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samandcolbyownme · 1 month

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Summary: Anon request - "hi my birthdays on monday the day before yours so i was wondering if you could do a fwb w zach and reader and like its smut and then after zach confesses he likes her???"

Warnings: SMUT18+, strong language, FWB relationship, confessing feelings, oral (f rec), hair pulling, biting, hickies, scratching, choking, unprotected sex, filth and fluff, also Zach will have his own place in this one shot.

Word count: 2.6k | unedited

Happy (late) Birthday! I hope you had the best day! Ily 🤍🎂

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Usually you and Zach were professional with the hookups.

Get in. Get done. Leave.

But something about this final time was.. different.

You sit down on your couch, finding a way to break yourself of this boredom that you've been trapped in all day.

A smirk comes across your lips as your eyes meet Zach's name in your contact list.

One of your favorite things to do, besides fuck him, was fucking with him.

You go to your text thread and laugh slightly as you type out your message, Hey so I heard that you were flirting pretty heavy with your guest today.

You set your phone down in your lap to lean forward and grab the remote. As you lean back, your phone goes off.

You laugh, shaking your head no as you read his response, Aw sweetheart. You sound like you have that bug that's going out? You know the one called jealousy.

You tilt your head, I don't get jealous, thank you. Strictly professional business, remember?

You laugh slightly, shaking your head as you wait for the bubbles to leave and his text to appear, I can honestly say that you are a liar.

You scoff, fuck you.

You pull your lower lip between your teeth as your eyes scan his text, Come fuck me yourself you coward.

You tilt your head, a smirk etched onto your lips as you type out, What are you doing right now?

Zach immediately replies, About to get in the shower.

You stand up, walking over to grab your keys, Wait for me. I'm on my way.

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

The door opens as soon as you reach the stop of the stairs and you smirk as you walk in the door, right past Zach, "Thank you."

You turn around, eyes scanning over his shirtless figure, "So.. did you wait for me?"

Zach locks his door and walks over to you, "What do you think?" He smirks and leans in to close the space between your faces.

You drop your bag, hands immediately going to his cheeks. His hands slide down to slip inside of your sweatshirt, "Nothing underneath?" Zach raises his brows, "Must be desperate for me tonight."

You roll your eyes, "Yeah, whatever just kiss me." You pull his face back towards yours and his hands slide to your hips, pulling you closer to him.

He bends down, lifting you up and your legs fall around his waist. He walks into the bathroom, turning to press you up against the wall.

His lips move down your neck, biting and sucking little marks into your skin.

You whimper, moaning out with each new mark, "Zach." You breathe out, "Please."

He kisses back up to your lips, "You gotta take your clothes off for me, baby."

Baby should raise flags.

Red flags.

That's not in the can part of the imagined rule book for this.

But you just go with it, "Okay." You nod, letting your legs fall from around his waist. He sets you down, stepping back so he can flip the shower on.

His eyes meet yours then slowly trail down your body as you work to reveal it all to him.

"Come here." Zach reaches out, pulling you to him once your hand is in his. His lips are on yours, his hands slide all over your body like they haven't been there a million times already.

You slide your hands down his chest, nails dragging over his skin, and pull the band of his sweats away from his waist.

You slip your other hand down, "Mm. No boxers. Must be desperate for me tonight." You smirk and Zach shakes his head, "You're my favorite pain in the ass."

He smiles and presses his lips to yours, bending down slightly to push his sweats down. You help push them down before your hand wraps around his cock.

A small moan escapes and you smirk against his lips.

Zach walks you over to the steam filled shower, pulling the door back before he walks you back a step.

You gasp at the hot water washing over your body and Zack smirks, "almost as hot as you."

You bite your lip and pull him in for a kiss. Your lips move in synch, graduating to a heated, beautiful, full of passion make out.

He slides a hand down your body, biting down on your lip and tilting his head back as his fingers work your clit with small circles.

You grip his shoulders, parting your thigh as you tilt your head back. A moan falls through, causing Zach to smile.

His head dips down and he kisses down your chest, fingers slipping back to rub the opening of your soaked cunt.

"Z-Zach." You whimper, "I need you."

"What was that, baby? Couldn't quite hear ya." Zach whispers in your ear and you give your whole being over to him, moaning out loudly, "I fucking need you."

"That's what I thought you said." He chuckles quietly as his fingers slip into you, "Can you say it again?"

You rest your head back on the walls nails gradually digging into his shoulders, "Fuck. Zach." You look at him, scrunching up your face as he pushes his fingers in more, "I need you."

He smirks and pulls his fingers out, "How do you need it, sweetheart?"

You wrap your arms around his neck, lifting one leg to rest on the outside of his thigh, "I don't care how, just fuck me."

Zach instantly lifts you up, cock pressing against where you need him most at the moment.

You lean in, pressing your lips to his as he slips inside of you. You both moan, hands gripping into each other tightly.

"You always feel so fucking good." Zach mumbles against your lips and you nod, "Mhm."

You slide a hand to the back of his head, tangling your fingers in his hair. You earn a groan from him as you pull, "Shit."

You tilt your head back, moaning out loudly as his hips Slam against your body.

"We can do this later." Zach says reaching over to shut the water off.

Your heart sinks because at first you didn't know what he meant.

He walks out, you still in his arms, and he tosses you on the bed. You let out a laugh, "Zach, I'm soaked!"

He crawls over your body, giving you a smirk as he nods, "Oh I know you are." He raises his brows and leans down to kiss down your body.

You let out gasps and whimpers as you feel him suck different spots into your skin.

His hands push your thighs open and he immediately kisses down to your clit.

You gasp, brows furrowing as his tongue laps over it, "Shit." You look down, watching as he licks down and pushes his tongue into you.

You tilt your head back, arching your back as you lay your hands on his head, tightening your grip on his hair.

He groans against you and you whimper, "Fuck, that feels so good." You lay your leg over his shoulder, pulling him into you more.

His hand slides a hand over, slipping two fingers inside of you as he kisses your inner thigh.

You slide a hand down, rubbing circles onto your clit.

"There ya go baby, atta girl." Zach bites his lip as his eyes flick from your face to where his fingers are. His eyes move to fixate on yours still rubbing circles.

"Fuck." Zach groan, moving his hips, "I need you."

He pulls his fingers out and quickly moves up so his body is over yours. He pushes your leg open further as he looks down to watch his cock slip into you slowly.

"Oh fuck." You moan, back arching.

Zach's eyes travel up and down your body, watching your boobs bounce as he thrusts slow and hard into you.

You reach as Zach speeds up his thrust. You pull the corner of the pillow that your head is resting on, moaning out loudly, "Fuck, fuck fuck."

Zach leans down, lips connecting to yours. He slows his thrusts down, mainly focusing on the kiss he's sharing with you right now.

This wasn't just like any other get in, get out time.

This was, dare you say almost like, lovemaking?

Whatever it was, you liked it and you really didn't it want it to end. Ever.

"I love you." Zach whispers, and that completely catches you off guard. You stare up at him, hand on his cheek as you try to decipher on whether or not it's an in the moment type of thing or.. what.

"I love you." He whispers, pausing everything as he kisses you.

You nod, pulling your head back slightly, "I love you."

Zach tilts your chin up, resuming his thrusts as soon as he kisses you. After a short moment, he rolls over and you crawl on top of him.

He reaches down, inserting his cock back into you and you moan into his neck. Your chest is pressed against his and his hands slide down to grip your ass.

The movements are at a slow pace, usually they're fast.

You honestly didn't think you and Zach knew what slow was.

