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kingtomura · 1 month

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Arcade

Summary: There's nothing worse than getting ditched by your so-called friends on a Friday night. Well, maybe the asshole complaining about your skills at the arcade has that beat. Tomura Shigaraki knows how to make one hell of a first impression. word count: 8.5k Part three to Good Girl and Bloodline Content: Tomura Shigaraki x female reader, quirkless AU, fluff, angst, virginity loss, virginity kink, corruption kink, mutual masturbation, vaginal fingering, oral (f! receiving), praise, strict parents, toxic parents, smut with plot, protected sex, piv, overstim, tomura talks you through it, if you know what i mean, reader is kinda bad at games sry, mdni crossposted to ao3

You meet him on a Friday.

The mall is crowded and filled to the brim with groups of friends, chattering, laughing – wondering what to get into for the night. You’re just trying to find your group. They said that they would meet you here almost an hour ago, but no one has shown up.

Bitterly you kick the small rock in front of you, officially accepting the fact that you had been ditched and decide it’s too early to go home. It’s a Friday night for pete’s sake. You walk aimlessly through the mall, only pausing when the noises of video game lasers and hyper dance music flood your ears.

The arcade. Of course you could kill some time there, people go there alone all the time. No one would think you were out of place and effectively ditched.

You make your choice, beelining for the upgraded rendition of Pac Man and slipping in a coin to start it.

The excitement was short lived as you remembered that the game isn’t as easy as you remembered. Whatever, you take your leave and try for a game you hadn’t played before. Something simple with muted colors. It’s fun, but a little difficult. You find yourself getting lost in it, the sounds drowning out the bustling of the arcade.

You huff as you lose another round and reach down, ready to drop a coin and start up again when you hear an annoyed groan coming from behind.

“Can I help you?” You ask, giving the guy a once over. He wore all black with ashen hair and ruby red eyes that shone with annoyance.

“Yeah, you could find another game to suck at.” He scoffs, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Irritating.

You take the challenge. “Oh yeah? Well let's see you try it then, since it’s so easy.”

He shrugs, brushing by you and inserting his own coin into the machine, the beeps of the game starting up and filling tension between you.

This guy… was good at the game — as much as you hated to admit it. He blew through the enemies with little to no trouble and easily passed your place in the game. Ending it all with one final blow to the boss and snagging the new high score right before your eyes.

To say you were embarrassed was a little less than an understatement, but you wouldn’t let him know that. So, you double down, brows furrowed and standing proud.

The mystery man turns back to you, carmine eyes gleaming in triumph over his easy win. “See? You suck.”

You bristle at his blunt insult and bite back. “Yeah, well I only tried this game today! You think you're so good, why don’t you try to beat me at a game I'm good at.”

He looks you over, eyes dragging from your head to the converse on your feet, before turning back around towards the game and dropping another coin into it.

“No thanks.”

This asshole… you don’t know why you're fighting this battle, you don't even know this man! But it would be a lie if you didn’t think it was entertaining —- in an annoying way, of course.

But you take your loss and give up, moving on to the next game. It is something silly and bright, but also difficult. It's easy to get lost in and you find yourself aggressively tapping the buttons, inevitably losing the game and huffing off to find the next one.

You choose a first person shooter this time. Originally a two player game, but you play on your own — taking down zombie after zombie as you try (and fail) to progress to the next stage.

You groan as the game over screen mocks you for what feels like the thousandth time that night and fight to keep from banging your head against the screen in frustration.

“You’re doing it wrong,” a low voice speaks from behind you and you can already feel your anger flaring. “It’s all in the aim.”

“Yeah, well, what do you know?” You ask bitterly, watching as the same asshole from before puts a coin in and starts the game up again.

He makes it look so easy, getting headshot after headshot as he easily advances to the next rounds. There was a moment you swore he would lose as a mob of zombies crowded him, but he hit a flammable container in the background, causing an explosion and killing all of the zombies.

The winning screen lit up his pale cheeks in a red hue, giving him a faux flush of color making the butterflies in your stomach go wild.

You can’t bite back your sigh of defeat this time, the losing streak getting to you. “Did you come over here just to show off? I can do without that, thank you.”

He only shakes his head, putting in another coin and starting the game up again. You stare blankly as he hits the two player button and hands you a gun.

“No, let me show you why you’re not winning.” It's spoken like you asked him for advice and you know damn well you didn’t, but you take the gun anyway because you had no reason not to.

Muttering a taut fine and gearing yourself up for more humiliation, you stand tall and hold the plastic gun up to the screen, ready to shoot incoming enemies.

You jolt when you feel the guy come up behind you, placing his hands over yours and moving them so that you have a better grip on the weapon.

It was so quick and so natural your cheeks began heating for a reason completely different from your earlier embarrassment.

He was so warm, his hands were warm and calloused and you could feel the heat of his body radiating onto your back as he invaded your personal space to show you how to hold the plastic gun.

Your heart hammered against your chest but you forced yourself to keep your eyes forward and face neutral.

It was much easier said than done, you realize as he leans in, his soft hair tickling your ear as he spoke, guiding you through the mini tutorial of how to shoot the zombies.

Everything he said went in one ear and out the other as you could only focus on the low vibrato of his voice, explaining as his fingers ghosted over yours, casually helping you shoot.

The smell of fresh linen and what you could assume was citrus shampoo flooding your nose, making you dizzy as you struggled to listen. You wanted nothing more than to lean back into this stranger, fully feel the warmth of his chest against your back and run your fingers through his soft locks. But you didn’t.

You will yourself to focus on the sounds of the game and his technique, knowing that you will probably be playing the game soon and didn’t want to look silly if your skill remained the same.

Unfortunately, he pulled away sooner rather than later, taking all of his extra warmth and citrus scent with him.

“Do you get it now?” He asks, rasp in his voice having genuine curiosity and you nod, ready to try your luck at the game now.

It seems like his tutoring wasn’t in vain and you both pull out a win, scoring high enough to place your names on the screen.

You can’t hide your excitement from your first win of the night, turning to your new companion as he looked over the other high scores on the board.

“So, what’s your name?” You ask, riding the high of the win and letting the confidence of it guide you. “Because I don't think it would be DustKing like your high score says.”

He gives a small laugh, something tiny and barely there – a mere blow of air through his nose — and looks at you. Those carmine eyes send heat rushing to your cheeks again and spreading to the tips of your ears.

“Tomura.” Is all he gives and you nod, giving him your name and turning back to the arcade game again.

“Wanna give it another try?” You offer, and he gives you a small smile back, dropping a coin into the machine and starting up another round.

“Sure.”

And suddenly, being ditched on a Friday night by your so-called friends isn’t so bad.

—---------------------

The next time you meet Tomura, it is on a saturday afternoon.

The arcade is already bustling with people and the noise almost makes you turn on your heels and walk away. But you don't, instead white hair and dark clothes catch your eye and your feet move before your mind can catch up with the actions.

“Hey!” You greet, a little too chipper and a little too close.

Tomura looks down at you, eyes dropping to your shirt and then back up again. You weren't sure if he had been checking you out or trying to size you up. It makes you falter a bit as he goes back to his game, effectively ignoring you.

The behavior is odd, but you try not to let it bother you. The last time you met the both of you played the silly zombie game until the arcade closed — there was no way he didn’t remember who you were.

You feel a little out of place and the tiniest bit hurt as you take a step back, ready to find any other distraction in the arcade to erase this from your brain.

“Um, okay, bye then—” You start, but you’re cut off by Tomura’s groan. He lost the game and it's difficult to hold back the laughter.

“God, you’re such a distraction. You made me lose!” He barks, riling you up.

Your brows furrow in frustration, you’ve barely said two words to the guy. “How did I make you lose? I just got here!”

“Yeah, and you're being all distracting, with your little shirt and your jeans. What do you want?”

What the hell was that supposed to mean? The statement is lost on you as your anger takes the forefront. “Don’t blame me because you’re off your game today.”

“I will blame you, because it’s your fault.”

“Whatever, Tomura. Since you’re done losing at this game, why don't you try one you;ll need real skill to play?” you challenge and hope he takes the bait, the irritated narrowing of his eyes shows that he will and you bury your giddiness inside.

“Fine, I'll try it.”

Tomura loses. Bad. And you can't stop the tears from crowding your eyes as you laugh at his misfortune.

“No, why did you rush out so fast?” You hear Tomura’s low growl of annoyance and continue, “This is not that kind of game! Slow and steady wins the race, you know.”

Wiping the tear from your eye, you try again, dropping a coin and gearing up for the next round while Tomura sits beside you, seething. The game starts up again and it's bright and inviting. You strategically tap at the buttons, ensuring that your duck character can make it across the street safely.

It's only when you hear the splash of the fallen duck next to yours that you break out into laughter once more, accidently tapping the button and sending your duck into the open road, ending the game for you both.

“This game is rigged!” Tomura protests, frustration palpable and scowl deep on his face.

You only shrug, knowing it's not an easy game, “Well, I'm sure you’d say that about any game you aren't good at.”

“That's a lie.” He states. Blunt and firm. This guy… He’s so rude, but so cute. You want to bite him.

“It's not,” You keep your voice light as you tease, not wanting to push him too far. “You don’t have patience so of course you would lose.”

“I could beat you at other games.”

This piques your interest, brows flying up. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”

He shrugs, irritation all but dissipated. “Mario Kart. 200cc. It takes patience and it’s not rigged.”

You take the bait, fingers twitching in anticipation, “Sure, but look where we are. There is no Mario Kart here.”

The look tomura gives you makes you wonder if you’d asked if the sky were blue. “I have Mario Kart at my house. Stop by and I'll kick your ass at it.”

You are stubborn, and decide fine. If he wants to be cocky, then you could bring him down a notch. “Alright, let's go and we'll see.”

He nods and you both take off, leaving the noise and excitement of the arcade behind.

Tomura was not lying when he said Mario Kart required patience.

You were currently in his room, on his bed as you try and fail to correct your character's position on the race track. You were stuck against a wall and slowly turning the opposite way, meanwhile, the other karts whip past your character — mocking while you firmly sat in dead last.

The small laugh Tomura gives is enough to send you into a rage. Standing up, you grip the controller with force, twisting and turning with it as if it would give you more control over your character. It did not.

“Oh, come on!” You shout.

“You have to use your brakes at this speed.” Tomura supplies, his character crossing the finish line and cheering at its win.

Your frustration is blinding because once again, those large, warm hands were covering yours, Tomura’s low voice filled with amusement as he guided your character to the finish line.

Embarrassment wasn’t enough for what you were feeling. Not only did you talk shit and lose, but you needed help from him again.

He pulls away and you fleetingly think it’s too soon, watching as Tomura grabs his own controller and flips through the options. “We could try a slower cc. 200cc is brutal to newer players.”

“You knew that and you still let me play it?” He clearly set you up, you bitterly realize as you sit next to him on the bed, watching the screen.

“Yeah, for all I know you could have been a prodigy. You weren't though, so it’s nothing I have to worry about.”

“Hey!” You scold, smacking his arm and grabbing the controller. “Fine. Let's do 50cc and see how good you are.”

Tomura shrugs, plucking the item from your hand and getting more comfortable. “Sure, but don’t think slower races will mean you’re better.”

The next race goes about the same as the first one, but at least this time your character sticks to the road and you’ve even placed higher this time. Eighth place! Take that.

“Impressive,” Tomura drags, voice stripped of malice and insults. It was a small feat, but still better than twelfth place.

It's hard to keep your excitement down, a stark contrast to Tomura’s reserved demeanor. You’ve only met him recently but he's already perfected the way to get your feathers ruffled and rile you up.

“Yeah, well I'm going to buy the game and practice on my own. Just wait, you’ll be in last place soon.” You had the gaming console, but never this game. It wouldn’t be too steep of an investment.

Tomura hums, pondering a moment before responding, “You could always just come over and practice. No need to waste the money when I have it.”

His words make you pause, slowly realizing where you are and who you're with. Some guy you met at the arcade — in his home, in his room, playing video games. How did that happen so fast? Your parents would kill you.

“I guess.” You look around, suddenly wanting to find anything else to focus on that isn’t the man beside you. Now that you think about it, you’ve never really been alone with another guy before. Especially not in his room. Sure, you had all kinds of male friends, but never any this close. It made you… nervous. And warm.

Very warm. Something that spread from the pits of your abdomen and crawled its way back up into your cheeks.

You hoped Tomura wouldn't notice your blush and searched your brain for any way to get out of this situation.

But then he was speaking again and god, was his voice always this low?

“Do you want to go another round?”

“Huh?” You stammer, looking over and it was a mistake because you were forced to notice how close you two were sitting, on his bed of all places. You shake the thoughts from your head, “y-yeah, we should play another round.”

You reach for the controller and Tomura stops you, grabbing your chin, forcing you to look him in the eyes.

“Hey, what's your problem?” Blunt. Rude. Fucking cute.

It's settled. You hate this man.

His brows furrowed as he moved closer, examining your face as if he could peer into your mind with his eyes alone. It made you want to shrink away, but that would only make his observation worse.

“Are you... getting nervous?” Your eyes widen at the words and you pull away completely, shaking your head,

“No! Of course not.” You cross your arms in a huff and absently wonder if you could take your leave now.

“You are,” he decides, a slow grin creeping across his face, “Why?”

You're sure the ground will open up and swallow you whole if you just wish hard enough for it. Maybe then Tomura would back up out of your personal space and shut up.

“I'm not nervous.” You bluff, praying he won’t see through you.

“I know why.”

You brace yourself for mortification.

“It’s because you know you’re going to lose.”

He has that smug smile on his face and it hits you.

He has no idea. Tomura doesn’t get it — he thinks you’re upset about the game and not the fact that you can smell the citrus of his shampoo and see the flecks of black in his red eyes.

God, maybe he’s an idiot.

You want to kiss him.

“Don’t be nervous,” he assures, giving you a little smile and grabbing the controller again, “I’ll walk you through it.”

There was something about Tomura’s choice of words that made you think maybe, just maybe, he had a little more of an idea about your mood than he let on. You press your thighs together, praying it was subtle, and mentally push away the arousal you began to feel at his low tone of voice.

“Sure.”

The next round you both play goes the same as the others. Tomura winning and you barely breaking the top ten. Your frustration was becoming palpable as it no longer was fun to see your character cry at the end of the match.

“We don't have to play anymore.” You look over at Tomura’s words and he’s stretching, eyes closing at the movement. You can't help but notice the sliver of his exposed abdomen as he reaches up.

You get a glimpse of his lithe figure and feel your mind begin to wonder what the rest looks like, but cut your thoughts short as he adjusts and meets your eyes again.

You should get out of here before you embarrass yourself.

“Where are you going?” Tomura questioned, the minute you stood to leave.

“Um, home? It’s getting late.”

“Not that late. C’mon, it’s a Saturday. You have somewhere to be or something?” He’s getting up and you can only assume it's to get another game. You are correct because he turns to show you the case and it’s of a white goose. “This game is more fun.”

You look at the time on your phone and shrug. He's right, it's not that late — there should be no harm in staying a little longer.

So you do.

And it’s worth it as you both watch two geese in the game with excellent teamwork terrorize a farmer.

“Okay, you distract him and I’ll take his hat.” You were on a mission and Tomura indulged you, making his goose honk while yours swooped in, effectively stealing the hat and allowing you both to progress to the next level.

“Hah! I knew that would work.” You feel elated as you watch the geese move on, waddling across the screen and into the next area, “And you’re not so bad yourself, for a goose.”

Tomura huffs a laugh, shallow and light before turning to you, “I carried you that round, but okay.”

You haven't known each other long, but he already knows his way around getting you riled up.

The comment makes you turn so that you are better positioned on his bed, one leg still hanging off the end of it while trying not to puff your cheeks. You would be fighting a losing battle if he saw how riled up you were.

“Hey, I’m the one who told you where the picnic blanket was!”

“Okay? And who brought everything to the blanket?” he leaned forward, invading your space and challenging.

You didn’t back down, both of you so close, almost nose to nose. “You. but only after I found everything.”

The distance between the two of you was slim, and the air was heated, his crimson eyes looked down at you with that smug smirk on his lips and you wanted to bite him.

Or kiss him.

Whichever came first.

Tomura followed your line of sight and it only made his smug expression worse, if that were even possible — yet neither of you backed away. His lips parted like he was on the edge of saying something, but was cut off by the peppy chime of your phone’s ringtone.

That seemed to dissipate some of the tension between you two as it caused you to back away and scramble to find your phone on his bed.

Once you’ve gotten it and answered, there’s the familiar voice of your mother on the other end, worrying about where you are and questioning when you would be home, standard practice for her. After many reassuring yeses and “i’ll be there soon”’s you are finally free of the call, now knowing that you have to wrap this up and head out.

“Who was that?” Tomura questioned and his voice seems loud in the quiet of the room.

You turn back to him and his eyes are waiting, expecting. He’s not doing anything but looking at you and it still feels like he can see all of you, as if you’re naked and bare, exposed completely.

“My mom.” You can’t help the small shrug of your shoulders, feeling a little embarrassed at how uncool it could look to have your parents keep tabs on you all the time.

“Aww,” Tomura coos, and it's said more like an afterthought, something to fill the air as he leaned forward — finally, finally closing the distance between you both and kissing your lips.

It shocks you as you feel the soft cotton his duvet hit your back, Tomura’s lips still pressed to yours as he pushed you down. They were rough but so warm, just like the rest of him, and your hand seeks his hair, finally indulging in the urge you’ve had to touch it since you’ve met him.

He groans when you give it a tug and you whimper when he bites your lip a little too hard. It drives you crazy and Tomura wastes no time in deepening the kiss, his tongue swiping over yours as his hands slide up your shirt. You let out a gasp when he cups your breast, taking a sensitive nub between his forefinger and thumb. The feeling has you mewling into his mouth and arousal soaking your panties.

It doesn’t take much to get you riled up, especially since the furthest you’ve ever gone with a guy is a kiss here and there.

Tomura crowds your senses as he hovers over you, caging you below him as he sits between your spread legs. Your heart races as you keep your eyes squeezed shut, you don’t know how far you’re going to go, but you definitely did not think you would be losing your virginity today.

He pulls away, lifting his shirt up and over his head, tossing it somewhere on the floor of the room. You waste no time taking in the new sight of his exposed chest, desperate to reach your hands out to touch.

But Tomura was back down again before you had a chance to, his mouth making its way down your jaw and neck leaving kisses and licks in its wake. It’s sensitive, especially when Tomura sucks right on a particular spot on your neck, making you cry out.

“D-don’t leave a mark.” You stutter, words nearly lost to the pleasure.

“Why not?” The warmth of his tongue licking the area he’d just sucked on was making you shiver.

Your hands were gripping his shoulder, desperate for any kind of grounding. “Because my parents. They would k-kill me.”

Tomura hums, seeming to take your concern into consideration before pulling away. You’re worried you’ve blown it and ruined the mood, but he just tugs at your shirt.

“Get this off.”

You can feel the heat on your face, from the kissing, but now you feel it burn more as you gaze at the man above you. The words make you stall, process what's going on — what you should do.

No one’s seen you without a shirt, especially not in this situation, but honestly? Who cares. You’re an adult, you can and will make your own choices.

There’s no one else in this room but you and Tomura, so when you sit up to remove your shirt and bra, catching Tomura’s eyes scan your newly exposed body, you can’t help but smile at the chill of excitement that dances down your spine.

It makes your heart flutter so you pull him back into a kiss and back down onto the bed, fisting your hands in his ashen locks again and savoring the groans he made.

Tomura makes his way down again, taking your right breast into his mouth and tweaking the nipple of your other with his free hand. The sensations are overwhelming and you moan, arching your back and trying with all you had to pull Tomura closer.

He obliged by lowering his hips and grinding down against you, the press of his erection against your clothed cunt drives you wild. Tomura comes back up, claiming your mouth again and he is demanding as he deepens the kiss, giving you everything you wanted and more.

You wanted to take it further, needed to take it further, but you weren’t sure how to progress from making out. Telling Tomura you were a virgin would probably make things awkward and you were going to lose it if everything ended here.

Tomura pulls away to look at you, flushed and red while you ponder what to do with your hand placement. You decide to wrap them around Tomura’s neck, pulling him close enough that he rests his forehead on yours.

Your breaths intertwine as you both stare at each other in a daze.

“What?” He asks first, breathless and curious.

You cut your eyes to the side, hoping your scoff came off as unconcerned instead of wildly nervous, “Nothing! Nothing..”

Your tone is not lost on Tomura as he narrows his eyes, gears turning in his head and piercing gaze seemingly looking through you and into your deepest thoughts. “Why are you being shy like a virgin?”

The way you purse your lips gives you away and you do everything to avoid his gaze, which is hard when you’re both so close to each other.

“Oh my god, you are.” There’s a whimsy excitement in his voice and suddenly, embarrassment is creeping its way back into your mind, “why didn’t you say so?”

You look up as Tomura pulls back, his smile open wide on his face, ill hidden elation buzzing in his words.

There’s your innate need to defend yourself and your honor rising up again and you can’t stop yourself. So what if you’re a blushing virgin. “Yeah, so? Aren’t you?”

His shoulders give a small shrug, “Maybe.”

Then he’s down again, lips next to your ear as his hands trailed down your waist, leaning goosebumps in their wake.

“Have you ever made yourself cum before?” He asks and you can feel his smile against your ear.

Embarrassment has officially taken the forefront of your mind as you weakly shake your head no, “I’ve tried, but when I get close the feeling goes away.” Might as well be honest since it can’t get more vulnerable than this.

Tomura hums, one hand reaching to take your hand in his, “I could show you how, if you want.”

You feel his hand drag yours lower, down your body and to the hem of your pants and stop, waiting for a response. It feels like your nerves are in overdrive and you writhe below him in anticipation, nodding your head, “P-please.”

Tomura pulls away, taking his warmth with him as he reaches down to unbutton your pants, removing them and leaving your panties.

“You’re soaked.” He muses, causing you to whine in anticipation. “Show me how you do it.”

And you do, slipping your hand under your panties and biting back a moan as your middle finger rubbed circles on your clit. You were dripping wet so your fingers glide easily and the feeling makes your eyes close.

It's a song and dance you are familiar with in the heated nights of your bedroom. Trying and failing to make yourself cum because you’ve read about it, it’s supposed to feel good, but you just can't get there.

Tomura watches on, absently palming his erection and watching you touch yourself. As much as he wanted to reach down and help you out, there was something about seeing you whine and writhe in his bed that made his brain wild.

You were getting close and you knew because there was that familiar sensation of heat pooling in your lower belly, it was a pressure that got more and more intense as you chased after it, but every time, your hands would get tired and you would lose it. And with the momentum gone, you lose the orgasm.

Your furrowed brows went from aroused to frustrated within the span of a second as, once again you’ve unintentionally denied yourself release.

“Fuck,” Tomura breaths, hand now fully in his sweat pants as his breathing picks up, “you were close.”

“I know!” You whine, unsure what to do now, but Tomura has a few things in mind. He pulls his hand from his pants, not wanting to ruin his own orgasm and hooks his fingers on both sides of your panties, pulling them down and tossing them to the side.

You were fully exposed and the only thing keeping you from pressing your thighs together and holding your dignity close was Tomura between them.

You wish he wouldn’t look so much, but he does, drinking up the sight of your exposed cunt and licking his lips. You’re about to call him out of it before he dips back down, capturing your lips in his and it distracts you.

It distracts you so well that the press of his thumb over your slick nub makes you cry out, the pleasure sudden and better than you imagined. Tomura devours your moans, rubbing slow circles onto your clit and easily picking up where you left off. Your hands find purchase on his back and your toes curl at the sensation.

He had just started, but it was just right and you couldn’t stop yourself from arching your back, desperate for more and overwhelmed by the stimulation.

“T-tomu..” You moan as you feel the horizon of warmth again and bury your face into his neck.

“Yeah,” his lips are by your ear again and you close your eyes, fully focusing on the feeling of his thumb working your clit and his low voice in your ear, “Just let go for me.”

And it all hits you, pussy pulsing in pleasure as you come undone, your cries muffled by your face in his shoulder. It feels like the end of a long marathon as the bliss spreads through your body like a warm blanket.

You could only lie there as Tomura pulled away, kissing your sternum and all the way down until he was at eye level with your cunt. The action confuses you because he had just made you cum so why was he..?

“What are you doing?” You ask, confusion muting the buzz in your head.

His eyes meet yours, mischievous glint in them sending the butterflies in your stomach wild. “We’re not done yet.”

And before you could question the man further he dips down, warm and wet tongue meeting your slit and diving into your slick entrance. The action makes you jolt, keening at the sensation and thighs reflexively closing against Tomura’s head. This action only spurred him on further as he lapped and dipped his deceptively long tongue in and out of your wet entrance, sticky slick walls clamping down on him as he sloppily ate you out.

He was relentless as he drove your pleasure up the wall — blowing your previous orgasm out of the water with this new sensation.

“Fuck, tomu — fuck its..!” You can’t form a coherent sentence because the pleasure was only building and building, giving your brain no time to catch up with your words. Your hands immediately found purchase in his hair, the soft ashen locks grounding you as he continued his actions, unbothered by your tight grip.

Tomura decided to move up, licking his way from your hole to your clit, the overstimulated bud was next on tomura’s list as he lapped and kissed your bundle of nerves.

The actions make you cry out, mind muddled as your body tries to figure out if you want to be closer or further away from the sensations. You don't have much time to reach a conclusion either as Tomura sucks your clit and your second orgasm of the night quickly builds up and spills over, making your back arch from the bed and your legs shake in pleasure.

It feels like your mind is completely blank as tomura gives your cunt a final lap and your clit one last kiss before returning to meet your eyes again.

You were face to face now and watching him grin down at you, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you had made a deal with the devil himself as your mind swam in the pleasure radiating throughout your body. It all felt surreal, and your eyes naturally closed, enjoying the feeling of your second climax.

“Aw, don’t tap out on me now, I haven’t even given you the final boss yet,” you hear Tomura coo, finally moving to remove his sweatpants and boxers and oh—

You watch his cock bob between his legs and panic internally as you wonder how the hell that would fit inside of you.

It’s like Tomura could read your mind, because his laugh brings you back to the present, “don't worry about it, promise it’ll fit.”

You don't know if you should trust him on that, but you do — mentally preparing yourself as Tomura leans over you and into the drawer of his bedside nightstand. He pulls out a square foiled packet and it’s in that moment you realize – no, he was not a virgin and only humoring you.

You don't have much time to dwell on it though because in no time he has the condom on and is lining himself up with your entrance.

The nerves are making themselves known as the reality of your situation starts to set in. The thoughts don’t flood your mind for long because Tomura takes your chin in his hand, demanding your undivided attention as he slowly pressed into your cunt.

The pressure of the stretch makes you whimper and your eyes reflexively close, but he was only getting started. It was the somewhat soothing feeling of Tomura’s thumb stroking your cheek that kept you grounded and able to withstand more of the stretch.

Little by little, Tomura pushed on, guiding you with his words and reassuring you that it wouldn’t hurt for long. He was right up against your ear, the familiar smell of his shampoo bringing you comfort as your bodies intertwined.

“That it,” he guided, voice low and hips still as he bottomed out. You felt so full. It was a sensation you’ve never imagined and could only whine as tomura started to pull back. “I’m gonna move now.”

Even though the pain was there in the initial thrusts, there was also the feeling of dull pleasure, slowly growing and growing until the previous pain had all but gone away and now you were floating in ecstasy as Tomura’s thrusts began to speed up.

You gripped at his forearms as he gained momentum, hips rocking into yours and making you moan.

“You like that?” he husked, lips brushing your throat as his hips snapped forward and hit a particularly sensitive spot inside.

“F-fuck, again, do that again,” you cry and Tomura focuses his attention right where you want him to. The feeling is euphoric as you feel a different kind of coil tightening in your lower abdomen. A feeling that makes your toes curl and your thighs tense and it's hit again and again.

Tomura lets out a low groan, his own pace becoming unsteady as time went on. “You’re so tight..” he murmured, reveling in the feeling of your slick walls clamping down on him, “‘s like you’re sucking me in.”

You’re nearing the end again, you can feel it, but you don't want to be. This all felt so good. “Tomu, I-I’m—”

Tomura cuts you off, pulling away to look you in the eyes, his ruby red gaze was hypnotizing. “Just let go, I’ve got you.”

And you do, that’s all it takes for you to tip over — mind rushing in bliss as your heart fluttered at his words.

You felt this orgasm deep in your bones, the overwhelming feeling of clarity and contentment settling within you as you were now along for the ride, enjoying Tomura’s increasing erratic pace while he chased his own orgasm.

