a dragonfly's wing. John draws no attention to it as he learns what the curves of Simon's body feels like. Afraid to shatter the fragility of the moment.

There's an understated sort of intimacy to learn one another's bodies this way, rather than in the heat of passion. John finds he quite likes it. Delighting in every twitch and shiver he elicits from his lieutenant. It's what he'd imagine plucking at the strings of an instrument would be like whilst haltingly teaching himself the best way to make it sing.

Every sigh and hitched gaps and quiet groan are stowed away in his memory. Johnny finds a particularly sensitive spot to worry, right where Simon's glutes meet his pelvis, and tries to see if it has a mirror on his left side.

By the way he twitches as if he'd dipped his fingertips into an electric socket, Johnny figures he does.

He pets over the dark blond fuzz at the apex of Simon's thighs, entreating, in askance, never dipping below the invisible line drawn in the sand until Simon nods at his unspoken question.

When he wraps a perfunctory hand around Simon's prick, he finds it swollen and hot. He doesn't mean to linger. Sets to cleaning it in the same detached manner he would his own when it thickens further in his grasp. Besides, Simon sighs all sweet and saccharine, grasping Johnny around the waist to guide him closer. There's no denying, pressed close as they are, that John has taken an interest too.

His own cock is dripping like a leaking tap, curving towards his belly, flushed a ruddy pink at the tip. He stares at it in abject betrayal right up until it disappears within pale fingers.

John hitches a moan and tucks his face into the faded motif of Simon's tattoo. It's not a comfortable perch. His shoulder is too defined to be of use so he shifts to bury his face in the crook of Simon's neck instead. Beneath a wafer-thin layer of skin, his pulse is beating a mile a minute and tastes like generic soap under Johnny’s lips. Not that he's able to focus very hard on anything other than Simon doing his damndest to wring his soul out through his dick.

Clumsy with desire, John returns the favour. Composes his own symphony from the sounds Simon makes nestled in the background noise of slick skin and pattering water.

They come like that. Twined together like two vines racing up a brick facade. Tilts his head at the very last second to muffle his cry against Simon's lips, to kiss him as if the air from his lungs is what Johnny needs to breathe. Swallows the reverberating groan he receives in response with helpless gratitude.

They weather the aftershocks together, still mapping each other's mouths – alternating chaste presses of lips with twining tongues. Their own corner of the world, painstakingly culminated from stolen glances and yearning, kept under wraps by the skin of their teeth.

"Come home with me," Johnny whispers, heart bared and bloody for Simon to gawk at.

Simon merely kisses the delicate patch of skin below Johnny’s earlobe and taps a repeating rhythm up and down Johnny’s spine until they're forced apart by the world at large and its expectations for them. Back to the exfil point where Nik is waiting, back to relaxing against the enforced hull of his helicopter, back to another grueling assignment halfway around the world. But through it all, Johnny grins bright enough to rival the roiling magma at the earth's core, fingertips dancing a familiar beat under Ghost's watchful eye.

– – –  – • –

O.K.

[oatmealthighs]

-`♡´- plug!eren x blackfem!reader

ᯓᰔ contents: nsfw 18+, MDNI. reader indulges 🍃, eren is overprotective, public sex, maybe semi public? idk. daddy/mama usage. might be some slightly toxic dynamics. but nothing too serious. rushed ending cus i suck at endings 💔 a sequel full of fluff will be coming soon out of this.

ᯓᰔ author's note: omg i haven't posted in like months. but anyways what would i be without dropping the token plug!eren drabble. nothing too crazy, just some bathroom sex. also there are instances where there are texts but i got too lazy and didn't bother making texts out of them mwahahahaaa sorry in advance. this is barely proofread and not my best so if there are mistakes i am sorry. requests are open! also look out for a tengen x reader x wives fic coming really soon. like this week soon

the feeling of your phone buzzing in the back pocket of your true religion jeans whisked your attention away from the pearled blunt you had pinched between your fingers.

your glossy lips curled into a little smirk, your acrylics clicking at the keyboard of your screen.

you've been pushing eren's cute lil buttons all night. honestly all day... but you didn't feel bad for making him sweat. he's been trying you as of late.

you and eren were supposed to be spending some quality time together last night, and he was specifically supposed to be over your place by no later than 8:00. you had the whole shabang... bath and body works candle burning out, led lights on and set to the color purple, some of his favorite snacks and some dinner and dessert you had wrapped up for him that you had made earlier. you were planning on watching a show with him, giving him a scalp massage while he played his playstation that he always brought whenever he came over, and give him the best head he's ever received that night before riding him into the sunset, but all those plans went soiled. 8:00 came, and on the dot he had sent a text message about him having to go make a few more drop offs, then he'd come to you. 8 turned to 9, then 10:30, then 1... fucking... AM.

was it fucked up you didn't answer the door when he came knocking finally? kinda, but the guilt didn't last long when you thought about how he practically stood you up.

eren was a popular plug on the university you attended. you knew friday is usually the day that people were trying to cop, given it was majority people's payday and the weekend, but you were hoping that he would close up shop early just this one time for you. his clientele would live-- there were plugs by the dozen on campus. but eren knew wasn't none of them fucking with his shit. you weren't sure what other outcome you were expecting. he never turned his head away from possible income.

eren already knew he fucked up, but he knew ultimately in the end it was going to be worth it. the extra money was going to go into play towards his proposal to ask you to be his girlfriend, and no amount of your anger was going to get that out of him. he was prepared to keep his mouth shut, throw away the key, and take his lashings like a man. so when he was met with radio silence, he was flabbergasted.

when he pulled up to your crib and didn't get an answer from him knocking on your door and calling your phone, he figured you fell asleep and resulted in retreating to his abode. the next morning, when he woke up to find that you didn't respond to his apology texts from last night, it made him sit up in his bed and squint at his phone with crust-ridden eyes.

no response? it was so unlike you. usually you would respond with a barrage of text messages stating your feelings, or at the very least he'd get a passive-aggressive dry text from you. but to be met with nothing at all made his gut twist in a disgustingly vexing way.

he rubs at his temples, sending you a "good morning baby" text before opening the safari app and going to the local floral shop's delivery site.

later that afternoon, eren's sitting in his blacked out durango when he receives email confirmation that the flowers have been delivered, the low hum of the strong engine the only thing somewhat soothing his frazzled nerves. he made sure to get your favorite, and tried to ask them to incorporate your favorite color as much as possible.

he checks your location as he hits his blunt, releasing the smoke from his mouth and inhaling it through his nostrils. he already knows your home, having your schedule downpack. and you were. so why didn't you say anything about the flowers? did you not like them? he sends you a text, saying, "i sent you some flowers," staring at the screen and awaiting your response.

yess, you know he sent you flowers, and you loved them. you had gasped when you found them on your porch, bright and vibrant in color and smelling so freshly sweet. you had already cut the stems and put them in some warm water in a lovely vase. you almost wanted to text eren, to tell him how much you loved them and thank you, but the strong annoyance you had from last night still lingered. with a twist of your lips you disregarded your phone on the kitchen counter, humming a tune as you moved about the kitchen to prepare you a nice lunch.

eren releases a defeated sigh as he puts his jay out, not even in the mood to smoke anymore. mopily, he clicks off his phone, shifting his gear to drive to make more plays.

he spends the rest of the day pondering ways to possibly pull a conversation from you, and a lightbulb flickers in his head when he recalls you saying you were running low on weed. eren always gives you gas free of charge, one of the special privileges that comes with being his favorite girl. he opens his phone to text you again.

doechii's expressive voice flows through your speaker at a volume level most would call excessive. but you didn't care. anything to drown out the annoying pensive thoughts of eren's sexy little face. "i ain't a killer but don't push me, don't wanna have to turn a nigga guts into SOUP BEANS!" no, really, doechii.

your phone vibrates on your vanity as you rummage through your closet for a cute outfit to wear tonight, striding over to your phone with nimbleness. you figured it'd be hitch, since you and her were accompanying each other to the kickback tonight and she was asking either what time you wanted to go or what you were wearing. your hypothesis was proven incorrect when you saw eren's name on your notification wall instead. just him asking if you wanted to him to drop off some more weed for you.

your heart twinged ever-so-softly at the thought of you ignoring your baby. you missed him. it was embarrassing to say this was the longest you went without talking to him. but how would he know you were serious if you just gave in now?

you wanted to respond and tell him you were cool. hitch was bringing the weed tonight. but you refrained, if anything that would get him all the more riled up. eren doesn't like you smoking others weed, his reasoning being he doesn't "trust their product." he was so sexy when he was protective. you remember when you told him you copped from someone else when he had to go off campus for a little bit to see his family, and he spent a half hour inspecting it on the scale with his phone flashlight.

eren let out an irritated growl after constantly checking his phone for 10 minutes, still no reply from you in his notifications. he wanted to tell you you were dragging it, but he knew you weren't. you had every right to be pissed with him given he had promised you this quality time and swore he would make time for you. you were never a stickler for too much attention, but with eren always on the run it was easy for him to neglect you. he's been getting better at it though. until last night.

connie's name flashes across eren's phone screen. he slides the answer button right and lets his car sync the call to the radio. "yo."

"what's good, man. you coming to the kickback tonight? it's gonna be at jean's place." eren rolls his neck until he hears it pop. he knows you'll be there.

"yeah, i might come. today's been slow. don't got nothin' else to do."

"damn, i know that voice. what'd you do this time?"

eren weakly chuckles at connie's intuition. "what can i say, business was booming like crazy last night. we were supposed to hang out but my phone just kept ringing."

connie let out a long sigh over the line. "typical eren, never knows when to close shop." he pauses. "you know you're the asshole, right?"

"yeah," eren groans, shutting his car off and putting his phone on speaker. "i know. i plan on making it up to her."

"yeah, how? surely not with some weed and dick." connie snorts. "[name]'s a nice girl, you plan on locking it down with her anytime soon? i see the way floch be looking at her."

"he wouldn't dare," eren denies, the simple thought of it just making his eye twitch. while you and eren weren't official, basically everyone in the friend group and the vicinity knew y'all were on each other bad. but some assholes just didn't respect boundaries. he noticed floch's gaze would linger on you a little longer than he deemed appropriate. how they would trail your body. he noticed the way his cheeks would blush when you would speak to him in passing or make small talk.

"i dunno, man," connie instigated, smugness in his voice. "but, bring a quarter with you. it's on me, i'm gonna zelle you."

"just send me $50." eren and connie exchange a few last words before they end the call, leaving eren in silence as he stares at the gray wall of the parking garage he was parked in. he didn't know what he was gonna do about you.

eren always tended to look the sexiest when you were mad at him, or he was upset with you. he always would wear his hair down, taupe tresses brushing his broad shoulders. he'd always wear a black tee and some baggy sweatpants that always had you imagining what it was he had underneath. it was nothing you haven't seen, but it was always a pleasant surprise.

you felt your defiance wavering when he and all is glory walked in to jean's house, high as fuck. you swore you could smell his ysl cologne from across the room.

"you okay girl?" sasha questions, her eyebrows pinching in concern as she leans into your eyesight. you blink your mascara coated lashes, giving her a smile.

"yeah, my man just walked in. he always looks so good when im pissed at him."

"it's a trap. don't fall for it." hitch scoffs, her hazel eyes trained on the blunt she was busy rolling. her thighs were squeezed together to keep her carebear rolling tray in place. "don't even look his direction."

"i forget hitch is such a hard-ass. how does marlo manage," ymir jokes. historia chuckles, her head resting against her girlfriend's broad shoulder.

as their conversation goes on, your eyes can't help but find eren again through the decent amount of people crowding the bottom floor of the house, watching him interact with connie and hand him a bag of what you assumed to be cannabis. his turquoise eyes cut across the room, and you know he's looking for you. you look away before any eye contact can happen. when you feel eyes burn into your skin, you know he spots you.

the night involves you acting as if he doesn't exist, keeping your back turned and acting like you're too busy to acknowledge your phone notifications. when you finally light the blunt hitch pearled, you know eren texts you asking where did you get that. you chuckle to yourself as your thoughts were confirmed when you snuck a peek at your phone.

eren feels anger welling in his body as he watches you from a safe distance, lounging against the wall and his eyes never leaving you. you knew what you were doing at this point. wearing them jeans that made your ass sit so perfect and a crop top that teased at your skin and your belly button piercing. your hair was in curls, and your glittery lip gloss shone in the low light of the room. he knew you probably had on his favorite perfume too. that vanilla one he loved so much.

"just go talk to her dude," connie yells over the aggravatingly loud jersey mixed song that was booming through the surround sound, his words slightly slurred from the drink he's been sipping on. eren furrows his thick brows as he hits his spliff, watching the tip burn bright orange as he shuts his eyes for a moment. "and you better hurry. i think tonight's the night floch makes his move."

"connie, shut the fuck up." eren's tone is firm and warning as he feels the vein in his neck rising to the surface of his skin. he finally opens his eyes, glancing at you, and what he sees makes his stomach cave and everything around him turn red.

floch, with his ugly fucking haircut and that ugly dangling earring had the audacity to be all up in your glory, smiling sheepishly as you were saying something to him. he doesn't know what you were saying, your back was to him, but the way your head swayed and your hands were moving he knew you were talking.

honestly eren was never this defensive of someone before. maybe it was your constant insistence of you being fine on your own. "boy, i'm grown," you'd say to him. it only made his instinct to protect you grow stronger.

he knew well you could handle your own. but how fucking dare him?! it's like floch was begging for an ass whooping!

he wasn't actually. he was begging for you to send him the homework answers for your chem class. "not gonna lie floch, i haven't even looked at that shit yet," you admit with a shrug, your lips pulled into a friendly smile.

floch groans as he rubs the back of his neck. "i'm for sure gonna flunk that class. i might just say fuck it and retake it next year."

"not if i can help it," you interject, furrowing your brows. "we pass together, we fail together. i'll send you the answers on groupme tomorrow when i finish."

floch pumps his fist. "man, you're the fucking best, [name]. if you weren't in there i dunno what i'd–"

a hard body brushes past floch, harshly and intentionally slamming his shoulder into theirs. "hey, man, what the–"

you smell eren before you see him, wearing that delicious cologne that's stained into your bed sheets. you look up to find him looking down at you, fire in his sea green irises as he glares at you.

you feign oblivion, lifting an eyebrow at him. "hey," you speak first.

"why haven't you been responding to my texts." his voice is curt, but still soft nonetheless. you feel your girls looking at you intently to see how you were going to play this.

"been busy, sorry," you respond, not sounding much too apologetic.

eren cuts his eyes to the right to see floch still standing there, much to his distaste, a look of confusion plastered across his face. "you need somethin'?" he asks him, a foreign, cutting edge to his question.

"i was just trying to ask her about the homework, dude," floch bites back defensively, taking the smallest step back.

your dainty hand trails up to grab eren's forearm, your soft, irreplicable touch quelling his aggravation. you swear you could feel his taut muscles relax at your contact, knowing he was probably deprived. so dramatic.

"eren, calm down," you reprimand him gently, but sternly. you gave floch an apologetic glance. "sorry, floch. see you tuesday."

floch nods, his auburn eyebrows creased in the middle as he glanced at eren, then back at you, before departing. in tandem, you let go.

"what's your problem," you seethe, but not loud enough for your friends to hear. "you damn near made that boy shit his pants."

eren sucked his teeth, closing his eyes to roll them as he clenched his jaw. "why are you ignoring me, [name]," his low voice is strained, constricting his internal anger to the best of his ability. his high was blown, the music was too loud, you smelled and looked too good, it was all too much.

you place a hand on your hip, your beautiful eyes passive, but holding a glint of hurt behind them. "just collect your breath. i don't wanna talk about it here... even though you know what the problem is-"

"yo, [name], wanna hit this again?" saved by the bell.

"yes, pleaseeee," you drawl. you turn on heels, but not before telling eren, "i'll see you later."

shortly after eren departed to god knows where, and you got high as hell, was when you received that text. and you don't know if it was the marijuana making you fuzzy and horny, the growing urge to just be in his arms, or what, but you complied.

as you brushed and weaved between drunken bodies, you couldn't subdue the underlying feelings of anxiety that swelled in your chest. you didn't know what to expect. but you knew one thing for certain, you were gonna give eren a piece of your mind tonight.

when you finally made it to the bathroom door, you released a breath you didn't even realize you were holding, shaking yourself of your jittery nerves before your knuckles rapped against the hollow wood of the door.

it wasn't even three seconds before eren cracked the door, and before you could say anything, you were yanked in.

you squealed at his presentation of strength, the butterflies in your stomach downward-diving straight to your core. "well, damn! what happened to hello? how are you?!"

eren ignored your playful reprimanding, instead using the time to soak and drink you in. you were so pretty, fussing at him like that. the way your glossy lips twisted as you spoke on about nothing relevant, the way your hair swayed with every movement you made. every muscle in his body urged him to kiss you, breathe you in.

"whatcha call me in here for? it's hot as hell..." you murmured, leaning against the cool wood of the door in attempt to catch your breath.

eren was quiet as he loomed on the opposite side of the bathroom, half-lidded cyan eyes carefully trained on you. you lifted your eyebrows with a shake of your head, prompting him to go on, your arms crossed against your glittery chest. "you're so pretty," he hums, a side smirk playing at his lips, showing his pretty white teeth that you wish you were nibbling on you just about right now.

"can't smooth-talk your way out of everything, eren," you resisted with a strain in your voice, turning to face the mirror to the left of you instead of him. "i'm still upset with you."

"rightfully so," eren agrees, slowly closing the distance between the two of you, backing you against the cool oak wood of the bathroom door. "'m sorry baby, you know i love spending time with you more than anything in this world–"

"i beg to differ," you interject. eren rests his eyes as he clenches his jaw, withholding a sigh. "all i asked was that you put me first for one night... and you couldn't even do that."

"baby, listen to me." eren's large hand engulfs yours, the warmth of his palm spreading through your limbs like wildfire. "words can't even begin to express how deeply sorry i am. i know i fucked up... i know. but, i had reason i've been wanting to work a lot more often as of late." he pauses. he couldn’t possibly pop his question in a bathroom at connie’s party. you’d hate him ten times more than you already do in his moment.

you cock your brow, looking up at him through those pretty lashes that framed your eyes so well. “i’m waiting, eren.”

he sucks in a deep breath, making the sound he usually makes when he’s about to say something you don’t like. “just… trust me. okay?”

that was enough to make you head for the door, reaching out to twist at the knob before he grabs at your wrist. “man, move,” you mutter, over the bullshit. you were over it all: the lies, the empty promises. and you were especially over being crowded in this bathroom with him, because you felt your resolve faltering with each passing second you remained in his presence. you felt like an animal resisting every primal instinct and bone in your body, begging you to let him touch you. it was borderline pathetic.

“you aren’t going anywhere, [name].” he meant that in more ways than one.

“how much you wanna bet?”

the frustrated glint in his aquamarine eyes and the knit in his thick brows made your knees give.

“ummm, have you guys seen [name]?” hitch asks after a good thirty minutes fly by since you first departed the group, skating her eyes around the living room with a quizzical glance.

ymir snorts. “you already know she ran off with that boy,” she exhaled the smoke she was holding in her chest out towards the ceiling, running her long fingers through historia’s golden locks. “wouldn’t be surprised if she already dipped off with him.”

not quite. instead, you and eren were still in the bathroom, your ass on the bathroom counter and your head resting against the mirror as eren was crouched before you, low to the ground as he slurped at your pussy like a man starved. he looks up at you from his place between your thighs, tongue flicking at your swollen clit before taking it into his mouth to suck on it whole. you let out a breathy, high pitched moan, your eyes rolling behind your closed eyelids as eren gazed up at you with hearts in his eyes. you were always so fucking beautiful, whether you were mad at him, grinning at him, or cumming for him.

“fuuuck, i think i’m bouta cum again,” you whimper, your eyebrows pinched as your orgasm brewed at a slow boil within the pit of your stomach. you already left your mark all over the marble sink, leaking down your thighs, and all over eren’s chin. but when was that ever enough to satiate his thirst?

“do it, baby,” he breathes, french kissing your pussy before speaking again. “you know i want it.”

“get it outta me, then,” you retort, a sexy simper pulling at your lips, and the darkened glare he have you through heavy eyelids made your pussy squeeze.

his big hands grip your thighs, blunt nails digging in your skin as he begins rocking your lower body up and down, sliding his long tongue from between your pussy lips to your ass with each bounce. you let out a squeal of surprise, your pink toes wriggling as he just kept doing it, over and over and over. you hear him, moaning with each stride, reveling in the saccharine taste of you. his dick felt like it was bouta break, restricted to his boxer briefs, and he felt the sticky precum leaking on his thigh. he needed to fuck you. but he always prioritizes you over all.

your orgasm bust inside you, your pussy profusely contracting as your juices coated eren’s face. “fuck, yeah,” he encourages in you, his voice in a low growl of satisfaction. he didn’t stop, cleaning you up and slurping your pussy clean. you flinched as he left a final loving kiss to your aching clit, and he chuckled as he stood to his feet. your eyes couldn’t help but look at his crotch, you couldn’t help but smirk at the prominent tent of his stiff dick being held hostage in his sweatpants. “turn around for me. i want you to see me fuck you.”

you slid off off the counter, ringing your panties off the ankle they were hanging on to, before turning around, leaning against the sink and arching your back. you looked back at him, gazing at him tauntingly. “whatchu waiting for?”

“cool it,” he warns you playfully, his thumbs hooking into the bands of his sweats. "don't bite off more than you can chew."

"i've had mouthfuls of you. i promise you i can chew."

"look at the mirror."

you turn back forward, looking at eren in the reflection. he was so pretty, his hickory locks tousled around yet still framing his face beautifully. his bottom lip was pinched between his teeth as he shifts his pants to fall below his knees before rolling his briefs down his thighs. he lifts his tshirt up, showcasing his tan abs that had a slight shimmer of perspiration as he readies the head of his dick at your opening. then, with steady hips and a deep breath, he pushes forward.

him putting his cock inside of you was such an irreplicable feeling, you don't know how to explain it. to feel his girth stretching you, giving you a burn that was so deliciously good, always made your head spin. you whine, pushing your ass back just a little bit to help eren bottom out in you. he cusses under his breath, grounding himself with a hand on your ass cheek as his pelvis met flush against your tailbone.

you felt his dick twitching inside you, and you couldn't help but let out a satisfied moan as you let your head drop against your arms folded over the sink. eren grit his teeth, his jaw clenching as he tries to regain his composure. you were so warm, so wet, so greedy judging by the way your pussy squeezed him like a vice. any sudden movements and he was bound to nut in you.

suddenly, the bathroom knob jiggles, followed by pounding against the door. you jump, your muscles stiffening as fear tickled at your tummy. eren hisses, his nails digging crescents in your cocoa buttered skin at you tightening around him. "uh, anyone in there? i gotta piss!" connie. what are the fucking odds.

"uhh, give me a few minutes!" you yell, your voice uncharacteristically shrill from your newborn anxiety as you looked back at eren with wide eyes. "maybe we should-"

you were shut up with one, heavy stroke, eren almost completely unsheathing himself before bottoming out in you again. your words died in your throat, replaced with a gasp.

"uh, okay...?" the end of connie's okay drawls up in the end. "wait, [name], is that you? are you straight in there?"

"yes... fuck, yes!" you sputter out, squeezing your eyes shut as eren picks up his speed a bit, but not his power. he was gonna do you a favor and not fuck you too dumb in here. he wants you to at least have some chance of walking out of here on your own two feet. "i'm fine!"

"okay, okay! i'll just go upstairs." after a few seconds, you hear connie shifting away, but that genuinely wasn't your main focus. eren was rolling his hips, making sure the tip of his dick hit that sweet spot that made you sing with every. single. thrust. your head was down, resting against the counter, your eyes stuck in the back of your head as you took every inch of him with grace. your moans were mere whimpers, trying your best to muffle them with the inside of your arm.

eren sees his phone vibrate from his place on the hanging shelf beside him, and he smirks to himself when he takes a brisk glance at the banner:

convict: [name]'s in the bathroom. she didnt sound too great so u should prolly check in on her

eren groans under his breath, leaning forward to mold his abdomen against the curvature of your spine. that motion was enough to make him feel like he was touching your stomach. "what are you doing?" he purrs, flicking his tongue out to lick at the shell of your ear. he feels you shiver, your shoulders shuddering as a sex-soaked cry escaped your lips. "i said i want you to watch me fuck you. why are you hiding that pretty face?"

you had nothing but a pathetic moan to offer as a response, and he scoffed to himself, a smirk curling at his lips. he stands straight, both of his hands settling at your lovehandles as he begins sending you to poundtown. the impact of his hips against your ass was loud, and there was no doubt that if anyone came to the door they would hear you getting the shit fucked out of you. "be a big girl, mama," he muses. his hand reaches for your curls, gripping your tresses to pull your head up and back. you squealed, your eyebrows pinching at the burning sensation. you mustered up the courage to flutter your eyes open to be met with the godly sight of your man, looking down at you throw those thick eyelashes, his cheeks tinting pink from the overwhelming heat of the small, crammed space. " watch me while i fuck you."

his wish is your command as you watch him through teary eyes, licking your lips at the feeling his hand snaking up the arch of your spine to come around and grip your chin. the pads of his fingers rest on your cheeks, slightly squeezing as he snaps his hips against you from behind. his eyes are boring into you, clouded by lust with a hint of adoration, watching the way your face contorts into pleasure-ridden expressions. he's watching the way your plump lips wrap around his thumb, the way your titties bounce with every deep thrust and threaten to spill out your victoria's secret bra and tank top, the way that fat ass jiggled and made waves every time he drilled his dick in you. you were perfect. from your pretty face, to your loving heart that had a padlock with his initial on it, to your gushing pussy that would squirt all over him just for him.

"this pussy is so perfect," eren hums, looking down in awe as he watches the way you cream and squeeze on his shaft. "it's like it was made just for me. was it, baby? this is just my pussy, right?"

"you know that, daddy," you slur, feeling your orgasm coming to a head. you were so ready to release, your pussy just aching to cum. you hear him give a chuckle, his hips speeding up in tandem.

"i think you're ready to cum now. i want it all on my dick. can you do that for me, princess? or is that too much to ask of you?"

but before you could even muster a response, it was as if a tsunami hit your pussy, because the way your juices sprayed against his upper thighs was a damn shame. eren lets out a moan of appreciation, biting his lip as he lets your orgasm ride out and coat his dick. he gives your ass a few appreciative cracks, making you tighten around his cock until you managed to collect your breath.

eren slowly begins unsheathing himself from you, his dick still solid as concrete but he honestly wasn't concerned with getting his own nut off right now. after all, this wasn't going to be the last time he was to be in you tonight. as soon as he takes you back to his place, he was gonna fuck you through the mattress and the bedframe.

"girl, there you are! you've been missing for like, an hour!" you bumped into hitch on your way towards the front door, eren being your guide but you squeezed his hand to let him know to stop. she shifts her eyes to him, then looks back at you with an "oh-i-see" look. "you headed home?"

"yeah, eren's gonna take me."

"okay, be safe," hitch adjusts your shirt, tugging the top hem over the shadows of your peeking bra. "call me when you get in."

"she will." eren assures hitch, and she nods, the two of you slipping away from the crowd and going off into the night.

[cigarettesuga]

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀closer than this ୨ৎ ( myg )

✸⠀⠀PREMISE ⠀⠀፧⠀⠀ after a charged first meeting, yoongi doesn’t expect to text her — or end up tangled in her sheets after a quiet rooftop dinner that feels more intimate than it should. but some things are too good to leave behind, even when they don’t make sense.

featuring⠀idol!min yoongi x actress!fem!reader genre strangers to lovers, slow burn, smut with emotions™, romantic tension so thick you could chew it wc⠀12.3 k warnings explicit sexual content (fingering, protected sex, oral fixation, teasing, praising, desperate pacing), intense sexual tension, breathy makeouts, soft dominance, mutual control, light pressure to jaw/throat (non-aggressive), mild marking (hip-grabbing/bruising), lots of kissing and emotional intimacy, post-sex cuddling, internal monologue-heavy navi

lu's note⠀i’m so happy to finally share part two of charitable causes — it’s tender, it’s filthy, and it’s a little dangerous. life’s been hectic lately so updates might slow down a bit, but i’m still writing when i can. also: there’s a scene where oc talks about working with a popular actor — i didn’t name anyone ‘cause i don’t really watch dramas and didn’t wanna pick someone who’s suddenly problematic 😭 just pretend it’s your fave lol.

as always, my asks are open & your love keeps me going 𖹭𖹭

⠀⠀

⠀⠀

yoongi woke up like he’d been dreaming with his eyes open — hazy, limbs heavy, warmth pooled in his chest that didn’t belong to sleep. his room was too quiet. the sunlight crawling across the floor was too soft. he blinked slowly, one arm flung across his stomach, the other half-buried under his pillow.

it took him a second to recognize where he was. home. the ache in his jaw from clenching during sleep grounded him. so did the faint taste of wine still lingering on his tongue.

he turned his head toward the nightstand.

his phone was there, screen black, plugged in. he didn’t remember doing that. didn’t remember coming in, brushing his teeth, changing clothes — the whole night had slipped through his fingers like water the moment the door closed behind him.

but the piece of paper underneath the phone?

that he remembered.

crisp, folded, barely visible — just the corner peeking out like it was daring him to acknowledge it. her handwriting small and confident. her name and number, sitting there like a secret only he knew how to keep.

he stared at it without touching it.

hadn’t texted her. not yet. hadn’t even typed out a draft and deleted it — though he’d thought about it. several times. thumb hovering over the messages app, brows furrowed, heart punching slow and hard in his ribs like it wanted to be consulted.

his mouth was dry. he brought his hand up and dragged it over his face, palm pressing against his eyes until the darkness turned red.

“what am i doing,” he mumbled into his skin.

he exhaled. slow. rough.

he wasn’t like this. he didn’t do this.

he didn’t slip away from events to kiss strangers in deserted hallways. didn’t flirt with actresses he barely knew just because they looked at him like he was something worth unwrapping. didn’t let his guard down just because someone touched his elbow and whispered something sharp into his ear like a line written for him.

he was careful. calculated. controlled.

but last night?

he hadn’t felt controlled at all. he’d felt seen. and wanted. and a little reckless in a way that hadn’t scared him — not in the moment, anyway.

the worst part?

he couldn’t stop replaying it. her breath against his jaw. the way her body arched into him like they were built to fit. the sound of her voice curling into his ear just before she disappeared again — to be continued?

fuck.

he scrubbed a hand over his hair and rolled onto his side, staring at the number again like it might answer all the questions in his chest.

he didn’t move to text her.

not yet.

but he didn’t put the paper away either.

he stayed in bed longer than he should have.

his body wasn’t tired, not really, but his thoughts felt heavy — dense in the back of his skull, turning over and over like laundry caught on repeat. he stared at the ceiling. listened to the silence. blinked slow, trying not to let his brain go there again.

but it did anyway.

to her.

he told himself not to overthink it. it was fun. harmless. she was beautiful, sure. interesting too. quick with her words, sharp with her looks — the kind of woman who carried herself like she didn’t owe anyone an explanation, but might give you one just to see how you handled it.

he should be able to let that go.

just… let it exist in a vacuum. one stolen night, one breathless kiss, one private moment that didn’t have to mean anything if he didn’t let it.

but his mind — traitorous, persistent — kept leading him back.

to the press of her lips against his. the smell of her skin. the way she’d looked at him like they were sharing an inside joke no one else in the room could read. how she’d flirted like it was second nature, like her words were laced with static — subtle but charged, casual but undeniable. enough to make him second-guess his own memory.

did it really happen like that?

was she really that close?

he shifted under the sheets and let out a low sigh. rubbed at his eyes. cursed softly.

a part of him felt misplaced now. out of sync with his own skin. maybe it was the solitude — the rest of the guys all enlisted, the dorms too quiet, his name suddenly carrying the weight of seven. maybe it was guilt. not for the kiss itself, but for wanting more. for thinking about her mouth while sitting in a studio chair or brushing his teeth or trying to answer emails.

what would the others say? he wondered. not in a shameful way, just… curious. would they tease him? tell him to text her already? would they think it’s weird? would jimin have noticed before anyone else that something was off?

the phone buzzed sharply.

yoongi flinched.

just for a second. barely a movement — but enough to make him painfully aware of everything around him. the weight of the blanket. the cut of light through the curtains. the silence he’d been stewing in. the tiny folded paper still tucked beneath his phone like a match pressed against gasoline.

he reached for the device, thumb swiping across the screen. not her.

[manager] yoongi-ssi, just a reminder you’ve got a photoshoot today @ 3. did you eat already? want me to grab you an americano on the way in?

he stared at the message.

normal. routine. the same kind of check-in he always got on busy days.

he typed back one-handed:

[yoongi] americano’s fine. haven’t eaten yet.

he hit send. stared at the blinking cursor in the chat a second longer than necessary. like maybe the screen would change. like maybe her name would appear right underneath.

but it didn’t.

and he still didn’t text her.

not yet.

yoongi dressed slow, like his body hadn’t quite synced up to the day yet. cotton shirt, loose jeans, something easy and familiar — he wasn’t staying in them long anyway. stylists would tear him out of this and layer him into something tailored and intentional by the hour.

his phone went in his pocket. and so did the paper.

he didn’t fold it again. didn’t look at it. just slid it into his jeans like it wasn’t whispering her name against his thigh the whole way there. like it wasn’t a brand searing quietly through denim and skin and pretense.

the drive to the label was quiet, even with traffic. his manager talked — something about the shoot setup, lighting, a quick reminder of the concept. yoongi nodded. didn’t really absorb. just stared out the window with one arm propped against the door, fingers tapping against his leg like they wanted to move. like they missed her waist. her neck. the sound she made when his mouth dragged over the hollow of her throat.

the rest of the day blurred.

he knew the steps. say hello. get ushered into hair and makeup. sit under bright lights while someone primped and shaped and added shine where the tired lines used to be. change into the first outfit. pose. tilt your chin. don’t blink. switch angles. smile like it’s not practiced.

he did all of it.

but his mind wasn’t in the room.

it was on her — the way her lips had curled around that last kiss, the heat in her voice when she whispered against his ear. the way her eyes had tracked him across the ballroom like she already knew the shape of his mouth from a past life.

he was back in the makeup chair when it finally happened.

his resolve cracked in the smallest way — just a tiny fracture — and he gave in.

unlocked his phone. typed her name into search like it was harmless.

no one would see. no one would know.

the results came fast — clips, interviews, red carpet photos. he chose a video, something recent. a panel, maybe. she was sitting on the far end, wearing something black and minimal. smiling just enough. her voice was steady, but warm. teasing.

he watched. tried not to react.

but his lips twitched at something she said — some smartass remark delivered with a little tilt of her head and that same look she’d given him in the hallway. like she was daring someone to flirt back.

a soft snort sounded behind him.

yoongi startled slightly, glancing up at the stylist behind him.