He moves your hips up and down, moaning into your mouth as he slowly thrusts from below you. He slides a hand up, laying it in the center of your back, holding you to him.

You rest your forehead against his neck, moaning out as your hand slides up to lay on his cheek. You tilt your head up, moving in to kiss him.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum." Zach whispers and you nod.

He rolls you back over, lips attaching to your neck as his thrusts pick up speed.

Your eyes roll back and you squeeze his cock, moaning as you feel your orgasm rolling up through your body.

You drag your nails up his back, earning a groan from his lips, his back muscles flexing under your touch, "Fuck, fuck."

He slides a hand up, laying it onto your neck as he kisses you. His thrusts grow sloppy as his grip on your neck grows tighter.

He pulls out, making you both gasp, "Shit." He breathes out as you reach down to stroke his cock a few times.

He opens his eyes and looks down at you, "Well fuck me."

You smile, patting his cheek, "I already did." He nods, a smirk growing huge on his face, "Yeah, I'll be honest. You did."

You give him a grin, "I think it was pretty.. mutual."

He tilts his head, "Um, yeah, I'd say so, too." He sits up, letting out a groan, "Great going."

"What?" You ask sitting up onto your elbows, "What did I do?"

He points to the bed, "You literally soaked my sheets."

You laugh, "That was all you. You didn't dry me off."

Zach scoffs, "I'm sorry, I had more important things on my mind." He gets off the bed and grabs a towel, walking back over to you.

He sits down, turning towards you so he can wipe off his mess on your waist. He stands up, "Pick a shirt or something."

That meant you weren't leaving. Which was, in all honestly, strangely weird to do. You're so used to just getting dressed in the clothes you came in and leaving.

You stand up, watching as he slips his sweats back on and walks out to the living room. You slip on your underwear and pull on one of his sweatshirts before following him.

He's lying on the couch, arm resting on the arm rest as he clicks through movies. You walk out more and he moves the blanket that's covering his legs, "Well don't just stand there lookin' pretty."

He nods towards the couch and you smile, walking over to sit down in front of him. You lay down, back against his chest, and he fixes the blanket to cover your legs, too.

"Good?" He asks and you nod, "Uh huh."

You chew on your lip, remembering what you exchanged.

"So.." you start out, pausing for a second because you were really unsure of what to say, but Zach knew exactly where this was heading and sprung into action, "So.."

You slowly turn your head to look up at him and he laughs "ummm.." he purses his lips, trying not to smile, "I want you."

He nods and looks down at you, "Like in the I caught feelings like an amateur.. well well well, if it isn't the feelings I've been trying to avoid kind of way."

You tilt your head slightly, "You're cute when you're flustered."

Zach groans, "I'm trying to be serious, here. Y/n, please."

You smirk, "Key word, trying." He rolls his eyes, "Fine then you don't get to pick the movie." You look back at the tv with a smile, "We probably won't finish it anyway."

"Whoa whoa whoa." Zach waves his hand, "Now before we go assuming the best possible outcome." He laughs slightly, "We need to make one thing clear."

"And what's that?" You ask looking back up at him and he looks sown at you with a funny look, "Whether or not you want me too, duh."

You laugh slightly and lean up plant a kiss to his lips, "Je pense que vous le savez."

"You speak French?" Zach asks surprised and you nod, tilting your head, "You don't?"

"Only between your legs, sweetheart." He smirks and you laugh, "Oh my god." He laughs, "Too. Good."

He reaches up and puts on a movie before leaning down to kiss your face a few times.

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

The next day, you wake up, glancing over at Zach before heading to the bathroom. As you pass by the mirror inside, you stop and step back.

You turn and face it, leaning in as you move your hair.

You laugh slightly when you see the back to back hickies on your neck, "Oh my god." You whisper to yourself.

But then you get curious as to where else he put any. You lift up your shirt, eyes widening as you see the small bruises littered over your skin.

You look at the door as you hear Zach walk out of his room. You walk over, opening the door, "So." You laughed stepping out with your shirt pulled up above your boobs, "What are these?"

His eyes widen and he raises his brows, "Those, sweetheart." He walks over to you, hands on your hips, "Are the greatest tits I've ever seen it my life."

You smirk, tilting your head, "Thank you, but I was talking about the hickies." you pull your shirt down and Zach pouts, "Aw hey, don't ruin the fun."

"You fucking branded me with hickies." You motion to your chest, laughing as you look at him.

Zach shrugs, "Just gotta make sure that if anyone gets a peak, they know you're mine." He gives you a wink and nods towards the couch, "Now come on, let me give you more."

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

To the person who requested: sorry it was a day late, but I hope you like it!

Anyway, thanks for reading! I love you all!

Likes and reblogs are majorly appreciated! 🖤

#samandcolby-ownme #Zach justice #Zach Justice one shot #Zach justice smut #Zach justice fluff #smut warning #fluff #smut #smut one shot #zach justice dropouts podcast #zach justice x reader smut #zach justice fanfiction #zach justice fanfic #zach justice x y/n #zach justice dropouts #zach justice x reader #Zach justice dirty one shot

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mikobeautifulheart · 29 days

Note

What would megumi do when he finds you crying over him❤

Uh YES.

you know what? I think ily. And its unedited sorry!

Crying over Megumi

TW: none.

"Has anyone seen y/n?" Megumi asked glancing up from his phone.

The sister school event ended and you were urgently called onto a mission.

You were supposed to be back from your mission 30 minutes ago.

"No...what's the time now, she can't be to far away." Nobora said swinging in her chair.

"She's late." He mumbled

"It happens" Yuji said sensing Megumis unease.

"Wait here for her, I'm going searching." Megumis said shoving his phone in his pocket and walking out the door before anyone responded.

Megumi started to worry, you weren't weak, sure you were sweet. And kind. And innocent. And perfect. And everything he was looking for... But if anything you were fully capable of taking care of yourself.

It's just before you left that day, you seemed off.

There was something about the missing smile on your face that put Megumi off.

"Y/n? Are you in there?" He knocks on every door for every room in the school but you weren't there.

Where could you be?

He thought back on the day, nothing weird. Except...

You were talking to the Kyoto Jujutsu students when he could see your eyes twitch. Really he brushed it off thinking it was nothing.

But you didn't go on your mission alone, they called in one of the female students from Kyoto to back you up. As you said your goodbyes he watched as your hands balled into fists and you left.

That was strange, it wasn't easy to make you mad, even Sukuna couldn't make you as angery as you were then.

He walked over to the dormitory and knocked on your door.

"Y/n, are you in there?"

He heard shuffles but no response.

"Y/n I know your in there."

"Go...away" you said.

"I'm coming in" he said pushing the door open.

He poked his head through first to see you sitting on the floor, holding a pillow to your face.

"I said leave me alone" you mumbled behind the pillow.

"No, you said go away." He said now standing in your dorm, shutting the door behind him.

You were a mess, in the nicest way possible.

You were clearly done for the day sitting on the floor with an over sized shirt on, ends of your hair still sightly dripping some water from your shower.

"...are you okay?" He asked standing frozen.

Megumi didn't plan for this, all he really thought was finding you and going to a nearby vending machine, you ramble on about your mission and he just admires your lips.

"y...yeah, I'm just tiered." You said still refusing to look at him.

His heart is thumping out of his chest right now. Usually this would be great but he could clearly tell that something was off.

"Move the pillow." he said

"no."

"Y/n"

"No"

He reached forward and grabbed a side of the pillow pulling it out of your arms, leaving you defenceless.

"are you-crying?"

Your red cheeks were exposed and your moist eye lids were glimmering. Noticing that your sheild was missing, you pull your shirt over your head.