“Oh, fuck—” he pants, following behind you with his own climax. His eyes were squeezed shut as he rode it out, slowing to a stop and dropping his head onto your shoulder.

The heavy breaths between you were the only sounds in the room as you stare at his ceiling — noticing the faded out green stars above. So faint you were sure they had been placed there years and years ago. It brings a warmth to your chest, something new among your many new feelings you’ve felt today.

“Next weekend,” Tomura starts, still sounding a bit winded as he pulls out — and you wince at the soreness, the pain not really something you were prepared for — and lays next to you, “Next weekend we’ll rematch in Mario kart. I’ll help you get better.”

You smile, the buzzing excitement making you flush, “Okay, let’s do it.”

The next morning is one that leaves you with a forming pit in your belly. It is a Sunday morning, and Sundays are the day’s your family loves to enjoy a homemade breakfast and sit together at the table like a loving family.

And they were loving! Loving and observant.

You felt as if your parents knew. Like they knew where you had been yesterday — somehow seeing through your foolproof lie of hanging out with an old school friend, but things were quiet.

Everything on this Sunday morning had been proceeding as normal. Your parents were sitting across from you, none the wiser and laughing about a show they watched last night while you were out.

It did not feel real. It felt like there was something you were missing, as if they were omnipotent and knew your every move. Knew that you were no longer their shining star child, that you had been up to things that were everything but innocent.

You feel the same, physically. Maybe a little sore from how rough Tomura had gotten, but other than that, normal.

“Sweetheart,” your father’s voice calls you, cutting through your paranoia, “could you pass me the syrup, please.”

And you do, maybe with too much haste, but he does not comment on it. Instead he just pours the sugary liquid onto his pancakes and continues. “So your mother and I were thinking,”

Oh, god. They knew.

“We know you’re taking a semester off, but if you aren't happy with that college, we could look into other’s for you.”

Your shoulders relax. It’s just college talk, again. That was talk you could handle.

“Um, yeah. That’s okay with me. I could always use more options.”

Your father smiles, “That’s our girl. Always so flexible with her options. We know it takes a lot of strength to take a break, but you did. We’re so proud of you.”

The smile that graces your face is pitiful and filled with guilt that you prayed was not obvious. They really saw the best in you, no matter how suffocating they were. so it’s only right you follow the path that they lay out for you.

“Our girl could never do any wrong,” your mother chimes in, chipper and full of admiration, “you’re just so smart.”

You only nod, now trying to tune them out as they go back and forth, discussing possible college they believed would be best for you.

It really makes you wonder just how far that love and pride stretched when their angel of a daughter strays against what they expect of you.

—-------------------------

And not even six months later that same love and adoration is tested, put on the line and shown bare as your enraged parents look down at you.

The same parents who doted on you about how much you made them smile. You who had made them so proud and apparently brought them so much joy.

It’s suffocating as you sit right back on the very same couch where it all started, listening to a lecture from your mother about the woes and pains of having such a disobedient unruly child.

Even though you’re an adult.

Even though you can make your own decisions about your life.

It’s maddening having to listen to your once so meek and complacent mother go on and on about how she would have never snuck around with some boy she’s only known for a few months. How she would never lie to her parents about her whereabouts and how it’s just unheard of that you would turn your location off.

You shake your head, they wouldn’t understand. Your father wouldn’t even look at you. “Mom, please..” you start, wanting to offer anything to break up the nonstop lecture.

“I just don’t understand!” Her voice is so high it’s nearly a yell, and your mother makes it a point to never yell. “He’s just a man! Why would you put yourself and your future at risk for some guy?”

“He’s not just some guy.” You mumble and curse yourself for trying, they would never see it your way.

There is a buzz from the phone in your pocket and you habitually grab for it, pulling it from its place and you are not given a chance to check the notification before your mother snatches the device from your hand.

“And no phone! This damn phone is the root of all your problems in the first place.”

Disbelief mars your features as the constant drilling catches up with you. “You can’t do that!”

She only folds her arms across her chest, head tilted in challenge, “I can’t? Watch me. You’re lucky we haven’t put you on the street yet with how irresponsible you’ve been.”

It’s hard to understand what’s so irresponsible about taking birth control and practicing being safe. But you knew it was deeper than that. It was deeper than the boy and it was more than sex.

They hated the lack of control they had over you and how it waned with every passing day.

“So, what, was this guy supposed to be the love of your life? Someone you would just run away with and expect to support you?”

Your mother’s voice grates on your ears and you just wish for this conversation to be over, you want this entire thing to be over and done with. “I don’t know. Maybe.” The defeat is evident in your voice and you shrug. “Can I go now?”

They are beating a dead horse at this point and you’re over it.

To your surprise, no one stops you as you rise, allowing you to take your leave before the tears clouding your vision could fall.

The defeat you feel is deep and you can’t even muster the energy to slam your door shut, opting for a quieter close. The fragile click of your door was so soft and it felt as if you were made of glass. To slam the door would only make you shatter into a million pieces onto your bedroom floor.

How foolish of you to think there could ever be a world where you had autonomy in a house filled with hawks.

Your bed greets you with its cozy warmth and you allow yourself to fall apart there, letting out all of your despair and frustration into your pillow and leaving the pieces of your soul to be picked up in the morning.

It’s been a week.

A long, boring, drawn-out week.

You are without your phone, without wifi and without your parents car — so you couldn’t go anywhere if you tried.

It’s been a long week of nothing, not even from Tomura. You assume he can put two and two together and figure out something has gone wrong. The thought brings you a little peace, but not for long.

You barely leave your room and barely say two words to your parents. The isolation is… lonely.

Even if you went out to the living room to watch television, you run the risk of running into one of your parents — and you can really do without another lecture. The only thing on your mind this past week has been Tomura. What was he doing? Did he pick up on your silence? Last time he showed up at your house, but that’s not happening this time around.

You sit up from your bed, realizing that sitting around rotting away would drive you mad, and look to your window. The sun was setting and dusting the rest of the world in pretty orange and pink hues. It would be nightfall soon, and you don't think you could spend another night in this room, alone.

So, against all better judgment, you open your window, look back to listen for any suspicious footsteps — the lack thereof giving you the greenlight — and climb out of your window, stumbling on to the ground as you try to regain your footing from the drop.

You weren't sure where your feet were taking you, but you didn't care, the feeling of fresh air against your cheeks was all you really needed for a clear head.

Your feet lead you to the mall, the start of all your problems and the beginning of your independence.

It felt strange, seeing all kinds of happy faces throughout the mall. Blissfully unaware of their freedoms and enjoying their night. The jarring feeling pushes your feet to the familiar route, flashing colors and blaring music of the arcade greeting you.

It’s comforting, in a way. But you didn’t bring any money. You didn't bring anything but what you were wearing so you could only look around, watching friends and couples alike laugh together.

There's an area near the back of the arcade with tall barstools and empty tables. You decide to take a seat there and sulk on your own. At least you were no longer trapped in your room, forced to watch your four walls while the days passed you by.

You were in a daze, tracing the brown lines on the wooden table with your eyes, until someone interrupted you by sitting right next to you. You turn to face the culprit, less than friendly words on your tongue and ready to let whoever have a piece of your mind.

But you stop in your tracks as ruby red eyes look down at you.

Tomura.

He was here, next to you and your heart fluttered at the realization.

“What’s your problem?” He joked, rasp in his voice comforting to your ears.

You don’t stop yourself from pulling him into a hug, his black hoodie soft and familiar. “How did you know I was here?” You mumble into the fabric and miraculously Tomura understands you.

“I didn’t.” The admission causes you to pull back, looking up at him through your long lashes. “None of my calls or texts went through, and I tried to stop by but your dad was suspiciously outside.” He brings a hand to your head, brushing your hair back and giving you a small smile. “I still like coming here, so I did. Something to pass the time. Ironically, I saw you walk by.

You hum, fighting the pout that wanted to make its way onto your face. “They took my phone. They took everything, even the birth control pills. I can’t keep living like this, Tomura.”

“I know.” He responds, soothing your nerves even with his presence. “I can get you another phone.”

The suggestion only makes you shake your head, it doesn’t tackle the real underlying issue.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s only a matter of time before they find that too. We’ve seen that they aren’t above going through my things. It’s hell. I can’t do it anymore.”

This seems to make Tomura ponder, taking your words in and running them through his mind for a solution. His expression is fixed when he looks back at you.

“Then don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t go back home.” He elaborates, “Come stay with me. My place is big enough, it shouldn’t matter.”

You are shaking your head before you realize, pulling away from him with a stern look. “No, no I can't do that. I can’t impose on you like that.”

Tomura gives you a halfhearted glare. “It’s not imposing if I'm offering. They’re assholes, and I'm usually home alone anyway. Well, besides Kurogiri.” He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, “C’mon, just go home tonight, pack a bag and then meet me here tomorrow. Can you do that?”

There was no other option you would want more so you nod, giving a short okay as Tomura presses his lips to yours.

It's set — by this time tomorrow you will be free.

#shigaraki tomura #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki tomura x you #tomura x reader #tomura shigaraki x reader #mha x reader #my works #tomura shigaraki smut #shigaraki smut

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mochidoie · 11 months

Text

room for two.

kim doyoung x reader wc - 7k genre - pure fluff, sharing a bed cliché, mutuals to lovers, mutual pining, SO MUCH TENSION BUILD UP warnings - kiss scene, sensual tension, mention of alcohol

It's Johnny Suh's birthday trip and as your childhood best friend, Johnny books a hotel room with only one bed for you and Doyoung to share. The catch: you're completely head over heels for Kim Doyoung.

“I can sleep on the floor.” Hands on his hips, Doyoung quizzically stares at the full sized bed in the center of the hotel room. Seconds pass by, feeling like hours staring at this one bed situation and trying to find a solution for the next three nights.

“Maybe we can ask if they have a spare mattress we can rent? Hotels do that right…?” If only you could be confident in your suggestions, knowing damn well that it was highly unlikely and you’ve already heard an earful of excuses as to why you’re unable to change your room last minute.

At this point, you are mentally strangling Johnny for this slip up. This is the last time you trust this man to do anything for you. Not only did he pick the middle seat for you on the airplane when you specifically asked for the window, he has now ruined your good night’s sleep by "accidentally" booking you only one bed to share with Doyoung.

Doyoung shrugs at your proposal, “it’s been awhile since I traveled. I can go down and ask if it’ll be possible. Hang tight.” He is gone before you can protest, but perhaps it’s better that he tries to negotiate with the receptionists since they wouldn’t even let you finish a sentence earlier.

Grabbing your phone, you’re quick to type an angry text to Johnny Suh about how badly he screwed up the hotel reservation and how he is getting on your last standing nerve.

Good. Maybe finally you’ll get the balls to make a move.

Plus, it was cheaper. You told me to save you some money and that’s what I did.

Scoff leaving your lips as you read the two text bubbles over and over. You can’t believe your eyes at this little weasel and in fact, you straight up cannot believe he actually thought this was a good idea.

While this means you get to share a bed with your crush, you never intended for it to be premeditated. A love that happens naturally, that is all you could ask for. Absolutely in no way did you want your friends to meddle with your love life and definitely not to put you in such an awkward situation.

The door beeps open and Doyoung walks in looking as defeated as ever. Judging from his facial expression, it was a no. You two are stuck sleeping together on this tiny bed for this entire trip.

“I really tried.” Doyoung scratches the back of his neck, quite apologetic that he couldn’t find some resolve to an issue that he didn’t even cause.

You laugh, “it wasn’t even your problem to fix anyways.” A sigh of relief follows after and Doyoung flashes you his gummy smile at the idea that pops into his head.

“You know, I don’t really mind sleeping together.” He admits, bashfully and trying to gauge your reaction to the potential thought of sharing a bed. “But obviously, if you’re uncomfortable with the idea, I completely understand too.”

“I don’t know… I’m just a bit embarrassed.” Your cheeks grow hot at the possibility of waking up next to Doyoung, how nice the fragrant of hotel body wash would smell from his skin so close.

Not to mention, the proximity of your bodies being way closer than they’ve ever been before. Just no respectable distance between the two of you underneath the sheets and completely vulnerable in your sleep.

“Of what?” The shift of the bed has you dipping toward him. “Do you snore?”

You don’t answer.

“I mean- like even if you did, it’s not a big deal and you don’t need to be embarrassed about it.” Doyoung frantically tries to make you feel better, seeing that your expressionless face leans closer to sadness rather than neutral. You two are definitely not on the level of friendship to be playful with each other yet.

So you lie just to see what he says. “I snore, I kick. I even steal blankets, Doyoung! And I think you’ll be too nice to wake me up about it or to take them off of me.”

Doyoung practically chokes on his spit at the last part of your sentence. “No, you’re right. I would be too nice to do any of that.” He seriously ponders for a second, his eyes darting around at the ground to maintain his focus on weighing the pros and cons. He really didn’t want to sleep on the floor.

“If it happens, it happens. I won’t mind either way now that I have a heads up.” He gets up to start unpacking his suitcase. “Like I said, there is nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“Fair warning, don’t be upset at me in the morning if you don’t get a good night’s rest. You can blame Johnny for that.” Unpacking the soft dress from your luggage, you smooth out its crinkles and hang it up in the tiny closet next to Doyoung’s jacket.

Doyoung laughs, he has actually been laughing the whole time you’ve spent with each other. It’s as if you’re some comedian and it has you wondering if you’re actually even that hilarious. “I’m pretty happy rooming with you. I’d rather be here than third wheeling with a couple still in their honeymoon phase.”

The magnitude of his words has a buzz running throughout your veins, hairs to stand up on your arms and a slight churning in your stomach. Mindlessly folding out his clothes, Doyoung has no actual clue how he is affecting you. He’s just oblivious to it all.

“Good thing I didn’t bail like everyone else.” The nervous chuckle that escapes your lips is unintentional, probably an awkward reflex to deflect how you’re dying at being in his presence alone.

Johnny’s birthday trip had been a last minute thing and only a select few were able to make it, some bailing at the very last day before. It was a weird time of the year, especially with the New Year starting not too long ago. However, this season allows for cheaper flights and accommodation since it was after the holidays.

It was initially supposed to be a group of Johnny’s close friends — you, Doyoung, Mark, Jaehyun, Yuta — in addition, his girlfriend. How the room arrangements were supposed to be was that you and his girlfriend would share an all girls room, while the guys shared one room.

That outcome could still technically be possible, but Johnny insisted on switching rooms so he can stay with his girlfriend after the others dropped and how he has already shared the experience of being roommates with Doyoung. He also knew how big of a crush you had for Doyoung, so he thought it would be more fitting to pair the lovers together.

Although, Doyoung didn’t like you back nor does he know you do. The severity of your crush is mild, just that Doyoung is the most attractive man ever with poise and an aura that oozes so sexily from him. This is the first chivalrous man in your life, meeting him through Johnny some years ago.

You and Johnny are family friends, your moms being the closest women duo on this Earth. When they’re together, they’re unstoppable. In return, the two of you are practically siblings and have spent every celebration, every holiday, every family event, every funeral together.

Doyoung is Johnny’s roommate from college, these two have been lifelong friends since then. Doyoung had actually moved to your hometown after college, finding an amazing job opportunity at the same company as Johnny. He started coming around a lot more to social events or whenever you saw Johnny. Since the first moment he offered you a ride home, you’ve been stuck on this infatuation for this incredibly charming and sweet man.

Though, you two never got extremely close despite your individual connections to Johnny. It has always felt like Doyoung is Johnny’s friend and vice versa. You also really had no reason to see Doyoung without Johnny, so there had always been a distance. You two spoke when in a group setting, just to make small talk about work, general life updates, or anything about Johnny.

On a very drunk night long ago, you and Johnny had been very well over your drinking limit and had been talking about nonsense between the two of you. Just old friends catching up, but the itch of asking about Doyoung had been bothering you all night.

“Out of curiosity, is Doyoung single?” Oh god, the alcohol has started speaking for you. Johnny raises a skeptical brow and beckons his beer bottle at you before taking a swig.

“Don’t tell me you’re interested in digital marketing Kim Doyoung, cubicle 4E80.”

The boldness overtakes you, it’s not like you lose anything asking a simple question to satisfy your curiosity. “What if I am?”

Johnny laughs, rather than lightheartedly, it is a robust laugh that feels like he’s mocking you and that your statement is unbelievably ridiculous. “He’s single, painfully single too.”

There is a brief pause as your drunken state processes the loud beating of your heart in your ears. Hope settles in, a big dumb grin plasters on your warm face.

“It’s interesting. He had asked about you too.” Johnny sits back and sinks into the couch. “He asked if you had a romantic partner.”

“Me?” You are truly in disbelief that he would ever even give you a second thought.

“Yeah, you dummy. I think he meant it as you should get into a relationship though, not asking if you were single because he is interested in you.” Your heart soars, quickly depleting after hearing Johnny’s explanation. So much for hope or a chance.

“I’m not fully understanding.”

“Doyoung is weird sometimes with his thoughts. I think he was trying to say that you seem lonely? Oh, and that you seem like you have a lot of love to give.” Johnny rubs his eyes with his knuckles, feeling the alcohol induced drowsiness coming on. “Such an observant man.”

Since that night, you never tried any advancements toward him. Partly because you are afraid of him catching onto something and because it was enough for you to realize he probably isn’t interested in you romantically.

Nonetheless, it doesn’t stop the butterflies from fluttering or from your smile growing whenever Doyoung says something nice. He is a naturally friendly and genuine person, super considerate of others and very kind. Johnny says that he has never met another man with such good intentions and a big heart, while still being snarky and intelligent.

“Heading to the pool?” Doyoung asks, a fist holding his swim shorts and a plain shirt. The warm weather outside is so inviting, knowing you’re probably going to get sunburnt at the end of it but it being a year’s worth of Vitamin D. Johnny definitely knows how to travel.

“Yeah, I can’t swim so I’ll just sit by the edge and dip my feet in.” You’re rummaging through your suitcase for your bikini cover-up until your hand hits the bottom of the barrel.

Panic creeps up your neck as you’re tossing all of your clothes out of your luggage now, picking through shirts, dresses, underwear and pants to find the one item you set a reminder to pack.

It’s not there. “Everything okay?” The genuinity in Doyoung’s voice makes you feel more embarrassed for some reason. Tossing all your belongings back into your suitcase, you throw your hands up in the air out of frustration.

“I can’t find my swimsuit cover up. I guess this is what happens when you dismiss a reminder before fulfilling it.” Slightly annoyed, you’re holding the two-piece in your palms and wondering if it is worth the hassle and bashfulness to wear it. You brought it with the intent of looking hot and sexy for the trip, while also keeping your decency by having a cover up to …. well, cover up.

You excuse yourself and clench the bikini in your hand, walking into the bathroom. Fuck it, you brought it. You’re going to wear it. If it gets too much, you’ll just wrap a towel around or buy a new cover up. It shouldn’t be too big of a deal and you already know that Johnny is going to give you shit for not joining them at the pool.

You’ll suck it up. Looking in the mirror, the bottoms barely cover your ass cheeks. Barely is an overstatement, the fabric is so far up your crack that it gives you a wedgie every time you move. Nonetheless, the baby pink is such a sweet color that you’re not minding the exposure too much.

Now, the top situation is a whole mess. The strings wrap around your midsection, but your arms are too short to give yourself a secure knot. After multiple attempts at stretching and pulling, twisting your arms in funky positions, you give up and think it’s best to call in help.

Doyoung. Fuck. You take a few deep breaths and examine yourself in the mirror again, reminding yourself of every positive affirmation and Doyoung is too nice to say anything. Calming your nerves, you gently push open the door.

“Doyoung, could you do me a huge favor and tie my bikini top for me? I genuinely don’t think it’s tight enough when I do it.” You peek your head out and his footsteps come from around the corner, happy to help!

Walking in, Doyoung looks taken aback by your choice of attire. You’re examining his reaction through the mirror as he stops at the door frame, his eyes widen and drag down your body twice. He is most definitely checking you out.

He clears his throat when he meets your eyes. “Did you want me to double knot it?” He asks, softly and shyly. Stepping behind you, his hot hands guide your hair to the side of your neck to expose your back. Your heart is in your throat when Doyoung takes the string from your hands and pulls it toward him, a bit too roughly.

You lose your footing and jolt back into him, your shoulder hitting his chest. “Shit, sorry.” His breathy apology in your ear sends chills up your spine and a slight rush down below.

The tension in the air is so thick – you’re both suffocating in it. Staring at his profile in the reflection, Doyoung’s expression is none of what you’ve seen before. It’s lustful, almost, if you’re not interpreting it incorrectly. He’s biting the inside of his cheek and he is trying to look everywhere but your ass and your breast from an aerial view.

“It’s okay.” You laugh it off, but he is unwavering. “You’re stronger than you look, Doyoung.”

Your light teasing breaks the serious concentration on his face and his shy gummy smile returns, “it’s from all the times Johnny dragged me to gym with him.”

He ties the knot perfectly, making sure it’s one of those pretty bows that top off a gift box. He’s quite happy with himself that he forgets your bare ass is inches away from his clothed dick.

His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, “pink is a pretty color on you.” His eyes catch yours in the reflection of the mirror and a light blush dusts his cheeks, a kind half grin on his lips.

Your heart is soaring, once again. “It’s nice on you too.” Smiling back, there is a split second that you can actually believe that Doyoung could’ve felt some connection between the two of you. “Thank you for such an impressive bow.”

His demeanor shifts back to friendly, less serious and intense. “Yeah, no problem! If you’re still looking for a coverup, I have something you can borrow.”

Walking out of the stuffy bathroom, Doyoung hums and pulls out a white button up from his bag. It’s light and flowy, just the perfect thing to wear out on a beautiful day. He helps you slip on the sleeves and it covers your backside very well. It’s even better than the initial cover up you had. Then it hits you, you’re wearing his clothes. His scent falls on your body fruitfully and Doyoung doesn’t even flinch at the sight of you in his shirt.

Nonetheless, there is no denying that his stares seem to linger longer than they usually do.

Despite multiple occasions of waiters and waitresses mistaking you and Doyoung as a couple, the first day of the trip was jam packed with good fun and no complaints. Johnny and his girlfriend love showing PDA, but keep it modest for those around. Doyoung enjoys getting his picture taken at every tourist spot, some lowkey alleyways or artsy areas that catch his eye. You just like being around your friends, in a new environment and living in the moment with them all.

The night had fallen upon you so quickly, the expression time flies when you’re having fun held true for this day. Johnny had mentioned prior that he wanted to have a romantic candlelit dinner with his girlfriend for one of the nights you were on this trip.

It didn’t hit you that he was actually being serious about that plan until you’re back in your hotel room with Doyoung, looking for a place to have dinner on your own.

“I didn’t know how much of a romantic Johnny is.” You’re blowing raspberries into the air as you scroll mindlessly on the internet for a good place to eat in this foreign area. Doyoung takes a seat on the chair at the desk, doing exactly the same as you.

“It takes the right person to get it out of him.” Doyoung mumbles, ruffling his hair out of his face cutely. The strands of his bangs disheveled and sticking up. “But he’ll do anything for the person he really likes.”

“I guess I’ve never seen that side of him.” You shrug, attention draining from the overwhelming selection of food choices in the area.

Doyoung notices your mind wandering and hears the tiny grumble of your stomach from hunger. “How about we go here? Looks like they have happy hour and a very nice aesthetic.”

He kneels down at the bed level to show you photos of the restaurant. It’s a large outside patio with decorative ambient string lights, vines of greenery hanging from the ceiling and the rustic wooden walls within the indoor portion of the restaurant.

Overall vibe of the place feels elevated, yet still trendy and modern. The food seems to be a fusion of Korean and Chinese cuisines and the prices look more than desirable.

“Half off main entree items and bottomless cocktails during happy hour?!” Sitting up, you’re grabbing Doyoung’s phone out of his hand to get a closer read on the menu. You’re in disbelief at such a good deal. “Let’s go!” You cheer, jumping up on your feet to pick an outfit for the night.

“I knew the bottomless cocktails will get you. You understand me, y/n.” Doyoung is as overjoyed as you, and you’re both happily smiling at each other without a thought about how good you make each other feel. Grabbing your flowy white romper, you change quickly in the room as Doyoung fixes up in the bathroom.

There is elegance in the white silk, yet it doesn’t make you look too overdressed or too casual. Leaning forward to the vanity, you’re clipping on some shiny earrings and the door opens behind you.

Doyoung steps out in that loose white button up you borrowed earlier today, three buttons unbuttoned from the neck to expose some of his toned chest, half tucked into his neat slacks. His hair is combed and styled back, getting a clear view of his sharp features and maturity. He looks so good, you almost start drooling.

“Oh, your zipper isn’t zipped all the way.” Doyoung breaks you out of your gawking. Without any hesitation, he walks up behind you and helps you with your zipper. This moment mirrors earlier events from this morning.

He chuckles, mostly to himself as he drags the zipper up and his eyes follow the trail of your spine to your eyes in the reflection. “How do you ever get yourself dressed when you need help getting dressed so often?”

“It’s a bit of a struggle, but I manage.” Straightening up your posture, Doyoung’s hand gently caresses your forearm. “But you definitely have made it easier for me today.” You’re still in shock as you watch Doyoung clip your bracelet around your wrist, dropping your arm back by your side ever so gently.

“I’m more than happy to be of assistance.” He clicks his tongue and this fleeting feeling of sensual tension finds itself lost again. Nonetheless, this moment is going to play like a loop of reruns in your mind the whole night.

Three and a half cocktails in, you’re both indulging in a conversation that makes no sense to either one of you but it’s a harmonious time. Your heart is pounding in your ears from the alcohol running circles in your bloodstream, but the moderately loud ambiance of the restaurant creates a good buzz. Doyoung is a cute shade of red before you, every sip making him dangerously close to losing his senses.

“I have to say, this has been the most fun I’ve had in awhile.” The bottom of his glass hits the table and finds its way perfectly in the right spot everytime. The look of content fills his red cheeks and you’re seriously so intoxicated that your mouth has a mind of its own.

“What do you mean?” You know what he means, but the alcohol is asking for more context and reassurance. Has it been fun because of the copious amounts of drinks you two have had after only sharing an appetizer? Or is it genuinely because of you?

“You’re so easy to talk to. I feel like I can talk to you for hours.” His gummy smile twinkles in the dim atmosphere, all because the thought of talking to you for hours makes him full of glee and happiness. He isn’t one to hold back a genuine compliment, he wants you to know how he feels about you as a person. Intimacy didn’t exist between the two of you before tonight, but that changes with every exchange of glances and sweet words.

The call of his name gets his attention, eyebrows raised and eyes as alert as they can be, “you’re one of the only people in this world that I could listen to for hours.” There is no stopping you at this point. Another compliment and you’re bound to confess a part of your heart tonight to him.

Doyoung nods, understanding every bit of where you’re coming from. He gets you like how you get him. “There has been a question that’s been on my mind since I met you.”

Your breath hitches at the actuality that he thought enough about you to have such curiosity. You lived in his brain when you truly believed he would never give you a second look. “Why have you and Johnny never dated?”

The laugh that creeps up your throat almost slips out from hearing the question, but Doyoung is more than serious with this revealed secret question he had been holding onto for so long. Clearing your throat, your finger lightly traces the rim of your glass as you really think hard about every reason you are not attracted to Johnny romantically.

“I’ve known him practically since birth, so he has always been a good brother to me.” It really is that simple, shrugging to show that it's nothing too deep. “While we meet people in a certain moment of their lives, that version of them freezes as the person you will always know them to be to you.”

Doyoung watches your finger dance around. “To me, Johnny will always be a booger-eating cry baby. The love I have for him is purely familial, as if he was the reason for every scraped elbow growing up or for my fear of abandonment when he left me in the grocery store aisles.”

He hums lovingly at your explanation. “I’m guessing you get that question pretty often.”

“Besides his current girlfriend, you’re the only other person who has asked.” Your chuckle makes Doyoung slightly embarrassed, can he be that obvious? It’s fine, you both won’t remember this night fully.

“A follow up question then,” Doyoung leans forward with his elbows digging into the white table cloth, “who am I to you?”

Your eyes widen, those words are enough to knock some sense back into you. Your heart continues to pound in your ears, but also drumming against your chest quickly with every possible way you could answer him.

His eyes stare down at you like prey, just waiting patiently and silently for you to speak. Doyoung’s demeanor may seem confident on the outside, but he is dying to know on the inside. “You’re Johnny’s best friend.”

He lets the disappointment subside, the whiplash in your face is enough indication that you weren’t prepared for such a question. Doyoung relaxes back in his chair, dropping his gaze and nodding at your simple answer. It doesn’t satisfy him, but he can’t be someone to ask for much in this situation.

“Who am I to you?”