“she’s nice,” they said, still running product through his hair. “i worked with her once. sweet with the whole crew. brought coffee for the interns. that kind of person.”

yoongi nodded. neutral. not too quick.

“yeah,” he murmured, eyes flicking back to the screen. “met her at the event last night. she’s a natural under the spotlight.”

the stylist hummed. “she’s got that thing, right?”

yoongi smiled faintly — more to himself than anything. yeah. she had that thing.

he didn’t say anything else. just watched her on his screen until the video ended, heart heavier than he expected.

and the number in his pocket burned a little hotter.

he kept it together for the rest of the shoot.

he posed. changed. nodded at directions, half-listened to compliments, let the stylists fuss over the details. when someone asked him to look more intense, he just thought about her mouth on his and delivered it in a single blink. when they said softer, more thoughtful, he let the image of her laughing against his lips soften the corners of his mouth. easy. efficient. no one noticed how detached he felt.

but the moment he walked through his front door, the quiet hit him like a wave.

no music. no voices. just the hush of the apartment swallowing his footsteps as he toed off his shoes and dropped his keys on the counter.

he didn’t turn the lights on right away.

just moved through the soft shadows of his living room, fingers grazing the wall out of habit. he tugged his jacket off with one hand and let it hang over the back of a chair, already heading to the bedroom like his body knew the path by instinct.

the silence felt louder now. thick. intimate.

too much room to think.

he sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed — the usual post-schedule slump. but this time, his hand drifted into his pocket, fingers brushing the worn edge of that damn paper like it was a nervous tick he couldn’t break.

he pulled it out.

held it between two fingers. stared at it.

no fanfare. no revelation. just him, alone in the dark, heart tapping against his ribs in a rhythm that didn’t match the stillness around him.

what’s the worst that could happen?

that she doesn’t answer? that she regrets it? that he looks desperate? that he wants something from her and she doesn’t want it back?

his lips pressed into a thin line.

he ran a thumb over the fold crease.

and then — before his brain could catch up, before the second-guessing could wrap both hands around his throat — he grabbed his phone. punched in the number. stared at the blinking cursor at the bottom of the screen for a long, long beat.

he typed out a message before he could talk himself out of it. nothing clever. nothing planned.

just:

[yoongi] so… should i pretend we imagined that night?

he stared at it for a second.

his thumb hovered. and then—

send.

just like that.

the message slid into the chat. final. weightless. loud in the quiet.

yoongi didn’t breathe for a moment. just stared. unread. no reply. but his chest felt like it had cracked open anyway.

he leaned back, sinking into the mattress with a slow exhale, one arm slung over his eyes like it might block out the part of him that suddenly felt twelve kinds of stupid.

too late now.

the paper still sat on the nightstand. but he wouldn’t need it again.

the reply came faster than he expected.

less than two minutes. just long enough to make him stare at his screen and consider if he’d overplayed it.

then:

[y/n] color me surprised… i thought you weren’t gonna text at all.

he let out a soft breath through his nose. one corner of his mouth twitching up.

he didn’t answer right away. fingers hovering, thumbs flexing, debating what to send back without sounding too eager.

then:

[yoongi] i don’t usually text people who get me lost in hotel hallways [yoongi] you’re a little out of my routine [y/n] you say that like it’s a bad thing.

he laughed. short, surprised.

and that was it — the shift. the weight in his chest turned warm instead of heavy. he didn’t mean to, but soon enough, he was fully reclined against his pillows, phone lit up in one hand, face tilted toward the screen like he couldn’t look away.

the chat filled itself slowly. one line at a time. nothing direct. no mention of the kiss. no "so about last night."

instead, it was:

[y/n] what’d you end up wearing for that photoshoot? don’t say leather. [yoongi] was leather ever on the table?? [y/n] i don’t know your life [yoongi] you knew it well enough to pin me to a wall [y/n] are you complaining? [yoongi] still deciding.

his cheeks ached. he barely noticed until he shifted and felt the stretch of the smile again. god. he wasn’t even that into texting. usually short, efficient, dry. and yet here he was, lying in bed like some teenager with a crush, scrolling back to reread what she said just to feel it again.

and under it all — the current kept rising. a breathlessness he could taste, even through a screen. like they were both building to something but neither wanted to break it too fast.

until he did.

maybe because he had to.

maybe because the longer they joked, the heavier it sat between his ribs — what she’d said. what she’d left him with.

so he finally typed:

[yoongi] so… [yoongi] about that “to be continued” thing

he watched the little gray dots appear. disappear. come back.

gone again.

a full minute passed. his pulse ticked harder.

finally, her message came in:

[y/n] depends.

another pause. then a second message.

[y/n] you like dinner under the stars?

his heart stuttered.

he blinked.

then the third message arrived, and it felt like a dare.

[y/n] my rooftop. tomorrow night. i’ll cook. unless you’re scared of heights.

he didn’t smile this time. not exactly.

he just bit his lip and exhaled slowly — chest full of something he wasn’t ready to name.

[yoongi] what time?

he didn’t call it a date.

not out loud. not even to himself.

just dinner. on a rooftop. with a woman he couldn’t stop thinking about.

he told himself he wasn’t overthinking it.

he picked out a shirt and changed it twice. but that didn’t mean anything. it wasn’t nerves—it was weather. comfort. fit. totally normal to swap black for white, then back to black because the first one felt too clean and the second one felt more like him.

he didn’t style his hair. barely touched it, in fact. let it fall into his eyes and swept it back once with his fingers, like that would make it look accidental enough to not seem intentional. he wore something casual. comfortable. sneakers. a jacket, even though the air was barely cool.

no cologne. just his skin. a little lotion. done.

not a date.

not like that.

but when he checked the clock again, his foot started tapping against the floor.

he wasn’t expecting anything. not exactly. yeah, if she leaned in close—if her hand found his leg under the table or her lips brushed his again—he wouldn’t stop her.

but that wasn’t the point.

the point was… her.

the woman under the smirk. behind the quick lines and confident eyes. he wanted to know how she took her coffee. if she sang in the shower. if she hated being alone or if she loved it so much she carved silence out of busy days just to feel it on her skin.

he wanted to hear her voice without the music playing. just talk.

and maybe kiss her again, yeah. if she was in the mood.

he grabbed a bottle of wine before heading out. not because it was romantic—just polite. adult. decent.

he kept his hands in his pockets the whole drive there.

and told himself—again—it wasn’t a date.

at exactly 8:03 p.m., yoongi texted her.

[yoongi] should i ask for the address or are you gonna make me guess which rooftop belongs to you

her reply came back almost immediately.

[y/n] hold on let me adjust the spotlight and roll out the carpet [y/n] i’ll send it. don’t be late.

his lips twitched. he didn’t smile much when he texted, not in a way anyone would notice, but she had a way of pulling it out of him like it was nothing.

he typed “on my way” but didn’t send it yet. instead, he checked the location, scanned the route. familiar. one of those luxury complexes you didn’t even look at unless you were someone—or trying very hard to look like someone.

of course she lived there.

he grabbed his keys. then hesitated.

her voice echoed in his mind—something she’d said the night of the event. half-laughed over wine and dim lights. a throwaway line about how she hated most wines but had a soft spot for this one brand, some mid-shelf label that reminded her of home or old friends or maybe just something she’d stolen once from a set party.

he wasn’t even sure why he remembered it.

but now he was standing in the wine aisle at a convenience store on the way to her place, holding that exact bottle in his hand like it had always been part of the plan.

he stared at it. sighed. wondered if it was too much.

then bought it anyway.

when he finally pulled into the underground garage, the nerves hit in a slow, strange wave. not sharp, not loud—just enough to tighten his chest a little. his hand hovered over his phone. a few breaths later, he typed:

[yoongi] just parked. heading up.

her reply was short. clean. cool.

[y/n] use elevator 3. code’s 0112.

he repeated the numbers under his breath as he walked. zero one one two. like a song lyric. or a prayer.

the place was quiet. exclusive. the kind of building where everything echoed in the right way and smelled like clean money and eucalyptus diffusers.

he stepped into the elevator. punched in the code. the doors slid shut.

and just like that—it was happening.

no stylists. no cameras. no people pulling him in four directions. just him, a bottle of wine, and the echo of her kiss still lingering somewhere behind his teeth.

the numbers on the panel ticked up slow.

his fingers twitched at his sides.

not a date, he told himself again.

and then the elevator stopped.

the doors opened.

and her door—just ten feet ahead—was already cracked open, golden light spilling into the hallway like it had been waiting for him.

she didn’t dress up.

he could tell the second she opened the door. and god—he was grateful for it.

no heels. no makeup that looked like a mask. just jeans, low on her hips and snug around her thighs in a way that made his mouth go a little dry. a black spaghetti strap tank, the kind that clung in all the right places, skin glowing under soft light. she wore a button-up shirt over it—open, sleeves rolled—and it only made her look more effortless. like this wasn’t a date. like this was just her. unfiltered. untouchable.

her eyes flicked down, landed on the wine bottle in his hand.

a smile pulled at her mouth, slow and knowing. that kind of smile. the kind that said “i see you.”

“you remembered,” she said, voice soft, amused.

he almost said i’m not the type to forget, but it felt too revealing.

so he just gave a tiny shrug. “figured you wouldn’t want to fake liking something else.”

she laughed under her breath, then reached for his hand—cool fingers wrapping around his wrist like it was natural to touch him, like there hadn’t been a week of silence between their last kiss and this moment.

“come in,” she murmured, tugging him gently across the threshold.

he followed without hesitation.

and instantly, everything about the apartment knocked the air out of his lungs.

he’d expected… something polished. minimalist. luxury sheen and matching neutrals. maybe a little too clean, too curated, like a magazine spread waiting to be photographed.

but what he walked into was something else entirely.

low, warm lighting pooled in the corners of the space. mismatched lamps. candles that had clearly been lit, their wax spilled over dishes and holders like a crime scene of comfort. books stacked in uneven towers on the floor, on shelves, on the wide arm of a velvet chair that didn’t match the couch but somehow belonged. art everywhere—walls splashed with color, linework, frames that leaned instead of hanging, pieces that pulled your eyes and made you wonder what kind of soul lived here.

there was music playing faintly from a speaker somewhere—vinyl crackle and a woman’s voice, soft jazz vocals that kissed the air like an afterthought.

and above all of it—her scent. subtle. familiar now. some blend of citrus and warmth and something he couldn’t name but already missed.

he turned in place slowly, eyes scanning.

it looked lived in.

it looked like her.

the kind of apartment that told stories even when she was silent. full of surprises, personality, contradictions. no sharp edges. no pretense.

“didn’t expect this,” he said after a moment, voice low.

her hand was still in his. she squeezed it once, then let go to take the wine from him.

“what, you thought i lived in a k-drama set?” she teased.

he smiled—real this time. “a little.”

she shrugged, glancing around like she hadn’t already known exactly what she was showing him. “most people do.”

then she walked ahead, barefoot and easy, calling over her shoulder—

“make yourself at home. i just need a sec to grab glasses and check the food.”

he stood there for another beat, just… looking. breathing her in.

and then he let out a slow exhale, shoulders dropping, tension loosening with every second.

maybe it wasn’t a date. maybe it was something else entirely.

but either way—he was here.

and he wasn’t going anywhere.

he drifted toward the record player without thinking.

the vinyls were stacked neatly beside it—some in sleeves, some not, the edges worn like they’d been loved, not just collected. there were classics in there. jazz, mostly. soul, funk, old movie soundtracks. a few foreign titles he didn’t recognize, and more than a couple that made him blink because he didn’t expect her to own those. it made sense, though. the more he stood in her space, the more he realized it wasn’t about expectations. it was about layers.

he knelt slightly, fingers brushing the corners of a few records.

he didn’t plan on snooping. just looking. listening.

her apartment was quiet in a way that felt... intentional. like every soft surface had been placed there to catch sound and hold it gently. the only thing he could hear was the low croon of the vinyl still playing in the background and his own breath.

but then he glanced toward the far side of the apartment—

and his breath caught.

the space curved gently, rooms branching off like arms curling inward, and all of them led to her terrace. glass sliding doors opened onto a wood deck bathed in amber light. fairy lights hung overhead, swaying a little, the breeze soft and warm like it belonged in another city. the table was already set, simple and beautiful, the glow from the lights pooling around the plates like the scene had been carved out of a dream.

and further back—

a sitting area. outdoor sofa. pergola heavy with hanging plants. candlelight flickering against terracotta pots and dark green leaves, like the flames knew they were part of something quiet and sacred.

it didn’t look like a rooftop.

it looked like a world.

private. alive. waiting.

his lips parted slightly, gaze softening as he took it all in. he didn’t hear her footsteps. didn’t register the air shift behind him.

not until her hand slid under the hem of his shirt—slow, warm, the barest touch against the small of his back.

he startled only slightly, but didn’t move. didn’t speak.

her voice came next, right by his ear, soft enough that he could feel the words before he processed them.

“view’s pretty good, huh?” she whispered, her breath ghosting the edge of his jaw. “dinner’s almost ready.”

his spine straightened a little. not stiff—alert. like his whole body had tuned to the frequency of her.

he didn’t turn around.

just nodded, voice low. “it’s… not what i expected.”

he could hear the smile in hers. “you keep saying that.”

her hand slipped out from under his shirt, but she stayed close. too close. the stem of the wine glasses clinked gently in her other hand as she tilted her head to look past him toward the terrace.

“you hungry?”

he swallowed, eyes still on the deck.

“yeah,” he said. and it wasn’t just about food.

she nudged his side with her hip—playful, easy. “good. c’mon.”

and then she was walking again. barefoot. light on the wooden floors like she belonged to them.

he followed, fingers still tingling from where she’d touched him.

“you want help with anything?” he asked, voice soft, already halfway to the kitchen.

she glanced at him over her shoulder, a smile curling on her lips like she’d been expecting him to say that.

“sure,” she said, passing him a couple of plates without hesitation. “you can carry these out while i grab the wine and salad.”

he nodded and took them from her hands — careful, the ceramic warm to the touch, still radiating the scent of roasted herbs and garlic.

he didn’t mean to notice the way her fingers brushed his when she let go. didn’t mean to hold that feeling for longer than he should’ve. but he did. and it stayed with him as he walked out onto the deck.

the evening air was mild, kissed with the scent of jasmine from the corner planters and something rich and buttery from the kitchen. fairy lights flickered overhead like lazy stars, and the city spread out in front of them like a painting—han river glinting in the distance, buildings lit like a quiet celebration.

he placed the plates down and stepped back just as she came out with the rest. wine bottle in one hand, salad bowl in the other, and a little sway in her step like this wasn’t the first time she’d carried dinner for two out to the rooftop.

she caught him watching.

“you’re staring,” she said.

“you look like you’ve done this before,” he replied, pulling a chair out for her without thinking.

“what, dinner on rooftops with quiet men who don’t talk about themselves?” she teased, raising a brow.

he smirked. “sure. that.”

she sat with a graceful drop, skin catching golden light. “maybe i have.”

he poured the wine, not too much. the clink of glass against wood sounded louder in the stillness between them. a beat passed, then two.

“so,” she said, leaning on her elbow. “you’re not gonna ask me about my last project or what it’s like working with [insert big name actor here]?”

yoongi shook his head, taking a slow sip. “no interest.”

she blinked. a little amused. a little surprised. “no?”

“not really,” he said. “i mean—i could google all that. find interviews. soundbites. but i don’t want your press tour answers.”

her gaze flicked down to her glass, then back to him.

“what do you want?”

he exhaled slowly, staring at the way the candlelight caught her features. soft shadows under her cheekbones, a shimmer against her collarbone.

“i wanna know where you’d go if you disappeared for a week,” he said, voice low. “no cameras. no phone. just… gone.”

she stared at him for a moment. still. the corner of her mouth lifted.

“that’s a good question.”

“i’ve got a list,” he added, like it was a confession.

“yeah?” she leaned in, elbow on the table now. “what’s at the top?”

he smiled, eyes dropping to his plate for a second. “somewhere cold. quiet. maybe a cabin in japan. snowed in. nothing but books and music and someone who knows how to keep a fire going.”

“sounds romantic,” she said, tone unreadable.

“i didn’t say i’d go alone.”

that made her laugh. soft and surprised.

and just like that—it started. the shift. away from the noise. into the space where names didn’t matter and fame didn’t reach.

they talked.

about how she ended up in this apartment. how the plants were from her old place and she still didn’t know the name of half of them. about how he used to be afraid of swimming. about how she writes poetry when she can’t sleep but never reads it back. about family. about loneliness. about the kind of silence that feels like home, and the kind that feels like a trap.

they never once said idol. never once said actress.

it was deeper than that. heavier. lighter. real.

and yoongi couldn’t remember the last time a conversation made him feel full.

the dinner had passed in slow waves of wine and laughter.

conversation drifting from deep to dumb and back again — favorite childhood snacks, dreams about disappearing, people they’d outgrown, things they weren’t proud of but couldn’t quite regret. she made him laugh in a way that felt rare. surprised out of him. like he hadn’t done it in a while and forgot how good it felt in his chest.

and when the food was gone — plates scraped clean, wine glasses half-full — neither of them moved to clear anything. there was no urgency. the night wasn’t over, not even close.

she shifted first.

pulled one foot up onto her chair, knee bent. her arm draped across the back of the seat, glass resting lazily in her other hand, gaze warm and slow as she looked at him. like she was memorizing something. or maybe already knew it by heart.

he moved without thinking.

his hand found her thigh — the one propped up, stretched toward him. his fingers resting near her knee, then slowly sliding down. up. back again. just barely pressing. like a tide testing the shore.

her skin was warm under his touch.

her eyes flicked down briefly, but she didn’t stop him. didn’t comment. just took another sip of wine and exhaled through her nose like the silence between them had thickened into something sweet.

her free hand — the one not holding the glass — reached out. lightly, her nails grazed his wrist. then the back of his hand. then up, just a little. a soft, absent drag of touch. casual, if it hadn’t made his pulse jump.

he looked at her. really looked.

and maybe that was why it happened. why the question formed. why the wine and the quiet and the low hum of everything unspoken finally pushed the words to his mouth.

“you think about that night?” he asked, voice low. quiet enough that it could’ve been lost in the rustle of leaves if she hadn’t already been looking at him like she knew it was coming.

her gaze didn’t waver.

“yeah,” she said, just as soft.

he nodded, thumb tracing a slow line over her skin. “me too.”

she tilted her head slightly, the kind of movement that invited honesty. the candlelight licked the sharp line of her jaw, her mouth parted just slightly.

“you regret it?” she asked.

he let out a breath through his nose. “not for a second.”

a pause.

he leaned in a little more, eyes flickering down to her lips, then back up. “but it didn’t feel like me.”

“what part?”

“all of it,” he said. “being there. feeling that pulled in. touching someone like that when i didn’t even know their last name.”

she didn’t flinch. didn’t take offense. just kept watching him, like she understood exactly what he meant.

“was it a bad thing?” she asked, voice lower now.

he shook his head. “no. just… new.”

“you didn’t seem new at it.”

he let out a breathy laugh. “i’m a fast learner.”

that made her smile — slow and crooked.

her hand slid higher, palm over the back of his, warm and sure.

“you wanna know something?”

he hummed.

“i wanted to kiss you the second i saw you across the room. before you looked at me. before you even knew i was there.”

yoongi’s hand stilled on her thigh. heat licked up his spine like a match had been struck just beneath his skin.

“i felt it,” he murmured. “like static.”

she nodded once, slow. “me too.”

the silence returned. but it didn’t feel empty. it felt full. dense with the things they didn’t have to explain anymore.

his fingers curled gently into her leg. her thumb traced a soft circle over his knuckles.

and whatever had been hanging in the air between them all night — that quiet tension, the thread pulled tight — was starting to unravel into something softer. deeper.

real.

she leaned in like the night had called her to do it — slow and deliberate, mouth soft and parted, eyes half-lidded as she closed the distance between them inch by inch. not a question. not a warning. just a shift in gravity that he didn’t try to fight.

yoongi didn’t wait.

his hand slid higher on her thigh, fingers curling as he leaned forward and met her mouth with his.

it wasn’t gentle.

it wasn’t rough either — it was slow, like tasting something forbidden, like drawing out the first bite of something he’d been craving for too long. their lips pressed together in steady, measured rhythm, mouths moving with a kind of practiced hunger neither of them had to rehearse. it was instinct. it was need. it was built from the heat of everything unsaid.

she made a soft sound against him — a quiet, satisfied hum — and he drank it in like it was poured just for him. her hand cupped the side of his neck, thumb grazing just beneath his ear, and the shiver it sent down his spine made his grip tighten.

she kissed him like she had all the time in the world.

and when she bit his bottom lip — a sharp, playful little nip that made him groan low in his throat — she pulled back just enough to laugh against his mouth. breathless. amused. her eyes fluttered open, and she murmured against his lips, still close enough to steal another kiss if either of them so much as breathed too deep.

“your manager better not interrupt this time,” she whispered, her voice soft and stained with heat.

yoongi let out a low laugh, nose brushing hers.

“if he does,” he said, his lips barely brushing hers between the words, “i’m quitting.”

that made her smile — that slow, wicked curl that tugged at the corner of her mouth like she already knew she had him. like she knew he meant it, too.

her fingers slid into the hair at the nape of his neck, nails grazing his scalp lightly, dragging another quiet exhale out of him.

yoongi kissed her again — slower this time, deeper.

no rush. no noise. just the quiet crackle of candlelight and the taste of red wine on her tongue.

his other hand found her waist, pulled her closer.

and the night shifted again — this time into something heavier.

her shift came with no warning — just the subtle tightening of her fingers around his shoulders, and then the slow, deliberate sweep of one leg over his lap.

yoongi let out a quiet breath against her mouth, hands instinctively tightening at her waist as she settled onto him — not rushed, not needy, just there, confident and warm and so close it made his pulse stutter.

she moved like she’d done it a hundred times before — not with him, but like she’d always known she would. like her body had already mapped out this moment in some half-forgotten dream. her arms wrapped around his shoulders, draped loosely, wine glass abandoned somewhere behind her. his hands stayed low, fingers pressing into the curve of her hips, thumbs tracing soft lines over the thin fabric of her shirt.

their mouths moved together again, deeper now — more heat, less air.

yoongi kissed her like the wine was still on her tongue and he was trying to drink the last drop.

her breath caught when his hand slipped under her shirt. not rushed — just slow, steady curiosity, palm sliding over warm skin, tracing the curve of her waist before dipping higher, under the second layer — that tight black top she’d worn beneath. the contrast of cotton and silk against his knuckles made his skin feel too tight.

her back arched ever so slightly into his touch. he felt it — the way she pressed into his palm, her breath stuttering in the back of her throat.

and still, they didn’t speak.

not really.

just shared air and heat and quiet, involuntary sounds.

until her lips parted, barely lifting from his — and she said something.

soft. hushed. her voice like smoke against his mouth.

he didn’t catch all of it — too far gone, too focused on her body, her taste, the way his name would probably sound if she moaned it.

but he caught enough.

“…risky out here…” she whispered, a faint trace of laughter coloring her tone, like she wasn’t that worried.

and then she kissed him again — not full, just the ghost of it, barely touching — before pulling back enough to meet his eyes.

“you wanna continue in my room?” she asked.

not a flirtation. not a challenge.

just a quiet, open door.

and all he had to do was walk through.

he nodded before his brain could even make sense of the question.

not that it mattered. his body had already leaned in. already decided. already chosen her.

her smile came easy — that slow, knowing curve of her lips that made him feel like she’d just won a bet he didn’t know they were playing. she pressed a kiss to his cheek, light and quick, like punctuation. then stood, holding out her hand.

yoongi took it without a word, let her pull him to his feet — her fingers warm in his, steady. she didn’t let go.

they didn’t have to go far — just a few quiet steps across the rooftop, toward the sliding glass doors tucked in the corner. she slid them open with one hand, pulling him gently inside, and just like that, the night closed around them.

her bedroom smelled like her — floral and something deeper, muskier, like the skin just under her jaw. warm light spilled from a small lamp on the bedside table, casting everything in soft gold. it felt private. quiet in a way the rooftop wasn’t. no candle flicker, no city hum. just breath and heartbeat and bare feet on hardwood.

he didn’t have time to look around.

because the moment they were inside, she turned to him again — both hands sliding up his chest, then around the back of his neck. she leaned in close, and he was already chasing her mouth again when she stopped short — just barely.

her forehead touched his.

a pause.

she exhaled slowly, lips hovering over his, eyes closed for a moment.

“you wanna stop?” she whispered.

yoongi blinked. not because he didn’t hear her — but because he hadn’t expected her to ask. not now. not when they were this close, when his hands already itched to slide under her clothes again.

but the fact that she did — that she still wanted the choice to be his — it hit him deeper than he expected.

he laughed, low and quiet, tilting his head slightly so their noses brushed.

“you ask like you don’t already know the answer,” he murmured.

she pulled back just enough to open her eyes. her gaze met his, all soft edges and flickering heat.

“maybe i just like hearing you say it,” she teased.

his mouth quirked, one brow lifting. “you’re trouble.”

“mm. and you’re slow,” she shot back, fingers already finding the hem of his shirt.

her eyes lit up — mischief glowing like a secret behind them.

and just like that, the air changed again.

no rush.

but no hesitations either.

they were doing this.

his shirt was the first to go — not yanked, not pulled, but eased up over his head, inch by inch, as her fingers curled beneath the hem. she wasn’t watching his eyes. she was watching his skin. the way it flexed under her touch, the slow reveal of his torso beneath the fabric. he let her, arms lifting lazily, and when the shirt slipped over his head, he shook his hair back into place without looking away from her.

she didn’t comment. didn’t need to.

the way her gaze dragged down and lingered said everything.

yoongi smirked, just a little. barely there. his hands drifted to her waist, fingers brushing over the hem of her top — and then lower, skimming over the edge of her jeans like he was thinking about it.

but instead of undressing her, he stepped closer. pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, light and maddening, his hands sliding under her shirt but leaving it on. just the warmth of skin to skin. a thumb brushing over the edge of her ribs. teasing himself more than her, but he didn’t care. he liked how she inhaled sharply, like she wasn’t expecting the restraint.

her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. just raised an eyebrow — as if to say your move, then.

he took the challenge in stride.

his hands slipped around to her back, slow and sure, and when his fingers found the hem again, she lifted her arms without needing to be asked. he pulled the shirt off carefully, watching her the whole time. she stood there in her black top, skin glowing under the soft light, chest rising a little faster than before.

he kissed her shoulder.

she tilted her head, letting him. then smiled.

“you’re dragging it out on purpose,” she said.

“so are you.”

“only because you are.”

he chuckled against her skin, then let his lips trail a little lower — collarbone, then just above the swell of her chest. when his fingers dipped below the hem of her top, she grabbed his wrist gently and shook her head.

“not yet.”

yoongi looked up, heat flickering behind his eyes. “tease.”

“takes one to know one.”

and then — she moved.

her hands went to the button of his jeans.

he didn’t stop her. just watched.

but she didn’t rush.

her fingers worked slowly, almost cruelly, undoing the button, dragging the zipper down with a sound that sliced through the silence like a sigh.

she didn’t push them down though. just left them like that. undone. dangerous.

her fingers slid beneath the waistband, resting against the line of his hips.

yoongi exhaled hard through his nose, eyes darkening.

he didn’t speak.

neither did she.

but her smile said checkmate’s getting close.

yoongi broke first.

he didn’t mean to. didn’t plan it. one second he was holding still, watching her like she was a flame he could study forever — and the next, he was grabbing, kissing, reaching like he’d been starved of her for days instead of minutes.

his mouth crashed into hers — no finesse, no teasing this time. it was desperate. heated. too much tongue, not enough breath. and the sound she made — soft, muffled, almost surprised — hit him square in the chest. like he hadn’t even realized how much he needed to hear her fall apart under his mouth.

his hands slid to her hips, grip firm but careful, guiding her backward until her thighs met the edge of the mattress. she let him — smiling against his lips, hands still tangled in his hair as he pushed her down onto the sheets.

and fuck, she looked unreal like this.

her hair fanned out across the pillow, her top rumpled just slightly, one hand tracing along her bottom lip like she was waiting to be devoured. her legs still hooked loosely around his waist, her breath coming in slow, shallow waves. waiting. watching.

yoongi knelt onto the bed — one knee sinking into the mattress beside her, the other still planted on the floor as he leaned over her. his gaze dragged over every inch, hungry, reverent. his fingers found the hem of her top again, slower this time, sliding it up inch by inch — revealing skin like a secret, until her bra was finally in view.

he exhaled.

it fit her perfectly — hugged her in all the right places, soft and dark against the warm tones of her skin. his gaze lingered. not out of hesitation — but out of awe. like he needed a second to catch up to the fact that she was real and here and letting him see her like this.

he didn’t kiss her again.

not yet.

instead, his hand slid lower — teasing fingers brushing just above the waistband of her jeans, then curling around the button. he didn’t undo it right away. just played with it. thumb dragging lightly over the metal, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

she stared back at him — pupils blown, lips parted, one hand still ghosting over her mouth like she wasn’t sure if she was holding back or just baiting him.

yoongi smirked — barely there, but sharp.

“this still feel risky to you?” he murmured, fingers now toying with the zipper.

she laughed under her breath — breathless, soft, dangerous.

“only if you stop.”

his fingers worked slowly — one hook of the button, a lazy tug of the zipper — until her jeans eased open, denim gaping just enough to show a sliver of her underwear. he didn’t peel them off yet. didn’t dive in. instead, he dragged his palms back up her sides, under her top, and finally pulled it over her head completely, revealing her in that black bra, all curves and candlelit skin and a mouth that looked like sin just breathed into it.

yoongi swallowed hard.

his jeans were tight now — uncomfortably so — but he ignored the ache. filed it away. because this? this was better. her laid out beneath him, chest rising and falling like she already knew what was coming, hands fisting lightly in the sheets.

he leaned down — not to kiss her lips, but to mouth at the edge of her bra. the soft swell just above the cup. skin he could taste without removing anything. and he did — slow, deliberate presses of his mouth. lips, tongue, the faintest graze of teeth. his hand slid between her back and the bed, unclasping the bra with practiced ease. he watched the fabric part like he was being let in on a secret.

and god, she was beautiful.

his mouth dropped to the top of her chest again — kisses pressed like punctuation across her sternum, then lower. he took his time. praised her without words — just the low sound of his breath catching, the soft hums that spilled into her skin, the way his hands never stopped moving. across her ribs. her hips. her thighs.

she let out a shaky breath when his lips finally wrapped around her nipple, warm and wet and so slow it made her hips lift just slightly. he groaned against her when she moved like that — not loud, but deep, like it slipped out without permission.

“fuck…” he whispered, more to himself than her. “you’re unreal.”

his teeth grazed lightly. his tongue soothed the spot. and when she let out another breathy sound, her hand curling into his hair, he didn’t stop — just shifted to the other side, giving it the same attention. licking. sucking. kissing like he was memorizing her heartbeat through his mouth.

and all the while, his jeans throbbed with every grind of her hips against his thigh.

but he didn’t move for relief.

not yet.

she was already breathing like she was close — and he hadn’t even touched her properly.

that was the point.

he wanted her to feel him for days.

he looked up at her from where his mouth had lingered on her chest — lips parted, breath warm, hair slightly mussed from her fingers. but his eyes were sharp now. intense. like something inside him had shifted — flipped — and now he was moving with purpose instead of curiosity.

like he’d found his rhythm and it was her.

yoongi pushed himself up, hand braced beside her ribs as he leaned in again — straight to her mouth. his lips met hers in a kiss that was wetter this time, deeper, the kind that sent heat straight down her spine. his free hand slid up, fingers curving under her jaw to tilt her face to him. it wasn’t rough. it was firm. like he wanted her attention, and every inch of it.

and when he pulled back, just barely — her lips slick, parted, breath caught — he didn’t say a word. just let his thumb drag slowly across her bottom lip, watching it bounce slightly under the pressure.

then he pushed his fingers into her mouth.

slow.

intentional.

not deep — just enough to feel the heat of her tongue, to let her wet them herself. his fingers curled slightly, and she didn’t resist. didn’t flinch. just looked back at him with wide, innocent eyes like the moment had cracked her wide open and she had no idea what to do with the flood.

fuck, she was dangerous.

he slid his fingers out of her mouth slowly, coated with her spit. his hand drifted down, and he pressed another kiss to the soft curve of her neck — right where her pulse throbbed. she tilted her head slightly, breath catching again as his lips lingered.

“god, you’re good at that,” he murmured — not asking, just noting, like it was a fact she should’ve already known.

his hand didn’t stop moving.

it slipped lower, dragging along her skin — down her stomach, between her hips — until it found the heat still hidden by her underwear. he brushed his fingers over the thin fabric, just barely pressing, and even that made her hips twitch.

yoongi exhaled, low and steady. kissed her collarbone. then kissed lower — just once — before dragging his fingers slowly up the center of her, feeling the heat, the wetness even through the fabric.

“fuck…” he breathed again, mouth close to her ear now.

his thumb circled. one finger traced the edge of her underwear, like he was considering moving it. but he didn’t yet.

instead, he looked up again — gaze dark and focused, as if he was memorizing the way her mouth parted and her thighs tensed and her chest heaved, all at once.

“say it,” he murmured, voice low, just for her. “you still want this?”

not because he doubted.

because he wanted to hear her say yes.

she barely said it.

just a whisper — hoarse, trembling, thick with want. a single syllable soaked in breath and need, like it had fought its way out from somewhere deep in her chest.

“yes…”

yoongi didn’t wait.

couldn’t.

not after that.

his fingers slid beneath the band of her underwear, slow but sure, until he found the heat he’d only been teasing before. and fuck — she was already so wet for him. slick and warm and ready, like her body had been begging for this since the moment their eyes met in that crowded room.

he exhaled harshly through his nose — not a groan, not a word — just the kind of sound that broke free when restraint finally snapped its thread.

and then he pushed his fingers in.

slow, deep, perfect pressure — and the way she gasped, sharp and ragged, made his head drop against her shoulder. he stayed there for a second, buried in her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin, the perfume that clung to her hair and collarbones. but more than that — her sounds.

small, breathy moans caught between parted lips. the stutter of her breath when he curled his fingers just right. the quiet, involuntary way her hips lifted into his hand like her body couldn’t help but chase the high he was coaxing out of her.

“that’s it,” he whispered, voice low and rough against her ear. “just like that.”

his free hand braced beside her ribs, steadying himself, while his fingers moved deeper — curling, pressing, finding the rhythm that made her thighs shake.

she was already falling apart.

and he hadn’t even kissed her again.

her hand grabbed at his arm, nails dragging across his skin as her other fisted the sheets, mouth open and trembling. every sound she made was his now. every gasp, every breathy whimper — all of it branded in his mind like a verse he’d never forget.

he lifted his head, just to watch her.

hair fanned across the pillow, her chest rising in shallow waves, lips bitten pink and trembling.

