he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Claire Keane
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Three Goblin Art
todays bird
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
will byers stan first human second
Misplaced Lens Cap
AnasAbdin
noise dept.
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
d e v o n
Kiana Khansmith
i don't do bad sauce passes
Mike Driver
No title available
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Cosimo Galluzzi
DEAR READER
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@wickizer
Show Me How Mlist
Three times Simon denied your help, and one time he came to you all on his own.
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem! Reader
Pls heed the tags before each chapter as this story is 18+
Complete | 5.5K words | 4 chapters
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⤷ Chapter 1
⤷ Chapter 2
⤷ Chapter 3
⤷ Chapter 4
⤷ ao3 | main masterlist ╴╴╴╴╴⊹ꮺ ˚
prev. | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ | angst a lil, fwb, jealousy, toxic Simon, possessive sex
Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but your apartment is the last place he visits before being sent off on an assignment.
‘Jus’ need somethin’ to tide me over, yeah dove?’
Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but when he’s away, his rugged and calloused hands don’t feel like yours, can’t get off unless he pictures you.
Above him. Below him. On your knees. On your back. In your mouth. Buried in your cunt.
Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but your apartment is the first place he visits when the mission is finished, doesn’t even bother going home.
And you answer, despite it being three in the morning.
“There’s my girl.” He breathes. Relieved. Dropping his bags on the floor before lunging forward to cup your face in his palms.
The claim makes you whine quietly, digging your fingertips into his wrists, arching on your tippy toes to meet his lips halfway. It’s ravenous, leaves your breath ragged, and lips thrumming with swelling blood.
He hoists you in his arms, burrowing his hands under your thighs and ass, pinching the flesh so hard it’ll bruise, but he can’t help it. He’s greedy. Selfish. Hasn’t quite coaxed himself down from the harsh realities of being ‘Ghost.’
“Ah—Simon,” You whimper, huffing hot air against his lips, “You’re hurting me.”
“Sorry, baby,” He smooths his hands, petting the backs of your thighs, “I just-”
The ‘missed you’ dies on his tongue, stops it from rolling off and filling the empty space between the two of you, but you know.
That night when he asks you to repeat him, tell him you’re all his, you don’t respond like usual. He tries his best to coax it out of your pretty lips orgasm after orgasm because he needs to hear it, but you don’t give him the pleasure.
Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, so he has no other option but to accept it because you’re not his. The lack of acknowledgment eats at his skin, brutal talons gnawing at his flesh when you slowly stop responding to his texts.
Shows up at your doorstep anyway because you don’t get to tell him when this stops. When you answer the door, you’re all dolled up, a tight little skirt hugging your figure, lip gloss smeared on your lips like you have somewhere to be other than on his cock.
“What are you doing here?” You ask, glaring at him, “I’m busy.”
“With what?”
You frown, “I have a date.”
He snorts, pushing past you, making a show of taking off his boots and placing them next to yours, has no intention of leaving.
“Simon,” You sigh, closing the door behind you, “I don’t have time for this right now. He’ll be here any minute.”
The statement alone pinches his temples with irritation, but that’s when he sees it, one small hickey adorned on your neck, just below your ear. His vision narrows, tunneling red, nudging you against the wall with one swift movement, tilting your jaw to get a better look at it.
“The fuck is this?” He snarls, runs his thumb over the bruise, and makes your breath hitch slightly.
“Nothing.” You mutter quietly.
“Your little date give you this? Huh?” He grits through clenched teeth, grip tightening on your jaw, drawing dimples in your skin.
“None of your business.” You spit back, but it’s far too gentle to have any real bite like it always does with him, pup with baby canines.
Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but he seethes at the idea of another man inside of you, another man marking you as theirs when you’re his.
Sinks his teeth around the stupid mark, dragging sharp fangs against your delicate flesh, and sucks the skin viciously. Covers the ugly bruise with his own claim.
Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but he presses you right up against your front door, so your date can hear him fucking you in two when he comes to pick you up.
‘Can yer little boyfriend fuck you like this? Huh, baby? Did he know jus’ how you like it?’
Fucks you messy and pretty, until your cheeks are tear-stained and your breaths are wrecked, hiccuping over your moans that’s he’s so mean, so cruel, asking you to say you’re his when he doesn’t even have the courage to say he missed you.
‘Be a good girl f’me, yeah? Tell me you’re all mine.’
And when you do finally say it, he carries you to your bed, fucks you slow and deliberate like he always does, like he really means it, and whispers the words against your skin.
@bbygirl9 @ailanbutterfly @amberbalcom14 @h0lydrag0ns
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley who keeps all his relationships casual.
You should be his dream, really, you two go at it for hours with no strings attached. Except everytime you hop up from his bed before he’s even gotten the chance to lay down next to you with his cum still in your cunt an ugly feeling settles in his chest.
When you moan another man’s name during sex and you think it’s funny laughing out an apology, but all he sees is red. Thinking of another man when he’s got his cock buried to the hilt in his your cunt.
When you ask him if the two of you can start using condoms because you’re sleeping with other men and he swears he draws blood from how harshly he digs his fingers into his palm.
When you see him at the bar with his arm around another girl and you just smile and give him a thumbs up like you’re happy he’s taking another girl home, but he almost knocks the guy out he sees you with.
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley who can’t seem to keep this relationship casual when you do it so well.
Friends with benefits!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley who won’t look you in the eyes during sex, fucks you in a doggy and pushes your face into the pillow because absolutely no emotion can be involved.
Friends with benefits!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley who fucks you in missionary, slow and deep, when he comes back from an assignment, forehead pressed to yours, making you hold eye contact with him the entire time because he needs to feel something real.
Tho thoughts just red string of fate with ghost and reader....
Except you're an enemy soldier, and you lock eyes with ghost across the battle field and both understand only one person is walking away alive. Unfortunately for him, you're just as mentally ill and dedicated to being a weapon, and both of you end up disarmed.
Now imagine the pathetic yelp ghost makes when you twist your hands around the red string, grapple him to the ground, and fucking strangle him with it. He genuinely thinks you'll kill, hatred in your eyes, before kyle manages to knock you out.
You wake up chained to a hospital bed with a blonde man glaring at you from the corner. There's gauze around his neck that will eventually heal into a thick collar of scar tissue. He tugs on the string tied to your hand, making the cuffs rattle "we're fuckin' keeping you, might want to re-think any future murder attempts." He looks just as pissed about it as you feel.
Superman
Synopsis. Hot superheroes.
Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, superhero!JJK men, Venom, slight tentacIes, sIight bréeding, aphrodísiacs, rough s, spítting, chokíng, p sIapping, p talking, manhandIing, HEADLOCKS, matíng presses, enemies-to-Iovers (Geto), handcuffs, pIot, REACTIONS, paparazzi, x-ray vision, super strength, heightened senses, true form!Sukuna, four arms, POWERS, ínappropriate use of powers, making superheroes BREAK, creampíes, cúmpIay, pet names, swéaring.
A/N. Mwahahaha…
♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - Venom.
“So…let me get this straight-” Temples throbbing—you’re unsure whether that was from just how many times your boyfriend’s had to explain his particular…conundrum to you, or from the conundrum itself.
And Toji sits in front of you with his hands clutched on top of the table- almost in a pleading motion. He looks around warily at the other people in this bustling café - why on Earth he decided to choose such a public place for such a confession was inconceivable to you.
It was a wonder in and of itself when you don’t burst into hysterics, “You were in your lab working on some experiments you should definitely not have been working on-” Shooting him a look that receives you a sheepish grin. “-and ended up getting infected by some…parasite?”
“Symbiote.”
“Right. Symbiote.” You correct tightly, “And this symbiote can talk, think, and even make itself known through you?”
“Ah- pretty much.” Toji shrugs.
“And this symbiote wants to see me why-”
“You’re ovulating.”
The café seems to come to a standstill around you.
Servers, customers, even the new intern that’d been blatantly dozing off at the counter jerks his head up and throws a glance at your table—or more accurately to figure out the utterly inhuman voice that’d erupted from your table.
It was deep. It was gravelly.
It sounded like - in its alien desperation to assimilate to this society - it’d meshed together as many human voices as it could possibly make, and in the end had come up with something that sounded like everything but.
And, of course, that voice had come from your boyfriend of three years.
Toji Fushiguro.
Though he was either ignorant or uncaring - knowing Toji, it was likely both - to the stares that were being thrown his way. He was far too busy fussing around this…symbiote and its separate thoughts and voices, batting around his head as though shooing away a particularly annoying fly. But you’d seen it—fuck, for the briefest second, you’d seen it…the way that this black, murky substance not quite of Earth-like matter had flickered over Toji’s handsome face for a second.
Slime-like skin.
Haunting white eyes.
A long, loooooooong tongue.
You shudder just imagining it.
“Sorry ‘bout that, doll.” Toji grits out- “His name’s Venom and he’s a real pain in the ass.”
You’re barely thinking twice before you utter, “And…how can we fix this?”
Voice nothing more than a whisper. Though perhaps owing to those suddenly-honed senses of his, Toji can hear you perfectly. “According to my hypothesis, there should be one way in which once the symbiote is completely satiated of its more…base needs, then it parts peacefully with the host. But this is still unfounded- besides, I’d never fuckin’ ask you to-”
“I’ll do it.”
Toji pauses.
“Eh?”
And you’re meeting his shocked expression with one of pure steel, “I’ll do it.”
.
.
.
In almost no time, you’re back in Toji’s laboratory and bent over his desk—what had meant to be a trail run- what had meant to be a simple discussion with the symbiote to test Toji’s hypothesis had ended up with the most looooong, lecherous thrusts being pumped into the back of your cunt.
Your thighs clench together, moans echoing out and hitting the four corners of the walls.
Just the simplest plaps! of Toji’s ravenous hips comin’ down onto yours was enough to send your heels skittering- forced to stand up a little straighter. He’s cleanly lifting you off a few inches just with the probin’ thrusts of his cock—and as Toji bottoms out once more, he’s rushing you straight into your nth high of the night.
Peak after peak.
Thrust after thrust.
The seventh round that you were feeling his thick, throbbing cock piston you through—though according to Toji, they were called trials.
Trials during which those waves of bliss shred through your core n’ straight up to your muddled head- one that’s immediately getting bombarded by that same gravely tone from before.
“Mmm, you smell sweeter when you cum.”
You startle, “Wh-what was that?”
“Fucked so stupid you can’t hear? Humans are so interesting…” As you’re tentatively turning your head over your shoulder, you’re seeing that Toji’s figure was suddenly taller…towering…covered in that black, goo-like substance from earlier—his face splits from cheek to cheek with a sharp-toothed smile, and suddenly he’s letting escape the most bone-chilling laugh. “I wonder how much sweeter you shall smell when I plant you with my seed-”
“Okay, that’s enough-” Toji’s struggling to gain dominance of the symbiote- though you still weren’t sure how exactly the system worked. You’d determined that it was a dual rule, of sorts, in which one could ‘fight’ the other for control of the body.
And right now, your boyfriend was the clear winner.
Groaning as he’s winning back control—and with the regaining of his body, he’s bombarded with the sudden sensations of your hot cunt enclosing around his shaft. Sucking. Slurping. Just so thick and throbbing to be even deeper inside you- you’re unsure whether this was just your overstimulated brain talking, but you could’ve sworn that Toji felt even bigger than usual-
“You’re welcome for that, heh.”
You jump, “Wh-what was that?”
“You’re fuckin’ welcome.” The symbiote in Toji’s body utters, and you’re shivering at the sensation of Venom’s looooong lavish tongue dripping down the side of your throat. Licking. “Venom can change shape however we like, we can make ourselves bigger…”
And you can’t fucking give a response to that—you can’t. Because just then that mazin’ tip of Toji’s cock is expanding far beyond what you’re used to.
He’s shovelling in even more inches than you knew he possibly had- he’s thrashing against your cervix and digging in as though he’d probe even deeper if he could- he’s swelling up so much inside your tight walls that it honestly feels as though you’re about to be split down the middle—
“Mmmm, became even sweeter. Heh, you liked that.” Those honed teeth of his graze over your neck, easy enough for him to tear through. “How about curved?”
Immediately bendin’ in such a delicious curve- one that strikes the end of his shaft directly against your g-spot. He doesn’t even have to try.
Your thighs quake as you feel his flared mushroom tip swabbing n’ stirring and messing up your insides with such an extreme shape. Plunging. Prodding around. The degrees of his curvature bent juuuuuust the right amount that it’d hit most of your tender spots-
“Or what about tentacles-”
“Wait-”
“That fuckin’ jerk.” Soon enough, Toji’s interrupting whatever lecherous plan the alien had for you, and instead using his original cock to pinpoint your insides.
Though Venom might have had the ability to change his shape- absolutely nothing could match Toji. Nothing could match the way he’d already memorized the locations of your sweetest bundles of nerves n’ how exactly you liked them stimulated—whether it was the quick, rapid strokes of just his very flared tip, or the achingly long strokes that had your eyes rolling to the back of your head.
Your back arches, and your moans crescendo louder than ever as your boyfriend reaches down to twiddle with your sensitive nub. “Right?”
Attempting to look back at him through your sobs, “Wh-what was that, baby?”
“I said—” Toji seethes out between haaaard strokes of his rugged cock- absolutely vicious. He wasn’t taking his time with you today, he was poundin’ your poor cervix raw with his tunneling tip. “Wasn’t he a fuckin’ jerk? Thinking that he’d be able to fuck my girl…”
“Y-yeah…” You’re acutely aware of the fact that Venom was hearing every single word being said. Likely simmering beneath. Likely attempting to regain control and make you spill the truth-
“Uh-huh?” But Toji was on a roll now. As the words spat between his scarred mouth grow faster, so do the ministrations on your pulsing clit. “Wasn’t he just delusional? Thinking that you’d like that alien cock- heh.”
Pathetically nodding along—unsure whether that was for the question or for just how good it felt. “Yeah, mmmm- fuck.”
“Right? And wasn’t he wrong?”
“Yeah-”
“Wasn’t he useless?”
“Y-yeah…”
“Wasn’t this pussy missin’ me?”
“Fuck, yes.”
And what you’re faced with next wasn’t a question, an insult to Venom, or anything else that you might have expected- it was a sudden spank!
Right on top of your clit.
Right before Toji’s already-elongated cock swivels a few inches deeper than you remember him being able to before. Thicker. Meaner. The top of his shaft was swelling into a fatter circumference, and you swear you can hear the squelches of orifices you’ve never known being opened up—
His sharp canines gnaw down on the shell of your ear, and shivers run down your spine at the guttural tone of his voice. “Then why are you so fuckin’ wet, my little liar?”
“O-oh.”
Shit, he’d known.
He’d been able to hear you, too.
And now you were paying the price: you were feeling Toji’s relentless cadence but with Venom’s ability to bend and prolong his shaft as much as he wanted to. His tendrils of symbiote substance glissade down his cock and stretch out your walls just a bit more—wrapped just around where Toji’s already-massive length was.
And if you thought that that wasn’t enough- you’re damn near losing your mind at the feeling of those fingers twiddlin’ at your clit starting to tingle. Starting to transform.
Before you know it, they feel strangely…tentacle-like. They reminded you of Venom’s own tendrils, though with a sultry suctioning sensation to it that made your body wrack with pleasure- “Oh my god—fuck, Toji, how are you even-”
“You forget that Venom is a part of me now.” He murmurs through a grin, hips only accelerating. Cock only lengthening- fingers only suckling. “And you’re not getting out of this any time soon, doll. At least, not until we have our hypothesis.”
“Shit…”
“Hypothesis schmipothesis. I get to breed her after.”
♡ NANAMI KENTO - Superman.
“My love…” Just the way that Nanami uttered your sweet, sweet pet name…it was anything but. As though he was a man that’d worshipped every name, statue, and deity in the world—and the only one to answer his wretched prayers was you.
He whispers your name.
Lightning strikes.
Nanami was silhouetted against the tall floor-to-ceiling window of your apartment; his red-clad feet hovering just a few inches off the ground, chest emblazoning the famous ‘S’ of which you could only see the ghost-like outline. Like a faint memory. That long cape of his drapes behind his broad shoulders, flowing in a breezeless wind. His head was bowed. His face utterly expressionless.
Moonlight falls upon him like a knighthood, but something more untoward.
The night was dark and so had been the day of fighting crime—or so you’d assumed. Usually, when your boyfriend arrived home it was with kisses to your cheek and bouquets of flowers.
You had no idea what happened today, but…he doesn’t respond to a single one of your calls. Not a single one of your pleas.
The only thing you can do is take a step forward-
And he jerks as though he’d just been shot by several of the lightning flares outside. A thousand bolts of electricity and even more, more, and more. Even though he had his gaze turned downwards, Nanami doesn’t need to see to sense you-
He already knew.
“My love.” He repeats, as though a broken CD. There was a wisp of something so carnal in his tone, something dark and drenched in…a desire that you couldn’t put your finger on. It was something that made shivers cascade across your body, however. “My love, don’t-”
“Don’t what, Kento?” You’re insisting, even though you fight yourself not to take another step forward as per his wishes. “I need to know what happened, baby.”
“You need to know.” He repeats once more—was he even capable of anything else? You’re starting to grow even more concerned and reconsider your internal pledge when- “I was injured.”
Concern pours over you like a bucket of cold water, “Injured? Where-”
“Not physically.” Nanami spits out through clenched teeth, every syllable difficult for him to enunciate as though coated in glue n’ sticking to the roof of his tongue. In the pale moonlight you could see that his skin was covered in a sort of perspiration - something almost feverish and flushed. “It’s- fuck, I need you to know-”
“Kento, I’m scared for-”
“I need to fuck you.”
And as he finally rushes out the confession, large exhales seep out of him like every bit of his remaining sanity—a weight had been lifted off. But little did he seem to realize that that weight was a keystone for a dam.
And now he felt like he was about to fucking burst-
“Lex Luthor- latest invention—fuck.” Interrupting his own explanation with a rugged groan - not one that was quite pained, but not…not either. “None taken, no casualties.” Something crossed between rage and ecstasy. How very like Nanami to utter of other before himself- “But I was injected with- fuck—”
You take a step forward, “Kento-”
“-aphrodisiac.”
“Oh.” Heart stopping. Without even thinking, you’re taking a quick scan of his figure to make sure that he wasn’t bluffing about no physical wounds, and when all seems clear on his upper half, your eyes can’t help but drop to the area between Nanami’s chiselled legs - and your sweet boyfriend’s Superman outfit had always been particularly flattering on his body, but this—he looked about nine inches straight through his tight latex and throbbing. Aching.
You can speak no longer, and him barely enough- “Stay away.”
Another step. “Kento.”
“Darling, I’m going to ruin you.”
And another. “I don’t mind.”
There isn’t the burst and then the frenzy of lips on lips, skin on skin, as you might’ve expected at first. No, not at all. Your words linger in the bedroom for a few more seconds - tight and tempting, just when you think that the tension in the air is going to stretch so taut that it might never snap—Nanami moves.
Just the slightest action: he stops hovering. Setting his feet down on the windowsill for the first time - and it hits you just then why he hadn’t been touching any bit of your apartment for so long.
Because the moment that Nanami came in contact with any - any - part of you, he was going to go fucking insane. That is, if he didn’t have your pretty pussy to take it out on—in almost no time, you’re finding yourself pressed flat against your king-sized mattress and having your boyfriend’s thickened tip swirlin’ your insides.
He was just so hot and needy.
Perhaps even greater in girth than you remember him - there was a vein down the middle of his length that stood out n’ massaged every inch of your insides. Throb-throb-throbbing away inside of you as the crowned edge of his shaft bottomed out- fuck, he doesn’t even spend the long, sensual hours of foreplay as he usually would.
Nanami merely throws your legs over his half-uniformed shoulder, merely clasps onto one side of your hips, merely tunnels his angry cock in and out—
In and out. In and out. You’re feeling him glide his handsome nosebridge down the column of your throat- stopping just where you were most sensitive, he’s twitchin’ in-between your puffy folds as he takes in your pheromones. Groaning, you swear you feel him grow even bigger inside of you—“My love—”
It’s that absolutely broken tone of his that makes you jerk your head in response. Blinking up tearily at the blond man, “K-Kento?”
His shaggy, golden bangs were curtained over his eyes n’ covering most of his gaze now - and you’re unsure whether you should be thankful or concerned that you couldn’t measure the sheer primal desire in them anymore. It was obscured from you—and all you’re getting revealed of him are the constant grunts whenever his ruddied cockhead hits the back of your pussy, his shivering hips, his mantra of your name. “I need to know…my love, I need to- fuck, are you okay?”
“I am—” Strangely enough, it made your cunt grow even wetter to know that he’s caring so much about you even when he was in the depths of the effects of the aphrodisiac-
His mind was wiped clean of anything but his base needs- and yet, there was always a part of him that knew you were what’s most important. And the superhero reaches one roughened hand down to sweetly cup your face, dragging the tip of his thumb down to wipe away any beads of sweat- “Are you s-sure? I need you to be sure-”
“I am sure, Kento.” Insisting. And though you feel just a little awful for interrupting his well-meaning pleas—you also needed to feel his thick, textured cock hitting eeeeevery single inch of you. And though you’re at his complete and utter mercy, you can’t help but squirm your hips around to swivel more of his solid inches inside. “Please- fuck, I need more of you. Don’t hold back-”
“Fuh-fuuuuuuck—” A zig-zagging vein pops out on his forehead, freckled with sweat. “Don’t say that-”
“But I am saying that.” Wrangling your legs off of his sculptured shoulders- or at least, you’re attempting to. But Nanami only needs to drift a single hand up to keep you pliably in place—he’s locking both ankles behind his neck with one hand, long fingers holding them gently yet sternly. It’s all he needs to halt your restless hips as he hits a sensitive spot and ploughs iiiiiiin.
Thrust after thrust.
Again and again.
Every single one of them locates that cute target of your nerves- instantly, it was almost like magic. That deliciously curved end of his shaft manages to maze his way inside, spreadin’ apart your gluey walls and heading straight for that area—all he has to do is follow the channel of your cunt until he’s led straight to that spot he bashes nicely.
Sloppily.
“Darling, you’re close.”
“I-I am?” Eyes shooting wide open- fuck, he’s right. It takes only one more thrust of his vein-covered cock for you to register the thrills of adrenaline shooting up your spine. You’re arching straight into his chiselled chest, “Oh, shit…I am.”
“My love didn’t know?” Nanami nearly titters. “S’okay…your Kento’s going to fuh-fuck you through it. Your Kento’s going to make you feel so good—ngh.”
And as he utters this, his cadence only grows sloppier.
“May I…” Just so cautious of the way you’re being jostled to n’ fro - of the way you’re nearly hitting the headboard, and the roundness of his balls smack! against your cunt. Nanami has enough clarity to feel almost…sheepish about the way that you’re clearly dumbed down on his cock. His greedy, greedy cock. “May I make you cum- oh, may I go…just a little harder?”
“Kento—” You’re pouting, “I want you to go harder-”
“I-”
“I want you to go the hardest.” And as he’s still half-uniformed, you’re able to reach up and twist your fist in the smooth fabric. Tugging him down, you snarl- “If you want me to cum, Kento, then you better not hold back.”
And Nanami doesn’t answer. He doesn’t utter a single syllable.
He’s merely slowing his hips down and reeling his hips back, back, backwards—he lets the rounded tip of his cock circle your hole for a few seconds. Just the slightest few seconds, before that pulsing length of his shoves deep inside- not even stopping at your g-spot, he’s heading straight for your womb.
That soft, sopping womb of yours- “My love…” Just the last thing you’re hearing before you’re cumming, “My love, it’s going to take now.”
Blabbering, “Wh-what—”
“It’s going to take.”
And a thick, ropey warmth floods you deeeep from your core- spreadin’ into every nook, cranny, and crevice until you’re feeling a little lightheaded. “Did you really mean…” As your voice murmurs out in pure disbelief, those clingy wads of his cum get pinpointed into even the tiniest sweet spots inside of you—places that you weren’t even sure you had. He’s pressing his thickened tip against the sides of your walls and watching as your sweet, sweet juices get sprayed out. “You- you really didn’t mean…”
Nanami utters nothing but a few raspy groans, eyes locked on the forefront of your core as he shovels inside. Inside and inside. “I did.”
There was an intensity in his eyes that you swear you’re feeling against your skin- and you did. It burned. “Did it seriously—”
“It did.” And his round, reddened tip ends up sticking straight against your womb - fucking you through your own high, fucking you through his drivelling wads of seed. A final swat. “It did, my loves.”
And you’re noting the change of your pet name.
Because you already knew what he meant- it had taken. Nanami Kento was using his superhuman sight to peer through you, watching as his cum trickles into the deepest depths of your womb—and his mouth quirks up into a handsome grin as he notes that it’ll be…
A daughter.
.
.
.
“Congratulations”
You gape at the screen.
And a quick glance at Nanami reveals that he was doing the very same- though perhaps in not such an outward manner. As soon as possible, you’re staring right back at the screen that showed a little bean of something your doctor was pointing towards and explaining—something that flows in one ear and out the other.
You were still registering that there was a little bean of something.
You don’t know when - it might be second, it might be minutes, it might be days later - but Nanami speaks. Something silent and barely-there, a breathless whisper as though he was afraid that it’d shatter the mirage shown on screen, “A-and…the…?”
He can’t complete his sentence. Though Dr. Shoko Ieri is a professional, and she picks up on what your husband means quite quickly.
He clasps your hand - newly-minuted gold wedding ring cold against your skin - and waits as she peers at the screen once more. Because he knows this—he knows this. He’s seen this with his superhuman vision.
He’d told you a few months ago just then…
And yet, Nanami’s heart flips.
She smiles warmly at the two of you, “It’s a girl.”
♡ GETO SUGURU - Batman.
“It’s you.” Geto chuckles, “Why did I know that it would be you?”
The sound of his low, throaty laugh is enough to send shivers down your spine—-and…perhaps even lower. Though that’s not something you wanted to unpack right about now.
You had to remember where you were: the mansion of Geto Suguru, billionaire, playboy, mysterious down to the core. The mansion had been as expectedly gaudy and gilded as most rich people loved their homes, but what had drawn you to it the most had been the safe room, of course.
And so here you were standing with a couple gold bricks in your bag and a few more to be packed up- that shouldn’t take long, you assume. And with a careless sigh, you’re ignoring the man himself and getting back to loading them back in—“So? Happy to see me?”
“Oh, less than.” Geto replies.
“Don’t lie~” Purring, the skin-tight latex of your suit twinkles underneath the rich yellow lighting as you’re turning back to him. You shoot a flirtatious wink his way, “I know this is going to be the source of your wet dreams for years after.”
“Nightmares, more like.” He hobbles a step closer. It puts you on edge.
“Then how about we keep some distance from our nightmares, hm?” You’re gathering up your large loot—much heavier than an average person would be able to carry, though you’re holding it daintily between your fingers with ease. “I come to rob you, you catch me robbing you, you let me go—it’s a win-win for everybody. I really wouldn’t want to use force…”
“And I wouldn’t want to use force either.” Geto smiles so pleasantly, “I don’t really care about the gold- but there’s a pearl necklace in there that used to belong to my mother. How about you leave that and be on your merry way, hm?”
You pout, “But I liked the pearl necklace.”
And his gaze grows just a little sharper, “I’m afraid that can’t happen, kitty.”
“Oh, I loooove it when you call me that~” Fluttering your lashes at him.
He takes a step closer, “I know your games, Catwoman.”
“And yet you fall for them every time, Batman.”
Did you forget to mention that Geto Suguru - billionaire, playboy, mysterious and also perhaps the most attractive man you’ve ever set your eyes on - was also Batman? Despite that, you still had the most infamous crime-fighting vigilante wrapped around your finger as though he was nothing but a low-grade thief.
And he was trapped in your web now (what was the cat version of that, anyway?)
Leagues below you. He’s biting down on his plush, pretty lip to hold back a whimper as you’re reeling your hips aaaaaall the way back to squeeze his blushin’ tip—holding it there for a few seconds before you give the superhero a good bounce.