Doyoung rolls his lips, debating if his answer will only produce fruitful reactions or you would be turned off. The alcohol has too much control over his choice of words, truthfully, the haziness surrounds his vision. “You’re y/n, Johnny’s cute friend who I can’t seem to get out of my mind.”

Something about Doyoung paying for dinner and his chivalrousness throughout the night oozes a romantic side of him you’re not used to. It felt as if you and Doyoung went on a real date together, even though it was curated off of unforeseen circumstances. Romance isn’t dead, as some may oppose. You could hope that Doyoung agreed.

“Doyoung, the shower is free for you now.” A towel wraps your wet hair up into a cone on your head, earning a small smile from Doyoung. He gathers his things and makes his way into the already steaming bathroom, your essence filling the tiny room.

You’re mindlessly scrolling on your phone, hearing the shower turn on and suddenly turn off. Then it hits you, you have walked out empty handed and your discarded clothes are still hanging on the glass door. You’re both quick at the door, but Doyoung beats you to open it from the other side.

His head pops out, the door slightly ajar. He is naked from the top down to the towel around his waist. Droplets dribble down his tone chest and stomach and your throat goes dry from the sight of him. “Don’t be embarrassed.” Doyoung says gently, holding out your dirty clothes in an orderly pile and your underwear visibly in the mix.

“Thank you.” Finding your words, you quickly take your belongings.

“I’m starting to think you’re doing this on purpose, y/n.” Doyoung clicks his tongue, a playful eyebrow raise and a corner of his lip turning upward into a smirk.

“No! I swear, you just make me so comfortable.. I’m treating this as if it’s my own space.” You’re coming to your senses, shutting the door on him so he couldn’t respond to such a ridiculous excuse. Your back hits the bathroom door, sliding down and huddling your laundry.

“I feel comfortable around you too.” You hear Doyoung say through the door. Though you couldn’t see him, a smile lies on his lips as he continues his nightly routine.

Some time passes, Doyoung enters the sheets before you and the anxiousness settles in your system when you know you have to eventually join him. He feels the shift in atmosphere, peering over at your hunched figure at the end of the bed.

“I can still sleep on the floor.” Pushing the blankets off of his body, he starts to get up. You’re fast to push his chest down, landing softly over him. You’re both unmoving in this position, out of pure shock of the sudden proximity.

Your eyes meet briefly, but you look away from his wide bunny eyes. “It’s okay. I don’t want you on the floor.”

His finger turns your chin to face him. The annoying pounding of your heart is loud in your eyes, aching from his hot touch and how you could seriously drown in his beautiful gaze. You’re wondering if he could hear it.

“Then, where do you want me?” Doyoung swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing at the sight of your lips before him and he is three seconds from diving into you. Completely stunned, obviously, taken aback by his bold question and the tension in the room seems to find its way back.

You want him in your arms. You want him suffocating you with his warm embrace. You want him where you are. Will he allow that? “The bed is fine.” The firmness in your voice assures Doyoung that you don’t feel unwavering. He would hate for you to feel the slightest uneasy. With a roll off of him, you’re planted on your back on the other side of the bed. Staring at the ceiling, you’re both processing the elephant that has overstayed its visit this entire day.

He has to have felt something. There is no way he could be that oblivious, you know he isn’t.

Pulling the sheets over your body, your back is facing Doyoung as he tries to find a good position to doze off in. Heat radiates off of your bodies underneath the blankets and you’re partly grateful to be sharing the bed with such a gorgeous man. Peering over your shoulder, Doyoung swipes on his phone aimlessly looking through the photos he took today.

He feels your curious eyes on him, “want to help me choose which ones I should keep?” Doyoung scoots a bit closer toward the middle of the bed, closing the distance between the two of you slowly.

As this man speedily scrolls through photo after photo, you’re too much in awe at how a simple photo could capture how handsome he is. You’re trying to be helpful, without saying much, but still trying. He deletes a random one at his distaste in a blink that you could barely keep up.

“Do, you look great in all of these.” You sigh, moving even closer to him as his shoulder hits your arm. You’re swiping a few photos back to one that caught your eye – gummy smile, hand covering his eyes, low light underneath the stars, one hand in his pants pocket. He is the perfect wallpaper material. “I like this one the best.”

“You can’t see my face in that one.” He laughs, “what do you like about it?”

“You look good.” It’s all you could say, anything more will tip the boat.

He instantly favorites it, moving on before he can dig anymore about your vague explanations. Swipe after swipe, a new angle, a new pose, a new facial expression but all in the same area. You’re starting to get sleepy at the endless miniscule details, but your eyes shoot open when he swipes upon a photo of you and then, quickly dismissing it as if you weren’t supposed to see.

“Was that me?” You ask, practically grabbing his phone. Doyoung sheepishly rubs the back of his neck, letting you scroll through his phone to find more pretty candids he took of you without you knowing. Progressively, you begin to see yourself in his perspective or maybe, he really is just that great at taking photos.

Nonetheless, you’ve never seen yourself like this. Hair in action, caught in the sweep of the wind. Your smile is as bright as the moon, very natural and genuine happiness painting your face at something stupid that Johnny probably said. There you are among your own laughter and excitement, Doyoung captured such beautiful parts of you that you didn’t know existed.

Doyoung breaks the silence between the both of you, slowly reading your facial reactions at the pictures. He slowly inches closer, his head slightly above your shoulder.

“I can’t help, but notice how happy you look when you laugh. Your smile is contagious.” He whispers, swiping a few more photos to land on one that you wouldn’t have even recognized was yourself.

Your right hand brushes your hair out of your face and you’re smiling from ear to ear. It had to be a moment at dinner with him. Doyoung knew the reason behind that gorgeous smile was him. “So pretty.” His voice leaves a chill down your spine and goosebumps to rise on your arms.

He perks up at the sound of his name, “I’m genuinely confused.” You say, setting his phone down and looking at him with eyebrows furrowed together. “I know you’re a nice person so it could be just your mannerisms or the intimacy of sharing a bed, but I don’t want to misunderstand your intentions.”

“Oh,” Doyoung shifts away from you, the bed dipping at the movement as he scoots back over to his side of the bed. “I’m sorry if I came off as overbearing.”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” You’re fighting with yourself, trying to decide if you should just confess. What is the worst that could happen? You’re stuck together in the same room for two more nights and he will know that you’re insanely attracted to him.

But there feels like a chance. You could be incredibly delusional and misreading everything. You sigh, unsure how to proceed with this conversation. Nonetheless, Doyoung can see how heavy your heart seems.

“Is there something I did?”

“No, forget it.” You’re pulling the blankets back over your body again, turning off the lamp on your side of the bed and staring up at the ceiling. Doyoung follows your lead, doing the same and the room falling into complete darkness. Your shaky breaths being the only audible noise in the silent space.

There is so much adrenaline in your throat, coursing through your veins at how close you are to just telling him.

“Just know that you can tell me anything. I know we’re not the closest of friends, but I feel like that’s sometimes better.” Doyoung turns to face you and you’re staring at him in the low light, making out the most gentle and comforting smile that puts your heart at ease.

“Doyoung, I like you and it’s not just because you’re a nice person, I have romantic feelings for you. I hope you can understand.” You’re all choked up that it makes Doyoung’s heart ache. Confessions are way harder than they need to be, but you did it. That's all that matters.

You didn’t need reciprocal feelings from him, you just needed him to be okay with it. He is silent for a while, his gaze dropping and wandering the sheets. He, too, is conflicted about how he should proceed.

Laying on your side, you face him fully. Doyoung peers up at the shift and his eyes are intensely gazing at you. Your heart is back thumping at your chest and drumming in your ears.

Before you know it, Doyoung is leaning forward and his lips land on yours softly. Your eyes remain open and in shock, but you kiss him back fruitfully. This long awaited kiss has finally fallen upon you, something you’ve wondered days on end how his lips taste.

Doyoung kisses your lips tenderly, almost as if he has waited for this moment too. Gliding effortlessly along yours and a sweet heat that lingers deliciously, he kisses like a shy romantic. You’re both too hesitant to touch one another, afraid of asking for too much. Your arms are stuck to your chest, hands in fists and tensions rising.

His knuckle lightly brushes your cheek, and as you close your eyes and settle into the kiss, you find yourself deepening it and free falling right into him. Desperation? It is the right amount to indicate how much you wanted it, how much you have craved him.

You are kissing Kim Doyoung. That thought alone could leave you grinning ear to ear for days. He doesn’t even know how much it affects you.

When you both pull away, Doyoung’s lips are pretty and plump. It compels you to give him a last quick peck and he chuckles cutely. His eyelids fall over his eyes ever so slowly, his long eyelashes dancing on his cheekbones and he looks surreal.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you this entire day.” Your heart would stop right there. His raspy confession has your whole face turning hot, “ever since I saw you in your pink swimsuit. You don’t know what you do to me.” He buries his shyness into his pillow. Seeing Doyoung like this is new, it’s so adorable that you don’t know how to react besides giggling at how shy he is. He usually holds himself up pretty well, getting embarrassed here and there by Johnny’s silly actions or boldness. Nonetheless, here he is, barely able to look you in the eyes and a pillow shielding his pretty face.

“Have you always felt this way?” Your fingers touch your lips, still in disbelief at the scandalous kiss you two just shared and coming to the realization that Doyoung could have felt this way this whole time.

“Since the moment I met you, you have always been endearing to me. But since you are practically Johnny’s non-biological sister, you felt out of reach.” Doyoung sighs, “I didn’t want to cross any boundaries or make it seem like I was some creep trying to hit on you through Johnny. I respect you a lot, y/n, and Johnny does too.”

His voice grows soft and his words are still so kind. Doyoung is effortlessly sweet and chivalrous. At times, you question how he and Johnny managed to be the best of friends. Doyoung is so outwardly soft and feminine, emotionally attuned and safe. Johnny is all those things as well, but not as clear as Doyoung.

Growing up, Johnny always felt like he needed someone like Doyoung to reassure him that boys can cry too. Although you never imagined that you would stumble upon a dream man like Doyoung, he lays next to you in bed with endless thoughts of you running at full speed in his head.

“I’m speechless.”

“I can tell.” Doyoung smiles, “I’ve kept my distance enough to not give you any impression of interest.” He coyly puts his arms behind his back and peers over at how stunned you look blinking back at him. “Let’s sleep, I want you to rest up for the day tomorrow.”

“I feel like this is going to keep me awake.” You slide down to lay firmly on your side to face him.

“Will sleeping in my arms help?” Doyoung extends his arm out for you to snuggle up next to him. You’re practically losing your mind at how forward he is, it’s as if five minutes early he wasn’t all shy about confessing to you. “Sorry, too much.”

Nonetheless, you dive right into him like it's all you’ve ever known. Your face hits his chest and the scent of his laundry detergent immediately hits your nose. His warm arm wraps around your upper back as he presses you closer. Planting a delicate kiss on your forehead, Doyoung rubs soothing circles on your back to help you sleep.

So if this was a dream, you hope to never wake from it.

The stuffy morning has you and Doyoung tiptoeing around one another. When you had woken up, Doyoung was already in the bathroom to freshen up and prepare for the day. You both had exchanged small good mornings before you had also disappeared into the bathroom. Now, you two silently get ready in your own corners of the room and nothing but the sound of clattering fills the air.

Did he have a sudden change in heart? You grow more confused with this man as it turns from day to night. Doyoung looks over his shoulder at you, noticing the eerie silence in the room.

“How did you sleep?” He asks, clearing his throat awkwardly. Good thing you two didn’t fuck or anything, you feel like that would make this moment even more awkward than it already is.

“Fine. You?”

Doyoung laughs, mostly to himself, as he remembers the position you two woke up in. “Seems like someone couldn’t let go of me last night, so I would say it was pretty good.”

Your embarrassment doesn’t shy away from being evident. Slowly, you turn to face him. Doyoung leans against the wall a relaxed fit, hair nicely falling above his eyebrows and a grin so taunting, you wouldn’t have believed it was his. He notices your lip quiver before you begin to speak and he reassures you once more.

“Don’t be embarrassed. It’s cute.” Doyoung makes his way toward you, his delicate hands holding your forearms quite lovingly and his kind smile tries to make you feel better. You both gaze into each other’s eyes like they’re all you’ve ever known in life.

This is so romantic. You’ve forgotten that you two aren’t dating.

“Would it be too much of an ask for us to start seeing each other?” He shakes his head without hesitation. Kissing your forehead, he can literally see how beautifully you admire him.

“I want to be with you.” He draws you in tighter. “I want to be yours.” Doyoung whispers. A chill runs down your spine. “However, you have to let me take you out on a proper date before we settle things. One where I ask you out, pick you up and bring you your favorite flowers.”

“I’d really love that.” It is no joke how incredibly immersed in this man you are. Never in your dreams would you think that a moment like this would exist between the two of you.

All it took was sharing a bed. If only Johnny had thought of that sooner.

#neowritingsnet #nct scenarios #doyoung scenarios #doyoung scenario #nct 127 #nct doyoung #nct fluff #kim doyoung #kim doyoung scenario #nct scenario #nct x reader #doyoung imagines #doyoung x reader

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tteokdoroki · 1 year

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𑊡˚+₊🍼✦ — h-hello firefighter!bakugou and heart surgeon!reader

૮ ͈>◡< ͈ა warnings — fluff, sfw. mentions of hospitals, surgeons, fires, firefighting, mutual pining, crushes, he has a huge crush on you ok!! and yes i’m sorry, this is grey’s anatomy inspired ajaja

“so— open wide— what brings you in this time, blondie?”

bakugou looks at you, petulant like a child and pissed all at once— begrudgingly letting you pry open his plump rosey lips with what looks like a popsicle stick. he sticks out his tongue for good measure, letting you inspect the back of his throat for black specks of ash while he eyes you up. not that you mind.

“purse pooch,” he grunts once you let him free to notes on your clipboard to document the state of his health. he watches your hands, stable and good enough to hold hearts and feel them beat. you’ve got a grip on his own heart and you hardly know the extent of it. “some chick left her stupid dog in her apartment while the building burnt down.” your fingers are soft as they brush over his chest and then his back before you reach for your stethoscope. “i told you, ‘m fine.”

rolling your eyes, you press the cool metal tool to bakugou’s back— his shoulders rippling at the cool temperature and his tight protective shirt does nothing to hide the dips of each muscle beneath it. “who’s the chief of cardio at this hospital, blondie?” you tease him, feeling around for the dull thump of his heart. the one that you’re so used to. the one that you love to hear. you’ve been treating katsuki since you were an intern and he’d just started out as a firefighter— now you’re here, years later, an attending in cardio at a top trauma-focused hospital in Japan and katsuki, the captain of his regiment.

bakugou rebuttals with pettish silence and you can’t help but smile to yourself. “exactly. i am.” there’s something about the way his heart sounds… beating faster and faster until it seems like it’s going to burst. it makes your face drop because as a doctor, it sounds like his heart is sick and not like he’s panicked over how close you are. “and i don’t go telling you how to do your job mister ‘i run into fires and save stupid dogs’, although i should. i see you in this ER more than i see my own apartment. dogs aren’t stupid by the way.”

“they are, ‘nd i told you, i’m fine.” amused, the blonde swats you away and clears his throat nervously when you meet his eye, moving to face him with the stethoscope hovering over his chest this time. stupidly and perfectly sculpted, it makes you hot under the skin.

“are not,” you respond to both of his statements like a child goading another one into getting in trouble. you even stick your tongue too. “and the girl was obviously worried sick about her pet. they can mean a lot people. just as much as a person can. when you love something, someone, their lives are important.”

just as you finish your wistful speech, katsuki’s pulse speeds on the monitor and your resident who had taken over charting perks up at the incessant beeping. “uh, doc? should we be concerned about that?”

you shouldn’t be. medically, it’s nothing — the firefighter is just flustered by you and your existence. how you speak so tenderly about someone’s love for something. to everyone else in this hospital including you, katsuki’s heart rate could be an indicator of something dangerous or life-ending instead of the obvious crush he has on you.

bakugou’s cheeks warm as he tries to bat your resident off of him— he can just tell that they want something to be wrong with him so the case can turn surgical. “get off’a me, twerp!” he spits, sourly. “i’m fine!”

“i’m the doctor, i decide when you’re fine. you decide when and how the fire goes out.” you’re scolding him, bantering with the man and it drives him up the wall— gives him another reason to fall for you.

relenting, and no longer fighting treatment— bakugou keeps talking to you, hungry for more than just your medical attention. “okay, the dog wasn’t stupid. it was…just dumb of the chick to leave him. he meant a lot to her son ‘nd that typa carelessness pisses me off. went back in to keep the kid from losin’ his animal…am i off the hook now?”

“so you do have a heart, i knew you went back in there for a reason.” you smile softly despite your worry for his health, repeatedly checking his pulse on the monitor until you can get it down. “he’s got elevated breath sounds on the right and a racing pulse. no soot in his lungs but i’d like to get him up to CT just to double check.” you tell your resident and step back to put the arms of his bed up.

“how many times do i gotta tell you, doc? i’m fine!”

bakugou grows grumpier. maybe because after all these years of him coming in for check-ups…you haven’t realised how much he likes you.

how much me might even love you.

“i know that, but i want to make sure, and i figured you’d want to stay with me for a few extra hours while i check up on you.” honey runs through his ears as you speak, leaning over bakugou to lower his bed and wheel him around with your resident.

bakugou blushes profusely, forgets how to breathe and how to speak. “s-shut up,” he stutters.

because you still don’t know how much of his heart you hold in your practiced hands.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou x you #bakugou fluff #bakugou imagines #bakugou drabble #bakugo x reader #mha x reader #bnha x reader #bnha fluff #bnha imagines #mha fluff #katsuki bakugou x reader #✧ ₊˚੭ — writing #tteokdoroki #✧ ₊˚💭੭ — aali just posted

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personasintro · 7 months

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Mutual Help | #32

↳ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬; in order for you to pretend to be his girlfriend, he helps you with your sexual desires ⏤ he calls it mutual help

⇢ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: jungkook x reader

⇢ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fake dating au, fluff, angst, smut, slow burn

⇢ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: explicit language

⇢ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.4k+

⇠ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯. | 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐱 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ⇢

The first message full of shock comes from Jimin, sometime in the middle of the week after you've had the time to look at your phone. Clicking on the message he sent you, your brows furrow in a slight confusion as a picture comes into view. You quickly realize it's a screenshot, not just an ordinary screenshot though. It's from Jungkook's Instagram.

Jiminie: wtf are you guys back together???

There's no doubt that you're not the one in the picture holding hands with Jungkook. You would know if you were the one in it, but you know very well who it is. The picture itself is simple but soft at the same time, them holding hands as a sunset shines in the background making it more artistic and beautiful. He captioned it with a simple heart emoji, not tagging her or anything that could reveal the true identity of a person he's holding hands with.

"no, it's not me" you reply back, nibbling on your bottom lip wondering if it's your place to reveal Jungkook's mysterious 'new girlfriend'. Surely, Jimin is going to be curious who it is when it's not you and your assumption proves to be right when a new message comes up on your screen.

Jiminie: he's got a new girlfriend already??? who is it?

Deciding that Jungkook wouldn't post that picture in the first place if he didn't want anyone to know yet, your thumbs hover over the screen for a few seconds before you think 'fuck it' and type your answer.

"it's Kiko"

The three dots appear instantly and then they're gone, obviously describing Jimin's shock before your phone is flooded with a set of new messages.

Jiminie: kiko???

Jiminie: you can't be serious

Jiminie: please tell me this is a joke

Jiminie: wtf

Jiminie: this has to be a joke right??!!

Jiminie: are you okay?

Right, he thinks you and Jungkook were dating forreal, he doesn't know about the deal and that you're not heartbroken like you probably should be. That's if you were his real girlfriend in the first place.

And you do feel bad about not telling him the truth, but you and Jungkook had a deal where you both agreed not to tell anyone. Plus, a message is not a place to reveal such a thing. You know you can trust Jimin, he wouldn't tell anyone if you told him what it was really about but you're not in the mood to make any fuss about it.

"I am, don't worry about me :) I'm really fine" you assure him, knowing he probably doesn't believe you until he talks to you about it in person but fortunately, he lets it go and sends you a thumbs up.

You tuck your phone back into your jeans before your name resounds in the room, Junho calling for you with his usual frown.

"Y/N? Can you please help us?"

You nod, ignoring the way he's glaring at you for using your phone when it's not your break yet. Coming into the room full of people and a few models, you notice Yoongi standing beside Junho with his impressed look and you just know he's mentally sending curses at Junho for bossing around everyone, barking orders.

The chattering of people fills the room, along with clicking sounds and occasional phone beeping that makes you sight at the distracting sounds. The pencil in your hands clicks against your wooden desk, staring at the blank paper in front of you. Your body craves for some more caffeine, in desperate need to wake you up from your slumber and lack of inspirational state. You're supposed to come with new location ideas for the next photoshoot in less than a week, the deadline slowly making you lose your cool. The cold weather narrowed a lot of options for you. You've barely managed to come up with two ideas, the very ones that are sitting at the bottom of your desk in hope you'll come up with something better.

Looking at the time on your phone, you sigh when you still got twenty minutes into a break. Someone would surely notice if you'd just stand up and make your way to the cafeteria area.

Your boss wouldn't surely appreciate seeing you there before your actual break time. Just as thoughts whether you should risk it or not, Junho walks on your floor with a man beside him. Your brows furrowing in confusion, trying to identify him from a distance, the realization makes you confused even more.

Jungkook walks beside your boss, a camera securely held in his hands before he takes it with one hand, shaking your boss' with the other one. With a sweet smile, which is hard to see from him, he waves at him before he disappears behind the corner, probably going back to his office.

He stands there, looking around with slightly scrunched eyes and soon enough, his eyes find yours before a wide grin spreads on his lips. He's walking towards you, catching some of your co-workers' eyes at the new face but he ignores them, grinning at you.

"Hey, slacker." he greets you, setting his camera onto your desk. Slacker. Has he met Yoongi?

"What are you doing here?" you ask him confusingly, not believing that Jungkook is in the same building as you. You've never seen him here before and it's quite a surprise.

"The company asked me if I could shoot models," he answers with a shrug, looking around since this is the first time he's here. "I was so surprised when they called me. I was thinking about telling you when we were on the phone the other day, but I thought surprising you would be better." he grins, obviously pleased with his plan when he sees your confused frown and open mouth.

It's no lie Jungkook has many experiences taking photos of models. In addition to weddings and other celebration events, he used to take photos of his pretty classmates back in college while he added those pictures to his portfolio. Those girls looked like models for sure, posed like they've been doing it for years or maybe it was just Jungkook's great skills of photographing and editing. You vividly remember him shooting a few models when he worked for some modeling company for over a year. He used to add those pictures on his Instagram, earning him exposure and a couple of hundred new followers.

"How did I not know about this?" you ask, the question more aimed at Junho and the rest of the team since you usually would know if there were any changes with the photographer.

Jungkook shrugs, "They told me the previous photographer got sick or something. I don't really care though, this company pays so well." he beams, visibly enthusiastic about the pay but can you blame him?

Snorting, you shake your head at him. "Are you scheduled for the photoshoot that's in twenty minutes?" you ask him curiously.

"Yeah, your boss just went over some of his ideas, mainly informing me about the theme and things like that. Is he the one you complained about?" he asks, making sure none of your co-workers could hear him, even though they would most likely agree with you.

Junho can be a real asshole, especially when he's stressed and thinks everyone is his servant. "Yeah."

"He wasn't that bad." Jungkook shrugs and you recall him smiling at your best friend, a very rare sight if someone asks you.

"Trust me, he's usually a dick. It must be because you're either a stranger or because he's in a good mood." you point out.

"It's my charm," he grins, sitting at the edge of your desk as you take his appearance into account.

For today, he swapped his usual cargo pants and oversized hoodie (among other pieces of clothes that he seems to love) with black jeans and denim jacket with a white shirt tucked underneath. Still, you notice his favorite black boots that he seems to wear all the time and it makes the corner of your lips tug upwards.

"People love me." he adds, causing you to snort.

"Oh, get over yourself," you roll your eyes at his confidence as he's joking of course, scrunching his nose a bit at that while he laughs. "Jimin texted me the other day," you start once the two of you calm down, Jungkook's eyes looking at you with interest. "He saw the picture of you and Kiko."

"Yeah," he chuckles lightly, looking down at his lap for a moment. "He spammed me with messages asking if it's really her."

"Sorry, I was the one who told him it's her. He texted me and I didn't know what to say, I didn't really wanna lie to him." you confess, seeing him giving you a wave and tells you not to worry about it.

"I'd told him, it's not like it's a secret or something. Don't worry about it." He gives you a smile.

"So, how are you guys?" you ask, trying to give him a smile back but you rather focus your eyes on your desk as you let go of the pen and lean yourself against the chair.

Over the week, you barely had spoken together, mainly over a text or you sending to each other meme pictures. Thus, you never had a chance to really ask how their relationship is going so far. The last time you talked about it was at the bar and then none of you brought it. There never was a reason to bring it up to be honest, it doesn't seem like a topic to go through a text. Or maybe Jungkook purposely doesn't bring her up knowing you're not very fond of her and it's still new.

"Good, I took her on a date yesterday," he answers sheepishly (or maybe cautiously) but then when he sees you nod, he continues. "Like I said, we're taking it slow. She's supposed to come over tonight for the first time since, you know... we broke up."

Come over, huh? Well, it's not like she hasn't been there before. She used to practically live there and she would, if Jungkook had the chance to ask her to move in. It's just a matter of time before Jungkook will think about asking her again, that's if their relationship will be good like he's hoping it'd be.

"Are you nervous?" you ask curiously, noticing how the amusement that was there just a few minutes ago is gone.

"No," he quickly disagrees, "I just wonder how it'll go, I guess. I mean... the dates have been amazing but I'm more cautious now. Does that make sense?" he lets out a chuckle, but it comes out nervous and maybe even embarrassed.

It makes your features soften as you give him a gentle smile. "Of course, it does. It's only fair for you to be cautious." you assure him.

However, if he's going to feel cautious for the rest of their relationship, you don't see how that'll do any good. On the other hand, you see that he's trying and he definitely doesn't need your honest opinion about it, or more likely hear it since he probably knows it by now. All he needs is support and maybe someone that won't judge him for his decision.

"But I'm excited too, don't get me wrong. But it feels so weird at the same time. Anyway, it's going to be a chill evening, maybe we'll watch a few movies or something." he shrugs, a little pout on his lips as he seems unsure about tonight's plans.

You nod along his words, trying not to let them affect you so much. You wonder if he's going to call you to watch a movie sometime like he used to. There are still some doubts you have, wondering if he's not going to neglect you like the first time.

"Mr. Jeon, are you ready?" Junho calls, visibly trying to mask the surprise of you knowing Jungkook and how close you seem to be, considering he's sitting on the edge of your desk while you're slouched on the chair, a complete opposite of your usual ladylike appearance.

You cough, straightening yourself while Jungkook snickers underneath his breath at you.

"Yeah, sure." he calls out to Junho, turning to him briefly before he grins at you.

"Go on, Mr. Jeon before he'll bite off your head for making him wait." you joke underneath your breath, Jungkook giving you a playful roll of your eyes.

"See ya." he waves at you and you do the same thing, not really sure if his words are just an empty promise. It's in the stars when you'll see him again.

As you're chilling on your couch later that evening, too caught up with watching a new movie while stuffing yourself with ramen, surrounded by no one's presence but your own, your phone that's been sitting on the coffee table for quite some time vibrates with a new message. You're halfway with getting noodles into your mouth as you glance at your phone, Jungkook's name flashing on your screen.

Maybe the universe listened to your silenced thoughts that you've never spoken loudly, because they're exactly that. Silenced thought. Perhaps, it's Jungkook's way of telling you that time things could be different. Or maybe that you underestimated him too soon.

Kook: karaoke night on friday? jimin and tae could tag along too

Putting down the chopsticks, you pick up the phone and unlock it before staring at the message for a moment when the screen illuminates your face. You don't realize that you stare at the message, the movie long forgotten and is just a blunt noise in the background. It's understatement you're quite surprised by his message, considering you thought he'd be spending his Friday night with his girlfriend.

Your thoughts are interrupted with Jungkook's name flashing on your screen, this time in a form of incoming call which you take with a grin spreading on your most likely stained lips from ramen. Before you can say something, Jungkook is already one step ahead of you.

"You know I can see you read my text?" he asks amusingly and you can picture his own grin perfectly, hearing it clearly in his voice.

Snorting, you reach for the controller and pause the movie. "Too scared I would left you on read?" you joke, hearing him feign an offended and dramatic gasp.

"You wouldn't!" he continues, causing you to laugh at him before his own laugh boosts through the speaker. "Well, I'm deeply disappointed. I was looking forward to singing our hearts out on Friday night."