“look at me,” he murmured — soft, commanding.

she did.

barely.

but it was enough.

the moment their eyes locked, she moaned again — louder this time, messier, one leg wrapping tighter around his hip like she was trying to pull him into her completely.

yoongi kissed her then.

hard. deep. swallowing the sound she made as his fingers thrust deeper, curling just right.

and he thought — god, she’s gonna come like this.

just from this.

and he was going to let her.

watch her.

feel her.

every trembling second of it.

her hand moved like she couldn’t stop herself.

one still wrapped around his wrist — gripping, guiding, hips twitching beneath his touch as she pressed him deeper, faster, chasing the pressure that had her breath hitching with every curl of his fingers. she wasn’t just letting him touch her. she was showing him how. claiming the rhythm. dragging it out. her thighs trembling on either side of his hips.

and the other hand — fuck.

the other slid down, across his stomach, slow and shaking, until it found the hard outline of him beneath his jeans.

yoongi’s whole body stuttered.

his breath caught somewhere between his throat and chest, a low groan vibrating in his ribs as her palm pressed down — tentative at first, then with more purpose. like she wanted to feel the way she was ruining him. like she knew he’d been holding back and couldn’t stand it anymore.

“fuck,” he muttered, voice fraying at the edges.

her eyes met his — dazed and dark, lips parted, cheeks flushed — and when she pressed just a little harder, her fingers shifting over him, he thrust into her hand, involuntary, his fingers deep inside her still.

it was messy. desperate. their bodies moving in tandem now, hips rocking against hands, like they couldn’t get close enough.

“you’re gonna kill me,” he breathed, forehead pressing to hers.

she let out a breathless laugh — the kind that barely made it past her throat — and squeezed him again, slow. teasing. fucking lethal.

his fingers didn’t stop. he’d found the spot inside her that made her breath break, and he curled into it with intention now, matching the pace to the way her thighs were tightening, how her nails were digging into his skin, her mouth dragging open in a silent gasp.

“that’s it,” he whispered, kissing the corner of her mouth. “you’re close.”

she nodded — barely — but it was the sound she made next that wrecked him. that high, cracked moan as her hips lifted to meet his hand again, her rhythm starting to falter.

yoongi groaned deep in his throat.

because she was palming him harder now, her grip losing finesse, and he knew — knew — she was right on the edge.

so he kept going.

curling his fingers just right, his mouth pressed to her jaw, his other hand sliding to her ass to anchor her down.

“let go,” he breathed, voice shaking. “i’ve got you.”

she fell apart in his hands — breath caught, back arching, her hips grinding helplessly into his palm like her body was chasing the aftershocks. her thighs trembled, muscles fluttering beneath his touch, and her mouth dropped open on a moan that sounded dangerously close to his name.

yoongi felt it everywhere.

in his chest. in his spine. in the way his cock throbbed against the denim, painfully hard, caught in a limbo between control and the kind of need that bordered on reckless.

but it was her voice — the way it broke as she pulled him closer — that did it.

"please," she whispered, raw and aching, “i need to feel you.”

and fuck.

he swore he could’ve come right then — just from the look in her eyes. wide, hazy, flushed and blown out, still shaking, and yet so focused on him. her hands dragging down to his hips, grasping, pulling like she couldn’t bear to wait another second.

his fingers slipped from between her thighs — soaked and trembling — and he exhaled, sharp, eyes closing for just a beat.

then he moved.

with the last shred of resolve in his body, yoongi reached down, hand digging into the pocket of his jeans, fumbling just slightly. there. the foil packet brushed his fingers, and he let out a low breath, almost a laugh, something wild flickering in his chest.

he sat back on his knees, tearing the packet open fast with his teeth, his other hand already dragging the denim and briefs down his thighs.

her eyes dropped.

watched.

and stayed there.

he could feel her gaze — heavy, hungry, wide with anticipation — locked on his hands as he slid the condom on. her mouth parted slightly, breath shallow, fingers still gripping his hips as though trying to anchor herself to the moment.

yoongi looked up, caught her staring, and smiled — not cocky, not smug, just… wrecked. overwhelmed. full of something soft and dark and unspeakably fond.

“you’re really watching that close, huh?” he said, voice rough.

she nodded once, slow. lips brushing open. eyes full of fire.

“can’t help it,” she whispered.

he leaned forward, dragging his mouth across hers — a kiss that tasted like heat and hunger and too many almosts.

“good,” he murmured, hand sliding to her thigh as he lined himself up.

“’cause i want you to remember this.”

yoongi lined himself up — just the tip brushing against her, slick and hot and so tempting — and stopped.

his breath hitched.

his hands dug into the curve of her hips, holding her steady. his jaw clenched so tight it ached. because if he moved — if he let himself go that last inch — it’d be over. the moment would swallow them whole. and he wasn’t ready to lose it yet. not when she looked like this.

spread out beneath him. flushed and flushed and wrecked. the afterglow of her orgasm still softening the edges of her face, her hair stuck to her forehead in delicate strands, her thighs twitching open and ready for him.

but most of all — her eyes.

those wide, dazed eyes watching him like he was some kind of answer. lips parted, chest rising in short, sharp bursts, hands skimming down his arms like she couldn’t quite believe he was real.

yoongi looked down between them, eyes locked on where their bodies almost met — his tip just barely pressing into her folds, catching slightly as he shifted his hips.

he groaned under his breath.

it took everything in him not to slam forward.

instead, he gave her a slow rock — just enough to drag the head of his cock through her heat, the tip slipping in a little more with each movement. her breath stuttered. her nails sank into his biceps, leaving trails of heat behind.

“yoongi—” she whispered, but her voice cracked on the second syllable.

and fuck, that did something to him.

he leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers, their noses brushing. his breath was hot against her mouth, voice low and dangerous.

“you want more?” he rasped.

her fingers tightened — nails biting into his skin, legs wrapping higher around his waist.

“please,” she whispered, breathless. barely a sound. but her eyes said it all.

and still — he didn’t move.

just nudged forward, inching in a little deeper. not enough. not nearly enough. he watched the way her mouth dropped open, how her brows pinched, the sound she made — like she was about to cry or scream or combust.

“i just wanna remember this,” he muttered, his own voice fraying now, hands trembling slightly as they slid up her sides. “how fucking good you feel already. and i’m not even in yet.”

she whimpered — straight-up whimpered — and it shot straight through him like lightning.

his hips rolled again, teasing another inch, and her whole body arched into him.

“yoongi,” she gasped, finally breaking.

“mm?” he teased, mouth on her cheek now. “what’s that, baby?”

her hands cupped his face so gently it nearly broke him.

fingers threading into his hair, thumbs brushing along his jaw — and then her mouth, god, her mouth — soft and urgent against his. not a kiss so much as a plea, her breath catching on the word he’d been teasing from her for what felt like hours.

“please,” she whispered, kissing him again, lips wet and trembling. “please, yoongi—”

her hips lifted as she spoke, slow and sure, coaxing him deeper — finally sinking him in, inch by inch, her body clenching around him like it had been waiting forever.

his breath hitched so sharp he gasped into her mouth.

then he groaned — low and raw, buried into the crook of her neck as her walls fluttered around him, pulling him in like gravity itself had been redefined.

“fuck,” he breathed against her skin, his voice wrecked. “fuck, you feel—”

but he couldn’t finish. the words died in his throat because she was already moving again — hips rolling, fingers still in his hair, her legs hooked around his waist like she needed him closer. like even being buried inside her wasn’t enough.

she held him there.

whispered into his ear — sweet and desperate.

“don’t stop.”

his hips stuttered, pushed deeper.

“you feel so good, baby. so good.”

yoongi groaned again, his hand fisting in the sheets beside her head. her voice was everything — warm, wrecked, coaxing him through each slow thrust like she wanted to memorize him now.

“just like that,” she murmured, her mouth dragging over his jaw, her teeth grazing his skin. “don’t stop—fuck—please, i need you to—”

and he did.

he moved — not fast, not yet — but deep. every inch deliberate. every sound she made drawing him further into her until there was nothing else.

only her.

her hands in his hair.

her mouth against his cheek.

her thighs trembling around his waist as he started to fuck her like he’d never wanted anything more in his life.

he couldn’t think straight anymore.

his mind was static — white noise between thrusts — her breath, her nails, her skin, the wet sounds where their bodies met. and her voice. god, her voice.

soft and ruined, telling him more, right there, kiss me, don’t stop, and he was following every command like it was instinct.

like he didn’t know how to say no to her.

and maybe he didn’t want to.

maybe there was something in the way she said his name — not just gasped, not just moaned — but called for him. like she knew he’d come. like she knew he was hers the second she touched his face and kissed him between pleads.

he had her pinned under him now — body flush to hers, chest to chest, hips grinding deeper with every roll. the mattress creaked beneath them, sheets tangled at their waists. he was in her in every sense, and still it didn’t feel close enough.

yoongi moaned into her ear — couldn’t stop himself — and her body clenched so tight around him that his rhythm stuttered, jaw falling slack as he swore under his breath.

she whimpered when he hit deep.

he groaned when she tightened.

his mouth found her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone — kissing every inch she asked for, biting gently when her nails sank into his back. one of his hands slid up, grasping the back of her thigh, pulling her leg higher over his hip to get deeper, stay deeper.

the sweat between them made it all feel primal. feverish. real in a way that didn’t make sense, like he wasn’t sure if this was the best sex of his life or a goddamn religious experience.

and he hadn’t felt this way in a long time.

not just the heat. not just the high.

the connection.

the way her hands still held onto him even as her voice broke. the way her body moved with his like it knew him already. like it had been waiting for him to come back to life.

and he was.

piece by piece. kiss by kiss. thrust by thrust.

yoongi pressed his forehead to hers again, panting, hips rolling steady and deep as her breath caught and she whispered his name like a prayer. her nails curled into his shoulder blades.

he groaned again — low, helpless.

“fuck, you’re gonna ruin me,” he murmured against her mouth.

she smiled — crooked and breathless — and kissed him hard, teeth grazing his bottom lip before she said, “good.”

he laughed.

not loud. not amused. wrecked.

it cracked out of his chest like disbelief — like she’d just dared him to snap — and she fucking had.

yoongi leaned back, separating from her chest, chest heaving. and the second she started to reach for him — eyes hazy, lips parting in protest — his hand locked around her hip, tight. rough. possessive.

she gasped, and fuck, he felt it.

the way her body jolted. the way her breath hitched. the way her legs trembled around his waist.

he pressed his thumb into the meat of her hip, slow and deep — not enough to hurt, just enough to claim. he knew it would leave a bruise. wanted it to. wanted her to find it tomorrow and remember the way she asked for this with nothing but a smirk and a dare.

his other hand rose to her jaw — fingers spread, palm warm and solid, thumb dragging across her bottom lip before his grip shifted. just enough pressure to ground her. not choking. not rough. just right. enough to make her pupils blow wide, lips fall open, breath break again.

and then he moved.

his hips snapped forward — hard. deeper than before. rougher. the kind of thrust that rattled her body against the mattress.

she whined. moaned. arched. all at once.

“yeah?” he rasped, eyes locked on hers. “you like that?”

her mouth dropped open — desperate, dazed — and she nodded, voice nearly gone.

“tell me,” he muttered, fucking into her harder now. “tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”

she gasped — a jagged inhale, her fingers clawing at his shoulders.

and then, through breathless, broken confessions, she told him.

about the way she thought of him the night they met — how she imagined this. him. the way she touched herself thinking about how he’d sound, how he’d moan. how she'd imagined his mouth, his hands, his weight pressing her down into her mattress, just like now.

yoongi groaned — deep, guttural, shaking through his whole chest. his grip tightened on her hip. his pace faltered for just a second before he snapped back into it — rougher, deeper, his cock dragging against the spot inside her that made her voice crack when she tried to keep talking.

“fuck, baby—” he gasped, mouth finding her neck again, kissing it hard. “you’re gonna make me come.”

and she gasped at that. her whole body reacting — fluttering around him, her legs shaking, arms locking around his back like she was trying to trap him there.

and yoongi?

he let her.

because fuck it — he wasn’t going anywhere.

he couldn’t hold back anymore.

his hips snapped into her again — deep, ragged — and this time he didn’t try to quiet the sounds that came out of him. couldn’t. not with the way she gripped him, her hands dragging down to his ass, pulling him in, guiding each thrust like she wasn’t even close to finished with him.

yoongi groaned — sharp and guttural, the kind of sound that came from deep in his chest, from the place that was losing her already even as she was still wrapped around him.

he dropped his weight slightly — elbows pressing into the mattress on either side of her head, chest to chest, his face buried against her cheek. and then, just before he shattered completely, he turned and left a kiss on her forehead.

so gentle.

so quiet.

like the softest thank you he'd never say aloud.

his hair was soaked, sweat dripping down his neck, his whole body trembling with the force of it as he came — hips stuttering, breath catching, buried so deep in her it almost didn’t feel real. a moan ripped from his throat — her name barely audible against her skin.

but she didn’t stop.

her hands coaxed him through it, fingers digging into his skin, soft, desperate whimpers pushing past her lips as her hips tilted up again. chasing hers. so close.

“don’t stop,” she gasped. “yoongi—please—i’m—”

and fuck.

his body was wrecked, but his heart was still punching through his ribs for her, so he kept moving. slower now, but still deep, rolling into her just the way she liked — groaning as he felt her clench again, tighter this time, like her whole body was pulling him in to come with her.

she shattered with a gasp. a long, aching sound that cracked in the middle as her thighs trembled and her hands fisted into his skin.

and yoongi?

he felt it.

deep.

full-body.

because this wasn’t just release — it was connection. her body shaking beneath him, lips brushing his jaw, her moans quiet now but still there, like they were part of the rhythm of his own breath.

they stayed like that.

pressed together.

sweat-slick and shivering, heartbeat to heartbeat, breath syncing as the silence finally returned — not empty, not awkward.

just real.

just them.

he didn’t move.

couldn’t.

his body was still thrumming — nerves fried, lungs stuttering against hers, every part of him soaked in the weight of her. sweat on his skin, her scent in his nose, her heartbeat steadying underneath his chest like she was trying to bring him back to earth.

her arms stayed locked around him.

tight.

one hand resting flat against his spine, the other tracing slow, mindless shapes into the space between his shoulder blades. he could feel her nails, just barely — not scratching, just reminding. like she didn’t want him to slip away. like she was holding him there on purpose.

yoongi exhaled.

his face still pressed against the side of her neck, breath ghosting over her skin as he tried to find his voice. but nothing came yet. didn’t need to. the silence between them wasn’t awkward. it was full. stretched soft like a blanket. like a memory.

finally, after a minute — maybe two — he lifted his head.

just enough to look at her.

and fuck.

she was a vision.

lips red and bitten. cheeks flushed. pupils still dark and wide and glassy. there was sweat along her collarbones and a dreamy kind of haze in her gaze, like she was still floating somewhere between now and the stars.

her hand reached up — slow and sure — and gently brushed the hair from his forehead, fingers dragging soft against his skin. a quiet, instinctive gesture. so casual and so intimate he felt it in his chest like a bruise.

yoongi leaned in and kissed her.

not rushed. not hungry.

just soft. like he meant it.

when he pulled back, he let his forehead rest against hers for a beat longer before he whispered, voice low and rough, “where should i...?”

he didn’t even finish the sentence.

she understood.

she nodded toward the bathroom door, lips parting slightly, too spent to smile but too sated not to.

he pressed another kiss to the corner of her mouth — then carefully pulled out of her, a soft hiss caught in his throat as the warmth of her slipped away. he moved slow, quiet, disappearing down the hall just long enough to take care of it.

when he came back, she was still there.

bare and beautiful in the soft light.

one hand outstretched — waiting for him.

yoongi didn’t even think.

he climbed back into bed, under the light blanket she’d tugged over herself, and let her pull him back into her arms. his head on her chest now, ear pressed to her heartbeat, fingers ghosting over her ribs like she might vanish if he didn’t touch her.

neither of them said a word.

they didn’t need to.

her fingers were still in his hair, slow and lazy, threading through the damp strands like she had all the time in the world.

yoongi’s arm was draped low around her waist, hand curled under the curve of her spine. their bodies had stopped moving, but his mind hadn’t — it buzzed, still full of her. the sound of her voice. the look in her eyes. the feeling of her skin under his hands, her legs around his hips, her breath right there at his mouth.

he felt wrecked. in the most peaceful way.

her lips brushed the top of his head, a kiss that was more like a breath. and then, soft — almost teasing, but not really — her voice reached through the quiet.

“you’re gonna be a problem for me,” she murmured, half-lidded eyes blinking slow, like she was already falling under sleep’s weight.

yoongi huffed a laugh against her chest.

“good,” he whispered back. “i want to be.”

she smiled — he could feel it. the way her ribs shifted slightly beneath his cheek.

a beat passed.

the kind that invited more, the kind that asked without asking.

and then she did — so quiet he almost thought he dreamed it.

“are you staying?”

he stilled.

not from fear. not from panic.

just from the sheer gravity of it.

because she wasn’t asking about just tonight. he could hear it in her voice, feel it in the soft curl of her fingers around his neck. it wasn’t about falling asleep together. it was about after. about what they did with this — with whatever the fuck this was becoming.

yoongi closed his eyes. breathed her in. his hand splayed against her lower back like it had always known how to fit there.

“yeah,” he said, eventually. just above a whisper. “i think i am.”

and she didn’t say anything after that.

she didn’t need to.

she just kissed the top of his head again, her lips barely brushing his skin, and held him tighter.

and for the first time in a long, long while — yoongi let himself be held.

quietly , always cigarettesuga . ୨ৎ

taglist Ꮺ @aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @h6rtf9lt @wynterlove @rpwprpwprpwprw @annyeongbitch7 @namgimini @princesstiti14 @belleilichil @busanbby-jjk @sunsetnamjin @vonvi-blog

[kxsagi]

Omg I ran here as soon as I woke up because I’ve got ideas!!!!

I even left this in my notes app but:

https://youtube.com/shorts/nUb7dVadJYA?si=I2ameWw30paQmV8W

But like this with bllk boys??? Or just a one shot with anyone? This is like a friends to lovers thing 😩😩 gonna combust from this because literally (I know it’s an ad but still eienfiejwkdndj)

Anyways sorry for the rant I missed your inbox 🫶🫶

“𝐰𝐞’𝐫𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬… 𝐮𝐧𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬?”

a/n: leaving it in your notes app is true dedication 😭 I LOVE THIS REQUEST

ft. isagi yoichi, shidou ryusei, nagi seishiro, kaiser michael, bachira meguru, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, karasu tabito, ness alexis

isagi yoichi

you’re sitting in his lap. like it’s nothing. like it’s a chair. 

he just taps his knee like “seat’s open” and you go “sweet, thanks” and proceed to text like you’re not in each other’s personal space. 

he literally feeds you from his bowl at restaurants. you just open your mouth without looking. he doesn’t even question it. 

calls you “love” to mess with you but keeps doing it because “haha it’s funny right? unless…?” 

once you yawned and he stretched his arms around you at the same time. didn’t move them. you didn’t move either. you were like “comfy.” 

everyone thinks you’re dating. you guys are like “nooo we’re besties!” but you wear his hoodies and he kisses your forehead when you’re sad. 

shidou ryusei

“you’re literally obsessed with me.” 

“shut up, i am not.” 

proceeds to send him 3 memes, 5 tik toks, and a voice note that ends in giggling. 

has you saved in his phone as “wifey 💍💥” and you never changed it. 

shidou: “lemme see your tits.” 

you: “get me coffee first.” 

shidou: “deal.” 

gets the coffee and completely forgets about the bit. 

he always leans on you, touches your hair, lays his head in your lap. says you give off “emotional support pet” vibes. you’re like “that’s so rude” while playing with his hair. 

once slapped your ass after a game and was like “good job out there, champ 😌” 

you: “thanks babe 😘” 

cue both of you turning pink and pretending it didn’t happen. 

nagi seishiro

you share a bed. literally just knock out next to each other like it’s nothing. 

he grabs your waist when he’s gaming so you won’t move from beside him. sometimes rests his chin on your shoulder. 

one time you changed in front of him and he didn’t even blink. “bro, we’ve been friends since puberty. what haven’t i seen?” 

he calls you “princess” or “pretty thing” when you whine about stuff. it should be illegal how casual he makes it sound. 

nags you to cuddle him. “ugh you’re so annoying,” you say, while spooning him. 

once said “you’d probably make a good girlfriend” while half-asleep. you said “you’d make a horrible boyfriend” and he just chuckled and went “true.” 

kaiser michael

he grabs your face to check your makeup and says “you’re cute today.” you say “just today?” 

he goes “so you do like compliments from me.” 

you both flirt like it’s a sport. your friends have bets on who will fold first. 

you steal his cologne. he wears the bracelet you made at a craft fair. it’s blue. you don’t question it. 

the way he picks lint off your clothes and goes “my standards are higher than this.” you respond by poking your tongue at his cheek. 

has said “if we’re both still single by 30–” 

you: “we’ll be married?” 

kaiser: “no, i’ll cry myself to sleep every night.” 

you: “same.” 

he gets jealous when you flirt with others but masks it with sarcasm. you’re like “jealous much?” and he’s like “you wish. i’m just protective of my property– i mean friend.” 

bachira meguru

you’re always touching in some way. pinkies linked, arms around each other, knees bumping. 

he sends you selfies captioned “for my #1 fan 😘” and you reply “hottt. send more.” 

once made a “fake dating” joke and he was like “you’d like that huh?” and you were like “maybe i would” and then you both went silent for 10 minutes. 

draws hearts next to your name when doodling. you steal his hoodie and he acts like you just confessed. 

people flirt with him and he immediately goes “haha sorry i have a soulmate” and points at you. you do the same. 

one time he accidentally said “i love you” mid-laugh. you blinked. he blinked. 

“… cool lol.” 

“lol yeah.” 

itoshi rin

you know him too well. like dangerously well. 

he doesn’t have to say “i’m cold.” you just hand him your jacket. 

he glares at anyone who tries to hit on you and says “they’re not your type.” 

you: “what is my type then?” 

rin: deadpan “me.” 

“you look like shit,” he says. 

“you still like me though,” you reply. 

he doesn’t deny it. 

he lets you touch his hair. his hair. 

you once called him “baby” by accident and he just responded like it was normal. 

he only softens up around you. other people don’t recognize him when he’s being your rin. 

sometimes stares at you a little too long. you catch him. he looks away and mutters “shut up.” 

itoshi sae

you two look like enemies. emotionless stare vs sarcastic sighs. 

but then he wordlessly unties your hoodie strings because “you looked stupid.” 

texts you “.” when he wants attention. if you don’t answer, he sends “?” 

you call him “baby girl” in public just to piss him off. 

he flips you off. still lets you play with his hair later. 

he’ll literally insult your taste in music then send you a playlist titled “stuff you’d like.” 

“you look gross.” 

“thanks. it’s your shirt.” 

he says nothing because it actually is. 

you fell asleep on him once during a flight. he pretended to be annoyed but didn’t move for four hours. 

when you woke up, he just said “you drooled on me.” (but his phone has a picture of it. it’s his lock screen.)

karasu tabito

you flirt like it’s aggressive sparring. 

“you missed me?” 

“like i’d miss a rash.” 

constantly holds your chin when talking to you. it’s his way of annoying you. but your face gets warm every time and he lives for it. 

he’s always like “if we kissed right now, would it ruin the friendship?” 

you: “yeah.” 

him: “... worth it.” 

texts you “u up?” and then sends you a picture of your worst fashion crimes with the caption “jail.” 

you once dared him to kiss you “as a joke.” 

he did. it lasted too long. you were like “... weird.” 

him: “yup. wanna do it again?” 

he gives you a piggyback ride in public and then tells everyone you’re his emotional support gremlin. but no one else is allowed to say that but him. 

ness alexis

you once said “love you” before hanging up. he said “love you more” with no hesitation. 

you choked. he was unbothered. 

compliments you constantly and never acts like it’s weird. “you look gorgeous today.” 

you: “you said that yesterday.” 

him: “because it’s still true?” 

buys you matching things like mugs, necklaces, keychains. tells everyone you’re soulmates. 

when someone asks “are you dating?” he goes “not yet.” 

you laugh. he’s serious. 

always says “good morning beautiful” with a winky face. 

you threaten to block him. then text back “you too 💅” 

once asked you to rate his flirting. 

you: “4/10.” 

ness: “perfect. so you noticed it.” 

gets jealous when you mention other guys. won’t admit it. just messages you “i hope you choke” and then sends a heart. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[goddamnitmahtin]

Jason is a Teenage Dad

Woke up to see my phone open to my notes app and all it says on it is:

Jason is a Teenage Dad

- Jason is 15 and fucking dies.

- Clockwork shenanigans

- Jason drags his body out of the Lazarus

- Meets the eyes of a 3 year old Danny playing with the Joker’s decapitated head.

- Jason takes the child home. It is his now.

So, obviously, I gotta write about it. Enjoy this post based on the vision of delirious 4 am me.

……………….

Clockwork was bored. You would think the ability to see everything everywhere all at once would be overwhelming but it’s actually boring. There’s no suspense when you always know what’s going to happen. But that was all part of his job as the Ancient of time.

Every universe was scripted out. Each one was slightly different from the last, but it still had the same major things in there. For instance, there was always a Gotham in every universe. Sometimes the city itself, sometimes a comic book about the place as if it were fictional. The same with Amity Park except that one universe made it an anime instead of a kids show which was…. A choice.

Most of the time Clockwork just had to make sure that catalyst events happened no matter what the timeline. Like the adoption of Jason Todd. Or the death of Danny Fenton. The meteor that killed the dinosaurs. Stuff like that. Universes that didn’t have enough catalyst events like that tended to implode on themselves if some new event didn’t take its place.

Clockwork was looking at a universe at the moment that was definitely close to being expired. Could he let it happen? Sure. He could. But that wouldn’t have been much fun to watch.

In the universe he was looking at currently, Danny Fenton has all but disappeared at least according to the locals of Amity Park. Which wasn’t that bad. Easily fixable. However the much larger problem was that Jason Todd just died the wrong way. In most universes where his death took place, it always happened that same way as it was a catalyst event for that universe. Jason gets beat up by the joker and then dies in an explosion. Then he gets revived and healed by some assassins in a pit of really fucked up ecto. Standard procedure.

However in the universe Clockwork was looking at, Jason died due to the crowbar. There was no bomb. Infact, Batman didn’t even arrive to the scene until much later than he did in every other universe. The strangest part though, was that after killing Jason Todd, the Joker threw him into the Lazarus himself. There was no downtime or buffer. This kid was going to be alive again by the end of the week and unless Clockwork did some timeline adjustments, it was enough that the entire universe was inevitably going to fall apart.

Obviously fixing it wouldn’t be hard to do. If he did it the easy way. To rewrite Jason’s death. But that was kind of boring. So, Clockwork had a better idea.

…

Jason gasped suddenly and he felt liquid enter his lungs. He opened his eyes to see green. All around him. Shit, if he inhaled anymore liquid he could drown. So he started to try to swim towards what he thought was the surface. His body felt odd and disconnected from his brain making it hard to move but he kept going. He had to keep going. He didn’t want to die.

Finally, he felt his hand break the surface and latch onto a ledge. He pulled himself out of the green glowing Lazarus, trying to cough up as much liquid as possible.

Memories started to flood back to him. The fight. His mom. The Joker. The fucking crowbar. And most notably, no Batman. Batman never came. He was going to kill B for that.

Jason took a few deep breaths and let himself look around. His eyes immediately locked onto a child. Looked to be about 3. Pale with black hair and blue eyes. The boy was sitting with his legs crossed, covered in blood. He was playing with… something?

Jason couldn’t help but worry for the kid, hoping he did t fall into the pit. It was a dangerous place to be especially alone. Jason sat up to get a better look.

The moment he did, he saw the toddler’s eyes dart right into his own, the blue overpowered by a sudden glow of green. Lazarus green. A look of fear ran over the boy’s face as he froze in place.

Jason felt something in his chest churn, almost as if he could feel the fear dripping off of the child. He didn’t want to scare him. He didn’t want to hurt him. He wanted to get them both somewhere a bit more safe.

Jason stared at the boy, trying to not look menacing. He wanted him to know he could trust him. He felt whatever that new something inside his chest was also try to reach out. Jason didn’t notice when his own eyes turned green, but he did notice that the boy’s attitude shifted very quickly.

The toddler’s eyes went back to blue as the look of fear mostly washed out of his face. There was still some apprehension but it seemed that the two of them had silently come to an agreement of sorts that they were not enemies at least.

Jason looked down from the boy’s eyes and into his hands and whatever animosity Jason had within him was completely washed away. This kid had been through something horrific. In the toddler’s small arms was the decapitated and now decaying head of the Joker. Jason’s murderer.

Jason suddenly felt like this child in front of him was more important than anything else. Whatever he had gone through to land him in this place with that head was fucking over. Jason was going to protect this kid until the day he fucking died. Again. This child had gone through unimaginable things and Jason inherently knew that even though he knew nothing about this kid’s story, he was was going to be one of the very few who could really understand what he was going through.

“What is your name?” he asked as softly as he could.

The boy quietly responded in almost a whisper, “Danny.”

This kid was his kid now. To hell with wherever he came from. Jason was now a dad.

…

Bruce was distraught. Devastated. Completely inconsolable. Jason, his son, was dead. The Joker had confirmed it with a video of him laughing over the dead body. That was a week ago now. Bruce didn’t know what to do. He failed Jason. He wasn’t there when he should have. He couldn’t save him.

He had gotten delayed when he found out where Jason had gone and tried to go after him when a kid he’d seen at a few galas before, Tim was dropped out of the sky landing right on top of him with a post it note safety pinned to his back. He ignored it at the time as he was a little preoccupied.

After he got up again after the initial shock and realized it was just a kid, he tried to calm the nerves of young Tim who described watching his die and then being teleported into the sky and dropped. There was a chance that if Batman’s body hadn’t cushioned the fall, he would have been seriously injured.

He knew he couldn’t leave the young kid there by himself. And he knew that he had to find Jason. He didn’t want to bring him along either but the boy insisted that he wanted to come. Was it smart? No. Did he end up bringing Tim with him? Well yes. He was running out of time after all.

But Batman didn’t make it. The place was empty except for the dead body of Jason’s mother and a lot more blood that was undoubtedly his son’s.

Bruce was currently lying in his bed. He hadn’t gone out to do anything except for patrols. It was the only thing he could focus on. It was the the only thing he could bring himself to do. Bruce Wayne had the time to grieve for Jason Todd. Batman on the other hand did not have that. He had to remain vigilant and consistent. More importantly he had to find the Joker and send him away for killing Jason. Which would have been a lot easier if he hadn’t completely disappeared.

Bruce stared at the nightstand. It had the post it note that Tim had on his back when he fell. He had read it hundreds of times. But he didn’t want to believe it. It was just more proof that Jason was dead.

He took the post it note from the nightstand and read it again, hoping it was different. It was not.

Take this kid home. He’s Robin now :)

…

Tim didn’t really know what to do. His plans had come to fruition much faster than he had anticipated. After watching g his parents die, he had sworn to himself that he would find Bruce Wayne, the Batman, and convince him to let him help fight the evil of the city. But he didn’t expect that the moment he made that decision he would he plucked off his feet by unseen hands and then suddenly dropped from the sky.

That was over a week ago. Now, he was sitting on a large sofa in Wayne Manor. He was thinking. All he really had time to do was think. He had seen his first crime scene at Batman’s side and afterwards was brought back to the manor. He was left alone. He hadn’t seen Bruce hardly at all.

He wanted to do more. Go out and help with something. Anything. But Alfred wouldn’t let him go anywhere. So all he could do was think.

Did anything that had happened since his parent died make any sense? No. Joker deviated from his MO. But why? It was so different than anyone would have expected. There was no spectacle or epic battle with the Batman. He was just gone with a dead body behind. Nothing else.

And that was AFTER Tim was teleported into the middle of the sky. If he just had more resources, maybe a computer or some books that he could dive into to, he could figure it out. There had to be SOME reason. Right? But he had already checked the books in the manor library and Alfred wouldn’t let him into the poorly hidden Batcave. He only had his own thoughts.

He would grieve his parents with that time but he could also just as easily do that later. Besides, he had already decided he was going to become a vigilante and help the Batman. And most importantly, there was a puzzle in front of him that he wanted to solve more.

…

Jason knocked on the door the manor. He was nervous to see B again. Since according to newspapers he had been gone for a week. He knew his dad was gonna be mad that he went to see his mom. And mad he was gone so long. Jason knew he was going to get chewed out for it but he just wanted to be home. Especially since he was going to need help raising Danny. He didn’t know how adoption worked and Jason was only 15 but he was sure B knew how to do all that.

Danny was currently in his arms. He was so small compared to Jason now. Before he had died, he was wasn’t nearly this big. Jason had muscle sure but he was still relatively lean. Now, Jason was built more like a brick house. His shoulders were wider than a typical doorway and he was much taller, at least 6’4.

Danny was sleeping at the moment. He still had the Jokers head in his arms. He hadn’t been able to convince the kid to let it go. Which was fine. Jason didn’t really know what to do with it anyways.

Some shuffling was heard and then the door opened. Alfred was staring back at him.

“Hey sorry I was gone,” Jason said, not really sure what else to say.

Alfred looked from Jason to Danny to Jason, double take on Danny. His face was hard to read. Jason was kind of nervous.

Alfred stepped out of the doorway. Behind him was B.

“Jason!?”

“Yeah. Hi.”

Part 2 Part 3

[peachversace]

terms & conditions

chapter one ; terms of agreement

[ nsfw ] — smut (18+) ; todoroki shoto x reader

word count: 18,020 — read on ao3

tags: ceo/sugar daddy!todoroki, sugar baby!reader, hurt/comfort, modern!au, power dynamics, explicit language & sexual content, aged-up characters, porn with plot, mutual pining, angst, angst with a happy ending, character study, adult relationship, fluff, also slightly kinky & not beta read!

summary:

It was supposed to be a joke.

You were high, broke, burnt out, and bored enough to download a sugar baby app just to see what would happen.

You didn’t expect him.

Or, in which you accidentally become Todoroki Shoto’s sugar baby and end up unraveling everything you thought you knew about choice, love, and being seen.

notes:

so this fun idea came to me and i just couldn’t stop writing it. here’s the first chapter of two, lol. this is my first time writing for shoto, i hope it’s a bit accurate to canon! i also hope you enjoy the ride—it’s messy, soft, and maybe a little bit painful, but definitely worth it. enjoy!

If someone had told you five months ago that you’d have a sugar daddy—a real one, not just some inside joke between exhausted undergrad girls and overpriced oat milk lattes—you would’ve rolled your eyes so hard they’d orbit back into place, muttered something bitter under your breath about capitalism, and trudged off to your next minimum-wage shift like usual. 

You were never that girl. Or maybe you were. Maybe all it took was being ground down enough.

Because it started stupidly. Pathetically, even. 

One of those nights that’s sticky with exhaustion, the kind that clings to your skin and your soul. You’d just pulled a double at the restaurant—your third that week—after sitting through three back-to-back classes, all while thinking about the essay you hadn’t touched, the internship paperwork you were behind on, and the rent payment looming like a death sentence. Your feet ached. Your eyes burned. You stared at your work shoes like they personally offended you. So you called in sick for the next shift, even though you desperately needed the money. You couldn't care. 