Making him throw his head back with a groan- Geto lets out a slew of swears once you’re starting up the sloppiest cadence. Back and forth. “D-don’t get ahead of yourself, kitty…”
“What was that—?” Pretending to gasp, you’re teasingly leaning your body forwards in a mocking attempt to hear him better. “What was that, Bat? I didn’t hear you- was that a stutter I heard?”
“Fuck off-” Spitting between clenched teeth. Geto’s clasping onto either side of your naked hips, using that strength of his you loooooved being manhandled by to roll your hips in figure-eight motions - just drag-drag-dragging the outline of his cock along your sweet insides. You could feel every ridge n’ crevice of his veins decorating your walls, massaging them into something even softer he loved to fuck up into.
The two of you were sitting - barely - on the luxurious armchair he had in his safe room. Creaking and ricketing with age every time that Geto arched his hips backwards and gave you a thorough probe—inside. And though you couldn’t say that you planned to end up here, you didn’t quite deny that you had plans to end up in his master bedroom - why else would you have gotten caught?
The both of you knew that if you’d actually wanted to steal something, then you would’ve been out of this damn mansion hours ago.
Gritting his pearly white canines, Geto crushes your hips further down into his and ruts up into you—“Sh-shit….”
“What was that about stuttering, gorgeous?”
“Fuck off—”
“I’m fucking you, actually.” He spits between clenched teeth, gyrating your hips around so that the cute nub of your clit rubs up against his fuzzy base. It’s such a carnal feeling to have those curls of jet-black massaging where you were most sensitive, getting more n’ more drenched by the second. By the motions of your dripping wet pussy. He’s snarling, “That’s fuckin’ right- wipe that smug look off of your face. I already know what you’re thinking.”
“Oh?” And you’re just barely managing to scrounge up whatever’s left of your sanity together to respond. “And what is that, Monsieur Bat?”
“C’est l’homme chauve-souris.” Geto rolls his amethyst eyes, “And it’s that you think you have me- fuck, underneath your kitty toes.”
“Kinky~”
However, he’s learned not to entertain you with yet another outburst—instead, Geto’s pulling all his energy into inching his hips backwards and planting another thorough thrust deep into the depths of your cunt. So hard that you think he might just have left a mark.
So accomplished in his grin that you think he might’ve been aiming for it
You wouldn’t have been surprised to know that billionaire playboy Geto Suguru liked to let everyone know that he was fucking you- especially you. The hottest cat burglar in all of Gotham.
The same one he’s been infatuated with since the first time he saw you.
But he was fucking you like he hated you.
The sweetest thing he’s doing yet is cascading a hand down your front- left fingertip teasingly pressing your pussylips apart. It doesn’t take him long - not long at all - to find your pretty clit and draw a few circular motions on top of it—watching as you buck and whine straight into his hands.
And the meanest thing he’s done yet is reach his other hand behind you.
Because suddenly you’re feeling something cold and metallic click! into place.
You gasp.
You should’ve known that crime-fighting vigilantes often worked from the shadows; from a darkness of which even your feline eyes cannot piece through. You didn’t have eyes in the back of your head, did you? Although perhaps Batman had a gadget for that, too…
And although you already know that you’re fucked- it’s not until the jingle of handcuffs emanates from behind you that you’re really letting the situation sink in. It’s not that you’re afraid of Geto or anything he could do to you, but…it’s just that you’re afraid of what you might do given this forced proximity.
Something stupid like- like admit your feelings to the ever-elusive hero or something. Disgusting.
On top of that, you’re unable to motion your hips as you were doing so previously. Stuck pathetically grinding back into thrusts that he was already planting onto your cunt, the fatness of his girth sending you to the edge-
You’re whimpering are you can’t do anything you’d usually do like clasp onto his pretty throat or shove your fingers down his mouth. “Sugu…aw, c’mon—”
“Now I’m Sugu?” Geto snickers, “What happened to Bat? Or loser? Or fuck off? Or I never-want-to-see-you-again?”
Fluttering your lashes innocently, “You know I jest.” To no avail, you’re attempting to slip out of those handcuffs as you’d have done with any other normal ones - but you knew better than to underestimate Batman. As you expected, no matter how much you’re squeezing and molding your hands against that metal, it keeps on adjusting to your shape and restraining you. Keeping you hostage. Only one look at him and you already know that Geto’d spent a fortune creating these…perhaps just for you. “C’mon, baby, let me out of these~”
“No can do, kitty.” He chuckles. And the audacity of this man- he’s straying his right hand down your spine and groping your ass—“Next time we’re keeping the suit on because I wanna pull your tail.”
You scoff.
And he raises one dark brow. Thumb pressing down even harder on your clit, “What was that?”
“N-nothing…” You whimper, entire body wracking with shivers. It’s a few more sloppy thrusts before you can thrust yourself to speak without your voice cracking again—you didn’t want to give more ammunition for his entertainment. “Oh, Geto Suguru, when I get out of these handcuffs I’m going to fucking-”
“Kill me?” He smirks, “We can see you try.”
“You think I can’t?”
Geto shakes his head. “No, I expect it. Just make sure you kiss me first.”
And you can’t deny - neither to yourself or him - that that’s leaving you even wetter than you’d anticipated. The sheen of your arousal dripping through his dark happy trail, leading down to that perfectly chiselled six-pack of his.
He merely cracks a grin and plants his right hand on one side of your waist—drilling into you even harder than before.
“You know I love you, Bat.” You’re grumbling out almost reluctantly past the clogged mess of whines and moans and tears in your throat.
“Mmm, love you, too, kitty.”
.
.
.
“Mister Geto, I have collected those crime reports that you requested me to-” Miguel’s deep tone halts immediately at the sight before him. He’s standing by the edge of Geto Suguru’s sprawling master bedroom - the subject of countless features in architectural magazines, and the dreams of high-society alike - eyes widening at the dual figures of you and his employer, bundled up and clearly unclothed beneath the covers.
Clinging onto one another.
The crime-fighting vigilante and his criminal lover.
Though it wasn’t necessarily a secret around these parts that no matter how many women and men Geto Suguru meets, there will always be a certain cat-eared crime-lover he goes back to…Geto himself wouldn’t appreciate it if such word spread now, would he? This wasn’t the first time he’d crawled right back to you and this won’t be the last- hold on.
Were his sunglasses deceiving him or was his cold, uptight employer actually smiling in his sleep? Heavens above, this might just be the last time.
This might just.
Miguel settles for the thought that he’d tease the billionaire about it over dinner—very, very late dinner by the looks of it.
He leaves the report on the nearest desk - of which there were many, because this is Geto Suguru that we’re speaking about - and heads towards the door.
Taking one last peak.
Yeah, this might just be the last time. He trusts his intuition, that he’ll be walking into this scene more often than not in the coming years.
Yeah, this might just be for good.
♡ CHOSO KAMO - Nightwing.
“Who knew that the Nightwing…” You’re purring—smiling like the cat that’s got the cream - or more like the hero that’s just caught her rival. “-sex symbol of Gotham, hottest man of the year, wanted by men and women and everyone in-between…”
And Choso merely bucks weakly beneath you - his hips stutterin’ with every single fucking milimeter that he’s shovelling inside of you.
Choso was red and furiously hot between your legs—thick. Throbbing even harder as he feels his ruddied, red tip scrape the bottom of your pussy; his fat cock twitches there a few times as he registers the soft, spongy platform he was feeling—this was…Those beautiful, brown eyes of his widen as it sinks in. Gasping. Shaking.
And it takes merely two - two - seconds of being stuffed inside you for the famed hero to throw his head back and cum.
And you’re finally finishing your sentence, “-a virgin.”
How had this all happened? How did you end up here?
You could blame it all on the spiked punch, you could blame it all on the lavish ceremony - the highs and lows of the red carpet, ah, they always did tend to make you feel a little more reckless than usual—what’s that saying about all publicity is good publicity? Or perhaps it was the fault of the Hero Awards altogether.
Gathered here with the most elite of the elite, the best heroes from around the world; where they patted one another on their backs and paraded in designer. Reporters starved for the attention of the saviours as much as any competent villain.
Though you couldn’t say too much about them - you yourself were here, too.
But you told yourself that you were here solely for one award—and one award only. All those about best costume, best comeback during a fight, best fancam, best fistfight didn’t matter (though that wasn’t to say that you weren’t grateful, it’d been sweeping wins for all of which you’d teared up).
You were here for Best Hero of the Year.
The best.
The strongest.
The most battle-savvy.
The most competent.
The best of the best.
Once that nomination letter had arrived, you’d held it to your chest - in pure disbelief - for a long hour afterwards. It was an honor to be nominated—the greatest honor.
To win this award a panel of seasoned heroes would tally up all of your fights for this year, then grade them based on a variety of aspects such as difficulty, saves, assists, honor; the total would contribute towards a count that determined the winner. And though you’d been cautious about not winning - there were many other wonderful, more experienced heroes nominated - you just didn’t expect for the announcer to open up the golden cue card and read…
Fucking Nightwing.
Which is why you’d cornered him at the after-party - for a congratulations between you two that’d turned into passive aggressiveness, and passive-aggressiveness that’d turned into a proper argument you’re sure the reporters caught wind of, and an argument that ended up with you and Choso tangled up in your hotel room.
Pressing him down with your hips- you’re trembling at the feeling of his warm sap gushing out of you. It’s creating an ivory sheen down the inner sides of your thighs, smearin’ down Choso’s chiselled hips in a way that was just so lewd—and you’re more than happy to make an even bigger mess.
To throw your head back and grind your hips down onto his.
Choso hiccups, his upper half attempting to surge upwards- only for you to press one pretty finger down on his shoulder. And just the softest push has him tumbling back into the plush pillows, “Shit- y-you can’t just…do that to me.”
“Do what, baby?” You smirk down at him.
And right as he opens those cute, trembling lips of his to answer—you’re tightenin’ your thighs around his waist and jerking your hips even harder against his. His prominent v-lines massage where you were situated, and Choso groans as his blushin’ cocktip manages to push and pinpoint even the tiniest orifices inside you.
He’s still drooling out beads of cum, pooling at the base of his cock. So much of it- shit, was he still cumming?
Or was he cumming…again?
Unsure of what you were feeling, you’re veering your gaze down and attempting to get a better look. And sure as day- not only was it your translucent slick n’ his precum that was flooding you from the inside, but Choso’s ivory cum sprays out and and mixes into something so lewd-
“Fuck- fuck…” Your mouth waters at the feeling of being stuffed to the brim - so much of it that you’re wondering just how overworked his hefty balls must be. Eyes rolling to the back of your head, “You’re cumming again, Cho—”
“Th-this is exactly what I mean.” Choso sobs out, eyes glittering with tears, “You can’t just do that to me- you can’t make me feel so…stupid when you fuck me.”
Amused, “Stupid, huh? I don’t know if I have to try-”
“See, m’so gone that I’d agree—” That soft whine of his makes you so much wetter. Peering up at you with his half-lidded gaze - boring his dilated pupils into yours, hanging his jaw maddeningly. He presses a simple jerk of his ruddied cockhead into the deepest depths of your cunt - dead fucking serious. “I’d agree that m’stupid. I’d agree that m’pathetic.”
“Awwww…” Arching your back, he’s attempting this cute attempt at ruttin’ into you that you’re indulging in. You let him thrash his needy cockhead again and again and again-
“I-I’m nothing but a fuckin’ ngh, virgin that doesn’t deserve to fuck a pussy like this.” His lips wobble out- and you might have said something about him being too hard on himself…you might.
But the dirtier that Choso was speaking - the harder he was on himself - the harder he was getting.
Longer. Girthier—and his thorough thrusts were spearheading even faster by his tip. Taking out the tension in everything he was saying by ramming straight into your cervix - hard and fast. It twitches right at the very back of your spongy womb…and you’re swearing that a grin grows across Choso’s face as he registers that displeased expression on your face- who did he think he was to try and gain control over you?
“Now now—” You’re pressing both palms on top of his sweaty chest, and you can’t deny that they felt so toned and muscular underneath your touch. “Trying to be a big boy, Nightwing?”
“Only for you.” He croons.
“Cute.” You wrinkle your nose, “But that’d be a lot more smooth if you weren’t cumming- again.”
“Fuh-fuck.”
When was this? The third time? The fourth? Either way, all Choso knows is that he can’t stop those furious zaps of pleasure from coursing through his entire body—every inch and vessel and atom. It’s collecting at the mushroomy tip of his cock, red and swollen, then dribbling out as cum.
Not even.
Choso barely manages a few pearly white droplets before he’s shooting fucking blanks-
Head throwing back. Gasps echoing out of him. Chest heaving and heaving as you’re riding his overstimulated cock craaaaaazy-
“What was that about Year’s Best Hero?” You’re tittering out, staring into Choso’s utterly pretty face as he’s cumming through tears. Spark upon spark. Strong enough to make his toes curl, and you’re ruthless in the way you’re wrapping your warm pussy around him and milking him dry-
His pinkish lips wobble, “Wh-what was that…”
“How’re you gonna fight crime if you can’t even- ngh, handle a pussy?”
“W-well, I didn’t expect to be facing such a…formidable foe.” Blabbing out - utter nonsense at this point. He was pussydrunk—if only those at the Hero Award could see him like this. “You could take on a second job as a villain…j-just with that pussy…and also just f’me…”
“I take that as a…compliment?”
“You’re welcome—ngh.” Choso whimpers out- before there’s a sudden twitch at the crown of his swollen shaft. And those brown brows of his furrow, “B-but don’t be nice to me, however, it’s gonna make me cum- again. Mmm.”
“Oh, Choso…”
.
.
.
The glitz. The glamour. The fans begging you to sign their tits.
At the very next Hero Awards, there’s a buzz like never before.
For several reasons, of course: first of all, the matching outfits between you and the famously handsome Nightwing (though you’d argue that yours is the one that looked better, secondly because some drama-lovers anticipated a rerun of the infamous fight between you and aforementioned handsome hero, and last but not least—because of the new category of awards you’d been nominated for.
Most Inspirational Hero Couple.
And it was no surprise that Choso had won this one, but at least this time—you’d won it, too.
♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - Hulk.
It happened not when he was angry, or excited, or panicked.
The results of a top-secret experiment funded by The University of Tokyo, intended to create human super-soldiers: it had been a failure. And Dr. Ryomen Sukuna had known better than to get his hopes up for such a volatile test subject—he was an expert in the field, 7 PhDs in a variety of sciences from biochemistry to radiophysics, he knew that it could take months, years, even decades before they observed even a mere anomaly similar to what they’d been hoping for.
But fuck- Sukuna had really thought he’d done it. He’d made humans immune to gamma radiation.
At least, he’d thought he did.
Ryomen Sukuna blinked his eyes open after the sudden explosion of radiation, and at most he’d expected to see his laboratory wrecked, his data completely wiped. At most.
He didn’t expect to be seeing it from eight feet high.
He didn’t expect to be seeing it with four eyes.
He didn’t expect to wield four massive arms in an attempt to find any shattered piece of glass from which he may see himself from-
Two mouths let out simultaneous gasps.
One of them slashed across his muscular stomach.
He was a monster.
It didn’t take a single one of his PhDs for Sukuna to know to flee the scene- not just the building, but Tokyo itself. Sirens loomed in the distance, and the acrid smell of radiation left him in waves- bystanders running to the rubble without realizing the danger. He knew you’d be alerted soon—you.
How could he ever face you like this?
Lo and behold he’d ended up at a squat village in Aogashima island; 358km away from Tokyo with only 160 residents. It was here, tucked behind sprawling mountainsides, that Sukuna had come to discover the little intricacies of his…condition. Through trial and error, through testing upon himself and attempting to control that four-armed version of him. Attempting.
And so the question: what made him transform?
He discovered that this monstrous state - which he dubbed to be a Curse state - was triggered by sudden increases of his heartbeat. Rarely anger, or excitement, or panic. What else might possibly raise the disgraced scientist’s heartrate well over 200 bpm?
Arousal.
Which is exactly what he’d been learning to control through his breathing techniques, his meditation, and his celibacy- not that he’d want anyone but you. But fuck…the dreams he’d have of you.
Nightmares, when he wakes up as the monstrous King of Curses.
Heaven, when the exact source of his nightmares - and wettest dreams - comes knocking at his shunted door one sunny summer day. A furrow between your brows. A furious word or two slipping out at the first sight of him.
Fuck.
.
.
.
One year, two months, and a few days since…the incident and you’d finally located where your ex-boyfriend (and former colleague) had disappeared.
And you’d expected him to have sunken into his work in one way or another.
You’d expected him to have holed himself away in some rural town—as he’d confessed to wanting to do on some nights, just with you. You’d even have expected him to have been working on some strange new project after the failure of his last one- he was the type to take it to heart. A little dramatic, but you expected this.
You just didn’t expect…his transformation.
Right before your very eyes.
Four arms. Four eyes. Two cocks that’d stayed twitchin’ in his baggy pants for a mere few minutes of your conversation- before you had your face pushed into pillows that smelled like him, legs struggling to keep you up, begging for more as Sukuna digs those two ruddied cockheads between your pussylips and sliiiiides in-
Just a few inches.
Just a few.
Before the resistance of your tight entrance gets too much- and Sukuna’s leaning back a bit to allow his cursed second mouth to spit down on your pussy. Hard.
The impact makes you shiver, sticky substance gluing your pussylips together. You swear you hear his second mouth snicker as he swabs that cloying texture with his cockheads, and uses his hands to manhandle you into pliable position - one hand cupping your abdomen and pulling you up- the other digging into the left side of your hips- the other reachin’ down to thumb apart your swollen folds and help him fuck his lengths inside. Thick and throbbing.
In short, slow semi-thrusts. He was just trying to fit inside. “Kuna—” Breathing out open-mouthed against the pillows. Needy.
“Needy brat.”
“Kuna.”
“Sh-shit.” And he wasn’t doing a single bit better than you. Sukuna was letting his head drop into the clammy crook of your neck, gnarled canines grazing on top of your skin- you feel the scowl across his face stretch even more as he pull-pull-puuuuuulls those hot erections backwards.
And then probes aaaaaaall the way back in - languidly.
“Fuck-” You’re gasping out—seeing pure white behind your eyelids. You almost couldn’t believe it. Sukuna was already sizable- but in this form?
He had his round, reddened tips just barely lodging between your swollen folds. Just so big. Pulsing. Pushing apart your slick walls with his circumferences, throbbing away inside you. Rubbing back and forth a few times to savor the squeeze of your hole - like heaven - before he’s stuffin’ every single nook, cranny, and crevice like never before.
And the carnal burn between your legs was only made sweeter by the way that Sukuna himself trembled on top of you. He’s letting out a coarse grunt-
Gasping.
“Fuck—fuck, is this okay?”
And a part of you melts at the utter tenderness in his tone - mixing with a hint of fear. Of disbelief. Ryomen Sukuna was never the type to be vulnerable, not even when the two of you had been dating—but as you look over your shoulder right now, you see that those devilish red eyes of his were observing every minute expression as though searching for a hint of rejection. Of disgust.
A hint that he’d been right about his changed form.
He was inhuman in his physique now, and…and he understands if you’d been scared away at any point-
But you’re only arching your spine and veering your hips back into him- cutting off whatever whirlwind of thoughts was bound to consume him. You’re picking up the pace that he’d been unsurely slowly down, bouncin’ down onto those slick-glossed shafts. They filled you up deliciously. “You don’t think you’re getting rid of me that easily again, are you?”
“I-”
“I’m more than okay, Kuna.”
“And yet-”
“And yet, why won’t you fuck me even harder—” Huffing, you’re managing to get up onto your elbows and gain a bit more leverage. “Spent so long looking for you, y’know…”
“Tch.” The scientist grumbles, but you could feel the way those rotund tips of his twitch just a lil’ inside of you. “Should’ve known-” He’s matching your pace with his own, slamming the lines of his toned abs against the globes of your ass cheeks. “-that you’d be an utter slut for monster cock.”
“Cocks.” You correct.
Just then, the wetness of his second tongue trickles down your pussylips. Gathering up every wad of honeyed slick you were leaking out- he was glissading his tastebuds along every inch of you he could reach: your inner thighs, your cute ass, nearly reaching around to fuck your pretty pussy. “Don’t forget the tongue, too, girlie.”
“I c-could never…” You’re keening out.
“Oh?”
And with a grin, Sukuna second-guesses no longer—before he’s leaning his chiselled front over yours. The hard ridges and lines of his muscles massaging your back, he hooks his fourth muscular arm around your neck and pulls you into a damn headlock-
“Fuh-fuck-” Sukuna hisses through his canines - honed and longer and ready to bite. He ruts into you like a damn animal—“Shit, how I missed this…”
“Shouldn’t have run away then-”
“From the fuckin’ freak?”
Just the slightest press against your throbbing g-spot - it’s like a trigger for the sweet, sweet squeeze of your walls- so warm n’ hungry for his cocks. And Sukuna jerks into urgent attention,
And now he wasn’t fucking you slow- he wasn’t taking his time.
Ryomen Sukuna had his muscular hips arched n’ reluctant to part from yours. Probin’ those girthy inches of his inside—
You’re attempting to claw at the headboard for dear life- but his keen eyes immediately catch the sliver of action, and Sukuna wastes no time before tightening his headlock ‘round you until his biceps bulge against your throat, hauling you back into his vicious ploughs. “What?” He breathes, scalding hot against the side of your cheek. “Where are we going, girlie?”
“We?”
“We. I could never forget her.” He’s rasping out against your skin, sending vibrations across every axiom of you. “Always thought of her—”
“A-and what did you think about?” You’re whimpering.
He doesn’t answer for a few seconds. And you’re disappointed as you feel Sukuna take as much time as his heart desires, pulling out of your pussy with a cute pop! Before he swirls his ruddied tips to soften up your entrance once more, and gives you a thorough thrash- going even deeper than prior. He’s making the eyes roll to the back of your head- he’s finally bottoming out. “I thought about how she might take every inch of me…”
“Oh.”
The tip of his second tongue dips out as though to fuck your cunt simultaneously.
.
.
.
When you’re accompanying Sukuna back to Tokyo, it’s hand-in-hand.
Large and warm against yours. There were more callouses on his fingers than you remember there being - not those of laboratory test tubes, and flasks, and flipping on centrifuges; but the hardship from the year you didn’t have him—and he didn’t have himself, either.
But you’re tugging him into the airport, now.
Two tickets booked and a meeting at The University of Tokyo already planned - the two of you didn’t plan to let anyone know of his transformative abilities for now. Perhaps never.
There were things that the two of you hadn’t sorted out yet: like how would Sukuna explain away his disappearance to the science board? How would you both stay in your cramped Tokyo apartment when he turned into his Curse mode? How would you manage to work on controlling it when…
But you knew the two of you would find a way - you always do.
As you’re standing at the terminal to your flight, the ones at the farthest end of the line, you’re turning around to a lilting voice calling out both your names. Your full names. Who knew such a thing…Faced with a grinning woman in a jet-black suit, tinted sunglasses, and the most accomplished grin across her face. She introduces herself as Tony- or as you may know her: Iron Woman.
And would you and your hulking boyfriend perhaps be interested in a little something called—
Sukuna’s breath hitches.
—The Avengers?
♡ INO TAKUMA - Flash.
“Mr. Flash- Mr. Flash! Just one more question, please…”
“Mr. Flash?” Ino gets a sheepish expression across his face at the esteemed title- one that makes the rest of his team roll their eyes. And he’s turning to the reporter that wastes no time shoving his mic in his face; camera already rolling, news headlines running.
All part of the job—it’s already been an hour since they’ve saved the city (yet again) and they’re still being interviewed, with no sign of it stopping anytime soon.
And so Ino plasters his camera-ready smile on - the rest of the team might not be as savvy as he was with the media, but he was one of the most popular up-and-coming heroes for a reason. Hah. The people loved him, and he loved the people. He takes the mic from the reporter faster than he can blink, and the man startles out a laugh.
“Woah, did you get that?” He turns uncertainly to the cameraman, who nods though he himself wasn’t too sure. Turning back to the red-clad hero- “You sure are fast. Tell us, Mr. Flash, does this speed affect you in your normal life, too?”
Ino answers, “Well-”
“And what about in the more…intimate aspects?”
He’s somewhat taken aback, “What do you-”
“What about in bed?”
Ino’s jaw has never dropped faster—ironic, isn’t it?
And that reporter leans in with a smile that’s turned wicked - one that said he’s going to get paid a lot of money for this particular clip. “Tell us, Mr. Flash, do you last nothing but a flash in bed?” Those beady eyes then turn to you—not too far away and interviewing another one of his team - ever since the two of you started dating, you’d been careful to not let anything slip about it, going so far as to avoid interviewing him as you once did as a hero reporter.
Though you suppose that some whispers did let slip.
For the man was staring at you, though he asked the question from Ino. “Or perhaps there’s a certain…someone that might know the answer to this question?”
That clip of him open-mouthed and gaping takes over social media within a few minutes - it garnered some strange frenzy of amusement and morbid curiosity. Some defended him fervently against the intrusive reporter, some argued that if one was a hero then they should expect strange questions, others condemned such questions all together- where were the boundaries?
Everyone else argued back.
But most…oh, you could’ve already guessed that most couldn’t help but speculate the real answers for both questions: the bed situation and the ‘certain someone’.
Ino, of course, was bemoaning his haste.
Or at least he would-
But right now he had you splayed-out underneath him and letting him fuck you maddened—the slender length of his cock pistoning in and out of you at a frenzied pace.
“Fuh-fuck-” That pretty, pinkened mouth of his droops open with a wet gasp—and Ino shudders as the ruddied tip of his cock swerves around your insides. Stars burst behind his teary eyelids as he’s sprinklin’ out yet another few droplets of him, trickling it deeeep into the back of your womb as he’s fucking your wet channel through it.
He’s shuddering his hips forwards and locking his knots of seed against the softness of your womb- “Fuck, you’re making me c-cum again, pretty…” And it’s about the fifth time in the past hour that he’s repeating this, “B-but I’m really not a flash in bed, right…?”
Such doe-like eyes stare at you, those long lashes of his glittered in tears. And you can’t help but say, “Mhmmmm—you’re really not, Taku.”
“But then why do you sound like you’re making fun of me?” Those trembling fingertips of his take purchase upon either side of your hips, and Ino’s mahogany brows furrows as he concentrates. “This round- this round, m’gonna prove it to you.”
“Taku, baby, you’re pussydrunk-”
“Even better.”
It’s been hours.
Fucking hours.
And Ino hasn’t stopped ruttin’ himself into the warm wetness of your pussy- he can’t stop himself.
It’s been too long - at this point he wouldn’t even be able to give you a number - since you’d successfully steered him away from that reporter and accompanied him to his penthouse. Since you’d reassured him that he totally wasn’t too fast in bed and that you definitely did think the sex lasted long enough.
But still.
He didn’t last a flash in bed.
He really, really didn’t—which is why a young dawn was filtering through the curtains- but Ino Takuma still had his cock lodged thoroughly inside you and was showing no signs of stopping any time soon. He’s reaching down to wrap both your legs around his toned waist, folding you in half n’ kissing your sweaty forehead with his.
But his point was getting harder and harder to prove with every round that he’s fuckin’ you through - bottoming out deeply at the back of your womb, and letting out the prettiest shivers as he feels you clench. “Fuh…oh, fuck.” Uttering mere minutes after he’s started this round, “I-I think m’gonna…”
“What’s that, baby?” You’re reaching up to loop your arms around his neck, tugging the beautiful boy towards you.
“Nothing.”
Batting your lashes up at him, “Awwww, c’mon- you know you can tell me anything, Taku.”
“I-it’s really nothing.” He insists.
“Hmmm, alright then…” But you knew- oh, you already knew. The more rounds that Ino was plunging you through, the more n’ more pussydrunk that he was growing—the shorter he lasted. Which wasn’t entirely anything bad- you honestly found it cute how it’d only take a few sweet slides down your tight pussy’s channel for Ino to utterly fall apart.