Your shoulders shake at the chuckle you let out, amused with your best friend. "I was about to reply to you," you inform him, smiling as you say it which he can certainly hear. "Guess I had to process your text, you surprised me." you joke, with no intention to let out a bitter remark.

Frankly, it's not a bitter remark and it surely hasn't sounded like one, the light and amused tone is just enough evidence that you meant no harm. And Jungkook knows that, yet he catches onto the double meaning of your words and hears the unsure and nervous chuckle you give him, once you realize how it sounded.

"Y/N," he calls out softly, making you feel like an idiot for even saying such a thing.

You nibble on your bottom lip, not sure what to say.

"I told you, I'm not neglecting you again,"

It's weird. Jungkook is probably the only person who can read you so accurately, almost as if he knows what's going through your head.

And you smile, letting out a puff of breath that you've been holding since he called out your name. He tells you he's not taking a no for an answer, causing you to giggle while a clear happiness erupts in your chest.

Perhaps, this time will be different after all.

"I had fun tonight, thank you." Kiko's soft voice reaches Jungkook's ears as soon as he turns off the engine, turning his head to look at her with a gentle smile.

"I had fun too," It had been a casual evening spent watching a movie, talking and joking around, maybe a few innocent kisses here and there. He even hesitated when he gathered his car keys to take her home, thinking about asking her to stay over but then he had to remind himself he wants to take it slow. Of course, it doesn't mean her sleeping over has to end with them sleeping together. He's not quite sure he's ready for that, even though he prayed he wouldn't sport a boner whenever they kissed.

He still has a lot of things to figure out, first he had to make sure he actually doesn't feel repulsed kissing her. He doesn't. He had found kissing her easy and natural, no thought of someone else crossed his mind while their lips were moving together. That's a good thing.

Jungkook is the one who asked to take things slow, Kiko is just respecting it and doesn't want to cross any boundaries, realizing how lucky she is right now. She even thinks to ask him to come up for a moment but she refuses it, Jungkook's request repeating in her mind.

They stare at each other, Jungkook's eyes dropping down at her lips before he leans towards her. She meets him halfway, letting their lips meet for the last time tonight. It's slow and tender, full of emotions as Jungkook cups her face while unbuckling his seatbelt to get closer to her.

As much as tonight has been nice, nicer and more comfortable than Jungkook thought, he still spent some time wondering how he feels about certain things. Of course, he wanted her and he is happy. For the first time, he doesn't feel heartbroken when he stares into her brown eyes. Forgiven but not forgotten, just like he said to her when they met up for dinner. Therefore, he's had enough time to think about how he wants this to work.

He's aware of Kiko patiently waiting on any more requests coming from him. She's determined to listen to him and do everything in her power to save their relationship.

"I don't want to know," he whispers when he slightly pulls away from her lips, their foreheads pressed together while he inhales her sweet perfume. She smells like roses.

He recognizes confusion in her eyes, causing him to clear his throat before he lets out a light sigh. "I don't want to know who it was. I don't want to know anything about it. The less I know is better. Then I won't be thinking about it that much."

She pulls away with a pained expression, nodding along his words to let him know she understands and will fully respect that. She doesn't want to bring it up either, she's ashamed and perhaps she'd want to clear some things out after all, but like Jungkook said... the less he knows is better.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, leaning back in the seat as she stares out of the window at the apartment building she lives at. "I'm so sorry."

There's nothing for Jungkook to say. He doesn't want to say 'it's okay' because it's not. Maybe someone would call him stupid for getting back to her, but he's not that stupid to persuade her that what she has done is okay. She hurt him and she's able to see that whenever she looks into his deep eyes. Still, the young couple believes their love is stronger than this. They're surely not the first couple to get back together under such circumstances. Only a few people would truly understand their – Jungkook's decision.

"What's done is done," he says, briefly looking in front of him before he looks back at her. "I want this to work."

She nods, agreeing with him. "Of course, I want that too."

"Just... don't break my heart again." he mumbles softly, looking down at his lap.

Someone would say Jungkook is a tough man, especially when seeing his build figure and tattoos covering his skin. But he's got more layers than that, he's not a tough man at all actually. However, only a few people know that Jungkook is quite sensitive.

"I won't," she says determined but still softly, "I'd never do such a thing."

"But you did." Jungkook says, his brows frowning. He doesn't mean to sound like he's blaming her again, all he wants is to not think about it that much and maybe learn how to live with it. But it'll take time.

"I'd never do such a thing again," she corrects herself, taking his hands in hers. The size of their hands is almost funny but Jungkook stares at them with soft eyes. "I'll do whatever you want me to, Kookie. Just say the word. I love you so much, I'm sorry I hurt you."

She told him that a couple of times, she's just making sure he knows that.

He nods, wishing he could trust her just like that but she'll have to earn it. Words are not enough, it's the actions. So, for the last time tonight they kiss and it's full of pain, but of love as well. Giving him that tiny assurement that things are able to get better. Maybe it'll hunt him for quite some time but if he wants her, he'll have to learn how to accept it and live with it.

And maybe it'll destroy him or just prove him that he's not stupid for making that decision, but strong instead. And full of love too.

"Come on, Y/N! One song!"

You roll your eyes for the hundredth time at your best friend, sinking in your seat beside Jimin and Taehyung in hope their bodies could swallow you whole and your best friend would not be able to see you.

"I'm not drunk enough for this!" you reason, hearing Taehyung and Jimin laugh.

What, they know it's true. Jungkook knows that too. You've to at least have some alcohol inside you to be able to sing aloud in front of them, especially when Jungkook sings freaking good. You'd sound like a broken siren beside Jungkook, you're not ready for that embarrassment while being sober.

Jungkook cackles, putting down the mic. "Coming right up." he sings, opening the mini fridge in the small karaoke room that you rented for today's evening.

He pulls out a beer and hands it to you, in hope you'll sing your heart out with him soon. As much as he's enjoying singing with Taehyung and Jimin, the two of you are crazy whenever it's karaoke night.

"Okay, let's sing... Candy Shop!" Jimin yells excitedly, already turning on the song as he grabs one of the mics. "You, get drunk!" he points at you, raising a brow as you chuckle and open the beer for yourself, taking a gulp. "Let's go boys!"

You watch the three of them rapping, Jimin imitating the woman's voice while you record them, cackling on the small black leather sofa. He starts wiggling his ass, Jungkook not being able to sing how much he's laughing while Taehyung tries his best, singing and laughing at the same time. Their faces are red, their laughs filling up the room with your own as Jimin turns to you, wiggling his brows.

"Oh no!" you yell, already putting your legs up but Jimin slaps your legs back down, his ass right in front of you as he's giving you a lap dance while trying to rap the song.

You laugh, your stomach hurting while you flick off Taehyung when you notice him recording it. Knowing him, he's already posting it on his Instagram stories. Jungkook throws his head back, laughing as he claps excitedly, finding your red cheeks more than amusing.

Idiots. But they're your idiots.

One hour later and your third can of beer, things progressed a lot. You're no longer sitting and laughing at your friends, saving your own embarrassment for later.

"Are they... fucking serious?" Jimin mumbles with bewilderment on his face, watching you and Jungkook jumping while singing one of Rihanna's songs.

"We found love in a hopeless place, We found love in a hopeless place!" you both sing, gripping your mics tightly while you're too close to each other, noses almost touching.

You can feel Jungkook's breath on your face, his cologne hitting your nose while you both act dramatically just for the song. Completely clueless to your two other friends in the room that stare at you totally dumbfounded.

"Didn't they... break up?" Taehyung asks, leaning towards Jimin while he shares the same look of confusion, sitting on the couch beside his friend.

"They did," Jimin answers, seeing the two of you jumping as the chorus starts to play. "It's better than some tension or hatred feelings between them, right?" he asks unsurely, still finding it weird the two of you are completely fine when you were dating only recently.

"It's the way I'm feeling I just can't deny, but I've gotta let it go!" Your voice boosts through speakers, your hand dramatically touching Jungkook's side of face while he plays along, leaning to your touch.

It's crazy that you keep going, even after singing top hits for the last half an hour. You're both breathless, your hair disheveled as if you've ran a marathon but all you've done so far is jump around and dance.

Jungkook looks somehow similar to you, his hair put in a bun to keep it from his face. His cheeks flushed, both from the alcohol and from the constant singing and dancing.

God, you just hope you won't get kicked out of this place. You're sure the two of you can be heard from the outside, but you can't bring yourself to care. One, you're already drunk and two, you're having fun. The song ends sooner than you wanted it to and you quickly pick another one, seeing Jungkook grinning from the corner of your eyes as he starts to stretch, preparing for another round of wild singing and dancing.

Jimin and Taehyung are watching you, but the two of you are too busy to notice that look on their faces.

"'Cause you are the piece of me I wish I didn't need, chasing relentlessly, still fight and I don't know why," you and Jungkook sing together, already somewhere around the tenth song by now. "If our love is tragedy, why are you my remedy? If our love's insanity, why are you my clarity?"

"They're so fucking weird." Taehyung comments, staring with his big eyes at the two of you.

Jungkook grabs the back of your head, bringing you closer to him while you giggle while singing, your fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt.

"It's them," Jimin shrugs, taking a gulp from his own beer. "They have always been different than most best friends."

"Yeah, they're exes now too." Taehyung deadpans while Jimin rolls his eyes, but silently agrees with his younger friend.

After the song ends, Jungkook proudly declares he's going to "take a piss" (his words) causing Taehyung to tell him he's going too, leaving you and Jimin alone. You plop next to Jimin, pouting when he hands you an orange juice instead of a beer can. You've had enough, you can feel it that you're getting sleepy as soon as you allow your body to relax. However, with alcohol in your system you wouldn't be too opposed to drinking some more.

Unfortunately for a drunk you, Jimin already knows you by now and even offers you some crackers which you decline, sipping on orange juice.

"Are you and Jungkook really fine?" He takes the privacy of the room to address his confusion and worry, seeing you lean against the sofa before you glance at him with a slight frown.

"Yeah," you nod, "I already told you." You did, through text. He wants to see and hear you saying it.

"But he's back with Kiko." he points out as if you didn't know, causing you to chuckle as you shake your head.

"No, shit, Sherlock. I know." you laugh, met with Jimin's frown as he seems completely dumbfounded all over again.

"And you're not a little bit hurt by that? I'm sorry, I just find it hard to believe that you don't care and are completely fine with it."

"I'm not," you shrug, sweeping a few hair strands off your face that manage to fall out of your messy bun. "But just because she cheated. He doesn't deserve that. She doesn't deserve him." you slur out honestly, shrugging as Jimin nods agreeing.

"Yeah, but that's it? That's the only reason you don't like them together?"

Perhaps you're drunk, but you're not stupid and recognize the hidden meaning behind Jimin's interrogation. "What are you on about, Jimin? Spill it out." you raise your brow at him, seeing him give you a little distressed look.

"Isn't it because... I don't know, you love him, maybe?"

You almost choke on your spit, Jimin patting your back once you almost shoot from your seat, staring at you with wide and worried eyes. "You good?"

Ignoring his question, you glare at Jimin. "I don't love Jungkook." you inform him, causing his mouth to open.

"You don't?"

"No," you shrug, "I mean... I don't love him like that."

"And how do you love him then?" he asks confusingly.

"Like a best friend." you answer casually, deciding to taste the bacon flavored crackers after all.

You stuff your mouth, ignoring Jimin's eyes on you. "But you were dating." he points out.

It makes you snort but you don't comment any further. "Yeah, and we're not anymore. We're best friends."

"But didn't you guys love each other when you were dating?"

You turn to him, glaring at him as he quickly jumps to explain himself. "Sorry, I just thought you wouldn't be dating if you guys didn't love each other or had any deeper feelings for each other. You wouldn't risk your friendship like that."

You pause, stopping your chewing before you swallow it slowly. But Jimin sees the way you froze for a second and that's all he needs to confirm his suspicion. "You're not telling me something." It's not a question, it's a realization.

"Jimin," you sigh, mentally cursing yourself for not controlling your reactions better. But it's not fair of him to interrogate you while you're drunk.

"It's okay, you don't have to tell me," he tells you softly, "But no matter what it is, you can tell me when you feel like it."

"I know," you tell him softly, giving him a faint smile. "Thank you, but I'm fine really." you assure him, earning a nod from him.

Wiping your sweaty hands against your jeans, you straighten yourself as Jungkook and Taehyung come back, grinning and laughing about something.

"You guys ready to go?" Taehyung asks, the only person completely sober since he's the driver for tonight.

You're sure you won't have any voice tomorrow morning, but surely will have a hangover from the alcohol you've drank tonight. Jimin helps you to get you to stand up, eyeing you worriedly when he sees you stumble but you laugh it off, leaning against Jungkook once everyone gets out of the room.

"I'm drunk," you comment while you wait for Taehyung and Jimin to pay for tonight, each of you splitting the bill beforehand.

Jungkook chuckles, holding you tighter when he feels you sliding down a bit.

"Today was fine. I mean fun." you blubber, causing Jungkook to hum while he stares at Taehyung and Jimin before glancing back at you.

Your eyes are already fluttering shut while a lazy smile makes its way on your lips.

"It was," he agrees grinning, "Let's get you home."

With Taehyung and Jimin approaching the two of you, you all are ready to go back home. They make sure you get into your apartment safely, bidding their goodbyes while you do the same thing, ready to take a shower and go straight to your soft bed.

You go to bed with a smile on your face, memories of tonight replaying in your head having no idea what the universe has prepared for the both of you.

#networkbangtan #ksmutclub #ficswithluv #btswritingcafe #bts smut #jungkook x reader #bts angst #bts fluff #bts au #jungkook fic #personasintro

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pluvialpoet · 20 days

Text

bergamot

Summary: moments of quiet reflection reaffirm what you both already know to be true- he’s always going to come back, and you’re always going to be waiting with open arms

Pairing: dick grayson x fem!reader

Requested: no

Warning: idiots in love, friends to lovers, mutual pining, scarecrow's fear toxin, mentions of death and grief, slight angst, fluffy ending, loosely based off of batman: hush (2019)- but no major spoilers

Word Count: 3,930

masterlist

a/n: I know that dick has a tolerance against/is immune to scarecrow's fear toxin, but let's pretend he isn't...for the plot

Sleep is cruel in the way it continues to evade you when you crave it most. Mocking and teasing, exhaustion morphs into desperation. Even with your eyes shut dreams fail you, and nightmares taunt.

A siren wails, bellowing out into the night and echoing caution even after the initial cry has faded. Could be a police car, or an ambulance. Maybe even a fire truck. You try not to consider all of the possibilities, knowing it’ll only starve your slumber, further. With a huff, you adjust the heavy comforter, pulling it up until it bunches just under your chin.

In a few weeks, branches will be stripped of their leaves. Snow will fall, and the city will suffocate under a blanket of white. July was only yesterday, sticky and never-ending- infinite until finite. Now, January lurks around the corner- weeks away, but daunting, nevertheless.

The pillow tucked behind your back is a poor imitation of the brawn you wish feathers and fill could replicate, just as the one pressed to your chest acts as an imposter mimicking the body meant to be sleeping peacefully beside you. It’s impossible to tell feelings of loneliness apart from being alone, and deep down you know that reminiscence is merciless. Memory is wicked. But you can’t help remembering. It’s the only way you won’t forget- and even then, so much time has passed that you’ve begun to fade, and he’s begun to blur. Spiraling further and further away from reality and control, you drift towards hope, feeding each dangerous possibility until you have nothing left to give, but delusion takes and takes and takes…

Answers elude like comfort- and sleep. When, how, and why is lost upon you. He’s been gone for so long. Even so, your life has continued, evolving to accommodate the gaps he used to fill. Though, it’s about as effective as papier-mâchéing an open wound shut. Everywhere you look, everything you do, every time you shut your eyes, he finds a way to bleed into you, one way or another, and you welcome it every single time. All you really have are memories and a space in your bed which has always been his to come home to.

Outside, the wind howls. Angry and violent, the sound rattles the windowpane and you burrow deeper into the covers trying to block it out. Shadows dance across the ceiling, but none of them belong to the ghost you’ve been waiting for. Another frustrated huff fails to quell burning exhaustion, and you rub your eyes with the back of your hand before checking the clock next to you. Neon green flashes, all too pleased to report that it’s well past midnight and you haven’t gotten a wink of sleep. Already tomorrow, and you’re still mourning today.

Pushing the covers off, you shiver. There’s a chill in the air and little comfort to be found in the fact that the entire apartment feels cold and empty without him in it. At least it’s not just the bed. It’s the entire room, the hallway, and the kitchen, too. You reach for the light above the stove and begin to search the cupboards for a mug. If nothing else, at least a cup of tea will warm you up. Thanks to muscle memory, you act on autopilot, filling the ceramic with water and placing it in the microwave before picking a teabag and waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting, always waiting. Three monotone beeps call your attention back before it has another chance to wander away from you, and you retrieve the cup and place the teabag inside. Steeping time be damned.

You can’t wait any longer.

One leg curls under the other as you take a seat and bring the mug to your mouth. It burns the tip of your tongue, a small price to pay for your greed, and you swallow the too-hot liquid regardless of the consequences. The pain barely registers, anyway. With both palms pressed to the vessel, warmth finally finds you, and a barely contented huff passes your lips to blow the steam from the cup. It’s not always like this. It’s not supposed to be, but for so long, it has been. Never months, always weeks. You don’t know how to do this or how much longer you can put yourself through this torture when every sunrise twists the knots in your stomach tighter and tighter. How much longer until you snap?

You’re so tangled up in your suffering that you miss it the first time, until the hair on the back of your neck bristles. Did you imagine it? Silently, you wait, setting the steaming mug down to listen, and this time, you hear it. Faintly, but there. Real.

Tap tap. Tap tap. Tap tap tap tap.

I’m here. I’m safe. Can I come in?

Your feet move before the rest of your body does, and the chair scrapes loudly across the hardwood as you jump from it in shock. A cocktail of excitement, worry, disbelief, and fear bubbles and swirls through you when you spot a familiar glimpse of black and blue through the window near the fire escape.

“Dick?”

Crossing the room without any memory of doing so, you fiddle with the latch that keeps you from him, and him from you, until finally it clicks. With only one foot through the window, you reach for him, desperate to savor the illusion until mass, warmth and a heartbeat prove it to be real. Upon realizing, your breath hitches. He’s real. He’s real, and he’s here. No longer a dream. No longer a nightmare. No longer a vision only sleep can grant or mold, he stands before you. He takes a moment to properly slide the window shut behind him, returning the lock to its rightful position- keeping the rest of the world and the winter, out- before turning to face you once more. He can’t even get a word out before you’re pressed against him, wrapping your arms around him and holding yourself back from crushing him with the intensity of your longing. Overly cautious of injuries you can’t physically see- mindful of bruises, tears of flesh, and wounds that remain eclipsed by kevlar and moonlight- you embrace him with a hesitancy that severely undermines your fervor. Holding him gently- delicately, tenderly- the way you’ve dreamt about entwining with him on nights when sleep has been generous instead of cruel, you finally look up at him.

A sigh of relief dispels the hoarded tension in your neck, shoulders, and chest when you rest your head against his chest and inhale. Sweat and copper muddle his natural scent, but even when he’s covered in his victories, even when he’s drenched in his defeats, he still smells like home- warm, safe, familiar, and comforting.

He hesitates to envelop you with the same thinly veiled desperation, holding himself back.

Every muscle in his body carries the strain of battles fought and won. His head throbs with the force of his thoughts, and the inescapable dizziness that always accompanies crashing down from a high. Then again, he’s never been one to ease into things gracefully. Tiny cuts and scrapes, angry blacks and blues, and even gaping gashes that are still seeping and tender to the touch hardly register as anything other than a stinging, burning sensation. Everything is dull. Ferocity and intensity both subdued. Through the haze of everything that competes for his attention, you’re the one thing that’s clear. As always, the hold you have on him, both physical and metaphorical, brings him back to his senses, but doubt keeps him withdrawn.

Warily wrapping his arms around you, Dick returns the gesture as best as he can. Cages built of muscle, meant to keep you close, refuse to lock you in place, and he finds it increasingly difficult to resist surrendering to you entirely. Just as his nerves begin to settle they spike once more when the gravity of the past few months finally begins to sink in. As you continue to tremble in his arms, he swallows a lump in his throat and fights the urge to hold you impossibly closer. If he weren’t so afraid, he’d never let go again. But he’s not the same man he was the last time you saw him. Having seen too much, he knows that he can’t let this become something more. Fear is rotten. He’s seen the future, and if he keeps leaning on you then he’s only going to drag you down with him. Regardless of what he really wants, he won’t let this become something more, but then he looks down at you in his shirt and realizes it’s always been something more- and it terrifies him more than anything.

When pink swirls around the drain- a muted severity of soapy lather and remnants of crusted, oozing red- he rests his forehead against the cold tiles and lets out a deep sigh. He can’t remember the last time he’d had a proper shower. Under the trickling scorch, he allows his shoulders to slump forward, letting the too-hot water soothe his muscles like a balm, and it stings in a way he welcomes- a reminder that he’s done it again, he’s survived the worst and now he just has to survive the recovery.

He’s never been good with the after, always losing himself in possibilities of what comes next without taking a minute to catch his breath, but he’s trying to be better. He owes it to you. Not only you but himself, too- but mostly you. So, he tries to forget. He pushes memories too fresh to be forgotten somewhere else, banishing them to the far corners of his mind and locking them away until he’s ready to face his demons at his own pace, on his own terms, but his wicked creations fight back. Even when they’re crafted from delusions, mirroring real-life counterparts with a precision too exact to be a figmented replication, he finds himself engaged in an internal match that never crowns a victor. It’s a conflict that never ceases, even after his own surrender. Still, he’s found that the intrusions are less when copper is overpowered by citrus, and when red, inevitably swirls into pink.

Steam amplifies the smell of sweat and body odor, so pungent that the only word to describe it is bad, and he holds his breath while he reaches for your soap once more. He can’t believe you let him anywhere near you. It’s even more unfathomable that you sought an embrace, despite the remnants of battle that’ve woven themselves into his being- lingering, even long after. He’s repulsed by that which exposes him, a stench so strong that it serves as a testament to the fact that he reclaimed you as soon as he could, coming right back to this haven of sorts without any prior stops, and his stomach churns uncomfortably, the once soothing mist tainting each attempt at air, and a weight teases the aching muscles of his chest which breath does not alleviate.

Through the haze, he sees the truth- when reality remains undistorted by the tricks of his own want and longing, he recognizes fact without his own warped perceptions of fantasy- and he realizes just how careless he’s been. By allowing desire to suade better judgment, he’s put you at risk. Guilt punishes with an onslaught of emotions ranging from frustration to anger, sadness to grief, and even regret to sorrow. His own reluctance to accept how dangerous it was, and always has been, to lean on your affections as a crutch has finally caught up to him. After all that he’s seen, after everything he’s been forced to bear witness to over the past few months, coupled with a lifetime of loss, he’s no longer able to ignore the thought that’s broken free from the shackles of elsewhere. What was once dull, always there but never really forgotten, has become intense and persistent.

Every time he finds his way back to you, he invites peril into your life. He’s hazardous. Even if he’s not, being attached to him- in any way- puts you at an even greater risk of endangerment. Trying to justify something even as tame as a friendship is absurd. You’re so much more than that. Whether he meant for it to happen or not, you’ve found a place within his heart. Every beat echoes your name and carries secrets of his devotion. All that remains of the walls meant to protect both of you is rubble, and Dick stands alone in the epicenter of the aftermath, unsure and torn between chaos and order. Selfishly, he wants. Greedily, he craves. Morally, he knows that he should just walk away- but he can’t.

The scene shifts, ceramic tile falling away to reveal an eerie, yet familiar boneyard, and he shakes his head. It’s not real. It was never real- but it was so vivid. Cold fog obscures his vision, and he closes his eyes. This is a trick. This isn’t truth. He knows what comes next. Forced to indulge in his worst nightmares, the shrill, piercing sound of your terror renders him numb. He can’t move. Paralyzed, he fights limbs of lead, but he can’t act. It surrounds him, your agony, and he can’t do anything to save you. He can’t protect you. With each cry of his name, you plead, but there’s nothing he can do. When silence follows his ragged breaths, he refuses to look down. He hates this part the most, but he doesn’t have a choice. Crimson stains the black and blue weave, and he can taste metallic. He doesn’t have any control over this hallucination, born and bred from his greatest fear, and all he can do is witness the fallout of your shared torture- your blood on his hands, his body slumped against your tombstone, and the triumphant laughter of a clown, a scarecrow, a ventriloquist, and a hundred more that delight in your demise.

He can’t catch his breath. Drifting further and further away from reality, he struggles to claw his way back towards the light. When his vision begins to fade, he reaches for more soap. In for three counts, out for four. In for three counts, and out for four, again, Dick feels lightheaded. There’s no limit to how far he’d go to keep you safe, not a single rule or code he wouldn’t break to protect you from anything and everything- and that’s an entirely different threat, in and of itself. His loyalty has the potential to become his ruin, and he’d let it- for your sake- but would that be enough? Could his devotion be enough to keep you safe from the otherwise brutal fate that awaits you with, and without, his intervention?

The bite of a washrag leaves his skin raw. Lost to his thoughts, he’s been mindlessly scrubbing away at his flesh, dousing himself with bubbled distraction. Another breath fails to alleviate his unease. All he can think about is that which is out of his control, and he can’t help but wonder, is there even a chance for the two of you?

Every thought is a contradiction.

He could wax poetic to Bruce about love- how precious and fragile and conscious it is- but he can’t even bring himself to act upon his own advice. Even worse than following in a denialist’s footsteps is being a hypocrite, but there are just too many variables for him to take into account- too many what-ifs and maybe’s that enable him to cower behind words left unspoken.

In spite of this, he dares to dream of a future where you’re his and he’s yours, and nothing else matters. Lost to his delusions, a smile threatens to work muscles that’ve remained dormant for months of disuse. It hurts. Stretching, pulling, and manipulating his face to actually convey what he’s feeling instead of trying to veil it, hurts. However, the worst pain follows. As he reaches for the illusion, it slips through his fingers- so close he can almost hold it, yet just out of reach, simultaneously- and just like that, reality distorts the mirage. Pried from him, ripped away and sporting his claw marks, what could’ve been remains what could’ve been- and it’s all his fault.

Fear suppresses his love.

He’s already lost so much, he can’t lose this, too. He won’t. However glutinous, he craves more- even when he knows he can’t have it, he wants with a desire that’s almost too strong to ignore. Almost. Locking his feelings away, he throws away the key, but his ribs begin to expand with the intensity of his longing, and his chest feels tight. This isn’t like before. It seems as if his secrets have outgrown their cages, and he finds himself at a crossroads. His mind begins to drift and he wonders if this agony is why Bruce kept Selina at arm’s length…

A sigh, and a revelation- he’s not Bruce, and you’re not Selina.

Dick’s been going about this all wrong. Despite everything he’s been taught about love and loss, he’s allowed a life outside of a domino mask and kevlar. He deserves to cherish someone, to protect and devote himself to something other than his work- someone to fight for, someone to come home to- and he deserves to be beloved, too. Even if only for tonight. Even if tomorrow isn’t promised and all you have is right now, you’re here. On the other side of the frosted glass screen and plaster, you’re waiting for him. Another smile, less forced and genuine, feels like a relief instead of a burden. His skin pebbles under the frigid stream left in the wake of molten steam. With a shiver, he seeks your warmth, reaching for the faucet and stepping out of the enclosure.

A worn shirt rests atop the counter, the fabric faded from years of wear and wash, folded neatly beneath a pair of fresh boxers and socks likely left behind from the last time, or the time before that, or even the time before…truth be told, he thought he’d lost it, misplaced it, or given it away. Of course, you’ve had it in your care, all along. The corner of his mouth threatens to twitch into a smile. Slipping the towel from around his waist, he begins to dress, wondering when you managed to sneak in without him hearing you. The door used to creak, and he realizes that you must have fixed it while he was gone. It’s hard not to think about what else might’ve changed since the last time he saw you. Would you have stayed with him, if he asked you to? You always have. Six years and counting, he muses if you always will…

His hair is getting long, again. Droplets fall from the overgrown strands at the base of his neck down his back, making him shiver and reach for his towel once more. He pats his hair down, ruffling it with the towel a few times before wiping away at the mirror. Making eye contact with his reflection he’s the first to look away. He’s looked worse and supposes that's a small win in and of itself, though he can’t stand the sight of himself any longer than he has to. A deep exhale and a shake of his head diverts his attention to the countertop where a spare toothbrush has been left out for him to use. Of course, he already knows where the toothpaste is. He helps himself with a growing smile and places it in the holder right next to yours when he’s done. His chest expands with something he can’t quite name when he finds himself surrounded by gentle reminders of your care. A small cup of water and painkillers act as physical embodiments of your thoughtfulness and he revels in the knowledge that you’re letting him know you’re there for him while giving him space to come down from whatever adrenaline rush the past few months have spiked. It’s in those silent gestures of love that he hears it the loudest, echoing and amplifying all around him.