Your body was done. And frankly, so was your mind.

You ordered cheap takeout, stuffed yourself with greasy fries and a milkshake you couldn’t afford, rolled a joint, got high in your shitty little apartment with a busted heater, and did the dumbest thing you could’ve done while scrolling through TikTok in your oversized hoodie: you downloaded a sugar baby app. No expectations. Just pure, impulsive boredom.

You weren’t thinking about meeting anyone. You just wanted to see how it worked. The aesthetic of it felt unreal—like something out of another world. You uploaded a half-decent selfie, wrote something half-sarcastic in your bio, and promptly passed out on your bed, belly full and mind foggy. You forgot all about it.

Until the next morning, when you woke up groggy, bloated, and feeling like your brain had been dipped in static. You blinked blearily at your phone, half-expecting a reminder from your bank about your overdraft.

Instead, there was a message. From someone named todo.soba11. Sent at 7:03am sharp.

Your first instinct? Delete the app. What if he’s some 70-year-old oil tycoon with a foot fetish? What if he kidnaps you? What if it’s a scam? What if—worse—it’s real?

So you do what you always do when your frontal lobe is short-circuiting: you call Shinju. And Shinju, being Shinju, doesn’t even blink.

“Respond,” she says.

“What?”

“Just do it. Worst case, it’s a wrinkly creep. Best case, it’s a hot rich guy with abandonment issues who’ll drop a few grand to hear you breathe.”

You stare at her through the screen. She shrugs like she’s offering a granola bar. “Meet, flirt, ride some dick, get paid. Easy math. You’ll thank me later.”

You almost hang up. But then... you don’t. You respond. Slowly. Carefully. With cautious sarcasm and no expectations.

And somehow, that turns into a drink. One night only, you tell yourself. At some stupidly expensive hotel bar downtown. Somewhere shiny and polished and sharp around the edges. You’re ready to bolt the second it gets weird.

But it doesn’t get weird. It gets... confusingly normal.

Because when you walk in, all tentative and armored in lip gloss and fake confidence, the man waiting at the bar is not what you expected. At all. Not even close.

He stands when he sees you. Smoothly. Like he was taught manners by royalty. He’s tall; broad in the shoulders, lean in the waist with the kind of posture that only ever comes from discipline or suffering. His hair is split right down the middle: bone white on one side, deep crimson on the other, like something from a dream that should’ve stayed in your sleep. His eyes are mismatched, too—ice-grey and turquoise-blue—and they lock on you like they’re scanning for something hidden. There’s a scar running down the left side of his face, faded and puckered just slightly, and instead of looking cruel, it makes him look tragically human. Like someone who’s seen hell and lived to talk about it—but chose not to.

Todoroki Shoto. CEO of Todoroki Steel Group. Youngest son of a family empire. The press calls him ‘The Cold Flame’. It’s that Todoroki. The one you’ve seen in Forbes lists and on magazine covers next to words like power and precision and legacy. The one who rebuilt his father's company from a dusty industrial dynasty into a clean, ruthless global titan with green tech and tighter margins. And he’s here. Waiting for you. Like this is normal.

You expect arrogance. You expect smugness, bravado, some rich-boy smirk that makes you want to claw your skin off. Instead?

He’s quiet.

Measured.

There’s something disarming about him—not soft, exactly, but controlled. He speaks gently. Slowly. Like every word is weighed before it leaves his mouth. He doesn’t talk about your body. Doesn’t make a single comment that’s sexual or forward. Instead, he asks about your degree. Your plans. What you’re passionate about. When you answer, he listens—really listens. His eyes don’t wander. They study. Not in a leering way, but with something closer to curiosity. As if he’s trying to understand something deeper in you, something you haven’t even named yet.

He doesn't flirt. He doesn’t pressure. He doesn’t try to dazzle. He’s not cold to be cruel: he’s cold because that’s what happens when you spend your life being burned. And somehow, being around him makes you feel... calm. Steady. Like the panic in your chest has been put on pause. His voice is soft and unhurried. And when he says your name, it settles in your stomach like warm honey. Like the weight of being seen.

You make a joke. Something dumb, self-deprecating. You don’t expect him to react. But he smiles. And it’s the kind of smile that feels unpracticed, like he doesn’t do it often but means it when he does. It warms his whole face, melts the steel edges of him, and in that moment—just for a second—you forget to breathe.

He doesn’t touch you. Not even once. He walks you to the car he arranged for you. Holds the door open. Tells you to text him when you get home. His last words before the car pulls away?

“I’d like to see you again. If that’s okay.”

You pause.

You say yes.

And so it begins. 

Not with champagne or lingerie or thousand-dollar bills slipped under pillows. But with quiet looks. Careful questions. 

A man who carries a whole empire in his name—and who somehow, gently, without trying—makes you feel like you’re the only thing in the world he wants to study.

────────────────────────

It begins, quietly.

No whirlwind. No Instagrammable fantasy of yachts and Prada handbags landing on your doorstep. Just… a message the next morning.

Did you sleep well?

That’s it. No emojis. No pretense. No suggestion of when you’ll meet again. It should feel cold—boring, even. But it doesn’t. There’s something strange in the simplicity, the kind of softness you don’t expect from someone like him. Someone with an empire to his name. With power, with wealth, with that face—the one that doesn’t show much of anything at all, except maybe a distant storm on the horizon.

You stare at your screen for a full minute before responding. Something sarcastic. Half-asleep humor. It’s your usual defense mechanism. Humor as a shield, wit as a mask. You don’t expect it to land.

But then he replies: You’re funny.

That’s it. Two words. But it does something to your stomach. Twists it, knots it—not with anxiety, but with something warmer. A slow curl of surprise. Because he meant it. And when someone like Todoroki Shoto means something, it’s not flattery. It’s observation. It’s truth.

It builds from there.

You see him again the next week. Dinner this time. He doesn’t tell you where—just texts you a time, and a car arrives outside your apartment. You get dressed like you’re supposed to. Tight black dress. Heels borrowed from Shinju. A little lace bra that you couldn’t afford but bought anyway, telling yourself it was a business expense.

The restaurant is tucked into the rooftop of a downtown hotel, dimly lit, quiet. The kind of place you wouldn’t dare walk into without someone like him. The tables are spaced apart, voices hushed, everything made to feel like intimacy disguised as luxury. Like the city below doesn’t exist.

He’s already there when you arrive. Waiting for you.

Black turtleneck. Tailored charcoal coat. Slacks that are cut with precision, understated but expensive in the way only old money can be. His hair is styled back loosely, the red and white catching faint amber light like twin fires meeting in the dark. And his scent—subtle, warm, earthy. Sandalwood and firewood and something almost like incense, clinging to the air around him like a whisper.

He stands when you approach.

Doesn’t ogle. Doesn’t scan your body like you're something bought. Just looks at you and says, “That color looks good on you.”

And it’s not performative. It’s not a line. He says it the same way he says everything—like it’s fact. Unemotional, but true. You feel your face flush despite yourself. Stupid, stupid.

He asks again about school. About your internship. He remembers details. He remembers the name of the professor you complained about last time. The short paper you submitted that didn’t get graded. He doesn’t pry into anything personal—doesn’t ask why your shoulders are tight or why your laugh sounds brittle. He notices, but he doesn’t say. There’s respect in that silence. Like he’s leaving a door open without ever crossing it.

He’s slow. Deliberate. Everything he does feels deliberate.

You wonder if he’s like that in bed. Then you hate yourself for wondering.

The arrangement becomes real on the third meeting.

You’re in his penthouse.

It’s late, and you’re exhausted. Not performatively tired. Real tired. Dead-eyed, emotionally wrung out from your internship supervisor being a nightmare, from your essay being rejected for plagiarism by mistake, from your landlord banging on your door again.

But his place? It’s silent. Peaceful.

The apartment is just like him: coldly beautiful, almost sterile. Black marble floors that reflect the city lights, floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over everything like a throne. Furniture that’s minimal, sculptural, elegant. Not a single personal object in sight. No clutter. No mess. Except for you—curled up in one of his leather chairs, wearing his hoodie because you shivered in the car and he gave it to you without a word.

He pours you wine. You sip it slowly. He sits beside you—not touching, not crowding. Just… near.

You don’t even realize you’re negotiating until he says, “I wired the tuition money this morning.”

You blink. “What?”

He lifts his glass, sips like it’s nothing. “You said midterms were overwhelming. I thought it would help to remove the cost.”

You stare. The number you owe—the one that keeps you up at night, that has you choosing between textbooks and groceries—just gone? It’s… unreal.

And he still hasn’t even kissed you. Not once. Not your hand, not your neck, not your mouth. You look at him, squinting like you’re trying to see the catch.

“So what do you want in return?” you ask, voice casual but lined with steel.

His eyes meet yours. Steady. Sharp. His tone is quiet, never raised. Never rushed.

“Company. Consistency. And eventually, intimacy. If you’re comfortable.”

He says it like he’s reciting terms. Not cold, not warm—just clear. Like a man who learned the hard way that clarity is kinder than assumption.

You nod. Slowly. Your heart’s doing something strange—pounding, but not with fear. With… possibility. It’s terrifying. 

And thrilling.

The first time he touches you isn’t even sexual.

You’re in his kitchen. A stupid moment: you’re boiling water for tea, insisting you can handle it yourself even though he offered. The kettle hisses. You misjudge the angle and burn your hand.

You hiss. Flinch.

He’s across the room in two seconds. One hand gently around your wrist, the other flicking the faucet on with practiced precision. Cool water. His fingers are steady. Strong. And he says nothing. Doesn’t scold. Just tends to you, silent and present.

Then, so quietly you almost miss it:

“You shouldn’t hurt yourself.”

And you know. He’s not just talking about the kettle.

He tapes a little bandage over the red mark, his movements slow and careful. When his fingers finally leave your skin, the warmth lingers. Not the burn. Him.

Later that night, he kisses you.

Not while you're dressed up. Not while you’re trying. It happens when you’re in socks and his hoodie, curled on the couch with your knees drawn up.

He leans in slowly. Gives you time to pull away. But you don’t.

His mouth meets yours like a question, like a breath. Warm. Steady. You kiss him back. Slow. Soft. Like answering. And when you part, his eyes stay locked on yours.

He whispers:

“Thank you.”

And it knocks the breath from your lungs.

Because you expected desire. Lust. Transaction.

But in his eyes, there’s none of that. Just… reverence. Like you gave him something he didn’t even know he needed.

When the sex happens, it’s weeks later.

It’s quiet. Like everything with him.

Not frenzied. Not reckless. He undresses you like you’re sacred. His fingers are cool, precise, reverent. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t demand. He watches you as if every inch of skin he uncovers is a secret, and he’s memorizing you for some silent vow.

He’s good. Better than you’ve ever had. Because he’s focused. Not on performing. Not on taking. He wants to feel. And he wants you to feel.

He’s silent, mostly. The sounds are from you—moans spilling loose, breath hitching, the wet slick of skin on skin, the soft creak of his bed under your rhythm. His breathing is ragged, lips parted, jaw clenched. But he never loses control.

He likes making you come. Loves it, maybe. Not just for the reaction, but for the knowledge that he’s the one who gave that to you. And after, when your body is shaking and you’re trying to catch your breath, he just holds you. One hand curled around your waist. The other brushing your hair from your cheek.

No words. Just his heartbeat against your back. Steady.

Anchoring.

And for the first time in a long, long time—you believe someone sees you. Not just your body. Not just your mouth or your waist or your moans.

But you.

And he touches that part of you, too.

Deliberately. Quietly. Like he knows it’s the most fragile thing you have.

───────────────────────���

By the time you’re five months into the arrangement, you’ve grown used to the silk-and-gold rhythm of this new life.

Used to it, but never numb to it.

You still remember what it felt like before; rushing to class on no sleep, instant ramen as dinner, bills stacked like Jenga pieces you couldn’t touch without the whole thing crashing down. Now? That girl feels like someone you read about in a book once. Familiar, but far away.

Broke college student who?

That’s a ghost you left behind. You still work your job—part-time, less often, fewer hours—but it’s not out of desperation anymore. You can breathe now. You can choose your shifts. You can say no. And it’s not because you’ve become lazy. It’s because you’ve been given time. Time to visit your mom, time to go out with Shinju for drinks without worrying if it’ll clear your account, time to do nothing, even—to just exist.

And time for Shoto.

You like spending time with him. You like being around him. What started as caution has softened into curiosity, and then into comfort. And then, quietly, into something else.

He’s funny in his own dry, unintentional way—deadpan comments that come out of nowhere, the quiet way he’ll blink at you when you’re being dramatic, then say something like, “That seems inefficient,” and leave you wheezing with laughter. There’s still the age gap. And yeah, technically he’s paying you to be here. But there’s more to it than that now. It’s hard to explain. He feels good to be around. Solid. Safe. Like a weighted blanket for your soul.

And his penthouse? A dream. Towering above the city. Quiet, immaculate, private. You don’t just feel rich there—you feel invisible to the world. Untouchable. Like nothing outside those floor-to-ceiling windows can reach you.

Shinju says you’re lucky. She’s right. You don’t even argue anymore. You are lucky.

You’re getting spoiled and dicked down in high-thread-count Egyptian cotton by a man who wears nothing but Tom Ford, has stock portfolios older than you, and calls you angel in a voice that feels like velvet dragged over fire. You're regularly pampered to the edge of ridiculousness—nails, hair, clothes, skincare. 

You try to say it’s excessive, but then he’ll just look at you and say something maddeningly simple like: “Take care of yourself. I like when you shine.”

And how do you argue with that?

The black card lives in your wallet now. Quiet and dangerous. You try not to abuse it—maybe a new dress here, a massage there, but he wants you to. You’ll casually mention needing to trim split ends, and the next morning there’s a deposit tagged ‘For your pretty head.’ You’ve stopped protesting. You’ve learned how to let yourself accept softness.

You’ve also warmed up to him.

He’s surprising. Always has been. You expected cold, remember? But what you got was complexity. A man with a split-colored gaze and quiet hands who pays your rent and also insists you drink enough water. He’s gentle in a way that feels radical—always checking if you’re okay, always giving you an out. There’s kindness in him that doesn’t feel performative. You’ve seen him on calls, thanking staff by name, signing off charity initiatives that could feed whole neighborhoods without blinking.

And yet, he still turns into a slightly awkward mess if you compliment his hair.

That’s the thing about Sho—you’ve learned he’s also happy. Maybe not loudly. Not all the time. But genuinely. He’ll stare out the window sometimes with this faraway softness, then turn to you with a look like he’s still surprised you’re there. He’s told you fragments about his past; about his father, his brothers, the pressure. It hangs between you like unfinished threads. But there’s no heaviness in how he carries it. Somehow, despite everything, he chooses joy. He leans into optimism with the kind of stubbornness that feels childlike. Not naive—just brave.

And you?

You’re falling into something dangerous.

Because yes, there are rules. Boundaries you both agreed on at the start. He doesn’t fuck you without a condom—you made that very clear. You’re still in school, not interested in the sugar baby-to-baby-mama pipeline. And there’s a schedule. You only visit him a few times a week, never on consecutive days. You both have lives. This is meant to be arrangement, not a merger.

But those boundaries feel less like lines and more like suggestions now. Like guardrails you’re already leaning over.

Because sometimes he texts you in the middle of the night just to ask if you’re warm. Because he keeps a toothbrush for you in his bathroom now. Because he waits until you’re asleep before kissing your forehead like a secret. Because he looks at you sometimes like you’re not just someone he pays, but someone he can’t bear to lose.

And you keep telling yourself you’re not getting too deep. That you could leave if you wanted. But the truth? The idea of leaving gets harder every day.

But you push those feelings—those difficult, vulnerable, impossible-to-untangle feelings—to the back of your mind, the way you always do when you’re teetering too close to the edge. 

You focus instead on the now. 

On the present.

On the row of sleek, ribbon-wrapped boxes lined up across his expensive couch.

On the way your new designer handbag glows under the soft light like something pulled from a showroom. On the weight of the diamond necklace—small but dazzling, cool against your skin, delicate and bright like something meant to last longer than most people do. On the red lace lingerie folded carefully in tissue paper, the exact shade of his hair. Thoughtful. Intentional. Beautiful.

You sit cross-legged on the couch in his hoodie, carefully peeling back layers of packaging, trying not to look too giddy. But he watches you like he always does—quietly, calmly, like there’s no place else he needs to be.

You glance at him with a soft smile. “Sho… it’s so lovely. Thank you.”

He nods, that small, understated smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re welcome.”

There’s something gentle in the way he says it, like he doesn’t expect thanks at all. Like your joy is the only confirmation he needs.

This is the last time you’ll see him for two weeks; he’s flying to the Americas for business, something high-stakes and grueling. You don’t ask for details. He doesn’t offer. But you know what it means when he’s gone: the coldness of your apartment at night. His absence in your messages. Your own pulse moving strangely in your body like it misses him more than it should.

So you dressed up for him tonight. Nails done, soft and glossy. Hair perfectly done. Your skin glows from a two-hour spa session he insisted on booking. Everything smooth. Everything soft. Everything ready—for him.

Later, you wear the necklace for him.

You let the cool chain settle against your collarbones and then let the lingerie hug your skin, sheer and red and delicate in all the right places. He sits on the edge of the bed, watching you walk out of the bathroom like you just stepped out of a fantasy. Like he dreamed you into being.

He doesn’t speak. Not at first.

Just stands slowly, eyes heavy on you, walking toward you with that steady, slow grace of his—like fire that takes its time burning. He cups your jaw. Stares into your eyes like he’s memorizing something sacred.

And then?

He peels the lingerie off painfully slow. His fingers are reverent, sliding the straps down your shoulders, the lace across your chest, down your thighs. Like he’s undressing something precious, not just something sexy. And as he exposes more of you, he kisses every inch of revealed skin.

Your shoulder. Your sternum. Your hipbone.

His mouth is hot and wet and slow, and it lingers—like he’s not just worshipping your body, but grieving the idea of having to leave it.

He loves your body; studies it. His eyes are laser-focused but soft, like they’re mapping every mark and line and curve. And he buys you jewelry not just for luxury but for how it looks on your skin, how it catches the light when you arch beneath him, how it frames your collarbone when your chest is rising with every gasp.

You call him pretty, whisper it against his throat as he kisses down your stomach, and his breath catches—just slightly. Like it still surprises him to be called something soft. You slip a finger between his lips and he groans—quietly, of course, but his breath stutters like you’ve just blessed him.

And then, he’s between your legs.

His tongue is slow and certain, not rushed, not greedy—just precise, like everything he does. His mouth is warm and wet, his tongue heavy against your clit, drawing languid circles that get tighter and firmer as your hips lift toward him. His fingers curl inside you, slow at first, then deeper, just right, just right—until you’re gasping, moaning, pushing at his head with tears springing to your lashes, thighs trembling.

He doesn’t stop until you come twice. Until your body jerks and shudders and your voice cracks around a moan that sounds more like a prayer. Only then does he finally pull away, licking his lips like he’s just tasted something rare.

And when he stands, pulling his boxers down—his cock thick and flushed and curling up against his abdomen—he looks down at you, chest rising slowly, and says:

“I don’t want a condom tonight.”

Your eyes widen. You open your mouth, but then he adds, voice low and real: “I want to feel you. I want to remember how you feel… because I’m going away.”

And you should say no.

You should remind him of the rules. Of the line.

But your body is molten, your heart a traitor, and your pulse is louder than your logic. So you just nod. Just once. And that’s all he needs.

He slides in slowly, thick and hot and bare, and your eyes flutter shut as you feel all of him. Every inch. There’s no barrier this time—just him. Heat. Skin. Fullness.

You make a soft, broken sound, and he breathes out something close to a moan as he sinks into you.

“You feel better than I imagined,” he whispers. 

He fucks you slowly at first. Tender, deep thrusts, one hand gripping your hip, the other cradling the back of your head like you might break. His body presses close, chest to chest, lips brushing yours as he moves.

But soon, it shifts.

His pace builds. His breath gets louder. His restraint begins to fray.

Because there’s something different now. Something unleashed.

He makes a sound into your neck, thrusts getting rougher, faster. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room. He whispers how good you feel. How warm. How wet. He says he wants to keep you like this—full of him. And your whole body tightens at the words.

You didn’t know you had a breeding kink until now.

But the way he murmurs, “Let me fill you up, angel…”, his voice wrecked and breathless, does something to you you can’t undo.

He comes hard—deep inside, body shuddering, fingers locked into your thighs as he groans your name like he’s been holding it in for months.

But it doesn’t stop there.

He flips you over. Fucks you on your stomach. Then pulls you up on your knees. Then has you straddling him while he sits back against the headboard, his hands dragging you down onto his cock again and again. Then missionary, one of your legs thrown over his shoulder, his thrusts brutal and deep and relentless.

He comes inside you every time. Like he needs to. Like it’s a promise.

By the end, you can’t speak. Your body’s trembling, legs barely holding you up, hands weakly gripping at his arms, his shoulders, anything you can reach. You moan, whimper, say his name like it’s the only word left in your mouth.

And when it’s over—when you’re soaked and ruined and trembling—he doesn’t leave.

He wraps you in a towel, pulls you into his arms. Holds you like you’re still something fragile. And whispers, against your skin: “I’ll miss you every night I’m gone.”

You don't know how to respond. So you just press your face to his throat.

He pulls away slowly, chest still rising and falling, skin slick with sweat, and for a moment all he does is look at you.

Like he’s not quite ready to break the spell.

Then, with that same low, composed voice that always makes your stomach flip—voice of a man who owns boardrooms and bedrooms alike—he says:

“Come on. Let’s get cleaned up.”

His eyes roam your body as he speaks, heavy-lidded and admiring, lingering on every mark he left behind. The bruises on your hips. The faint red fingerprints on your thighs. The hickey blossoming just under your jaw. His gaze is sharp—but not cruel. It’s not lust anymore. It’s ownership, yes, but not of your body like a thing. Of the moment. Of the intimacy you gave him.

He lives for this; the evidence.

He doesn't need to hear you beg. Doesn’t need to see you cry. He just wants to see you worn. Loved on. Marked. His marks. Subtle declarations that only he will ever really see.

The bath is already drawn by the time he helps you up—he must have started it earlier, the man always ten steps ahead. Warm water, soft steam curling at the edges of the marble bathroom, the faint scent of eucalyptus and jasmine floating in the air. He lifts you in his arms like you weigh nothing, murmuring a soft careful when you wince at the stretch in your thighs, and lowers you into the tub like you’re something fragile.

You relax into the warmth, a sigh falling from your lips as he kneels beside the edge.

He doesn’t leave.

He stays right there, hands dipping into the water as he helps rinse you off—washing your legs, your arms, your stomach with slow, reverent movements. Every once in a while, he’ll pause, letting his fingers skim over the bruises he left.

And then he says it.

Voice low. Steady. Certain.

“I’ll buy you anything you want.”

His hand comes up, thumb brushing the faint bruise on your hip. His eyes don’t move from yours.

“But this—” he says, gently pressing, not enough to hurt, just enough to claim. “—this is mine.”

Heat blooms across your chest. You roll your eyes at him, but your voice is breathy, caught somewhere between fondness and arousal.

“You’re so kinky, Sho.”

A rare smile tugs at his lips—not sly, not smug. Warm. It softens the sharp lines of his face, makes the scar beside his eye look gentler, almost sweet.

“Maybe,” he murmurs, brushing your damp hair back. “But only with you, darling.”

After the bath, he towels you off with the same care. Wraps you in the silk robe he left draped on the counter—it smells like him, of smoke and sandalwood and something soft, like fresh cotton sheets in spring. You feel weightless, pampered, floating.

He takes his time massaging your legs with lotion, something luxurious and thick and floral. Rubs your calves, your thighs, slow and soothing, like you didn’t just get absolutely ruined in every position known to man. And then, with your body soft and glowing and draped in silk, he tucks you into his bed, draws the covers over your hips, and kisses your shoulder.

You glance at him sideways, lips curling. “You really don’t have to spoil me this much, you know.”

He tilts his head, voice even. “I want to.”

And he says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like giving is a language he was born speaking. Like your body, your time, your presence—is worth every ounce of it.

And maybe you’re still telling yourself this is just a transaction. An arrangement. A phase.

But when he wraps his arm around your waist and presses a kiss to your temple before saying, “Sleep. I’ve got you,” you feel something dangerous stir in your chest again.

You ignore the flutter, the warmth curling too close to your chest. You chalk it up to the afterglow and drift off in his bed, nestled in soft sheets and softer arms, lulled to sleep by the sound of his breathing and the warm weight of him behind you.

But hours later—too few hours, really—you wake again, groggy and blinking into darkness. The kind of quiet that only exists at 3 AM, when the city is asleep and the air hums with stillness. You stretch a little, shift against the mattress, and that's when you feel it: the low grumble in your stomach.

You’re hungry.

Of course you are. All that exertion. All that sweating and moaning and coming—twice with his mouth and four more times with everything else. Your body’s wrung out and spent and suddenly very aware it hasn’t eaten since late afternoon.

Behind you, Shoto is still asleep.

You turn slowly, carefully, trying not to wake him—and you can’t help but pause. Just look at him.

He’s sprawled on his back now, one arm tucked under the pillow your head had been resting on, the other resting loose across his toned stomach. His breathing is slow and deep, steady in that way that makes you feel safe. His lips are slightly parted, and a faint, nearly imperceptible sound leaves his throat as he exhales. His hair—normally styled, parted so neatly—is a soft mess against the pillow, the white and red strands tangled and falling over his forehead.

He looks so young like this.

You almost don’t recognize him—not the way the world knows him. Not The Cold Flame, not the ruthless CEO, not the heir to a dynasty of steel and fire. Just Sho, sleepy and beautiful, boyish in the most unexpected way. Peaceful.

You lean in without thinking, guided by instinct and softness, and press the lightest kiss to the tip of his nose. He scrunches it under your lips with a sleepy grumble, a little twitch of his brow, before settling deeper into sleep. You smile to yourself.

God. He’s so cute.

You think about curling back into him, falling asleep with his arm around you again, but your stomach protests—loudly this time. With a reluctant sigh, you slip out from under the sheets, careful not to disturb him. Your legs are still sore, but you pad your way toward the kitchen, feet silent on polished marble floors.

Shoto’s kitchen is a dream. Sleek, spotless, enormous—designed by someone with a minimalist fetish and too much money. State-of-the-art everything, from the hidden fridge panels to the built-in espresso station that probably cost more than your college tuition.

But despite how modern it is, it’s still starting to feel a little like yours.

You’ve stocked a drawer with your favorite teas. Tucked a few snacks into a pantry shelf—your snacks, not the imported kind he keeps for show. Instant noodles. A bag of your favorite chips. Stuff you used to live off of. Stuff you couldn’t always afford. And tonight, you want the comfort of it.

The contrast makes you laugh softly to yourself. One moment, you’re being draped in diamonds and silk, letting him feed you wagyu flown in from Tokyo—and the next, you’re hovering over a pot of boiling water, cracking an egg into cheap ramen and assembling your favorite weird sandwich with crumbled chips on stale white bread.

It’s the kind of nostalgic comfort only a broke student would understand, and it tastes like home.

You sit at the kitchen island, legs swinging a little as you scroll through your phone and slurp your noodles, alternating bites between that and the ridiculous chip sandwich. And you feel good. Relaxed. At peace.

Until you hear the footsteps.

You look up, startled for half a second—until you see him.

Shoto.

Bare-chested, barefoot, wearing nothing but navy pajama pants that sit low on his hips. He’s scratching at his chest absently, red and white hair tousled even more than before, his eyes still sleep-swollen and blinking like he’s adjusting to the light. He pauses in the doorway, his gaze finding you immediately.

He looks so beautiful it’s unfair.

Something flutters deep in your stomach—not hunger this time. He’s tall, all long limbs and lean, sculpted muscle. His body is disciplined, honed, made for war or boardrooms or both, but there’s something vulnerable in the way he stands there half-asleep. Like he’s just a man looking for the warmth that slipped out of bed without him.

“Hey,” you whisper, putting your chopsticks down. You smile gently. “You okay? Doesn’t your flight leave in like five hours? Go back to sleep, you need the rest—with the jet lag and everything.”

He blinks, rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. “I didn’t feel you in bed. Saw the light. Are you alright?”

You nod, touched by the concern in his voice. “Yeah. Just… hungry.”

He walks closer, slow and barefoot, gaze lowering to your plate. His brow furrows slightly. “What are you eating?” A pause. “That does not look nutritious.”

You scoff, grinning. “Wow. A billionaire snob CEO like you wouldn’t know about taste. This”—you gesture proudly to your bowl and plate—“is instant ramen and a chip sandwich. Food of the people, Sho.”

He stares a moment longer, still blinking slowly, and then—with a little huff through his nose that might be a laugh—he walks around the island and sits next to you.

Your heart does that stupid little flip again.

You push the plate toward him. “Want a taste?”

He gives you one of his long, unreadable looks. But then, wordlessly, he picks up your sandwich like he’s handling a piece of equipment he doesn’t understand and takes a bite.

You rest your chin in your hand, watching him.

The expression that follows is complex. A mix of confusion, curiosity… and begrudging respect.

“It’s… salty,” he says finally.

You grin. “And crunchy. And weird. And kind of amazing.”

He takes another bite. This time on purpose.

You can’t help but laugh. “See? You’ll be craving this from a hotel suite in Buenos Aires.”

He chews thoughtfully, then glances at you, something quiet blooming in his expression.

There’s a softness to it. A warmth he doesn’t always show. Like he’s filing this moment away—you, in his kitchen, barefoot in one of his robes, feeding him chip sandwiches and ramen in the middle of the night—and it matters.

It matters to him.

“You look happy,” he murmurs.

You blink. “I am.”

And you mean it. Here, in his massive kitchen, under dim lights and wrapped in luxury, eating the cheapest food you can think of with a man who’s supposed to be untouchable… you feel safe. Content. Seen.

He looks at you like he wants to say something more—but instead, he reaches for your chopsticks, and eats your noodles.

He pauses with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth when you brush the hair from his face—your fingers gentle, almost reverent. The red strands fall easily away, revealing more of his expression in the soft kitchen light. His eyes are calm, that rare storm-cloud gray-blue softened with sleep and quiet affection.

“Do you like it?” you ask softly, tilting your head just a little, watching his face.

He blinks once, finishes chewing, and then nods with a slow, deliberate kind of sincerity that only Todoroki Shoto seems capable of. “Yes,” he says simply. “The ramen is good. But I like the chip sandwich the most.” He glances down at the remaining half on the plate, then back up at you, thoughtful. “It’s my first time eating it.”

You smile, warmth curling under your ribs. “Well, I’m glad I got to see you try it.”

His lips curl into the faintest smile, one of those rare ones—so small and so honest it’s almost startling. He nods again, eyes still fixed on you. “I was homeschooled for the first few years of my life. Then boarding school. We didn’t have food like this.” He picks up a chip crumb and examines it like it’s a strange artifact, lips twitching slightly. “It’s interesting.”

You scoff playfully. “It would be interesting for you, Mr. I-Have-Sashimi-for-Breakfast.”

That earns a real response—his smile deepens, just a bit. It’s not wide or showy, but it’s felt. Something flickers across his face like the memory of amusement. “Not all the time. Sashimi is not a favorite of mine. It’s—”

“Soba. Cold soba,” you interrupt, finishing for him.

He freezes for a second, brows lifting ever so slightly. It’s subtle, but it’s visible. Like your words caught him off guard. He blinks, and there’s something almost boyish in the way his mouth parts a little before pressing together again. You see the realization hit him, the soft awareness in his eyes—you noticed.

“Don’t look so surprised,” you tease, nudging his shoulder gently. “You eat it all the time. And need I remind you—your old username? Todo.soba11?”

You say it like it’s a secret. Like it’s sacred. And to your delight, you watch it hit him all at once. His head lowers slightly, eyes dropping to the bowl like he’s embarrassed—but not in a bad way. You swear you see the faintest tint of pink rise on his cheeks, just barely visible under the warm kitchen light.

Oh. My. God. He’s blushing.

The same man who signs multi-million yen contracts before breakfast. The same man who fucks you into mattresses with slow, possessive hunger, murmuring mine against your neck. The same man who owns four penthouses, a private jet, and a suit collection that could pay off your entire student loan debt—he’s blushing. Because you remembered something small about him.

Because you see him.

And he looks so cute like this, sitting beside you with chip dust on his fingers and pink on his cheeks, shy and a little quiet and completely unaware of how deeply you’re falling for him.

He clears his throat softly. “That account was… old.”

“Yeah,” you say, teasing gently. “From when you were still pretending not to be the heir to an empire.”

He smiles again, and this time it’s small but real. Like something delicate and sincere and unguarded. He picks at the edge of the sandwich with his fingers and doesn’t look at you immediately when he says, “I like that you know these things.”

You blink.

You watch him for a moment—bare-chested, sleep-tousled, sitting across from you at this impossibly expensive kitchen island with a plate of junk food in front of him—and your chest aches a little. He’s still him, of course. Powerful, absurdly rich, disciplined to a fault. But right now he’s also just a man trying something new, learning to laugh with someone, letting you see him without armor.

It’s… soft.

And you’re dangerously close to liking this too much.

“Well, you know things about me too,” you murmur, voice quieter than before as you shift closer to him. You lean in slowly, careful not to shift the plate too much between you, and rest your chin on his shoulder. The warmth of his skin sinks into you instantly—his body still heat-soft from sleep, the faint scent of him pulling you in: cedarwood, clean linen, and something warmer, almost like cinnamon, that you’ve come to associate with the way he smells only when he’s just woken up.

He doesn’t flinch or stiffen. Instead, he shifts slightly, turning his head, his pale lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. His eyes—those deceptively calm, mismatched eyes—find yours. They flicker, first to your lips, then back to your eyes, and then he kisses you. No hesitation. Just a slow, quiet press of his mouth to yours. It’s soft. Still half-asleep, no urgency in it. A kind of kiss that says, I’m here. I see you. I want this moment to last.

Your lips part just a bit, letting the kiss deepen—only slightly—and your hand comes up to rest on his bare forearm, fingers grazing cool skin. His mouth is warm, pliant, and familiar now. He doesn’t kiss like someone who’s showing off. He kisses like someone trying to say what he doesn’t have the words for.

And then he pulls back. Just a breath. His eyes flick over your face with that quiet curiosity that always feels like he’s learning you, storing each detail somewhere in the neat, precise corners of his mind.

“You taste like instant ramen instead of caviar and scotch,” you tease, your tone light and amused, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “That’s a nice change.”

There’s a beat.

Then he blinks.

And in the most earnest, Todoroki Shoto way possible, he says—seriously, almost puzzled, “I don’t drink scotch. I don’t like it. Maybe you tasted something else?”

You pause.

Your brain short-circuits.

Because he says it without a hint of irony, so straightforward and genuinely confused, and it’s so him that it nearly breaks you in half.