Megumi sifts down Infront of you now filled with concern. "What happened y/n? Did somebody hurt you? Tell me who and ill go set the record straight. What did they do?" The concern turned into anger, who upset such a perfect person? They were in for it now.

"Its okay Megumi, don't worry about it." You said

"I'm happy for you..."

"What? y/n I need to know what's going on, just tell me please, ill do whatever you want, if you want me to beat them I will, if you want me to leave them alone...ill try but I need to know what's going on."

Your head slowly comes out the top of your shirt again, now looking at him in the eyes.

"Megumi *sniff* do you have a girl friend?" You said. Your eyes were gilmering in hope and dispair. Megumi's on the other hand were...confused

"Huh?" He blinked

"So she was right! How could I have been so stupid!" You said hitting your head with your fist.

"wa-wai-wait what? No Y/n, I don't have a girlfriend." He sighed.

"REALLY! ?" You said in shock and excitement.

"I swear if Nobora told you i-"

"No, it was the girl from Kyoto" You sighed in relief.

"The girl from the Kyoto school? That was here today?"

"Yeah, she told me that I should stay to close to you because you already had a girlfriend. Like I get the message but she was being such a butch about it-"

"But you cried, why?"

You looked to your side as your face turned red. Little did you notice Megumi's ears were turning red to.

"Because I like you. But not as a friend? I like like you...alot." You said slowly turning to face him to see his reaction.

His face was turned to.

"Uh."

"but I totally get if you don't feel the same way, I just, I had to tell you." You said looking down wishing the ground would swallow you whole.

"No, I like you to. Probably more then I should but I do." Megumi said. As the atmosphere warmed up he couldn't help but let is eyes wander. That shirt was just hanging so loosely.

"really?" You said awkwardly, before you even looked up properly you felt him lean in and something take your breath away.

A confession and now straight into a kiss? God he was getting bold, Megumi thought.

You melted right into it to.

"If that doesn't answer the question, I have 10 other ways that can give you a pretty straight answer." He said pulling back sightly before capturing your lips again.

THANKS FOR READINGGG ♡

AUTHORS NOTE: Teheheeh oh you anons, making me feel like I'm the singles person on the planet, you sillys.

ANYWAYS Guys I'm running low on requests. I've nearly finished all my drafts (which I'll publish this week). HELP ME PLEASE AUGH. Have a good whatever time and reblogs r OK.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk fluff #megumi fushiguro #megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro x reader #jjk fushiguro #megumi x you #megumi fluff #jjk megumi #jujutsu kaisen megumi #megumi fanfic

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endlessthxxghts · 3 months

Note

Babes you already know. Smutttaaaay!!! Let’s go with Frankie, and I would really love for you to include a food item. Not saying it HAS to be caramel, but like, also not saying that. 😉 ILY and I am SO FREAKING PROUD OF YOU. You write your bootay off and feed us all. You deserve it!

Please accept 1,000 kiths from me to you. 💋💖

Comfortable

Frankie Morales x afab!reader Can be read as a standalone or in association with Liquid Gold.

Summary: Frankie helps fulfill your craving for s'mores. SMUT 18+ MDNI: food play (melted chocolate), slight soft dom!Frankie, neck kissing/hickeys, vaginal fingering, finger sucking, cumming untouched.

A/N: @katiexpunk, MY LOVE, I LOVE AND APPRECIATE YOU SO MUCH. I'M GIVING YOU 1,000 KISSES RIGHT BACK. I'm also giving you 1,000 (maybe slightly more… but I won’t tell if u don’t🤐) smutty words right back. 💋💋

MASTERLIST || L'S 1K CELEBRATION

It wasn’t often you craved s’mores, but when you did—God, did you need them immediately. Frankie knew right away there was no battling you on this even though you two were in the middle of cuddle time, so with a kiss to your forehead, he told you he’d set up the bonfire while you dressed into something more warm.

Padding to your room, you change into your usual bonfire outfit—a two-sizes too big sweatshirt paired with your favorite flannel pajama pants—then you make the trek to your backyard to Frankie basking in the orange glow of the flame, all the s’more ingredients placed on the chair beside him.

He smiles at you, opening his legs further, patting his lap. You make your way to him, and with his hands on your hips, he turns you around to face the fire, settling you to sit on the inside of his thigh.

“I’ll have mine after yours, baby, get your fix first,” Frankie tells you, placing a kiss on your shoulder as he places a fluffy marshmallow on the skewer.

“Okay, baby,” you beam, turning your body more to face the fire—your ass directly on his crotch at the change in position. Frankie nearly chokes on his spit.

After a few more seconds, you’re sitting back up, the friction against him enough for a breathy groan to escape his lips. “Done! Ready for the assembly, baby, can you-”

Only then do you take him in, your eyes meeting his pained expression. “Baby- are- are you okay? Am I hurting you? I could pull up another chair-”

You move to get up, one hand still holding the skewer slightly over the fire as you look back to Frankie behind you, but his hands wrap around your thighs, keeping you atop of him.

“No,” he cuts you off. “Don’t- You’re- you’re not hurting me,” he tells you.

“Are you sure? Really, if this isn’t comfortable-”

Frankie sits up a little straighter, a little taller now, his face closer to yours. He stops your rambling again. “Querida, does it feel like I’m uncomfortable?” He asks, voice an octave lower.

As soon as the question leaves his lips, you realize how hard he feels beneath you. You realize then, too, that his gaze isn’t pained. No, it’s aroused. Your heart skips a beat, a tiny squeak of an oh escapes you. “No, I guess- I guess not,” you whisper.

Suddenly, Frankie’s clearing his throat, trying to erase his dirty mind to help you satisfy your s’more craving. He reaches to the seat beside him, grabbing the graham cracker rectangle and breaking it in half, laying a piece of already semi-melted chocolate onto the cracker before he sandwiches the marshmallow, squishing it tightly so you can pull the skewer out.

Setting the skewer down, you grab the s’more from him, taking your first bite. As you relish the pleasure hitting your taste buds, Frankie’s hands are on a mission, settling on the insides of your thighs and pushing them open, guiding each of your legs to sit on the outside of his. He doesn’t go further yet, just sits there rubbing on your thighs as you eat.

Halfway through your dessert, you feel his hand start to make its way higher, his large hand cupping the entirety of your mound through your pants, his tongue licking a stripe up your neck.

“Frankie,” you whimper, pausing your work on your s’more.

“Shh, just-” he breathes, rubbing your clothed pussy in a slow, circular motion as he speaks. “Just finish your s’more, baby, don’t mind me.”

You can’t help the way your hips thrust into his hand, your body already hotter than the fire burning not even 3 feet away from you. “Please,” you cry again.

“Finish it, baby, I’ll give you what you want when you do,” he breathes. You can feel his cock twitch underneath your ass, only spurring you on more.

Utterly distracted, you didn’t realize just how tight you’re squeezing the poor sandwich, so a big glob of melted chocolate plops right on your face—from your bottom lip down to your chin.

A frustrated huff of disappointment leaves you, turning your head to Frankie with a pout. “Baby, my chocolate,” you whine.

His free hand glides up your body, settling on the base of your neck, his long finger nudging your chin to look at him. “Mírame,” look at me, he rasps, his tongue coming out to lick up the chocolate on your chin, bringing himself all the way up to your lips, pulling you in for a sloppy, chocolatey clash of mouth. The last bite of your s’more now forgotten as it falls to the floor, you reach to grab onto the wrist of the hand that’s rubbing you while your other hand plants itself in his messy curls, keeping him flush against your lips as you both swallow each other's desperations.