It must be killing you to act so selflessly, and he tries not to be selfish with your affections, but it’s difficult not to feel like a burden when you’ve rearranged more than just a spot on the counter, or a place for him to keep his toothbrush next to yours, for him- giving him a home without expecting anything else in return.

Down the hall, the mattress protests against his arrival, angry springs squeaking from months of disuse before welcoming his weight and warmth on the side opposite of yours- his side, from the very moment, years ago, when he found his way back to you after a night that left him bloody and beaten but not broken. Never broken- not when he’s always had you. Though most memory of the first evening spent beside you remains a blur, the ability to recall details and specifics stolen from him as his wounds wept crimson tears that stained your hands and upholstery, fondness prevails. Despite robbed recollections, tender warmth, and affection remain. Even then, he knew. Without really knowing, without certainty, he was certain- he loved you, and you loved him, and every gentle, devoted gesture has always reaffirmed the one thing he could never doubt. Every silent offering, every selfless sacrifice, and piece of yourself that you’ve surrendered to him further insists that your heart acts in favor of three words never spoken.

His arm finds your waist easily, and he’s grateful that he doesn’t have to tiptoe around his reluctance to accept what this is, anymore. Not when you’re here. Not when you’re waiting so patiently for him, and snuggle back into his hold the moment he reaches out for you. Some limbs tangle, but not yours- the two of you fit perfectly together, like you were truly meant to be, and the moment that you’re allowed to converge, you press your palm flat against his arm, holding him close to you.

Reacquainting yourself with him after is always your favorite part. Though, your heart cleaves when your fingertips ghost over a new scar- the skin still raised and angry, even if the wound has closed. With something akin to sympathy, an apology for the pain he’s suffered that you can’t take away, you gently trace the new mark in acknowledgment.

Tomorrow, or later today, when the sunlight illuminates the sky, you’ll ask him about it. Or, maybe you won’t. When the first glimpses of warm light threaten to spill over the horizon, you might get answers to the questions you’ve spent the last few months pondering. Or, perhaps everything unasked will remain unresolved. Either way, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the fact that tonight, you’ll sleep- safe and protected, at ease and engulfed by all things him- and even if it only lasts for the night, you’ll cherish whatever small moments of intimacy the moon grants before the sun, inevitably, rips them away- a fate you’ve grown to expect, time and time again.

Still, you let your eyes flutter shut, basking in the silence for only a moment before it’s interrupted.

“I love you,” Dick confesses softly, words warm and whispered against your shoulder encouraged by a fleeting moment of courage- and the tender caress of your touch- that prompt the secret to spill from his chest, an accident he fears he may have to render excuses for to salvage whatever broken pieces are left of this unspoken relationship.

“I know,” With your back towards him he misses the stretch of a smile ghosting your lips, and finds himself tensing behind you. Could you have really known? All this time? Is that why he always comes back? Is that why you let him? “I love you, too,”

“No, I mean, I really lo-“

“Tell me in the morning, yeah?” You suggest before he can get too far ahead of himself. Torn between wanting to clarify his confession and realizing that maybe he doesn’t have to, Dick relents. He can’t really argue, anyway- having kept this to himself for so many years, another few hours won’t hurt. With a breath- of acceptance, not defeat or surrender- he closes his eyes and finally relaxes into your embrace.

It’s over.

For now, Dick can rest easy knowing that when the smell of bergamot fades, this tacit love will always remain, and he finds enough comfort in the realization to let it lull him into a peaceful sleep.

a/n: I love him so much!!! this has been rotting in my brain for nearly a year and I just found it in my drafts last night lol! anyway, this started as a challenge to myself where I wanted to see if I could write something with only five lines of dialogue, and I'm curious to hear how you all think it turned out! as always, requests are open! check out my request guidelines before submitting! and if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading!

everyone who requested to be tagged: @idyllcy @wicked-laugh @ul4lume

Send me some feedback, or request to be added to my taglist! (please specify which taglist you’d like to be added to- character or general) !Requests: OPEN!

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#dick grayson #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson imagine #dick grayson angst #dick grayson fluff #dick grayson fanfic #dick grayson fanfiction #nightwing #nightwing x reader #nightwing imagine #nightwing fluff #dc titans #dc imagine #dc comics imagine #dick grayson x y/n #dick grayson x you #nightwing x you #nightwing x y/n

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beepbeepdespair · 1 year

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a summary of my bugsnax thoughts at the moment (NO SPOILERS PLEASE) featuring @emiwith2braincells

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8bit-mau5 · 1 year

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i wanna get shay a short mean wife so bad

#he has a type. he has a type for shorter women who are dangerous and some form of #grumpy to uptight to mean/asshole scale. SO BAD.#SIGHS #KICKS THE DIRT #hes such a wifeguy and i wanna get him more lovers. lol #8bit beeps #WHAT ever #friends and mutuals this is @ you. i am @ing you to get shay ships

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missmeinyourbones · 7 months

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ahhh congrats on your milestone leah!! you deserve it all and more!

oh my god all these prompts are so good and you write everyone so well, how can we choose? for your event, may I suggest eren and "this this the first time i've felt the need to confess." or "it's okay, we're the best of friends."

ty for hosting this! I can't wait to see everything you come out with ٩(⌒‿⌒)۶

FIRST TIME I'VE FELT THE NEED TO CONFESS (e. jaeger)

a/n: drunk eren and dd reader, mutual pining but eren is shameless and reader has class, LOSER CORE EREN, reader referred to as "ma'am" once in a teasing context

L’s MIDNIGHTS EVENT!

If anyone saw this situation out of context, it might be funny. But in content—your context specifically—it's nothing less than a headache.

Because you've been saddled with the pleasure of driving home an absolutely trashed Eren, pulling him by his collar to your car as he whines and thrashes with objections.

"One date," he repeats, plopping dead weight into the passenger seat of your car and looking up at you with clouded eyes.

Your response is expected, "Nope."

Eren opens his mouth, but before you can hear whatever bullshit he was conjuring up, you shut his door and walk over to the other side of the car.

Without fail, as soon as you open your door, he's continuing his pleading.

"Just dinner? That's literally all I'm asking for, just one dinner where—"

"You know," you interrupt him as you slide into the driver's seat, "you're a sloppy drunk."

You watch the thought process (or lack thereof) in his mind as he smirks and leans his seat further back, "Drinking isn't the only thing I do sloppy if you—"

"Don't finish that sentence."

Eren's eyes travel in amusement from your blushing and aggravated face to where you turn the key in the ignition and white knuckle the steering wheel. He huffs and kisses his teeth, before defeatedly joking.

"Too far?"

You don't speak, but the glare you shoot him says enough. He holds his hands up in defense and turns his attention to his window.

Silence takes over the car for a few peaceful moments and you don't bring yourself to question it, because Eren not talking is a whole lot better than Eren talking. Not only talking, but asking you out—something he's never thought to do before in the entire three years of knowing you.

Between your own exhaustion and his pathetic alcohol tolerance, you're almost positive you can write it off as nonsense. That is, until Eren opens his big fat mouth up again.

"What if I beg?"

At a red light, you rest your forehead against the steering wheel in exasperation. You hear him borderline giggle as the action gently beeps on your horn.

Your voice comes weak, "Since when do you even want to ask me out? Are you that off your ass right now?"

That changes something in him, because even though he is off his ass right now, he's wanted to ask you out when he was sober about ten times over by now. It's not his fault he's never gotten the courage to do so until now. Right?

"No, fuck no, I—" he stumbles over the slurred syllables as his brain fogs, "I mean, I am drunk, yeah. But I've been far drunker."

Comically, you stare through him, as if he doesn't have a single thought in his puny little brain. When the light turns green, you turn away from him and start driving again, suddenly far too calm for his liking.

"Believe it or not, that doesn't make me feel any better."

Eren rubs his blurry eyes with a calloused hand. "Shit—yeah, I know, okay? Just, hold on. Let me start over, 'cause I do really do wanna buy you dinner and—”

"Why now?"

"Not now," he states matter of fact, "when I'm sober and know where my wallet is."

"No, Eren," your voice is soft now, humiliated. You won't even look at him when you weakly whisper, "Why are you telling me this all of a sudden?"

He takes pride in the way he holds your stare for all of three seconds, before turning down and looking at his shoelaces.

"This is just the first time I've felt the need to confess," he mumbles.

You deadpan, "The first time?"

"Yup."

"There were other times you kept it to yourself?

"Like two whole years worth, yeah," he huffs under his breath. "But I wasn't gonna lead with that because that sounds lame and this makes me sound more manly and suave."

The car hums beneath him when he hears you laugh, and his drunk mind can't tell if it's out of pity or honest amusement, but he likes the sound of it all the same.

Though your words might be meant to sting, the delivery is silky when you tease, "I'm driving you home because you can't handle your liquor. Nothing about you is manly or suave right now."

He nods along obediently, "Okay, sorry."

Turning his attention back to the condensation dripping from the window, he suddenly speaks so gently that you'd think he was sober if you didn't see what he drank tonight.

"If you don't actually wanna go out, you can just reject me already. It's fine."

Now it's Eren who won't meet your eye as you're pulling up to his house on the corner of the street. Throwing the car into park and tapping his bicep, he slowly sighs, a bit embarrassed but too drunk to actually care.

"Tell you what," you breathe, and you're surprised Eren's neck doesn't snap on impact with the speed he turns to face you. You bite your cheek at his desperation and exhale, "If you wake up in the morning and still want to take me to dinner, then we can talk about it tomorrow."

"Yeah?" you swear you can physically see the light reenter his eyes at your simple words.

Nodding, you smile. "Yeah, but for now, get your ass in your apartment and drink a shit ton of water."

Gently shoving him, Eren gets out of the car. In the slightly drizzling rain, his eyes never leave yours as his lanky legs stand up and he salutes in a corny way, "Yes, ma'am."

You reach over the middle console to pull his door shut, but before you can even grab it, he's reaching for the handle and holding it open.

"Wait—!"

"What now?" exasperation crawls from your throat.

You watch unimpressed as he pats down all of his pockets before meekly whispering.

"…Do you have my house keys?"

#L's MIDNIGHTS EVENT!#eren x reader #eren jaegar x reader #eren x you #eren jaeger x you #eren fluff #eren angst #eren jaeger fluff #eren jaeger angst #eren fic #eren jaeger fic

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ghostbeam · 1 year

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swore i could feel you through the walls | Dabi/Touya Todoroki

Dabi knows that he can’t leave you now. You belong to him, and he belongs to you, and the stars knew before either of you did. And Dabi can’t argue with fate, or destiny, or pure dumb luck, not that he wants to. He pulls your comforter up over his body. He’ll be here when you come home to him. In a place made for staying, Dabi thinks he will.

Notes: hiiiiii so this is an idea that has been bouncing around my head for like. Literal years ajsjsjsjs It’s always kind of been more of a horror idea and then I fanficified it and now it’s this! This was kind of a process and I rewrote and replanned and went over this over and over again but I think it is at a place that I am mildly happy with. It’s a completely ridiculous idea and I’m honestly a little insecure about it but fuck it!! Thanks for reading hope u enjoy<3 (title from Chinese satellite by Phoebe bridgers) listen to the playlist here!

Warnings: 18+, minors dni, f!reader, explicit content, yandere!dabi, stalking, Dabi hides in readers house without her knowledge, some paranoia, psychological abuse, slight yandere!reader, mentions of somnophillia but no actual instances of it, violence, non-consensual voyeurism (Dabi watches reader masturbate), unprotected sex, oral f!receiving, marking, biting (shoulder, neck), painplay, one mention of carving names into skin with no instance of it, mentions of blood (reader bites dabi’s neck and draws blood), use of good girl, mutual obsession

Words: 9.3k

He can’t breathe.

Dabi runs from the low-ranked hero, surprisingly fast on his tail as the distance between the two becomes smaller and smaller. With his lungs burning, his skin irritated from quirk use, and the lack of help from his peers, Dabi realizes that he needs to find a way to lose the ice quirk user that is quickly gaining on him.

Turning down a narrow alleyway, he’s disappointed to find that it’s a dead end. He pauses to catch his breath, keeping himself tucked tightly against the shadowy wall. Dabi surveys his surroundings, finding nothing but garbage before he looks up. He’s against an apartment building, he realizes, looking at the lights in the windows above him.

All windows are lit except one.

Dabi doesn’t have the time to wonder about the owner, shaking his head and forcing himself up the fire escape, preparing himself to use his quirk if it comes down to it. He breaks the lock on the darkened window and shuffles inside. He falls over a stack of books that sits underneath the window, freezing on the floor as he listens for any movement throughout the walls. When he hears nothing, he stands from the floor and closes the window, creeping down the hall in search of the other rooms. There’s one bathroom and a bedroom with no one inside, and relief rushes over Dabi as he feels his shoulders relax.

Assuming you won’t be home for a while, Dabi makes his way back to the main room, turns the light on, and heads for the kitchen. He looks through your fridge for something to eat, pulling out a Tupperware of leftovers that he heats in the microwave. As he waits for the seconds to pass, he looks around the apartment.

It sets in, then, how lived in the place is, shelves full of books, records and DVDs, art and photos against the walls, leaving almost no space for the blankness underneath. The kitchen is pink, he realizes, looking around and eyeing the various knickknacks shaped like mushrooms or kittens, unique magnets hang a mess of papers on the fridge beside post-it notes of reminders.

He wants to hate it. It’s a complete mess, chaotic even, but he can’t bring himself to. He’s intrigued now. He ignores the beeping of the microwave and steps away from the kitchen, observing the various pictures on the walls. It’s not difficult to find the owner of the apartment, the face showing up in a multitude of snapshots. Your face.

As he looks at the walls, he finds himself stuck on you, the curve of your jaw, your lips, your eyes. You make his heart beat in his chest, excitement bubbling at the realization that he is standing in your home, in your space, right in the middle of your entire life.

You’re beautiful. He feels his stomach drop.

The more he explores, the more he seems to like you. The Sargent print on your wall, the Rilke in your bookshelf, the numerous albums in your collection that he knows nothing about. He flips through the pages of your books, smiling at your annotations, the ink between the pages, and the tiny star you draw next to your favorite passages. He runs his fingers across the words over and over again, committing them to memory, the need to love the things you love burning in his chest.

It’s not enough, he realizes, looking through just this room. He stalks down the hallway and turns the light to your bedroom on. And oh, how content he feels in here, a room clearly much more personal than the one out there. It’s a bit of a mess, with clothes on the floor and the bed like you’d changed out of many different outfits before leaving. The full-length mirror against your wall is peppered with postcards and pictures from magazines and those same post-it notes: call mom, pay the phone bill, need more cotton pads. So, you’re forgetful. Dabi smiles at the knowledge.

There are string lights of stars hanging on your ceiling and lamps in the shape of flowers on your bedside table. Your bed is unmade and you have sheets with scatters of constellations on them. Your affinity for stars makes him smile, one more thing he’s found in common with you.

It shocks him how interested he is in you, in all of the things that make up your little life. But the more he explores, the more he’s sure you’re made for him.

He looks through your closet, through your dresser, stuck rummaging through your underwear drawer. Every set of lingerie you have is some variation of blue, and Dabi can’t help but feel as though it’s for him. It’s all for him, your things, you. Fate, or the universe, or luck itself is on his side. He pockets a pair of panties that closely resembles his eyes before turning to your desk. More post-it notes are stuck to the surface, and there’s a notebook that he reaches for before your wall catches his eye. There are more photos, haphazardly taped up and not at all as organized as your living room, but he can tell they’re important to you: family photos, people he recognizes from films, rock singers, and—him.

Dabi is on your wall.

The photo is one that went viral a couple of months back when he got into an altercation with one of the top ten heroes. He remembers the fight well because of how large his flames grew, and the damage that he did to the surrounding area, to the people, to the hero he was up against. He’s stood with his arms out in front of him, neon flames emanating from his palms as the moment in battle is frozen in time forever on your wall. You printed it out on photo paper and everything. He plucks it from its spot and turns it over. Your handwriting with his name and a heart is scrawled on the blank space. He runs a thumb over the heart, feeling his face warm up.

This isn't a mistake. You know who he is, and you’re a fan, not just of the photo itself, but of him. He wonders if you’re one of those weirdos he’s seen online with accounts dedicated to him, one of the anonymous boxes that engage in discussions about his quirk and identity, losers grasping at any detail they can that might bring them closer to the truth, or just to him in general.

But the more he thinks about it, the more excited he gets, thinking about you saving blurry pictures of his fights to your phone, watching youtube videos of him with shitty quality, and tweeting about him with stupid little emojis. He wonders if you dream of him, if you think of him while touching yourself, or if you fantasize about silly things like being a villain’s girlfriend. He likes thinking of you like this, just as obsessed with him as he’s becoming with you.

Dabi doesn’t care what it’s called: divine intervention, cosmic love, soulmates. All are true; none capture how this feels.

Your laptop is password protected and his name doesn’t work when he tries, so he moves on from your bedroom. Entering your bathroom, he looks through your medicine cabinet, analyzing your meds and products as he searches for every bit of information he can. He looks at the lipstick that sits on the counter and debates putting it on in the form of an indirect kiss but decides to pocket it instead. He sprays each and every one of your perfumes, deciding which is his favorite, and throwing the one he dislikes out the window he came through, watching it shatter against the cement.

He pulls back the shower curtain and begins to strip, turning the water on and letting the heat hit his worn-out body. He hasn’t felt water pressure this good in years. He uses your shampoo, your conditioner, your rose-scented soap, even though it’s sure to irritate his scars. He uses everything he can to be close to you, to smell like you, to have any piece of you even though you’re not here.

When he’s done, he lays in your bed, against the sheets that you occupy every night except tonight, and stares up at the string lights above him. He picks up the stuffed bear with angel wings that sits against one of your pillows, caressing the ears between two fingers. He thinks about you, about the things he doesn’t know, details you don’t have plastered to your walls or hidden between pages of poetry books. He wants to know what makes you laugh, what makes you cry, how you’d look undone beneath him.

He can finally breathe.

…

The keys to your apartment chime against your door as you move to unlock it, hoards of keychains rattling against each other as you push the heavy door open. It slams shut behind you and you toss your keys onto the kitchen counter, hauling your suitcase behind you. The familiar pang of loneliness hits you immediately as you look out over your crowded apartment.

“I’m home.” You mutter softly, running your fingers over the plush fabric of your couch.

No matter how much you try to distract yourself with books and posters and comfortable shag carpets, you still feel the same each time you come home to emptiness.

You roll your suitcase to your bedroom, deciding that unpacking is a job for the you of the future while the you of the present deserves to sink into the couch and watch tv. Your unmade bed catches your eye and you wonder if you’d forgotten to tidy up before you left to visit your mother. You don’t dwell on it, dragging your tired body to your couch and turning on your television. You flip through multiple channels before a name on the news catches your attention: Dabi.

Your obsession with the cremation villain seemingly happened overnight. The League of Villains had intrigued you due to their mission to dismantle hero society, a cause that resonated with you as a quirkless citizen. When Dabi joined the group, you were immediately interested in the aloof and mysterious fire quirk-user. You never stood a chance. You spent hours on message boards, gathering any and all information on the group as you could in order to feel closer to him. Your adoration never made much sense to those you talked to online with the lack of information available about the man. But as the League grew in popularity, details about Dabi became far more accessible to the general public. His true identity remained a mystery but two things you were certain of: his quirk came with a drawback in the form of his own body and fire got him excited.

And now, the news anchor on your television was relaying the news that he had been seen around your neighborhood and still hadn’t been found. You feel your heart beat rapidly in your chest, excitement bubbling up as you think about the prospect of catching a glimpse of him in real life. Realistically, you know there’s no way that Dabi stuck around here, understanding the risks of staying in one place for too long as a wanted criminal, but the thought makes your stomach flip. You lean back against your couch, clutching the remote in one hand and letting out an excited giggle. For a moment, you’re grateful for the emptiness of your apartment, your embarrassing display of excitement only witnessed by you and you alone.

You spend a few hours on LOV fan accounts and forums, hoping to find out any more details about the news, but most people online say it’s not worth looking into. Much like you thought, Dabi was most likely far away from your place by now.

Finding nothing, you stand up from your couch, stretching your arms above your head as you make your way to your bathroom. You turn on the shower and allow it to heat up as you find something to sleep in. When you return, you strip and step into the shower. Your mind wanders toward thoughts of Dabi as you stand underneath the water. You’re disappointed. The one weekend you leave town, the love of your life visits your building. The endless push and pull is frustrating.

It’s something that’s happened to you time and time again, coming across the aftermath of an attack, or arriving somewhere that Dabi was rumored to have been seen. You keep missing him by mere seconds, and this is no different, though you aren’t exactly sure what you would do if you ever got a chance.

After finishing up, you step out of the shower, take a towel from the hook on the wall and dry yourself off. You change into your clothes and reach towards your medicine cabinet before pausing. Drawn in the steam on the mirror is a heart. You stare at it, examining it closely. Had you drawn on the mirror the last time you showered? When was the last time you cleaned the mirror? You’re pulled from your thoughts by the sound of a loud bang coming from your living room.

Without thinking, you rush towards the sound, spotting the door to your hallway closet slamming shut. You freeze where you stand at the end of the hallway, weighing your options before deciding you don’t have much time to think about it. Bolting to your kitchen, you pick up a large knife from its block, before carefully making your way back to your closet. With the knife in one hand, you turn the knob to the door, pulling it open in a hurry and holding the blade in front of you. You’re met with nothing but your own things, coats, and dresses that you never wear, a closet full of items left unused. Even when you push through the racks of clothes, you find nothing.

Relief washes over you at the knowledge that you are in fact here alone. You lower the knife, allowing yourself to breathe as you calm down. You stare down at the weapon in your hand, scoffing.

“What was I going to do with this?” You speak out loud. Even if somebody was in your home, could you really defend yourself? You’re quirkless, you aren’t trained in any sort of self-defense, and you’re not even sure you’d have the guts to actually stab someone. You shake your head, walking to your kitchen to put it back.

You retreat to your bedroom, pulling back the covers of your unmade bed, clutching your bear in one arm, and staring up at the ceiling.

Inside of your hallway closet, up against the wall, Dabi’s shoulders relax. He imagines you with your knife outside of the door, the scared expression on your face, one he could only see from in between your coat and the wall. Your eyebrows pinched up and your eyes wide, your bottom lip quivering ever so slightly. He takes pride in being the reason for that look. He pulls away from the wall, carefully sliding out of the closet and shutting the door behind him. He looks down the hallway, toward the door that you’ve left ajar. He wants to sneak in, watch your chest rise and fall, caress your cheek, and feel you lean into his touch, but he knows you're more than likely awake, still shaken up from his antics.

He’ll be back tomorrow, anyway.

…

The encounters continue into the rest of the week. Doors creak open and things fall from shelves. You hear noises late into the night and find more hearts left on reflective surfaces, your mirrors, your television, your windows.

With no sign of another living thing inside of your home with you, the only explanation you have left to give yourself is something paranormal, even if you aren’t sure of it yourself.

And besides, you kind of like the idea of living with a ghost. This one seems to be in love with you.

On top of all of the hearts, your ghost has knocked off books of love poems from your bookshelves, blasted Linger by The Cranberries from your speakers, and flipped through television channels to land on one playing In the Mood for Love. And when you fall asleep at night, just as you can feel yourself crossing the boundary between sleep and awake, you swear you can feel your bed dip beside you.

You don’t hate it, and you aren’t scared, and sometimes it is comforting to know that you aren’t as alone as you always believed you would be.

Dabi watches you most days. He watches you nap on your couch and laugh at your cell phone. He watches you parade around your home in nothing but your underwear and a t-shirt. He watches you concentrate on the novels you like to read, where a crease forms between your eyebrows as your eyes fly across the page. He watches you talk to yourself about anything and everything, about work, about television shows you enjoy, about him.

He likes that you’re a complete mess in the morning, that you can barely keep yourself upright, let alone keep your eyes open while you brush your teeth. He likes that you spray the perfume he decided was his favorite all that time ago before you leave for the day. He likes that you sometimes switch between multiple different albums before settling on the one you like. He likes to watch you dance to them. He likes that he’s never heard of them before. He likes you.

You’re a natural result of loneliness, much like he is. But where you filled your void with material things, stuff, Dabi left his empty and allowed it to grow. He would have thought it was foolish, the idea of filling that hole in him with anything other than anger and hurt, thoughts of revenge. Had he not fallen for you, maybe he would have hated you. The two had always felt so similar.

You’re happy with him here, he notices, much happier than you had been that first night. You talk to him, your ghost. You ask him about the shows you watch, his opinion on your favorite albums, what shoes to wear to work. He’s a part of your life through knocks on the walls and highlighted lines in between the pages of your books and soft touches in the middle of the night.

Dabi holds it all close to his Molotov heart and hopes that the ruin is worth it.

…

You fall asleep almost immediately, exhausted from your busy day, one spent without your ghost. Dabi sneaks in late, caught up with league business for the past couple of days, and he misses you.

He stares at your sleeping form against the night sky that is your sheets. He feels himself relax at the sight of you, realizing just how much it affects him to be away from you for too long. He takes his boots off at your bedroom door and walks in long strides toward you. He cups your cheek in one hand, running his thumb along your cheekbone, smiling at how you subconsciously lean into his touch.

Dabi moves to the other side of your bed, sliding in beside you. He does nothing but stare at the back of your head for a few minutes, gathering the courage to reach out and touch. He wants to hold you. He wants to do more than just lay beside you and listen to you breathe.

He runs a hand up your arm, dragging his fingers against your skin. He wraps an arm around your midsection and pulls flush against his chest, feeling your body relax in his hold. He sneaks a hand up your sleep shirt and thumbs over the soft flesh of your stomach. Your hair smells like lavender shampoo, and it makes him nostalgic for that first night.

A sudden sinking feeling settles in his stomach as he breathes you in, the guilt of barging into your life and bothering you to the point of delusion makes Dabi feel ill. You’re important to him now in a much deeper way than you were at the beginning. He doesn’t want to hurt you, at least not like this.

“Dabi…” Your voice is soft, starry with sleep. He freezes against you. Your voice comes again, “Dabi.”

“It’s me, baby.” He whispers against your ear, unsure of just how awake you are.

“You’re so warm…Dabi…” You trail off, dragging the last syllable of his name. Your voice is so soft, breathy as you talk through sleep. He can feel his pants tighten at the sound from your lips. Fuck. He can’t stay here, not when you sound so sweet.

He could fuck you. He wants to. He’s not even sure you’d wake up. He’d pull pretty little moans from your throat, slotting himself between your thighs and sliding into you. You’d already be wet for him, and he’d watch your hands ball into little fists in your sleep. You’d chant his name like a prayer. He’d come deep inside of you and leave you to wake up the next morning with the evidence between your legs.

But he does not fuck you. He places a kiss to the side of your neck and pulls away from you despite the whine you let out as he detaches his body from yours. He leaves with every intention of never coming back. His ruin might be worth it, but yours isn’t.

…

The lack of paranormal activity in your home is alarming, which is something you never thought you’d ever think about. Your ghost has been gone for weeks, and you’re afraid that you may have made it all up in your head.

This possibility is one you dread, mainly because it has everything to do with your own sanity. If you had been imagining each event, drawing hearts in your mirrors, underlining passages in your books, and forgetting about it, you know that something has gone completely wrong. And you can’t blame it on anything outside of yourself.

The idea that you’ve been pushed this far, that your own loneliness has you creating imaginary instances of a haunting, terrifies you. What terrifies you more is that you miss him and that you’re alone again.

But you can’t think about it, or you know you’ll go insane, more so than you possibly already are. So you bury yourself in fuzzy blankets, and you play sad albums on your speaker, and you scroll through the same forums that comfort you in times like these.

You know it’s pathetic, pining for someone who doesn’t know you exist, someone completely and wholly evil for all you know. A man you aren’t even sure has a heart.

You think yours may be enough for the both of you, though.

Darkness falls over your living room in what feels like a matter of minutes, though you know it’s been hours since you first picked up your phone. Your record player has been playing the same scratchy hum that signifies the end of one side of an album. You lift your eyes from your phone screen to one of your living room windows, the one with the drawn heart in the bottom corner that you can’t bring yourself to clean off. You let your phone fall to your chest as you stare up at your ceiling and sigh.