You laugh—quiet, soft, helpless. It bubbles up in your chest and spills out before you can stop it, and you rest your forehead lightly against his shoulder, shaking your head. “Sho,” you whisper, “it’s a joke.”

Another blink. His brows furrow just slightly, like he’s backtracking, trying to retrace the logic.

“Oh,” he says, his voice quiet again, like he’s a little embarrassed now. But he doesn’t pull away. His arm shifts behind you, hand resting lightly at your lower back, grounding you there. “Right.”

You glance up at him, and you swear his ears are a little pink now. Not from the heat, but from the you. From your laugh. From the intimacy of this moment. From the ease that’s starting to settle between the two of you like warm honey, slow and thick and dangerous in the best kind of way.

And for a moment, you forget the dynamic. You forget the rules. The arrangement. The money. The unspoken end that hovers somewhere in the distance.

Because right now, he’s just Sho. Tired and bare-chested and surprisingly terrible at sarcasm. He’s letting you in again—closer, deeper—and you’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it.

You wrap your arms around his waist under the pretense of hugging him from the side, but really, it’s just to stay close. Just to feel him.

“You’re such a dork,” you murmur against his skin, and he hums under his breath.

“I’ve been called worse,” he says softly. And when you glance up, he’s already looking at you.

And it hits you like a whisper:

He’s learning how to be with someone.

And maybe so are you.

────────────────────────

His trip takes longer than planned.

You’re counting down the days like a fool, checking your phone too often, scrolling through your camera roll at pictures you shouldn’t miss this much. Originally, it was just two weeks. But then he flies straight from the Americas to Europe—Monaco, specifically. Something about a sudden board meeting, or a merger, or a foreign investment expansion. You don’t know the details. He doesn’t explain much.

But what does Shoto do?

He flies you out.

The message comes in the middle of the night—his time. Morning, for you.

Sho: Come to Monaco.

You stare at your screen, blinking. Still half-asleep. Surely he doesn’t mean it literally.

You: Monaco? Monaco Monaco?

Sho: Yes. I’ll have the jet ready. You’ll miss one class day. I already checked your schedule.

Of course he did.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over your screen. Because it sounds insane. It is insane. You have classes. You have a paper due. You’re a college student with a sugar daddy, not some heiress with a passport full of stamps.

So you do what you always do when your reality breaks open a little too wide: You call Shinju.

She picks up and you don’t even get the sentence out before she’s yelling.

“GO.”

“Shinju—”

“Go! Are you serious? It’s fucking Monaco! He’s flying you out like some kind of spoiled Bond girl and you’re hesitating?!”

You bite your lip. “It’s just one day of class.”

“Exactly. One. Day. Of. Class.” Then she adds, softer, knowingly: “Besides… you miss him, don’t you?”

And that shuts you up.

Because you do. You miss his hands. His voice. His steadiness. The way he always looks at you like you’re already forgiven.

So you say yes.

Monaco is… something else.

It’s glittering water and hills lined with terracotta rooftops and endless wealth wrapped in elegance. Everything is white stone and glass. Sleek, expensive, ancient and modern at once. You step off the jet and into the kind of heat that makes diamonds glint brighter.

He puts you in a suite that overlooks the harbor. The bathroom is marble. The bed is so soft you melt into it. There's a bottle of Dom Pérignon on ice and a silk gift bag on the dresser. Inside it: lingerie. Black lace and red silk. And a note.

Wear this. Come to the balcony. - S

You do. Of course you do.

You’re not sure whether it’s the ocean air or the days without him, but the second his hands touch your waist out on that balcony, you lose your mind.

He’s shirtless, muscles taut from stress and flying and power. His hair’s messy, wind-tousled. He kisses you with heat and hunger, his mouth rough, almost impatient—which is rare for him. You moan into it, and he pulls you against the railing, palms hot and wide on your thighs.

He fucks you there, on the balcony, your back arched against the glass. The city lights below. The harbor glittering. You’re nearly crying by the time he pushes inside you, bare and deep, your legs wrapped around his waist.

He murmurs, “I missed you like this.” And you believe him.

Later, it’s the hot tub.

Steam rising. His hands sliding wet and firm over your ass. Your legs spread wide, floating in the heat while he sinks into you from underneath.

He holds you there—grips your hips and grinds up into you with slow, endless strokes while your head falls back and your mouth drops open.

The water sloshes. Your skin is hot. Every thrust sends a wave rippling outward.

And when he comes, he holds you there—close, close, like he’s trying to pour something more than just come into you.

And then there’s the office.

Because Todoroki Shoto doesn’t stop being Todoroki Shoto just because you’re here. Business resumes. Which is how you end up naked, flushed, and panting on his lap in a Monaco high-rise office, bent slightly forward, his palm around your throat and his cock still buried inside you.

He’s still in his dress shirt—white, sleeves rolled up, belt undone, shirt wrinkled from your desperation.

One hand is on your neck, pressing just enough to make your thoughts scatter like glitter. The other holds your hip down—tight, possessive, forcing you to stay still even as your whole body trembles. You whimper, biting your lip, trying to keep quiet.

And Shoto?

He’s on a business call.

Voice calm. Composed. That subtle authority he always carries, even while his cock pulses deep inside you, still wet and sticky with his last orgasm.

“Yes,” he says, not even winded, thumb stroking your pulse. “We’ll have those numbers by Q3. I want updates before Friday.”

You dig your nails into his forearm. He doesn’t flinch.

He presses his mouth to your shoulder, teeth grazing skin just as his hips shift up—slow and deep—and you moan into the back of your hand as he fucks you in tiny, brutal thrusts while conducting international finance.

You’re lightheaded. Feral. Obsessed.

He hangs up five minutes later. The moment the call ends, his grip tightens.

“Good girl,” he breathes, voice low against your throat.

And then he flips you onto his desk.

There are no more calls that day.

Later, you're draped across his desk—skin bare, cheeks flushed, legs tangled, lips swollen. The lacquered wood beneath you is still warm from where he had you just moments ago, where he pulled you apart with slow, careful strokes until you were trembling and boneless and gasping his name like a secret prayer.

But this… this isn’t sex anymore.

This is something quieter.

Something more dangerous.

Shoto leans over you, still half-dressed—shirt untucked, buttons open, hair a little wild from your fingers. His belt hangs unbuckled at his hips. You’re naked, sticky with sweat and him, your thighs marked with soft red prints from where he gripped you too tightly. Your chest rises and falls in soft, uneven breaths as his mouth grazes your collarbone again and again, like he’s worshipping you.

His kisses are slow. Reverent. His hands trail across your ribs, your stomach, the curve of your hip—not greedy, not urgent. Just there. Holding. Memorizing. Like if he touches you slowly enough, maybe you won’t disappear.

He murmurs against your skin, voice low and rough, worn down with jet lag and hunger—for you. Not lust. Not control. Just you.

“I thought about you every day.”

The words hit like an ache. Gentle and unbearable.

You blink. Your breath stutters.

Because he means it.

It’s in the way his eyes search your face—not just for beauty, but for your reaction, your comfort, your truth. It's in how his thumb brushes your knee absentmindedly, like he needs the contact to stay grounded. It's in the way he looks tired all of a sudden—not from travel, not from sex, but from missing you.

And maybe you weren’t supposed to get this far in. Maybe this was supposed to be simple.

But there’s nothing simple about the way your throat tightens, or the way you lean up to kiss his cheek; gently, silently. No teasing. No games. Just closeness. Just thanks. Just yes, me too.

His breath catches.

He closes his eyes.

Then he lowers himself so his head rests just below your breast, arms wrapping around your waist, and stays there, holding you like a man who’s starved for the comfort of your skin.

And you let him. You hold him back.

It’s not always about sex with you two.

Sometimes—more often than you ever expected—it’s just the intimacy. The warmth. The simple, grounding comfort of another person’s skin against yours, the silence between heartbeats filled with soft breathing and weightless closeness.

Tonight is one of those nights.

The suite is dim, soft amber lighting glowing low from the sconces. The balcony doors are open, letting in the hush of Monaco’s midnight air and the faint distant hum of ocean waves. The bed you’re in feels like a cloud, all plush pillows and silk sheets, but it’s his body that really anchors you—solid behind you, arm around your waist, chest against your back like a fortress of warmth.

Your skin is still dewy from the bath he insisted on running, your limbs heavy and wine-drunk, draped across him like it’s second nature. One leg tangled over his, his hand tucked beneath your ribs, fingertips drawing slow, absentminded circles into your hipbone.

The bottle of wine—whatever brand it is, something expensive and probably older than you—is half-finished, resting carelessly on the nightstand. It doesn’t matter. You didn’t drink it for the taste. It was part of the ritual: the bath, the wine, the laughter. His low, quiet voice rumbling in your ear, telling stories that feel so impossibly normal for a man who wears bespoke suits and signs billion-dollar deals.

“—but then I farted once,” Shoto is saying, tone completely straight, “and the smell was terrible.”

You snort into his chest before you can help it. “God, you’re so stupid sometimes.”

He smiles. Not the rare, careful one he uses in boardrooms or in front of cameras. But the real one—soft and lopsided, that shy flicker of amusement that lights up his entire face when he’s completely relaxed. The one that makes you ache.

You reach up and brush a hand through his hair, gently pushing the strands away from his forehead, fingers combing through the red and white like it’s something sacred. You stroke your thumb along his jaw, feeling the faint scruff there. He nuzzles into your touch like a cat—closed eyes, a low hum in his throat, his grip around your waist tightening just a bit.

You’re amazed, in this moment, by how deeply content you feel.

It hits you all at once. How light your chest feels. How much tension you’ve let go. How happy you are, here in this bed, in this city, with him.

Shoto is your sugar daddy, sure, but he’s also the man who takes the time to learn your favorite snacks. Who always checks in about your day. Who listens more than he talks, who lets you see the parts of him that are still healing. The one who makes you laugh with dumb stories about his brothers and awkward teenage years, even though he’s a whole empire now.

You lean up and kiss his cheek. Then his lips—slow, lingering, almost lazy.

He returns the kiss, soft and sleepy, one hand slipping up your back to pull you even closer. Your bare skin against his—chests, stomachs, legs all pressed together—feels like too much and not enough at the same time. It’s not about arousal. It’s not about control or roles or power.

It’s about closeness. It’s about belonging.

He presses his forehead against yours, eyes still closed, and murmurs something too quiet to catch, but you feel it in the way his thumb brushes up and down your spine, in the way he presses your bodies together like he’s trying to fuse you into one.

He blinks his eyes open, the softest glint of silver and turquoise catching the low light. Still half-drowsy, still flushed warm from the bath, the wine, your touch. His arms tighten slightly around you, like a reflex he doesn't even realize he's doing—like he needs to keep you close even now, as if you'll slip away otherwise.

You smile against his bare chest, your cheek resting just over his heart, and whisper, “Tell me more about this city.”

He hums low in his throat, like the question surprised him, but not in a bad way. You feel the reverberation through his skin as he stirs, shifts a little to face you more fully, eyes opening now with a little more alertness.

“Is there any fun things we can do?” you ask, voice playfully curious. “Or do I just have to keep you company while you’re here at non-business things?”

His response is immediate. “We will do whatever you want, darling.”

You pause.

Something about the way he says it. His voice is low, still gentle—but there's something under it this time. A quiet insistence. A vow. Something more than politeness or sugar-daddy indulgence. It feels… deeper. Like it means something. More than just "Yes," more than convenience. It’s him saying I want to give you what makes you happy.

Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe the jet lag is hitting. But your chest flutters.

Still, you shake the thought off with a teasing grin and say, “Really? So if I want to go to the beach, and afterward have a ride in your expensive car with the hood down while we go shopping—and maybe I’ll suck your dick during said driving—you’ll let me?”

That gets his attention.

His lips twitch with amusement. But he doesn’t roll his eyes. Doesn’t playfully scoff or feign embarrassment. He just tilts his head slightly, the edges of his mouth curling into a soft, knowing smile as he watches you, quiet and sharp-eyed.

“I think the last part would be dangerous,” he says with such gravity you almost laugh again. “Considering I would be focused on you more than I already am.”

And then, as if that wasn’t already enough to make your stomach twist, he adds, “But if that’s what you desire, we’ll do it.”

You raise a brow. “Really?”

He nods. “I should tell you that I have a high name in this city. If we do get arrested for public indecency, I might have to say you were a crazy woman that jumped in my car.”

The snort you let out is ungraceful and loud, but you don’t care. You prop yourself up on one elbow, grinning as you look down at him. “Really? That’s your plan?”

His grin widens just a fraction, enough to show a glimpse of tooth. A rare, real smile. “It’s the only way they’d believe I let it happen.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “I don’t think you’d ever do that.”

And this time, he doesn’t say anything right away. His expression shifts—subtle, like everything with him is. The amusement is still there, but it softens into something tender. Something so achingly sincere it almost doesn’t belong in a suite this luxurious, in a city this shiny.

He shakes his head slowly. “No,” he says, voice quiet. “I don’t think I ever could with you, angel.”

The words sit heavy between you. Not in a bad way. In a way that makes your pulse slow, your breath catch, your body lean in instinctively toward him—drawn like gravity. That warmth he carries in him, quiet and buried under layers of stillness and self-control, flickers to the surface like a flame trying not to burn too bright.

You smile, something small and shy, and nuzzle back into his chest, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. You feel him exhale gently into it, as if the moment makes him melt a little, too.

“I just want to relax,” you murmur, “and spend time with you.”

That’s it. That’s all you say.

Shoto blinks at you for a moment, like your words are something sacred—like they settle somewhere deep behind his sternum and make a home there. You’re half-draped across his chest, still warm from the bath, your skin bare beneath the silk sheets and his arm slung low over your waist. His heartbeat thuds under your ear, steady and calm, but now there’s something else behind it. Something gentle. Something that glows.

You feel his fingers tighten slightly at your hip, like your words gave him permission to hold you a little closer. His voice, when he finally answers, is low; warmer than wine, quieter than the hush of the ocean outside.

“I’d like that,” he says. “Just you and me.”

It’s not about what you said anymore—not about beach trips or convertibles or risky, teasing fantasies whispered in the dark. It’s the way you said relax… the way you said spend time with you, like it’s not about luxury or the lifestyle he provides. Like he is the part you’ve come to want most.

Your breath catches for just a moment. You don’t mean for it to, but it’s there. The softness of this. The way he’s looking at you now—those heterochromatic eyes, usually so guarded, so unreadable—now open, glassy at the edges. He looks at you like he feels something too. And maybe you’re just tipsy and sleepy and curled up in a foreign country with nothing but the ocean and your own heartbeat to ground you, but maybe it’s real.

“You mean it?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper. “You’d take time off… just for that?”

“I’d give you all the time in the world,” he says, without hesitation. “All you have to do is ask.”

You swallow, eyes darting across his face—still looking for some kind of catch, some hidden meaning. But there isn’t one. There never is with Shoto. For all the mystery in his eyes, he doesn’t lie. He doesn’t posture. When he tells you he’ll give you the world, he means it, because it’s the only language he knows. Quiet devotion. Steady offering. Soft-spoken promises that sound too big to hold but never feel too heavy in his hands.

Your heart squeezes, and you lean forward again, pressing another kiss to his lips—this one slower, less teasing. Just soft and full of emotion you can’t name yet. His hand cups your jaw, guiding you closer, and when you pull away, he rests his forehead against yours again.

“I like you like this,” you whisper, “soft and sweet.”

He hums. “I’m always soft with you.”

That makes you smile. You trace your fingers across his chest, watching how his throat moves when he swallows.

“I’m gonna take you up on it,” you warn him, still smiling. “The beach, the ride, everything.”

“Even the public indecency?”

You giggle and shrug. “Maybe not that one. But don’t act like you wouldn’t let me.”

He laughs, the real kind—a low, breathy sound that rumbles from his chest, and god, it does something to you. Makes you feel so full. So wanted. So safe. You’ve never felt like this in someone’s arms before. It doesn’t matter that it started as an arrangement. It doesn’t matter how it began.

Because here, now, pressed against him under silk sheets in a Monaco penthouse, it feels like something real. Like something blooming slow and deep.

You tuck yourself closer, one leg hooked over his thigh, and whisper against his skin, “I just want you, Sho.”

And he says it like a vow, soft against your temple, lips barely brushing you—

“You already have me.”

It’s almost criminal, how perfect the day is.

Monaco sun glitters over the sapphire water, casting gold onto everything it touches—including you, reclined on a white lounger, legs stretched out, your skimpy white bikini catching the light like pearls. Your sunglasses are oversized and designer, your lips glossed, and your hair is still damp from the sea. You look like a siren; Shoto’s siren. The kind men lose entire kingdoms for.

He’s beside you, bare-chested in black swim trunks that hang low on his hips, his body lean and powerful under the sun. His scar catches the light differently here—less like something marred and more like something sacred. A memory etched into him. The red of his hair darkens in the saltwater, clinging to his forehead in messy strands. He looks effortless, but he keeps glancing your way like he still can’t believe you’re here.

You swim together, laugh together; weightless in the waves. You splash him once, teasingly, and he retaliates by hoisting you up into his arms, bridal-style, wading deeper into the water with you squealing about how you're going to drown. He just raises a brow like he's above such drama and keeps going until you’re both waist-deep. Your arms wind around his neck, his hands steady on your thighs as you float against him, warm and held and so seen.

Later, you tan, stretched out like royalty. Shoto sits nearby, a book in one hand, a drink in the other, but his eyes are mostly on you. Every hour or so, he gently reminds you to reapply sunscreen like the sun might dare leave a mark on what’s his. He even does it for you once, rubbing lotion into your back and the backs of your thighs with large, reverent hands, slow and tender like he’s painting you.

You float together in the water until sunset—your back to his chest, arms around each other like a lazy embrace that refuses to let go. The waves rock you gently, and you talk about the days you were apart. The late nights you couldn’t sleep. The food he tried in New York. The book you read. How you missed his voice. How he missed your laugh. It’s not romantic in a dramatic sense. It’s quiet. Undeniably real.

And when the sun dips lower and paints the horizon in molten orange, he kisses you. Just once at first. Then again, slower, deeper, like the whole beach could disappear around you and he wouldn’t care. Like the only thing that matters is the press of your lips and the salt on your skin.

Then—

“I think I stepped on a rock,” he mutters against your mouth. 

You laugh, head thrown back, your body shaking gently in his arms. The noise is pure and bright, and Shoto just looks at you with that small, almost bashful smile like he’s glad he made you laugh, even if it cost him his foot.

Later, as you’re drying off and slipping back into your sandals, he disappears for a moment and returns with something cupped carefully in his palm.

A seashell.

Not a perfect one—there’s a little chip at the top, a faint spiral, edges smoothed down by years of waves. But it’s iridescent. Pale pink and white, shimmering faintly like moonlight. Unique. Singular. Beautiful because of its imperfection.

He holds it out to you like it’s a diamond.

“I saw it earlier and thought of you.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes. You just stare at him, at the way he’s offering you something so small, and yet it feels heavier, more meaningful than all the black cards, the gifts, the jewelry combined.

Because this? This isn’t from a boutique or a showroom. This is something he found, something he chose, something he thought of you when seeing.

You take it carefully, fingers brushing his.

And when you look up, Shoto’s already watching you with that look again—that quiet, gentle awe.

The seashell sits warm in your hand, and you feel your heart thump in your chest.

No designer gift has ever felt like this.

Of course, you're back at the hotel before long.

The room is still sun-drenched when you step inside, the light slanting through the gauzy curtains, painting golden stripes across the marble floor. Monaco stretches out below your balcony—boats bobbing lazily in the harbor, the pink haze of sunset brushing against the hills. But you’re not looking at any of that.

You're focused.

First things first: the seashell.

You don’t even pause before slipping it carefully from your fingers into the small silk pouch inside your purse—nestled between a travel-size perfume bottle and your wallet. You make sure it’s secure, gently wrap it in a piece of tissue, and zip the pocket shut like it’s a piece of jewelry. Because it is. To you.

It’s not about the shell itself; it’s about the way he looked at you when he gave it to you. Quiet. Certain. Like he wasn’t just handing you something small and pretty. He was giving you proof. That even while walking alone on a foreign beach, he thought of you. Not just your body. You.

You’re still feeling the echo of that when you strip off the top of your bikini, tossing it onto a nearby chair without a second thought. Your breasts are still faintly warm from the sun, tan lines fresh and skin slightly tight from salt. You walk barefoot across the suite, wearing nothing but the tiny white bikini thong that still clings damply to your hips. It cuts high on your waist, the strings riding up as you move, every line of your body sun-kissed and golden.

You’re moving through the room like you belong there. Like you're used to this—worn luxury and ocean views and designer oils laid out in neat rows across the vanity. You’ve done this before, this ritual: sorting through bottles, deciding between jasmine or rose or that thick, expensive cream that smells like vanilla and sandalwood. It’s indulgent. Pointless. Entirely yours.

And that’s when you see him in the mirror.

You’re not startled. You feel him before you see him. That warm gravity he always carries. That stillness.

Shoto moves like he’s carved out of something deeper than just muscle and bone. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t startle. He simply arrives behind you—silent, shirtless, hair damp from rinsing off quickly at the beach.

His eyes flick to yours in the mirror, and it’s not a smirk or a grin that meets you. It’s something softer. More dangerous. A quiet hunger buried beneath calm restraint.

He steps in close. Arms sliding slowly, deliberately around your waist. His chest is warm against your back, body heat sinking into your spine. His hand comes up—not fast, not greedy—and cups your breast gently, fingers spreading to fit the weight of it in his palm.

His mouth finds your shoulder, then trails inward—kissing the edge of your tan line, where skin shifts from sun-kissed bronze to paler, untouched flesh. He doesn’t speak for a moment. Just breathes against you. Smells your skin. Kisses you like he’s studying you.

And then, warm and low, he murmurs against your neck:

“Bend over, angel.”

You don’t even hesitate.

It’s instinctive, the way your body responds to him. To that voice. To the command that isn’t cruel or rough—it’s precise. Measured. Like everything he does. Not a demand. An invitation. A quiet promise of what he’ll give you in return.

So you do it.

You bend over the marble vanity, arms bracing you against the cool stone. You arch your back; deep, instinctive, feline—your spine curving beautifully as you tilt your hips back toward him. Your ass lifts, soft and round and on full display, the thin strap of your bikini thong framing you like a bow on a gift.

Shoto breathes out slowly behind you. You can feel the heat of it on the back of your thigh.

Then his fingers hook into the strings at your hips, and he peels the thong down—slowly, reverently. Not yanking. Not impatient. Like he’s unwrapping something he’s waited all day to see. He slides the fabric down your legs and lets it drop soundlessly to the floor.

And now you’re bare.

Open.

Exposed and displayed for him, still damp with sea water, thighs slightly parted and skin golden from the sun.

You know what you look like. You know what you’re doing—how deeply you’ve arched, how unashamed you are, how the curve of your hips and the glisten of your folds must look to him. You’re presenting yourself like something holy. Like something meant to be worshipped.

And Shoto?

He kneels.

He always kneels when it matters.

You feel his hands on your ass, firm and warm, spreading you gently. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The way his thumbs graze your inner thighs is answer enough. The low, barely audible sound he makes in his throat—that restrained, nearly invisible groan—is praise. Is need.

Then his mouth is on you.

He licks a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, tongue hot and deliberate. He doesn’t rush. He never does. He’s too focused, too careful. Every movement is calculated. He tastes you like he’s memorizing you. Like he wants to learn what makes you squirm, what makes your legs shake, what pulls those helpless little noises from your throat.

Your fingers grip the edge of the vanity. Your hips tremble. He hums against you—pleased. Encouraging.

When he finally stands, it’s with that same calm power, like he’s rising from a kneel not just as your lover, but as a man who’s decided something.

His hands find your hips. His cock is already hard—thick, hot, and pressed against the back of your thigh. He doesn’t need to guide himself. He knows exactly where you are. How to slide into you in one long, unhurried thrust.

You gasp—loud, involuntary—as he fills you completely. His hips press flush to yours, the stretch perfect, your pussy already slick and clenching around him. You hear him inhale—sharply, tightly—like the feel of you still manages to shake something loose in his chest.

And then he moves.

He fucks you slowly at first. Deep, smooth strokes that make you choke on your own breath. One hand remains on your hip, steadying you. The other slides up your back, over the slope of your spine, until it’s curled at the back of your neck—his thumb brushing gently just beneath your hairline.

You’re panting now. Whimpering. Every thrust makes your breath stutter, your eyes blur. He’s not speaking. Just moaning softly every now and then—low and controlled, the sound guttural and beautiful.

And you feel everything.

The strength in his hips. The stretch. The precision. The way he angles deeper—seeking that spot inside you that makes you see stars. You’re moaning now, openly, shamelessly. Not just because of how good it feels, but because of what it means. What it is.

This isn’t just fucking. This is him. This is Shoto; all quiet intensity, all reverent heat, all focused pressure. The kind of sex that makes your chest tighten, because even without saying it, he’s telling you: I missed you. I thought about this. I thought about you.

He leans over you, chest pressed to your back, mouth near your ear. “You feel better than I remembered,” he breathes.

You whimper his name, a murmured “Sho…” and he makes a sound, hips jolting forward harder. His fingers tighten on your hips. Not to hurt. To anchor. To hold you together while he loses control in the only way he allows himself to—with you.

When you come, it’s not soft. It’s a wave. It crashes through you, shaking your whole body. Your legs give out slightly, and he holds you up, fucking you through it with a low groan, never stopping, never breaking rhythm.

He finishes inside you with a deep, shuddering breath, hips pressed tight, his cock pulsing as he fills you, and his mouth is on your shoulder again, biting down just enough to mark. To claim. To remember.

And when it’s over, when you’re both panting and slick and trembling against the vanity, he doesn’t pull away.

The shower is already running, steam curling around your bodies as the last of the Monaco sun spills across the marble floor through the bathroom windows. The water is hot and steady, hitting your skin in a soothing rhythm, like rain after drought. You’re both inside now, the wide glass shower big enough to feel indulgent, the tiles warm beneath your feet, the air thick with heat and the soft scent of sandalwood and salt lingering on both your skin.

Shoto stands in front of you, water streaking down the planes of his chest, dripping from the ends of his hair. He’s quiet, like always, but it’s not silence that feels empty. It’s full. Heavy. A quiet that speaks volumes. He’s looking at you with that half-lidded, unreadable gaze—one only you have come to understand. It means he’s still in it. Still present. Still with you, even if his mind should be turning toward the dinner meeting waiting for him across the city.

But he’s not thinking about that yet.

He leans in and presses a kiss to your shoulder—soft, open-mouthed, lingering against the skin where your tan line begins. Then another at the hollow of your collarbone, and another just above your heart, as if he’s marking each place with a kind of quiet gratitude. The loofah is in your hand, and you’re dragging it in slow, lazy circles across his chest, your eyes half-lidded, the intimacy of it all making your breath slow.

“Five more minutes,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper, almost swallowed by the sound of water.

Shoto blinks, those mismatched eyes dropping to meet yours. He studies you for a beat longer than necessary, like he’s memorizing your face—committing you to memory all over again even though he just had you bent over the vanity minutes ago. But this isn’t the same as that. This is different. Softer. It’s not about hunger now. It’s about closeness. Longing.

You’re clinging to him, arms wrapped around his neck as you press yourself close under the spray, the curves of your body molding against his. And he lets you. He always lets you—never pulls away when you reach for him like this, never denies you softness even when the rest of the world demands steel.

He cups the back of your head with one hand, cradling it with care, while the other strokes slowly down your spine. His fingers pause just above the small of your back, where the water collects and rolls down in steady rivulets. He kisses you again; deeper now. Slower. His mouth moves with yours like you’re the only thing anchoring him. Like he needs this as badly as you do.

The kiss stretches on. Minutes melt. You lose track of time, of how long you’ve been pressed against him, lips moving together in that quiet, drugging way that makes your knees weak. And still, he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t break the moment.

You sigh against his mouth and run your palms across his chest again—his heart beating slow and strong under your touch, his muscles warm and solid. You glide them up over his shoulders, trace the slope of his scar. You love his scar. Not just because it’s part of him, but because of the way he lets you touch it. The way he doesn’t flinch anymore. Not with you. You kiss the junction where his neck meets his shoulder, and he sighs—soft and shaky, a little sound that tells you this is getting to him too.

Then, you whisper, quiet and low, “You should go.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again. His brows knit, and for a moment, you see the hesitation flicker across his face. That instinct in him to give you what you want—even if it costs him something. It’s who he is. Shoto doesn’t take easily, but he gives constantly. He was raised in discipline and duty, but now he chooses softness—with you.

“I’ll tell them I’m running late,” he says, voice low, hoarse from earlier and from the emotion thick in his throat.

And god, it nearly breaks you; how easily he’d throw it all aside. For you. Always for you.

But the guilt blooms again, slow and stubborn, and your fingers press into his shoulder blades as you shake your head gently. “No,” you whisper. “You should go. Really. I don’t want you missing things because of me.”

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t move. The water still beats down around you both, steam thickening. And then, quietly:

“I missed you.”

You feel your throat tighten.

His voice is so soft when he says it, like it’s too sacred to speak louder. Like if he does, it might shatter. And in that moment, you know he doesn’t mean just in the way his body missed yours. He means you. Your laugh. Your warmth. The way you touch his scar like it’s nothing. The way you hold him in your arms like he’s not the product of something harsh and painful, but something deserving of love. He means the nights he spent in a penthouse in New York or London, in a suit that fit too well and a chair that felt too cold—thinking of your voice, your smile, the way your fingers trace lazy circles over his skin as you fall asleep.

He missed being known. And you know him better than anyone.

You press your forehead to his chest. His heart is beating a little faster now.

“I missed you too,” you whisper. “But you don’t have to prove anything, Sho. You’ve already given me so much.”

His hands tighten at your waist, grounding himself in your presence. And after a long moment, he nods.

He pulls back slightly—not all the way, just enough to brush your damp hair behind your ear and place one last kiss to your temple. It’s not rushed. Not urgent. But it carries weight. A silent promise that this, you, will be the first thing on his mind when he steps out that door—and the first thing he returns to.

“I’ll be back soon,” he murmurs. “Don’t fall asleep without me.”

And you smile and nod. “I’ll try.”

He kisses you one last time—gentle, lingering—before finally turning away to step out of the shower.

And even though you feel that ache of missing him already starting in your chest… you also feel full. 

Held. 

Wanted.

And you do really miss him.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That it’s normal. That of course you’d miss someone who treats you like a goddamn goddess, who makes you feel beautiful even when you’re half-asleep, puffy-eyed, draped across a sun-warmed bed in a country that doesn’t speak your language. That missing him is just part of the game. The arrangement. The role.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re jet-lagged, because the waves drained the strength from your limbs and the sun kissed you too long. Because this hotel suite is too big, too quiet, too lonely when he’s not in it. You’re still in that silk robe—the short champagne one he likes, the one that clings to your hips and slips dangerously down one shoulder. The tie is loose. Your hair’s half-dry. Your legs are still faintly glowing from the oil you rubbed in earlier, and you’ve barely moved from the bed since he left.

It’s just the waiting that’s messing with you. You’re used to having him close—his body heat, his attention, that subtle way he watches you like you’re art he can’t stop studying. Being without it for even a couple hours has your thoughts turning over themselves.

So you tell yourself what you think someone in your position should tell themselves.

That you’re not some lovesick girl. 

That this is just your sugar daddy. A man who happens to be generous. And sweet. And hot. And—fuck—so considerate it hurts.

You tell yourself that lying here in Monaco, curled into his sheets, still warm from his mouth and hands, wearing nothing but silk and perfume, doesn’t mean anything. That the way your stomach flipped when he said don’t fall asleep without me is just your body reacting. Nothing emotional. Just the residue of a really, really good orgasm.

You tell yourself to stop being so dramatic.

And yet—

When the door opens softly, hours later, and you hear the quiet hush of expensive shoes against marble; when he steps into the suite still in his charcoal-gray suit, tie loosened, hair slightly messy like he ran his hands through it on the drive back; when he finds you, lounging in his bed, robe slipping open at the thigh, lips parted slightly like you fell asleep waiting for him; and when you see what’s in his hands—

You swear your heart skips something vital.

Shoto stands there in the golden light of the suite, holding a bouquet of red roses. Deep crimson, long-stemmed, the kind florists don’t wrap without velvet ribbon. He’s not grinning, not doing some cocky show of it. He just looks… soft. His mouth is curved in the smallest, quietest smile, like he’s happy to see you again and isn’t trying to hide it. His eyes—those dual-colored, steady eyes—flick to yours like he’s checking that you’re okay before he says anything.

You sit up a little, the robe falling slightly lower on your shoulders, and suddenly you feel your throat tighten again, just like in the shower.

He crosses to you without a word and sets the flowers gently on the bed beside you. Then, carefully, he kneels at the edge of the mattress, his hand coming to rest on your thigh, just above your knee. Warm. Grounding.

“I thought they’d suit the room,” he says softly, his tone low, like he didn’t want to wake you even if you weren’t fully asleep.

You blink at the roses. They’re perfect. Not cliché—somehow they fit. Like he’d thought about it, weighed the choices. And the fact that he brought them back after a business dinner, when he should’ve been too tired to even think, is what kills you.

You swallow. “You didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to,” he says, and there’s no hesitation.

No performative charm. No teasing grin. Just fact.

And now you’re fully awake. Too awake. Because something in your chest aches with how badly you want to kiss him. Not with heat, not with need—but with gratitude.

You ignore that stupid feeling swelling in your chest—press it down, bury it beneath the silk and the roses and the warmth of his hand on your thigh. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. You smile instead. A real one. The kind that tugs at your lips even when you try to bite it back. The kind you don’t usually give anyone.

You brush your fingers over the roses—soft and cool and fragrant, a rich, heady scent of something expensive and classic. They're freshly cut, you can tell. Still full and vivid, like they were meant to sit in a marble suite in Monaco next to a girl like you, in a silk robe, with salt still clinging faintly to your skin.

You tilt your head toward him, your smile lingering as your eyes meet his. “You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, but you don’t mean it. You lean in before he can say anything back.

The kiss is barely there—just the soft brush of lips, warm and slow and quiet. There’s no tongue, no hunger. Just that feeling. That heat blooming in your chest again like something gentle and glowing and terrifying all at once. And when you pull away, it’s with the faintest wet sound, a kiss that echoes in the stillness of the suite like a secret.

“Thank you, Sho,” you whisper, voice just as soft as the kiss.

He doesn’t answer.

Not right away.

Instead, he leans in again—this time his lips press against your bare shoulder. Not your mouth, not your collarbone, but the rounded slope where your robe has fallen open. He kisses you there like it’s sacred. Like the sun warmed that spot just for him to claim later. 

His breath lingers hot against your skin, and then his voice comes, quiet and close: “Did you eat?”

You shake your head, eyes flicking down, your fingers still brushing the edge of the velvet ribbon tied around the stems.

“I wasn’t hungry,” you admit. Your voice is small. Honest.