But he’s soon feeling that prickly sensation of his high, and he only starts tunneling between your sopping pussylips even harder. Brows knitting. Fingers digging into your flesh. “M’not gonna cum, sweetness-” He hiccups, “I-I’m not gonna cum, promise-”
“Mhm, I trust you.” You’re coaxing him, “I know you’re gonna last, baby.”
There’s a breathless note in his voice. He looks up at you in surprise, “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, I know you can handle it- hah.”
Fervently nodding, “Yeah- yeah, and m’gonna make you cum—”
“Mhm—” Lewdly smiling up at him. He’s just so entranced by that sinful expression upon your face that he doesn’t notice the way you’ve planted your feet firmly on the damp mattress- suddenly rolling your hips up into his own. “So why don’t I…help you, my hero?”
“H-help—oh.” Stunned. Cutting himself off with a groan.
Ino’s eyes squeeze firmly shut, and he’s shaking viscerally at the sudden plap! of your skin hitting against his own. It’s a different kind of burn when it’s you who’s taking control - and even though he’s on top of you, it feels like he’s the one that should be squirmin’ and gasping.
It feels like he should be the one who’s cumming first-
“No—” Ino’s gritting out through clenched canines - there’s a low trundle of something in his tone that sounds like desperation. Before you know it, he’s increasing the speed of his hips—plap! plap! Plap!
That rounded, red tip of his finds the spot of your nerves just perfectly- and Ino doesn’t waste a single second before he’s starting to bludgeon it with his thrusts. So many times that it starts to feel a bit raw.
Pinning you down using the weight of his lower half, Ino digs his right hand instantly between your two trembly thighs. Brushin’ apart your pussylips with a singular swipe of his thumb- your head explodes in so many bursts of pleasure as he starts twiddlin’ with your pretty, plump clit. “No, no, no- don’t think that I don’t know what you’re hck! doing, sweetness.”
Fluttering your lashes innocently, “And what’s that, Taku?”
“D-don’t think that I don’t know you’re trying to make me—” Pausing to let his crowned shaft push into your womb with a resounding squelch! “-cum first.”
“So what if I am, hm?” You counter, “I just really, really love the way it feels when you’re filling me up-”
“I know what you’re doing there, too—” He’s snarling down at you- just so gone on your pussy by now that he likely doesn’t even realize he’s drooling. Those dilated pupils of his bore straight into your own as he angles his hips to constantly bash your poor g-spot, circlin’ every sensitive orifice. “I know what you’re doing- fuck, I know what you’re doing…”
And you can only squeal as the sheer pressure of his cadence increases-
“And I know what I’m doing, too.”
Because if you thought that was fast- then you weren’t ready for just how rapidly Ino’s fingers could make you fall apart. They were just so loooong and pretty, flexible enough to twist your nub in constant circular motions, flexible enough to make you sob.
It doesn’t matter how badly you’re attempting to buck away - Ino keeps his fingers firmly into the wettened crevice between your legs. Twisting his wrist into aaaall sorts of degrees just to see which one made you scream the most-
“Please—” You’re bawling out after only a few minutes of this, legs shaking. “P-please, that’s unfair-”
“How so?” One amused brow raises. Perspired.
“B-because you’re gonna make me cum-” And to anyone else that would’ve sounded like a petulant complaint, it would’ve even sounded like a sore loser that couldn’t take on the challenge—but Ino knew. And you knew, too. “-using your powers—”
And the superhero can only grin, “So?”
Thrust after thrust.
Roll after sloppy roll of his glued fingertips - they were running your body taut. Without much effort, Ino’s able to make his blushin’ divot massage against your pussy at a rate where his hips almost looked like a blur—not even half of the Flash’s top speed.
And the fact that he was going easy on you made you huff in complaint.
Without thinking much of it, you’re back to ruttin’ up into him - definitely unable to meet his cadence, but you knew you didn’t have to.
You already had him wrapped around your little finger.
It takes only a few needy slams of your treacly pussy against his cock - all the way down to his thickened bottom - for Ino to throw his head back and groan. “You’re gonna…fuck, you’re gonna kill me, girl.‘
“Huh? But I didn’t do anything?” In a mock-innocent tone, “I certainly don’t have any powers to use.”
“Did you forget p-pussy power?”
You smirk.
And as he’s increasing his pace, you only have to whimper out his name for Ino to falter- for him to shake his head and continue. And as you’re attempting to gain the upper hand, he only has to buzz your throbbing nub with his electric speed for you to lose your mind.
Eventually—you think you’re about to cum.
And before you can accept the thought of losing, you’re grabbin’ Ino by his pretty throat and dragging him down to kiss his lips. “C-cum inside me, Taku.”
It’s a tie.
You’re crashing into your high, and Ino’s crashing into his.
Both the steaming hot pleasure of your orgasm flooding your core- and the few droplets that his overworked cock manages out. Creamy white sap. Thinner than usual—he was fighting not to merely cum blanks. Whimpering. Bucking. Fucking you like a damn animal…You’ve both experienced so many throughout the night that your current waves of bliss rip through you hard and fast.
Though Ino himself wastes no time bumpin’ his crowned cock into every tiny ridge of your wet channel. Scrape-scrape-scraping down the spots where you were most sensitive, and dragging it out for as long as he can.
You’re gasping as it leaves you numb from your toes, pulling his sweat chest against yours. “F-fuck, that feels so good…”
“Yes—fuck, yes.” And as the shudders of your high pass, you feel Ino’s cock grow just a little more limp inside of you- well…for a mere few seconds, that is.
“T-tie-breaker?” He whines.
.
.
.
The next time the two of you are spotted out together, it’s for an interview. Of course.
In which you’d ‘cornered’ global superhero Flash after yet another one of his successful missions - before any of the other reporters could manage to get their claws on him - with the question they’ve all been asking—“Do you really last as quick as a flash in bed?”
You’re hearing the shocked gasps around you from the other reporters and bystanders. None had dared ask this question so directly since that clip had gone viral - and in the peripheries of your vision you could see that interviewer from before gnawing his teeth at the fact that you’d stolen his limelight. Surely thinking you’d have about as much luck as him, however…
But of course, Ino already knew you were about to ask this.
His grin stretches underneath his mask as he turns to you, cameras rolling. “I should be asking you that, pretty. Dinner at 7?”
“There you have it, folks.”
♡ GOJO SATORU - Spider-Man.
“S-so I guess what I’m trying to say is…” The masked intruder starts, his voice stuttering adorably through his lines. Though adorable as he may be, that doesn’t make you forget the fact that he was a man…tall…well-built…and clearly a crazed fanatic of the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man who’d broken into your dorm—“Uh…I come in peace?”
You’re raising the frying pan in your hands even higher, “I know how to hide a body-”
“O—okay, woah-” He’s immediately taking a few steps back, which you suppose you wouldn’t expect from a dangerous intruder. But then again, maybe he was just new to the job?
If so, he should probably have his pay docked - he was utterly failing at being intimidating. For he’s flattening himself against the window from which he’d entered just a few minutes ago, hands raised in surrender and the whites of his masked eyes widening. Damn, that costume was pretty good…
“I come in peace. I swear I come in peace- I’d just been running from a bad guy, and your dorm just happened to be…the first one I saw? Either way, I promise I’m no danger and I’ll just be on my way now so-” He immediately hastens, “Put…the frying pan…down.”
“Make me.” Raising it even higher, he flinches.
“Okay- oh my god, okay—” It really didn’t take much to make the man surrender at all, immediately giving up on any peace-keeping. He scrambles around the room and you’re worrying that he’s looking for something to challenge your frying pan with- but it seems that he’d just been brainstorming how best to go about with…whatever this is. Because in no time, you’re practically seeing a light bulb go off beside his head, and the man raises his palms as though to brace you.
And you can’t deny it, you found yourself a bit interested. “Um, yes?”
“Get ready- look—” He utters through the web-patterned mask covering his face. “Don’t faint but…”
“But?”
“I’m…Spider-Man.”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
You’re assessing the man from head-to-toe—or at least what you could make out of him from the most elaborate cosplay of Spider-Man you’ve ever seen. It could honestly have been impressive if it wasn’t for the fact that he was in your fucking dorm.
But you digress.
“Okay, so do you want the frying pan- or I’ve also got a rolling pin-”
“What? No—no, listen.” The man insists, “I really am Spider-Man- it’s true! You’ve gotta believe me-” Though your deadpan expression gave away just about how much you believed the words that were falling from his masked mouth. And so he’s groaning in frustration, “Look- look, if I just showed you a few tricks would that work? Would that finally prove to you that I’m Spider-Man?”
Unimpressed, you cross your arms. “Go on, then.”
And then the first thing he does is shoot a clingy web from one hand, it launches at an incredible speed and sticks to your ceiling. That’s going to be hell to get out…
“Hm…” You narrow your eyes at him, “Impressive. But I’ve seen better at Party City.”
“That’s not fucking Party Cit- anyways.” He runs a hand down his weary face—or at least what you expect his face to look like beneath that mask. And as soon as you blink, you’re finding this…intruder(?) climbing up your walls. Literally.
All hands on there, glued to it with an invisible adhesive.
You gape, “That’s not…”
“And how about this? This is even better—” Before you can refute that previous trick, too, this man jerks his head up (or was it considered down? You weren’t quite sure given the way he’d crawled all the way to your ceiling by this point) and basks in the silence for a split-second.
You wondered whether he was actually sensing something or just pulling your leg-
“My spider senses say that your vibrator’s plugged in but it isn’t charging.”
You almost want to throw the frying pan at him. However, you’re managing to tamper down the urge long enough to walk silently to your room and back—fuck it, he’d been completely right. You still sort of want to throw the frying pan at him.
But as though he’d sensed that, too, Spider-Man raises his hands up to cover his head.
So you’re setting it down on your table with a defeated sigh, “Alright, I believe you…Spider-Man. What’re you doing here?”
“Like I said-” He finally lets go of the ceiling and stands in front of you normally now, “-bad guy had been chasing me. That one was just a little…above my paygrade so I had to stall until Iron Woman could get here- which was about five minutes ago. The fight’s still going on, however, and I should probably lay low for now.”
Awkwardly shuffling, “So then…”
“So then if I could just stay here until then, um…”
“Um, sure.”
“Sure.” He twiddles his thumbs, “So- is there anything you’ve wanted to know in particular about Spider-Man?”
You smirk.
.
.
.
“Always wanted to know how—hah, big it is.” Biting down on your lower lip, you’re managing to hold back a pitchy whine as his solid tip enters your hole.
Puckered and plump.
Just the cutest pink- he was the perfect girth and size.
Big enough to make your entrance quiver just feeling him kiss up against you, slender n’ smooth enough that he’s already starting to eagerly ease inside of you. And as you’re lowering yourself down on him, the superhero grabs onto either side of your ravenous hips like a lifeline—letting out a few ragged swears as he jerks his hips up and thrusts-
“Y-you should know…” He’s wincing at the feeling of your cunt - so hot and wet. Wasn’t this just heaven?
Turning around to look at him- he’s rather glad you’d chosen a reverse cowgirl position. Because at least then you wouldn’t have seen the way he wiped away fucking tears—sobbing at just the feeling of being inside your wet pussy. “Mhm, spidey?”
“You should know that this is my first time.”
“Oh.”
And with that being said, he’s thumpin’ out the most thorough hit at the very bottom of your pussy. He doesn’t have the experience of just eeeeasing in his incredible length- he’s chasing the back of your cunt like a man starved.
Like a man in unbearable pain every second he isn’t feeling the hotness of your cervix, the globes of your ass, the sensation of your walls squeezing around him like an embrace. So hot and wet. So sweet. So addictive-
“Addictive?” You’re giggling back at him, “Pussy talking already, huh?”
“I-I don’t even know what that is…” He’s babbling out, voice thicker than before.
And you can’t help but glide your palms down the smoothness of his exposed thighs, feeling every curve and divot of the corded muscle beneath. His body was just to die for - toned but not overly muscular. More like a sleeper build.
And you’re having soooo much fun moving your hips ‘round in all sorts of ways that made his muscles bulge—
“Fuck- fuck.” He’s stupid after just a few strokes. Bucking. Moaning. Hands tugging on the edge of the mask that found itself firmly upon his face, he’s attempting to loosen it and gasping for air-
“You should take that off, too.” You’re turning around and huffing at the sole scrap of fabric that kept you from seeing - what you assumed to be - Spider-Man’s pretty face. The only thing you could see of him were those stray curls of…white? Perhaps they were a super platinum blond? They wrapped around the nape of his neck and slightly leaned towards his jawline, drenched in sweat and flushed right down to his tone pecs.
The way that he’s squirmin’ and letting out the most unfairly erotic grunts every time you’re swallowing him up only left you so much more impatient. So much more impatient. “I s-swear I won’t tell anyone about who you are…fuck, and isn’t it getting super hot in there?”
“It is…” He murmurs, more to himself than anything. “But, what if—”
Peering back at him as he trails off, “What?”
“What if I don’t look how you expect?”
“It’s the personality that matters.” Nodding in conviction, and then a sly smile stretches across your face at the way that makes his cockhead throb-throb-throb harder inside you. You’re wasting no time before increasing the speed of your hips until your hamstrings scream—“And the cock…heh.”
“S-so filthy.” The hero mutters, “But what if I’m…not your type?”
“Ugh—” Almost rolling your eyes- it was cute just how shy he was, really. But the first thing you’d wanted to do upon finding out that he was the real Spider-Man was to fuck him - so how much of a hint could you really give? “Baby, my type is loser heroes, and I think you fit the bill.”
“Thank y- hey.”
Just a few more sloppy thrusts - just a few more - and the man beneath you finds himself completely n’ utterly gone from the force of your hips. The sweetness of your cunt.
The way you’d tighten your legs around him any time he swabbed near your sweetest spots. And he was chasing that particular bundle of nerves with such fervour- he was gasping as he feels himself veering even soooo much closer to the throbbing of your deepest walls- he was reddening the skin ‘round his pelvis through sheer impact.
And just as he thinks that he couldn’t get even more drunk on the texture of your pussy…
You’re whimpering out a sweet lil’ echo of his hero name—
And the superhero beneath you lets his head loll behind into the pillows with a groooooan- mouth falling open at the feeling of your cunt surrounding him. Clenching.
Clamping down, you’re holding him hostage better than any villain ever could.
His heavy balls were nearly full enough to burst- and he’s thinking that he’s gonna cum just as soon as he rams his blushin’ tip almost straight into the target of—
And then his spider senses tell him that your fingers are thinking of reaching for his mask.
But before you can even let the thought come into proper fruition in your mind, he’s taking nothing but a single split second to web your pretty wrists together and flip the two of you over. Just because he’s pussydrunk doesn’t mean he isn’t one of the world’s best superheroes, hm?
Now fucking you with your face smushed into the pillows, your knees bracing on the mattress. His cock pounding out a single thrust between those sweet, sap-covered pussylips of yours- the hero hits your g-spot instantly.
And that’s all it takes for you to topple right into your high.
Pleasure rushing through your body in waves. Fingertips clenching at the sheer force of it. You’re seeing stars behind your eyes at the sensation- “Sh-shiiiiit—” Perhaps one of the best orgasms you’ve ever had in your life- and not only was it wound up by a virgin, but the virgin was none other than Spider-Man?!
Jaw dropping open—though it was in slight shock, he’s taking the opportunity to lean and spit.
Making you moan as the gluey wad skids down your tastebuds, “Ohhh, you’re a secret freak, huh?” And though you’d meant it as a half-joke, the hero is leaning his chiselled body dooooown to whisper into the side of your ear.
“Maybe.”
Then there’s the rustling of fabric.
Of masks being removed, perhaps? It takes your mind a few more moments of him slammin’ his rugged cock inside you to realize…
And then the white-hot feeling of your orgasm coursing through your veins is suddenly overtaken by the realization that Spider-Man - maskless and exposed - was right behind you. Looming. Looking for your reaction, you suppose…you feel a jolt go through your body as you realize that he was waiting for you to turn—bearing all of this for you.
And you wondered what he would look like.
Pretty, sure.
Slightly nerdy—perhaps, he never struck you as the jock type.
Someone sweet. Someone kind.
Maybe that was just your wishful thinking.
You turn around and there he is - Gojo Satoru. You fucking knew him—he went to your university. The white-haired ace of the Physics Department; always roaming around campus with his textbooks or camera, always with his head buried and rarely meeting anyone’s eyes, always in the library to the extent that he might as well have been part of the furniture.
Always with his camera lens pointed at you, though he doesn’t think you saw him enough to notice.
But of course, you saw him.
Of course, you saw him.
He’s the boy you’ve had a crush on since freshman year.
Gojo doesn’t meet your eyes now, either. He’s without his thick-rimmed glasses and has to squint just a little bit, looking self-consciously down at himself and fuck- you have to resist the urge to beg for missionary then and there just so that you can stare into his deep, azure eyes as he fucks you.
Instead, you just say- “Did you know that nerds are also my type?”
He beams brighter than the sun.
.
.
.
The next time you’re beside Gojo Satoru, it’s hand-in-hand and entering your next lecture.
You could feel the stares, the gasps, the whispers.
The nerd of the physics department, and one of the most popular girls on campus- or at least, that’s what Gojo claimed. Professor Yaga himself lets his bushy brows raise just the slightest inch once he spots the two of you—and it makes your nerdy boyfriend blush right now to his ivory roots.
“Sweetheart—” He’s whispering to you, “How about we swing around the city today? Promise I’d never let you drop.”
You smile, “I’d love to, Toru.”
Oh, you can imagine that the Daily Bugle is going to go into haywire.
♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - Daredevil.
“Do you trust me, angel?”
You can’t keep the smile off of your face, “Who would I trust if not the best lawyer in Tokyo? Maybe even the world?”
“Why only maybe?” Higuruma smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges—just barely visible past the frames of his sunglasses. Your boyfriend was just so handsome when he was in his work clothes: one amongst the many crisp suits he often wore to court, hair slicked back n’ not a single strand out of place, his cane by his side. But he continues, “You know how I’m a…lawyer of sorts?”
“Oh really? I had no idea.” You jest.
“How about we try something tonight, my angel…” And as you’re peering down at him in curiosity, Higuruma starts to loosen his tie just the slightest bit—and you’re suddenly understanding what he means. “How about a simulation of this aspect, though in a far lighter tone?”
Your jaw drops, “R-roleplay?”
.
.
.
“Denied.”
“Hiromi, baby—”
“The court finds you guilty on all counts of seduction.” Higuruma’s deep baritone rasps down at you, punctured only by the slamming of his gavel on his desk. Bang! Bang! Bang! Those pressurized vibrations send shockwaves down your own body, and the lawyer’s grin stretches as he watches you affected by such a thing.
How cute…he couldn’t stop but let your orgasm edge for the nth time tonight.
Edging you.
It’s later into the night, you’re spread out across Higuruma’s neat work desk- your back against the frigid texture of the mahogany, your front arching into his own. He presses his suit-clad front against your naked tits—the harsh texture of his heroic suit - as per your request - rubbin’ against your nipples n’ sending you into an absolute frenzy.
He was such a tease.
Grinning as though he knew exactly what he was doing- even though the tone of his voice speaks of nothing but faux innocent. The lawyer speaks, “You’re moving around so much- something wrong, sugar?”
“A-absolutely nothing.” You’re managing to echo out.
“Good.” Higuruma utters, pure devilish desire in his tone. And he doesn’t need to say his next words for you to already know where this was heading- after all, one of his hands reaches for where his gavel was upon the table - using his radar sense - and the other presses down on your hips.
Right above where his thickened length was pressed between your pussylips—Higuruma feels his hand down upon your stomach as he sinks himself inside. The throbbing, cylindrical intrusion of his cock glissading inside- “Because we’re having a retrail.”
And then the gavel comes down right on top of the wooden desk.
It creaks and nearly splinters—but all you can think of is the way that Higuruma was fuckin’ his rotund tip into you as though there was no tomorrow. He wasn’t wasting a single second.
Court time was precious, y’know?
So you best believe that Higuruma had your hips pinned down with his own powerful ones, the scritch-scratching of his tufted happy trail rendering you stupid. Fucking you in hard, purposeful thrusts - each one aimed precisely for where you were most sensitive.
His swabbin’ thrusts didn’t just hit deeeeep into the back of your pussy, but your boyfriend was ending up pressing against your sweetest orifices, your soft roof, the door to your womb—dragging his thumb down the knob of your clit.
With those honed senses of his, you’re lasting barely two pumps of his accurate cock before he’s locating your g-spot—fuck.
And giving it the most merciless strike ever.
He knew where it was from the slurping sounds of your cunt - the way they’d grow just a little damper as he headed for that one spot, he knew where it was from the counts of your breathing - how you’d let them grow a bit more ragged as he veered his cocktip even closer, he knew where it was from the smell of your cloying slick—growing even wetter n’ more drenched in honey as you’d find yourself spearheaded by him.
Rough.
“State your name.”
And so the trail commences.
You’re doing so as he says- a monumental task given the way that Higuruma’s greedy hips don’t stop taking you for a single second. In fact, he’s kissin’ your g-spot at a constant pace and seeming to only ask you questions when he knows you’ll be affected by the sudden bursts of pleasure.
“State your age.”
Your mouth opens. But instead of your age, comes out a jumbled mess of pleads and his name—because just then, Higuruma had reached his dominant hand down and pinched your pretty, puffy clit. So needy that you’re trickling out wads of slick from between your pussylips.
Your hole’s clenching so thoroughly around him that he almost has to falter, too. “Now, now…” Tutting - and you knew that that was never a good sign when it comes to lawyers, but especially Higuruma. “Is that a refusal to testify? I’m afraid this won’t help your case, my angel.”
“I-it’s not…” Hot tears run down your cheeks - and in response, he’s only squeezing your poor clit even harder. “Promise I’ll tell you.”
And it’s only after you’re finishing your response - syllable after syllable - that Higuruma finally lets go of your sensitive nub. That too with such a level of reluctance—if you hadn’t known any better, then you’d have said that that was a sullen pout slashed across his lips as Higuruma lets go of that sultry appendage.
His fingers instead slide uuuuuup and down your wettened crevice- the perfect feeling of where his throbbing cock kept on pumping in n’ out. Higuruma’s lips slightly part as he touches upon the sheer difference in girth, in the way that your cunt was struggling to keep all of him bulging inside of you and yet you were still yearning for more. “Hmmm, state your crimes now.”
“I-”
“Not you.” Higuruma interrupts, “I’m calling up another witness.”
And yet, there was no other witness - at least not that you could see. And surely you weren’t that dumbified yet that you couldn’t conjure up the vision of someone else here when—there was clearly no one else here.
None but you, your boyfriend, and…your pussy.
Higuruma Hiromi - the best lawyer in Tokyo - had his head leaned lovingly down and his brows furrowed as he listened to the precious sounds of your pussy. As if he was deeeeep in the middle of the conversation, understanding every single slurp, squelch, and the most sultry gulps as yet another inch of him is being swallowed.
All of it reaches his ears like music. And he hums as he feels the sound of it send shivers through his very being- “Ahhh, I see…” Straightening up, he leers down at you. “My witness states that your crime is seduction.”
“G-guilty…or wait- no.”
“Guilty?” Higuruma questions in faint amusement, “Do you admit to the charged and- hah, forfeit your right to an orgasm?”
“No—” Whining out needily, “No, please- I need to cu-”
“Objection, hearsay.” He cuts through you coolly - through his cock was rutting into you in a way that was anything but. “You do not need an orgasm, angel. But does the defendant believe that she deserves one?”
“Y-yes.” You shamefully admit.
“Does the defendant believe that she is guilty of the crimes of seduction?”
“Yes-”
“Does the defendant believe that she is worthy of a second chance, however?”
Arching your back into his. “Of course.”
“Hm…we might have to settle this with a jury.“ Those dark brows of his furrow, between them a perspired bead of sweat tracks down his forehead. And it doesn’t take long for your smart boyfriend to know just whom to ask—before you know it, he’s veering his head down and using his super-heightened senses to listen to every single sound of your pussy.
To listen to your arousal.
To smell it- just so sweet.
To let his brain come to a conclusion—“The jury has come to a unanimous decision.”
Your heart jumps to your throat.
“All counts- not guilty.” And then with a few more fervent rolls on top of your throbbing clit, Higuruma drags you all the way to the precipice of your high and—and this time - just this time - he actually lets you topple over the edge.
Straight over it.
White-hot flashes. Warmth filling you up like a flood.
It starts from the tips of your toes and then shoots all the way up to your poor, sparking brain. The superhero grins as tears track down your cheeks at the final release that you’re been waiting so long for, and he grins as you’re shaking through wave after wave of your high. “Good-” You’re gurgling out cutely, “S-so good-”
Head dropping back against the pillows.
The rounded edge of his cock shovels in as he’s bursting your high through you wildly—
“What can I say?” He hums, “I’m a really good lawyer.”
A/N. Confession time: Higu and Kuna’s ones were the hardest to do because I’ve never watched Hulk or Daredevil WHOOPS-
Plagiarism not authorized.
after all the pain you endured during your delivery, sukuna refuses to ever let his wife go through it again [a/n: based of that one scene in "when life gives you tangerines"]
11 hours, 34 minutes, and 34 seconds. then 40. then more. sukuna counts them all without meaning to, like something wired too deep into him to stop. each second stretching, dragging, carving itself into his bones as time refuses to move fast enough.
his eyes burn, raw and unforgiving, a kind of ache he’s never known. not even in those long, merciless nights bent over a laptop back in his college days. this is worse. dark circles bruise the skin beneath his eyes, lashes still damp.
he sits rigid in a cheap, dark blue hospital chair, one that creaks every time he so much as breathes too deeply, yet he hasn’t moved from it in hours. maybe longer. his body feels locked in place, but his mind drifts, slipping in and out of a dull haze until the sound of a door jolts him upright again, sharp, alert, feral in the way his gaze snaps toward it. every time without fail. his hands rest on his knees, fingers twitching, trembling despite himself, nails pressing into fabric as if grounding himself is the only thing keeping him together.
the baby is fine. he knows she is. he’s checked too many times for anyone to comment on without risking the look he’d give them. each visit ends the same way: standing on the other side of the glass, large hand pressed flat against it, breath fogging the surface as something unfamiliar tightens in his chest. he doesn’t stay long. he can’t. not when you’re not there.
everything in him had gone cold— no, empty the moment they rushed you away. the world had narrowed down to the sight of you on that bed, face twisted in pain, your fingers clutching his with a strength that spoke of fear you rarely ever showed. and he had felt it too, sharp and suffocating, coiling tight in his chest in a way he couldn’t fight, couldn’t control.
then a clipboard had been shoved into his line of sight, a nurse speaking too quickly. “mr. ryomen, you need to sign this form in case the baby—”
“my wife.”
his voice had cut through hers without hesitation. not loud nor panicked. just final.
for a moment, everything had stilled. even you had looked at him, eyes wide despite the pain. He hadn’t even looked back at the paper.
“i choose my wife.”
after that, they had forced him out, the doors closing between you with a finality that made something ugly claw at his ribs. since then, all he’s done is wait, endless, suffocating waiting, counting seconds like they’re the only thing he has left to hold onto.
people came. of course they did. gojo, loud and insufferable even in a hospital, arms filled with gifts that cost more than necessary. geto, calm, offering congratulations that barely registered. toji lingering off to the side, megumi in his arms as he tried, awkwardly, to show him the newborn through the glass, jin nearby with itadori and choso, their presence filling the hallway with low conversation and quiet excitement.
sukuna acknowledged none of it beyond a glance at best.
because none of it mattered.
not the gifts, not the voices, not the child he had already seen and silently loved.
the only thing on his mind was you.
his wife.
“mr. ryomen?”
his name lands and something in him snaps taut and slack all at once. sukuna is on his feet before he’s fully aware of moving, the chair scraping faintly behind him. the sudden shift makes his vision tilt for a second, exhaustion catching up, but he steadies through it, jaw set, legs carrying him forward even as they threaten to give.