Your heart is a greedy, hungry thing and your mind is a tool to feed it. Through daydreams and delusion, through want, want, want. You can hide from the isolation for a while, but the pain always catches up. And tonight it hurts.

You fall onto your bed with a thud, and your phone drops beside you. There’s a dull ache underneath your skin, one all too familiar and unwanted by you. Why had he left you? His absence haunts you more than his presence ever did.

Your phone buzzes against your sheets, a notification from one of the discussion sites you frequent lights up the screen, the subject being Dabi and the recent sightings in the city. The ache subsides.

It’s a video of him, maybe the clearest one you’ve ever seen. He’s alone, and he’s talking to someone, or a bunch of someones, other villains. You can’t make out the words, but you can tell they’re not pretty by the way the men start to close in on him. The smile that crosses Dabi’s face is razor sharp, deadly, reaching up to his crazed eyes. You gasp when he knocks his head against one of the men’s noses. Another one punches him square in the jaw for it, and he stumbles back, touching a finger to the seam in his face. Dabi isn’t a fighter, not with his fists at least, and you’re wondering why he’s letting them get away with this. He goes to punch one of them but misses, and while he’s distracted by his own move, one of the men sends a kick to his stomach. You hear him groan before laughing, his head hanging low as he clutches the place he was hit.

You feel hot suddenly, touching your face with your palm. You watch Dabi raise his head slowly, his laugh low and maniacal and unbelievably sexy. He licks the corner of his mouth before his hands spark with blue flames. He hurls his fire toward the men without a second thought, and that’s when the video ends. You let out a shaky breath, your heart pounding against your chest. You squeeze your thighs together as you restart the video.

It’s embarrassing how much it turns you on, watching him grin at these men, holding their life in his hands. You like watching him do more than just wield his quirk, watching his head crack against the man’s nose, watching his fist fly through the air. Something has to be wrong with you, you’re sure of it, but you can’t focus on anything but Dabi and his hands. The way that they’d feel against your skin, how they’d feel in your mouth, how they’d feel pressing your hips into your mattress. You slide your hand down your body and underneath the band of your sleep shorts. You’re already wet.

Dabi climbs through your window, the one branded with his fingerprinted heart, the window that allowed him into your life all those weeks ago. Your lights are off, and he can’t see your figure asleep on the couch in the darkness, so you must be asleep.

He promised himself he wouldn’t come back, promised you he wouldn’t. But it hurts without you, and the ache grows, the wanting. The fucking wanting.

He tried to bury it like he does everything else, tried to burn it to ash, drink it to death, beat it out of him. He’d let those guys get in a couple of good punches tonight just to feel something. Nothing works.

But you do.

He takes careful steps down the hallway when he hears your voice. He freezes. You’re moaning. He feels his breath catch in his chest. Of all of the days spent watching you, Dabi has never seen you like this. Desperate, aching, calling his name.

He watches you through your cracked door, spread out on your bed with your phone clutched tightly in one hand. You’re no longer watching whatever was on your screen, but you’ve left it playing as you arch against your bed.

“Dabi…” You mewl. He has to grab the door frame to keep himself steady at the sound. “W-want it.”

Fuck. How could he possibly leave you now? He palms himself through his jeans, watching you bring yourself closer and closer to the edge. He’s so hard that he might pass out. The puffs of air that fall from your lips as your legs shake have him holding back a groan. It isn’t until your noises become quiet that he realizes just what you’re watching.

The sound of his own laugh echoes through the speaker on your phone, and he’s surprised by the pained moan that falls from your lips at the sound.

It’s him. You’re watching him. Dabi holds back a groan. He’s careful to free himself from his pants without a sound, not that you would notice. You’re far too gone to acknowledge him right now. He could probably let out the noises that beg to be free of his throat, but he doesn’t risk it. He can’t do anything that could stop him from watching you come for him.

Your hand is obstructed by your sleep shorts, and the same can be said for the hand that has now discarded your phone onto the pillow beside your head and reached underneath your shirt to pinch one of your pert nipples. You’re close now, and so is he, barely able to keep his breathing steady as he strokes his hand against his cock.

He’d give anything to barge in now, pull you toward the edge of the bed, and sink into you without a care in the world. He wants to feel you tight around him, wants to kiss your neck and bite your skin and leave traces of himself everywhere. He wants to show you that you’re his, confirm what you’ve always known.

But instead he watches you writhe against your bed with his name falling from your lips. “Dabi–fuck! Gonna–”

You come with a loud cry, hips twitching a way that has Dabi cursing under his breath. He spills into his hand immediately after, reaching for your wall to hold himself up as he tries to keep quiet. But when his hand meets the hard surface of the wall, it collapses out from underneath, realization dawning on him that he’s pushed your bedroom door shut with a harsh slam.

At the sound of your door, you jolt up from your bed, the ecstasy of your orgasm quickly wearing off as you freeze. You listen for any other noises, and when you hear nothing, you slowly creep from your bed. Looking around your bedroom for some kind of weapon to protect yourself, you feel yourself growing panicked when you realize you have nothing. You tiptoe to your bedroom door, pushing your ear against the surface to listen to any sign of life on the other side. You hear nothing.

With your heart beating out of your chest, you slowly pull the door open, sticking your head out and looking down your dark hallway. There’s nobody there, and you wonder if this was yet another paranormal encounter after weeks of nothing.

A sinking feeling in your gut tells you that there’s nothing paranormal at all about your experiences.

You walk back to your bed in a daze, tucking yourself back under the covers and staring out your bedroom window. The video of Dabi continues to play on your phone, and you make no move to shut it off. You fall asleep to the sound, his crazed laughter somehow comforting to you in this moment.

The sinking feeling doesn’t leave you the next morning, and there’s no sign of another human in your apartment as you check all of your windows and doors. It all makes you feel uneasy, the creeping suspicion that it’s all in your head. You’re completely alone. You have no one to confide in, and even if you did, you’re sure they’d think you're insane or an idiot for allowing any of it to go on for so long without question.

You have no clue what to do or where to start, but you want whatever it is, ghost or not, gone.

…

The idea is ridiculous. You know that.

You know, standing in your living room with the ouija board you’ve just purchased sitting on your coffee table, that you are being completely ridiculous.

“If this works, then great. Then ghosts are real.” You speak aloud to nothing. “Then I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy.”

Your eyes flitter to the bottle of raspberry wine you bought on your way home, something you know is sweet and easy to drink quickly. You’ll finish the bottle in no time. You reach for it, pouring a good amount into your glass and taking a large gulp. You hold the glass to your chest, breathing in and shivering at the cool sensation against your skin. The board sits on the table, and you let out a chuckle of disbelief.

Dabi stares at you from the darkness of your hallway. He’s been in your home since before you arrived with your children’s game and your sugary wine. You’ve been on edge for days, and Dabi knows he has everything to do with it. Still, he watches you quietly, taking in the last moments of invisibility before he has to tell you.

You’re still staring at the board. You take another gulp of your wine and look out of the window that he climbed through. The strap of your spaghetti strap tank top is falling down. He thinks of the painting that hangs on your wall. You’re Sargent’s Madame X. He’s going to ruin your life.

“They sell those things in toy stores, you know.” He finally speaks. It all happens in slow motion: the quick jolt of your shoulders in surprise at the sound, your glass falling to the floor and shattering against your carpet, the scream that falls from your lips.

Then suddenly, you’re looking at him, and he is looking at you, and your hand is frozen in mid-air like the glass is still in your hand. He looks down at the mess, “Shame. That ugly carpet was kind of growing on me.”

“Dabi…” Realization dawns on your face as you say his name. He looks up at you again, before turning his attention back to the mess on your carpet. He holds an arm out and beckons you toward him.

“C’mere. You’ll cut yourself.” He tells you. You don’t move. He watches your chest rise and fall, frozen where you stand, unable to think about anything other than getting away. He watches your eyes flicker to your front door.

It happens quickly, nothing like before, climbing over your couch and rushing as fast as you can toward your escape. He almost loses you, tripping over his feet as he reaches for you. You barely touch the handle before his arm wraps around your waist in a tight grip. You’re both panting, his breath hot against your ear.

“What? You aren’t excited to see me?” He questions. It’s not like he expected you to accept him with open arms, but he didn’t think you’d run from him.

“It was you?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper. How are you meant to feel about any of this? It’s what you wanted, right? All the times you missed each other, all those days spent disappointed that you weren’t just a little earlier or a little later. And here he is, in your home, with you, with his arms wrapped around you, no less. And you want to run? What bothers you the most is that you aren’t as scared as you should be.

“Your ghost?” He questions with humor in his words. You feel his grip tighten around you before he speaks again. “Are you disappointed?”

His voice is much softer than he intended it to be, nervousness finding its way through the mask of carelessness he so carefully hides behind. It calms your nerves, the idea that he’s just as unsure of this as you are.

“I’m scared.” You admit.

“Of me?”

“I don’t know yet.” You say. He loosens his grip, arms falling to his sides as he lets you go. You step away quickly, turning to look at him while keeping a good amount of distance between the two of you.

“I’m not–I won’t hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you.” He speaks, holding his hands up. “I would never–”

“Why?” Looking at him, standing in your kitchen, his hands up in surrender, his eyes pleading, Dabi is just a man. You know this, you’ve always known this. It’s why your obsession with him is as strong as it is because, underneath all of the flames, he’s alone just like you are.

“Because you’re mine.” He sighs because he knows he must sound insane, and his answer doesn’t seem to soothe the worried look on your face. “And you know it. You do, because I’m on your fucking walls, and you stalk me like a little weirdo on your phone. You–you’re made for me.”

“Made for you?” You ask incredulously as if this isn’t the exact moment you’ve been fantasizing about since the first time you ever laid eyes on the flame user.

“Look, I didn’t think any of it was real, none of that soulmate shit people make up so that they have something to hold onto. But, fuck, I had never felt the way I did when I climbed through your window that night.” He speaks frantically like he’s trying to convince you, prove to you that what he’s saying is the truth. “You saved me, and you don’t even know it.”

You soften, “I saved you?”

“None of this would've happened if things had gone a little differently that night. I wouldn’t know you, and you could go back to your normal life with your pictures and your books and your forums, but it didn’t so I’m here. And isn’t that something?”

“I’m just…confused.” You explain. “You’re you, and I’m sure you’ve gathered by now how embarrassingly obsessed with you I am–”

“I think it’s cute.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“Why?” He questions, leaning forward. “Does it get you all hot and bothered like that night with the video of me getting my ass kicked? That was cause of you, by the way.”

“You have to understand how fucked this is. You get that, right?” You aren’t afraid anymore. You’re angry, a little hurt, but most of all excited. Made for him. He’s probably right.

“Yeah?” He questions, taking another step. You do back away, but he continues to follow you. “I think you like it. I think your life was so goddamn boring before me, so lonely. My little tricks made you so happy, baby.”

“Fuck you.” You spit, because he’s right, and you hate it. His hand comes up to hold your jaw with one hand, his fingers pressing into your skin ever so slightly.

“C’mon…” He tuts, leaning down to your height, “You used to be so sweet for me, snuggling up to me while you slept. You can’t hide from me. I know everything about you. And those feelings that you have for me don’t change in a matter of minutes just because I did something fucked up. I’m a villain, sweetheart, and you know it.”

“So what?” You ask. “You’re in love with me or something?”

You want to hear him say it. You want him to tell you it’s more than obsession, more than the excitement of scaring you.

“It’s not obvious?” He asks, releasing your jaw from his tight grip and running his thumb against your cheek to soothe you. “You ruin me.”

You shake your head, “Say it.”

“I love you.” He grins. “Kiss me.”

You do.

It shouldn’t feel as romantic as it does. With him pushing your hips into your kitchen counter, his lips so soft against yours, you forget all of it. None of it matters to you, anyways. Maybe it’s the worst way for any of this to happen. Maybe it’s the only way.

He pulls away, watching your eyes flutter open, your lips swollen from his kiss. You’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, and you’re touching his face without a hint of disgust. You’ve always been his. He surges forward, catching you off guard and pulling you into another kiss, this one much more hurried and desperate. You gasp when he presses into you, the growing bulge in his jeans hard against your thigh. He takes the opportunity to lick into your mouth, earning a choked whine from your lips. You struggle to keep up with him, with his hands everywhere. You’re overwhelmed.

“Dabi, wait.” You speak for the split second that he pulls away. He shakes his head, kissing down your jaw as you try to catch your breath.

“Can’t.” He speaks in between kisses. “You’re–I need you. Please, please, I’m–”

You bring your hands to the sides of his face, pulling him away from your neck to look at you. “Dabi. Hey.”

“Hi.” He speaks, unable to resist the urge to press his lips to yours in a quick peck before pulling away again. It makes you smile, though, so he does it one more time. “This is what you wanted, right? You wanted me?”

“I think there is something very, very wrong with me.” You say because you have to acknowledge it, at the very least. You want him so bad it burns.

“Yeah, me too.” He kisses you again. “Made for me, remember?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, “maybe I am.”

“You are.” He says against your lips. “You are, you are, you are.”

You’re in your bedroom before you have any time to think about it, your back against your sheets as Dabi hovers over you. He pauses, his frantic movements from moments ago now at a standstill as he stares down at you. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.” You speak without hesitance.

“Yeah?” He slots his hips in between yours, running a hand up the side of one of your thighs as you make room for him. “All mine, huh? Gonna let me keep you?”

“Uh huh.” You nod. “You can keep me.”

“Good.” He drags his lips down the column of your neck. “My girl’s so good for me, yeah?”

You’re unable to answer, though you don’t know if you’re supposed to. His hands move from your hips to your backside, grinding you against his length. You gasp, grasping his shoulders for stability as he sucks on your neck.

“Gotta mark you up, baby.” He speaks against your skin. He sucks your skin harshly, biting and nipping different areas of your neck. It’s a sensation you’ve never experienced, all your senses heightened at the knowledge that it’s him who’s touching you. “Show them who you belong to, show them you’re mine.”

“Please!” You whine, arching your back into him as he bites down, hard, on the juncture of your neck. You feel him smile against your skin, kissing over the bite. He begins to lower himself down your body, kissing down the valley of your breasts over your top. He pushes your shirt up as he presses open-mouthed kisses to your stomach.

“Maybe I’ll carve my name right here, yeah?” He questions, lips against your hip. “You can do the same to me.”

When his eyes flicker up to yours, you feel your breath catch in your throat. It’s all you’ve ever wanted, every silly little fantasy you’ve ever had come true. “You’d want that? My name?”

“Fuck, of course, I would.” He groans, pushing himself back up to eye level with you. His hands rest on the mattress on each side of your head, his eyes searching your face. “Want you all over me. I want you forever.”

You wrap your hands around the back of his neck and pull him down to you in a bruising kiss. Pushing at his chest, you hook your leg around his waist to switch positions, straddling his lap as your tongue swirls in his mouth. You pull away to look at him, his eyes blown wide with need. He’s so fucking beautiful. You want him forever, too.

You rise to a sitting position, Dabi’s hands kneading the flesh of your thighs as you stare down at him. You push his shirt up and he pulls it over his head in seconds. You run your hands over his chest and abdomen, feeling his scars and the staples that hold him together under your fingertips.

“I think I wanna mark you too.” You speak, leaning down to kiss him again. “Want you to be mine.”

“I am yours.” He speaks without hesitation. He sucks in a harsh breath when your lips meet the unscarred skin of the left side of his chest. You place soft kisses there before biting down. He cries out, bucking his hips up into yours. “I’ll give you–fuck–everything.”

You continue to leave marks over his skin, satisfied with the noises you're pulling from Dabi. You run your fingers over his hips lightly. You think you would like your name there. Dabi takes the hem of your shirt between his fingers, urging you to pull the fabric from your body. He rises from his position on the bed, running a hand up the length of your spine as he pulls you close. He kisses you once more, moving his hands to your hips to help you grind down on him.

Pulling away, he trails his lips down your neck, burying his face in your chest. He wraps his lips around your nipple, tweaking the other between his fingers as he looks up at you. You cry out, rapidly grinding against him. He continues to play with your chest, kissing you with fervor and groaning into your mouth.

“C’mere.” He speaks against your lips, wrapping an arm around your waist and moving to lay you down on the bed. He hovers over you, slowly pushing his hips against yours in a way that makes you cry out. “Gonna take care of you, okay?”

He slowly makes his way down your body, slipping his fingers underneath the band of your pants and pulling them down along with your underwear. You push your knees together, staring up at him as shakes his head.

“Don’t hide.” He commands softly, pulling your thighs apart. His tongue peaks through his lips for a moment before he speaks again. “Been thinking about this since that night. M’sorry I scared you. I didn’t mean to slam the door.”

He runs his hands up your thighs, eyeing your sex as he lowers himself back down. You let out a breathy laugh, “you didn’t?”

“No.” He chuckles against the inside of your thigh, kissing your skin. “It was an accident.”

“Oh, my god.” You giggle, cut off by the feeling of his teeth sinking into your thigh. You gasp, trying to pull away, but his grip on you is tight. He kisses over the mark, eyes finding yours with a warning.

He licks a strip from your entrance to your clit, and you throw your head back, resting your hand on top of his head before he pulls back.

“Look at me.” He speaks, bringing one hand up to run a finger through your folds. You’re already a complete mess, and he feels pride in knowing he’s the reason. He’s always the reason. “Keep your eyes on me, or I’ll stop.”

You nod, wiggling your hips to urge him to continue. He chuckles softly at your desperation before burying his face between your legs again. His tongue runs along your folds in long slow strokes, your hips jolting at the stimulation. No research, or video, or fantasy you had about the man between your legs could have ever prepared you for what this feels like.

Your moans spur him on as he tastes you, the knowledge that he’s the reason for your pleasure more rewarding than anything else. He wraps his lips around your clit and you cry his name. You feel your orgasm building as he continues to lap up your juices, his grip on your thighs tight as he holds you open for him.

“Dabi! Dabi! I’m–” you let out a strangled moan as you grind your hips against his tongue, “fuck–coming! I’m coming.”

Your hips jolt at the pleasure, the feeling of his mouth still on your sex guiding you through your orgasm. He slows his strokes, running the flat of his tongue against you as you calm yourself. The movement of your hips slow as you watch Dabi still buried between your legs. You catch your breath as he tongues your cunt, cerulean eyes staring up at you as you twitch from the overstimulation. He pulls away from your sex with a wet smack, rising to capture your lips with his.

He pulls away, “call me Touya.”

“Huh?” You ask, chasing his lips again. He kisses you slow and deep, his tongue swirling against yours as he pushes his hips against yours. You groan against his mouth.

“Touya. It’s my name.” He says, placing soft kisses against your jaw. “My real name.”

Touya. His name is Touya. You know Dabi’s real name. You get to say his real name, keep that knowledge locked inside of your heart, a secret between the two of you. The reveal makes you feel closer to him, an equal exchange for all of the time he spent inside of your home without your knowledge, though you know it’s really not. You’ll take it, anyways.

“Where’d you go, baby?” He whispers against your lips. “Did the obsessed little freak inside you get excited?”

“Says you.” You scoff.

“Made for each other, right?” He speaks before kissing you again. The kiss is hungry, frantic as his lips consume yours. He fumbles with the studded belt around his waist, pulling away from you only to rid himself of his jeans.

His cock is hard against your entrance, the warmth of him overwhelming as he shifts his hips over yours. He runs his hands up the outside of your thighs, rough hands smoothing over your flesh while he kisses you again. You whimper against his lips, a silent plea for him to do more than grind against you.

“Shhh, let me–wanna remember this.” He wraps a hand around the base of his cock, running the head through your folds as you try to keep your breathing steady. “Gonna take my time with you.”

Touya leans down to kiss your neck, sucking over the already tender marks he left before, hoping to keep them there for longer, the evidence of him on your skin in the ache he leaves behind. You pant as he continues to grind his hips against yours, arching your back and pushing yourself closer to him as he continues his assault on your neck. Pulling away, he lines himself up with your entrance, staring down at you just inches away from your face.

“Kiss me.” He speaks. “Kiss me, please.”

When you kiss him, he sinks into you, swallowing your moans with his lips and slipping his tongue into your mouth as he stretches you. You catch your breath as he pulls away, adjusting to the size of him as he slowly pumps in and out of you.

“Touya.” You breathe, your hands running through his hair as he pushes into you deeper. A contented smile falls across his face as he feels you move your hips against his. “Feels–mm–good.”

“Yeah? Good. S’all I want. Just want you to feel good.” He says as his hips slowly begin to change pace. Maybe it’s the fact he spent weeks scaring you into delusion, or the fact that he can’t get the way you look when you come out of his head, but your pleasure has become his ultimate goal. He wants to watch you come undone again and again on his cock, disregarding his own needs as you're pushed over the edge over and over. He thinks he’d like you to use him, but for now, Touya wants to take care of you.

He speeds his pace up, gripping your hips in his rough hands as he pounds into you. He’s getting carried away, you realize, as his hold becomes bruising, his kiss, starved. It all feels so good with his hands all over you and his lips so desperate. He needs you and he doesn’t hide it, and with every action, Touya shows you just how much.

“It’s so much! Too much!” Not enough, you think. You cry out as he presses into you deep, pushing in and out of you with long slow strokes, his cock hitting just the spot that has you seeing stars. He groans, feeling you clench around him as he moves.

“Take it.” He commands, thrusting into you. “I know you can. You’re so–fuck–good for me.”

You whine, arching into him and pulling him down for another sloppy kiss. He can’t get enough of you, and you’re completely his. He’ll keep you. He’ll take you with him, make a little villain out of you, keep you nice and fucked out on his cock forever. All of his plans, his goals, the one thing he’s worked toward since becoming Dabi, now include you. You have a real role in his life, one that’s meant to stay, one that means forever.

You’re close. He can tell, and he feels himself being brought to the edge just as quickly as you are. His pace quickens as he thrusts in and out of you, bringing one hand to your lips, feeling you suck two fingers into your mouth before he reaches down between your bodies to play with your clit. You gasp, burying your face in his neck and biting down. You’ve drawn blood, Touya thinks, feeling the pain spread from the wound. He groans, thrusting harder and faster.

“Fuck, s-sorry!” You cry, though your words are hurried and jumbled.

“Don’t apologize, baby.” He tells you, panting above you. He runs his thumb against your bottom lip, a faint trace of blood smeared across the inside. He smiles, kissing you and reveling in the faint taste of copper. “You wanted to mark me.”

“Touya, I’m–hah–gonna come!” You cry, moving your hips against his frantically.

“I know, I know.” He coos, swiping his fingers over your puffy clit. “Come for me. Wanna see it.”

Your voice comes out loud and chokes, the end of his name dying on your lips as your hips jolt from the pleasure and your back arches against your sheets. Touya doesn’t stop thrusting, chasing his own orgasm as he watches your face contort in the same way it had before.

“Need to fill you up. Need to make you mine.” He groans, thrusting quickly.

“I’m yours, I’m yours. Please! I wanna feel it!” You whine. You feel him spill inside of you, warmth flooding your insides as he slows his pace. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him against you. He kisses you again, tongues swirling against each other as he stills on top of you.

“Stay.” You breathe, pulling away from his lips and feeling his head fall against you.

“You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.” He whispers through labored breath. “So don’t try.”

“Never. You said you’d keep me.” You remind him, feeling him smile against your skin. He rises from where he lays, staring down at you with nothing but adoration. You really are made for him. Cosmic love, divine intervention, soulmates. Touya should have known.

“Always.” He kisses your lips, your nose, both of your cheeks.

“Say it.” You command softly.

“I love you.” He grins. “Kiss me.”

You do.

#dabi x reader #dabi x female reader #touya todoroki x reader #touya todoroki x female reader #bnha x reader #bnha smut #tw yandere #tw abuse

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carmyboobear · 2 months

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ALEXITHYMIA CH 1: onions, weed, and pizza

Roommate AU: Carmy Berzatto x Reader (R18)

ao3 link ch 2 ch 3 ch 4

Summary: Carmy can’t put into words how he feels about his roommate. It’s only been a couple months, but here he is looking forward to going home and sharing a smoke with them. That’s all it is, though. There are no underlying feelings, none at all, even if everyone around him has something to say about it.

Or: Carmy is repressed as ever, but through the combined power of vulnerability, weed, and the horny, Carmy too can find love.

Tags: hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, cursing, yearning, repression, SO MUCH REPRESSION, angst, mental illness, canon-typical imagery, unresolved tension, for now, virgin carmy, use of weed, alcohol, all that good stuff, carmy character study, eventual smut, gender neutral reader, nonbinary reader, up to you

A/N: HI I've never posted fic on tumblr before but i deeply love Carmy...please enjoy!!!

CHAPTER 1: onions, weed, and pizza

It always stays the same.

This is the thought that Carmy has when he wakes up, gasping for a chance to just catch his breath and keep it. It’s a kitchen knife twisting like a lock and key in his chest. It fits just right, as all awful and familiar things seem to do.

No matter how many times he wakes up, he’s never anywhere different. That drowning feeling suffocates him in his sleep and follows dutifully into his waking hours. He can’t remember when that haunting started, only that it’s always been with him.

He hates feeling like a drifter, like he’s lost (even though he is both of those things), so he picks a goal and runs after it like a monster. He’s an animal, hunting and working and bleeding until he fucking makes it work , because that’s who he is, and that’s who he’s always been. He can’t not make it work. Because if he can’t do it, then…then what was it all for?

What is he even for?

These are the thrilling thoughts that serve as the background music to the swirl of his cheap morning coffee, oils rotating in a slow circle. He thinks about getting a nicer brand next time he goes grocery shopping. But that would mean change. That would mean less money on the restaurant, too.

Yeah, so it tastes like shit, but it doesn’t matter. Even if it mattered once. Less and less matters to him these days.

Mornings in Chicago are not technically quiet by definition, but when compared to other times of day, they are. Especially when most of his day is spent in the kitchen wringing out his throat. It isn’t bad to have a quiet morning by normal means, but for him…

The quiet is dangerous.

It’s not silent, but it’s not enough. There’s distant beeping of impatient cars. The whirring sound of the old AC unit. He tries to listen to them, but his rampant thoughts nonetheless rise above them all, buzzing everywhere with nowhere to land.

A brief analysis of his thoughts reads as such:

Beef sandwiches eggs flour shipment Michael cigarettes smoking sore throat late shipment so tired not sleeping Michael Sugar Mom coffee tastes bad it’s too early my stomach hurts Michael fucking hates you Michael Michael Michael Michael Michael you piece of shit you fucking ki—

“Mornin’, Carmy.”

Until his roommate wakes up, that is.

When he moved back to Chicago, there was a fact, plain, simple, and unchanging. He wasn’t gonna make rent on his own, not with the restaurant. Not with everything. So maybe he didn’t need to deal with a new roommate, but it’s not like there was a choice. It seemed bearable, survivable enough.

He keeps waiting for the thing that’ll make him grit his teeth, make him regret not getting a place on his own, but it never comes. They’re easy to live with. It’s so easy, as a matter of fact, that it feels strange. The difficulty that he was so certainly expecting just isn’t there.

If anything, he looks forward to being at home. For someone who lives at work, that feeling is completely foreign.

They don’t steal his food (not that there’s much). Instead, they cook him food, leaving heated leftovers on the stove on late nights. In Carmy’s case, that’s most nights. They don’t bring over obnoxious company and keep him up with the noise. Rather, he basks in their company, and they make a ruckus between their laughter. Their presence doesn’t stifle him, it soothes him, just like the candle they leave lit in the kitchen for him when he comes home. They’re not just easy to live with, they’re good to live with, and that’s…

That’s been a hard adjustment, Carmy would say. It’s too much of a good thing that he’s not sure what to do with himself.

On those late nights, they’re usually fast asleep by the time he’s home. But as he sits and eats the leftovers they’ve kept for him, he wants to say something. Something about how a long time ago, there was once a Carmy who cooked for himself, who looked after himself, but that he’s not that Carmy anymore. That it doesn’t matter that he’s a five star chef and they’re just some guy in the kitchen, as they would put it, because he’s…

He’s grateful. Incredibly so.

And yet, the words will never come out. He feels the words tingling on his lips, but it feels scary. He can thank them as many times as he likes (which he does) but it will never capture what he’s really trying to say when he says thank you . There’s too many words, and it just can’t…it just can’t—

It always stays the same.

“You’re up early,” he says to them when they enter the room. It’s a rare sight to see them up at the early hours he frequents. He sees the morning drowsiness in their mussed hair and big t-shirt stained with hair dye. They yawn back at him, nose scrunching.

Cute , he thinks, and he stamps it down as soon as it flashes through his mind.

“Randomly woke up.” They fall into the empty seat next to him on the couch, and they rub at the crust around their eyes. “About to head off to work?”