He blinks, brows drawing in slightly. You can see the faint shadow of concern in the way his mouth tightens—not dramatic, not panicked. Just focused. That subtle Todoroki way of caring—silent and attentive.

“You should eat,” he says simply, but it’s not a scold. More like a reminder. A fact. “I can order you something. Room service still delivers this late.”

And you almost say yes. You almost let him.

But then—too soft, too honest—you murmur:

“I didn’t want to eat alone.”

Your voice is barely audible. Like a confession you didn’t mean to make.

And for a moment, the room is silent. Heavy.

The kind of quiet where something changes—not because it explodes or breaks, but because it settles.

Shoto looks at you.

Really looks at you.

There’s something behind his eyes—something flickering and slow, like warmth building under frost. And then he shifts. Not away. Closer. His hand finds yours where it’s resting near the flowers, and he laces your fingers together without a word. His palm is warm, always warm, callused in just the right places. When he speaks, it’s quieter than before.

“I’ll stay with you next time,” he says. “No dinner. No meetings.”

You turn to him, blinking. “Sho, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupts, firm but soft. His thumb brushes along your knuckles. “If you're here, I want to be too.”

The weight of that settles between you—not heavy, but solid. Real.

You nod slowly. You don’t trust your voice. Not with the way your throat feels too full.

And Shoto, true to form, doesn’t press. He simply lets go of your hand gently and rises from the bed with the quiet elegance that always makes him seem untouchable—like something sculpted from stillness and light. But then he walks over to the in-room phone, rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, and starts speaking softly into the receiver.

He’s ordering you food.

You watch him from the bed. The curve of his spine, the cut of his jaw in the soft light. The way he pauses to look back at you while confirming the order, like he’s making sure you’re still okay, still there, still his.

He hangs up and returns without fanfare, kneeling once more beside the bed, hand returning to your thigh like it belongs there.

“I’ll eat with you then,” Shoto says simply, and you blink like the words didn’t quite register. Your lips part, ready to argue—some automatic, flustered deflection bubbling to the surface—but he cuts it off with a calm follow-up, completely unfazed.

“I had something small,” he adds, his tone casual. “And I need the protein.”

You blink again. “Protein?”

“For when we work out.”

You snort, incredulous, a hand lazily tugging your silk robe tighter around you. “I don’t work out, Sho.”

You expect him to meet you with that same cool stoicism he always has, that calm restraint. But instead—his mouth quirks. A rare smirk tugs at the corner, soft and crooked and teasing. It makes him look boyish, for a moment. Not the composed man who commands attention at boardroom tables and walks like he was born in a world with marble floors. But just a boy. Just your boy.

And then you see it—the gleam in his eye. Mischief. Pure and quiet and utterly Shoto.

You narrow your gaze, instantly suspicious. “Wow. Really mature,” you mutter, dryly. “Who says I’d want to work out with you?”

He just shrugs—careless, smug, still smiling.

And then before you can get another word out, he kisses you. Firm and fast and warm.

You yelp against his mouth—not because you’re shocked he did it, but because it’s so effective. You feel his hands slide under the robe like silk against silk, and the next thing you know he’s pushing you back into the pillows, the bed swallowing you both whole.

“Shoto—!” you start, but it’s breathless and already edged with laughter.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and your legs shift automatically, wrapping around his waist like you’re made to do this, like your body remembers him. Your robe parts easily, falling open like it’s meant to, and the heat between you builds so quickly it feels almost criminal.

You never get around to the food.

The room service goes ignored—probably arrives and is left politely at the door with a soft knock, but neither of you hear it. Not with the way Shoto’s mouth finds your neck, or the way you tug him down by the open collar of his shirt, not caring that it’s still pressed and elegant and clearly not meant for rolling around in bed.

But he lets you tug anyway.

Lets you undo each button one by one with shaky fingers.

Lets you press your mouth to the line of his chest like you’re starving.

And he touches you like he never left. Like all the nights apart have been building up in his bones and only now is he finally letting it out—slowly, quietly, thoroughly. His hands map over your thighs, your hips, the warm slope of your waist beneath the robe.

And you—you forget everything else.

Forget the ache of being alone in the suite. Forget the ocean outside the window, the city glittering below.

All you know is him.

His body, half-dressed and heavy over yours, his tongue licking into your mouth with lazy confidence, his hand curling behind your neck like he’s holding something precious. You feel his weight in your chest and your bones and your thighs and it’s not just arousal—it’s comfort, intimacy. That quiet, consuming sweetness you only get with him.

You don’t get much sleep.

You stay tangled under the sheets long into the night—laughing, moaning, whispering, holding. You fuck slowly. Then again. Then again, when neither of you can bear to separate. And at some point, maybe hours later, you fall asleep pressed skin to skin, his hand tucked beneath your cheek, your leg slung over his hip, the scent of roses still faint in the air.

And the food?

Still waiting, untouched, just outside the door.

On your last night in Monaco, everything feels a little heavier—but not in a bad way. 

It’s that soft kind of weight, the one that settles in your chest when you know a good thing is about to pause. The kind of ache that comes with the end of a perfect day, a perfect trip, a perfect kiss. The kind you carry home with you.

Shoto takes you out to dinner, just like he promised. It’s another high-end restaurant tucked into the cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean—a place with soft jazz playing, white tablecloths, and a menu that doesn’t list prices. You’re used to these places now, kind of. You know how to carry yourself in them. You don’t flinch when the sommelier brings a bottle that costs more than your last semester of tuition. But even with all that luxury, there’s still something about tonight that makes you feel… different.

Maybe it’s the dress.

You picked it out that afternoon while he took a call—silk, body-hugging, a shade that glows against your sun-warmed skin. It’s the kind of dress that hugs your waist, dips a little too low at the back, and makes your legs look endless when paired with your strappy designer heels. The jewelry is subtle—diamond studs and a pearl necklace he surprised you with before dinner, hung on a thin chain, resting just above your collarbone.

You step into the living area of the suite, still adjusting one earring, and he looks up from his phone.

And then he stills.

Shoto is not a man of excess emotion—not outwardly. He’s calm, composed, his expressions small and precise. But when he sees you, really sees you, there’s this brief flicker across his face, like something inside him stutters. His gaze drags over you slowly—neck, shoulders, waist, hips, legs—and then comes back to your face with soft, wide eyes.

“You look beautiful today,” he says, plainly. Not flirtatiously. Not dramatically. Like it’s simply the truth.

And it hits you in the chest. Too hard.

You blink, caught off guard by how earnestly he says it. Your heart flutters—traitorously. You smile anyway, recovering quickly, trying to ignore the way your stomach dips.

“Thank you, Sho,” you murmur, stepping close to him. Your fingers curl gently around his—warm, long-fingered, and steady—and with your other hand, you reach up to straighten the line of his button-up collar. It’s a quiet moment, domestic and simple. Like you’ve done it before. Like you will do it again.

His eyes lower to watch your hand, then flick back to your face.

He doesn't say anything right away. He doesn’t have to.

Because that look in his eyes says enough: he sees you. Not just how good you look—but the softness underneath. The care. The intimacy in the little gesture. He holds your hand like he wants to keep it there forever.

At dinner, the night unfolds like a dream—low candlelight, ocean breeze drifting through the open terrace, the scent of salt and wine and jasmine in the air. He orders in French, fluid and confident, but still glances at you after every dish to see if you like it. He always does that—quietly making sure you’re comfortable without calling attention to it.

He doesn’t talk much about work tonight. Instead, he asks you about your classes. Your friends. Your favorite books. The things you’re afraid of. He listens intently, blue and gray eyes focused entirely on you, like you’re the most interesting thing in the world. He asks follow-up questions. He wants to understand. He doesn’t interrupt.

There’s something almost vulnerable about how quiet he gets when you talk about your life outside of him. He doesn’t show jealousy—not exactly—but there’s a kind of wistfulness in his expression, like he wishes he could follow you into that world. Like part of him wonders where he fits.

You make him laugh—really laugh—over dessert when you tease him about his obsession with perfect coffee temperatures. He leans back in his chair, mouth curved into a rare, full smile, and shakes his head, cheeks tinged pink from the wine. His scar softens when he smiles like that. It always does. And for a second, you forget everything else. You just look at him, and think: this man. This man is mine.

Or maybe not yours. Not officially. Not forever.

But he’s yours right now.

And when he reaches across the table, fingers brushing yours again, his thumb stroking the back of your hand gently, there’s no denying the truth sitting between you.

This is no longer just an arrangement.

After dinner, you walk back to the hotel on foot. Monaco sparkles around you—narrow streets, glowing shopfronts, the hum of nightlife gently buzzing through the summer air. You slip your arm through his, heels clicking on the stone path. You don’t even care that people look. You want them to. Because he looks stunning tonight. Dark shirt slightly open at the collar, blazer thrown over his shoulder, white streak in his hair glinting in the streetlights. And he has you on his arm.

At one point, you stop to look out over the edge of a railing, the city below glowing in warm amber lights. He stands behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest.

“Do you want to go back?” he murmurs near your ear. “Or do you want to stay here a little longer?”

And you don’t know if he means the railing, the street, the night… or Monaco itself.

So you turn in his arms, slowly, and wrap your hands around the back of his neck.

You look up at him. He looks down at you.

And for a moment, the world hushes.

Shoto has always been quiet, composed, thoughtful. But when he looks at you right now, he doesn’t hide a thing. Not the longing. Not the hesitation. Not the part of him that wants more than this ending.

His hand comes up and brushes your cheek. He leans in. You meet him halfway.

The kiss is soft. Lingering. Not heated or rushed or teasing—just true. Like goodbye and maybe and please don’t go all at once.

You kiss again.

And again.

And again.

Until finally, he pulls back and says, voice just above a whisper: “Come upstairs with me.”

You nod, heart beating in your throat, and let him lead you back. His hand holds yours the whole walk back to the suite—tightly, securely—like he’s not ready to let you go.

And you don’t want him to.

That night, back in the suite—doors closed, lights low, Monaco glittering through the glass like a distant dream—the sex is different.

And it scares you.

Not because it’s rough. Not because it’s wild or overwhelming. But because it’s gentle. Intimate. Reverent in a way that feels too close. Too real.

It starts the moment he unzips your dress.

You’re standing near the bed, the silk slipping from your shoulders as his hands move with practiced ease. But instead of the usual quiet urgency—his need to get it off, to get to you—he takes his time. His fingers linger against your spine, tracing each vertebra like he’s memorizing your back. His mouth brushes your shoulder, then lower, and lower still, slow, almost shy.

There’s nothing performative in it tonight. Nothing about ownership or indulgence or play. It’s not the sex of a man showing off what he can afford or what he wants.

It’s the sex of a man who’s feeling everything.

You turn to face him in just your lingerie, and the way he looks at you makes your stomach twist. There’s no smirk. No hunger. No cool control. Just longing.

And it terrifies you.

Because this isn’t just lust. It’s something softer. Something deeper. Something that reaches past all your rules and your boundaries and your oh-so-clever understanding of what this arrangement is supposed to be.

He steps closer and cups your face. One hand on your cheek, his thumb stroking under your eye. He tilts your chin and kisses you—soft, slow, almost chaste at first. But it deepens quickly. His mouth moves against yours with that quiet heat he always holds back until it slips.

And it does slip.

He breathes your name when you sigh against him. He murmurs it again, quieter this time, like he’s afraid if he says it too loud he’ll ruin something.

He undresses you slowly. Like he’s unwrapping a gift he doesn’t think he deserves. His eyes trail over your body, but not with lust—no, with awe.

And when he lays you down on the bed, he follows. Stretches out beside you. Presses his chest against yours.

You expect him to move fast, maybe to press his thigh between yours and grind, or mouth at your neck, or roll you beneath him like always. That’s the rhythm of this thing, isn’t it? Passion, heat, urgency.

But tonight… he just looks at you.

He takes a breath. Another. And he whispers, like it hurts, “I don’t want this to end.”

You don’t know what to say. Because you feel it too.

He touches you like your body is something sacred. His fingertips graze your skin like they’ve never touched you before, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he presses too hard. His hand coasts down your stomach, slow and deliberate, before slipping between your thighs.

He works you open with care. His fingers move with a kind of patience you didn’t know he possessed. He studies your face the entire time, watching every reaction, every soft gasp and flutter of your lashes, like he’s trying to carve it into memory.

And when he finally sinks into you, it’s not with a groan or a curse or a rough grip.

It’s with a shudder.

He buries his face into your neck and breathes you in, and you feel his whole body tremble. Like he’s holding back something more than just his climax. Like if he lets go, he’s afraid of what might come out.

He rocks into you slowly. Deeply. His hips roll with a kind of control that doesn’t match the wild thrum of his heartbeat against your chest. You feel it pounding. Hurried. Nervous. Human.

Your hands grip his back. You bury your face in his shoulder. And it’s not the sex that’s making you lightheaded; it’s the closeness.

Because he’s looking at you. He’s seeing you. And it’s not about your body.

He fucks you like he’s trying to tell you something in the way his lips brush your jaw, the way he kisses you when you moan his name, the way he gasps when you cup his cheek and kiss him back like you mean it.

There’s no game here. No power play. It’s not a sugar baby and a man with too much money and too much time.

It’s him. It’s you. And it feels like love.

That’s what scares you.

Because you swore it wouldn’t get this far. You promised yourself you could keep this casual. Keep it clean. But this? This is dangerous.

When you come, it’s not from being overwhelmed; it’s from being seen.

And when he comes—deep inside you again, without hesitation this time—it’s with your name on his lips and his hand gripping yours tight against his chest, like he’s holding on to you just to stay afloat.

Afterward, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t pull away. He stays curled around you, heartbeat slowing against your spine, hand still resting over your navel like he wants to keep everything inside you where it is—his warmth, his mark, his presence.

He doesn’t say anything else. Not about love. Not about feelings.

But as he pulls the covers over both of you and presses a kiss to the back of your neck, you know something’s changed.

And the part that really scares you?

You don’t want to change it back.

[4jihyo]

OYA OYA OYA. ⭑ FINDING OUT YOU DEBUTED.

synopsis: “oya oya oya” squad and the ways they find out you debuted in the kpop industry.

backstory: y/n pulls a “mark lee” and disappears to train under a south korean company to debut as a soloist or in a group. y/n leaves without saying a word to anyone outside of her family leaving them confused, and concerned. until one random morning, afternoon or night, they find out the real reason—y/n debuted.

features: fem!reader, idol!reader, kuroo tetsurou, bokuto koutarou, kenma kozume, & akaashi keiji .

contains: fluff?, fem!reader, streamer!kenma, timeskip ( mainly a few months after graduating or two later ), one of bokuto’s older sisters.

author's note: hi hi! thank you all for enjoying the previous post i made <3 it really made my day :) here is another, i really like this but i admit, i was nervous with kenma since i don’t really watch people stream. please be nice!

series: karasuno 1st years ❪ part 1 ❫, itachiyama ❪ part 3 ❫, inarizaki ❪ coming soon ❫.

KUROO TETSURO, 黒尾 鉄朗 .

He swore that poster hadn’t been up there yesterday. Kuroo woke up the morning surprisingly on the bright side of the bed. He wasn’t in a rush, and it allowed him to take a little more time on his walk to work. He, even managed to get himself a coffee instead of sending the intern who usually does it for him.

Kuroo is in a good mood, and nothing would ruin his day. Not even the large billboard near his building that held a poster of you. Had that been there yesterday? No, he definitely would’ve noticed it.

You looked prettier than the day you left him. You were a white collared shirt with the first two buttons undone, in a black pencil skirt, glasses on your face. The background of your poster was in an office similar to the ones in his work place. You looked professional, chic, and a bit too sexy.

On the left side of the billboard were the details of your album and the upcoming release. He chuckled in amusement, shaking his head in slight disbelief. You hadn’t disappeared for even a full year, yet here you are on billboards in Tokyo, Japan.

Kuroo pulled his phone out of his pocket searching for the Spotify app to pre-save your album before continuing his walk to work. A proud smile remained permanently etched on his face for a full week.

( he bought the pre-order albums, all THREE DIFFERENT VERSIONS, and a fancy binder to save your photo-cards in. )

BOKUTO KOTARO, 木兎 光太郎 .

His sister, Karin left the photo-card binder out on the coffee table in the middle of the living room. She did it on purpose, but Bokuto doesn’t know that. Karin noticed him growing curious when she stepped out of her room with the binder in her hands.

He watched as she sat crisscrossed on the floor, flipping through the pages and stopping on one section. Karin turned to her younger brother, who’d taken a seat on the sofa behind her. His body leaning forward to get a better look at what she was so interested in.

“Kou, don’t touch anything,” She warned him before skipping off to her bedroom with a cheeky grin. He rushed to sit in her spot, his eyes scanning the section, eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. “Y/n?”

A light shade of pink crept up on his cheeks seeing a photo-card of you, with your hand forming half a heart against your cheek. A pretty smile on your glossed lips, Bokuto could faintly see the necklace around your neck that held his initial: K. ( the staff did try to edit it out as best as they could )

( his sister ended up giving him the photo-card. he cried for over an hour because of how proud he is )

KENMA KOZUME, 孤爪 研磨 .

He was in the middle of streaming, his cat-like golden eyes scanning over the comments section. Kenma’s left brow raised in curiosity noticing the repetitive: LISTEN TO [ GROUP NAME ] being commented. He lifts his head up to look directly into the camera, “Is that a kpop group?”

He proceeded to move his mouse clicking on the YouTube icon, and searching up the group his chat recommend. From what he could tell, the group was fairly new with most the videos spanning from 2-11 months ago. The covers of the video consisted of 6 members, and the concept seemed to be girl crush with a mix of Y2K.

“I’m just clicking their debut music video,” Kenma didn’t give them a second to try and change his mind, clicking on the music video. He leaned back against his gaming chair, eyes narrowed in on his screen. 10 seconds into the video and your stunning visuals graced his screen.

Kenma’s lips parted—eyes grew wide, head slowing turning towards the camera in disbelief.

He tried to cover up his shock by awkwardly coughing into his arm. Kenma wasn’t familiar with Kpop but he was certain news coming out about your previous relationship would damage your blooming career. He’d never forgive himself if that happened.

So, when his chat insisted his reaction was due to him falling in love at first sight, he allowed the teasing to continue. It’s not like Kenma minded anyway, your visuals did leave him speechless.

( his chat never lets him forget. they bring up you up at the most random times, he, now has a poster of you in the back of his set up. )

AKAASHI KEIJI, 赤葦 京治 .

He sighed, removing his glasses and placing them on the side of his desk. Akaashi knew better than to ignore Bokuto’s calls—especially when he’s excited. He’d end up spamming him with texts or calls, and Akaashi would rather get the conversation over with so he can focus on his work.

“Yes, Bokuto-san.” An excited screeched is heard on the other line, his blue eyed friend remained unfazed. A smile tugging on the corner of his lips at his best friend’s antics, “Should I be screaming to?”

He didn’t need to see Bokuto to know his friend is rapidly nodding his head, whole body probably shaking with excitement. “YES, YOU SHOULD.” Akaashi opened his mouth to speak wanting more context behind his excitement, but he’d been cut off by his friend. “Y/N IS DEBUTING AND I GOT US TICKETS TO HER SHOWCASE!”

Akaashi screamed. His cheeks faintly turning red at the thought of seeing you again. A second later, Bokuto began screaming along with him before gushing about the good seats he’d gotten them. This sent his blue eyed friend into a panic, and a full rant about not having a decent outfit for this occasion.

He spent a good 15 minutes explaining to Bokuto, the importance of a second impression, “You can’t just wear everyday clothes to see the love of your life.” Bokuto couldn’t contain his laugh, only to fall silent a few seconds later. Akaashi’s right, Bokuto wasn’t going to let his best friend fumble the love of his life simply because he wore the wrong outfit.

“Get ready, we’re going shopping.” Both of them sharing the most determined expressions on their faces.

( they spent over two hours looking for the outfit they both deemed perfect. )

© 4JIHYO, 2025. please do not steal, edit, translate, feed or copy into AI or plagiarize my works.

[shifteruncensored]

the night it finally happened.

(a shifting short story from a shifter’s pov)

word count : ???

beep. beep. beep.

i wake to a loud alarm. i failed. again. i lay in my bed hoping it will swallow me whole.

why.

why not me.

i’ve been trying to shift since 2020. peak era. i have researched. looked into everything from shifttok tips to shiftblr masterlists. i even went on reddit once. i was desperate. i am desperate.

i scrolled on tiktok and tumblr for hours last night. i tried my best as usual. but for some reason, i always wake up here.

i grab my phone and look through the success stories i keep in my notes app like they are a holy grail.

“i woke up in asgard”

“i felt my s/o touch me”

it hurts i can’t lie. putting your all into something only to fail at it countless times. but by this point, i’m numb to the disappointment.

but still, i silently envy each story. each experience. why not me? why?

“it’s time for school, get ready please!!” my mom yells from downstairs.

school. great.

i get ready, moving through the steps like a zombie. shower. clothes. whatever. I just wish i was there. in my dr. with him. with my s/o.

i eventually choose to wear a plain white shirt and some jeans. what can i say? i like the simple things.

i get to school. i would be lying if i said i’m happy to be here. why would i want to be in math when i could be riding tha-

i stop myself. relax. relax.

morning classes drag by. it’s finally my favorite period. lunch.

i get lunch and sit at a table in the corner with a few of my friends. one complains about her long distance bf.

“we live like 500 hours away!!” she whines as i take a bite of my sandwich.

“try another reality for distance.” i think to myself. god i miss him. it’s weird. i haven’t even met him yet. but i feel so connected to him.

school drags on for what feels like hours.

by the time i get out, i look like a mess. but i don’t mind it and walk home as usual.

as i walk i think,

what am i missing?

what am i doing wrong?

is there a key to shift?

is it real?

it’s been years since i started my journey and i still have tons of questions.

tons of doubt.

i decide that i’ll try again tonight. one more try.

one more.

i get home. my mom looks exhausted. but beautiful. she always looks beautiful. i check in on her and tell her i love her before rushing upstairs to do my homework.

i want to get everything done so i’m less stressed for when i try to shift tonight.

“when i do shift” i mentally correct myself. fake it till you make it right?

i finish as much of my homework as i can then eat dinner with mom an hour later. her boss apparently doubled her hours.

“i hate that guy.” i think to myself. he works my mom to the bone.

to take a bit off her plate, i clear the table after dinner then do the dishes.

my mom’s already passed out in her room by the time i finish. i kiss her forehead and put a blanket over her. i don’t know why but in that moment i think about permashifting.

the thought passes my mind as quickly as it came.

“focus on shifting to your dr first.” i mutter to myself.

i get into bed after doing my nightly routine. i decide to watch harry potter and the chamber of secrets. it comforts me.

i watch in awe. this is where i feel i need to be. what my heart longs for. shifting gave me a way to fulfill that longing. i’m grateful.

but after all this time, i can’t help but wonder if this is what my purpose in life is.

“am i just wasting my time?” that thought races through my mind. i try to ignore it. it scares me.

by the time the movie ends, it’s dark. the moon shines into my room.

i’d be lying if i said i wasn’t nervous.

i open my phone to look for a shifting method on tumblr or tiktok but stop myself.

“not tonight,” i think to myself “tonight i’m going to do what i want.”

i turn on a shifting subliminal and lay down. my heart thumps so hard i think it might burst out of my chest.

i decide to just affirm and visualize. i think of hogwarts. of my s/o. of everything i can.

i remember a tip i read the other day about using my 5 sense and try it.

i imagine where i want to wake up. with my s/o. i think of what he looks like. the scent of him. the feeling of his lips on mine….

i drift off to sleep after a bit.

I wake to feel a light hitting my face. sunlight?

“failed again.” i think to myself but then. then i feel it. a pair of hands on my waist. softly holding me close.

i’m honestly a bit scared. what is happening?

i crack my eyes open for just a peek, looking over my shoulder. there he is in the flesh. sleeping peacefully. my s/o.

i tear up as i stare at him, his chest falling up and down slightly.

he looks even more angelic in person. my glossy eyes analyze every part of his face.

that’s when it really hits me.

i did it. i really did it. i shifted.

authors note: hi everyone. i’m karma and this was my first time posting a short story to tumblr. if there is any typos, please ignore them…..hopefully you all liked this story.

[shaunamilfman]

Dating Melissa Yellowjacket HC's

pairing: Melissa x reader note: college au. giving her a try.

One thing about Melissa is that she's such a fucking loser lesbian. Stumbles into any relationship she has. 

Reverting back to her stalker roots and spending a few weekends in a row watching you at parties. You don't notice her at first, but she's not hard to spot. How many blonde girls with backwards pink hats can you catch sight of in the background before you start to get suspicious? Less than Melissa was hoping for. 

She doesn't mean to be creepy or anything; she's just not the most confident. Melissa just needs time to build up courage, and maybe that involves following you around and learning everything you like and what you're like when people aren't around. It's not like she's following you home. It's not creepy, okay? 

It goes one of two ways: either she finally gets the courage to talk to you, or you confront her on the stalking. One seems more likely than the other. 

She's a few drinks in—“liquid courage,” Gen calls it—by the time she gets the courage to approach you. She's spent far too long planning the conversation out only to totally blank and go with, “You're so pretty. Like, the prettiest.” Luckily for her, it works on you. 

Or option two. You finally have enough of Melissa following you around and decide to confront her about it. She's fortunately very susceptible to being pushed back against a car and confronted for being a stalker. Stuttering out the most pathetic excuses you've ever heard while staring directly at your lips. 

Melissa's obsessed. The type to remember every little detail about you just because you mentioned it to her once. She doesn't even think much of it. She finishes a story you don't even realize you're retelling to her once just because she's so excited to hear it again. 

Brings you little knickknacks all the time. Nothing especially expensive, just things she sees that remind her of you. You end up with a bunch of little toys cluttering your shelves that she bought for you with whatever change she could scrounge together between her couch cushions and her part-time job. 

Keeps things that involve you like a hoarder. Receipts from when you bought her dinner, a note you left on her bedside table when you had to leave before she woke up, movie tickets. Doesn't matter, she has it in a box somewhere. So embarrassed she can't form words if you ever found it. Wants to sink into the floor and die.  She's just so sentimental she can't help but keep it.

She's so acts of service. Loves to take your stuff and carry it around for you. It doesn't matter what it is. Plucks your bag off your shoulders to put it on her own. Her bag on one shoulder, yours on the other. Won't let you take it back no matter how ridiculous you tell her she looks. God forbid you like to shop, because she will be holding all of those bags for you and still managing to hold your hand. She's committed and stubborn. 

Incredibly easy to fluster. Always one comment away from stuttering and blushing and avoiding eye contact. 

Finds you like a heat-seeking missile the second she has a single drink. It somehow manages to make her even clingier than usual. You'll find her at the party with her head buried in your shoulder and her arms wrapped around you, rambling about whatever, more likely than not. 

Hoards voice messages. She listens to you ramble on about whatever story was long enough to require one whenever she starts to miss you a little (happens often). Sometimes she listens to them for other reasons, but she would die before admitting it. 

So many pictures and videos of you on her phone that she has to start deleting vital apps to make way for them. She's sitting with you while you're doing homework and is bored to near tears because she deleted all her games off her phone.

Loves mentioning you in casual conversation even if it doesn't relate. Someone will be talking about an assignment, and she's like, “Yeah, my girlfriend wrote an essay last week.” 

Related, she loves to call you her girlfriend. Treats the word like it's sacred. Every time she says it, she smiles to herself. Refers to you as her girlfriend more often than she does by name in casual conversation.

Sends you pictures all the time. A dog she saw on her walk to class, a pretty tree, anything and everything. She just likes to make you feel like a part of her life. 

True lover girl, she's making you playlists like it's going out of style. Makes individualized ones for your dates depending on the location. A playlist for when you're happy, or sad, or getting ready. She's trying to account for everything. They don't even all make their way to you. Some are for her ears only. It gets so bad that they have their own folders. So hesitant the first time she sends you a link for one, like she's afraid you're going to think she's too much for it. 

Melissa's terrified you're going to think she's clingy or too much. She's been burned in the past and doesn't want you to think she's that girl. 

Appears out of nowhere if someone even looks in your direction. Less possessive and more just jealous. She's not the type to get mad about it, just sad and distant if she thinks you're encouraging it. She's quiet, not hanging off of you like she usually does. Unsure if it's welcome. Melissa hates when someone else makes you laugh. It's easy to make it up to her as long as you're mean enough about the girl later. 

The girl loves to be a part of inside jokes. It makes her feel special, like she has a real connection to you.

All of her friends know you by sight, a result of listening to her ramble on about you and the specific shade of your eyes at noon when you laughed at a joke she made over a coffee date one time.

She always offers you the best parts of her food. The biggest slice of pizza, the fries with the most seasoning on them, the center of her cinnamon roll. She's not even mad about it. She's always so excited to give you things she thinks you want. 

Leaves her hoodies out strategically because she wants you to steal them. 

She tries so hard to make you laugh that it's dangerous for her health. The type to hurt herself a little if she thinks you'd laugh at her tripping. 

She's a big fan of surprises, especially if they involve quality time. Anything and everything to spend time with you.

Knows your schedule better than her own. The type of girl to be hanging out with you and then suddenly curse and get up and start running to class because she forgot. But she'll be outside of one of your classes at least once a week with a drink for you while she walks with you wherever you're going. 

So starved for affection, she'll take it in any way that you'll give it to her. You'll have to scrape her off the floor afterwards if you ever pepper kisses all over her place. She loves a good hug. Good luck prying her off of you. 

That one post where it's like, “Came home drunk and got too excited to see my cat,” and he's just covered in lipstick marks? That's Melissa. Makes it her profile picture for months after. You wake up the next morning to find her lying next to you still covered in lipstick with the goofiest smile on her face even in her sleep. 

She's always ready to fight someone for you, even though she'd probably get her ass kicked. Has a fantasy she won't admit to about you cleaning up her bloody knuckles. 

Late to see you at least once because she fussed over doing those little braids in her hair to dress up for you and lost track of time. Wore her nicest, cleanest hat for you too. 

Obligatory mention of taking her hat off of her and putting it on your head. 

Last but not least. Bottom Melissa truther. Have you seen that girl? 

[puriiinz]

POSTED | smau abby a.

VI; ROLY-POLY

a/n: i only had the time to write this out bc they closed the schools after an earthquake 😭😭😭

contains: yn being kinda insecure? meds mentioned once, mental health mentioned with a slight joke, cursing and dumb bitches leading eachother

masterlist | next

yn woke up in the least flattering way possible; face smushed up, drooling on her pillow and an ache in her neck that made her wonder if sleeping was even worth it. blinking a few times to get used to the light coming in through the blinds, yn reached for her phone on instinct.

the notification staring right back at her, as if it was daring her to even think about reacting, made her want to turn back time and never wake up. freezing after realizing what it was saying and who it was from yn sat up and read it again.

and again.

and a few times more.

and then she threw her phone down on the bed because she couldn't scream (her neighbors would kill her).

it literally didn't even mean anything. abby always tweeted absurd and cryptic stuff. she was the type to make a post about someone instead of subtweeting, then acting like she wasn't shading anyone. it was just abby.

but abby being 'just abby' wasn't apparently enough for yn, because she went back and read abby's tweet for the nth time. no one's name was there, but yn's name wasn't there either. nothing and nobody was tagged except for her stupid hashtag that she loved to use when she wanted to stir something up. it was vague, open ended.

but it was the timing that made yn suspicious.

no. nope. yn wasn't doing this. she was NOT letting fucking abby anderson live in her brain, especially before even having breakfast. she was stronger than that.

maybe not really though...

the second yn opened her front door to take the trash out, she nearly walked straight into ellie's big ass head.

again.

"what the fuck." yn said, stepping back.

dina just smiled sweetly, holding up a bag of muffins from yn's favorite bakery. this only meant one thing: they were plotting something and needed yn to think critically (and not get angry).

"we come bearing gifts!"

"and questions," ellie added. "mainly questions."

yn sighed but let them in, deciding to be a good friend (she wanted muffins) and she didn't want to be alone, just to think about abby fucking anderson all day. especially not about her smile. and that day when she got too close to yn on the couch. no.

"so," ellie started, plopping down onto yn's couch and looking at her phone for a second before locking it. "you saw abby's tweet, i assume?"

yn tilted her head "why would you assume that?"

ellie rolled her eyes. "because! did you see it or no?"

"what tweet are you talking about? did she manage to get cancelled because of her eating habits or something?" trying to play it cool, yn tried her best to look and sound confused.

"the one saying 'some blah blah so cute blah blah when confused'. ring a bell?" ellie asked while melting into the couch.

"yeah because half of your sentence being 'blah blah' really helped me." yn sighed, "but yes. i saw it," yn said reluctantly. "it's vague."

"sadly, you're right." dina said. "that's why we're here," sitting next to ellie and sliding a muffin towards yn she added, "we're going to figure out who it's about."

yn nearly choked on air. "can i ask why i, fuck, even you would ever do that?"

"oh my sweet baby shnookums... because we're nosy, remember?" ellie said proudly. "and abby never tweets shit like that, like she was mental hospital level insane, so i can confirm she doesn't like life that much, let alone appreciate it. she tweets about needing to shit or something."

"so? people can change, you know?" yn tilted her head.

ellie put her hand on yn's shoulder, shaking her head sadly, "she's on meds baby..."

yn just stared at ellie with her mouth open.

"so," clapping her hands, "who do we think it is?" dina asked, already opening her notes app like she was doing something completely logical and serious.

yn stayed quiet, hoping they'd jump to her first, for god knows why. she didn't even like abby.

they did not.

"what about mel?" ellie offered. "she's kinda dumb, no?"

dina hummed. "maybe... but i don't think abby even talks to mel that much. also, doesn't mel have like, a whole ass kid now? don't think abby's into that."

ellie sighed, "you're right."

"what about maya from the gym?" dina wondered.

yn blinked. "maya?"

"she's super hot." ellie exclaimed. "and she definitely has a dumb little sister energy."

"the sister part wasn't necessary..." yn mumbled.

"pretty sure she almost walked into a pull door twice last week," dina added. "that must be abby's type, right?"

yn was beginning to regret letting them in.

"i don't think it's maya," yn muttered..

dina looked at yn with a glint in her eyes. "you got another suspect?" making yn shrug, trying to seem chill. "just saying... it might not even be someone we know."

"or maybe," ellie leaned forward, trying to look intimidating. "it is someone we know and abby's just being sneaky about it." taking a bite out of her muffin, ellie leaned back. "like maybe it's me."

"you?" yn echoed.

"i don't know, i'm cute?"

"you also think there are six continents..."

"exactly! clueless and cute!" ellie grinned, pointing at herself.

"i don't- whatever. i'm still on the maya train, " dina said, staring at her phone like it was supposed to answer her questions. "abby said she was helping her with her like, squat form or something last week. that feels suspicious. also tense."

yn was starting to wonder if, maybe, she was the delusional one. had she completely misread everything? the tweets? the grocery store mishap? the way abby leaned into her? was she desperate for love? pfft. no way.

maybe it was maya. or mel. or ellie with her dumb continent takes.

maybe abby was like that with everyone. maybe yn had just misunderstood because of abby. not because she was desperate, or egoistic.