“she’s awake, everything is stable. you may see her now.”
that’s all he needs.
the door barely has time to open before he’s through it, pace quick, bordering on reckless, yet each step feels impossibly heavy as the weight of the past hours clings to him, refusing to let go. the sterile white of the room greets him, too bright, too clean, and then—
you.
everything else falls away.
you’re laid against the stark sheets, small in a way he’s never seen you before, exhaustion carved into every line of your face, the aftermath of something brutal and beautiful all at once. you look fragile. spent. human.
and still— still you’ve never looked more perfect to him.
his chest tightens, something sharp and overwhelming lodging itself beneath his ribs as his eyes lock onto yours. they find him easily, soft despite the fatigue, a faint smile ghosting over your lips as your hand lifts, barely reaching for him.
“my love…” your voice is hoarse, worn thin, and it nearly undoes him.
he closes the distance in seconds, dropping to his knees at your bedside without care for anything else, large hand immediately enclosing yours as if to confirm you’re real, warm and alive. here. he brings it to his face, pressing slow, reverent kisses to your knuckles, your palm, your wrist, lingering like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you all over again.
something wet slips against your skin.
“ryo…?” your voice is softer now, concerned, your fingers twitching as if to pull away, but he doesn’t let go not out of force, never that, but out of something far more desperate.
he tightens just enough to keep you there, head bowed, shoulders trembling in a way that doesn’t belong to a man like him.
“there…” his voice catches, rough, uneven, breath hitching as the memory crashes back; your face twisted in pain, the sound of it, the helplessness of being torn away. his brows pull together sharply, grip faltering for a second before tightening again. “there won’t be another.”
he presses another kiss to your skin, slower this time. like sealing a vow into you.
“there won’t be another,” he repeats, quieter, but no less absolute.
you blink at him, caught off guard, and then despite everythin a soft, breathy laugh escapes you. “don’t be stupid, ryo.”
his head lifts just enough for you to see the way his expression twists, raw and unguarded, eyes rimmed red, lashes clumped.
“i don’t—” his breath stutters, voice breaking in a way he doesn’t bother to hide, “—want to see you like that again.” his hand curls into the sheets beside you, gripping the fabric tight as if grounding himself, “not like that. not ever.”
you soften instantly, both hands coming up carefully to cradle his face, guiding him closer despite the way he resists for half a second.
“did you see her?” you murmur, thumb brushing beneath his eye, catching the dampness there.
he nods, quick, almost eager despite everything, leaning into your touch without thinking. “i did… but—” his voice drops, “i wanted to see my wife.”
“oh, ryo…” you pull him closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, then the bridge of his nose, and finally his lips; soft, lingering, tasting faintly of salt.
he exhales against you, eyes closing briefly, forehead coming to rest against yours as his hand finds its place around yours again, unwilling to let go.
“there won’t be another,” he says, quieter now. final.
you study him for a moment. at the fear still lingering beneath the surface, and the love that outweighs everything else, and your expression softens into something certain.
“okay,” you whisper, brushing your nose against his. “there won’t.”
it's 2:49am i should fucking sleep but i finally got the idea how to write this and i had to
In which you jump out of a moving car to spite Boyfriend!Sukuna
“—because he was just making conversation!”
Sukuna scoffs, knuckles turning white as his grip tightens on the steering wheel. “Bullshit. That guy wanted to fuck you.”
“Oh my god. So what!” you yell. “It’s not like I was gonna fucking let him!”
“Coulda fooled me.”
Just like that, your angry face, which matches his, warps into one of calm decision. With speed he doesn’t see coming, you unbuckle your seatbelt, push open the passenger door and jump out of the moving car into the dead of night.
The car screeches to a halt not even a second later.
You’re pushing yourself up and testing the soreness in your ankle when a car door slams shut and Sukuna comes marching over to you. “You crazy, fucking bitch!” he snaps. Sukuna grabs your face, growling when you try to pull away. He inspects every inch of you, brows furrowed, and piercings glinting under the streetlights. “What the fuck is wrong with you!”
“I got a bitch ass boyfriend, that’s what’s wrong with me,” you grumble.
He ignores that. “You break anything? Wrist? Ankle? Dislocated your shoulder?” You shake your head. “Well, that’s a fucking shame.” Though as he says that, he can’t quite hide the tremors in his hands. Quieter now, he mutters with a tight frown, “Scratched your pretty face up. Fuck. Lost your one redeeming quality.”
“Okay, so I’m gonna walk home,” you say, deadpan. “I’ll see you around, asshole.”
Sukuna runs a hand through his hair with a frustrated noise. Then he smacks his lips against yours before you can actually start walking away (not that he’d let you get very far). “Alright, alright. You fucking win. Congrats. Christ. Get back in the car — we’re going to the hospital to get you checked out. Fucking dumbass.”
A hospital visit later, you’re in bed with him, cuddled up like nothing happened. It’s how arguments with him tend to go; neither of you really hold grudges against each other. Not when you’ve fucked any grievances out after. The last mention of today’s incident, however, comes in his sleepy mumble against the top of your head: “push me out instead.”
“Hmm?”
Sukuna’s hold around your body tightens, threatening to suffocate you with his hard chest. “Don’t jump out of the car. It’s stupid. Your body’s weak. Skin bruises easily. Cuts easily too. Just kick me out instead. I deserve it, I know... bonus points if it's into oncoming traffic.”
“Okay, will do.”
“Thank you, baby.”
my man my man my man (nobody tell Nanami)
tell me your lies | jjk (m)
↣ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | ceo!jungkook x reader
↣ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 | angst, smut, fluff
↣ 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐱 | explicit language and sexual content. 18+ to read.
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↣ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you thought you could escape the past but jeon jungkook doesn’t know how to let go.
↣ sequel to tell me no lies ↢
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The trees flitter and shake between the howls of wind that gust through the nipping air. Somewhere between the chaos of blooming fall and the almost setting sun does a young man walk down the concrete path. He walks with a limp, a cane in his right hand guiding his steps. Trees stand stout yet tall on each side of the path that leads up to the hospital doors. The man pauses, a boxy smile peaking on his face as he cranks his face towards the window on the 5th floor, 6 windows to the right.
He pats the breast pocket of his black suede trench coat. There, he pulls out a pair of brown thick-rimmed sunglasses and fits them just above the broad end of his nose bridge where they sit snug over his chocolate eyes. He takes a forefinger to the left side of the temple where the screw holds the rim attached. His thumb rests on the apple of his cheek as the side of his index finger lightly turns the screw. He hears the soft buzz of the zoom, his vision through the sunglasses adjusting closer to the window. It’s his luck that the room is lit and the blinds haven’t been closed quite yet. He sees you, a tray in hand as you walk towards the man in the hospital bed. He continues to watch, observing the way the man smiles back at you when you set the tray of food down on the table that sits between the window and his bed. The observing man readies himself. His index now moves to the top of the screw where a button is present. He sees you face the window now, stretching your arms to the top of the curtains. The man hovers over the button, pressing down only halfway for the image to come into focus. For a moment, he thinks you may have seen him when it seems like you’re looking directly at him. He promptly presses down on the button, a quiet click sounding as it would on an actual camera.
“I’ve got you now.” He says to himself, his smile growing to an eerie grin as he watches you drape the curtains closed.
Time moves fast in hospitals– or at least it feels that way to you, sitting in the Doctor’s office with your legs crossed, glass panes gleaming and sunlight too bright to bear. It's been over a year since Jungkook walked out of your apartment and into the autumn night. Some days it feels like yesterday; most days it feels like a lifetime ago.
“I swear time couldn’t go any slower right now,” Namjoon drags out the words laced in frustration. You sit in stunned silence at how he protests to even your inner thoughts. He leans back in his chair with a groan, the toe of his shoe tapping impatiently against the sterile tile floor. The clock above the door ticks loud enough to grate on your nerves, each second dragging longer than the last. You try to count them, but lose track somewhere past thirty, your eyes drifting instead to the maze of reflections in the glass panes.
Just as Namjoon opens his mouth to complain again, the door finally clicks open. The doctor steps in, clipboard tucked under his arm, his face carefully arranged in that unreadable mask you’ve come to dread.
He offers a polite nod. “Sorry to keep you both waiting,” he says, settling into the chair across from you.
Namjoon exhales through his nose, a strained smile barely covering his impatience. “What do you have for us, doc?”
The doctor gives a sympathetic dip of his head before glancing down at his notes. His voice softens. “The experimental treatment given to Mr. Jung Hoseok was… mostly successful.”
“What do you mean mostly?” Namjoon almost hisses.
"Well– the first dose of the trial medication stabilized his vitals, but the results weren't as consistent as we had hoped." The doctor shifts in his chair, tapping the edge of the clipboard. "As you know, we were only able to identify the mass during the third round of imaging, it took us far longer than we'd have liked. The treatment has slowed its progression, but there are side effects and we won't know the extent of them for another few months. For now it's fatigue, muscle weakness… but he is awake."
The words hang in the air, heavy. You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until it rushes out. You lean forward. “Awake?” Your voice cracks. “As in- he can talk to us?”
The doctor nods once. “He’s conscious, responsive. Though he’ll need assistance for now.”
And that was enough for you all, until it wasn’t anymore.
The months that followed blurred into a rhythm of hospital visits and hollow routines. You moved through them the way you moved through water. It’s slow, heavy, and you never quite reach the surface. Some nights, you didn't reach it at all.
You think if you close your eyes hard enough, maybe just maybe you’d cease to exist.
3.
2.
1.
You let out all the air in your lungs, and your eyes bulge out. When the panic settles, you’re at complete and utter peace. But it doesn’t last for too long. Just as your vision goes dark and you let the water fill your lungs until there is nothing left of you, you wake up with a loud gasp.
“Woah, bad dream?” The voice seems distant yet all too familiar. It’s the voice of your very dear friend. It’s the voice of Hoseok.
You remember where you are again when your eyes hit the panelled ceiling. The metal grids give way to beaming lights subdued by frosted plastic, reminding you of the place you have basically called home for the last year. For as much money as it is to keep him here, you would be the first to admit Hoseok definitely has the best room in this hospital.
“I guess.” You let out a shaky breath and push up, palms flattening against the mattress as you swing your legs over the side. Bittersweet. Hoseok watches you with that careful tilt of his head, like he’s cataloguing your frayed edges. You don’t know that he’s wondering when your spirits had gotten so low. To him, you’ve always been the light of the group, though little did he know, you’d think the same of him.
You sigh once more and face towards him, brows now strewn together, a serious expression crossing your face until a question lodges in your throat.
“Are you afraid to die?”
It’s a heavy subject you’ve introduced, and you feel the room grow silent as Hoseok ponders over your question. Perhaps it’s because he’s so close to death itself that he doesn’t have to give it much thought for too long. He simply purses his lips and shakes his head ‘no’ in response. Maybe proximity to the edge makes it easier to answer; maybe he’s already rehearsed this.
Not a day has gone by since he woke up that you haven’t thought about how to say goodbye to Hoseok. Your friend is still very ill. Maybe that’s why you’ve grown so much resentment towards the world. It’s hard to wrap your head around but you try not to think about it often because he’s here right now, conscious and most importantly alive.
Hoseok’s hospital bed is quite different from the hospital bed the nurse put in the room for you. It’s quite different from yours as it’s actually hooked up to something- a lot of somethings at that. A nasal cannula is stuffed up his nose, attached to two giant tanks of oxygen and for a brief moment, it pangs you to see him like this. You’ve lost count of the wires that seem relentlessly stuck to his body, working tirelessly just to keep him afloat. Sometimes you wonder if it would have been better to let go than to see him struggle like this. But you’d never share this thought out loud, shuddering at yourself for even thinking it just now.
“It’s inevitable, _____.” A weak hand waves in the air as he tries to continue explaining his thoughts. “If not now, it’ll happen eventually- to all of us, so why be scared?” His voice is airy, quiet and less vibrant than you remember it being.
“The after-stuff,” you prompt. “What do you think happens after?”
He smiles the kind of smile you remember from before the sickness: small, stubborn and heart-shaped. “The after-stuff is whatever you want it to be.”
It’s then that Namjoon chimes in as he walks into the hospital room, a tray of hospital food in his hands. You already know whatever he’s about to say will be utter rubbish. “Well, _____ some people swear you’ll wake up in paradise, rivers of milk and honey, endless peace. Others think you’re reborn, spinning through life again and again until you finally get it right. There are even people who say we just…merge with the light, some kind of cosmic energy.” He pauses, smirking as he shifts the tray in his hands.
“Or if you’re like me, you know that there’s nothing waiting. There’s no heaven, no reincarnation…just dirt and silence.” It’s said in poor taste, and you see Hoseok frown in response.
“I didn’t realize I was asking you.” You say, deadpan at how ridiculous he sounds. “I didn’t realize the Christopher Hitchens was a part of our friend group.” To this, Hoseok snorts weakly and reaches over for the remote that controls his bed. You watch as he pushes a button that allows the headboard to elevate, letting him sit up in bed. Namjoon strides towards him, swivelling the tray attached to the hospital bed in front of Hoseok before placing the steaming bowl of rice porridge on the tray. A side of white kimchi follows, but Hoseok merely pushes it aside. Your stomach growls in response, realization setting in that you haven’t had anything to eat today. Granted, you haven’t had much of an appetite for a while.
Namjoon simply ignores you and stretches out a hand. “Come, _____, we’ll grab you something to eat too.” You reluctantly agree. Though your stomach is angry, rumbling the weight of Thor’s hammer itself. You can’t find the strength to leave Hoseok alone for even 10 minutes.
It strikes you as you walk the hallway that it's only two of you now. The halls feel wider without Jimin's nervous energy filling them. He stopped answering the group chat three months ago. He moved cities, changed his number, and you don't blame him, not really. After the heist, the guilt ate at all of you differently. Jimin just let it swallow him whole.
When you reach the hospital’s food court with Namjoon, it hums with the low chatter of visitors and the clatter of trays. By the windowsill, Yoongi sits hunched over his laptop, brows furrowed, tongue pressed against his cheek in the way that means he’s deep in code or trouble– maybe even both. He’s always damn up to something. He hasn’t noticed you yet, fingers tapping in sharp, relentless bursts. A knot of unease coils in your chest.
Namjoon doesn’t hesitate, steering you toward him. “C’mon,” he mutters, nodding at the empty chairs. Yoongi glances up as you approach, eyes narrowing briefly before he snaps the laptop half-shut, like he’s guarding secrets. Still, he kicks out a chair with his foot in silent invitation.
Namjoon orders a big bowl of pasta for you, sliding a tray into your hands before you can protest. It’s a rose cream pasta and the first bite is so rich and velvety it almost knocks the air out of you. For a brief moment, you forget everything—Hoseok’s labored breaths, the sterile walls and the gnawing fear. You just sit there savoring the food. Who knew hospital chefs could cook up a mean pasta? Enough about the pasta. You tell yourself as you stab into it. Then you look at Namjoon, at Yoongi, at the two constants who’ve dragged you through hell and back, and you can’t help the bitter thought: it’s crazy that you still keep these sacks of shit as your friends after everything they’ve put you through.
You twirl another forkful of pasta, pretending not to notice how Yoongi keeps one hand planted on the lid of his laptop, guarding it like a vault. Still, curiosity prickles.
“So…” you start carefully, tilting your head. “What’s got you looking like you’re about to declare war on that keyboard?”
Yoongi smirks faintly but doesn’t answer you right away. He leans back, eyes flicking to Namjoon. “She doesn’t know?”
Namjoon sighs, running a hand down his face. “Not yet.”
Your fork clinks against the bowl. “Know what?”
Yoongi drums his fingers on the table, weighing his words. “Another job.”
Your stomach lurches. “You’ve got to be kidding.” And just like that, you’ve lost your appetite. The pasta might as well be ash on your tongue. You shove the bowl forward, porcelain clattering against the tray, and the screech of your chair rips through the food court as you push back in one frantic motion. A few heads turn but you don’t care as you grab your tote bag and storm off past the rows of tables, through the automatic doors, and out into the back courtyard. The air hits different here. It’s crisp, carrying the faint scent of disinfectant masked poorly by trimmed hedges and damp grass. Patients wheel slowly along the paved paths, loved ones trailing beside them with soft voices and careful hands. Laughter bursts from a child chasing bubbles near the fountain, a cruel contrast to the storm churning in your chest.
You drop onto a bench beneath a bare tree, the tote bag slumping against your feet. You feel sick.
“_____!” You groan out loud, the sound ripping from your chest as you shove yourself up from the bench. Twisting toward him, you see Namjoon striding across the courtyard, hands jammed into his pockets like he’s trying to anchor himself.
“Are you fucking serious, Namjoon?” The words spill out harsher than you intended, but you don’t reel them back. “After everything? After the mess you dragged us into already? Are you out of your fucking mind?” A couple nearby patients turn their heads, but Namjoon doesn’t slow. His jaw tightens, his footsteps steady until he stops just a few feet away.
“We need the money.” Namjoon’s voice is flat, but there’s a tremor under it like a rope fraying.
“Fuck the money!” You snap, springing to your feet. Your palms ball into fists at your sides. “No wonder Jimin fucked off to wherever the fuck— I’m surrounded by a bunch of selfish—”
“Selfish?” Namjoon’s voice rockets up to match yours, and suddenly neither of you gives a damn who’s listening. He takes a step forward, chest heaving. “You’re calling me selfish? After everything? After the nights we slept in shifts keeping him breathing, after the loans we sold our souls for? Everything we’ve done has been for each other. For Hoseok. Just because your little fling got complicated doesn’t change that.”
You point, the finger shaking. “Hoseok is dying, Namjoon!“ Silence drops between you, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the squeak of a wheelchair rolling past and the low murmur of a caregiver. “The money didn’t fix him before and it’s not going to fix him now.” You hate that you’re a crier when you’re angry and you hate it even more that you’re now crying in public as the words spew without reason. “And don’t you dare minimize what happened. You’re lucky Jungkook didn’t put us in jail.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Namjoon snaps back, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. “Do you remember what the oncologist said? The treatments found what's been killing him and they slowed it down, yeah and guess what? He’s awake. Has been for 8 months. Time and medicine cost money. This isn’t about some adrenaline rush anymore. This is about buying him time to be lucid one more week, one more month. You’d rather let that slide because what? You feel guilty about Jungkook?”
Your shoulders sag and your bottom lip quivers as you look at him, defeated.
“I’m not minimizing it,” he says quieter, too tired to keep yelling. “But does that mean we bury Hoseok because we can’t live with our choices? Is that the line you’re gonna draw?”
“So we become worse thieves for one life?” You sit back down, dragging the heel of your hand across your cheek to wipe the tears away. “We used to have purpose. Now it’s just… wrong. All of it. We’re clutching at a thread that’s already frayed.” You meet his eyes. “I can’t do it anymore, Namjoon.”
For the first beat, something like shame flickers across his face. Then he clasps his hands together like he’s trying to hold himself in. “It’s not logic,” Namjoon admits, the words raw. “It’s desperation. And yeah, maybe it’s stupid. Maybe it’ll ruin us. But if I had a choice between sitting in this courtyard pretending we did the right thing or giving him a chance to walk again– I’ll take the chance.”
Around you, a nurse huffs past pushing a cart; a child squeals near the fountain. Life goes on indifferent to how you break. You want to argue until your voice shreds, but the furious words dissolve into air. The truth is bitter, small, and undeniable. It settles between you both and the reality is that you’re all out of clean options. Hoseok is dying, and Namjoon’s grasping at straws to save his best friend.
Namjoon straightens, jaw clenched. “I can’t promise it won’t hurt us more. I can’t promise anything but we have to try. We do this one right, and then we get out. No more risks after. I swear it to you.”
You look at him. In his face you see sleepless nights, math done in the dark, the same stubborn loyalty that once made him the one you could lean on. It’s not enough to make you agree. But it’s enough to make your anger hiccup into a different kind of ache.
“How much money is it this time?” you ask, your voice small.
“Half a billion dollars.”
Your mouth goes dry.
“How the fuck are we going to do that?”
An hour later, you're back in the hospital room, sitting by the window across from Namjoon, who's excitedly bouncing back and forth as he explains.
“It’s this thing called Obsidian and this shit, _____, it works. It really works, and the best part is, it’s completely untraceable.”
You nervously look over at Hoseok, who's sound asleep in the center of the room. You don't understand why this is being discussed right now but here you are. You can't lie, his excitement is undeniably contagious but despite it all, it's crazy.
Yoongi, who'd been quiet until now, looks up from where he's been fiddling with his phone. His tone is flat. "No one gets a magic bullet. Obsidian’s privacy features are strong. It's designed to hide sender, receiver, and amounts, but 'completely' is a stretch. Obsidian adds obfuscation layers, but there are still technical limits, market realities, people trying to map transactions. Nothing's foolproof."
Namjoon waves his hand as if swatting at Yoongi’s caution. “Still. Compared to bank transfers or the usual rails, this is the closest thing to disappearing a trail. If we move smart, if Yoongi can work the ledger-side…we can buy ourselves distance.”
You stare at them both, the words twisting in your chest. Hope and dread tangle when you realize the plan feels like a lifeline and a razor at once. Hoseok shifts faintly in his sleep, machines humming softly around him.
“We’d be gambling on a lot more than just code,” Yoongi says finally. “Half a billion moves markets. There are legal heats, exchanges, and people who make a living unpicking this stuff. It’s possible, but it won’t be clean.” The uncertainty in his tone makes your stomach drop.
Namjoon swallows and, for the first time, his bravado flickers. “We don’t have clean options,” he says, quiet. “Not anymore. This is just…our best shot.”
Silence settles over the room, thick and suffocating.
You drag a hand down your face before looking back up at them. “So what’s the plan?” Your voice is steadier than you feel. “Because we can’t afford messy. Not with this kind of money.” You glance at Hoseok, then back at them. “Jail would be the least of our problems.”
Namjoon and Yoongi exchange a quick and loaded look.
“It’s not a smash-and-grab,” he says. “It’s a transfer. It has to be quiet and scheduled.” He taps his phone, then turns it so you can see a grid of timestamps, nodes- something far too complex to fully grasp. “There’s a window. Eight minutes, maybe less, where their system mirrors itself for auditing. That’s the gap.”
Namjoon leans in, voice dropping. “It’s happening during a private event. Invitation-only. High security. It’s the kind of place no one questions money moving because everyone there has too much of it.”
Your brows knit together. “What kind of event?”
Yoongi hesitates for just a second.
“A gala,” Namjoon answers instead. “Investors, executives, elites…people who think they’re untouchable.”
A bad feeling creeps up your spine. “And we just…walk in?”
Namjoon doesn’t answer right away.
Yoongi does. “We don’t all walk in.” His eyes lift to meet yours. “We need one person inside. Someone who can blend. Someone who won’t get flagged. Someone who’s invited.”
The room feels smaller. “And you think that’s me?”
Namjoon’s silence is answer enough.
Your stomach drops. “Why me?” The question comes out sharper than you intend. It feels like déjà vu, and you’re so damn tired of being the guinea pig in their plans.
Another look passes between them and this one you don’t miss.
Yoongi exhales through his nose. “Because of who’s hosting it.”
Your pulse spikes. “Who?”
Namjoon finally says it.
“Jungkook.”
The name hits like a physical blow. For a second, you swear the machines in the room grow louder, sharper. Hoseok shifts in his sleep, completely unaware of the way your world just tilted.
Namjoon presses forward, urgency bleeding into his voice. "After the Gemini merger went through, GFC exploded. He's not just running a production company anymore– he's sitting on a media conglomerate. The gala is for his parent fund. He's tied to the company moving the funds, front-facing, the whole deal. What matters is you have a way in that none of us do."
“A way in?” You let out a hollow laugh. “I stole nearly three million dollars from him– actually, we did, Namjoon– and now you want me to steal from him again?” Your voice rises despite yourself before you force it back down. “Are you guys out of your minds?”
“Exactly,” Yoongi mutters. “Which means he remembers you.”
“That’s not a good thing!” you snap, exasperated.
“It means you won’t be invisible,” Namjoon says. “And right now, invisible people don’t get into rooms like that. Plus he sent an invitation.”
You stare at him, disbelief morphing into something sharper. “So your plan is to walk me into a room full of elite, powerful people– his room– and hope he doesn’t decide to ruin my life on the spot?” Why would Jungkook invite you?
Namjoon doesn’t flinch. “My plan is to get you close enough to access what we need. Eight minutes. That’s all.”
“Eight minutes,” You repeat. “We failed last time. How can I trust you this time? And what if he recognizes me?”
“He will,” Yoongi says bluntly. Your throat goes dry as your gaze drifts back to Hoseok.
Your fingers curl against your sleeve as you watch him breathe.
“…Then I have a condition.”
Namjoon stiffens. “This isn’t exactly–”
“It is,” you cut in, quieter now, but firm. “If I’m doing this, I’m not doing it your way.”
Yoongi studies you. “What do you want?”
You don’t look at them when you say it.
“Hoseok comes with me.”
The silence that follows is different from the others. It's not heavy with guilt or grief but bewildered and almost offended. You can feel Namjoon's stare boring into you without looking.
"He can barely stand," Namjoon says slowly, as if explaining something to a child.
"I know what he can barely do." You finally meet his eyes. "But if I'm walking back into that man's life to rob him again, Hoseok is going to know exactly what we're doing and why. No more secrets. No more pretending this is noble while he sleeps through it." Your voice doesn't waver. "He deserves to see what his life is costing us. And if he tells us to stop, we stop."
Namjoon opens his mouth. Closes it. His jaw works like he's chewing on glass.
Yoongi is the one who speaks. "That's a hell of a condition."
"It's the only one I've got."
It takes you three days to work up the nerve.
Three days of rehearsing speeches in the shower, of mouthing words into the bathroom mirror that dissolve the second you try to hold them. Three days of sitting at Hoseok's bedside, watching him sip broth through a straw, laughing weakly at whatever variety show is playing on the mounted TV and swallowing the confession each time it crawls up your throat.
On the fourth morning, you arrive earlier than usual. The hallway is quiet, the nurses mid-shift change, and you carry two cups of vending machine coffee that you know Hoseok isn't supposed to have. It's a peace offering. Or maybe a bribe. You're not sure there's a difference anymore.
He's already awake when you nudge the door open with your hip, propped up against the elevated headboard with his eyes fixed on the window. The morning light catches the hollows of his cheeks, the sharpness of his jaw that used to be softer, rounder. He looks like a pencil sketch of the person you grew up with all the right lines, just thinner.
"You're early," he says without turning. His voice carries that raspy quality it has before noon, like his body needs a few hours to remember how to be alive.
"Couldn't sleep." You set both cups on his tray table, nudging one towards him. He eyes it, then you, a brow lifting.
"Is that coffee?"
"It's a vending machine's best interpretation of coffee."
He takes it anyway, wrapping both hands around the paper cup like it's something precious. You watch his fingers as they appear thinner than they should be, the knuckles more pronounced. He catches you staring and you look away too quickly.
"You've been weird," Hoseok says.
You blink. "What?"
"Weird. Weirder than usual." He takes a careful sip, wincing at the taste but drinking again anyway. "You keep looking at me like you're trying to memorize my face. And you chew your lip when you're holding something back– you've been doing that since high school." He gestures vaguely at your mouth with the cup. "You're doing it right now."
You release your bottom lip from between your teeth. Damn him.
A silence stretches, filled only by the rhythmic beep of his heart monitor and the distant squeak of a cart rolling down the hallway. You pull the chair closer to his bed, the metal legs scraping against the floor. When you sit, your knees are almost touching the bed rail.
"Hobi," you start, and the nickname alone shifts something in the room. You only use it when things are serious, and he knows that. His expression doesn't change, but you notice the way his fingers tighten around the cup. "I need to tell you something. And I need you to let me finish before you say anything."
He regards you for a long moment, lips pressed together, before he gives a single nod.
You don't start where you expected to. You thought you'd begin with the plan, with Namjoon's blueprints and Yoongi's flash drives and the clinical structure of it all. Instead, what comes out is Jungkook's name.
"I fell in love with someone." The words feel foreign and familiar at once, like a language you used to speak fluently. "His name is Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook. He's– he was my boss. CEO of a film production company." You pause, tracing a scratch on the bed rail with your thumbnail. "I was supposed to be a distraction. That's all and those were Namjoon's word, not mine. Get close, earn his trust, keep his attention somewhere else while Yoongi and Jimin did their thing."