He breaks away, sucking and releasing your bottom lip with a pop as he goes. “So damn sweet, querida,” he moans into you, bringing his mouth back down to your throat, biting and sucking as his fingers make their way inside your pants, passing your clit to lather his fingers in your slick before he comes back up and continues his slippery assault all over your pulsing bud.

“Oh, sh- shit-” you squeal, your hips thrusting wildly against him, the pleasure overtaking every inch of your body. A particular nip to the sweet spot of your neck has you reeling, Frankie taking that moment of weakness to slide his two fingers inside of you easily, the feeling of a stretch prevalent but all too consuming to register as any kind of pain.

“Fuck, baby-” his deep voice grumbles into your neck. “Feel so good wrapped around my fingers like this, honey, oh, fuck-”

His own hips start to move, his length rubbing against the swell of your ass, his own pleasure starting to cloud his brain.

In the corner of his eye, he sees the chocolate beside him, apparently a bit too close to the fire because it’s now a melty gooey mess in its wrapper. Way too addicted to a sweet mess with you, he can’t stop his free hand from reaching over to the chocolate, and squeezing the melted sweetness, spilling all over your neck—his tongue immediately laps it up as you moan and writhe on top of him.

“Yes- yes, Frankie, please, m-more,” you sob, your breathing as erratic as your hummingbird of a heart.

“Yeah? My sweet baby wants more?” He asks, biting the lobe of your ear. “Where do you want it? Here?” He licks your neck. “Or you want it here?” His finger makes its way to your mouth, tapping on your bottom lip, your mouth immediately opening to allow him entrance.

A whimper leaves your throat as his finger finds itself on your tongue. “Oh, sweet girl,” he breathes, his hand slipping away from your mouth momentarily.

You were expecting him to bring the chocolate to your mouth, but instead you’re met with two of his fingers—completely covered in chocolate, all for you to lap up. “Just want something in that pretty little mouth of yours, huh, cariño? I got you, sweet girl, open up for me,” he whispers, his long fingers already hitting the back of your throat, your eyes rolling back at the sweet, full sensation in your mouth.

You’re quite literally rendered speechless now, pornographic squeals and moans unrelenting as he continues to keep your mouth and pussy full. A familiar tingle at the base of your spine flickers, growing brighter and brighter as his release approaches.

Your whimpers grow more desperate as your pussy flutters around his digits—he knows you're close. “Alright, baby, alright, baby, come on now,” he coos, his fingers leaving your mouth, your lips and chin covered in your overproduction of saliva. He puts his own fingers into his mouth now, drinking you in but also making sure all the chocolate is gone, he now brings those fingers down to your sex, rubbing on your clit as his other hand continues to fuck you towards your high.

Turning your head to him, your tongues meet first, hints of sweet cocoa mixed with a flavor that’s all Frankie—your orgasm hits you hard, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you grind yourself against his lap, his hand and your pants completely soaked in your arousal. He moans with you, his hips shaking against your own as a slight warmth floods your lower back.

Fuck. He just came.

You both come to a halt, sitting in your own messes for a minute to let your hearts sync to a slower beat. You pull his hand from your pants, bringing his finger up to your mouth and sucking it clean. You can hear a low groan from the back of his throat. You turn to him. “Sweet,” you say. “Wanna try?” You ask with a smirk.

“Cheeky,” he mutters, bringing his fingers up to his own mouth, licking your spend clean.

Too caught up in each other’s embrace, you forgot to tend to the fire, now just a pile of barely glowing wood, a shiver racks your body—particularly your drenched, lower body.

“Are you sure you’re still comfortable like this?” You repeat your sentiment from earlier, a hint of amusement laced in your voice.

“Yeah, no, baby, I think we should go inside and clean up,” he says, kissing your temple. His hand makes its way down, cupping your sex once more. “Still haven’t had my dessert yet.”

You shoot up from your place in his lap, pulling him up and hastily making your way to the bathroom. “Let’s get going, then, baby, I don’t wanna keep you waiting,” you say, mischief written all over your face.

End note: God, someone lock me in a room with Frankie and a bunch of messy foods, please and thanks. Katie, baby, I hope this does our food play delulus justice. Many sloppy kisses for u. Thank you everyone again for being on this journey with me, for supporting me, for interacting with me. I know I say it a lot, but truly, there are no words to describe my endless amount of gratitude I have for you all. Thank you. More requests were sent in!! Keep on the lookout for those!! Please do let me know what you guys think, too!! I love hearing what you guys think about these lil stories :-)

170 notes · View notes

effortandmore · 10 months

Text

the sleeping hours | knj x f!reader

summary: namjoon thinks there must be infinite versions of the universe, and in every one he’s known, he’s meant to love you.

pairing: namjoon x f!reader

rating: explicit (18+ please)

genre: fluff, smut, angst

au: okay. so this is canon-compliant but also maybe a little bit of a time-travel/multiverse au

warnings/tags: here we go... time travel (kind of), discussions of war, descriptions of famine, talks of anarchy/revolution, descriptions of ww2 germany and nazis, minor character death (not a tannie), implied gun violence, the japanese occupation of korea, sex worker!namjoon, soldier!namjoon, architect!namjoon, idol!namjoon, spy!reader, namjoon has a big dick (ofc), mentions of blood... smut, including: biting, unprotected sex, sex work (this is not the unprotected sex), oral sex (f!receiving), a little bit of cumplay... idk i think that's all but honestly it's not as weird as it sounds i promise

word count: ~12k

a/n: i have wanted to write a songfic for "here i dreamt i was an architect" by the decemberists for... years now. and with my three month vacation from work, i've finally done it! listening to the song will help this make more sense, but essentially there are three verses, and they start like this: "here i dreamt i was a soldier," "here i dreamt i was an architect," & "and in spain i was a spaniard." so, i thought it would be fun to turn that into a story about namjoon and reader across all these different universes. my research for this fic was completely unhinged, and i'm sure i still got some things wrong. if you need translations for any of the dutch, german, or spanish in this, lmk but i think it's pretty readable given context. i hope you like it, but even if you don't, i'm glad i wrote it. thank you so so so much to @ugh-yoongi who assured me this was not too unhinged for the locals—ily and i appreciate you

read on ao3

Namjoon always tells people he doesn’t have dreams, but it’s a lie… Sort of.

If these are dreams, he doesn’t know how billions of people aren’t talking about them like they’re magical experiences, can’t fathom why so many people still don’t believe in multiverse theory.

Lying about it seems infinitely easier than trying to explain it to people. His “dreams,” if that’s what they are, seem so real. He can smell the scents, he can feel the rain and the blood and the orgasm that courses through him when he inevitably, in every single one, finds a version of you. When he wakes up, he can feel the phantom pain, feels like his skin’s just barely dried out from a shower, feels loose and lazy with the pleasure he’d felt while he was asleep.

So, he says he doesn’t dream, because he’s halfway convinced they’re actually happening, and he has absolutely no clue how to explain that to anyone. He thinks there must be infinite versions of the universe, infinite versions of him. At first, he thought maybe it was a past-lives sort of thing, but he’s lived parallel paths on different parts of the planet during the same time frames. Or, he’s dreamt that he has, anyway… maybe they’re dreams. Maybe not. What he’s sure of, though, is that you must be out there in the universe he lives in—you must exist outside of this near fugue state where he always finds you. If you’re on the streets of Germany during the war, if you’re in Andalucia dancing the flamenco and catching his eye on every twirl… If you’re fleeing with him to Jeju as more and more Japanese soldiers encircle your small farm town… If you’re all of those places, he knows you must be here, too.