“Unfortunately, yeah,” he replies. There’s a certain sentiment that lies on the tip of his tongue, something about how he wishes he could have a slow morning with them instead. Of course, he can’t voice it. He can’t even come close.

“The plague of the working man,” they sigh. “Well, I got an idea that might cheer you up.”

“...And that would be?”

“Let me paint you a beautiful picture,” they start. They clear their throat and gesture widely with their hands. He notices their chipped nail polish, the writing callus on their middle finger. “Imagine this—you come home from work, tired. You need to relax —something you need to do more often,” they add with a pointed look. No comment. “And I have dinner ready. Some sort of soup, pasta maybe. I need to check the fridge.” They pause with a yawn. “And before we eat, we smoke a big, fat joint.”

He snorts as they finish, unable to hold back a laugh.

“That’s a nice picture,” he admits. He doesn’t remember when he started smiling. “Y’know, I was wondering when the joint was gonna pop in.”

“You fucking know me, man,” they reply, blooming with his interest, his smile. Not that he can perceive that. “So? Thoughts? Haven’t done that in a while, right?”

“Right, right,” he echoes faintly. His mind is already sorting through the pile of tasks on the schedule. “Well, I gotta go over this new recipe with Marcus, today,” he mutters, partially under his breath. “But before that, ingredient orders. And those invoices before the end of the day—and that, that toilet guy was supposed to come today…I think?”

“Dude, I do like, one task, and the day’s over for me,” they say sympathetically, and the look on their face is so serious that Carmy struggles to hide his smile. “You’re crazy.”

“I, I’ve seen you do tasks,” he argues.

“Name one,” they argue back.

“You did two loads of laundry and did the dishes all before lunch time once,” he says, the memory clear and instant. “And when I woke up, you were vacuuming the whole place.” The immediacy surprises him, and it seems to surprise them, too.

“Damn, I said name one , but I guess I’m just that good!” They laugh, a breathy, exasperated sort of thing. “Well, point taken. Anyway, it sounds like you’re not gonna be home early tonight.”

“It is a Friday,” he says, “but…”

“But.”

“Can’t make promises I can’t keep,” he sighs, and shame melts over him like butter on a stainless steel pain. This isn’t anything new.

“I know, I know,” they say, gracious as ever. “It’s okay. Such is the life of a business owner, yeah?” He searches for some thinly veiled shred of disappointment, frustration in their expression, but he doesn’t. No matter how many times he lets them down, the explosion he’s waiting for never comes. They remain patient, collected through it all.

Says more about him than them, he supposes.

“Yeah,” he mutters, “such is the life.”

“C’est la fucking vie,” they say, and he laughs with a shake of his head.

It can feel strange to laugh. He worries that the lightness in his chest will expand like a balloon, and he’ll float away. It’s uncontrollable, foreign. It should be scary, how his emotions lead him when he’s around them, not the other way around, but it’s not.

It’s not scary to loosen up around them, and that’s the scary part. There are no words to describe why. All he can see is that the fear exists, stubborn and persistent. That fear is what makes him snap out of it, makes him look at the clock. He holds back a sigh.

“Time to go,” he mutters, and they nod.

“And time for me to go back to bed.” They salute him. “Best of luck with your day, brave soldier. And just shoot me a text if you do end up coming back early, ok?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll try. And, thanks. You, you too,” he gets out. He stands up, readjusting the waistband of his pants. “I’ll, uh, see you later.”

“See you,” they say through a yawn, waving at him from where they’re lying down. They’ve taken his spot, sprawled across the couch, tangled hair flayed out on the pillows.

Cute , he thinks again, and hearing the thought in his brain makes him wanna panic.

He doesn’t wanna panic, doesn’t wanna think about it at all, so he nods, shuts the door, and heads out to work with a cigarette hastily lit in his mouth.

By the time it’s Carmy’s lunch break, he swears his vocal cords must have snapped by how tight he was wringing them.

The soreness has never stopped him from lighting a cig, though. As he stands outside in the back, finally forced to go on his 30, he smokes rather than eating. There’s a sandwich in his pocket, one that was bearing the brunt of test ingredients. He can feel the aluminum wrapping at his fingertips.

Eventually, he does eat, though, because he sees the way his hands are shaking when he flicks his lighter. He doesn’t wanna shake when he uses a knife, so he eats. He tastes it, but he doesn’t really taste it.

In truth, he wasn’t even planning on taking his lunch break at all. Most days, he forgets about it. The kitchen’s always busy, there’s always something missing, there’s always something that hasn’t been prepped that’s ruining everything, the lights in the hallways keep flickering because they need to fixed, Fak’s supposed to fix them, but he can’t, because Richie’s still out getting the replacement bulbs, the pile of papers on his desk are bigger than he remembers, he doesn’t have enough fucking time—

But then he’s in the middle of chopping an onion, and the cutting board slips. The half-chopped onion and its sliced offspring scatter on the floor with the cutting board. The sound of its fall draws Sydney in like a whip.

“You okay? Need a bandaid?” Sydney’s already kneeling by him, helping him pick the onions off the floor.

“I, I’m fine, didn’t drop the knife,” he explains, and it feels like an ocean current is rushing by his ears. “Fucking, I just—such a stupid fucking—” He sucks in a breath and goes silent.

His entire body feels tight, wound like a spring. He can barely fucking breathe.

“Hey.” Carmy turns his intense stare from the onions to Sydney, and when he sees her searching expression, he remembers himself. “Maybe you should go take your lunch break.”

“No, I’m fine, really,” he repeats, and he feels like he’s heard this before. From someone else. He can’t remember. Who was it? “The onions—we’re behind on onions—”

“I can handle onions for 30 minutes,” she interrupts, decisive and firm. “Seriously.”

Carmy’s about to say something, but then he’s looking at the onion half in his hand. His hand is shaking.

“Okay,” he sighs after a beat. “Okay, yeah. Sorry. For fucking up.”

“It happens. We all have our moments.” She shrugs. When he keeps standing there, she makes this shoo-ing motion with her hand. “Go on. Take your 30!”

So here he is, taking his lunch break a whole hour later than he’s supposed to. Although it’s better than most days where he doesn’t take it at all.

She wouldn’t have had to tell you to take a break if you didn’t fuck it all up, he thinks to himself, eyebrows knitted together. When the last time I’ve fucked up something so fucking easy?

He thinks about his dream from last night. A familiar sight of red fire and flames up to the ceiling, crackling so loud it sounded like screaming. The only good part is that when he woke up, he wasn’t at the stove burning his place down. It hasn’t happened at this apartment yet. Carmy hopes it never happens.

Just get it together, he thinks. He aggressively taps the ash out onto the decrepit ash tray they have in the back. It’s full. You’re supposed to be at this shit. So just be good.

“Cousin.” Carmy snaps his head up, and Richie’s at the door, stepping out. His presence yanks him out of his inner whirlpool, a quickly descending spiral. “Gimme one.”

Wordlessly, Carmy hands him a cigarette. Richie plucks it out of his hand like a flower.

“You had a lighter, but no cigarette?” Carmy comments, squinting at Richie pulling a busted up red lighter from his jean pocket.

“Shut up,” Richie mutters, but there’s no heat behind it. “Got the wrong damn light bulbs,” he explains unprompted.

“Alright,” Carmy sighs. He has so little energy that the frustration bypasses him completely, diving instantly into deflated acceptance. “Just return ‘em.”

“Can’t,” Richie says, and when Carmy gives him a look, he elaborates, “no receipt.”

“ Dude .” Carmy opens his mouth, but then he shuts it again. It’s just not worth it. “Thanks anyway, cousin. We’ll get it done.”

“Don’t fuckin’ thank me, you asshole. I didn’t do shit.” Richie nudges him, but like before, it’s not an angry thing. “Also, toilet guy’s not comin’ today.”

“The fuck? Why ?”

“Canceled,” he replies simply.

“Fucking hell,” Carmy mutters under his breath. “Did he say when he could reschedule?”

“Not yet.”

“Great.”

“Yep.” Richie tilts his head up, blowing out a slow stream of gray cigarette smoke. “Might as well wait for Fak to get his ass back in town at this rate.”

“I guess.” Carmy sighs. He thinks about all the things he still needs to do. “I dropped this onion I was chopping, earlier,” he mentions out of nowhere.

“Okay.” Richie gives him a look. “And? You bitches chop those things up faster than I could cut one in half.”

“I dropped it on the floor,” Carmy tries again, but Richie’s expression remains unchanged. “I never do shit like that.”

“Well, cousin, you did.” Carmy feels something in him deflate. “What’s the big deal?”

“Nevermind,” he replies, because he’s a coward. “Just—just forget it.”

Silence. The spark of a lighter.

“I’m gonna leave early,” Richie says, like he can just do that. Which…he can, Carmy supposes. “If no one’s gonna show up, what’s the point?” He slaps Carmy’s back, and Carmy doesn’t watch him as he heads back inside.

Guess all I need to do later is get rid of those papers on the desk , Carmy thinks to himself, idly moving the shortening cigarette between his lips. Then that’ll be it, I guess.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s gone home early. It’s hard to even imagine what he does on days like those. Sleeping, probably. There’s nothing much else for him to do, not with how tired he is—

Shoot me a text, okay?

He hears them in the back of his head all of a sudden, and he remembers.

Oh, he remembers, hands moving to take out his phone. Almost forgot.

“Sorry to bother you, chef.” Carmy’s not sure how he didn’t hear the door opening. Marcus’ head pops out, nose covered in flour. “Just wanted to let you know that we’re gonna need more flour for tomorrow.”

“Order’s not gonna come for a couple days. I thought we had an extra bag left,” Carmy tries, but the guilty look on Marcus’ face explains it all.

“Dropped it,” Marcus grimaces, and Carmy’s already fucking over it.

“We’re all fucking up today, chef,” Carmy replies, and the day goes on.

. . . . .

It’s a strange, delightful miracle, but he manages to get out of the restaurant before the sun sets.

Considering their collective track record, the fact everyone was able to leave early was cosmic intervention. It helps that the toilet guy didn’t come, in an unfortunate way, but still. Standing outside of the restaurant in the evening like this feels…weird.

It’s not that Carmy’s complaining about a nice thing, it’s just that he wasn’t prepared to have anything good today.

Shower, dinner, and weed, he thinks absentmindedly on the way home. He juggles the three around in his brain. Just the thought of it feels like relaxing. A little.

With company , his brain helpfully adds, and his stomach squirms.

Self control, he thinks. He needs more self-control. He can’t just keep thinking of them so indulgently. He’s not allowed to think of them that way, because it’s not fair to them. Even if no matter how many times he chastises himself, it never works. Even if they remain in his brain like sun-spots in his vision. Even if it’s not his fault that he just can’t help it.

The thing is, though, it always is. Even when it’s not his fault, it actually is. Always.

You dropped that fucking onion , his brain helpfully adds for no particular reason. Fucking loser.

Fuck off , he thinks back as he approaches his front door. Predictably, it does not stop.

Just as his fingers search for his keys in all of his pockets, he hears something that makes him pause, hands stopped on his waist. It’s music, distant and muffled. They’re probably listening to music in the kitchen. He stands, trying to place the song, but he doesn’t recognize it.

He does recognize the voice that’s singing over the music, though.

Oh, he realizes. That’s them.

The way their voice clumsily layers over the music shouldn’t make him pause like this. He shouldn’t be doing this, standing in the doorway and listening rather than opening the door. The keys are in his hand. This, this is a breach of privacy, he tells himself, feeling a little dizzy with distress, he just needs to just—

There’s an abrupt, loud clang, and he shoves the door open.

Concern is on the tip of his tongue, but it dies there. The source of the noise lays face-down on the floor—a pan sitting in what seems to be tomato sauce. The matter next to it is what makes the words evaporate from his lips, like they were never there at all.

They’re kneeled down next to the pan, paper towels in hand, but all they’re wearing is an apron.

His mind blanks. He thinks he stops breathing. He’s never seen so much of their skin at once. He needs to look away, he thinks, but his eyes keep traveling, traveling, and traveling. It just happens so quickly. He doesn’t mean to look, he doesn’t, but they’re right there and he can see right down their—

“No, I—I’m sorry! I didn’t know you were coming back early!” They exclaim, quickly crossing their arms over their chest, and that’s what makes him tear his eyes away.

“I—I thought I texted you,” he says quickly, hot face turned to the side, “on my lunch—...“ He stops there, the memory reconstructing itself.

He forgot.

“It’s fine, I just feel bad about dinner, and, uh—okay, I’m just gonna change real quick, and then I’ll clean this up,” they reply, words rushing out. In the corner of his vision, he sees their bare legs dart to their room.

It seems wrong to just stand here staring at the tomato sauce slowly expand outwards on the floor, so he cleans it up. A couple paper towels later, he’s gotten most of it, and they’ve returned with a change of clothes.

“Sorry,” Carmy starts right as they also go “I’m sorry”. He pauses, meeting their eyes. It’s a lot easier now that they’re wearing leggings and a t-shirt as opposed to, well, nothing. Not to say he doesn’t appreciate the leggings.

“Sorry you had to see me like that,” they sigh. “I don’t—I don’t usually walk around the place naked, I just—I didn’t think you’d be back—“

“I should’ve texted,” he interrupts. He struggles to not think about them walking around the living room naked. “I forgot. But it, it’s fine. You’re fine. Really. Sorry for not texting.”

“Okay. Cool.” They exhale, a tired noise. “And it’s okay. It happens.” They look at the floor and make a sound of surprise. “Did you clean this up?” The look they give him has far too much gratitude, and it feels like a searing hot iron.

“Yeah, uh.” His hands are moving like he’s trying to explain something, but no words crop up. “Felt weird not to.”

“Well.” They smile, grateful. “Thank you. That was gonna be dinner, but…” They trail off, looking at the floor with a sour expression. “I fucked up.”

“It’s just that sort of day today,” Carmy mutters.

“Shitty day for you, too?”

“Yeah. Lots of shit went wrong.” Especially me, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it. “You?”

“Gotcha.” They shrug. “As for me—yeah. Really not my best day. It was just, uh, some family shit. You know how it is.”

Carmy makes a sound of acknowledgement. “That sucks.” He doesn’t know much about their family other than that they’re fairly shitty. It’s the same the other way around, too.

“It’s whatever,” they say, even though it really isn’t, and he knows it. They look at the floor one more time before looking up at him. “Do you just wanna order pizza or something?”

“Yeah, I do,” Carmy replies, his words coming out much more despondent than expected.

They settle on some pepperoni pizza from a place down the street. It’s a tried and true method—they deliver, it’s cheap, it’s oily, it’s cheesy, it’s good. Just talking about it makes Carmy taste it on the tip of his tongue.

“You can go and shower if you want. I’ll get the door when pizza comes,” they offer. They’re standing at the sink, sleeves rolled up.

“Okay, thanks.” Carmy pauses then, gears turning. He’s vaguely worried his memory is going to shit. “Did—did I just say I was gonna shower?”

“Oh, no, you didn’t, you just always shower when you get home from work, right?” They say it like it’s the weather, like it’s familiar, and that’s when Carmy realizes because it is. After several months of living together, of course they’ve picked up on his habits. It doesn’t need to be a thing. There’s no reason for it to be a thing.

“I do,” Carmy replies faintly, and for some reason, that’s all he can say.

“Thought so.” They look at him for just a moment, but it makes him feel like his body’s gone transparent. “I notice these things, you know.”

“Yeah.” Carmy looks at them when they turn back to the dishes, back facing him. “You do.”

He tells himself he’s not gonna think any harder about any of it. He’s not gonna think about the singing, the apron, the way they just notice these things, but then he does.

He’s in the shower, and he thinks about everything.

The water pressure is pathetic, but the warmth still feels nice. Between that and the sound of the running shower, it’s usually enough to quiet his thoughts. This time, though, it doesn’t. To his credit, he does try to think about anything else.

He thinks about work, because he always does. He thinks about flour, about onions, about knives. He thinks about the shampoo lathered in his hair. He thinks about those lightbulbs they still need to get. He thinks about food. He thinks about them. He thinks about pizza. He thinks about the way they sing when no one’s around. He thinks about the way they know him.

He thinks about them, knees on the floor only in a—

He thinks of bashing his head into the tile wall until he explodes.

“Shut the fuck up,” he whispers to himself, rivulets of hot water trailing down his forehead and dripping off his lips. “Shut the fuck up.”

The soreness is still present in his body, but that never quite goes away. He does feel a bit better now that he doesn’t have sweaty, sticky skin, though. It gets even better when he puts on a clean white t-shirt and his favorite sweatpants. It’s a nice surprise from his past self who did his laundry for him.

This amount of niceness is okay. This is what he’s used to—a shower and comfortable clothes when he’s home from work. That’s enough.

He steps out into the kitchen with a damp towel on his head. He finds them sitting by their one shitty window that opens, pizza box in front of them and joint lit. It casts an orange glow to mix with the golden light from the window.

“Hey, pizza’s here!” They slap their hand on the greasy cardboard box. “Just got this joint started for us, too.”

“So you weren’t gonna smoke it all on your own?” He doesn’t mean to tease, but he does. He slips into the seat across them, arms resting on the table they placed by the window.

“I couldn’t smoke this whole thing even if I wanted to,” they protest. “Besides, joints are made for sharing. Here—now you get to take it. Isn’t that nice?” With their elbow propped up on the pizza box, they hold up the joint to him. The lit end of it sizzles a bright orange, emitting a thin trail of smoke up to the ceiling.

“That is very, very nice,” Carmy agrees, taking it carefully from their fingers. Their face spreads into that contagious grin of theirs, and he’s far from immune. Sometimes he smiles so much around them that his face hurts, rusty and unused.

Sure, he can blame that on the weed, but if he’s being honest with himself (a rare occasion), that’s a complete lie. Obviously the weed lessens the tension, the stress that winds him up tight. It’s not just the weed that gets him to relax, though.

It’s them. There’s something disarming about their presence, something that makes him loose-lipped around them. Even when he’s sober, he finds himself feeling comfortable. He’s not quite sure how that happened, or if that’s ever happened. He supposes that isn’t a bad thing. Just something he’s noticed.

He wonders if they’ve noticed.

“You like the new rolling papers?” They tuck their knees under their chin, propping their feet up on the chair.

“Hm.” Carmy lowers the joint from his mouth to give it a good look. He rotates it around in his fingers. “Strawberry?”

“Yeah, it’s strawberry,” they confirm, poorly hiding the excitement in their demeanor. Not that they were trying to. “Can you taste it?”

He pulls from the joint, the edges of the paper sizzling red with the weed. It’s an even burn this time. He rolls his tongue around in his mouth after he exhales a cloud of smoke.

“Still no,” he decides after a beat, and they sigh.

“I don’t know why I ever get my hopes up.”

“I do taste something else in this, though.” He takes another hit, stews on it. “Lavender?”

“Shoulda known you would’ve gotten it on your first tray. Yeah, it’s lavender. I found some lying around.”

“You made this one pretty nice,” he observes, eyes tracing the shape of the joint. “Between the lavender and the new papers, I mean.”

“Well, y’know.” The smile on their face is small and shy. “I don’t smoke joints often, so I wanted to make it nice, and I, uh…”

They’re paused for so long that Carmy interjects.

“And?”

“And I—want that joint,” they finally say, outstretching their hand. Carmy has a strong feeling that they weren’t originally going to say that, but he hands over the joint nonetheless.

“Strain?” He asks curiously. He can feel the body high creeping up his shoulders, fluid and light.

“The strain that gets you high,” they reply with a grin.

“Oh, thank god,” Carmy sighs in relief, and the way that makes them laugh… It makes his chest tight.

“To actually answer your question, though—I dunno.” He likes watching the smoke drift from the tip of the joint as they talk, thin gray wisps in the air. “I think it’s a hybrid? Not sure if it’s more one way or not, though…”

“As long as it’s not the weed that puts you to bed.”

“Um…well, if you smoke enough of it, it can.”

They sit together like this for a while, just sitting and taking turns with the joint. It’s an easy, fluid exchange, flowing between them like smoke. No matter how much they both try to blow it out the window, it always comes back in. The smell of weed is strong in the air, earthy and pungent.

Although he would never describe himself as a talkative person, sitting stoned across from them makes the words come out. Sometimes, he thinks he likes himself better when he’s high—his mind isn’t running circles around itself, and the soreness of his body just floats away. He feels more like a human than a poor imitation of one like he usually does.

This weed smells kinda good, he thinks, and when they laugh, nose scrunched up, he realizes he said that out loud.

“That’s literally what I’ve been saying,” they agree, a bright grin lingering on their face. “That’s how you know you’re a fuckin’ stoner!”

“Feels weird to call myself a stoner,” he muses. He plucks the joint from their outstretched hand. It definitely looks shorter from when they started a moment ago. “But I guess…”

“If you like the smell of weed, you’re too far gone,” they say with a grave expression. “It’s so fucking over for you.”

“Fuck,” he whispers, equally as serious, and then they’re both bursting out into laughter. He likes the sound of their laugh—it’s unabashed, fills up the space.

“Dude, I’m high,” they whisper after they both calm down, like it’s some sort of secret, and Carmy can’t stop himself from laughing all over again. “Oh my god. Are you high?”

“I—I think I might fucking be,” he gets out between laughs, and that sparks them straight into another cackle of laughter. He’s not supposed to be able to make others laugh, he doesn’t even make himself laugh—but then he’ll say something, and they’re lit up with laughter.

“We need to eat this pizza now, ” they yell, projecting over their combined noise. They flip the pizza box open, and it smacks Carmy right in the face.

“Oh,” he reacts mildly.

“Shit, I’m so sorry—”

“It’s fine, it’s not like you punched me in the face,” he reasons, but their guilty expression persists. “It didn’t hurt, it’s just cardboard.”

“I’m sorry, I’m high,” they sigh apologetically.

“I know,” he replies with a little smile. His eyes drift down to the pepperoni pizza sitting before them, glorious in its perverse amount of oil. “So, we’re gonna eat this, right?”

“Oh my god, yes we are,” they gasp, and the moment is forgotten.

When he tears off a pizza slice, the cheese stretches in thin, gooey strings. They grab the slice adjacent to it to snap the strings in half, but they’re both leaned back in their chairs, pizzas in hand, and the cheese is still connected.

“This doesn’t seem right,” Carmy mutters, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “We should’ve just cut it.”

“How could we have predicted this?” They pull their pizza further back, and the string still doesn’t break. “Wow. I’m honestly impressed. I don’t think it’s ever been this insane before.”

“I think we’d remember.” He’s not sure why he’s still talking and not just running his finger across the string to break it.

“I think we would, too.” They snort, shaking their head. “This—this is some spaghetti type shit.”

“What? Spaghetti?” He’s genuinely perplexed.

“I—I mean like—that fucking disney movie. With the dogs.” They pause for a moment, mouth silently moving. “Fucking—lady and the, the truck—”

“Uh.” He has to hold back a laugh. “...The lady and the tramp?”

“ Holyshittheladyandthetramp ,” they blurt out in a rush, and the cheese string finally snaps in half. “…Well, I guess it’s not exactly like the lady and the tramp, then.” They take a large bite of their pizza, and it reminds Carmy exactly how hungry he is.

“You mean lady and the truck,” he corrects, and he can’t stop himself from smiling. Especially not with how good this hot pizza is, delightfully salty and greasy in his mouth.

“Shut up, I was trying,” they grunt through a mouthful of food.

“How exactly is this like the lady and the tramp, again? Or, uh, not like it?”

“Well, it was just like it, but then the string broke.” Somehow, they’re already halfway through their slice. “Could’ve been a beautiful spaghetti moment.”

“Spaghetti moment,” he echoes under his breath, holding back a laugh. “Remind me how that scene goes?”

They go quiet for a moment. It’s like he can see the gears turning in his head. If he’s being honest, he already remembers how that scene goes, but…he wants to hear them say it. He needs to hear them say it.

“Uh, well, they’re…eating spaghetti. The titular lady and tramp.” Their eyes are fidgety, flickering back and forth between their pizza and the window. “And they’re sharing the plate, the two of them. They’re eating together, and, um…”

“...And?”

They meet his eyes, mouth hanging open, and then they close it.

“Um, I don’t remember, actually,” they say, shaking their head and blinking. He sees it for the blatant lie that it is, and yet. “Do, do you remember?”

As he stares back at them, unable to look away, he wonders. He wonders about what this really means. About if this really means anything at all, about if he’s going to find out if it does.

“I don’t remember,” he answers quietly, cowardly, and neither of them say anything else.

Out of the two of them, they’ve always been better with recovering from awkward moments, so they do. They start talking about something else, and the world keeps turning. But in the back of his head, Carmy remains in that moment, unwilling to let it go.

Why did you say that you didn’t remember? He wants to say. Why didn’t I say that I remembered how it went? Because I remember. They kiss—they fucking kiss. Is that what you wanted to hear? Is that what I wanted to hear?

But because he’s Carmy, he doesn’t say anything. He just eats.

He’s so hungry that the pizza disappears in minutes. It’s delicious, but he’s so high he’s not completely sure he can taste it. Somehow, it remains the best thing he’s ever eaten.

The rest of the night is a blur. He remembers getting onto the couch at some point. They both decide on a random movie he doesn’t catch the name of. They finish off the joint on the couch together, sinking into its cushions. It burns hot in his throat as it reaches the end.

And as it turns out, the weed he smoked is the one that puts him to bed.

“...Ca…Car…” Someone’s calling him. “...Carmy, c’mon. You’re gonna complain about your neck tomorrow if you keep sleeping here.”

“Mhm,” he replies helpfully. He turns his head into the cushion. His body feels like an abstract blob, perfectly molded into the couch cushions.

“Okay, you made a good point. But. ” They laugh quietly, under their breath. “Movie’s been over for like 20 minutes now.”

“Mhm,” he repeats, nearly inaudible. He doesn’t wanna get up. Whenever he falls asleep, it always feels like he’s never gotten an hour of sleep in his life. There’s nothing he needs to think about, worry about. He’s warm and comfortable, and he doesn’t feel like letting that go just yet.

Everything goes silent again for a moment, save for the cars on the road. He begins to drift away again, slipping back into his dreamless sleep.

But then there’s a hand on his shoulder, and it’s like a smoking brand on his skin. His eyes fly open and he jolts awake, jerking upright.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” they apologize, fretful. Between the dark of night and haze of sleep, they look pretty different. The blue light from the television is streaked across the blurry planes of their face.

“It’s fine,” he replies, drowsy. Speaking feels…heavy. Begrudgingly, he adjusts to sit up. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“Weed,” they say with a shrug.

“How, how long was I—?” He cuts himself off with a yawn, wide with condensation in the corners of his eyes.

“Only like, 30 minutes.” They yawn back. Typical infectious yawning. “End of the movie sucked anyway.”

“Oh.” Pause. “What was the ending?”

“Love interest died,” they state plainly. “He told her about how he felt, got rejected, and then she died in a car accident. Pretty tragic.”

“Huh.” Carmy makes a face. “That does suck.”

“Yeah, a bit.” They’re idly fiddling with the remote, scrolling through Netflix without reading anything. “I feel like the movie was trying to say something profound about the unpredictability of life or something, but the writing was shit.”

“I guess it’d be too perfect if they got together,” he muses.

“I guess,” they echo. They turn off the tv, and the room goes dark. The only light is from the yellow street lamp right outside their window, wonderful in its inconvenient placement. It illuminates the shape of the back and leaves their face in shadow. “I think I remember how that scene went,” they say suddenly.

“Oh.” Carmy’s heart feels stuck in his throat. “And how does it go?”

“Well, they’re—both eating spaghetti. Like I said.” They’re not facing him, leaving their face shrouded in shadow. He’s not sure if he’s imagining the shake in their voice or not. It’s beyond him why there would be any shakiness at all. “They somehow get the same noodle, so they, uh, kiss.”

“They kiss,” he repeats for some unknown reason.

“Yeah.” They let out a quick laugh, but it doesn’t sound like they actually find this funny. He wishes he could see the look on their face.

“I don’t think pasta works like that,” he hears himself murmur faintly. For some reason, he can’t help but think that was the wrong thing to say. But he’s already said it. Maybe it’s the same reason as to why his heart is beating so urgently.

“No, I, I don’t think so either,” they mumble. He refuses to place the way they’re feeling.

I can’t fucking do this.

The thought resounds like a gong, hit with a mallet right next to his ear.

“It’s late, I gotta head to bed.” It feels like someone else is speaking for him, moving his body for him. He can’t stop them. When he stands up, he avoids their face.

What the fuck are you doing?

Another thought resounds. He doesn’t respond.

“Right, I—didn’t even notice the time.” He pretends he doesn’t hear the strain in their voice. No, he didn’t word that right—there is no strain in their voice. “G’night.”