Hoseok's brow furrows, but he stays silent. Honouring his promise.
"But I fell for him, Hobi. Completely. Stupidly. The kind of falling where you don't realize it's happening until you're already at the bottom." You swallow hard. The coffee in your hand has gone lukewarm but you grip it tighter. "He took me to a carnival. Won me a stuffed penguin. Named it Lyara— said it was a name for a future daughter." A breath shudders out of you. "He told me he loved me, and I said it back, and I meant it. I meant every syllable."
Something shifts behind Hoseok's eyes. It’s not judgment but something closer to ache.
"And then I robbed him."
The words drop like stones into still water. You watch the ripple cross Hoseok's face. It’s confusion first, then a slow, dawning understanding that rearranges his features entirely.
"We took two and a half million dollars," you continue, your voice flattening into something mechanical because if you let yourself feel it now, you'll never finish. "The Gemini Pictures merger… Jungkook's company was about to become one of the biggest production firms in the industry. We stole the deal. Yoongi hacked the system, Jimin and I broke in at night. I used a secret entrance Jungkook had shown me in confidence. I used his password, which was the date we first met, to access his computer." You pause. "He'd changed it to that date because it mattered to him. And I used it to steal from him."
Hoseok's jaw tightens. He sets the coffee cup down carefully, deliberately, the way you set down something when your hands need to be free.
"He found out with security cameras we missed. He showed me the footage over a dinner I cooked him– sat across from me with flowers and an envelope and watched me unravel." You're not crying yet, which surprises you. Maybe you've cried it all out. Maybe the numbness has finally won. "He said it was never about the money. That I stole his dignity, his trust. Everything." A beat. "He didn't press charges. He just… left."
The heart monitor beeps. Beeps again. The sound is maddening in the silence.
"Why?" Hoseok's voice is barely above a whisper. It's the first word he's spoken, and it cuts deeper than any sentence could.
You look at him, really look at him. At the nasal cannula, the oxygen tanks, the constellation of wires that tether him to the machines keeping him alive. At the boy who used to outrun all of you, who danced until his shoes wore through, who laughed so loud it filled whatever room he was in.
"For you."
The silence that follows is not like the others. It doesn't settle, it detonates. Hoseok's face doesn't crumble the way you expected. It hardens. You watch something cold move across his features, something you've never seen directed at you in all the years you've known him.
"For me," he repeats. Not a question.
"Your medical bills were–"
"I know what my medical bills are." His voice is quiet, but the edges of it are bladed. "I see the invoices. I'm sick, _____, not blind." He shifts in the bed, the movement costing him visible effort, and you instinctively reach forward to help. He stops you with a look. "Don't."
Your hand hovers, then retreats.
"So let me get this straight." Hoseok's breathing has quickened, the cannula hissing faintly with each inhale. "You, Namjoon, Yoongi and Jimin— my best friends— decided to become thieves. To steal from people. To ruin someone's life." He holds up a trembling hand when you open your mouth. "I said let me finish."
You press your lips shut, the irony of your own request being turned against you not lost.
"You fell in love with this man. And then you robbed him. While he was falling in love with you." He lets the words breathe, each one more surgical than the last. "And the whole time, I was unconscious. I had no say. No vote. You just decided—all of you— that my life was worth more than your souls and you never once thought to ask me if I agreed."
The tears come now. Of course they do.
"Hobi–"
"Who asked you to?" The question snaps out of him with a force that startles you both. The heart monitor spikes briefly, a nurse peeks through the window before Hoseok waves her away with a shaking hand. He waits until the footsteps recede before he speaks again, quieter now, but no less sharp. "Who asked any of you to do that for me?"
"Nobody had to ask!" Your voice breaks open, raw and desperate. "You're our family, you were dying, Hoseok, and we couldn't just–"
"You turned yourselves into criminals for me," he says, and the way he says it flat and disbelieving, almost disgusted. It carves a hollow in your chest. "You destroyed a man who loved you. For me. And I didn't even get to say no."
A sob wracks through you, ugly and uncontrolled. You press the heel of your palm against your mouth, trying to contain it, but it spills through your fingers like water. Hoseok watches you cry. He doesn't reach for you. He doesn't soothe you. For the first time in your friendship, he lets you sit in it.
When your breathing steadies to something resembling functional, Hoseok speaks again. "And now?" He tilts his head, eyes narrowing with a sharpness that reminds you he was always smarter than any of you gave him credit for. "You didn't come here just to confess. There's something else."
Of course he knows. The realization almost makes you laugh– a watery, broken thing. You drag your sleeve across your face.
"Namjoon has another plan. And it’s bigger, way bigger." You force yourself to hold his gaze. "Half a billion dollars. And it’s tied to Jungkook's company." You watch his eyes widen, his lips parting. "I told them I wouldn't do it unless you knew. Unless you were there. And unless you had the right to tell us to stop."
Hoseok stares at you for a long time. Long enough for the light in the room to shift, the morning sun climbing higher past the blinds, painting warm stripes across the foot of his bed. His jaw works, lips pressing and releasing. You can see the war behind his eyes and the fury wrestling with something else, something softer and more complicated.
"You want to take me to a gala," he says slowly. "Me." He gestures at himself with the wires, the tubes, the hospital gown. "Looking like this."
"I don't care what you look like."
"That's not the point and you know it." He exhales, the sound rattling in a way that makes your stomach clench. He looks towards the window, the curtains still drawn from where you'd closed them the night before. "Do you still love him?"
The question catches you off guard, an ambush from a flank you hadn't defended. Your mouth opens and then closes. You think of the carnival, the Ferris wheel, fireworks reflected in Jungkook's dark eyes. You think of Lyara the penguin, waterlogged and drenched on your apartment floor. You think of the blue plastic ring.
"Yes." It comes out barely audible. "I don't think I ever stopped."
Hoseok closes his eyes. The heart monitor beeps its steady rhythm, indifferent to the weight of what's unfolding.
"Then you need to know something." He opens his eyes, and when they meet yours, the anger has dimmed. What remains is something older and steadier. The Hoseok who held your hair back at parties, who proofread your essays at 3am, who once drove four hours in a thunderstorm because you called him crying. "If I let you do this… if I agree to be part of whatever the hell this is– it's not so you can steal from him again."
Your brow creases. "Then what—"
"It's so you can tell him the truth." His voice is firm despite its fragility, carrying a conviction that his body can no longer match. "About me. About why. About everything." He holds your gaze, unyielding. "You said he asked why, and you couldn't answer. This is your answer, _____. I am."
The simplicity of it winds you.
"If we walk into his world," Hoseok continues, "I'm not going as your alibi or your excuse. I'm going so he can see what you were trying to save. And then he can decide for himself whether it was worth what you took from him." He pauses, chest rising with a laboured breath. "That's my condition. Not Namjoon's money. Not Yoongi's code. The truth."
You stare at him, this man held together by machines and sheer will, and you realize that in trying to save his life, you forgot to account for who he actually is. He’s not a cause nor a justification but a person. One with more moral clarity in his deteriorating body than the rest of you have managed with your healthy ones.
"And if I tell him the truth," you say quietly, "and he still hates me?"
Hoseok's expression softens. For the first time since you started talking, you see the ghost of his heart-shaped smile but it’s not the full thing– just the scaffolding of it. It’s enough to remind you it still exists.
"Then at least he'll hate you for who you really are. Not for who he thinks you are."
You exhale. It feels like the first real breath you've taken in a year.
"And if Namjoon…"
"I'll deal with Namjoon." There's a glint in Hoseok's eye, something almost mischievous buried beneath the exhaustion. "He's not going to like it. But the last time I checked, it's my life you're all wagering with. I think that earns me a seat at the table."
You look down at your hands. They've stopped shaking. When you look back up, you reach for his hand gently, careful of the IV line taped to his wrist. He lets you take it this time. His fingers are cold, thinner than they should be, but they tighten around yours with surprising strength.
"I'm sorry, Hobi." The apology sits differently now. It's not the performative kind you've been rehearsing. It's stripped bare, a thing with no armour.
He squeezes your hand once. "I know." A beat. "But you owe that apology to someone else more than you owe it to me."
You nod, because he's right. He's so devastatingly right.
Outside the window, behind the curtains neither of you can see past, the autumn wind picks up. Somewhere on the path below, a young man in a black suede trench coat tucks his camera glasses into his breast pocket and pulls out his phone.
He dials. The line picks up on the second ring.
"She told him everything," he says, his boxy smile pulling wide. He pauses, listening. Then: "No, not yet. But she will."
A voice on the other end, quiet, measured.
"Understood, Mr. Jeon. I'll keep you updated."
The line goes dead. Kim Taehyung pockets his phone, adjusts the grip on his cane, and walks back towards the parking lot. The first leaves of autumn skitter across the concrete behind him, carried by a wind that seems to know exactly where it's going.
Namjoon doesn't take it well.
You expect this, of course. You've known him long enough to read the weather patterns of his anger. The tight jaw comes first, then the nostril flare, then the deadly calm that precedes the storm. What you don't expect is for Hoseok to be the one holding the umbrella.
It happens the following evening. You're the one who texts Namjoon, a simple 'come to the hospital.' With no context or softening. He arrives within the hour, Yoongi trailing behind him with his hands buried in his hoodie pockets and his laptop bag slung over one shoulder. They enter Hoseok's room expecting a logistics meeting. Instead, they find Hoseok sitting upright in bed– truly upright, not the half-reclined slouch he usually settles for. The TV is off and the overhead lights are turned to full. It feels less like a hospital room and more like a courtroom.
"Sit down," Hoseok says.
Namjoon glances at you. You're already seated by the window, arms crossed, offering nothing. He pulls up a chair, the legs squealing against the tile. Yoongi claims the far corner, perched on the windowsill with his legs dangling. He has the look of someone who already suspects what's coming.
"She told me." Three words. Hoseok lets them land without a cushion, watching the impact register on Namjoon's face. To his credit, Namjoon doesn't flinch. But you see it, the barely perceptible tightening around his eyes and the way his fingers flatten against his thighs.
"Told you what?" Namjoon asks. It's not denial. It's a test– he wants to know how much.
"Everything." Hoseok holds his gaze. "RED Hotel. Jungkook. The two and a half million. The fact that four people I'd take a bullet for became thieves while I was unconscious, and nobody thought to mention it once I woke up."
The room goes vacuum-sealed. You hear the oxygen tank hiss beside Hoseok's bed, marking time in soft, mechanical breaths. Namjoon's jaw works. You recognize the motion as he's building an argument, assembling it brick by brick behind his teeth.
"Hoseok–"
"I'm not done." Hoseok's voice carries an authority you haven't heard from him in years. It's faint, sure and it’s carried on compromised lungs and thinned breath. But the steel in it is unmistakable. Namjoon's mouth closes. "I know why you did it. I understand the reasoning. I even understand the math." He gestures faintly toward the machines flanking his bed. "Trust me, nobody in this room is more aware of what it costs to keep me alive than the person it's actually costing."
The guilt hits all three of you simultaneously. You see it in the way Yoongi's gaze drops to his sneakers and Namjoon's throat bobs with a hard swallow.
"But you didn't ask me." Hoseok's eyes are glassy now, though nothing falls. "Not once. Not before the first job, not before Jungkook, not before any of it. You decided my life was worth whatever it cost and you took that decision away from me." He pauses, the effort of sustained speech visible in the rise and fall of his chest. "I'm the one dying, Joon. Don't I get a say in what people destroy to keep me here?"
Namjoon leans forward, elbows on his knees, head dropping between his shoulders. For a long, terrible moment, you think he might cry. Namjoon doesn't cry. You've seen him through breakups, through his father's funeral, through the night Hoseok collapsed and the ambulance took twenty-three minutes to arrive. He didn't cry then. He’s organized, he’s planned, he’s calculated. Crying was a luxury he never permitted himself.
He doesn't cry now either. But it's close. When he raises his head, his eyes are red-rimmed, his voice stripped of its usual command.
"What was I supposed to do?" The question is so raw, so unlike the Namjoon who always has an answer, that it physically hurts to hear. "Watch you die? Sit in that waiting room and count ceiling tiles while they told us you had weeks?" His voice cracks on the last word. He catches it, swallows, presses on. "There was no version of this where I did nothing. I couldn't– I can't do nothing. Not when it comes to you."
The confession unpins something in the room. Yoongi turns his face toward the window, his reflection caught in the glass with a tight jaw and distant eyes. You wonder if he's thinking the same thing you are: that Namjoon never once framed this as anything other than a mission, a plan, a stratagem. Never once admitted that underneath the blueprints and the bravado, it was just a man terrified of losing his best friend.
Hoseok exhales a long, thin whistle through the cannula. "I know," he says, and there's no anger left– just a bone-deep weariness. "I know you can't do anything. It's the most annoying thing about you." The faintest crack of a smile, gone as quickly as it appears. "But here's what's going to happen."
Namjoon straightens. You see him shift instinctively into listening mode, the same posture he adopts when a plan is being laid out. Old habits.
"I'm going to the gala," Hoseok says as if he's announcing he's going to the cafeteria. Matter-of-fact and decided. "Not as a prop. Not as your sick friend who justifies everything. I'm going because _____ owes someone the truth and she's not going to do it alone." His eyes find yours and hold. "And I'm going because if this is what my life is costing, I want to look the price in the face."
Namjoon opens his mouth–
"I'm not finished." Hoseok's hand raises, trembling but firm. "The job goes forward. I'm not going to pretend I can stop you, you're all too stubborn and too stupid for that." The faintest ghost of warmth in his voice. "But the truth comes first. Before Yoongi touches a keyboard, before anyone transfers a single won, _____ tells Jungkook why. She shows him me. And if after he knows, if after he sees what you were trying to save, he still wants us gone? We go. We walk away. No arguments. No contingencies."
"That's—" Namjoon starts.
"Non-negotiable." Hoseok meets his stare, unflinching. "You stole two and a half million dollars from that man to pay for my heartbeat. I think the least I can do is show him the heart."
The silence that follows is so absolute, you can hear the fluorescent lights humming above you. Namjoon sits motionless, eyes locked with Hoseok's. Something passes between them that you've only ever witnessed a handful of times. It’s a form of communication that predates the rest of you, rooted in a friendship that started before any of yours did. They were friends first. Before the group, before Jimin, before Yoongi, before you. That foundation carries a weight none of you can overrule.
Namjoon's shoulders drop but not in defeat, in concession. He nods once. "Okay." The word costs him more than the half a billion ever could.
Yoongi speaks for the first time. "For the record," he says from his corner, still facing the window, "I think this is the best idea any of us has had in two years." He turns, and there's something close to respect in his gaze when it settles on Hoseok. "You should've been calling the shots the whole time."
Hoseok smiles and it’s the real one this time, heart-shaped and warm, though it sits on a face too thin to hold it properly. "Yeah," he says. "I should've been."
Two weeks before the gala, your life becomes a choreography of preparation and pretense.
Yoongi sets up a command center of sorts in Hoseok's hospital room, much to the displeasure of the nursing staff. His laptop occupies the guest table, flanked by two additional monitors he smuggled in inside instrument cases. The wires snake across the floor like veins, taped down in haphazard lines that one particular nurse has tripped over three times. You've started leaving her apology chocolates at the nurses' station.
"The system mirrors for exactly seven minutes and forty-three seconds," Yoongi explains one afternoon, pointing to a diagram on his screen that looks like a subway map designed by a lunatic. "During that window, the auditing protocol creates a duplicate ledger. We intercept the mirror, redirect the funds through a series of Obsidian wallets layered on the platform’s blockchain, and by the time the mirror collapses, the money's been scattered across so many nodes it would take a forensic team six months to trace a single transaction."
"And you can do all of that in seven minutes?" You lean over his shoulder, squinting at the screen.
"Seven minutes and forty-three seconds," he corrects. "And no. I can do it in four."
"Then why do we need eight?"
"Because four minutes is for the transfer." He taps a second diagram. "The other four are for you."
You frown. "Me?"
"You need to physically access a terminal at the event. The system requires biometric confirmation from an authorized user to initiate the mirror. A fingerprint scan." He looks at you over the rim of his glasses. "Jungkook's fingerprint."
Your stomach bottoms out. "You want me to get his fingerprint."
"I want you to get him to touch a screen," Yoongi clarifies, pulling up an image of what looks like an ordinary phone. "This. It's a modified device, looks like a standard tablet. The screen captures biometric data on contact. All you need to do is get him to interact with it. Hand it to him, show him something on it. Thirty seconds of contact is all I need."
"You want me to hand Jungkook, a man I robbed and whose heart I broke— a tablet. And have him casually press his finger to it."
"Ideally his thumb." Yoongi's tone doesn't change. "Index works too."
You stare at him until he has the decency to look uncomfortable. From across the room, Hoseok snorts.
The suit fitting happens on a Tuesday.
Namjoon arranges it through a contact, someone who doesn't ask questions and makes house calls to hospitals. The tailor arrives with a rolling rack and a measuring tape draped around his neck like a stethoscope. The irony isn't lost on any of you.
Hoseok hasn't stood unaided in months, but he insists on being upright for the measurements. It takes both you and Namjoon to help him from the bed, his arms draped over your shoulders, legs finding the floor like a newborn colt. The tailor politely pretends not to notice the IV stand trailing behind his client.
"Charcoal or navy?" the tailor asks, unfurling fabric swatches.
Hoseok studies them with more intensity than a dying man should reasonably dedicate to colour theory. "Black," he says finally.
"Black wasn't an option," Namjoon mutters.
"It is now." Hoseok stands a little straighter, the effort whitening his knuckles where they grip the bed rail. "If I'm going to a party to show some billionaire what his money paid for, I'm not doing it in charcoal."
You press your lips together to keep from laughing, but the sound escapes anyway, a wet, breathy thing that's half humor and half grief. The tailor measures him with clinical efficiency: inseam, shoulders, waist. Each number feels like a subtraction, a quantification of how much of Hoseok has been whittled away. His waist is narrower than yours now. The tailor doesn't comment.
When it's your turn, the process is quicker. Namjoon has procured a gown that’s floor-length, deep emerald, with a neckline that suggests elegance and a back that suggests intention. You try it on in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror under fluorescent light that does no one any favours.
You barely recognize yourself, and it’s not because of the dress, but because of the eyes staring back at you. They're harder than you remember. More guarded. The woman who fell in love with Jungkook at a carnival had softer edges. You wonder if he'll notice.
When you step out, Hoseok is back in bed, but he wolf-whistles, breathy and weak and absolutely ridiculous. And for a single, perfect moment, it feels like old times.
"Stunning," he says. "He won't know what hit him."
You smooth the fabric over your hip. "That's what I'm afraid of."
The days leading up to the gala pass in a strange twilight of hyperactivity and dread. Yoongi runs simulations. Namjoon drills contingencies. Hoseok practices walking.
This last part guts you more than anything else. Every morning, you watch him grip the parallel bars the physical therapist set up along the length of his room, knuckles bone-white, jaw set, legs quaking beneath him as he forces one foot in front of the other. The cannula trails behind him, the oxygen tank wheeled alongside by a patient nurse who's learned to match his agonizing pace. Ten steps the first day. Twelve the second. By the end of the first week, he makes it to the door and back.
He doesn't complain. Not once. Not about the pain, not about the exhaustion that collapses him back into bed afterward, not about the indignity of a twenty-six year old man celebrating the fact that he walked fourteen steps. When you catch him grimacing after a session, he flattens his expression the instant he notices you watching.
"Stop looking at me like that," he says one evening, breathless and sheened with sweat.
"Like what?"
"Like I'm going to break."
You hold his gaze. "Are you?"
He considers this for a moment, genuinely, then shakes his head. "Not yet."
By the second week, he can manage twenty steps with a cane. It's enough. It has to be.
Twelve hundred kilometres away, in a penthouse suite that overlooks the city from the forty-second floor, Jeon Jungkook stands at the floor-to-ceiling window with a glass of whiskey he hasn't touched.
The city below pulses with light and arterial reds of brake lights, the gold spill of storefronts, the cold blue wash of office buildings still lit past midnight. It's beautiful in the way that expensive things are beautiful: perfectly maintained and utterly soulless.
He hears the elevator chime behind him but he doesn't turn.
"She told him," Kim Taehyung's voice carries across the marble floor, accompanied by the rhythmic tap of his cane. "Everything. The first heist, you, the money. All of it."
Jungkook's reflection stares back at him in the glass, translucent, ghostly against the cityscape. He's changed in the year since he walked away from her door. His hair is shorter, cropped close at the sides and pushed back from his forehead. The softness that once rounded his cheeks has sharpened into angles. He looks older. Not in years but in something harder to quantify.
"How did he react?" Jungkook asks. His voice is even, controlled. It’s the voice of a man who's spent twelve months learning how to discuss her without flinching.
Taehyung settles onto the leather sofa behind him, stretching his bad leg out with a wince. "Angry. He didn't know any of it. They kept him in the dark the entire time." He pauses.
Jungkook is quiet for a long time. The ice in his untouched whiskey has melted, the amber liquid diluted to pale gold. When he finally speaks, his voice is stripped back, nearly inaudible.
"He's dying. Has been for a while." Taehyung's voice loses its professional edge, softening into something more human. He and Jungkook are friends before they are business associates and have been since Taehyung took a bullet in Busan five years ago that left him with a permanent limp. Jungkook paid for his rehabilitation without being asked. Loyalty, between them, is a currency that predates money.
Jungkook closes his eyes. Behind his lids, he sees her. Not the woman who sat across from him at the dinner table, leafing through surveillance photos with trembling hands. He sees the woman he fell in love with ice cream on her lip, laughing at something he said.
"I hired you to find out why she did it," he says quietly. "I hired you to get them close enough so I could look her in the eye and understand. That's all I wanted. An answer." He finally lifts the glass, taking a sip of the watered-down whiskey. It's weak and bitter, and he grimaces but drinks again anyway. "I didn't plan for this."
"For what?"
"For a reason that makes sense." He sets the glass down on the sill, harder than necessary. The sound pings across the silent penthouse. "It was supposed to be greed. Something I could be angry at.” He swallows. "Not a dying man in a hospital bed."
Taehyung watches him carefully. "Does it change anything?"
Jungkook doesn't answer immediately. He reaches into his pocket and pulls something out— a small, circular object that catches the city light. A bright blue plastic ring. The paint has faded, chipped in places, but he's kept it. This entire time, he's kept it.
He turns it between his fingers, studying it the way one studies a relic from a past life.
"It changes everything," he says finally. "And nothing. She still lied." He pockets the ring again. "But now I know she had a reason. And that might be worse."
"Worse?"
Jungkook looks at Taehyung, and for the first time, the mask slips. Underneath is not the CEO, not the conglomerate head, not the man with his name on buildings and gala invitations. Underneath is a boy with doe eyes who fell in love with the wrong person and hasn't figured out how to fall back out.
"Because I could've helped her." The words land like a confession of their own. "If she had just told me about her friend, about the money, about any of it— I would've helped. I had the resources. I had the means. She didn't have to steal from me." His voice frays at the edges. "She chose to rob me instead of trust me. And I don't know which one hurts more."
Taehyung is silent for a long time. "The gala is in six days."
"I know."
"Namjoon's team is prepping. Your security detail has their profiles. We can intercept at any point."
"No." Jungkook turns from the window, eyes hardened with resolve. "Let them come. I need them to do this for me.”
Taehyung nods, rising from the sofa with a lean on his cane. He studies Jungkook for a moment, then turns for the elevator. He stops halfway, speaking over his shoulder. "For what it's worth," he says, "I don’t think you’ve left her mind."
"Maybe." Jungkook's voice is barely a whisper. "But eventually she’ll have to leave mine."
The elevator doors close. Jungkook stands alone in the penthouse, the city sprawled beneath him like a circuit board, every light a connection, every dark space a severance. He thinks of a password he once set: eight digits, a date, a beginning. He wonders if endings have dates too.
The night of the gala arrives the way all inevitable things do, too quickly and not quickly enough.
You're in Hoseok's room, the emerald gown pooling around your feet as you sit on the edge of his bed, holding a tube of lipstick you can't seem to apply with steady hands. The room has been transformed over the past two weeks with Yoongi's command center now humming in the corner, three monitors glowing with data feeds and communication channels. A garment bag hangs from the curtain rod, Hoseok's black suit pressed and waiting.
Namjoon arrives in a charcoal suit that fits like an apology. He hasn't said much in the days since Hoseok laid down his terms, operating with a quiet efficiency that you've come to interpret as his version of penance. He runs through the plan one final time with Yoongi over comms, voice low and clinical, stripped of the bravado that used to characterize these briefings. Something has changed in him. The desperation is still there, but it's been tempered, reined in by the leash of Hoseok's conviction.
"Comms check," Yoongi says from behind his monitors, an earpiece tucked into his right ear. He'll be stationed in a service van two blocks from the venue, running the operation remotely. "Radio silence unless absolutely necessary. _____, your frequency is channel 3. Namjoon is on standby at channel 7. If anything goes sideways—"
"It won't," Namjoon interrupts. He meets Yoongi's stare. "It can't."
Yoongi holds his gaze for a beat, then nods.
The hardest part is getting Hoseok ready.
It takes forty minutes. You help him into his shirt first, guiding his arms through the sleeves with the gentleness of handling something irreplaceable. Namjoon handles the trousers, steadying Hoseok's legs as he steps into them one at a time, both of them pretending it's not a struggle. The jacket goes last, and when Hoseok is finally dressed, standing between the two of you in his black suit, cane in one hand, cannula removed for the first time in months, you almost lose your composure entirely.
He looks beautiful. Devastatingly, impossibly beautiful. The suit hangs on his diminished frame in ways the tailor couldn't fully compensate for, the shoulders a touch too wide, the waist pinched with an extra fold of fabric. But his face– his face is alive. His eyes are bright, focused, burning with a determination that his body has no business supporting. He looks like a man who has decided, with absolute finality, that he is not done yet.
"How do I look?" he asks, adjusting his cuffs with fingers that only shake a little.
"Like hell," Namjoon says.
Hoseok grins fully, heart-shaped and radiant. "Perfect."
A portable oxygen concentrator has been arranged that’s small enough to fit in a bag and discreet enough to pass unnoticed. The doctor fought against this expedition with considerable force, relenting only when Hoseok signed a release form with the calm resignation of a man who's already made peace with every possible outcome. The nurse attached a pulse oximeter to his finger with a look that said everything her professionalism wouldn't allow.
The car waits at the hospital's rear exit. Namjoon drives. You sit in the back with Hoseok, his hand in yours, his cane propped between his knees. The city slides past the tinted windows in streaks of light and shadow. None of you speak. The silence is too full for words and weighted with everything you're about to do, everything you've done and everything that can't be undone.
Hoseok squeezes your hand once. You look at him.
"Whatever happens in there," he says quietly, "you just need to tell him the truth." His eyes hold yours, steady despite the exhaustion pulling at their edges. "Promise me."
You squeeze back. "I promise."
The car pulls to a stop. Through the window, you see it, the Grand Meridian Hotel. Its façade bathed in gold light, a procession of black cars depositing glittering figures onto a red carpet that bleeds into the lobby. The building reaches into the night sky like a monolith, its upper floors disappearing into low-hanging clouds. Security lines the entrance in tailored suits, earpieces catching light.
Namjoon kills the engine. In the rearview mirror, his eyes find yours.
"Eight minutes," he says. "That's all we need."
You hold his gaze. "No," you say quietly. "That's all you need."
You step out of the car first, the autumn air biting through the silk of your gown. You turn and offer your hand to Hoseok. He takes it, rising from the car with a controlled effort that costs him more than anyone watching would ever guess. His cane clicks against the pavement. He steadies himself, lifts his chin, and for a moment, just a moment, you see the Hoseok from before. The one who lit up every room. The one who made you believe that sheer force of joy could outrun anything, even death.
The two of you stand together at the base of the steps, staring up at the golden doors. Music drifts out with a string quartet, something classical and expensive. Laughter follows, the tinkling kind that belongs to people who've never had to choose between rent and groceries.