There must be infinite versions of the universe, and in every one he’s known, he’s meant to love you.

Every dream is different, but the love he feels for you? It’s always the same, and it goes like this:

Birkenau, Germany — April, 1942

He comes to, and he’s lying in a cot. It’s dark. It would be pitch black, except there’s a crack of light on the floor that’s muted and warm-looking even though the air around him still carries a bit of leftover winter chill. Somehow, he knows there’s a coal shortage this spring because of the war. There’s an everything shortage, really. No coal, no clothes, no food… He can’t think of a time he’d eaten anything but potatoes in days… Namjoon can’t think of anything, really. It’s strange, his memories feel dull, rounded around the edges and blurred out, everything just slightly out of reach. Maybe it’s lack of sleep, maybe it’s hypothermia (he’s a little dramatic), maybe it’s hunger; he doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to know, because there’s not much to be done about whatever it is. Knowing the future doesn’t always mean you can change it, he thinks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

The clothes he is wearing are stiff—they make it hard for him to bend his elbow to reach his own face. There’s a worn crease in his right sleeve from saluting, dirt that will never scrub out on his lapels… his badges and patches do a poor job of covering the wear and tear. Although his brain isn’t fully awake, the thoughts still cloudy, two are clear: he is ready for this war to be over and he is terrified that he is a little in love with the woman lying next to him.

If someone asked him how he got here, to Birkenau, Germany in the middle of the spring in 1942, he couldn’t tell them (a consequence of for some reason not remembering anything concrete prior to this week at the moment—just feelings and sensations and language and you). He feels as if he doesn’t belong at all and at the same time, as if he’s always existed right here.

He teases you awake slowly. Whispers sweet nothings to you in a language he finds himself surprisingly fluent in—it’s not his native one. He doesn’t know if it’s yours, either, but he knows you like hearing his voice. Remembers how you ask him to tell you stories of his home, how you hum softly along with the folk songs he sings to you when he thinks you’re almost asleep in his arms. He knows he likes the noises you make as you start to come to, knows you need a soft re-entry into wakefulness or else you’re a little off for the rest of the day.

You’d both fallen asleep after what some people would call lunch, although the persistent pit in Namjoon’s stomach would argue that. It’s hard to have energy when you can’t really eat, so the two of you do your best to conserve it.

Tonight, though, tonight he wants to be special. The carnival is in Birkenau this week, maybe longer, but he won’t know. He’ll leave soon, onto the next base, the next battle. It’s a miracle he’s able to go tonight, being a foreign soldier here is dangerous and the demands on him are high. He wears his uniform while he sleeps to stay warm, but doesn’t dare wear it in this town outside of this private and safe space that you’ve carved out for him. It’s been going on for a while, this sneaking away to be with you. There’s another soldier, Seokjin, on his base, who always covers for him. Namjoon doesn’t know how, it’s one of the fuzzy things he can’t figure out. Regardless, he’s here with you now and he knows he’s always grateful to his fellow soldier. And here, he’s someone different. He’s not Namjoon the soldier, he’s Namjoon who loves you, who will give up almost anything to be with you.

Except the one thing you ask him to.

He may be grateful to escape for a while, but he is duty-bound—loyal to his country, to the cause. He is, above everything, a soldier, and that cannot change. The Remington on the cheap bedside table is his best friend, and a reminder that this between you is dangerous, that it has a time limit.

And you? You have to leave, too. He knows it, you know it. It’s not safe for you here, probably just as dangerous as it is for him.

You don’t wear a uniform, you don’t carry a gun (often), but you move under the cover of the night and you deal in secrets you’re not supposed to know. The work you do is just as important as his—sometimes he thinks it’s probably even moreso. He admires you, adores you, thinks you’re brave and beautiful and brilliant. Maybe he thinks some of those things because of how dangerous you are, because of the risks you’re willing to take. Being with him, hiding him here with you is a big one.

Beside him, you stir. Your voice is a melody, always lilting, tumbling from one word to the next. “Love you, Namjoon. What time is it, baby?” Later, he won’t know why he never thinks it’s strange that you weave words across several languages. Maybe that’s just how all spies are; and that’s what you are, at the core of it, isn’t it?

“Is it time?” you ask into the darkness.

“Yes. I need to change and then we can go.”

“Do you think we’ll find something to eat there?”

Namjoon smiles even though you can’t see him in the dark. “We will. Sausages and sauerkraut, I’m sure.” He waits for you to make the gagging sound he knows you’re about to.

You do. “I hate German food,” you complain. “Can’t wait to get out of here once and for all.”

“They’ll have schnitzel,” he says, trying to make you laugh.

“Germans and their pork,” you say dismissively, “swine for swine.”

“They’re not all bad.” He means it, but it sounds a little weak when he says it. It’s hard to see the forest for the trees, sometimes. Doesn’t help that the both of you see the worst of people… that the both of you sometimes are the worst of people.

“Hmm…” you hum, he knows you agree with him. “I know, I'm sorry. I’m just tired. And don’t want to leave you.”

“I know.”

“You could come with me. Run away with me, Namjoonie.”

When you say it, he almost believes it could work. Knows it wouldn’t, knows you’d both end up dead or worse, knows he could never go home, never see his mother again. Knows it would break his heart to bear witness to the secrets you have to keep, to the lives you take.

He never responds, just lumbers off of the cot and strips his uniform off, trades it for the street clothes you keep here for him. They’re ill-fitting, cheap and scratchy. He loves them because they smell like you, smell like the soap you carry with you from France—lavender from Provence—the one luxury you allow yourself.

The two of you walk hand in hand through back alleys and quaint cobblestoned neighborhoods, making your way to the carnival. He hears the barkers getting louder the closer you get, promising fun and winnings and love and only happy fortunes told. In reality, there are no happy fortunes here, and you both know that. But Namjoon’s happy to give into the fantasy of it all, just for tonight. Just to see you smile. He’d do anything to see you smile. Except…

“Win me a prize,” you coo sweetly. It’s futile, since you never take anything with you, and later tonight (or very early in the morning), you will leave Birkenau for good—a mission needs completing, and dead or alive, you won’t be back here again.

“Whatever you want, jagiya.”

You bounce on your heels in excitement and drag him to a booth, one offering cheap stuffed birds. There are swans, peacocks, parrots, ducks… He doesn’t know what you’re drawn by, but he’ll knock over as many milk jugs as he has to get you what you want.

“My strong soldier,” you whisper in his ear after he knocks the top three over. It makes him grin, makes him show you his dimples. He loves you so much, loves how you tease and bait him with your words—then with your body in the privacy of your hideaway. Loves your confidence and your unwavering belief. Loves your conviction. “You can do it, Namjoon.”

He does.

The final three jugs topple off the ledge. With you by his side, he thinks he can do anything. He knows he can.

“Wähle eins,” the barker shouts at him, Dutch accent thick in his German.

“De pauw,” you answer immediately in his native tongue, pointing to the top shelf.

The man pulls one of the blue birds down and hands it to you with a smile. You can charm anyone, Namjoon thinks. A skill you’ve honed doing the work you do, he supposes. “Voor de dame,” the huckster says with a bow and a flourish of his hand.

You giggle as you take it. Namjoon’s enamored with you.