"Night,” he murmurs back.

This is enough, he tells himself as he falls into bed. His sheets are tangled. This is enough , he repeats, and it’s not because he’s scared, afraid, anxious, or any other stupid synonym. It’s because he believes it, needs to believe it.

He tells himself, this is enough , even though he wonders, what is supposed to be enough? He doesn’t listen. He stamps down the protests, the thoughts that are out of line. The high usually helps with that, but it’s worn off, now just leaving him in a weary, sleepy state of things.

This is enough, he thinks, and he falls asleep looking at their shrouded face behind his eyelids.

#carmy berzatto #the bear #carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x reader #the bear fx #jeremy allen white #lip gallagher #the bear fanfiction #hahaha i've been stewing on this fic since sept 2023 and now its here... i have like 2 more chapters written right now #they're around the same length #AH!!!! CARMEN BERZATTO!!!!#my writing #my fics #carmy #reader #alexithymia fic

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hoeforhao · 9 months

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🌙 Fated Under The Rain ☆ Wonwoo Oneshot ☆

↝ pairing: ex boyfriend! wonwoo × fem! reader

↝ genre: explicit language, smut with little plot, minors dni!!!!!! mutual pining but mainly from wonwoo, fluff, slight humor, overall nothing heavy just a small sensual drabble.

↝ warnings: unprotected sex(wrap it up kids), creampie, breast play, fingering, marking. Tell me if I missed any!

↝ summary: will offering lift to the man who left you in pieces amidst heavy rain lead to something your heart has been craving for months?

↝ word count: 2k(am sorry😭)

↝ author's note: was driving back home yesterday while it was literally pouring down outside, my favorite song playing on spotify and all i could think of instead focusing on the road was this plot!

Lemme know if you enjoyed the drabble! Feedbacks always make me feel warm♡

Permanent taglist : @feat-sun @joonsytip

Amidst the rain seeping it's path down the glass panels, the heaven clan's haze shielding your view from the mundane maneuver of the blurred out world, your glistening beads have found their long craved spot onto the tall, broad shouldered man standing by the signal, hair and shirt completely soaked up from the pouring skies, while his eyes were desperately searching for a way back - was it to his brick stoned house or his lost home?

"Going back home?" thrusting on the clutch and then the brake to bring your car to a halt at the blinking bloody lights, you roll down the passenger side's window as a way to offer some sort of help to the seemingly distressed man on top of the pavement.

A familiar voices grazes wonwoo's ears as his eyes shoot up in anticipation,looking for the owner of the claimed voice, only to land them on you. Did rain cloud his vision? Cuz there's no way that you were now parked beside him, asking whether he's struggling to get back home or not.

"Y-yes" the older nervously scratches the back of his head, not sure of what to say to the person he has pained so deep.

"I can drop you off, if you don't mind obviously" only you knew how hard it was for you to maintain an indifferent composure before the one man you've cared for and treasured so dearly, being fully aware of the fact that he's highly sensitive to rainwater; 'typical cat behavior' you laugh at yourself!

"No its fine. I'll find a cab soon" wonwoo tries to be as polite as possible, even though every vein of his body wants to jump into the car right now.

"I've been watching you clawing onto your scalp in frustration for the past 30 minutes and you think i'll still believe in your 'will find a cab soon'?" you genuinely didn't realise when the old habits took over the new persona and you started acting as the protective girlfriend you were, visualizing that one time he fell severely ill for days after getting poured onto on his way to the office; a memory you never wanna revisit ever again.

"Hop on quick if you don't wanna end up amongst the white walls for the second time!! Only 10 seconds are left to go" eyes quickly deviating towards the beeping timer of the signal, while you shift up the gear and slowly start bringing up your feet off the floor, ready to drive out as soon as the light turns green.

All of wonwoo's self control leave his body seeing the same old care flash by on his lost lover's face, as he swiftly pulls onto the door's latch, positioning his nearly drenched body onto the leather seats.

The defeaning silence between the two past kins were filled by wonwoo's occasional glances at the strong independent lady sitting beside him and the radio playing your favorite songs, those which you constantly looped onto spotify throughout the entire spell of your heart longing for wonwoo.

Looks like even the gods are against you today as a warm wet hand lands on yours that were stationed onto the gear beside. As much as you wanted to engulf those palms into yours instantly and never let them go, you knew quite well that he was now not yours, not your to claim, not your to hold onto. Thus the only thing you could do was keep your eyes fixed onto the slippery road infront and drive him home safe.

But the heavens knew better. Your plans were currently going for a battle with you as wonwoo kept on grazing his soft gentle digits onto the back of your hand, everytime you shifted them to change the gear, drawing small circles on them occasionally.

The sensation now reaching the threshold of your body, making your skin call for the touch of his lips and your insides craving the warmth of his body, it was time for you to slow down your car by a deserted road and park the black shiny carrier under the moonlight.

"What do you want wonwoo?" a stern yet begging pair of eyes turns towards the passenger seat, where the big man was resting his wet body on.

"I miss you y/n. I've always missed you" wonwoo now completely engulfs your palms into his, squeezing them hard from the anticipation of what's about to come his way. "Can...can i feel you for one last time, pls?"

You see the desperation behind those black boba balls, the way those droplets of tears are being held captive in the backroom; besides it was gradually getting hard to ignore the pained screams of your body to feel him beneath you. Abandoning all the huff,anger, hurt that made their home in you for so long, you fleetly jumped out from the driver's seat while pushing back wonwoo's to make enough space for you on his lap.

Startled by the sudden presence of your wet clothed cunt over the tent in his tight jeans, wonwoo's body jolts up in the heat flowing through him, dulling his morals and senses as he only wants to fuck the life out of you right now ; and he shows no delay in his endeavor as he clings his mouth onto your neck like a beast deprived of his meal for months, loitering the supple skin beneath with his marks.

"I missed you so fuckin much y/n" he whispers into your nape, hands roaming up your waist, under your satin shirt, caressing the soft pillowy tummy he has always preferred laying on, pawing onto your boobs over the black lacey bra you wore to work, for lord knows what reasons; while his lips now clutched themselves to your plumpy vanilla lips.

"May I, please?" there's literally not a single person on the earth who can say no to those pleasing kitty eyes. So you just hummed against the kiss - not a passionate one but a longing one; wonwoo's lips were moving on yours in such insatiable hunger that it seemed like he wanted to imprint the taste onto his mouth forever, who knows if he'll ever get to feel them again....as if his lips have finally found their twin flame they've been craving for months now!

One single go signal from you and wonwoo wasted no time in tugging onto the buttons of your flowy shirt, ripping them open in just a matter of seconds. His eyes lit up like an excited puppy upon seeing your bare skin, glowing under the moonlit rainy sky....oh how he has missed this sight of yours so much, you whimpering on him, all vulnerable and begging for his touch against your heated core.

"Fuck you're still so sweet my love" he moans into your jiggly soft boobs, mouth fixed onto one of your hardened nipples, while he pawed at the other one.

The words 'my love' from the mouth of the one your heart still belongs to, still craves for and still wants to be claimed by, does no good in controlling the dripping from your already soaked pussy, as you start roughly grinding against his clothed length.

"Hmmm so impatient for my cock, aren't you pretty baby" a wide smirk creeping it's way onto wonwoo's face as he notices you getting impatient to feel him inside you. Finding it exciting and a prideful moment for him, the hand that was kneading onto your doughy mounds now trails down to your panties under the very convenient skirt your were harboring ; drawing his cold fingers over your sensitive clothed clit sending your head thrown against the windshield of your car.

"Pls..pls stop teasing and fuck me already wonu" you were yourself amazed at how desperate you seemed for his cock in your throbbing pussy.

"But I don't have a condom sweetheart" wonwoo knew absolutely well that you didn't give a damn about having unprotected sex with him as he smirked onto the skin around your nipples, teasing your wet sticky fold with his free fingers ; pulling out a string of slick from your pussy infront of you, he proudly shows you how much of a slut you're for his touch.

"You..ahh...you think...I....shit...fuckin care about having a condom right now? Just go in raw please....haven't felt your cock in me....for so long....fuck" lord if anyone ever got near to the black beauty parked on the roadside and heard the lewd sounds escaping your lips, they would surely be traumatized for days, but that was the least of your concerns now.

"As my princess wishes" and with that wonwoo quickly moves his limbs towards his pants, shoving down the chain of his trousers in the flick of an eye, while he finally releases his strained hard cock from its restraints, precum leaking down its tip as he tries to slightly palm down the pain before sheathing them into your walls.

"Just as tight as I left it" he growls onto your neck as his cock now thrusts into your slick walls at a inhumane pace, as if he slowly down, he'll forever lose the warmth of this pussy. "Fitting me so well into the mould u created only for me to fill"

The rain outside and the haze of all the juices leaking from the two bodies inside the car, creates a mystical world bounded within the tinted glasses of the vehicle, while wonwoo keeps on fucking you dumb onto his lap.

"I...I'm near wonw-- ah fuck" you lose control over your core muscles at the sensation of wonwoo's tip hitting your womb, as your core's glistening cream paints his black jeans white ; not to mention you were now embarrassed at the fact that he has to go home with such stained pants....or maybe not-

"My pretty little whore, so glowy after ruining my new jeans huh" you can feel wonwoo's pace slowing down a bit, knowing quite well what's about to follow. "Lemme return the favor and ruin your insides, ruin your pussy so that no one can get to bury themselves in you, except me.....only my hole to fuck"

Wonwoo's body falls limp onto the headrest of the seat as he shoots his entire load into you, cock still moving amongst your walls, fucking his seeds deep inside you.

"Can i have another chance, please?" wonwoo finally looks you into your pleasure coated eyes while shifting you on his lap to wrap your arms around his neck, resting his sweat forehead onto yours.

"At what? Fucking me?" you were seemingly confused at his words as you didn't think he would be wanting anything else other than sex, after how he let go off your hand in the middle of you two's promised path, 8 months ago.

"No...no...at l-loving you, pls" his voice suddenly portrays a cast of regret and pain, "I know I fucked up, I hurt the one I've loved with all my might all this time. I...I could never get you out of my head y/n, my eyes and my heart kept looking for you at every corner of my messed up life. Pls, will you give your catto one last chance?" something unexpected rolled down wonwoo's cheeks and it was none other than tear drops. Was...was he really crying for you, begging you back into his arms again?

"This time if you leave, I'll make sure to castrate you, so that you can't ever get a girl around you after me" you laugh onto his skin while placing a gentle kiss on his forehead, your fingers wiping off the dried out tears on his cheeks.

"I'll happily place my dick under your guillotine, my highness" wonwoo hasn't felt this happy since months, heart fluttering at the thought of walking beside you again, fingers locked into one another's.

Your heart swells looking at the misty scene outside, remembering how the first time you two decided to date, it was raining cats and dogs as you were pulling him under a tree to sheath yourselves from the rain...and now when the skies decided to grant you another chance at healing your soul with the one you loved, it's raining heavily - again!!!

"Eh but what about your pants wonu, how will you go home with these...ummm...stains" a genuine question you've been dying to ask him, as you surely don't have a change for men's jeans in your car.

"Who said we are going home baby"

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hisunshiine · 9 months

Text

—"lemme swallow your pride" [2/7]

Part 2 of 7 of the Seven Days Series ↣ series masterlist

🗓️ pairing: nurse!jungkook x teacher!reader 🗓️ au/genre: non-idol au, brother’s friend au, fwb, age-gap(reader is older), f2l, fluff, angst, smut, 🗓️ rating: M 🗓️ wc: 3,629 🗓️ warnings: emotionally constipated pairing, reader is older, adult worries, growing older, dating younger, time passing and not hitting milestones everyone else is, jealousy, using sex to deflect, explicit sexual content: oral (m receiving), spitting, cum swallowing, multiple orgasms, light degradation (cum slut), praise, shaft riding, mutual orgasm 🗓️ an: part 2 is here! And yes, based on the title alone, I am sure you are able to figure out exactly what type of sex this story focuses on. 🗓️ summary: “Open up say ahhh, Come here, baby, let me swallow your pride…” Jungkook comes over for an impromptu movie night that triggers some internal angst. You share a little, and he shares a lot... and your angst turns a little green. To change the topic when it gets a little too deep, you deepthroat him.

Taglist: @sizzlingfestpeach @mochminnie @jungkooksmytype @kookslastbutton @taebangtanbabe (if joining the taglist, please think about reblogging with tags/leaving feedback!)

“I need butter for my popcorn!” Jungkook is his usual whiny self as he stands in the kitchen, taking up space in the most unhelpful way as you prepare snacks for a movie night he planned in his own head and decided to carry out in your living room.

“Go finish the blanket fort, or whatever you were building in the living room,” you order with a small shove to his back, “I will put ample butter on the popcorn—this is not my first Jungkook Movie Night rodeo.”

Jungkook turns to shoot a glare at you over his shoulder, but he shuffles out of the kitchen to the living room without additional fuss. You resume your task, opening another packet of popcorn to cook in the microwave, then search the fridge for a stick of salted butter. Once it sounds like most of the kernels have metamorphosed into fluffy crunch balls of love, you swap the packet for the bowl of butter and let it melt.

Over the hum of the microwave, you can hear Jungkook whistling the main track to the movie he picked, his body appearing in your line of sight every few seconds as he shifts around the room to finish his task.

The beeps signaling the melted butter is ready cause you to jump a little, with how engrossed you are in watching him move. As a male nurse, he’s quite fit. You’re well acquainted with how fit he is, and you can’t help but admire his body when he’s wearing a white, sleeveless, ribbed tank top and black Nike shorts.

Wistfully, you look down at your own comfy outfit, sleep shorts and a shirt Jungkook left at your place eons ago, wishing you could look as hot as he does without effort. Switching focus, you turn your eyes to the microwave and top off the large bowl full of popped corn with waterfalls of butter for your savory snack. (Whether the savory snack is the popcorn or Jungkook, you’ll never tell!)

“Hurry up! I’m wasting away here!” he’s over-the-top dramatic right now, something you’ve experienced with him before. Whenever he’s lost a patient at work, he doesn’t like to talk about what happened and often can’t because of patient confidentiality, but he seeks out comfort in ways like this: creating a soft place to hideout, comfort foods and movies, and begging for all of your attention. You never ask him about it, and you’re sure it has to do with the last patient he saw before arriving late last night. You think the theatrics are his way of lightening his soul from the sadness, and you’re unable to resist.

“Oh dear, what will Ggukkie do without this small snack?” you ask as you carry the large bowl into the dim room.

“Fuck, yes!” He reaches for the bowl so you can settle onto the couch, ducking your head under the blanket he’s strategically strewn across the top of the couch with well-positioned pillows and dining room chairs.

Pressing play on your smart TV remote, you both settle in with a blanket over your laps as the opening scene reveals people trapped in traffic and then Jungkook’s melodious voice quietly sings along to ‘Another Day of Sun’.

Leaning your head onto his shoulder, you sink into the show tunes—made better by Jungkook’s voice—and let yourself become immersed in the characters’ problems, forgetting your own.

“I hate this movie, Jungkook, and you always make us watch it,” you sniffle, rubbing at your eyes. “It’s just so real, you know?”

“Yeah, that’s one of the reasons I love it. I think it’s a true take on the real world—tragic—but realistic.”

You fiddle with the frayed edges of the throw blanket on your lap as Jungkook begins clearing the empty bowl and mostly empty glasses of apple juice from the coffee table.

“Sometimes I like to escape real life, though, you know? I—never mind. What’s next on the movie agenda?” you question, but Jungkook returns to plop down next to you, practically sitting on top of your lap, and won’t let you deflect.

“No, no, talk to me. What’s on your mind? You’ve been thinking a lot lately. Almost couldn’t sleep last night because of it.”

“Hey, I was sleeping, but someone decided to tire us both out even more, if I remember correctly.”

“Apples and oranges, babe. I even made it to work for my meeting before shift started. So tell me what you were about to say, or I’ll tickle it out of you.”

He leans forward with his elbows on his knees, his face set in determined seriousness, and you know from your own experiences that once he starts tickling, he won’t stop until you’re screaming for sweet release from the painful pleasure that is his fingers dancing across the soles of your feet, your neck, or your tummy and ribs.

“Fine. I hate La La Land, because they went through all of that, supporting one another through pursuing their dreams, just for them to not end up together in the end? It’s not the escape from reality that I want in a movie.” You keep your eyes down on the blanket, top teeth worrying your bottom lip.

He says your name softly as he takes one of your fidgeting hands into his larger one. “I feel like there’s more to it. Talk to me, babe.” He stresses the second sentence, and you can tell his doe eyes are searching—no—yearning to make contact with yours.

“I know you probably aren’t even like…thinking about this kind of shit yet, but Yoongi is getting married. This weekend. And of course, my mom has been hounding me now,” you raise your voice an octave higher to mimic your mom, “saying ‘When are you next? Your younger brother is getting married, and you can’t even give me grandchildren yet.’ I hate it.

“And this movie just makes me scared that I’ll end up in something like it, in a relationship that serves as nothing but a chapter in my life, instead of being the whole book. That I’ll waste time with someone who’s not going to be there a few weeks, months, or years from now.”

Jungkook settles back against the couch with a hum, strong arms folded across his chest. “That’s tough, babe. I can imagine this feeling has gotten worse now too, what with Yoongi’s wedding looming. You know what’s crazy—you’re not the first person to say something similar.”

“Really? Who else do you know has a younger sibling getting married and is feeling the pressure?”

“Actually, you remember SoHee?” Jungkook asks timidly. You do. SoHee is another nurse who used to work with Jungkook at the hospital, but Yoongi helped her get hired at the high school you work at as the school nurse. It’s summer break, so you haven’t seen her in weeks, but of course you remember her.

“Yeah, we work together, duh.”

Jungkook tries and fails to hide the smile building on his face, small dimples appearing to frame his chiseled jawline as he begins to talk about her.

“Well, she’s picked up a few shifts here and there at the hospital, since it’s summer break and all, and we’ve been texting again. She’s actually a lot like you…But we were just talking the other night, and she was saying how she’s been worried about turning 30 next year, and not being married with kids yet.”

“Do I talk about this a lot?” you ponder.

“I mean, not like a lot, but it seems to be a theme or something for all the ladies in my life who are a little older than me.”

“Ladies in your life?” You try to keep your tone level, but your face always gives you away. You can feel the way your energy shifts as you tilt your head and raise an eyebrow (or attempt to raise just one eyebrow) to look back at him.

“Yeah, you, SoHee, some of the other nurses and doctors I talk to at work.” Jungkook spreads his legs wider, and his arms drape along the back of the couch as he settles deeper into the cushions. “SoHee just said she wasn’t interested in, like, playing games, or whatever. She’s said she’s done sleeping around and going out clubbing because she wants to develop something real. It’s something all of you say, all of the older women.”

You internally cringe at the way he refers to you as an ‘older woman’, and your chest tightens at being lumped together with others. You’re his best friend, hell, you take better care of his dick than you take care of your car—what with you topping off his fluids more than your Hyundai and all. To shake the uncomfortable feeling away and climb back out of the hole of deep feelings, you do what you do best. Turn it into something humorous, sexual, or both. In this instance, you go for both.

“Why are we talking about deep feelings instead of deep throating?”

Jungkook’s boisterous laugh fills your living room, and fills the holes in your heart.

“I don’t know, but I think I’d like to talk more about deep throating.”

Sliding off the couch and positioning yourself between Jungkook’s spread knees, you place your palms on each of his thighs. He reflexively flexes his quads at the touch, and you see him visibly gulp in anticipation.

“Me too.” Though, you have no plans of talking—just doing; showing. You do love to perform for him.

Your hands slowly traverse to the waistband of his black shorts, the soft fabric allowing your fingers to slide up with ease, and the stretchy waistband allowing them to slide down around his muscular thighs without resistance. You release them to pool around his slippered feet, eyes only focusing on the way his proud appendage takes on a darkening, blush-colored hue as his hands grip the edge of his tight tank and pull it up to reveal his six-pack. You take note that he’s shaved his happy trail, leaving an unblemished view that directs you to his pride and joy.

Licking your lips, you shuffle closer and rise up higher on your knees so that you can greet his cock with your moistened mouth—tiny pecks that tease Jungkook so he’ll make your favorite sounds. Your eyes shift to his—brown and dilated in desire.

Gathering your spit, your hand holds his shaft still so that you can slowly drip the clear secretion to meet his tip, watching him watch you slather it from top to bottom as you begin to ready him for what’s to come. (Hint: it’s him). Dropping lower, you take the blushing head into your mouth, tongue swirling around as you get a good taste of the pearlescent pre-cum that accumulated from your strokes. Jungkook squirms minimally each time your tongue brushes the bottom of his cock, sensitive to your ministrations.

“Fucking tease, you know that?” he asks you, and you just smile—or smile as best you can with his cock in your mouth.

Taking him deeper into your mouth, you break eye contact so that you can add some vigor to your movements, lips wrapping around your teeth to protect his shaft from any accidental nips. He reaches the back of your throat, leading you to gag, which was your goal. Your mouth fills with more spit, the fluid allowing faster movement as you ease back to the first half of his cock, your hand working from the base to meet your lips.

It’s sloppy, and the sounds of your hydrous cock-sucking mix with curses and strangled iterations of your name. Jungkook’s hands move from clenching the fabric of the abandoned blanket and couch to your face—he loves to hold your cheeks and feel the way they hollow out as you blow him, his eyes never moving from the view.

Your eyelashes, wet from choking on him, make you look so innocent when you peek up at him through them—but the way your pouty lips envelop him, bobble-heading in his lap, remind him that you are anything but. Your spit is everywhere. It dribbles down from the base of his shaft, runs in small rivers between your fingers, caresses his heavy sack that’s waiting to spill its load and cover your tongue. It even begins to slip towards his puckered hole, and thoughts spin in his head of the things he would ask you to do if—but you’re not.

“How?” he probes with a rasp, knowing you can’t answer. “How can you look like an angel, but—shit, babe—” He throws his head back into the couch unwillingly. “You fuck me and suck me like the devil.”

Your following chuckle makes his hips thrust up, and you gag around him as the tip enters your throat. A hand slips into your hair, messy and falling around your face, but feeling your throat embrace his head in a warm and wet squeeze has him gripping your hair. It’s just the right amount of pain, he’s not pulling your hair up, just tugging some strands into his fist held close to your scalp.

Your clit throbs between your thighs, aching and untouched, but this? Making a strong, virile man turn into figurative putty in your literal hands? Nothing makes you feel more confident, more beautiful, and empowered. And if there is, you haven’t experienced it yet.

“Fuck, baby—I—shit!” Jungkook doesn’t know whether you want him to pull out or not, his hands attempting to both pull you off and bring your nose closer to his pelvis, but you don’t stop. Sucking and allowing the spit to run as you speed up, both hands adding friction and pressure—one to the shaft and one to his balls—lewd sounds a cacophony as he feels that spot inside him tighten before he’s weeping rivers of cum into your waiting mouth.

You press your palms flat to the tops of his thighs, holding your balance as his body writhes on the couch. Your mouth keeps a tight grip on his cock as you glide up and down to milk him, breathing controlled as you inhale and exhale through your nose.

“Baby, you’re so fucking good at that…my own little cumslut, hungry for my cock,” Jungkook speaks once he’s able to form words, letting you know you could sit back on your heels. His praise touches you more than either of you know and are willing to share, your inner goddess preening under his heated gaze and soft caresses. “Show me.”

Opening your mouth, you allow him to see the aqueous ejaculate coating your tongue. His tattooed hand grips your chin as he peers inside. He radiates a post-orgasm haze, his smile loose and wide.

“Swallow.” You instantly snap your mouth shut and his hand moves to wrap his fingers around your throat so he can feel you physically swallow him down. You smile in response, and like the hazard to your health that he is, he connects his lips to yours, tongue forging ahead to taste the remnants of himself in your mouth. He groans, his hands tugging at your waist until you’re straddling him.

“Use me however you need.”

You know what he’s saying, knows he can’t do much with his cock after the Gawk Gawk 7000 you delivered, but he’s trusting you. His body is at your disposal for however you need to get off. It won’t take long; the throbbing between your legs is echoed with the rushing of blood in your veins, begging for you to find your release through pleasure.

Hands push Jungkook’s taught pectorals until he’s laying on the couch. Pulling your sleep shorts to the side, you steer your legs to straddle his waist so that you can slide your dripping pussy along his softening shaft. You take up a stirring motion, allowing a delicious friction to your clit on his spit-covered rod, you reach for Jungkook’s hands where they’re resting above him and bring them to your chest.

Whining, you realize it’s not enough, not what you actually want, but Jungkook knows you and knows your body even better. Your body talks to him about its wants and needs the way he wishes you would open up to him; the same way his cock is able to split you open like a blooming flower and penetrate to the deepest parts. He lowers his hands to the hem of his shirt (it looks better on you) and sneaks underneath. He holds your breasts, fingers tightening and releasing in time to your hips and you cry out, your own hands laying on top of his as if clutching him to your chest as you rock on his sensitive length with growing urgency.

“C’mon baby, swallow your pride and let go. It’s okay if it’s fast, it’s hot,” Jungkook shares, “means I was able to take care of my baby the same way you took care of me.”

“Say it again?”

“What part?” he goads, once again loving that when he has you like this, so desperately wet and delirious off of his cum, you’re honest and open.

“Your baby,” your tone reflects a neediness that has his cock hardening quickly in combination with your frantic ruts. His hands tighten on your boobs again briefly before he glides them to your back and pulls you down so your chest to chest. He knows exactly how to speak to you, how to lower his voice and soothe your ego into cumming for him, on him, so he can soothe his ego.

“Cum for me, wanna see my baby feel good.” His right hand curls a loose strand of hair around your left ear, an endearing touch to make you feel safe and loved and willing to allow your pussy to make a mess of him. “Fuck—baby, my baby, your pussy feels so good, gonna make me cum again? You want me to cum with you, princess?”

Hearing him call you princess—well, it does something to you. You let out a high, throaty whine, a keening call that sings to his soul. And when you call for him, say his name in that whine, syllables broken up in the same pattern of your hips oscillating—fuck. Jungkook hears the extra release of your orgasm, feels the way your unfilled hole clenches at the base of his cock, and he watches as your body freezes.

You want him close, but he pushes your shoulder firmly, but gently, so he can see the way his rosy cock is cupped against his lower abdomen thanks to your pretty, puffy pussy.

“Look, princess, look what you do to me.”

You pry your eyes open with sheer will as the aftershocks continue to cause you to tremble from your throne atop him. Looking down where Jungkook holds your shirt taut so you can see his fat, peeking head between your thighs, you watch as cum dribbles out slowly from the slit, his perfect and glorious steel cock exuding the proof that he thinks you’re too blind to realize.

In actuality, you’re so fucked out by him, that you don’t think it means anything more than what he says. You do this to him. You make him feel so euphoric that he’s unable to refrain from covering himself in lust and desire for you. There’s a part of you that wishes others could see this evidence of your fucking, proof that you make each other feel so good that your cum collectively coats his abs—a messy visual art piece worth framing…

Reaching for the coffee table, you grab Jungkook’s phone as it’s nearest to you, and swiping open the camera, you take several naughty photos of your position: close-ups of your pussy wrapped around his cock, a wider angle that captures the view of his abs and cum running into the dips between them—proof that you did that to him.

Jungkook lies under you, watching in awe as you document one of the best sessions he thinks you’ve had together, or ever, and surprise paints his features when you switch to video, recording without a second thought.

“Look what your baby did to you,” you giggle, fingers drawing dirty lines, “made you make a fucking mess.” You aim the camera so that it can take in the pornographic view and resulting mess. “Anything you’d like to say to defend yourself?” Jungkook just laughs as you aim the camera at his face—he knows this is something just for his eyes only, and yours if you want to watch it with him again, maybe while he fucks you from behind.

“Nothing to defend, princess. I told you to use me, and said if my baby cums like a good girl, I’ll cum again with you. Just following through with it.” Jungkook grabs the phone, turning the camera on you, and you try to shy away, but he doesn’t let you get far. Gripping the front of the shirt, he tugs you to his chest, both of you making sounds at the way your pussy rubs him, and then you’re both in the camera view, his hand in your hair as you rest right below his chin.

“Best throat and pussy on the planet right here,” Jungkook tells his future self, memorializing today forever.

“Yeah, gave him that gawk gawk—he has the prettiest cock…it deserved to cum twice.”

Jungkook can’t handle hearing you talk like that without wanting to bury himself deep inside you. Locking his phone, he tosses it onto the carpeted floor and pulls you closer, his lips fervently kissing you as he waits out the refractory period until he’s able to do just that.

stay tuned for “it’s the way that you can ride” coming 8-?-2023!

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