Hoseok glances at you. "Ready?"
You think of Jungkook somewhere inside those walls. Of the love you once shared, although now one-sided.
"No," you answer honestly.
He smiles. "Good. That means you care."
Together, you climb the steps. Hoseok's cane taps a steady rhythm against the stone, one, two, one, two- a metronome counting down to something neither of you can predict. Your hand stays on his arm, steadying. The doorman opens the gilded entrance without a word.
Warmth engulfs you. Light, sound, perfume, the shimmer of crystal and the murmur of a hundred conversations layered over strings. The ballroom opens before you like the throat of some magnificent, glittering beast. Chandeliers hang like frozen constellations. Men in tuxedos and women in gowns orbit each other in practiced elegance, champagne catching light in their hands. It’s the kind of wealth that you only see in the movies.
A waiter materializes at your elbow with a tray of champagne flutes, and you take two without thinking, pressing one into Hoseok's free hand. He accepts it with a look that says he has no intention of drinking it and every intention of using it as a prop.
"Smile," he murmurs, lips barely moving. "You look like you're calculating an exit route."
"I am calculating an exit route."
"Do it while smiling."
You smile. It feels like something you're wearing, like the gown, like the earrings that are already beginning to pinch. Hoseok's arm is warm beneath your hand, and you focus on that, on the solidity of him, as you move deeper into the ballroom's current.
The room works the way these rooms always do, pulling people into its orbit through some unspoken social gravity. A couple drifts past you, trailing perfume and quiet laughter. A man in a tuxedo gestures broadly at nothing, making a point no one will remember. Somewhere to your left, a woman's necklace catches the chandelier light and throws small stars across the ceiling.
Yoongi's voice arrives in your ear, low and even. “Perimeter looks clean. Security rotation is every four minutes on the east corridor. Namjoon's in position near the main stairs. You have time.”
You search the crowd of elites and suck in a breath when you see him.
Across the room, half-turned from you, a glass of something dark in his hand. His hair is shorter than you remember, pushed back from his forehead in a way that sharpens the line of his jaw. He's mid-conversation with a silver-haired man, nodding at something being said, his posture carrying the easy authority of someone who owns the room and every wall around it.
Your body responds before your brain can intervene. Heat blooms across your chest, your pulse spiking in places that have nothing to do with fear. You know this reaction, in fact you know it intimately. You know it from every time he walked into a room, every time his hand found the small of your back and every time he had you pinned underneath him with slow, deliberate drags of his– no. You can’t go there. A year of distance has done nothing to rewire it. Your body still recognizes him as something it wants, and the betrayal of that recognition makes your skin burn.
Your breath catches. Your fingers tighten around Hoseok's arm.
Jungkook hasn't seen you yet. Or maybe he has. You can't tell from here whether the slight tension in his shoulders is for you or for the conversation. That is before a woman joins in. She’s breathtakingly gorgeous, a red gown ten times more luxurious than the one you’ve adorned. Her dark hair falls behind her open back in curls, and what takes you most aback is the way Jungkook lights up when he sees her- gently placing a small peck against her cheek.
Something sharp and ugly twists in your chest. You have absolutely no right to feel it, and you feel it anyway.
Hoseok follows your gaze across the room. He studies the man who funded his heartbeat without ever knowing it. The man you robbed, loved, and lost.
"He's tall," Hoseok observes quietly, a faint note of something unreadable in his voice.
You can't bring yourself to respond. Your heart is hammering so violently, you're certain Hoseok can feel it through your arm.
And then, as if summoned by the weight of your stare, Jungkook turns.
As you loosen your grip on Hoseok’s arm, you’re met by the vibrant and bright chocolate doe eyes of Jeon Jungkook while he holds her the way he once held you.
And the world goes quiet. The music fades. The chatter dissolves. There is only the distance between you, forty feet of marble floor, a year of silence, and every unspoken word that fills the space between.
The look he gives you isn't anger. It isn't warmth. It's the look of a man taking inventory of something he lost. His gaze traces from your eyes to your mouth, lingering there for a beat that makes your skin prickle, before dropping to the emerald neckline and back up. You feel it like a physical thing, like fingers dragging across your collarbone or how soft and careful his kisses were, and you have to remind yourself to breathe.
He doesn't move. Neither do you.
The woman in red places a hand on Jungkook's arm, saying something you can't hear. He doesn't look at her. His eyes stay on yours, and whatever she says dissolves into the noise of the room, unanswered.
"You should go," Hoseok says. Not unkindly.
"I'm not leaving you standing alone."
"I'm not alone." He nods toward the column. "I have this very sturdy piece of architecture." A beat passes. "And Yoongi will talk my ear off if I ask him to."
“He's not wrong,” Yoongi says in your ear, and you almost laugh despite everything.
You look at Hoseok for a moment longer than you mean to. He's watching the room with those bright, tired eyes, his cane resting against the column, champagne held loosely in one hand like a man entirely at ease. He has spent so much of these last months becoming smaller, quieter, reduced by increments. But here, in this borrowed hour, he has made himself enormous again through sheer will alone.
You squeeze his arm once, and he nods without looking at you, and that's enough. You turn. You begin to move through the crowd.
He's not just standing there; he's working. You catch him mid-handshake with a man in a navy blazer, his smile sharp and practiced, and as the man turns away, you see Namjoon's left hand slip something small and flat into his inner jacket pocket. A cloned access badge. He's already halfway through his own mission, running a parallel track you can only glimpse in fragments. His eyes cut to yours for half a second with a flicker of acknowledgment, a silent status report and then looks away. The sight of it settles something cold in your chest.
Eight minutes, he'd said.
Your heels click against the marble. One step. Then another.
Jungkook watches you come.
He moves before you've fully decided to. Or perhaps you move first. Later, you won't be able to say with certainty. What you'll remember is that the distance between you simply begins to close, pulled shut by something older and more stubborn than either of your intentions, and then there are only a few feet of marble between you, and then there are none.
Up close, he is worse.
That's the only word for it. Worse. More real. The year that stretched between you like an ocean has done nothing to blunt the specific way he occupies space, the breadth of his shoulders, the slight asymmetry of his mouth, the way his eyes catch light and hold it longer than they should. He is exactly as you remember and entirely different and both of these things are devastating in their own register.
The woman in red has drifted away. You caught the movement in your periphery, some acquaintance pulling her into a separate orbit, laughing at something, her dark curls disappearing into the crowd. She doesn't know she's given you anything. She doesn't know there is anything to give.
Jungkook's glass is still in his hand. He hasn't looked away from you since you started moving.
"You’re here," he says.
It's not what you expected. You don't know what you expected, something cooler, something with more architecture to hide behind. But those two words come out slightly uneven, fractionally too quiet for the room, and you watch him register that he's said them wrong, too plainly, before his expression closes over it like water over a stone.
"I was invited," you say.
Something moves behind his eyes. "You were."
The space between those words and his next ones is too long. He fills it by dropping his gaze briefly, just a half-second, taking in the emerald gown, the earrings, the lipstick you finally managed to apply with shaking hands in the car. When he looks back up, his jaw is set in a way you recognize. It's the look he gets when he's decided to be careful.
"You look—" He stops. Starts again. "It's good to see you." It isn't what he was going to say. You both know it.
The string quartet shifts into something slower. Around you, the room continues its elaborate performance of itself, glasses lifted, laughter rising and falling in practiced waves, none of it touching the two feet of charged air between you and the man you robbed. The man you loved. The man who is watching you now, like he's trying to solve something, like you are a problem he prepared for and finds himself unprepared for anyway.
Your pulse is very loud.
"Jungkook," you begin, because you promised Hoseok, because there is a clock somewhere running down eight minutes that has nothing to do with why you're really here, because the truth has been sitting in your chest for a year, and it is very heavy. "There are things I need to say to you."
His chin dips slightly. An acknowledgment that isn't quite permission.
"I know," he says.
Something in his tone stops you. Not the words, but the texture of them.
Your eyes search his face. "What do you know?"
He holds your gaze for a beat that lasts too long. His fingers shift around his glass. In another life, in another version of this night, you think he might have reached for your hand instead.
"That you're here," he says finally. "That's enough for now."
It's not an answer. You file that away somewhere and let it sit, because Yoongi's voice is a low murmur in your ear, reminding you of timelines, and across the room Namjoon is still performing his own careful theatre, and Hoseok is leaning against a column with borrowed breath and a champagne glass he won't drink from, and you made a promise.
But Jungkook is looking at you the way he used to, underneath the composure, underneath whatever careful thing he's built around himself this past year. Like you are something he thought he'd finished grieving. You feel like you might break under his gaze. The onslaught of emotions hit you harder than that night he left your house. And you can’t help but crave his touch again.
You look away first. You have to.
There's a pillar to your left and you fix your gaze on it for exactly two seconds, long enough to find the floor beneath your feet again.
Then you look back at him, because you promised.
"Can we go somewhere quieter?" you ask. The ballroom feels like it's shrinking, the string quartet and the laughter and the perfume collapsing inward.
Jungkook studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he tilts his head toward a corridor beyond the grand staircase. "There's a terrace."
You nod, and he moves first, setting his glass on a passing waiter's tray without looking. You follow a half-step behind, close enough to catch the scent of his cologne. It’s different from what he used to wear– it’s something darker and woodier. You hate that you notice.
As you pass the staircase, your eyes catch Namjoon's. He's watching you move toward the corridor, his jaw tightening. You give an imperceptible shake of your head. Not yet. His gaze holds yours for a beat too long before he turns back to his conversation, the tension in his shoulders broadcasting everything his face won't.
"She's moving to the east terrace," you hear Yoongi murmur through the earpiece, talking to Namjoon rather than you. "Timeline still holds. Let her work."
The corridor narrows, the noise of the ballroom dimming behind you like a radio being dialled down. Jungkook pushes through a glass door, and the autumn night hits you, sharp and clean against the heat of the gala. The terrace overlooks the city from a height that makes everything below look insignificant.
Jungkook walks to the stone railing and rests both hands on it, his back to you for a moment. You watch the way his shoulders rise with a breath, then drop. When he turns, he leans against the railing, arms crossed, and the posture is so deliberately casual it hurts. He's armouring himself.
"So," he says. "Talk."
The word is blunt, almost clinical, but underneath it, you hear the thing he's actually saying: I've been waiting a year for this. You straighten your spine. You think of Hoseok somewhere inside, leaning against his column, counting the minutes of borrowed breath.
"The night you came to my apartment," you start, your voice thin against the open air. "You showed me the photos. You asked me why." The memory is a blade. You distinctly remember his flowers, the envelope, the surveillance stills scattering across the table. "I couldn't answer you."
"I remember." His voice is flat but his eyes aren't. There's something moving behind them, deep and restless.
"I'm answering you now."
Jungkook doesn't speak. He waits the way a man waits for a verdict he's already tried to accept.
"His name is Jung Hoseok." You say it clearly, giving the name its full weight. "He's my best friend. He's been my best friend since we were fourteen years old." You take a breath that shakes more than you'd like. "He got sick two years ago, and nobody knew what it was. The doctors ran every test, every scan, and came back with nothing. Then the bills started. You can't imagine what it costs to keep someone alive when medicine doesn't even know what's killing them."
Jungkook's expression hasn't changed, but you see the shift. There’s a fractional loosening around his jaw, like a door being unlocked without being opened.
"We were drowning," you continue. "Student loans, medical debt, the cost of keeping him in a hospital that could actually help. Namjoon– you remember Namjoon?" You don't wait for an answer. "He came up with the plan. The first one. Then the second." You swallow. "The second one was you."
A muscle feathers along Jungkook's jaw. His arms stay crossed.
"I was supposed to be a distraction. Get hired as your assistant, keep your attention occupied while they handled the technical side." You force yourself to hold his gaze. "That's all it was supposed to be."
"But it wasn't." His voice is quiet.
"No." The word catches in your throat. "It wasn't. I fell in love with you. I fell in love with the way you held doors open and remembered dates and how you loved me without condition." Your eyes are burning, but you refuse to blink. "I didn't plan on any of it. I didn't plan on you."
Jungkook uncrosses his arms. His hands find the railing behind him and grip it, knuckles whitening. The movement pulls his shirt taut across his chest, and you hate yourself for noticing and hate that even now, even mid-confession, some traitorous part of your brain is cataloguing
the way his jaw catches the moonlight, the column of his throat above his loosened collar. You're telling him about the worst thing you've ever done, and your body is remembering the best things he's ever done to it.
The silence between you is different from the ballroom silence, from the hospital silence, from the silence that fell when Jungkook walked away from your apartment a year ago. This silence has oxygen in it. It has room to breathe.
"March 14th," Jungkook says, very quietly.
"March 14th," you repeat. "I typed it into your computer to steal from you, and I hated myself for knowing it." You look towards him. "He's here," you say. "Hoseok. He's inside."
Something crosses Jungkook's face that you can't fully read; surprise isn't quite it, because it moves too quickly, replaced by something more complex. Recognition, maybe. Like a piece sliding into a puzzle he's been working on in the dark.
"He signed himself out of the hospital to be here tonight. He can barely walk. He has a cane and a portable oxygen concentrator in a bag, and he's wearing a suit that doesn't fit because his body is half of what it used to be." Your voice breaks on the last part, but you keep going because you promised. "He's twenty-six years old, and he's dying, and he's standing in your ballroom right now because he thinks you deserve to know that his heartbeat is the reason I broke yours."
The wind picks up, carrying with it the faint sound of the string quartet from inside, something melancholy, something in a minor key that has no business being this appropriate. Jungkook's chest rises with a deep breath, his fingers releasing the railing.
"Where is he?" he asks.
The question shocks you into stillness. You expected anger, cold dismissal, the same venom that lacerated you at your dinner table a year ago. You braced for impact. Instead, he's asking where Hoseok is.
"By the east columns," you manage. "Near the entrance."
Jungkook pushes off the railing. He takes a step toward the door and then stops, turning back to you. The city lights catch the silver of his cufflinks, the sharp line of his jaw, the look in his eyes that you've never seen before.
"I would love to meet him," he says. "Not for you. For me."
He holds the terrace door open for you, and you walk through it feeling as if you've just stepped off the edge of something with no certainty of where you'll land.
As you pass him in the doorway, the space is narrow enough that your arm grazes his chest. The contact lasts less than a second. It’s silk against cotton, your bare arm against the warmth of him– and you feel it everywhere. His breath catches. Or maybe yours does too. You don’t look at him. You can’t. If you look at him right now, with your defences stripped and his chest warm against your skin, you will do something you can’t take back. You keep walking as he follows.
Yoongi's voice returns in your ear, sharper now. "Fifteen minutes to mirror. _____, where are you? I need confirmation you're moving to the terminal."
"I need a minute," you say to both of them, though only one can hear you.
The ballroom swallows you both back into its machinery. Jungkook walks beside you but not with you, a deliberate distance maintained. You're aware of every inch of it.
You're halfway across the floor when it happens. A voice cuts through the ambient noise, sharp with recognition.
"Wait– don't I know you?"
You freeze. The woman in the red dress you saw earlier with Jungkook has stepped into your path, head tilted, eyes narrowing with the specific intensity of someone rifling through their memory. She's even more beautiful up close with expensive jewellery and the kind of face that attends a lot of industry events.
"You worked at GFC, didn't you?" she says. "Jungkook's assistant?"
Your blood goes cold. Beside you, Jungkook stiffens almost imperceptibly.
"I think you're mistaken," you manage, your voice remarkably steady for someone whose heart has just relocated to her throat.
The woman squints harder. "No, I'm sure of it. The holiday party, two years ago? You were handling the guest list. I remember because you—"
"Mrs. Ahn." Jungkook's voice slides in, smooth and warm, and the interruption is so seamless. He steps forward with a smile that reaches exactly as far as it needs to. "I'm so glad you could make it tonight. Have you met the team from Hana Ventures? I believe your husband was asking about their sustainability portfolio. They're just by the bar." Oh. She’s married. You can’t help but feel relief.
It's a redirection so elegant it borders on art. Mrs. Ahn's attention pivots to Jungkook entirely, her recognition of you dissolving into the social gravity of a CEO's full attention. She brightens, adjusts her necklace, and allows herself to be guided toward the bar with a delighted "Oh, wonderful!"
Jungkook glances back at you over his shoulder as he walks Mrs. Ahn away. The look lasts one second. In it, you read: Stay. I'll be back.
You press your back against the nearest column, heart hammering, and wait. Jungkook returns within two minutes, his composure fully restored, as though rescuing you from exposure is just another item on his host's agenda.
"Thank you," you breathe.
"Don't thank me yet." The words carry a weight you don't fully understand. "Come on. Show me your friend."
You navigate the remaining distance to the east columns. Hoseok is where you left him, still propped against the column with his untouched champagne. His cane is hooked over his forearm while he's watching a couple dance. His expression carries a wistfulness that makes your throat close. From this distance, in this light, in that suit, you could almost forget he's sick.
Hoseok senses your approach. His gaze shifts to you, then past you to the man walking in your wake. His eyes sharpen. He straightens with a conscious effort, drawing every reserve of energy he has to meet this moment upright. He sets the champagne glass on the column's ledge, frees his cane, and faces Jungkook fully.
The two men regard each other across a narrowing distance. You step to the side, because this isn't yours anymore. This is between the man whose life was bought at another man's expense and the man who paid the price without knowing.
Jungkook stops three feet from Hoseok. He takes him in, the ill-fitting suit, the too-sharp cheekbones, the way he leans on the cane with practised subtlety. You watch Jungkook's eyes trace the details the way he used to study you. It’s as if he’s cataloguing, absorbing, trying to understand.
"Jung Hoseok," Hoseok says, extending a hand that trembles just slightly. His voice is steady despite it. "I believe you've been keeping me alive.”
You see the impact land on Jungkook's face like a wave of something cresting and breaking behind his careful composure. He looks at Hoseok's extended hand. Then he takes it.
"Jeon Jungkook," he replies, and his voice is thick. "I wish we'd met differently."
"So do I." Hoseok's grip tightens before releasing. "But if we'd met differently, I'd probably be dead. So I'll take this."
The bluntness catches Jungkook off guard. You watch him blink to recalibrate. Hoseok does that to people and has always done that. Even diminished, even tethered to machines and measured in borrowed months, he has a way of cutting straight to the marrow of a thing.
Hoseok shifts his weight onto his cane, glancing at you briefly before returning to Jungkook.
"You're quite handsome," he says conversationally. "No wonder she's in love with you."
The floor drops out from under you.
"Hoseok!" His name comes out strangled.
"What?" He turns to you with an expression of perfect innocence that has absolutely no business existing on a man in his condition. "It's true."
You look at Jungkook. He is looking at you. You look away.
"He's been on an extraordinary amount of medication," you say, to no one and everyone. "Practically braindead. Medically speaking."
"Medically speaking, I have excellent observational skills," Hoseok replies, entirely unbothered, taking a small sip of the champagne he was never going to drink.
Jungkook lets the silence sit for exactly long enough that you feel every degree of it against your skin. Then, with a grace that costs him something you're certain of, he lets it go.
He turns to Hoseok.
"How are you feeling tonight?" The question is genuine, stripped of the social reflex that usually props up that particular phrase. He means it. You can tell he means it by the way he waits for the answer.
Hoseok glances around the ballroom, at the chandeliers, the gowns, the ancient indifferent wealth of it all. "Great. I haven't been anywhere in months, years some would say. Everywhere starts to look like a hospital ceiling after a while." His eyes return to Jungkook. "This is a very good ceiling."
Jungkook looks up despite himself. The chandelier throws fractured light across his face.
"It is," he agrees quietly.
Something passes between them that you don't entirely have access to. Two people negotiating the strange territory of a connection that has no map, no precedent and no name for what they are to each other.
"I wanted to meet you," Hoseok says. "That was the other reason I came tonight." He pauses. "She didn't know I was going to say that. She'd have talked me out of it."
"I absolutely would have," you confirm.
Jungkook's gaze moves to you then, briefly, warm in a way that undoes something small and load-bearing inside your chest, before returning to Hoseok. "I'm glad you did."
Hoseok nods slowly, as if this confirms something he suspected. He studies Jungkook for a moment with those bright, tired eyes, the same way he studied the ceiling of his hospital room on bad nights.
"You should talk," Hoseok says, looking between you both. "Really talk." His eyes flick almost imperceptibly toward your earpiece before coming back. "Because you owe it to each other."
A chill rolls through you. Time is ticking and quite frankly, you can’t think of how you’re going to pull this off.
"I'm going to find a chair before my legs stage a mutiny," Hoseok says, straightening with effort. He gives Jungkook a final look. It’s warm with a shot of exhaustion he can no longer mask. "Thank you for meeting me. Whatever you decide…about her, about all of this, I wanted you to know that your money bought time. And I used that time to wake up." He smiles, the heart-shaped one. "That's not nothing." He turns, cane tapping a steady beat against the marble, and you watch him walk toward a chair near the far column. A waiter approaches and Hoseok waves him off politely.
You turn back to Jungkook. He's watching Hoseok too, his expression caught between something shattered and something mending.
"Jungkook–" you start.
"Not here." His voice is rough. He drags his gaze from Hoseok's retreating figure back to you. His eyes are wet. "Come with me."
He doesn't reach for your hand. He simply walks, and you follow.
Jungkook takes you through a service corridor that the guests don't see. It’s past stacked chairs, and folded tablecloths, and the muted clatter of the kitchen beyond a swinging door. The noise of the gala dims to a muffle. He stops in a narrow hallway lit by bare bulbs.
He turns to face you. In this light, stripped of the ballroom's gilding, he looks younger. Closer to the boy you met on March 14th. His collar is still open, and in the bare light you can see the faint sheen of sweat at the base of his throat. You wonder if its nerves, or the heat of the ballroom, or something else entirely. You force your gaze upward.
"I need to tell you something," he says. His voice is steady but his hands aren't. You see them at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling. "And you're not going to like it."
Your blood cools. "What?"
He meets your eyes. "This gala. The invitation. You being here tonight." A pauses for a beat. "It wasn't coincidence."
Your stomach folds in on itself. "What are you talking about?"
"I know about Namjoon's plan." The words drop like stones. "I've known for weeks. The Obsidian transfer, the eight-minute window, the biometric scan. All of it."
The corridor tilts. You feel the wall at your back before you realize you've stepped into it. "How?"
"Because I'm the one who gave it to them."
Silence. It’s the kind that has a sound with a high, ringing pitch that fills your skull.
"I hired someone," Jungkook continues, his voice measured, careful, like he's defusing something. "After that night at your apartment. A private investigator. I needed to understand why. You couldn't tell me, so I went looking for the answer myself." He swallows. “He found your team. He found Namjoon."
Your mind races, tripping over itself. "Namjoon doesn't know," you say, the realization bleeding through the shock. "He thinks this job is real."
"It is real." Jungkook's jaw tightens. "The funds exist. The transfer window is genuine. Everything Yoongi built, everything Namjoon planned, it works. I just made sure I was on the other end of it."
"Why?" The word comes out shredded. "If you knew– if you've known this whole time…why let us get this far? Why let me walk in here and–" Your voice breaks. "Why let me tell you about Hoseok like you didn't already know?"
Jungkook flinches. It's the first true crack in his composure, a visible wound. "Because I needed to hear you say it." His voice drops. "I needed to know if you'd actually tell me the truth this time. Or if you'd just steal from me again."
The words land like a hand against your cheek. It’s not a violent slap per se, more devastatingly soft. Like the way he used to cup it before planting a kiss on your lips.
You stare at him, tears sliding silently, and the worst part isn't the betrayal. The worst part is that you understand. You understand because you would have done the same thing. Maybe you already did.
"So this whole time," you say slowly, "you've been watching us. Watching me. Planning this the same way Namjoon planned the first heist." A bitter laugh escapes you, wet and fractured. "You out-heisted the heist."
"I didn't want to." The urgency in his voice surprises you. He steps closer, and the distance between you shrinks to something dangerous. You can feel the warmth of him, smell the cedar and something underneath it. It’s something that's just him, unchanged and achingly familiar. Your back is against the wall and he's close enough that if either of you breathed too deeply, you'd touch. Neither of you breathes too deeply but neither of you steps back.
"I didn't set out to trap you," he says, and his voice is low enough that you feel it more than hear it. It’s a vibration that moves through the small space between your bodies. "I set out to understand you. And then Taehyung told me about Hoseok, about the hospital, the oxygen tanks, how you sleep in a bed next to his almost every night." His voice wavers. "And I realized you weren't a thief. You were desperate. The same way I was desperate to know why."
His eyes drop to your mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to feel it like a physical touch. You press your back harder against the wall, as if the concrete can anchor you, because every nerve in your body is screaming at you to close the distance and every rational thought is screaming at you not to.
"There's more," he says, pulling his gaze back to your eyes with visible effort. "The half billion you came here to steal, it's not mine."
You blink. "What?"
"The parent fund, GFC Capital,” he starts. “My name's on it. Every press release, every letterhead. But the money inside it isn't clean." His jaw tightens with controlled fury. "Three board members have been siphoning funds through shell companies for two years. Foreign accounts, fabricated invoices, phantom subsidiaries. By the time my forensic auditors flagged it, they'd already moved close to $400 million through channels I couldn't touch without exposing the entire fund which includes the legitimate investors who'd lose everything."
"Your own board has been stealing from you."
"From everyone. Pension funds. Institutional investors. People who trusted GFC Capital with their futures." His voice is cold now, but the coldness isn't aimed at you. "And I couldn't go public because the moment I do, the fund collapses, the stock craters, and thousands of people lose their retirement savings. The corruption has to be excised without killing the patient."
The medical metaphor isn't lost on you.
"So you need someone to move the money," you say slowly, the architecture of his plan assembling itself in your mind. "Someone outside the system. Someone untraceable."
"Someone who's already proven they can get in, take what they need, and disappear." He holds your gaze. "I didn't pick your team because of our history. I picked them because they're good. Yoongi's Obsidian protocol is better than anything my security consultants could design. And Namjoon's operational planning is…" He pauses, a reluctant admission pulling at his mouth. "Annoyingly brilliant."
"So we're not robbing you."
"You're robbing the people who robbed me. And the $500 million you redirect through Obsidian doesn't vanish. It gets funnelled into a forensic trust that my legal team uses to build a case. Every transaction Yoongi routes becomes evidence, every node, every wallet, every timestamp. It's a paper trail that looks invisible from the outside but reads like a confession from the inside."
You stare at him. The magnitude of it settles over you in layers. First, it’s the relief that you're not betraying him again, then the fury that he manipulated you into it, then the grudging, bone-deep recognition that it's exactly what you would have done.
The relief that floods through you is so disproportionate to the moment that it embarrasses you. You press your lips together, looking at the ceiling, and you hear him exhale.
Jungkook’s expression sobers. He reaches into his jacket pocket. His hand passes close enough to your hip that you feel the displacement of air, and what he pulls out makes your breath stop.
A bright blue plastic ring. Faded, chipped, ridiculous. The one you won him at the carnival. The one he wore for the rest of the night because it matched his shirt.
He holds it between his thumb and forefinger, studying it in the bare light. You watch his hands, the same hands that held you, turn it slowly, and your throat tightens with something that isn't only grief.
"I could've helped," he says quietly. "If you had told me about him from the start, I would have helped. I had the money. I had the connections. You didn't have to steal from me." His voice frays. "You just had to trust me."
"I know," you whisper. Because what else is there? He's right. He's been right this entire time, and the most excruciating part is that some desperate, frightened version of you from two years ago knew it too and chose theft over trust anyway.
His hand rises almost involuntarily and his thumb grazes the edge of your jaw. Featherlight, barely there, gone before you can lean into it. The touch lasts less than a second, but it sends a current through you that buckles your knees. He pulls his hand back like he's been burned, fingers curling into his palm.
"Sorry," he says. He doesn't look sorry. He looks wrecked.
"Namjoon and Yoongi," you manage, dragging yourself back from the edge. "Are you going to—"
"Nobody's getting arrested." He says it firmly. "I told you before, it was never about the money. It's still not." He exhales. "But the transfer needs to happen tonight. The way Yoongi designed it."