As the two of you wander (you clutching the peacock tightly under your arm), he watches as you make friends with a fortune teller and charm free pieces of chicken schnitzel from a mustached French man. Your greatest feat is sneaking the two of you onto the ferris wheel. Namjoon’s in awe of how you move—though sleight of hand is usually what he catches you at, you’re not as skilled a pickpocket as you are a liar—how you can weave in and out of a crowd unnoticed, how you can blend in with any surrounding, any language, any group… It’s a skill he wishes he possessed, too. He’s too large, a little lumbering, a little awkward in his long limbs made to feel longer as he loses muscle to months of being malnourished. But somehow, you make him nimble, you make him invisible to everyone but you. He wants to chase that feeling forever, wants to bottle it up and uncork it again when you’re gone, when he’s so desperate with the want of you that he’s got no other solace.

Bellies unusually full, legs tired, and peacock secured, he leads you back to your basement apartment. He pulls you along to follow a different path to return than the one you took there—a trick he’s learned from you. Don’t give people the opportunity to see your face twice.

It’s still dark, and you have no electricity, no oil for your lamps, so Namjoon makes love to you by memory.

He feels so foggy, but this he knows how to do, like he’s done it a million times and will do it a million more until you and he become different versions of the same thing. Maybe you already are.

Slowly, using time you don’t have, he undresses you. He’s careful with the buttons of your blouse after he slides your cardigan off of your shoulders. Takes time to press his nose into the skin of your neck once it’s exposed, to try and remember the way that you smell, that lavender soap and the iron of the hard bathwater and the danger that rolls off of you in waves.

When he lets his arms drop from your body, you walk backward toward the cot, unlacing your skirt as you go. Namjoon can’t see you well, but he hears the sounds of the cotton strings being pulled through the gussets, the soft swoosh of it hitting the floor when you shimmy out of it.

“Come here, Namjoonie,” you whisper. He would, even if you didn’t ask. Wouldn’t be able to help himself. Always pulled to you like a magnet.

“Yes, jagiya,” he breathes, now trembling fingers removing his own clothes as he moves. When he finally can feel your skin under his hand, he’s fully undressed, thinks you are, too. Lets his fingertips explore your limbs just to confirm.

You straddle him on the cot, press your thumbs into the meat of his thighs and tell him he’s brave, powerful, that you’re so lucky he’s chosen you. But he knows it wasn’t a choice. Can’t explain it, but he’s always existed for you, would always find you. Couldn’t choose anyone else if he wanted to.

He doesn’t.

The way you kiss him feels like forever, but he knows better. Chases something deeper and messier as his heart rate rises. Knows you don’t have time to draw it out, knows he won’t be able to be as gentle with you as you deserve. No one’s ever gentle with you, is what you always tell him. People who know you know how dangerous you are and they treat you accordingly. Except Namjoon. Namjoon who reveres you and knows you and he are cut from the same cloth—the one where you need to fight for what’s right at any cost. It doesn’t make you dangerous to people who don’t deserve the battle scars you dole out, he thinks. It makes you a hero. To him, you are a lionheart.

Your palms press into his chest above his own heart and you sink onto his length. Every time you’ve been together seems to bleed together for him, but he knows you know exactly how to move to bring him bliss, knows you feel like the god who seems to have abandoned you made the two of you for one another.

It’s a risk, but he reaches up to pull the thick curtain back just a few millimeters. Wants the sliver of light to illuminate the tendons in your neck with your head thrown back as you ride him. Wants to see the peaks of your nipples, the smooth skin over your ribcage, the mole you have right on the plateau of your collarbone. Wants to let his eyes roll back in his skull, that’s how good you feel, but can’t let himself pull his attention from your body.

“Come here,” he says quietly, wraps his spindly arms around you and pulls you down so your chest is flush with his. “Be with me,” he almost begs, “look at me, love.”

Your hands cup his face, and his guide your hips on top of his.

“I want to feel like this forever,” he thinks he hears you say, and Namjoon can see a tear dripping down your cheek before you lean in to press your lips to his. He licks at your mouth, gets you to open for him, plays melodies along your tongue with his.

He thinks they’re love songs.

He hopes you know.

You’re all tight heat around him, and your nipples brush his chest in time with his tongue brushing yours. Your lavender scent is a balm, your tears drip onto his cheeks from above, and your breaths come shallow and labored as he fucks into you.

“I think I’ll love you forever,” he says.

“Mijn schat...” You whisper, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone and smiling the sad kind of smile. Quietly, you tell him that you want to feel him, beg him to move.

He knows he shouldn’t, but he doesn’t stop. Thrusts into you, lets the sound of his skin against yours get louder and filthier. He knows he should stop. Can’t make himself. “Are you sure?” he asks, but it’s probably too late.

You’re nodding anyway, letting out a sweet little moan when his fingers find your clit and he comes, deep inside of you. Feels like a claim he shouldn’t be making. Gets one back from you just moments later when you squeeze around his softening cock, shuddering with your release above him.

Against his chest, you breathe, and he waits for the moment when your inhales align with his. It’s going to be the last time you share the same air, he thinks.

Your work tonight will be messy. He doesn’t ask what that means, thinks he already knows. Eyes the Remington in his periphery and you give him a tight-lipped confirmation. Yes, you have things you have to do. Yes, they’re worth sacrificing your life if you have to.

Namjoon spends a lot of time wondering about the balance between sacrifice and selfishness.

Never seems to decide where he sits on the spectrum.

Lithe like you are, he should barely feel it when you climb off of him, but it’s a crushing weight. Feels like his heart might be melting, like his lungs can’t expand anymore.

Once you’re dressed—in clothes he’s never seen before, those usually given to people of a different gender, maybe a different time—he watches you toss your skirt into the hearth first, then the clothes you’ve been lending him for your trysts. He watches you find the smallest vial of kerosene and some tinder you’d been collecting and add those, too. It’s as if he can see you in your full vibrancy now: focused on the mission, focused on destroying the you that has existed in this space, the him that has loved you.

The fire burns more brightly than he could have imagined after all the time you’ve spent together in the dark. It allows him to see the hope in your eyes when you lean down to kiss him one last time. Allows him to see the tears you no longer let fall when you hand him the peacock, press it close to him so he can hold it like a child.

“Why the peacock?” he asks when you turn to leave. It’s the only question he can think of that he suspects you’ll give him an answer to.

“Immortality, Joonie. You know, the Greeks thought the flesh of the peacock would never decay? Perfect and enduring even in death.”

“Are you the peacock or am I?”

“I guess we’ll find out,” you say as you heave open the door.

He shudders with the cold gust and wishes he knew what to say. Wishes he could choose you over his gun. Wishes you would choose him over yours.

“Until next time, Joonbug,” you say against the wind.

You pull the door hard behind you, and when it punches shut, Namjoon is startled out of his dream.

Seoul, South Korea — Present Day

“You gotta stop falling asleep in here, hyung.” Jeongguk’s voice is almost drowned out by Seokjin’s laugh.

“I covered for you at the last meeting, told them you were chasing down an idea… don’t interrupt a genius… creative flow… you know.”

Namjoon rubs his eyes and sits up. Of course he’s not in Germany during World War two. Of course he’s in his studio in Gangnam, and apparently he’s slept through a meeting.

He hates these dreams because he feels so thrown off when he wakes up. The pain of losing you always sticks with him for a while afterwards, makes his whole world tilt about one degree. Not enough to change anyone but him, but more than enough to notice.

He loves the dreams because he gets to be with you—tries not to let that thought be concerning.

“What’s that smell?” he asks, still half asleep.

“What smell?”

“Mmm… you know, the lavender smell.”

“Hyung, are you having a stroke?”

“I think people who have strokes smell toast,” Jin says.

“Nevermind,” Namjoon sighs as he gets off the couch. “Thanks for covering for me, hyung.”

“You owe me now.”