"okay!" ellie said, standing like she was about to give a powerpoint. "we need to find out who she's talking about. and we can't just ask her because she would just lie. so, we need to catch her off guard. set a trap, perhaps."

"a trap?" yn asked.

"yes," dina said with full confidence. "you'll-"

yn looked like dina had admitted to committing war crimes. "wait. me?"

dina narrowed her eyes at yn, daring her to object. "yes, you. as i was saying... you'll talk to her. casually. and slip in a question like 'oh, haha! so funny. anyway who were you tweeting about?' and then bam! read her face."

"that's literally just asking her." yn stared at dina.

"it's not."

"also- how am i supposed to know who she's talking about by reading her face? will the persons name get spelled out on her face or something?"

dina rolled her eyes. "can you just... i don't know, interrogate her?"

yn stared at them with confused eyes. "you want me to interrogate her?"

"it's not an interrogation," ellie said. "it's... journalism."

"derective work," dina corrected. "consider it for charity, but for two people... and you i guess."

yn buried her face in her hands. "i hate you both."

"you'll thank us when you're her maid of honor." ellie sing-songed.

yn threw a wet wipe at her head.

[hysteria-things]

TOUR (part one)

read part two here

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: sub!matt x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: matt’s been on tour for about a month, meaning he hasn’t seen or done anything with you in a month. he takes matters into his own hands when he’s finally alone, but he does need your help with it.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: SMUT, mentions underage drinking, swearing, male masturbation, overstimulation (kinda)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 830

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: umm guys i literally woke up to over a hundred notifications??? thank you SO much i didn’t expect this to happen at all. i’m having so much fun with this🥲

my notes app is COOKING right now and the ideas are ideaing. you guys and your support makes me low key emotional LMAO

i want to try and post once a day but i might do more than once sometimes instead because i am HYPE.

also conflicted if i should make a part two so let me know!

it’s friday night and you’re sitting in your best friend’s living room. the two of you and other close friends come together some weekends to hang out. you guys have been laughing, drinking (despite being underage by a year), watching TV, or playing games. in the middle of laughing, you feel your phone buzz repeatedly underneath your thigh. you lift your leg to retrieve it, seeing an incoming phone call from your boyfriend matt.

“hey, sorry. mind if i take this?” you ask the group, lifting your phone so they can see the screen.

“not at all.” your best friend smiles.

you get up from the couch. “thanks. continue the game without me.”

you speed walk to the bathroom and close the door accepting the call and bringing it to your ear. “hello?”

“hey.” he breathes out.

“hey, you.” you smile. “how are you doing?”

“fine,” he says. he’s silent for a beat before speaking again. “sorry i didn’t talk to you much today. it’s been busy, but we just finished the tampa show.”

you haven’t seen matt in over a month because he’s been touring with his brothers across the country. you couldn’t be more proud, but you guys miss each other like crazy.

“did you win?”

“damn right i did, baby,” he says hoarsely. he sounds a bit strange to you, but you shrug it off as exhaustion. doing shows almost every day can wear somebody out.

but oh boy are you wrong.

on the other line, matt sits on his bed in the tour bus with his hand wrapped around his dick. your recent post on instagram is displayed on his screen as you talk about your day on the other end, having no clue what’s happening.

the post consists of you posing, wearing a short navy blue dress. your tits practically spilled out of the top.

“…was crazy.” you finish. “anyway, is tour fun so far? it’s almost over already.”

“uh huh.” he squeezes his eyes shut and throws his head back. he hisses, his movements gradually becoming faster. he’s sensitive, and it hurts so fucking bad. he needs to release, but only you have the power to make him come undone.

“matt? you okay? you sound off.” you ask concerned.

“keep talking, baby. i’m so close.”

you go to say something, but instead, press your ear closer to the phone. you hear shuffling and grunting. it doesn’t take a mastermind to figure out what he’s doing.

“you’re being risky, matthew.” you say teasingly, a whine escaping his lips. he prefers being called matt, but with you, matthew rolls perfectly off of your tongue. “where’s everybody else, hm?”

“at the store,” he says shakily, his hand pumping faster. he takes his thumb and twirls it around his red tip where pre-cum is threatening to spew out. “i need to cum so bad.”

“then do it, baby. pretend it’s me making you feel so good,” you say seductively, biting your lip as you hear his sounds of pleasure.

you get that familiar feeling in your core, but because you’re at a friend's, you’ll feel weird doing it in her bathroom.

guess you’ll have to wait until you’re all alone.

“fuck.” he whispers, stomach jerking. he thrusts up into his fist a few times to finish the job. he whines as he makes a mess all over his stomach and thighs.

he whines again, purposely trying to overstimulate himself. “matt, don’t overdo it. you’re too sensitive.” you say, knowing he didn’t stop because you can still hear the commotion.

“please.” he exhales. “one more.”

“hold on,” you reply, opening the camera app on the phone. you pull the straps down of your dress and pull out your boobs, pushing them together and snapping a picture. you know how much matt goes crazy over them. you send the photo, waiting for his reaction.

you bring the phone back up to your ear to hear a sigh of “holy fuck” fall from his mouth.

“i need to fuck your tits so bad.” he groans, throwing his head back as he tries to reach his second orgasm.

you bite your lip to hide your smile, enjoying this a little too much. the wet noises on the other line drive you insane.

“i’m gonna— fuck, i’m cumming.” he lets out a loud moan as he makes another mess, his dick red and swollen. he’s still not satisfied, because you’re not there. he continues pumping his cramped hand, but you and he both know it’s no use.

“matt, that’s enough.” you say sternly. “don’t do it too much, okay? it’ll hurt.”

he obliges, removing his hand and lying there. his breathing starts to slow, but he’s still panting. “i miss you so much.”

“i miss you too.” you coo. “just a few more days, okay?”

“okay,” he mumbles.

you lied.

what matt doesn’t know is that you have a plane ticket for tomorrow, to fly out to ft. lauderdale for the last show.

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

@bunbunbl0gs @lexisecretaccx @thy-mission @angelic-sturniolos111 @sophssturn @mattsneezing

[celestiaras]

can you do smth with drunk wilson..?? could be smut or fluff :)

🃏 anon

ft. yu q wilson x f! reader — krisis, nijisanji en

╰₊✧ i’m a thousand miles away, but girl, tonight you look so pretty— yes you do┊0.8k words

contains: a little angst but mainly fluff, established relationship

➤ author's note: i wrote this while sitting at a little vietnamese sidewalk restaurant and there were couples everywhere including a really sweet old japanese man facetiming his wife of more than twenty years like when will it be my turn!!!!

“hey there delilah, what's it like in new york city?

i'm a thousand miles away, but girl, tonight you look so pretty— yes you do

times square can't shine as bright as you, i swear it's true” 

—song by plain white t's ‧ 2005

wilson sighed as he took another shot of his liquor before letting his head drop and banging his forehead on the surface of the table. in a city of more than thousands where the people never slept and were cheerful all around him, he’s never felt so alone— especially with all of the lovebirds around him of all ages reminding him of what he was missing out on, there’s probably a discount going on if you ordered a drink with your partner.

god, he missed you so much, his other half whom he felt so empty without. being a hero was great and all with saving lives and being renowned among the population, but he hated missions where he had to fly across the world and was in a different time zone than you (and, of course, the missions where he had to risk his life, but he’s become too good of a hitman under a.s.h. to be unsure of his skills). he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this lonely since dropping out of college, which is saying a lot. perhaps it’s because he was actually in a relationship now and knew what it was like to be the cringe couple everyone was jealous of, which he now finds to be a double-edged sword in doubling the feeling of yearning for something out of your reach.

he glanced at the nearby clock hanging from the wall, the hands reading 9:13 and the obvious dark outside indicating pm, about thirteen hours ahead of your time. only text messages had been exchanged due to how busy he’s been, but right now, it’s not like he had anything better to do than wallow in his own sadness, so he decided to call you to take the edge off. propping up his phone against a sauce bottle that was next to the pepper, he lazily paged through his home screen and recent calls with his index finger until tapping on yours because his dumbass doesn’t have the facetime app on the bottom row for some reason.

the sound of the ringing was barely audible over the background chatter of the restaurant, but after adjusting the volume and straining his ears just a little bit, he could hear it go off once, twice, followed by the familiar sound of an answer.

“hold on, i just woke up,” you groaned, pressing the camera against the blanket as you presumably fixed your appearance, leaving him nothing but a black screen and his little reflection in the corner staring back at him for a few seconds before there was light and your face again. “okay, that’s better now. hey baby! how’s your mission going?”

he immediately brightened up with a beaming smile, feeling warmth flood his senses at the pure bliss of seeing you and hearing your voice again. god, he’s really acting like a dumb little boy in high school with his very first girlfriend, but he couldn’t help it. “it’s going okay, i just really… really miss you,” he sighed, gently extending his fingers as if to caress your face, only to be met with the obvious glass screen projecting your image he somehow forgot about in the moment. you were such a sight for sore eyes. “tonight you look so pretty.”

“do i really?”

“yes, you do.” even in your pajamas, even without makeup, even with your hair out of place, you seemed to shine brighter than the sun pouring through your windows.

“you’re so sweet,” you giggled. “i would say the same for you, but you look a little pink in the face— have you been drinking?”

“jusssttttttttt a little bit.”

“oh god, whenever you say that, i know you’re wasted as fuck. you gotta take care of yourself when i’m not around!”

“don’t worry! vanta is going to pick me up later— i’m not that stupid,” he pouted, trying his best not to slur his words when it was already difficult enough to make out words with shitty connection.

“well, what can i say, you’re full of surprises,” you started shuffling around, getting out of bed and making your way to the bathroom. “well, i gotta get ready for work, but that takes about half an hour, so if you want, you can tell me about your day in the meantime!”

“god, that would be great.”

he proceeded to tell you about everything that happened the past couple of days no matter how irrelevant it may have seemed, from the intricacies of the mission itself to the baby who wouldn’t stop crying on the flight, he was yapping nonstop up until you drove out the house to the front of your workplace where you reluctantly said your good-byes and hung up.

despite the dimming lights inside the building, the world seemed a whole lot brighter now.

[nerdyjournals]

Sweet Sugar

ship: skz x diabetic!reader

Note: i, myself, am a type 2 diabetic. So a lot of these things come from my experience.

WARNING: MENTIONS OF INJECTIONS AND NEEDLES

Hyung Line. Maknae Line.

Han

Man does not know how to react when he sees you munching on a chocolate bar. His first instinct is to smack it out of your hand and across the room

You look up to him, confused and awaiting an explanation. "I thought you can't have sugar."

He watches as you pull out your insulin pump and show him your low number. You say that it's a quick spike or a hospital visit, and you'd really prefer to stay as far from the hospital as possible.

This boy literally pulls out a pen and a notepad, sits in front of you, and goes "tell me more."

He now carries mints and other small candies in his pockets, regardless of what he's doing, as a precaution. The idea of you in a hospital scares him.

Felix

Poor boy really didn't understand why you weren't trying his latest batch. You had always snuck in during prep time, but the place was too quiet

He found you sleeping on the couch, chin tucked against your chest, almost like you hadn't intended to sleep....which you didn't. His heart sank so fast when you didn't wake up with his words and touch.

His eyes caught your phone and he remembered the app you shared. Pulling out his phone, he urged it to hurry before it displayed a big 62. You had never been that low before. You must have been saving your spike for the sweets.

You woke to a straw being pushed between your lips and worried eyes looking down at you. Immediately understanding, you sipped away as Felix pulled you to a more comfortable position. He held you close and sighed as your numbers slowly crawled up.

Seungmin

He may never show it, but he cared a lot about you. When you admitted your condition, he spent hours upon days researching as much as he could to learn.

You went to the grocery store together once and he observed all the items you picked up and put down, taking note of what they were and the sugar count. He found friendly alternatives and had them delivered to his dorm.

It was these small acts that had you realizing that Seungmin had this special kind of love language. Big gestures may not be his thing, but the small things show you that he is listening.

I.N

"Why are you only eating half the bread?" Yeah, why are you insulting the bread man? Well, maybe because carbs shoot your levels to Jupiter and beyond.

When you admitted this, he was a little confused. He saw you down pastries and other baked goods almost weekly. What he didn't know is that you would save your spike for him. Today, however, you dropped a lot and had to have a snack.

You told him that you had been slowly switching diets that cut down on carbs, a keto diet you believe it was called.

He listened patiently as you spoke, already taking mental notes of other places you can go with him without guilt or starvation.

Tag List: @jazziwritesthings @krisstheidiot @alnex05 @spookzyclown @snowyquokka @candypop1504 @lucifers-silhouette @scarlet789 @tinyelfperson @euphoricaspen @skzhoes @rylea08 @missmajdastark @michelle4eve @wolfyychan @aelin-sardothien @yongbokwifey @kaiyaba @antisocial-socialbutterfly @armystay89

(if your name is in blue, i cannot tag you for some reason. Please dm me with an alternate name if possible.)

join the tag list

[sihtricfedaraaahvicius]

The Extended Booking

Note: I really had to take a break from my current wips, as I began to dislike every word I wrote, so I decided to try and start a whole new fic from scratch. This was an idea/request from @neonhairspray, a concept which we discussed as a joke but it now turned into a story. I hope you will all enjoy this lighthearted fic 🖤

Warnings: 18+! smut/fluff.

pairing: Modern!Sihtric x you (f)

summary: your stay at an airbnb came with a pleasant surprise.

wordcount: 3,4k 

Masterlist

You couldn't believe your luck when you stepped into the most beautiful Airbnb you had ever booked in your life. Your trip to an enchanting and remote spot in England's countryside had been nerve wracking to say the least, as it was your first solo trip ever, but all stress fell off your shoulders as soon as you closed the door of the spacious bungalow behind you. One of your concerns had definitely been that your booked home was too good to be true, but you couldn't stop smiling when you dropped your bags and went to explore the incredible interior of your rental for the next seven days.

The place had many windows and was painted a warm shade of white, a nice contrast with the all black furniture and dark wooden floor. The living room had everything you needed; a TV that came with a game console and every possible streaming platform, all free of use, a comfortable sofa, two lounge chairs to relax in and a nice dining table with an impressive kitchen. There were three bedrooms, all equal in size, but one was clearly meant as the main bedroom as it had a beautiful dark wooden bed with a massive headboard, and there was a matching chandelier on the ceiling as well as an unlimited supply of candles to use. There was a bathroom with a walk in shower and a jacuzzi, with the walls and floor of the room made of white marble. The bungalow also had a back porch which gave view to acres of woods surrounding the place, and there was a little pond in the distance. There was no doubt you'd spot a lot of wildlife during your stay and, to top it all off, on the very end of the porch was a hot tub which was heated by firewood.

Your whole goal of this one week trip was to find yourself again and to hit that reset button on your life. Things had been rough lately and you needed to clear your head, and you immediately knew that this was the right place to do so.

The days went by faster than you wanted while you pampered yourself daily. You enjoyed several quiet hikes in the woods, reading books in the lounge chair, taking relaxing showers and you ended each day with a nice glass of wine at night, in the hot tub outside while moon bathing. You finally found that inner peace again but you weren't ready yet to go back home. You checked the forecast for the upcoming week and saw there should be loads of rain and thunder, and after the nice and sunny days you had experienced there you could only dream of being comfortable on the sofa with a book and a drink while the rain tapped on the windows and the thunder rolled through the sky. And so when you were supposed to pack your bags to leave the next morning, you opened the Airbnb app and saw that the option to extend your stay in the wonderful little palace of peace was available. Without any hesitation you booked another full week, and you threw your phone somewhere in bed before you fell asleep, feeling like a princess in a fairytale home in the woods.

The next morning you woke up late and had your coffee while sitting on the sofa, gazing out of the massive windows as the rain started to pour down from the sky. You smiled and sipped your hot beverage, your hair still messy and uncombed while wearing an oversized shirt with bunny flip flops underneath. Life is good, you thought to yourself, for the peace and quiet was all you needed. But then your heart skipped several beats while your body froze, your fingers tightly clutched around the mug in your hands as you suddenly heard a key being shoved into a lock. You snapped your head to the front door, where the sound came from, and you held your breath as you stared at the entrance with wide eyes when it suddenly opened. You felt your cheeks heat up as you watched a handsome but rugged looking man walk in, who didn't seem to notice you, as he closed the door behind him and threw his keys on the cabinet next to it. You swallowed hard while he kicked off his shoes in the open hallway and then raked his hand through his long, dark and wild looking hair. And it was then that the handsome intruder looked up and saw you sitting on the sofa. His sofa.

'Gods, what the fuck!' he hissed as he jumped a step back and grabbed onto the cabinet to keep his balance, 'who… who the hell are you?'

'I… I,' you panicked after your mouth had gone dry, 'who are you?!' you half yelled.

'Me?!' he almost snarled, 'I own this place! Who are you?!'

'I rented the place!'

'What?' the man asked, confused as he grabbed his phone, 'no, that… wait,' he scoffed and was quick to check his agenda, 'yes, I had my house rented out until this morning. You were supposed to check out three hours ago already.'

'What? No!' you jumped up, 'no, no. I extended my stay last night. I paid for one more whole week right away!'

He stared at you, even more confused than he already was five seconds earlier, and he began to scroll through his emails, looking for any confirmation of your stay while you went to grab your own phone from the bedroom. You figured the man you were dealing with was Sihtric, who was listed as the owner of the bungalow, and you became concerned about what would happen next as you walked back to the living room. Sihtric glanced at your appearance as you walked past him, back to the sofa, and if he wasn't so confused and startled right now he would allow himself to think that you were adorable in your oversized shirt and fluffy slippers, but there was no time to flirt with a pretty lady right now.

'Look,' he said and pinched the bridge of his nose, 'I don't know what went wrong, but clearly something did go terribly wrong. My place was only supposed to be booked until this morning as I'd come back home from a business trip. Airbnb made a mistake somehow by listing it as available, when it's really not. I mean,' he scoffed, 'I live here. I literally live here.'

'But what am I supposed to do?' you scoffed back, 'I can't just pack up and leave, I already changed my train ticket. I have nowhere to go and I sure as hell ain't going to pay for another home or a hotel.'

'Well I sure as hell ain't going to pay for that either,' Sihtric almost snorted.

You stared at each other for a moment, unsure about what to do next, and he then sighed while shaking his head, 'I'll call Airbnb and ask what to do.'

You agreed and anxiously waited while you watched him talk on the phone, and before the conversation was over it already became clear that you were both kind of screwed in this situation. You would get your money back, Sihtric informed you, but there were no available rooms nearby anymore apparently, so he either had to be an asshole and throw you on the street, or he had to allow a complete stranger to share his house with him for a whole week.

And it turned out that the intimidating man wasn't as tough as you thought, because he could simply not tell you to pack your bags and leave with nowhere else to go.

After your horrendous introduction, Sihtric had left the house to get some groceries to stock up his fridge. After he came back and eventually started cooking dinner, there lingered an unbearable awkward silence while you were both in the same room. You had quietly been eyeing each other up for at least an hour already, and both averting your eyes whenever the other would catch them.

You couldn't deny the fact that Sihtric looked good. His hair was messy but in a stylish way, he had a couple of tattoos on his body and was dressed in all dark clothing, his tight jeans showing off the good shape of his legs and buttocks. He surely was muscular and you wondered what kind of work he did, as a man in such good shape was probably not an office guy.

'Look,' Sihtric said, not being able to stand the silence anymore after a while, 'I'm sorry about earlier.'

You looked up at him as you sat at the dining table.

'I had a rough week,' he continued, 'a business deal went south and I had a long flight back home. I really needed some peace and quiet when I got home and I did not expect someone to be here. I never meant to be rude, that's not who I am,' he sighed and shoved a potato dish in the oven, 'I was just surprised and in a bad mood.'

'It's okay,' you smiled, 'I am sorry too for freaking out. I had nowhere else to go if you would've kicked me out, which I could've understood, because this is your house. So I'm really thankful that you're letting me stay.'

'Yeah,' Sihtric sighed softly again, 'we'll figure this week out, don't worry.'

During dinner you both started to warm to each other and to open up. You told him about the disaster your life recently had been and why you had booked a solo trip to ground yourself again, and Sihtric in return told you that he worked in finance and often travelled all over the world to close deals for his firm. He had houses all over the globe, renting them out whenever he wasn't staying in them, and this was the first time in years that a booking had gone wrong. 

You quickly started to enjoy each other's company later that evening and agreed to play a few games on his playstation. And slowly a certain tension began to grow, which wouldn't explode until a few days later.

The weather was indeed awful in the days that followed, as the forecast had predicted. There were zero options to go out and explore the area, so you tried to keep yourself busy inside the house. You read a few more books while Sihtric worked from home, often being busy writing emails and making phone calls from his living room. You'd try and read a few pages of your book but couldn't stop your eyes wandering off to Sihtric as he was on another call, pacing back and forth in front of the window that overlooked his woods surrounding his home, and you became more and more attracted to him as the day progressed. He looked so handsome, dressed in a white shirt that showed off his figure and a pair of fancy black trousers with a black belt, and the silver watch around his wrist was the finishing touch.

Sihtric clearly had a way with words and his charm seemed to work even through the phone. He closed deal after deal during the day, while he made you dinner every evening and relaxed with you until it was time to go to bed separately. The bedroom you had chosen to stay in, with the massive headboard, was actually Sihtric's bedroom when he was alone, yet he had no trouble giving it up for another week. But after a few days you both quietly began to wonder at night what it would be like to share the bed with each other.

Every time you spent some time together you started to become closer, and suddenly faint touches began to linger and eyes began to hold contact. Hands and fingers teasingly grazed over one's arms in passing and during the evening you started to put your legs over his as you watched TV. Sihtric gave you a flirty smirk at that and gently ran his fingers across your bare legs, giving you pleasant tingles all over your body and causing you to squeeze your thighs together.

'What's the matter?' Sihtric whispered with his breathy and warm voice, the sly smile on his face telling you he knew exactly what he was doing.

'Nothing,' you feigned being composed and collected.

'Nothing,' he said with a soft chuckle, then leaned in and trailed his fingers over your neck and shoulders, 'so,' he said quietly and licked his lips, 'are you finally going to ask me fuck to you? Or are we going to pretend there's nothing here for the remainder of your stay?'

You gave him a cheeky smile and scoffed lightly.

'I have to ask you?' you raised an eyebrow, 'I thought you were the type who would just pick me up and throw me on his bed. But… I guess I was wrong,' you faked a yawn and noticed how his eyes darkened as he saw the mischief in yours.

'I'll prove you wrong,' Sihtric whispered, and he then got up from the sofa.

He grabbed your ankle and pulled you towards him, then lifted you with ease and threw you over his shoulder, to which you yelped as you laughed, and you couldn't resist giving his ass a firm slap as he carried you to his bedroom.

'Watch it,' Sihtric responded with a lighthearted threatening tone.

'Or what?' you giggled.

'Or,' he said and threw you on his bed, 'there's still time to kick you out of my house,' he said with a grin.

'Trust me,' you chuckled as you spread your legs, pulling your oversized shirt up to reveal your thighs, 'you don't want to kick me out anymore after you've had me.'

You looked up at him, smiling as you bit down on your lip while you watched him take off his leather belt and unclasp his fancy watch.

'Is that so?' Sihtric murmured and took off his shirt.

Your mouth nearly watered as his biceps looked so biteable, his shoulders looked like great leg support, and his chest was more than firm enough to place your hands on when riding him. You nodded at him and kicked your legs with anticipation as your eyes darted over his body, but you were stopped when Sihtric grabbed your ankle again to pull you swiftly towards him as he stood next to the bed. He then pulled you up by your hands and removed your shirt, exposing you completely apart from your underwear. He then told you to unbutton his trousers, which you did, and you felt his cock twitch in his boxers with each teasing brush of your palm.

'Someone's excited,' you taunted and pulled him down on the bed.

'Can you blame me?' Sihtric breathed as he grabbed your face, his lips touching yours when he spoke softly, 'you've been wandering around my house for days, barely dressed, giving me looks and touching me just enough to make it look innocent,' he paused and chuckled darkly, 'but we both know by now you're probably not that innocent, are you?'

'I guess you're about to find out,' you smiled and flicked your tongue against his lips before you sucked his lower lip gently.

Sihtric then crashed his lips onto yours, kissing you hard and deep, a kiss that told the truth about how you both had been secretly longing for each other ever since you met. You raked your hands through his loose hair, keeping him as close as possible while he slowly bucked his hips into you, both your private parts still clothed with a thin layer of fabric which became soaked with both your fluids of arousal. Sihtric pulled you on top of him, his hands massaging your breasts and his fingers occasionally pinching your nipples. He then looked up at you, his dazed mismatched eyes betrayed he was clearly hungry for more, and he kissed down your neck and to your chest, lightly sucking your breasts in between wet kisses, his tongue flicking slowly against your nipple while you grinded against his hard cock and moaned at the friction.

But it wasn't enough, and you pushed him away to quickly lower his boxers, his leaking cock jumping out. You smiled, pleased at the size of him, and you wasted no time to slowly drag your tongue up his length and you teased the tip while you looked up into his eyes. Sihtric moaned and threw his head back on his pillow, his hands finding your hair as you wrapped your lips around him and eagerly took him in your mouth, sucking him off until tears ran down your face and a mixture of drool and pre-cum running down your chin.

'Good girl,' Sihtric breathed and allowed you to catch your breath, gently pushing you away.

He didn't want to finish that quickly, not before he had giving you the fuck of a lifetime, so he grabbed your face and wiped your tears before he kissed you again. Then he picked you up in his arms and walked you to the living room, where he threw you in one of the big lounge chairs. He pulled your panties down and was quick to lift your legs upon his shoulders as he knelt down in front you. He grabbed your hips and teased you first with a few soft kisses to your wet pussy, but the taste of you was irresistible and he soon licked and sucked your folds until your legs trembled and you almost cried out his name while you grabbed onto his hair and grinded your hips against his face.

Sihtric stopped before you could finish and he kissed his way back up to your lips, letting you taste yourself as he pushed his tongue in your mouth, sloppily making out until you both couldn't take it anymore. Sihtric then quickly ran to his bathroom to grab the essentials, some condoms and lube, and you squirmed with a smile when you felt his warm hand teasingly rub your sweet spot with some lube, and he gave you just a small tease of pleasure when he slid two of his digits inside you.

'Someone's excited,' Sihtric taunted back at you this time, feeling your walls clench around his fingers while he left love bites on your neck and shoulder.

'Sihtric,' you whined, 'just fuck me already.'

'Your wish is my command, my lady,' he chuckled and then winked at you, 'it's an all inclusive stay after all.'

You barely had time to blink and he had already gotten a hold of your legs again. Sihtric got up from the comfortable chair and towered over you. He brought your legs up, holding your ankles with only one hand as he pressed them against his chest, with his other hand holding your waist firmly as he slowly entered you, giving you some time to adjust before fucking you relentlessly in that same position. He kept your legs pressed together as he refused to let go of your ankles, which caused him to grunt and moan heavily as you felt so tight around him, and it made you cry out in pleasure all the same while you grabbed onto the various pillows around you as he continuously hit that right spot deep inside you. And he didn't stop pounding into you until you came, with his own release following shortly after.

Once all cleaned up, Sihtric wrapped you in a blanket and threw one over his own shoulders before you both sat on the sofa, his arms around you while you rested your head against his chest, both tired but satisfied.

'How many more days are you staying?' he wondered quietly out loud as he nuzzled your neck and left soft kisses on your skin.

'Only two more,' you whispered, a little sadly while you both listened to the rain as it tapped against the windows and on the flat roof, and you took his hand to press a kiss to the back of it.

'Well, I think you should extend your stay,' Sihtric said softly and squeezed you in his arms, 'for free this time.'

taglist: @foxyanon @alexagirlie @sihtricsafin @neonhairspray @gemini-mama

@lexeirikrleif @sigtryggrswifey @skyofficialxx @djarinsgirl27 @m-a-s-h-k-a

@verenahx @mrsarnasdelicious @diiickbrainn @little-diable @maii777

@urmomsgirlfriend1 @dixie-elocin @elle4404 @bubblyabs @ylvie50

@hb8301 @willowbrookesblog @apolloanddaphnis @jennifer0305

@carnationworld @justanother-sihtricgirlie @stark-head @reidsbookstore @thenameswinter99

@deathbluestar113 @ladyinred2248 @zaldritzosrose @maryelle-cats @penumbrie

@solinarimoon @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @yungpoetfics @legitalicat @stupiddarkkside @sleepjam @ewanmitchellfanatic @itbmojojoejo @lady-targaryens-world

if you want to be added to/deleted from the taglist, message me 🖤

[linos-luna]

My Baby (Pt. 10) 🥀🔪

Yandere!Bang Chan x Fem!Reader x Minho

(Pt. 1) (Pt. 2) (Pt. 3) (Pt. 4) (Pt. 5) (Pt. 6) (Pt. 7) (Pt. 8) (Pt. 9) (Pt 10)

Warnings: 18+, Yandere! Crying, some self harm, violence?

—————————— 🎀 ——————————

Minho was a wreck, losing sleep over your kidnapping for a whole week. Frustrated with the police, he hired a private investigator; however, they were only able to find some old friends of the man. So Minho decided to take matters into his own hands, confronting Chan's old friend Felix

“I haven’t seen him in over 3 years!”

“You're lying!” Minho accused, causing a scene.

Jeongyeon tried to calm him down, but Minho pressed Felix for more information.

“Listen. We know you were in communication with him a little over a year ago…” Jeongyeon said with her arms crossed. “Whether you understood the situation or not…”

“I-I can’t just rat out my friend—”

“Your friend has my girlfriend!” Minho interrupted.

“I… I only know of three places he’s lived at…” Felix said while looking down. “One apartment. Two houses…”

“Spit it out!” Minho said while pulling out his phone. He wrote the addresses on his notes app and sighed.

“That’s it?!”

“Yeah. I swear!”

“Thank you.” Jeongyeon said while pulling Minho away.

“I wasn’t done!”

“We got what we needed!” She snapped. “We don’t even know if he’s even at one of those old places.”

“Yeah but it’s a good place to start…”

——— 🎀

It was late into the afternoon. You were taking a nap and for the moment, it was quite peaceful.

You didn’t even realize that Chan was right next to you. He was also napping, on his side facing you.

You didn’t even notice until you started waking up.

He looked more at ease, as if he hadn’t had a good rest in a long time. His curly dark hair was grown out but suited him well. His features, well, you were reminded of one of the many reasons you originally fell in love with him.

His hand rested gently on your waist, showcasing his caring side. With a bit of light shining through the window, he just looked… soft… and well… handsome.

I mean, things weren't all that bad. He changed a little, loving as always but not as scary. At least he’s making an effort to be gentler and control his emotions.

He looked exhausted. You wondered if now was the time to sneak away. However, you couldn’t get yourself to move. He just seemed so much happier and relaxed when you’re here, almost like you give him purpose for his caregiving nature.

Sitting up, you watch as he moves a bit. There was a slight moment of panic when he didn’t feel your body, but you quickly grabbed onto his hand with the both of yours. Insanity.

You say there for a good ten minutes just watching him. And he was happy to see you there when waking up.

He woke up, finding his baby looking at him with concern. "Hi, baby," he smiled. "Didn't expect you up first."

"You looked tired," you said timidly.

"Don't worry about me, y/n," he replied, sitting up and kissing you. Surprisingly, you didn't resist.

"We need to talk."

His tone shifted, and a sense of unease filled the room.

"I just don't get it," he sighed.

"What?"

"Why would gop with another man?" he said, agitated. "Let him corrupt you…"

"Corrupt me?"

"I saw him with you!" he yelled, making you flinch.

"No, I'm sorry!" he softened, grabbing your arms. "Don't be scared!"

"Stop it!" you yelled, pushing him away. "He's my boyfriend! I'm not a baby!"

"My sweet babygirl," he said, unclear if serious or mocking. "You don't know anything. That's why you need daddy here."

"No! No! No!" you cried, shaking your head as tension rose.

“You need me!”

“Stop!”

“You stayed.” Chan continued. “Why would you do that? What would you stay as long as you did if you supposedly hate me?”

"Because I love you!" The words burst out before you could stop them, and you instantly covered your mouth, shaking your head. "N-no, no! Wait!"

"You still love me..." Chan said quietly.

"LOVED! I meant I LOVED you!!" You tried correcting yourself to no avail.

"I knew you still love me."

"No!"

"You missed me…" he continued as he watched you starting to sob.

"No! No, I don't!" You sobbed while smacking yourself on the head. "Stop it! Shut up! Shut up!"

"You just wanna be held… and loved… just need someone to take care of you—"

It's almost as if your mind was starting to slip. All these contradicting thoughts were overwhelming. What do you want? Do you still love him? Do you like him caring for you...??

"— because you're still my baby."

That was it. Almost as if something else had overtaken you. You practically threw yourself at him, clinging onto him and sobbing into his chest. Chan rubbed your back and held you tight while rocking you lightly. Have you finally lost it?

————— 🎀

“The houses. Those are our last options.”

“And what if she’s not in one of them?” Jeongyeon sighed.

“Dont say that!” Minho snapped.

Jeongyeon frowned at his reaction and took a deep breath.

The two of them were at a local restaurant trying to brainstorm. That is, until Minho looked up and recognized a freckled boy not to far away.

Minho realized something. He’s seen this man here before. Here at the same time when you were here.

“You’re right…” Minho muttered. “She’s probably not there…”

The man gets up, making the other man nervous when making eye contact. Before Felix could react, Minho grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him close.

“You lied to us, huh?”

Instead, the man was quiet.

“Say something!!”he yelled, making the patrons of the restaurant turn to watch.

“Minho!”

“No! He knows something!” Minho yelled back.

Surprisingly, the diners went back to eating and going about their business, acting as if this was normal. It was a little unnerving.

Getting frustrated, Minho drags Felix to the men’s bathroom and lets him go, making Felix slip to the floor.

“I’ve had enough.” Minho grunted. “You know where she is. You know where he has her. You’re still in contact with him.”

“Minho!” Jeongyeon was banging on the door, not sure if she should just barge in.

“Listen, I don’t know what kind of sick friendship you have with Chan, but I’m begging you to give me the correct address of where he is.”

————— 🎀

Not too long after, Minho and Jeongyeon found themselves standing outside Chan's house. Jeongyeon was actually surprised that Felix had coughed up the information.

"Shouldn't we get the police? Maybe some professional—?" she suggested

"No!" Minho interrupted. "I'm getting her! She's MY BABY!"

The intensity in his voice took Jeongyeon aback. He hadn't slept for over 24 hours, and it was evident he wasn't in the right headspace.

"You can go now," Minho said solemnly.

"She's my friend... I want to help," Jeongyeon insisted.

Meanwhile, Chan was feeding you. It seemed like you had given up on resisting. He paused when his phone buzzed, revealing a text from his friend.

< Lix >

[ I’m sorry! They made me tell!]