In your ear, Yoongi's voice returns, oblivious. "Four minutes to mirror window. _____, I need you at the east wing terminal. Where are you?"
You close your eyes.
"What do you need from me?" Jungkook asks you. He looks at you for a long time. The bare bulb flickers once, casting his face in a brief strobe of shadow.
You look down at the purse hanging off your shoulder and unclip it open. From there, you pull out the small tablet Yoongi placed earlier with the calibration screen already on display for his fingerprint.
“Preferably your thumb or index finger.” You repeat Yoongi’s words.
As Jungkook registers his fingerprint, you stare at him. You stare at the ring still in his fingers, the boy underneath the CEO, at the man who kept a worthless piece of plastic in his pocket for over a year because it was the last honest thing you’d given him.
"Go," he says softly, turning the tablet back to you and creating space between you as he steps back. "Clock's ticking."
You go but before you do, Jungkook grabs your wrist and spins you toward him and then his mouth is on yours and every carefully constructed thing inside you comes apart at once.
It isn't gentle. It isn't the kind of kiss that asks permission or makes apologies. It is a year of silence compressed into something urgent and graceless and completely beyond either of your better judgments. His free hand comes up to cup the side of your face with a pressure that says stay even as everything around you is screaming go. You feel the cold of his ring against your jaw and it undoes you further.
You kiss him back. Of course you do. You kiss him back like you've been holding your breath for over twelve months and he is the only available air. Your fingers twisting into the lapel of his jacket, pulling rather than pushing.
He makes a low sound against your mouth. His hand slides from your face to the back of your neck, thumb tracing the line of your jaw on its way. It’s unhurried despite the chaos assembling itself on the other side of the ballroom. You feel the warmth of his palm against your bare skin and your brain goes briefly, completely white.
Then his forehead drops to yours. Both of you breathing, the fraction of space between your mouths charged and unbearable.
His jaw tightens. "I couldn't make myself believe you were only that."
"Jungkook–"
"Go." His voice comes out rough at the edges. He pulls back, not far, just enough to look at you, and what's on his face is the full version of everything he's been carefully not showing all evening. Raw and steady and terrifying in its patience. Like a man who has decided he can wait a little longer now that he knows there's something worth waiting for. "Come back when it's done."
It's the come back that breaks you open.
You release his lapel. You smooth the fabric with your palm out of some automatic instinct toward repair, and his hand falls from your neck slowly but his fingertips last, like he's reluctant to confirm the absence.
You step back. Then another step. Your heels find their purpose again.
"When it's done," you repeat. A promise shaped like an echo.
His eyes hold yours until the crowd swallows you.
The east wing terminal is exactly where Yoongi's schematics said it would be, tucked behind a service door at the end of a corridor branching off the main ballroom. Namjoon is already there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his charcoal suit jacket unbuttoned. He straightens when he sees you.
"Where the hell have you been?" His voice is a controlled hiss. "Yoongi's been—"
"I know." You cut past him and approach the terminal. A sleek console is embedded in the wall, its screen dark waiting. "I'm here. Let's go."
Namjoon studies you and you hope he doesn’t notice the distinct flush of your cheeks. He has that look, the one that precedes an interrogation. But there isn't time.
"Yoongi," you say into the mic. "I'm at the terminal."
"Finally." His relief is audible. "Placing the tablet on the scanner now, biometric should authenticate in three… two…"
A soft chime. The screen illuminates, casting blue light across your face.
[BIOMETRIC AUTHENTICATION: ACCEPTED]
"We're in." Yoongi's voice accelerates, the flat effect giving way to focused energy. "Mirror sequence initiating. Seven minutes forty-three seconds. Starting the Obsidian routing, first tranche moving through Node Alpha." Whatever he said is all gibberish to you as you watch numbers cascade down the terminal screen too fast to comprehend.
Your palms are slick against the console's edge. A bead of sweat tracks down the back of your neck, disappearing into the fabric of your gown. Every sound is amplified, the hum of the terminal, your own breathing and the distant echo of the ballroom.
Then you both hear footsteps in the corridor behind you.
You spin. Namjoon's hand shoots to your arm, pulling you behind the terminal alcove. You both press flat against the wall, heartbeats competing. Through the crack in the service door, you see a security guard pass with an earpiece in, flashlight sweeping in a lazy arc. He pauses at the junction, tilts his head like he's listening to something on his radio, then continues down the opposite corridor.
You don't breathe again until his footsteps fade.
"Security sweep, east wing," Yoongi reports, his voice tight. "Routine. You're clear. Five minutes remaining."
Namjoon steps back to the terminal, eyes fixed on the screen. "It's working," he breathes. For the first time in months, you hear something in his voice you'd almost forgotten. It’s unguarded, uncalculated hope. "It's actually working."
You feel sick.
"Namjoon," you say quietly, your eyes still on the screen. The numbers keep cascading. Four minutes left.
"Not now."
"It has to be now."
Something in your tone makes him turn. His brow creases, then furrows, then drops into the expression you've come to associate with the moments before everything goes wrong.
"What did you do?" he asks.
"It's not what I did." You finally look at him. "It's what Jungkook did."
The name hits him like a slap. His eyes narrow. "What about him?"
"He knows, Joon." You say it plainly, the way Hoseok told you the truth deserved to be said without cushion. "He's known the whole time. The job, the Obsidian protocol, the eight-minute window. He's the one who set it up."
Namjoon goes very still. It’s not the calculated stillness of a strategist processing variables its the stillness of a man whose operating system has crashed.
"That's not possible," he says.
"The investigator who fed you the job, he works for Jungkook. Has been the whole time."
You watch the sequence unfold on Namjoon's face: disbelief, analysis, and fury. Each phase is distinct and each lasting exactly as long as it takes for the next to overwhelm it. His hands ball into fists at his sides.
"He played us." The words come through his teeth.
"He guided us." You echo Jungkook's word deliberately. "Namjoon, the money we're moving right now is not Jungkook's. It belongs to three corrupt board members who've been embezzling from his fund for years. We're not robbing him. We're helping him clean house."
"I don't give a damn whose money it is!" Namjoon's voice rises, bouncing off the corridor. "He manipulated us and he used us like fucking tools—"
"The way we used me?" The question leaves you before you can measure it, and it lands with surgical precision. Namjoon's mouth snaps shut.
Two minutes left. The numbers keep falling.
"He's not pressing charges," you say. "He never was. He built this so we could do what we're good at and so the people who actually deserve to be caught get caught."
Namjoon's chest heaves. He looks at the terminal, at the cascading numbers that represent everything he's spent months planning, and you watch the terrible realization settle over him: his masterwork was never his. Every contingency he mapped, every variable he accounted for, every sleepless night spent perfecting the plan– all of it ran on tracks that Jungkook had laid first.
"Ninety seconds," Yoongi reports. "Third tranche routing clean. No flags."
Namjoon stares at the screen. His fists unclench, finger by finger, like a man releasing something he's held too long.
"Does Yoongi know?" he asks quietly.
"Not yet."
He nods. Something shifts behind his eyes."The board members," he says. "Who are they?"
"Jungkook has the details."
"Of course he does." A bitter exhale. Then, quieter: "Is the evidence actually solid? If this goes to prosecution–"
"He has a forensic team. The Obsidian routing creates the trail. Every transaction we move tonight becomes a timestamped record."
"Thirty seconds," Yoongi's voice. "Final tranche clearing now."
Namjoon watches the last numbers fall. When the screen flashes [TRANSFER COMPLETE — MIRROR SEQUENCE CLOSING], he lets out a breath that seems to carry years in it.
"So we just helped a billionaire take out his own trash," Namjoon says flatly.
"We helped a man who could've sent us to prison choose to give us a second chance instead."
Namjoon's jaw clenches. He doesn't look at you when he speaks again.
"I want to talk to him. Directly."
"He's in the ballroom."
"Of course he is." Namjoon pushes off the wall, buttoning his jacket with sharp, precise movements. He pauses at the corridor entrance, half-turning to you.
"For what it's worth," he says, his voice stripped of its usual command, "I'm sorry. For putting you in the middle of this. For making you the weapon." He swallows. "You deserved better than that."
Before you can respond, he's gone.
You stand alone in the corridor. The terminal screen has gone dark. The earpiece is silent, Yoongi running post-transfer protocols in focused quiet.
You lean against the wall and close your eyes.
When you return to the ballroom, the scene that greets you is one you couldn't have predicted.
Hoseok is seated at a table near the east columns, his cane propped against the chair beside him. Across from him sits Jungkook, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, listening. Whatever Hoseok is saying has Jungkook's complete attention. It’s not the typical polite, half-engaged attention of a CEO at a networking event, but the focused, full-bodied attention of a person hearing something that matters.
And Hoseok is laughing.
It's not the full, room-filling laugh you remember from before. It's thinner, breathier, punctuated by pauses where his lungs catch up. But it's real. And Jungkook is smiling. An actual smile, slightly crooked, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
You stop mid-step, afraid that moving closer will break whatever fragile thing is happening between them.
Hoseok spots you first. He waves you over, and as you approach, you catch the tail end of whatever story he's been telling.
"—and she just stood there with spaghetti sauce on her face, trying to convince Namjoon that Italian cooking was her hidden talent." Hoseok wheezes slightly on the last word, pressing a hand to his chest. "She burned the garlic bread so badly the smoke detector went off twice."
Jungkook's eyes flick to you as you reach the table, and the amusement in them is so unexpected it winds you. "Sounds familiar," he says, and there's a warmth there that has no business existing tonight. "She tried to make me dinner once. I think I'm still recovering."
"Slander," you manage, sinking into the chair between them. "Both of you."
Hoseok's laughter fades into a cough but it’s just one and it's enough to remind everyone at the table of the stakes. He waves off your concern before it reaches your face.
Then Namjoon appears.
He approaches the table with the measured stride of a man who has reorganized his entire worldview in the span of a hallway walk. His eyes move from Hoseok to you to Jungkook, where they settle.
"Mr. Jeon," Namjoon says. His voice is level.
Jungkook rises from his chair. He stands a full inch taller than Namjoon, but the height difference isn't what fills the space between them. It's everything else.
"Kim Namjoon," Jungkook says. Neither extends a hand. "I've heard a lot about you."
"Apparently not as much as you already knew."
A moment passes. Then, impossibly, the corner of Jungkook's mouth twitches. "Your operational planning is impressive. Taehyung's words, not mine."
"I'll be sure to thank the man who conned me," Namjoon replies, dry as bone. But there's no venom in it. Just exhaustion and grudging respect.
Jungkook gestures to the chairs. "Sit down. We have a lot to discuss."
Namjoon glances at you. You nod.
He sits.
And from his chair, cane resting against his knee, oxygen concentrator humming quietly in the bag beneath the table, Hoseok watches the architect of his survival sit down across from the man whose money built it.
He reaches for his water glass, takes a slow sip, and closes his eyes.
For the first time in a very long while, he isn't counting breaths, he's just breathing.
Jungkook speaks quietly. "The board members, Park Chansik, Lee Minho, Kwon Jaesung– my legal team has everything they need as of forty minutes ago. The Obsidian routing created a clean timestamped trail. Prosecution is already in motion." He looks at Namjoon evenly. "No one at this table will be contacted by law enforcement. That was never the intended outcome."
Namjoon is quiet for a long moment. His hands are flat on the table. You watch him work through it, the last of the resistance, the pride that has kept him upright through years of operating in margins and shadows. You watch him set it down.
"You could have done this without us," Namjoon says.
"Yes."
"But you needed someone who wouldn't leave a trail back to you."
"I needed people who were good at what they do," Jungkook says. "There's a difference."
Another silence. Then Namjoon exhales through his nose, slow and controlled.
"If you ever need anything," he says, each word measured, "done legitimately." A pause. "You know where to find me."
It isn't quite gratitude. It isn't quite an apology. It is, you think, the closest Namjoon has ever come to either in a single sentence.
Jungkook nods. "I do."
Namjoon stands, buttoning his jacket. He looks at you and something passes across his face, complicated, brief and genuine.
"Take care of yourself," he says.
Then he's gone, swallowed by the ballroom's glittering current, and you think that wherever he ends up next it will be somewhere worth being.
Jungkook turns to Hoseok.
He doesn't ease into it. You've come to understand this about him, that he reserves gentleness for his delivery, not his honesty.
"I'll be covering your treatment going forward," he says. "Full continuity of care. Whatever the next stage requires." He holds Hoseok's gaze. "No debt and no condition attached to it."
Hoseok is quiet. The ballroom moves around you three in almost slow motion.
Then Hoseok slowly nods in the way you'd accept something you'd almost stopped believing was possible. His jaw works briefly and then steadies. His eyes are very bright but nothing falls.
"Okay," he says softly. The same word Jungkook gave you earlier, carrying the same impossible weight.
Jungkook nods back. The matter is settled in the way that only truly important things are, without fanfare, without ceremony, in the space between two people who have decided to mean what they say.
Under the table, you find Hoseok's hand and press it once. He squeezes back and doesn't let go for a long moment. He’s going to be okay.
You take Hoseok out through the east corridor, away from the crowds, his cane tapping its familiar rhythm against the marble. At the rear exit, where the town car is already waiting, you both stop.
The autumn air is sharper now. Hoseok tilts his face up toward the sky, eyes closing briefly, and you watch him breathe it in with the deliberate attention of someone who has learned not to take breathing for granted.
"Hoseok—"
"Don't," he says gently, eyes still closed. "Don't do the thing where you cry and then apologize for crying."
"I wasn't going to cry."
"You absolutely were." He opens his eyes and looks at you, and the smile that follows is the full radiant one, the one that has survived everything. "Go back inside. Yoongi will ride with me." As if summoned, your earpiece crackles.
“Already on my way down,” Yoongi says, flat and fond in equal measure. “Go back inside.”
You look at Hoseok for a long moment. At the ill-fitting suit and the too-sharp cheekbones and the eyes that are still, despite everything, the brightest thing in any room he enters.
"You planned this," you say quietly. "All of it. Getting me here, saying what you said to him."
"I have limited time and unlimited audacity," he replies serenely. "It seemed efficient."
A sound escapes you that is almost a laugh and almost something else entirely. You step forward and press your forehead to his, carefully, the way you handle things that matter. His free hand comes up to the back of your head and holds you there for a moment.
"Go," he murmurs. "Be happy. That's an order."
You pull back. You smooth his lapel, the same instinct toward repair, and he lets you.
The ballroom has thinned. The late hour has winnowed the crowd to its most committed members, small clusters of people with nowhere better to be, the string quartet replaced by something low and recorded. The chandeliers are still burning but they feel softer now, less performative.
You find him where you somehow knew you would. Not waiting dramatically or posed. He’s simply there, standing near the tall windows at the far end of the room, looking out at the city below with his jacket unbuttoned and his glass long since abandoned. Like a man who has finished the work of the evening and is simply existing in what remains of it.
He hears your heels before he sees you. You watch his shoulders shift slightly, just a fraction, the body registering something before the mind catches up.
When he turns, his eyes find yours immediately.
"Hoseok?" he asks.
"With Yoongi. And Namjoon."
Something in his expression softens. "Good.”
He looks at you across the remaining distance, and there is nothing careful in it anymore. The composure that has been doing its careful architectural work all evening has finally, quietly, stood down.
"My suite is on the fourteenth floor," he says.
It isn't a question and it isn't quite an invitation. It is simply a fact, offered plainly, leaving the rest entirely to you.
You cross the distance between you.
"Then take me there," you say.
The elevator ascends in silence.
You're aware of everything. The warmth radiating off him where your arm almost touches his. The slight unevenness of his breathing. Your own reflection in the mirrored doors, the emerald gown and the lipstick worn down to almost nothing. It’s the evidence of a night that has taken you apart and put you back together in a different order.
His hand finds yours somewhere between the eighth and ninth floor. It’s not dramatic but it does knock some kind of breath out of you. It’s the way his fingers slide between yours like they belong there and they remember the architecture.
You look down at your joined hands. You don't say anything and neither does he.
The doors open.
His suite is at the end of a quiet corridor, all muted carpet and low light. He unlocks the door and holds it open and when you step through, you hear it close behind you. The sound of the latch catching feels like the period at the end of a very long sentence yet your heartbeat quickens. You can’t believe you’re here with Jungkook. After everything, the year of inner turmoil and hospital stays.
You turn and Jungkook is already looking at you.
And then there is no more careful distance. No more city full of people between you and this.
He reaches you in two strides and his mouth finds yours, and it's nothing like the kiss downstairs, which was urgent, surprised and compressed. This is slower and more devastating, his hands cupping your face with a pressure that says I have been thinking about this for a very long time and his mouth moving against yours like he intends to be thorough about it.
"I've thought about this," he says against your mouth, low and rough at the edges. "More than I should have."
"Tell me," you breathe.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and intent, and what's on his face is the unguarded version, the one with nothing between you and it.
"Every version of how it should have gone," he says. His thumb traces your jaw, slowly, deliberate. "Every version where you stayed."
Something in your chest cracks cleanly open.
You pull him back to you.
He finds the zip at the back of your gown with careful hands, drawing it down slowly, like he's unwrapping something he plans to take his time with. The silk loosens around you and he peels it from your shoulders with a patience that borders on unbearable, pressing his mouth to each inch of skin he uncovers. He starts at your shoulder then moves along the curve of your neck to the line of your collarbone.
The gown pools at your feet.
He looks at you. Really looks, in the low warm light of the suite, with an expression that makes your skin feel like it belongs to you differently than it did before.
"God," he says softly.
You reach for his shirt buttons. Your fingers are steadier than they were this morning with the lipstick and you're obscurely proud of this, working each button open while he watches you with that dark, patient attention. His hands rest at your hips as if he's restraining them.
You push the shirt open and run your palms flat up his chest, feeling him pull in a slow breath.
"Your turn," you say.
It seems as though his patience reaches its limit as something shifts in him.
He walks you backward to the bed, not roughly but with a decisive authority that makes your breath catch, his mouth finding your neck, your shoulder, the curve of your ear, cataloguing you the way he always did.
When the backs of your knees meet the mattress he lowers you onto it and follows, bracing above you, and the weight of him bracketing you feels like the answer to a question you've been carrying for over a year.
"I missed you," you say. The words come out unplanned.
He goes very still above you. His eyes find yours in the low light.
"I know," he says. And then, quieter, his forehead dropping to yours: "I missed you every single day."
The words dissolve whatever was left of the distance.
What follows is desperate in the way that only reunion can be, the kind of desperate that isn't frantic but deep, the satisfaction of finally filling a space that has been hollow too long.
He starts at your throat.
His mouth drags slowly down the column of your neck, and you feel the graze of his teeth at your pulse point before he soothes it with his tongue. Your fingers go into his hair automatically, the muscle memory of a body that never forgot him even when you were trying to. He makes a low sound of approval against your skin that vibrates all the way down your spine. His hands map you like he's reclaiming territory. Palms sliding up your sides, thumbs tracing the undersides of your ribs, learning the topography of you with an unhurried thoroughness.
He cups your breasts through the thin fabric of your bra and watches your face when he does it, cataloguing your reaction with those dark intent eyes, filing it away for later use.
"Still the same," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, unclasping your bra and drawing it away. He looks at you in the low light of the suite for a long moment, chest rising and falling. It’s like he’s learning you back like a language he was afraid he'd forgotten. He then dips his head and takes one nipple into his mouth and you arch off the bed with a sharp inhale.
He is not merciful about it. He takes his time, his tongue circling and his teeth grazing, one hand attending to what his mouth isn't. By the time he moves lower, your hands are fisted in the sheets and you have entirely abandoned any pretense of composure.
His mouth traces down your sternum, your stomach, pausing at your hip to press a kiss to the bone that is soft enough to undo you in an entirely different way. His fingers hook into the last of your underwear and draw it down slowly. He looks up at you from where he is and the expression on his face is dark, patient and wanting. It makes your breath stall completely.
"Jungkook—"
"I've got you," he says quietly. And then his mouth finds the most sensitive part of you and every coherent thought you had evaporates.
He is meticulous. Devastatingly and deliberately meticulous, like he has all night and intends to use it. His tongue works in slow controlled strokes against your clit while his hands hold your hips with a firmness that makes it clear he'll set the pace, not you. You try anyway, your hips rolling, chasing, but he presses down until you still beneath him.
"Stay," he says against you, the word more felt than heard.
You make a sound that is almost his name.
He takes you apart with a patience that borders on cruel, bringing you to the edge twice and pulling back, reading your body with an attention to detail that makes you feel known in the most exposed possible way. By the time he finally lets you fall over it, you've said his name so many times it's lost all meaning and found a new one.
You're still catching your breath when he kisses his way back up your body. He tastes of you when his mouth finds yours and you feel it everywhere. His weight settles over you and you reach between his legs, wrapping your hand around the thick and warm cock. You feel him shudder against your throat.
And then you flip him.
He lands on his back with a slight exhale of surprise and you rise over him with intent. There’s a look on his face when he registers what you're doing. Surprise cedes to something darker and more interested, sending heat flooding through you all over again.
You take your time the same way he did, because you have your own year's worth of thinking about this. Your mouth traces his chest, his stomach and the deep cut of muscle below his hip until his hand fists in your hair and his breathing has gone ragged.
"_____." His voice is strained. A warning and a plea at once.
"Patience," you say against his skin, throwing his own word back at him.
He says something under his breath that might be a curse.
You take him into your mouth and his whole body goes taut, the hand in your hair tightening, a low broken sound escaping him that you feel in your chest like a struck chord. You are thorough about it in the same way he was thorough about you, slow and attentive and entirely in control.
His grip in your hair tightens further and he pulls you up with a firmness that makes it clear the balance of power has shifted again.
He rolls you back beneath him in one fluid motion.
"Enough," he says roughly, and his voice has lost all its careful edges. He looks at you with his hair disheveled and his chest heaving and every last layer of composure completely dismantled. He truly is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. "I need to feel you."
"Then feel me," you say.
He does.
The moment he presses into you for the first time you both go very still. His forehead drops to yours. Your hands grip his shoulders. The room is completely quiet except for both of you breathing.
"Okay?" he asks softly.
"Yes," you breathe. "Yes."
He begins to roll his hips back before thrusting forward.
It's slow at first, deep and measured with each movement deliberate. You haven’t had sex in so long, it feels like the first time again. The uncontrollable way your skin buzzes with need makes your hands slide down his back and pull him closer. It’s urgent and he obliges, the pace building in increments that winds you tighter with every thrust.
His mouth finds your neck, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. He says your name once, quietly, like it's something he's been holding carefully for a long time. You can’t help the onslaught of moans that precede your lips. Feeling him like this again is so sinfully beautiful.
Then the slowness runs out.
What replaces it is urgent, consuming and entirely mutual. His hands grip your hips and yours grip him back, both of you chasing the same thing with equal desperation. The headboard and the low sounds he makes against your throat is everything that has been held tightly finally, completely releasing. You feel it building at the base of your spine, tightening. He must feel it too because his hand slides between you and finds exactly the right place to be. You shatter with his name in your mouth and your fingers in his hair as he drags his thumb in circles around your sensitive bud.
He follows moments later, his whole body going rigid, your name broken apart on his lips as he buries himself deep and holds there.
The feeling of it, of him, of this, of all the right pieces finally back in place, is so complete that your eyes sting with something that has nothing to do with sadness.
Afterward the room settles around you like an exhale.
He gathers you against his chest without a word, one hand moving slowly through your hair. Your ear is pressed to his heartbeat and you count it without meaning to, the way you've been counting Hoseok's breaths for months, the habit of holding onto proof of life.
His heartbeat is steady and real and yours again.
The suite holds you both in its quiet, the city burning silently beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, all that distant light doing nothing to touch the stillness in here. His hand moves through your hair in slow, absent strokes. Your fingers trace idle patterns on his chest without deciding to.
This is the part you didn't let yourself imagine. Not the wanting, you'd lived inside that for twelve months without permission. But this. The after. The specific peace of lying in the wreckage of everything that was held too long and finding it habitable. Finding it, impossibly, like home.
"I have something to tell you," he says eventually. His voice is low and unhurried, the voice he uses when he's already decided something and is simply finding the words for it.
You tilt your head up to look at him.
"Tonight at the gala" he says, his eyes on the ceiling. "When you walked across that ballroom toward me." A pause. "I'd been planning every variable for months. Every contingency. Every possible outcome." His jaw shifts. "And then you were just…there. In that dress. Walking toward me like it cost you something, and I couldn't remember a single thing I'd prepared."
You're quiet for a moment. "Good," you say finally. "That means you care." Echoing Hoseok’s words.
He looks down at you.
He exhales something that is almost a laugh, soft and private, and presses his lips to the top of your head. You feel him settle more completely into the mattress beneath you, some last residual tension finally locating the exit.
"I want to do this properly," he says. "Whatever comes next. I want to do it right."
You think about what right means, after everything. After the theft and the year of silence and the gala and Hoseok's borrowed hours. After Namjoon's careful penance and Yoongi running an operation from a service van two blocks away because that's simply the kind of person he is. After all of it.
"Right doesn't look the same as it did before," you say carefully.
"No," he agrees. "It looks like this. Like whatever this is." His arm tightens around you slightly. "I just want it to be honest."
You press your palm flat against his chest, feel the steady beat beneath it.
"Then we start there," you say.
He turns his head and finds your mouth in the dark, slow and soft. It’s the kind of kiss that isn't going anywhere because it doesn't need to.
You fall asleep before you mean to, somewhere between one breath and the next, his heartbeat counting you down into something that feels, for the first time in a very long time, like genuine rest.
Spring arrives the way good things do after long winters, gradually and then all at once.
Hoseok's new facility is twenty minutes from the city center, close enough that you can visit twice a week without rearranging your life around it. The room has a window that faces east, which he requested specifically, because he has developed strong opinions about morning light now that mornings are something he's decided to keep having.
He looks different. Not restored to before but present in a way that was once uncertain. The sharpness has softened back into his face by degrees. He laughs fully now, the room-filling version, and his lungs mostly cooperate.
Today he's sitting up in the chair by the window when you arrive, a book open in his lap and Jimin cross-legged on the floor beside him, arguing about something with the comfortable ferocity of people who have known each other long enough to mean nothing by it. That’s right,Jimin is back and his hair is blond now. It came as a text on a random Tuesday to let him into your house and he never left again since.
"She's here," Jimin announces without looking up. "Tell him he's wrong about the ending."
"I'm not getting involved," you say, setting the takeout containers on the table.
"You're already involved," Hoseok says. "You brought food. That's a political statement."
Jungkook arrives twenty minutes later, still in his work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The sight of him in this room, standing in the doorway of the place his money is keeping lit and warm and full of morning light, does something to you that nine months hasn't made ordinary.
He crosses to you first. Presses a kiss to your temple. His hand rests at the small of your back like it lives there, because it does now.
Hoseok watches this with the expression of a man who has been right about something for a very long time.
"I'm not going to say I told you so," he announces to the room.
"You absolutely are," Jimin replies.
"I told you so," Hoseok says serenely.
Yoongi arrives last, because Yoongi always arrives last, sliding into the remaining chair with a convenience store coffee and the flat affect of a man who finds this entire situation both deeply chaotic and exactly correct. He looks around the room. At Jimin on the floor. At Hoseok in the light. At you and Jungkook and the space between you that has finally, completely closed.
He takes a sip of his coffee.
"Good," he says simply.
And it is. It genuinely, completely is.
Namjoon sends a message that evening, while you're in the car going home with Jungkook's hand over yours on the console. A single line, no context, typical of him.
Started something new. Legitimate. Thought you should know.
You show it to Jungkook. He reads it and smiles, small and real.
"Good for him," he says.
You lean your head against the window. The city moves past in its familiar blur of light and shadow. Jungkook's thumb traces slow circles on the back of your hand.
Nothing was returned to its original shape. That's not how any of this works. People don't unbreak, they rebuild differently. The seams show, and that's fine. That's more than fine.
You turn your hand over from under his and lace your fingers together.
Outside the window the city burns on, brilliant and ordinary and alive.
So do you.