“Sure, yeah. Of course.” Agreeing is always easier than arguing with Jin.

Namjoon’s awake enough now to notice the looks that Jeongguk and Seokjin are passing between each other. He knows they know something’s going on with him, sees how they adjust the ways they move around him after these dreams, when he’s out of sorts and halfway out of commission for a half a day or so. It’s not just them, either. Jimin has tried to talk to him about it, but didn’t get very far. Hoseok knows Namjoon’s had a few bad dreams, but that’s the extent of it.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell them, it’s more that he doesn’t know how to explain it without sounding like he’s completely batshit. Doesn’t know how to tell them that he knows you’re real, that he believes in you the same way he believes in the existence of his sister or his best friend, Heeyoung. It’s part of the problem, really. Because every time he has one of these dreams, he finds himself actually looking for you. In real life. In Seoul. In every city they have a show in. Thought he saw you once in Switzerland, but was too afraid to get close enough to know for sure… Still isn’t sure if he regrets that or not.

It really messes with him when he’s in a city that he’s dreamed you in. Once, in Sevilla, he was too fucked up about it to even leave the hotel room. Tried to explain to one of the managers that something bad had happened last time he was there, but it got complicated when Namjoon couldn’t explain when exactly that was.

“What’s on your mind, Namjoonie?” Seokjin’s tone is gentler now, cautious.

“Spain.”

Another look of concern between Jeongguk and their hyung.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jeongguk asks softly. “Sometimes it helps to talk about things—you taught me that.”

He can’t help but smile at that. Caught in his own words. And he’s so tired of this, so tired of feeling like no one will understand… he’s tempted. To be honest, he could probably talk about it with Taehyung. Maybe that’s what he should do, he thinks. Tae would listen, wouldn’t judge him. But maybe Jeongguk and Seokjin wouldn’t either. Namjoon has assuredly done more questionable things than possibly believe in a ghost. Or whatever you are.

He sits back down on the couch. “I’ve been having these weird dreams,” he says.

“About Spain?” Jeongguk and Seokjin find seats to settle into, too.

“About a girl, mostly.”

“Want to tell us about her? Is she Spanish? Is she someone you know?”

“I’m not sure,” Namjoon admits. “She’s whoever I want her to be, I think.”

Seokjin’s eyebrows almost lift off his face. “Okay, Namjoonie. Why don’t you tell us about these dreams?”

Namjoon nods. “Well, the one I just woke up from, we were in Germany.”

“All of us?” Jeongguk asks.

“No, I don’t think so. Just her and me. I think hyung maybe, too, but I never saw him in the dream.” He gestures to Seokjin.

“But you have these dreams often?”

“Yeah.”

“And one of them was in Spain?”

Namjoon’s not sure what they’ll think of him once he tells them, but maybe he doesn’t have to give everything away, he decides. Maybe he can just tell him about one of the dreams and see what they think.

“Yeah, I can tell you about it if you want.”

Jeongguk nods eagerly and Jin does, too. He supposes he can’t back out now.

“Alright… well, here’s what I remember…”

Andalucia, Spain — Summer, 1913

The heat is relentless.

Namjoon sweats so much under normal conditions—this is borderline torture. If it were up to him, he’d be back in Sevilla with you, content in the small pension you both scrape together rent for every week. It’s shaded by the orange trees surrounding it, feels safe and private and cool, and most importantly, it’s yours.

Ronda is less forgiving. Maybe because he doesn’t know it as well, isn’t sure who might be someone to know and who might just be pretending. He’s done this for long enough that he thinks he has a pretty good sense for it, but he’s still sucked into having his time wasted on occasion. Wouldn’t mind it so much except it’s time spent away from you.

Blas Infante has been yelling on the steps for a while. His throat should be raw, but the adrenaline of agitating the people of Andalucia keeps him fresh, voice ringing clearly through the square. Namjoon has been watching the wealthiest in the crowd drift away, paying attention to where they’re going, making sure he’s got a line on which bars and cafes will be the best to move on to. The time is about right, he thinks. They’ll be a few drinks in and soon the wider crowd will disperse. Wants to make sure he can find a seat at the bar next to someone rich, attractive if possible. If they’re a little desperate that’s even better.

They probably all will be given the way the political winds are shifting in Andalucia.

As he turns from the crowd, he hears Padre de la Patria Andaluza shout, “the moment has come for the privileged to die!” The remaining crowd roars like the lions on their flags, angry and proud. He agrees with them—as long as he gets his money first.

When he slides onto the barstool, he makes sure to order his own drink first. Chilled palo cortado says he’s from around here but maybe a little down on his luck, otherwise, he’d be drinking Fundador.

It’s strange, he knows he grew up poor, but he can’t remember any of the details. It’s as if his whole life before knowing you is completely out of focus. He feels the resentment, though, the frustration of knowing there’s more for the taking if you have the right family, the right education, the right skin color.

But he’s older now and while it’s there, it’s in the background. Because he knows how to get his share, knows now that it’s also for the taking if you have a nice smile, a silver tongue, and a willingness to do whatever it takes to succeed—including changing your definition of success. Including sacrificing the things you believe in the most.

Good thing the only thing Namjoon believes in anymore is you, and you’re willing to stick by his side no matter what.

She’s not anywhere near as attractive to him as you are. She’s round in all the places he likes—soft hips, soft stomach, thick ass, but there’s something with her face. Too drawn, a little gaunt in a way that doesn’t suit her. It’s age maybe, she’s got to be thirty years older than him.

Age is another one of those tricky things that feels a little elusive to him.

He thinks he’s around nineteen and she’s probably fifty. Doesn’t care, really, as long as she’s got pesetas.

She does. A lot of them.

He fucks her slow in a room above the bar and calls her “Princesa” because she asks him to. Because she’ll pay him more if he does, because he knows how women like her work. It’s been quiet between them since he took her upstairs. They don’t talk about her husband, her children… They don’t talk about you.

She shifts a little below him and it almost hurts. He’s not used to sex so dry like this—makes it hard to imagine it’s you beneath him. Digs his thumbs into the flesh at her hips and tries to picture you instead, but her noises aren’t as sweet as yours, her skin isn’t as supple.

At least, he thinks as he thrusts over and over to her guttural cries, he’s doing this for you. For the future the two of you have dreamed of since you were basically kids and he would throw stones at your window after dark to sneak a piece of your attention. He’s fairly certain you almost have enough saved up to escape, to get away from your father and brother who have never once approved of Namjoon. In their eyes, it’s bad enough he’s a foreigner, but then he has the audacity to be poor in addition.

He wants to give you a good life. There’s still a part of him that thinks someday he can give you an honest one, as well. There’s a part of him that hopes he’s not only his mistakes like your father thinks, that he’s capable of so much more than the world has allowed him to give so far. He thinks you see it, too. He’s pretty sure that’s why you stay.

As the work drags on, he realizes he’s made a critical mistake—he didn’t ask her how much she’d had to drink, didn’t think to slip the bartender a note to water it down a bit. Feels like she’s never going to come, and he can’t leave a job undone. God, he just wants to get home to you. Wants to take a lavender-laced bath with you and cleanse himself of this sin and the thousand others he’s committed before it. Wants to start on new ones with you.

The thought of you: in your orange grove, smelling of sun-dried linen and laughing while he chases you… it gives him the will to keep going.

Ironic that his love for you is the reason his cock is buried in someone else.

Eventually, she comes, and he lies and says he does, too. Makes quick work of ridding himself of the condom with his back to her. This isn’t the first time he’s lied. Would he sound like too much of a romantic if he said he’s only ever had an orgasm with you?