The man sighed and got up, confusing you a bit as he suddenly lifted you up.

“What are you doing?” You asked as he carried you to your basement room.

“Just stay here.” He replied while setting you down on the bed.

“W-what?!”

“It’s okay, baby.” He said while kissing your forehead. “I’ll be back…”

So what happened? It all flashed by so fast. You were in the basement, listening to the commotion upstairs, but you couldn’t make out exactly what was happening.

You were startled as the door burst open, revealing your best friend, Jeongyeon.

"Y/n!"

"Jeongyeon?" Your voice carried a mix of surprise and relief as your friend enveloped you in a tight hug, clearly thrilled to see you.

"Thank god you're okay!"

"Why wouldn't I be?" you replied.

Jeongyeon didn't know how to respond and quickly pulled you toward the stairs. Hoping to guide you towards a window for a possible escape. However, your attempt was short-lived, and you were spotted rather quickly.

"What are you doing??" Chan's voice rang out.

It appeared that the two men were engaged in a heated argument… or more like a fight? Chan looked frustrated but oddly calm, while Minho, on the other hand, seemed disheveled. It was a contrast between a rested man and an unrested one, both brimming with desperation.

Maybe that was the plan. For Minho to distract him while jeongyeon snuck you out. It wasn’t supposed to get violent…

"Y/n!" Minho's expression changed as he was so happy to see you.

You wanted your run to him. To be in his arms again, but someone stood in your path.

"Baby, go back downstairs!" Chan's voice echoed loudly, leaving you frozen in fear as your friend attempted to pull you away.

Minho looked around, coming up with something on the spot. He grabbed a glass cup from the table and smashed it against the wood. The contents spilled everywhere; he disregarded the large shard cutting into his hand as he ran forward, stabbing Chan in the shoulder. Stunned by the pain, Chan tripped over, and Minho loomed over him, ready to make the final blow.

"Don't!" you called out.

"Why shouldn't I?!" Minho demanded.

"Because—because—!"

"—because she still loves me…" Chan finished with a sly look.

Enraged, Minho threw the glass aside, landing a punch that instantly knocked Chan out. He got up, dragging the unconscious man by the leg into the basement. You and Jeongyeon followed.

You quickly went through the nightstand drawer, grabbing the cuffs that he’s put you in before.

As Minho practically threw Chan onto the bed, Jeongyeon cuffed him to the rail. She turned to you. "Is there another one?"

You nodded, finding another pair in the closet. The three of you returned upstairs, and tears streamed down your face.

"Minnie, I... I don't love him..."

Without hesitation, Minho hugged you, holding on tight. He fought back tears, wanting to appear strong for you. “I know…”

"Are we gonna call the—?"

"Let him suffer," Minho said in a low tone, interrupting the woman while holding you tight. "It's what he deserves! It's what he gets for stealing her away! For stealing away MY BABY!"

Both you and Jeongyeon paused. You pulled away briefly to look at Minho, while Jeongyeon eyed him with concern. Was he becoming what he hated? His actions were almost lethal. He could've killed him. The irrational possessiveness scared all three of you.

"Jeongyeon... call them," Minho said, looking down.

—————— 🎀

A moment of calm enveloped you, feeling at peace in his loving embrace that provided a sense of safety and relaxation. Spooning, was that the right word?

"We should finish packing," Minho suggested.

"Mm... 10 more minutes?" you replied with a sigh. "I'm sleepy."

"We've been in bed all day," Minho teased, with a playful smile.

"Oh well," you giggled, turning yourself around to be face to face with him. Minho gently rubbed your cheek, admiring your adorable features.

"Okay, that's fine. But Jeongyeon will be back soon."

"I can't wait until we move to the new home. And I'm so happy that Jeongyeon is coming with us." You giggled.

"We'll be our own little family," Minho said with a smile. "The three of us and maybe a few cats…"

You planted a quick kiss on his lips and cuddled up into his chest, breathing a sigh of relief.

[ALTERNATE ENDING]

——————————————— 🎀

Tags 🏷️

@salfetkablog , @gyuhbfr @jihyun2monster ,@henrietta-whor3 , @stanskzsstuff , @leah-berkley-17

@lixxiebrownies , @minervasystem

@casarse0446-blog , @kuin7s @jlady-016 , @arthistt @iilliess @marrykat @generalbearangel el , @bunnyxoxodarling @hoeforbangchan n @cozyleeknows @lailac13

to those you read and love the series, I hoped to bring a good conclusion 😅

Don’t forget to like and reblog so others can read it too! I really appreciate you all for liking my writing and I hope to bring you more good fics and series!

I have a few in the works:

Pt. 4 of My Queen ❣️🔪 (yandere!Hyunjin x Reader)

Pt. 4 of Eternally ❣️🔪 (Yandere!Vampire!Jin x Reader)

[jtargaryen18]

Under His Skin ~ Chapter 5

Series Masterlist

Words: 6.5k

Pairing: Jonathan Crane aka Scarecrow (Nolanverse Batman) x F Reader

Warnings: Stalking, gaslighting, head games, x-rated fantasies/thoughts, drugging, voyeurism, manipulation.

It's the day after Ares fell. You're feeling lost, alone, and unsure of what the future holds. Thank goodness Jonathan Crane is there for you...

Jonathan reflects on your growing submission to him with quiet satisfaction, confident this time, unlike the last, he won’t fail.

Disclaimer:The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.

You woke slowly the next morning, and the air around was still, the silence eerie. Your heart sped up as you sluggishly tried to pull your thoughts together. 

Panic had you sitting up on your couch faster than you should have as a wave of dizziness struck. You were in your clothes from yesterday and on your couch, wrapped in... It was Dr. Crane's coat. Did you remember that right? It was expensive and tailor-made without being showy. The dark wool was perfectly pressed, the lining soft against your skin. You touched the edge of the lapel without thinking. 

You held it around you for a moment, not sure whether you wanted to shed it or stay inside it. The scent rising faintly from the fabric was sandalwood, subtle and warm. You’d once bought Ares a cologne with sandalwood notes for his birthday because you loved the scent. You remembered testing it on your wrist in a shop you couldn’t afford when you'd just started dating Ares. He wore it maybe twice. Said it wasn't bold enough. He preferred scents that announced his presence.

You exhaled slowly and tried to stand. Your body responded. Your mind lagged behind. How did I get here?

Then you remembered… Ares. Screaming at you with his hands gripping your arms. You remembered the terror in his eyes that somehow had nothing to do with you. 

Your stomach twisted. You’d been upset with your fiancé. It was the culmination of weeks of everything feeling wrong. It started yesterday, in his office. He’d snapped at you about Dr. Crane. Jealous, maybe, or paranoid. You weren’t even sure anymore. He’d bristled when he realized the two of you had spoken without him knowing. And when he found out Crane had visited the gallery, had bought something, he'd made it worse. Telling you to stay away from the man, talking about him like he was some monster out to get Ares. At first, yes, you'd wondered about Dr. Crane's intentions. But you saw past that. The man was trying to help. It didn't make any sense.

Then the painting. You’d tried to make it a peace offering to Dr. Crane after your misunderstanding. And the only reason you'd approached Dr. Crane for advice was because you were worried about Ares. But the moment you hung it in Crane’s office, Ares saw it as something else entirely. Betrayal?

You’d texted Ares when you made it home. Called him. No answer for the rest of the day. By ten o'clock last night, you were pacing your apartment, coat half on, phone screen glowing in your hand. With no other choice, you’d driven to Arkham even though you knew it was a bad idea as late as it was. 

And you'd walked straight into a nightmare.

You still weren’t sure what you heard first, his voice or the screaming. But by the time you reached his office, it was coming from behind the door. Ares screaming like he was being ripped apart. You knocked, tried the door to find it locked. Ares never locked his door. You called for him.

With no other choice, you ran to the main desk and told them something was wrong. Someone called security. You remembered the pounding in your chest.The way your hands shook as you ran back. 

Dr. Crane's office had been dark when you ran to the front desk, but he was there when you returned. You'd reached his door, called him by his given name, and told him something was wrong with Ares. And he didn’t hesitate, taking control of the situation like no one else in the building could. When they got Ares' door opened... God, Ares... He came at you like he didn’t know you at all. His eyes were filled with terror, his hands grabbing your arms violently. The desperation in his voice had tears stinging the backs of your eyes just thinking about it. 

You’d been so far out of your experience that you froze. But Dr. Crane had pulled you back. Told the nurse to hold you as he plunged a syringe into Ares' neck to sedate him. 

After that, your memories weren't so clear. You remember Dr. Crane explaining that you were in shock. But you remembered his voice, his hands steadying you. The warmth of his coat being draped over your shoulders, and him at your side while someone asked if you were okay. You remembered sitting down. Then… nothing. But somehow, you were home. Safe.

Was it real?

The night played in fragments: voices, pressure, and Crane’s coat warm against your skin. You didn’t remember getting into a car, nor unlocking your door. You shrugged off his coat slowly, carefully draping it over the back of the couch. 

Well, your forearms ached. Ares did that. You swallowed hard. Would he be okay? He would never willingly hurt you like that. Ever. Whatever happened to him, it wasn’t normal. It wasn’t like anything you’d ever seen before.

You needed to see him and you needed answers. You went to grab your phone, and then froze. It wasn't where you normally kept it. If it wasn't there, it was usually in your purse and you couldn't find that either. Nor your keys. A quick look at the lot, you ran to the window with your heart pounding, revealed your car wasn't there. The space where you usually parked was empty.

Your gaze moved to the clock on your living room wall. 10:17 AM. Panic rose like a tide. You needed to let the gallery know what was going on. Someone needed to cover the front desk. You were supposed to meet an artist about a consignment today. And worse, how were you even going to get to Arkham to see Ares?

You turned in place, searching for something, anything... There was a knock. You went still. It came again, softer this time. You walked to the door, pulse in your throat, one bare footstep at a time.

You looked through the peephole. Dr. Crane. You opened it carefully, eyes wide. He stood there, dressed casually for him, in a dark charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled precisely, a paper cup in one hand and your purse in the other. His expression was soft and steady.

“Good morning,” he said gently. “I thought you might need a ride.”

He held your purse out first. “I had someone retrieve everything from your car after the incident. We have vehicle break-ins from time to time. Your phone’s inside, fully charged, so are your keys.”

Your mind was still spinning, and you blinked. Stunned. “You… you didn’t have to do that.”

He gave a faint, almost shy smile. “Didn’t want you to worry.”

He handed you the coffee next. It was warm. Even if it was black, you needed it to try and snap you out of your panic spiral wrapped in a heavy mind fog. 

“Also,” he added, as you stepped aside to let him in, “I called your artist contact. She was kind enough to let the gallery know you’d be out today.”

You stared at him. Yes, you did work every other Saturday. Still... “How did you…?”

“You gave me her card when I bought the painting. Said she knew you well and that she'd let them know. I just didn’t want you worried about being late or your responsibilities there. Not after what you've been through.”

Your throat tightened, but it wasn’t panic this time. It was something quieter. Something you might’ve called gratitude.

You stepped back from the door, clutching your things, and he stepped into your apartment like he’d always belonged there.

She stepped back. She didn’t ask him in, but she didn’t stop him either.

Jonathan crossed the threshold as if he’d never done it before. But he had.

Last night, she'd been sedated by his own hand. And he'd timed it perfectly. Given her size and the amount of trauma she'd experienced, he knew the dose would be effective for eleven to twelve hours. No one had seen him carry her inside the night before. He laid her on that couch, right there, where the cushion still dipped slightly, covered with his jacket. Her pulse had fluttered steadily under his fingers.

Now she was awake, watching him. And she had no idea. The scent of the apartment was the same. Warm lavender, old wood, the smell of summer rain...

He glanced at the small woven bowl on the side table where he’d found the spare key. It was in his pocket now.

You’re awake this time. But nothing’s changed. I’ve already been here. You just don’t know yet how deeply I belong.

She took a sip from the coffee cup. That subtle tilt of her shoulders, lowering and easing. Exactly like last night. Only now she was awake to experience the calm for herself.

You’ll associate this stillness with me. With my voice and presence. And soon, that’ll be the only thing that feels safe anymore.

He let his gaze flick toward her bedroom door. Just once. A gesture she didn’t notice.

But he remembered the room inside. The amber light and the unfinished painting hidden behind the door. He’d been there. And now, here he was again, only this time she let him in.

She hesitated at first, tugging at the sleeve of her shirt like it might give her permission. “Would it be okay if I showered before we go?”

He met her gaze, steady and soft. “Of course. Take your time.I’ll be right here when you come out.”

He waited as she disappeared into her bedroom, leaving the bathroom door slightly ajar out of habit. Still, it was permission enough. The water began to run. The pipes groaned then settled. And Jonathan moved.

The coffee cup sat on the edge of the table, still half full. He stepped closer, watching the steam curl upward, lighter now but still warm. She’d drunk more than half of it, and that mattered. He’d adjusted it before bringing it to her, barely enough to register consciously. A mild compound with a long half-life. There was no sedative fog, because she likely had that from the sedative he used last night, and no chemical aftertaste. Just… calm. Something to ease the tension in her body, to slow her thoughts before they spiralled.

You’ll never know it was the coffee. You’ll think it’s me. You’ll start to feel like you can’t breathe right without me in the room.

He watched the liquid sway inside the paper cup, then placed it down, stepped away.

On the arm of the couch, his coat. It was folded neatly where she'd left it after waking in it this morning. She hadn’t mentioned it and he wouldn’t, either. He wanted to let it linger. 

It’s mine. You wore it. You woke in it and felt safe. That memory is now sealed. And it smells like me.

He brushed a finger over the edge of the collar, barely a graze before turning away. 

A short stack of unopened mail rested by the door. One letter bore the mark of her gallery. It wasn't junk or promotional, maybe scheduling or payroll. She had hung her hopes for her future on that gallery as much as she had Ares. It had been in her entire demeanor the day he visited her there. He committed the sender’s name to memory. He’d call again soon, under a new reason.

Control doesn’t begin with isolation. It begins with reducing noise. The more I handle, the less you need to.

Checking the time, he knew she'd be done soon. He resisted the urge to glance at the hallway again. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket, fingers brushing the cool surface of his phone. The mirrored copy of hers was already synced to his device. He had access to everything now, her texts, calendar, voice memos. Even the notes app she used to keep reminders for herself.

You haven’t written anything new. Not since before Ares fell. 

He slid the phone back into place, expression calm, when the bathroom door creaked open. 

She smiled faintly when she saw him.

Good. You think it’s your smile. But it’s mine now.

She stepped into the living room. Water still clinging to her hair, the scent of rain from the products she used. Maybe it was also her.  She was dressed simply in jeans and a loose top, but he could still see the hesitation in her body. She wore no makeup or jewelry, but then she didn't need it. She really was physically beautiful. 

“I woke up in your coat this morning," she said quietly, fingers brushing the fabric as she passed it on the couch. “I don’t remember why. But it helped.”

Jonathan didn’t smile. He let a brief silence fill the space. “You went into shock after what you saw last night,” he explained gently. Her breath hitched slightly, but he continued, gentle but deliberate. “You were disoriented and cold. You could barely speak. I drove you home. Made sure you got inside safely.”

She didn't need to know he carried her in anymore than she needed to know about the sedations. Or the missing time. That would only frighten her.

This version? This version gave her something to hold onto.

“You were never alone,” he added quietly.“You’re still not.”

She nodded, the distant, shaken look softened into something smaller. Gratitude blended with uncertainty. 

You don’t remember how you got here. But you believe I got you here safely. That belief is all I need.

Her fingers grazed the folded coat again as she passed it, hesitating for a second, like she might bring it with her. But she didn’t, leaving it behind.And he didn’t stop her.

Leave it there. Let it become the thing you reach for when I’m not around.

Picking up her bag, her phone slid easily into her hand. Her thumb unlocked the screen by habit. But he already knew the passcode and memorized every open tab. She had no idea.

“Ready?” he asked, offering the same soft tone he’d used before.

She nodded. “Yeah. Thanks again, Dr. Crane… for everything.”

“Please,” he said quietly. “Call me Jonathan.”

Jonathan opened the door for her, and she stepped out into the daylight. He followed, not behind her, but just to her right. Beside her. Exactly where he wanted to be seen.

The drive was quiet at first. She sat beside him, arms wrapped loosely around her middle, her gaze fixed on the window but not really seeing anything. She hadn't touched the radio, nor did she say anything. She lingered in a soft, thoughtful silence, punctuated only by the occasional breath she didn’t seem to realize she was holding.

Jonathan didn’t rush her, letting the science do the work. 

They were nearly halfway to Arkham when she finally spoke. Her voice was quiet and strained. “What if he doesn’t recognize me?”

He kept his eyes on the road, but he heard the ache beneath her words. 

“There's a possibility he might not.” He saw her flinch out of the corner of his eye. But he continued, voice low and grounded. “Hallucinations are unpredictable. And disorientation can make the familiar feel foreign. But even if he doesn’t recognize you, he’ll feel you.”

She turned toward him then, visibly clinging to that thought.

Jonathan kept his expression neutral and warm. He wanted her to trust him. “If anything anchors him,” he said softly, “it’ll be you.”

She looked down, blinking back whatever emotion had risen too fast.

Good. Let the fear linger. But let me hold it for you.

You’re not afraid of what you saw. You’re afraid of what it means. And I’m the only one who’ll explain it in a way you can survive.

She didn’t answer him or thank him. Just turned her head again and looked out the window, her shoulders drawn in slightly and her fingertips pressed to her purse like it was some kind of anchor. But she didn’t say anything else. She didn't reach for her phone to check messages... She was quiet.

And she was his.

Jonathan kept one hand steady on the wheel. The other relaxed on the gearshift.

But inside? He felt it. The moment the shift happened. 

You’re unraveling just enough. Not into fear. Not yet. But into silence. And silence is where I live.

She was already moving toward him in the way that mattered most: psychologically.

Away from the world. Toward me.

The gravel crunched under the tires as the car rolled to a stop. You hadn’t realized you’d been holding your breath again until the engine quieted. The silence hit sharper than before, like a door shutting behind you. You looked up. Arkham loomed just ahead, with its dark brick and iron gates. To you, the  cold, clinical architecture that had once felt sterile. Now it just felt heavy, like a weight pressing on your chest. Making it hard to breathe. 

Jonathan stepped out first. He walked around to your side. He didn’t rush you, and he didn’t open the door until you looked up.

You opened the door and stepped out. Your legs felt stiffer than expected, like your body had remembered something it hadn’t caught up to yet. The air smelled different here. Clean, but wrong. Like something meant to cover decay, not remove it.

As you stood in front of the main entrance, your body tensed. Your shoulders rose and your hands clutched at your purse like it was a lifeline. A faint chill crawled across the back of your neck.

You weren’t even inside yet. But the memory of last night with Ares screaming, the pain of his grip on you, the look in his eyes... It was waiting for you here. Waiting inside.

Your breath hitched just as you realized you didn’t want to move.

“You’re doing well," Jonathan said.

You turned toward him.

Jonathan stood at your side, not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel his presence like a second skin. Like gravity. You didn’t say anything to that, but your foot moved forward anyway.

The doors opened for him, and you followed. Inside, the air was cooler. It was too quiet for a place meant to hold so many people. You heard no voices, no laughter. Just the faint whir of overhead lights and the hush of distant footsteps.

You’d been here dozens of times before. But today, it felt different. It felt like the building had shifted around you, like it knew. Your hand lifted to your chest instinctively, and your heart was racing. You told yourself it was the memory of last night with the nightmare memories of chaos and fear. 

But it wasn’t. Honestly, it was the not knowing. What would Ares be like today? Would he scream again? Would he even see you? You felt the heat rise behind your eyes.

You blinked quickly, looked away, trying to focus on something neutral—the floor, the hallway light, a crack in the tile. And without thinking, you took a half-step closer to Jonathan.

You hadn’t intended to follow him into his office. You were just walking beside him, like you had since the car. But when he paused at the door and opened it without a word, you stepped inside.

It was quiet. Dim, but warm. The windows were frosted against the outside world, and the painting you hung was still there, a subtle nod to the chaos you felt was bottled inside you. The crows looked different today. They were still dark and sharp. The piece felt heavier now, like they were circling something you couldn’t see.

You'd been in his office before, but this was the first time you realized it didn’t feel like part of Arkham. It felt like somewhere else, somewhere that didn’t belong here. You felt strangely safe here.

He gestured toward the chair across from his desk, and you sat without hesitation. It took you a moment to realize what that really meant. You didn’t ask to see Ares first, and you weren't asking for updates. Why?

His desk was neat and purposeful. Only what needed to be there was present. You saw a closed notebook, a black pen, a single file. 

Jonathan sat calmly across from you, his hands folded lightly atop the desk. "Thank you for giving me a ride back," you said slowly.  It was hard to meet his eyes. “I needed to be here."

He leaned forward slightly. “You slept?”

You nodded again.“Almost too well. I questioned what was real and wasn't this morning.”

The second you said it, you regretted it. You hadn’t meant to admit that. You didn't want to sound paranoid or unstable. But honestly, you were both. And you needed to know it wasn’t just in your head.

Some emotion flashed in Jonathan's eyes that you couldn't name. It held for just a beat too long.

“That’s not uncommon," he said with a more professional tone than he'd used up to now today. “When the mind undergoes extreme stress, especially witnessing trauma, it defends itself by softening the edges. Sometimes it builds distance between memory and awareness.” His gaze didn’t leave yours. “It’s not something to fear so much as it’s something to understand.”

You exhaled slowly, relieved. That helped. And ever since you'd actually given the man a chance, he always made things make sense.

“Ares had a difficult night.” 

Your heart clenched in your chest at those words, even though Jonathan said them gently.  You nodded, signaling that he could continue. But your hands twisted in your lap, instinct telling you that you weren't going to hear anything promising. 

“The hallucinations haven’t fully stopped,” Jonathan said softly. “They’ve changed, shifted in tone. But they’re still very much active. Sporadic instead of constant now, but distressing.”

You looked down at your hands. It was hard to hold still. “Is he sedated?”

“Only when necessary.” His voice didn’t falter. “We’re allowing his brain to come back to equilibrium naturally. Too much intervention too soon could cause more harm.”

That made sense.You didn’t know why, but it did.

“Has he asked for me?” you heard yourself ask. The words surprised you the moment they left your mouth.

Jonathan paused. “He hasn’t spoken at all today.”

What? Not at all? That hit harder than you expected. A part of you deflated. You hadn’t even realized you were still holding on to the hope that it was a temporary thing and that he could bounce back from it.

A moment passed. Jonathan’s voice was quiet. “He didn’t ask for anyone.”

You looked up at that. And for the first time since walking into this building, he met your eyes fully. “This isn’t personal. It’s neurological.” He sighed. “The man you love is still in there. But right now, he’s behind something we’re trying to pull him through.”

Your throat tightened. You weren’t sure what to say. While you appreciated his honesty, it was hard not to despair. Would Jonathan be able to pull him through?

“His condition hasn't worsened. Psychotic breaks of this nature sometimes stem from chemical imbalance, long-term stress, or suppressed trauma. It’s possible something dormant was triggered. We’re running assessments.” 

"Would I be able to see him? Even for a minute?" You had to ask. If he saw you, couldn't that give him the strength to fight for you?

"Not yet." Jonathan held your gaze. "Right now it’s important to let him stabilize. His system is still in shock... Your presence, at the moment, would only increase the emotional volatility. Right now, he needs structure.”

The tears threatened to come on again, though it was strange because they felt like they were just below the surface, beneath a thin layer of control you couldn't name. “Is there… anything I can do?”

“What he needs right now is consistency. Quiet. A stabilized environment.” He paused. “What you need is rest. Let me take care of him.”

It wasn't that easy, and he knew it. It felt like your heart was cracking open in your chest. “Dr. Cr-- Jonathan, you’re telling me to let you handle it,” you said carefully. “And I know you can... But I can’t just… go on like nothing happened.” You shook your head in frustration. “I can’t just sit on the sidelines while someone I love is locked inside his own mind... So what am I supposed to do?”

Jonathan wasn’t smiling. But he wasn’t distant either, that same careful stillness in his posture. That same unwavering focus.

“You’re not just his fiancée. You were part of his routine. His tether to something outside of this place.”

You nodded faintly. That had always been your role, hadn’t it? The part that existed beyond Arkham.

“But that’s changed now,” he added gently. “And you need support, too. Not just information.”

You swallowed hard.

"You don't have to go through this alone," Jonathan said. “I’d like you to keep coming. Not as a visitor. As an extension of the care team.”

Your eyes widened slightly. "I don't understand."

“You'll be here as someone who matters.”

You didn’t respond right away. The words care team still echoed somewhere in your mind. But it didn’t feel clinical, as you once would have expected coming from him. It felt… inclusive. You hestitated and he caught it, didn’t wait for you to ask.

“You were part of his routine," he reiterated. "That shouldn’t disappear. If you feel up to it, come have lunch with me. I’ll update you every day on his condition."

Your heart beat a little faster. Lunch. Like before. Something normal. You needed that more than you could say. And if there was a chance you could see Ares soon, you'd take it.

And something in the way he said it, come have lunch with me, felt less like a request and more like a lifeline. One you didn’t want to pull away from. You weren’t sure what you had left to hold on to. But for now… You could hold on to this, hope for a miracle that would see Ares make a recovery.  You just really hoped Jonathan didn't feel sorry for you.

"Yes, I'd be glad to come by for lunch with you, Jonathan," she said quietly.

You hadn’t planned to say his first name. It just came out. And when it did, something shifted behind his eyes. It wasn't surprise or pleasure, but something deeper. 

His posture changed subtly, his spine straightened. His hands were still folded, but more precise now like every finger was now where they were supposed to be. And you could feel the weight of the silence between you, like he was filing the moment away with meticulous care.

“Good.”

Then you glanced away for a moment, a thought slipping through. You came on weekdays, spent the weekends with Ares outside of Arkham. Today was a Saturday, and you didn't like the thought of tomorrow alone in your apartment given the circumstances. 

“Is that okay on weekends?” you had to ask. You hesitated. “I mean, I know I usually came during the week, but I don’t want to interrupt if--”

“I’m here on weekends,” he said simply. “My schedule is flexible.”

You nodded. But something about the uncertainty still lingered at the edge of your mind. He must have seen it, read it on your face. Without a word, he turned to the side of his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a single, crisp white card. His name was printed on the front. Office number. Title. But he reached for a pen, turned the card over, and in neat, angular handwriting, he wrote his personal number on the back. Then he slid it toward you, placing it gently on the desk between your tea and your hands. 

“Call if anything feels off. If you have questions. Or if you just want to talk.” He didn’t say call me. He said “call.” As if the idea of you choosing anyone else never even crossed his mind. You picked up the card slowly. 

“Thank you.” You meant it. 

He didn’t answer. But his silence felt… satisfied.

You held the card a moment longer than you meant to. The card stock was smooth, but the ink on the back was still faintly warm and fresh. Deliberate. Your thumb traced the numbers like they meant something more than contact. To you, they felt like protection. 

You slipped the card into your bag and stood slowly. Jonathan rose with you, precise and unrushed. 

He crossed to the door and opened it without a word. Not waiting for you to move first, but not leading, either. He was just holding space. 

You stepped past him into the hall. And though you didn’t look back, you could feel him watching you go. And in your bag, the card rested against your wallet like a promise.

One you didn’t remember agreeing to. But somehow you already felt bound by it.

She contacted him six weeks after her husband’s death. The message was cautious. She didn’t remember him at first. Not until she unearthed his name on a university archive page.

And then, suddenly, she remembered. The boy in her middle school chemistry class, the one who was smart. 

But she reached out and that meant something.

She wanted to talk. She said she needed his help.

He said yes before she even finished the sentence. They met at a café in the lower district. Neutral and public. Jonathan dressed with precision. A pressed shirt with clean cuffs. Hair perfectly parted.

She wore black. Still grieving. Her eyes were tired, filled with suspicions. But she was still beautiful. 

"You're late," was the first thing he said to her. It was accurate.

She didn’t waste time. She immediately explained what had happened to her husband, from her point of view, in great detail. “There were chemicals in his blood when the autopsy was performed,” she said. “Trace compounds. The toxicology report listed substances the lab couldn’t even classify.”

He just let her speak.

“You taught there. You and your students were in the room that day. They said it was routine observation, but something wasn’t right.” She paused. “I saw your name and I remembered you.”

He just studied her, waited. Hoping. 

You remembered me. You came to me.

But her voice didn’t soften. “Was it you? Did you do something to him?”

That he didn't expect. “You reached out to me.”

“Because you’re the only lead I have.” Her voice cracked then, not with affection, but with rage. “My husband’s blood was boiling in his body and no one can tell me why. What kind of monster—” She stopped, staring at him as if she were just really seeing him for the first time. “…It was you.”

He reached for her, not physically. Just leaned forward slightly. “You didn’t come here for answers.” A quiet smile touched his lips. “You came because you remembered how I looked at you.”

She recoiled. “I never looked at you. Not once. What is wrong with you?”

The silence between them crackled.

Her voice turned cold. “You’re delusional. I just wanted help, and you—”

That was the moment it broke. The need, the fantasy, and that last flicker of hope that she’d come back.

He pulled the injector from his coat pocket. Second-generation compound. It was stronger and purer, beautifully tested. No one saw.

She screamed as it hit her. He was flying out the door before anyone could stop him. Her mind unraveled in minutes.

Her parents came for her the next day. Flew in from out of state. They took the child and removed her from Gotham, having her committed.

He watched the discharge record appear on the private hospital system.

Involuntary psychiatric hold. Indefinite. 

I gave you a place to come back to. You threw it away. 

This time… She won’t.

Saturday night and all paperwork was complete. Everything filed and notated, logged with the magistrate's office and internal review board. Everything perfectly legitimate and unopposed. Dr. Ares Katsaros was officially on indefinite medical leave. And Jonathan Crane now held temporary administrative control over Arkham Asylum. 

And it won’t stay temporary for long.

No one questioned the promotion or fought the logic of it. Jonathan was calm under pressure and he knew the systems. Above all, he made people feel safe.

Even his contact at the magistrate’s office had said as much. “I was sorry to hear about Dr. Katsaros. How’s his fiancée holding up? She's a lovely young woman.”

Jonathan had paused, just long enough to suggest a personal weight to the question. “Understandably shaken. But she’s coping. She’s been stopping in to checking on things. I’ve been keeping her updated.” Another pause, softer this time. “She’s resilient. It helps.”

Let them think she’s healing. Let them believe I’m helping.

He offered no further elaboration, finished the call. The truth didn’t matter. The perception did.

Jonathan smiled thinking about how this morning had gone. She said his name, and he'd never forget that. She would come back and have lunch with him, she took the card, drank the coffee.

You reached for me. You didn’t even know it, but you did. 

He'd stepped to the window, overlooking the parking lot. Her car was still there, and she was likely fumbling for her keys right now. Still shaky, maybe a little uncertain. But she wasn't lost... because of him.

“Better,” he'd said quietly to the glass.“This one is already better.”

Peeling off his latex gloves, he dropped them into the disposal bin. The door to the observation room slid shut behind him with a soft pneumatic hiss. Another test complete. The subject was a long-term residence with schizophrenia, a woman in her mid-60s with no known family. She'd never be missed. 

That’s why you were chosen.

This version of the compound had longer onset, more subtle atmospheric triggers. Increased paranoia. Decreased verbal control. Heart rate spikes stabilized after twenty minutes. It was very promising.

Jonathan felt good, grounded and focused. Arkham was beginning to feel like his lab.

Before leaving, he made one last stop. He made his way down the west wing to lower-level containment. Ares’s room. The door had no viewing window, just a secure panel. Biometric access only.

He entered silently, the way one might enter a cathedral. The lights were low, and Ares sat curled in the far corner. He was barely recognizable, unshaven and wild-eyed. He rocked slowly back and forth, his eyes wide and glassy. He wasn't staring at the wall, but through it. Muttering, but not forming words.

Mind gone. Speech stripped. Fear locked inside the folds of your own memory.

Jonathan observed for two full minutes and there was no reaction to his presence. 

Good. He made a note on his internal log and left without speaking. The drive home was uneventful and quiet. It had been raining all day and he loved rainy days, found them calming. The shampoo she wore smelled like rain. Was the scent in other products she used? Did she taste like a raindrop? He wanted to know...

His house, tucked into one of the more exclusive hillside neighborhoods, was still and cold when he arrived. It was a large, elegant home, designed for the man he was becoming. It wasn't truly lived in yet, but he hoped to change that soon. 

Setting his coat over the back of a chair in his living room, he loosened his sleeves. And as usual, the stillness pressed in on him. All this space. All this silence. And nothing inside it but dust and control. 

Jonathan had just made it to his bedroom when his phone chimed. He pulled out his phone, curious because he wasn't expecting to hear from anyone. It was a text to his personal number, the one she'd traced with her finger earlier in his office. The one he wrote by hand, deliberately. 

It was after midnight and he'd received a text. From her.

Her: Will he remember me?

He stared at the screen for a moment, smiling. 

The safety of the screen gave you courage. The hour gave you loneliness.

And you came to me.

Her text was more than a question. It was a fracture.

He could picture her lying in bed, in the perfect quiet of her bedroom. The blue glow of her phone screen washing over her tired face. Eyes open. Mind racing. Chest too tight with anxiety to sleep. She wasn't mourning. No, not yet. 

You're caught between what you thought you had and what you might still be able to hold onto. Between grief and redefinition.

Jonathan typed slowly, with care. He wanted a delay that suggested sincerity. 

JC: If anything anchors him… it will be you.

He'd said it to her earlier but it bared repeating. He let it sit on the screen before adding one more line. 

JC: You were always the constant.

He hit send. Then he set the phone down beside him on the table, letting his words do their work. 

Her reply came two minutes later. He didn’t rush to open it. He knew what two minutes meant. 

Tears. Doubt. More unanswered questions with each heartbeat.

Jonathan went through his night routine before climbing into bed. He didn't wear anything to bed, never had. 

Finally, he turned the phone over to see her response. 

Her: Thank you. I needed that.

And she was still writing. 

Her: I don’t know why, but it helped hearing it from you.

Jonathan stared at the screen, enjoying the familiar, slow quiet unfurling in his chest.

I speak the language of fear. I know how to calm it. You’ve already made me your anchor so...

There was nothing he needed to respond with, so he placed the phone on his bedside table where he always kept it at night. 

Things had moved a lot faster than he'd expected thanks to Ares's meltdown and some magnificent timing. He now had Ares exactly where he wanted him. Jonathan would be chief administrator at Arkham Asylum, and he'd be able to perfect his fear toxin in a fast, meaningful way. 

And soon... he'd have her too. Here to help him make this enormous house a real home. He'd have her in his bed, and the sooner the better. Wondering how her lips would taste, the way her body would feel tucked under his took up way more of his time than it should. He wanted to taste her on his tongue, tie her up and make her beg for him. He wanted to know how it felt to be inside her...

Reaching into the drawer of his bedside table, he fished out her panties. Soon...