[A/N]" *taps mic* is this thing on??
it's been a long wait my friends but i hope it was worth the 6 year wait. i hope this closes a chapter you all have been waiting for and as always, i hope you enjoyed tmyl jungkook again (: i promised it would be a happy ending xx
thank you for your patience and thank you for continuously supporting me after all this time. i love you to no end ♡
SO IT GOES - Yakuza Boss Megumi x Reader
CHAPTER 3 - GOLD CAGE, HOSTAGE TO MY FEELINGS
When you accidentally get caught in the crossfire of an attack on the new clan head, Megumi Zenin, your world gets flipped upside down. Suddenly, you are part of his dark world and are getting much closer to the Yakuza boss than you both ever wanted. But living together with Megumi lets you see the man behind his cold mask, and what starts as an arrangement to keep you safe becomes a lot more.
Masterpost ++ Chapter 1 ++ Chapter 2
Warnings: 18+, female reader, fluff/smut in later chapters/light angst. Modern AU, Yakuza-related crime and violence, Megumi kills to protect the people he cares about, alcohol, forced proximity. Happy ending. Megumi and Reader are both in their mid/late twenties. Minors don't interact. Word Count: 4.5k The fanart in the header was used with permission from the artist koonya911 on Twitter.Credit for the divider @/cursed-carmine.
Standing in the fancy elevator that is heading to Megumi's penthouse feels completely unreal, just like everything else that has happened in the last hour. But Megumi's hand resting on the small of your back is a silent reminder that this is really happening. His touch is gentler this time, not so much a "You're coming with me" but more a "I got you", and you are grateful for it.
The soft ding of the elevator announces that you have reached your destination. The door slides open, and Megumi steers you into his home. Your mouth opens in a silent O shape. Of course, you saw penthouses before in TV shows or YouTube house tours, but that didn't prepare you for the real thing. Megumi's penthouse apartment is stunning.
The interior is classy, luxurious, but not outrageous. Shiny grey marble floors, white walls, sleek, luxurious furniture. Minimalistic in an orderly and elegant way. Just like Megumi himself. The floor-to-ceiling windows make the apartment feel even more spacious and offer a breathtaking view of the city.
Your mind is still trying to catch up with everything when you hear a noise and register a movement to your left. Before you can even react, a fluffy black and white cloud is moving past you. You blink, looking completely stunned at the sight before you. Megumi Zenin, cool, intimidating, Yakuza boss Megumi Zenin, is smiling.
Smiling at the two large wolfdogs, one white, the other black, that stand before him with waggling tails, pushing their noses against his legs and making cute whining noises in their excitement to greet him.
You stare at Megumi, completely dumbfounded. At this moment, he doesn't look like the powerful, beautiful but cold Yakuza boss, but just like a normal guy in his twenties with a normal life and normal emotions. His hands are buried in the fluffly fur of the dogs' heads, scratching behind their ears, cooing at them, and smiling a smile so unexpected and pretty that it makes you speechless. For once, he seems relaxed, and it lights up his whole face.
He meets your astounded gaze, the smile slowly getting replaced by his typical aloof expression again, as he explains matter-of-factly,
"My dogs. Shiro and Kuro. You're not scared of dogs, are you?"
You quickly shake your head,
"No. Not if I know them. They are so cute. Can I pet them?"
Megumi nods, and you slowly extend your hand, letting the two large dogs sniff it. They promptly push their heads against it, demanding pets from you, and you laugh, reaching out to pet them both. For the first time today, you feel the anxious tension lift from you. You look up at Megumi, smiling at him, and realize he is staring at you, with an unreadable expression on his beautiful face.
He clears his throat and gestures towards the luxurious open living space,
"Come on, I'll give you a quick tour so you know where everything is."
The dogs trail along as Megumi shows you around his apartment, and you keep reaching out to ruffle their fur, feeling more at ease when you can touch them and coo at them.
You marvel at the high-end kitchen and the spacious living space, and stare completely in awe at the luxurious bathrooms. The doors to Megumi's office and the master bedroom stay closed, but Megumi leads you to another room, just as luxurious as the rest of the apartment, with a large, cozy-looking bed and a majestic view over the city.
"You can stay here."
And suddenly everything catches up with you, the whole insanity of what is happening here. You are in Megumi Zenin's penthouse. You will live here for the next weeks or maybe months, or however long it takes for Megumi to figure out what to do.
You are going to live in this penthouse. With him.
You turn around to look at Megumi with wide eyes, feeling the anxiety well up again. And something else, too. Guilt. He doesn't seem like a very social person, and yet he went out of his way to take you with him and let you intrude on his private space. He didn't have to do any of this. He could have just left you to fend for yourself, but instead, he chose to help you.
"I... thank you, Megumi. I'm so sorry. I never wanted to inconvenience you like this."
He shakes his head, averting his gaze to let it rest adamantly on the city before the floor-to-ceiling windows. His voice is monotone, almost bored.
"As I said, it's not your fault. This is the only place where I can guarantee your safety."
"Thank you. I will do my best to be of help here."
"There's no need for that."
He says in a clipped voice, shutting down any further conversation about the topic. He tells you to get settled into your room and quickly leaves, shutting the door behind him and leaving you to stare dumbfounded over the city beneath your windows.
There he was again. The intimidating, cold, and aloof Megumi Zenin. So different from the man you caught a glimpse of when he greeted his dogs. He makes you nervous when he wears his cold mask, but you try not to let the anxiety flare up again.
He has another side too, you tell yourself. As grumpy as Megumi acts, he saved your life, and he is still doing everything in his power to protect you. Megumi Zenin isn't as heartless as he tries to present himself. Beneath his cold facade seems to be a heart that is capable of feeling and caring for others.
That's the thought you cling to as you sit down on the edge of the luxurious bed and watch the faraway tiny figures of countless strangers walking and driving through the streets beneath you.
Maki comes over a few hours later with several boxes containing dinner and a large bag of clothes for you. You thank her and sit down to eat with Megumi and Maki. It's a bit awkward. You don't really know what to say to them, because what do you say to two Yakuza members, who are rumored to have killed half of their clan just a few weeks ago? Any small talk feels weird.
You go to bed shortly after dinner, needing to get away and be alone. Sleep doesn't come easily, though. You lie awake for hours in the luxurious bed, on a mattress much better than the one you have at home, the silk sheets so soft and cool, and the floor-to-ceiling windows letting you stare at the glittering city beneath you.
Technically, it's beautiful. But you feel lost. Everything has been turned upside down so suddenly. The life you knew is gone, and this new life is so foreign and scary. When you finally fall asleep, it's into a restless sleep filled with hectic dreams. A particularly realistic nightmare makes you sit up with a loud gasp only a few hours later.
You get up, unwilling to sleep again, and instead grab a soft cashmere cardigan out of the bag and put it on over the silk nightdress Maki brought you, huddling into it as you leave your room silently to get a glass of water from the kitchen.
The apartment is eerily silent. You think you can smell Megumi's cologne. And you are suddenly hit by the thought of him sleeping just a few rooms away in the master bedroom. The thought makes you nervous.
You walk over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living area, sitting down on the plush, light grey carpet in front of the windows, gazing out at the nightly city. You jump when you feel something nudge at you, only to realize Megumi's dogs came to see what you are doing. You smile and pet them, grateful for their company. They settle down around you, as if they are here to protect you, just like their owner is protecting you too.
That's how Megumi finds you in the morning. Curled up on the floor with his dogs.
He already looks immaculate. Dressed in one of his typical black suits and a white dress shirt. He is staring at you and his dogs, a surprised look on his face. Before he can school his face back into his cold mask, the dogs already run excitedly towards him with waggling tails and happy woofs. And Megumi smiles that soft smile again that makes your heart feel strangely heavy. He reaches down to pet both dogs talking quietly to them,
"Good morning. Did you keep our guest company? Good boys."
Your breath gets caught in your throat for a moment. You don't know why this interaction makes you feel so flustered, and you quickly shove it to the back of your mind and smile at Megumi instead,
"I couldn't sleep and got something to drink, and they joined me here. They are really sweet."
Megumi nods softly, the smile is gone, but you think that his dark blue eyes look less cold this morning. He jerks his chin towards the kitchen area,
"I was about to get a coffee before I head out."
You get up and hurriedly follow him into the kitchen, feeling guilty for not even preparing breakfast when he is letting you live here.
"Hey, let me make breakfast! What do you want? Coffee, and what else?"
He turns to look at you and his blue eyes widen for a moment, trailing up and down your body before he seems to catch himself, and he clears his throat and looks away, his jaw tense.
Only now do you become aware of the fact that you are only wearing that thin silk nightdress that leaves nothing to the imagination. You quickly pull the cardigan closed over your breasts and try again,
"Um, so how do you want your coffee?"
Megumi still avoids looking at you. He seems uncomfortable, which is almost a bit cute.
"You don't have to make coffee for me. I drink it black anyway. So no big deal."
You scrunch your nose,
"Ok, so let me get one black coffee for you. And something to eat? Do you want rice, an omelet, or soup? Or something else?"
"I don't need anything."
He sounds stern, but after a moment adds in a gentler voice,
"Thank you, but I usually don't eat breakfast at home anyway. And to make this clear: You don't have to do things for me. You don't have to pay me back or something."
Megumi's POV:
Usually he never has people over who aren't his close friends. He has never been a social person, and his alone time is very important to him. So this situation is putting a big strain on him. Especially when the person who stays here with him is like you.
It's not that you are annoying or trying to be all up in his personal space. But just knowing you are here is making him feel a strange restlessness. Sleep never comes easily to Megumi, there are always too many thoughts running through his mind. But last night was especially bad. He couldn't stop thinking about you lying in bed in the spare bedroom just a few rooms away.
He heard you walking around, his ears perked to listen to every little noise. Eventually, the noises stopped, and Megumi drifted off to a light sleep. In the morning, he could almost pretend things were normal, but then he came into the living area, and he wasn't prepared for seeing you curled up on the floor with his dogs, safely tucked into their midst, as if they knew instinctively that Megumi wanted them to protect you.
You looked so vulnerable there, so breakable. His chest filled with something he couldn't quite name, but it was a strong need for something. To keep you close to him, maybe. To keep you safe. To make sure you'll never have to be scared again. Or something like this.
He doesn't really want to think about it too much. Because it makes him feel strange. Like the feeling when you are standing in safe, shallow water, only to suddenly reach a cliff and feel yourself get dragged under by the deep water waiting behind it.
And it doesn't help that you have this friendly and genuinely kind personality, instantly following him into the kitchen and wringing your hands all guiltily because you feel bad for not having breakfast ready for him, as if he would ever ask something like that of anyone.
And that silk nightdress. He has to do something today to make Maki's life hell. When he told her to get some clothes for you to change into and to sleep in, he didn't mean something like that. A skimpy, little nightdress, hugging your curves perfectly, the luxurious material so fine that it is practically see-through.
He looked away instantly, but the image of you in that skimpy dress with the contour of your tits showing and the hard peaks of your nipples pressing against the fine material haunts him for the rest of the day.
He's taking his time in his downtown office, reorganizing the Zenin clan's pachinko files a second and third time just to keep his mind busy. When evening rolls around, he barks at Maki to drive over to his apartment and bring you dinner and let you know that Megumi will be staying in his office until late at night.
He clenches his jaw, resolutely shutting down the pictures in his mind of him returning in the middle of the night and finding you standing before him in that little nightdress again.
He can't allow thoughts like that. He won't. He can do this. He is in control. He can be professional about this.
He decides to ignore the small voice in the back of his mind that whispers to him, "Yeah, because grabbing her and bringing her to your apartment was such a professional thing to do, Megumi. It's not like you let your personal feelings take control, huh?"
Your POV:
You spend the day alone in Megumi's penthouse and try to pretend the whole time you are in some luxury hotel on a wellness weekend, so you won't freak out completely by the sheer insanity of it all.
Before Megumi left, you smiled gratefully at him, wishing him a nice day, and he blinked at you, as if he wasn't used to someone telling him this, before catching himself and muttering a soft, "Have a good day too," before he left for his downtown office, doing whatever the head of the Zenin clan does.
He told you you can do whatever you like, just not leave the apartment, obviously, and not go into his office, or you will probably find stuff that will freak you out. His grumpy charm made you laugh, and he just raised an elegant eyebrow at you and stepped into the elevator.
You decide to take a long shower, then look through Megumi's book collection. One wall in the living area is dedicated to a reading corner. Several large bookshelves line the wall and a comfy-looking armchair is standing before them, a small table at its side with a stack of books, which seem to be Megumi's current reads.
You marvel at this beautiful home library, letting your fingers gently run over the spines of the books in one of the large bookshelves, scanning the titles for something that catches your interest. All are non-fiction books, you realize, and a small smile spreads over your face. It fits Megumi.
You pick out some interesting-sounding titles and settle down on the large, comfy black leather couch, reading and cuddling the dogs occasionally when they come over to you.
Maki comes over in the evening to drop off dinner, and it's kind of weird that she asks if you liked the nightdress she picked, but you wave it off as her type of humor, chuckle, and tell her it made you feel like the starlet in a dramatic TV show.
You retreat to your bedroom and read there until late at night, when you finally hear Megumi return. You can hear his footsteps in the hallway, can hear them stop in front of your room, and your heart beats faster than all day. A long moment passes, and then you hear him move further down the hallway, and then the running shower.
You tell yourself that you are absolutely not thinking about Megumi in the shower.
The next few days go by in a similar fashion. You spend your time reading or binge-watching TV shows you have been meaning to watch for years. There isn't much else to do.
The only people you encounter are Megumi, Maki, the guy who walks the dogs, and a nice woman in her sixties who comes over to clean the apartment, and thinks you are Megumi's girlfriend. And no matter how often you tell her it's not true, she insists that the two of you are a pretty couple and that she is happy he finally found someone who will hopefully stop him from frowning all the time.
In the evenings, Megumi comes home, usually asking what you want to eat, and then has it delivered for you. But tonight you want to break that cycle. It's bugging you that you just sit here all day, doing nothing. The shock of getting thrown into this situation has mostly worn off, and you want to do something, want to feel useful.
So when the sun begins to set, you decide to make dinner. Yes, Megumi said you don't have to pay him back, but you still feel guilty, and at least making dinner is something you can do.
You just turned off the stove when you hear the soft ding of the elevator announcing Megumi's return. He raises a surprised eyebrow when you call him over, but before he can complain, you quickly tell him,
"I know you said you don't want me to pay you back, so consider this just a normal dinner. I was hungry and made something for myself, but there is enough for both of us, so..."
You trail off, shrugging a bit sheepishly. Megumi looks at you for a long moment, but then takes off his suit jacket and sits down with you to eat together.
You already know Megumi isn't the type for small talk, so you aren't surprised when he grabs today's newspaper and starts reading it while eating. You lift your head to scan the headlines, and that's when you see it. Another article about the Zenin Killings.
And suddenly you can't take it anymore and blurt out,
"Was it really you? The Zenin Killings?"
Megumi's elegant hands clutch the newspaper tightly. He stares coldly at you over the newspaper, and then says in that dangerously soft voice,
"Yes, it was me."
Your heart misses a beat. Somehow, hearing him admit it so openly makes everything too real all of a sudden. The man sitting across from you is a murderer. You gulp hard, licking your lips nervously before you carefully ask,
"Why? To become clan head? But weren't you the next in line, anyway?"
Megumi sighs and puts the newspaper down. His face is a cold, emotionless mask for a moment as he gazes unseeingly across the room and at the city lights glittering outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Then he turns back to you with a resigned look on his face. Wordlessly, he opens the buttons on the left sleeve of his white dress shirt and pushes it up, once again revealing a toned forearm, covered in black and blue tattoos.
"Look."
He points at his left forearm, his long fingers slowly tracing the various shapes inked there. He starts at the two black rings circling his wrist.
"You are familiar with these black lines, aren't you? Sukuna and Yuuji have the same. Those are Itadori clan tattoos that the ones who are most loyal to the clan earn. And this here,"
Megumi brushes gently over a beautiful, intricate tattoo of a tiger and a wolf, entwined in what appears to be a playful fight. It's inked into his skin in fine black lines and carefully shaded in varying shades of blue.
"That's another Itadori motive, the tiger. But this tattoo doesn't represent the Itadori clan as a whole. It's for Yuuji."
You nod in understanding,
"He is the tiger, and you are the wolf... they don't look like they are attacking each other, though. It looks more like a playful fight. They look like friends."
Megumi nods softly, his jaw tensing as if he is trying to hold back an emotion he doesn't want to show,
"Because they are friends. Yuuji has the same motive on his left arm. We got it on the left side because that's the side that shows loyalty and commitment."
His dark blue eyes look deeply into yours, and a heavy silence settles between you. Letting it sink in what Megumi just said. And right when you are beginning to connect the dots, he says softly,
"I couldn't care less about being clan head. I didn't kill the Zenins to get more power or money. I did it because they posed a danger to Yuuji and Sukuna. I knew that Naoya wanted to become the new clan head and that he had a good chance, given how loyal the majority of the Zenin clan members were to him. But if he succeeded, he would have intensified the war against the Itadori clan. I couldn't let that happen."
"So you did it to..."
"To make sure my birth family wouldn't hurt the people I care about. The Itadoris are more my family than the Zenins ever were. Yuuji is my best friend. I have been his bodyguard since we both went to school together. I was with him during several attacks from the Zenin clan. We were lucky each time, but it was a close call. And I knew that Naoya, with the whole Zenin clan under his control, would probably succeed in killing Yuuji and Sukuna. I had to prevent that. So I used the momentary chaos after Naobito's death to my advantage, killing as many Zenins as I could. And I have no qualms about it. My only regret is that Naoya could get away. But I will find him and take him down, too, one day."
Megumi's midnight blue gaze is filled with grim conviction as he looks deeply into your eyes, as if daring you to say what he did is wrong or insane or both. When you don't say anything, he continues in a hard voice,
"You can judge me for killing so many. That's fine by me. I never claimed to be one of the good guys. But don't think I did it to gain money or power or because I was fond of the idea of becoming the clan head. I couldn't care less about things like that."
He pushes his sleeve down again, hiding the tattoos from view, and gets up.
"Thank you for dinner. It tasted really good."
He carries his empty plate to the sink and then leaves the kitchen without looking back. He is already halfway through the living area when you manage to call softly after him,
"Megumi! I don't think you are a bad person."
He stops walking, his posture tense, as he looks over his shoulder at you, his gaze inquiring as if he can't believe you are saying the truth. You look back at him unwaveringly, forcing yourself not to look away, letting him see you are being honest.
After a long moment, Megumi blinks, his gaze softening,
"Don't stay up too late. Good night."
His words are dismissive and have nothing to do with what you just said, but you can see the tiniest smile on his lips, and it says a thousand things more than anything he could say would.
You go to bed that night with your mind buzzing. Marveling at the fact that you had a whole conversation with Megumi, and not a shallow one, but a heartfelt, deep conversation. You feel closer to him. Like you met the man, Megumi, and not the clan head Megumi Zenin.
And even though he admitted to killing all those people without any qualms, you can't feel appalled by it. Not after knowing his reasons for it. He did it to protect someone who is dear to him. His best friend. Wouldn't you do the same for the people you love? Ok, maybe you wouldn't be capable of killing someone, but you can understand Megumi, and you don't have it in you to condemn him for it.
You feel less scared after the talk with Megumi. He seems more human now. Not as unfeeling as before. Of course, he still has blood on his hands, but you know he isn't a cold-blooded killer with no conscience. If you are honest, knowing he kills to protect the people who are important to him, is even strangely reassuring.
So, you aren't as anxious anymore. But another problem presents itself. You become increasingly aware of Megumi's presence. He is attractive, extremely so. Tall and fit with a face as pretty as a dark angel, and those midnight blue eyes could make you drown in them forever if you weren't careful not to look into them for too long.
It's hard not to be affected when he is near you. His fresh masculine scent is making your tummy flutter. His calm, low voice gives you the most delicious shivers. It worries you.
The last thing you want is to get involved with a Yakuza boss.
Fate seems to be against you, though. Because, of course, only a few days later, you walk in on Megumi showing way more skin than is good for you.
You are just looking for him because you can't find the tea-strainer, and mindlessly burst into his home gym, not thinking anything bad. And now you stand in the open doorway, mouth hanging open as you see Megumi in his workout clothes.
Low-sitting black sweatpants and a black t-shirt that's currently pulled up because Megumi is using it to wipe sweat off his face. And you see it all, his firm pecs and abs, and the deliciously defined V-line that disappears scandalously in his low-sitting sweatpants, involuntarily making you follow it with your eyes until your gaze lands on the contour of Megumi's cock outlined against his sweats.
You draw in a sharp breath and quickly tear your gaze away, pointedly staring at the wall when you mumble a bit breathlessly,
"Um, sorry to disturb, but can you tell me where the tea-strainer is, please?"
Your cheeks feel hot, and you think you must look so ridiculous, how you are standing here literally talking to the wall, because you are too flustered by a bit of naked skin.
You chance another careful glance, and see Megumi has turned his back to you to grab a towel. His shirt slips back over his skin to cover him up, but not before you also see his lean-muscled back and the large wolf tattoo covering most of it.
He looks outrageously good shirtless. His upper body has a perfect V-shape, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. And you probably won't be able to forget those abs anytime soon. You would love to...
"It's in the cupboard next to the coffee machine."
"What?"
Megumi looks over his broad shoulders at you, dark blue eyes incredulous,
"The tea strainer, of course."
You blink at him stupidly, feeling like you want to vanish into the floor. An embarrassed laugh bubbles out of your mouth, and you nod quickly, thanking him before you practically flee the room, feeling like an idiot.
At least Megumi is the kind of stoic person who doesn't tease you about getting all flustered over his body, but rather chooses to ignore it. But you know he is smart and very perceptive. So he definitely knows.
After that incident, you feel a new kind of restlessness. You try to convince yourself it's just cabin fever after being here for almost two weeks. Locked in a gold cage, unable to set a foot outside because it could be the last thing you do. It's only logical to feel on edge in a situation like that. It has nothing to do with Megumi and how hot he is.
But in the silent hours of the night when you toss from side to side, unable to fall asleep, you can't lie to yourself, and that treacherous voice in your head whispers to you, "You know you want him."
AAAHHH thank you so much for reading!! Megumi and his personal feelings, huh? 😘
I got so emotional when I wrote the scene where he tells Reader about his reasons for killing half of the Zenin clan. And the "Megumi! I don't think you are a bad person," 😭😭 Can you tell that I really love Megumi's and Reader's dynamic?
And I had so much fun imagining how they are both so affected by each other. Megumi is almost getting a nosebleed from thinking about Reader in that silk nightdress, and Reader is fantasizing about his abs all day (just like me ngl). I am so looking forward to what this tension between them will lead to in the next chapter ;)
I hope you enjoyed Chapter 3! Thank you so much for all your love on the other parts! As always, I would be very happy about reblogs and comments, etc 💗
more king!ghost because he’s rotting my brain
long, shaggy blonde hair that falls across his face, covering the large scar that goes across his left eye all the way down to his lips
there’s no chair for you. there’s his throne where he sits, and then you in his lap or splayed out at his feet with your head resting upon his knee. even during feasts, you’re draped across his lap, head dizzy with wine and mead
If he’s feeling nice, he’ll let your head loll against his shoulder and sleep despite the noise of his rowdy soldiers. until he gets bored and wakes you up, sending you to bed with a lazy flick of his wrist
he doesn’t kiss you, even when he fucks you. you got one kiss at the altar, all tongue and teeth. his big paw gripping your jaw roughly, his heavy breaths warming your face as his spit glistened your lips
when he returns from battle, he’ll always say the same thing to the servants waiting at the doors of the castle
“draw me a bath and bring me my woman.”
i’ll be home | jjk
PAIRING jungkook x reader (minor namjoon x reader)
GENRE fluff. smut. angst. fantasy!au. f2l.
RATING explicit.
WC 22.3k
SUMMARY When your first love, Jungkook, disappeared from your village five years ago, no one thought he would return, let alone on the night of your betrothal to another man.
WARNINGS AND TAGS this is somewhere between fantasy and “olden days.” fem reader. pining. slow burn (i’m sorry i didn’t mean it). makeout. yes there’s some angst but i promise it has a very happy ending. world with gendered expectations. world that defies the laws of known physics. grinding. public nudity. outdoor sex. breastplay. hand job. loss of virginity. unprotected sex (don’t be stupid u don’t live in a magical world like these folks.) marking. creampie.
Keep reading
mamma mia!
satoru x reader, sukuna x reader, kento x reader
what’s more chaotic than a wedding? try three ex-lovers showing up unannounced because your son is hoping one of them is his father. one minute, you’re struggling to keep your hostel afloat. the next, you’re wrangling old flames like stray cats and wondering how your life turned into a rom-com gone spectacularly wrong.
soooo excited to be part of @indiewritesxoxo's friday night flicks event!! this will be in two parts, with some shorts along the way <3 dividers by @bronzewasp.
comment for taglist (age visible on blog please) !!!
content: smut, fluff, angst (as usual)! love polygon in some ways, unplanned pregnancy, strangers to lovers, infidelity, miscommunication. each part will have more specific content tags
full masterlist
18+ please <3
part one: dancing queen
part two: super trouper
journal entries ink still drying...
defiance masterlist | king!sukuna x servant!reader
summary: a psychic shares her vision with the king, saying that his soulmate would replace all 5 of his concubines one day. he had her banned from the premises for that absurd prediction. it wasn't until months later when he started believing the old bitch, after one cute yet disobedient servant started working at the shrine. TL;DR: sukuna's a sorcerer in this one, still ooc but not too much. mc pretty much ran away from home for being a hoe, and went to work at sukuna's shrine lol.
genre: female reader, heian era au, 18+, grumpy x sunshine, fluff, smut, crack, angst, no he wont have two sets of arms, and no he wont have two dicks, i'm really sorry
fic warnings: profanity, explicit smut, graphic depictions of violence, death, pregnancy, war
wc: 106k (complete)
side stories: delicate
Ko-fi link for those who are feeling generous and wanted to show extra support ❤️
One: Did I give you permission?
Two: Flower festival
Three: The King of Curses
Four: Temper
Five: Depraved
Six: My Little Dove
Seven: Counting the Rings Inside of the Willow Tree
Eight: White Silence
Nine: Say Yes to Heaven
Ten: Hidden Letters
Eleven: A True Blessing
Twelve: Energy Shift Part One
Thirteen: Energy Shift Part Two
Fourteen: Prelude
Fifteen: A Sharp Turn
Sixteen: Dream’s Over
Seventeen: Beneath The Lotus; A Devils Cleanse
Eighteen: I Can Clean Impurity
Nineteen: Climbing up the Walls
Twenty: Sumire
Twenty One: Sayomi
Epilogue
extras:
king!sukuna headcanons
dovey’s style
what ryuko looks like
the concubines
playlist
All rights reserved © 2024 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform.
I felt that fr
If you’re currently being affected by the wildfires in LA please stay safe!!
ok ok how about mute?ghost who you aren't sure if he's actually mute or if he just chooses not to say anything. you hear a different answer from everyone you ask. (18+)
ever since mexico, wouldn't say a fucking word.
nah, mate, he's been zipped shut since he enlisted.
heard it was a mad accident.
what you mean? heard him telling off privates not even a year ago!
well, since you're a certified yapper, and ghost can't (won't) tell you to shut up, you make him your living diary. whenever you see him around, you sit next to him, stop by his office, hop up onto his desk and talk to him. you tell him about your day, about the recruits that bother you the most, about the meals in the mess hall being worse on saturdays than on mondays (fuck, you'd think the weekend would put some pep in their step, no?).
but gosh, when ghost finally had you seated in his lap with your pants around one ankle, you really weren't expecting to hear him.
pussy-drunk, tongue out, hands gripping your ass as he listens to the wet smack of your thighs against his, and that's all it takes for him to let out the filthiest groan you've ever heard, enough to make you spiral, see red-hot stars, to shake and cry until you're cumming and babbling and even more incoherent.
when they talk about ghost, you still keep your mouth shut. you're still not sure if he talks, fuck if i know, is what you say.
but if you suck his cock just right, you're certain he's singing.