For tonight, his patron seems satisfied, romanticism or not. She asks to see him again the following week and he tells her all about how he’d love to, but he just doesn’t have the money, see? So, if she wants to see him, it wouldn’t be possible unless…

She’s more generous than he’s expected. What she gives him to come back to Ronda will pay for a month of your pension. He shoves it in his pockets and tells her he’s going to get them another bottle of sherry from the bar.

When he slinks out into the finally cool night air, all he feels is relief. He’s going to make it in time to hop the late train back to Sevilla, back to you.

He looks up and down the cobblestone street, taking a second to remember which direction he came from. Notices a man watching him, seems like it should matter, but all that matters is getting back to you.

Namjoon counts his earnings under the moonlight as the train rumbles through the countryside. It’s enough. He’ll need to count what’s at your home to be absolutely sure, but he thinks it’s enough to get you out of there. You dream of Valencia—of a different kind of orange grove, of thick and salty sea air, of vacations in Madrid or Barcelona, strolling the markets and church grounds.

He looks out the window at the moon and thinks of how bright your face will be when he tells you the good news. He looks at the stars and hopes they will guide you both faithfully to a better life.

The train pulls into the station at Sevilla several hours later. Namjoon feels like the time just slipped away, doesn’t quite know how he passed it. Maybe the wine was stronger than he’d first thought…

It’s quiet in Sevilla at this time of night, but he doesn’t pay too much attention to the bustle in front of him, the same man from outside the bar in Ronda rushing up the road ahead of him. Must be in a hurry to get somewhere—Namjoon can relate, he’s in a hurry to get home to you. His bag is weighed down from the coin he’s bringing home, but oddly enough, he feels lighter than ever knowing he may never have to give himself to someone that isn’t you again.

It’s freedom.

After years of conning and scraping and scratching to climb out of the poverty he’s known, he finally has hope for something better. Because of you, because you gave him something to believe in and to fight for.

Tomorrow, he’ll take you to the gardens at the Alcazar, and amongst the flowers and the peacocks you love, he’ll give you the news—tell you it’s finally time. Maybe you can even take the train to the sea that night.

He loves you so much, owes you everything because he gets all that he needs from your company and your faith in him.

As he draws nearer to you, dirt road narrowing as he approaches the pension, he hears raised voices. Yours and someone else’s. Maybe more. It’s all he needs to take off running, can’t fathom why you’d need to be fighting with anyone in the orchard after midnight.

“Namjoon!” you exclaim when you see him sprinting up the road.

He can hear the fear in your voice, and it only makes him come to you faster. “What is it? What’s going on?” he calls. And then he sees them: your father and your brother, gesturing wildly and yelling.

“Mija, you know what he’s doing in Ronda? How disgusting he is? How he’s making a fool out of you, making fools out of our family?”

You’re calmer than they deserve, standing your ground with your arms crossed over your chest, full skirts whipping around you in the breeze. You look brave, intimidating, and more beautiful than ever.

Namjoon starts to understand, realizes he should have known something wasn’t right, that the man in two places would be a problem. Hadn’t let himself believe your father would have had him followed, but why wouldn’t he?

“You know nothing,” you snap at your father. “Mind your own business, old man. I’m not your family anymore. He’s my family now.”

Namjoon joins you in front of the pension, stands by your side, wraps an arm around your waist and presses a kiss to your temple. “I think you should leave,” he says to the men facing you.

Your father spits in his direction, your brother makes rude gestures with both hands. They call him a whore, call him disgusting, claim he’s giving you diseases and ruining you for the god they say you need to meet one day.

(They still believe, Namjoon never has, and you think you already know god—that he lives in the way the birds call a bright greeting to the morning sun and the flowers bend to offer the bees what they both need to live.)

“Leave,” you say firmly. “We’re leaving for Valencia soon—you’ll never have to see us again. I’ll change my name, no one will know the disgrace you think we’ve brought to the family. Just let us be.”

And if Namjoon thought the crowd in Ronda was loud, he hadn’t yet had the screams of your father to compare it to. His face is a violent red, his whole body shakes with his anger, and Namjoon feels scared for the first time in a long time. The arm he has around your waist tightens as your brother pulls a revolver from the back of his trousers.

You are ever courageous—Namjoon can hear your racing heart, but you betray nothing, staring down your brother with iron conviction and pressing in tightly to the man at your side.

“No one will take you from us!” your father yells.

The barrel is pointed straight at the two of you. Namjoon can see your brother’s finger shaking and it’s as if he knows what’s about to happen. He can’t let it, would sacrifice anything for you, already has given up his body and his soul to you in some ways. He’s prepared to do it again. Would never make a choice that wasn’t to protect you. Loves you like you’re oxygen, like he needs you to survive.

He’s nothing without you, but you can be something without him. So, he moves.

And as Namjoon twists to pull you behind him, a single shot rings out through the Andalucian night, louder than a firecracker.

Seoul, South Korea — Present Day

“And then what?” Jeongguk asks, leaning so far in he looks like he’ll topple at any second.

“I don’t know,” Namjoon shrugs, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “That’s when I woke up. I had the window open and I think there was a car accident or one backfiring or something. Startled me awake.”

“That’s so romantic,” Jeongguk sighs. “Don’t you think, hyung?”

Seokjin nods along. “How often do you dream about her?”

“Every few weeks… for a couple of years now.”

“Shit.”

Namjoon explains how he can’t stop thinking about you for days after the dreams, how you always look different in them but he knows it’s you every time. There’s something in the way you speak to him, in the way you know his mind, in the way you move across each time and space so self-assured and brave and admirable. And then the words just keep coming. He tells them about how he always dreams of you existing at night—never in the morning. Never had a dream where the two of you have made it through the night and woken up together in love with no tragedy befalling you. He almost cries when he tells them how badly he wants to find you, how he knows you must be real, a person he’s just yet to meet… Says he’s not sure he believes in something like soulmates, but that sometimes his chest actually aches with the need to know you, to be with you. Tells them that you’re never perfect in any of his dreams, but you’re perfect for him: a partner in crime, a lover, an intellectual rival, a battleground ally, just always by his side making him sharper and better and happier. Tells them that all he wants is the chance to wake up next to you just once, sunlight and joy and no crisis clapping him awake. Tells them how lonely he is in the mornings.

When he finally trails off, out of ways to explain that each time he dreams of you, the desire to find you seems that much more urgent, Seokjin and Jeongguk are speechless. Jin looks like the fish he loves, mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out. Jeongguk is a little teary-eyed and his hand is rubbing careful circles between Namjoon’s shoulder blades.

“You have to find her, hyung,” Jeongguk says softly.

“I know.”

“We’ll help you find her, I promise.”

Namjoon thinks the commitment from Jeongguk is sweet, but doesn’t know how they could possibly help. You look different in every dream, a different voice, name, language… It’s an impossible task made even more challenging by the fact that you probably don’t actually exist. Just a figment of his imagination his brain has made to give him some stress relief, some friendship. He says as much, and he can tell Seokjin agrees with him, but Jeongguk is insistent. At the very least, it’s a little comforting that he’s told them what he feels like is probably his weirdest, deepest secret, and they didn’t laugh at him, didn’t march him upstairs to the company therapist.

After that day, Namjoon feels a little bit better about everything. Better enough that he doesn’t dream about you for a few weeks, starts to forget to look for you in the face of every person he passes. The best part is that he’s really able to focus on their upcoming tour, and by the time he boards the plane to another continent with the rest of the members, he wonders if he’ll ever dream about you again.

It’s been long enough that he misses you a little bit, as ridiculous as it sounds. He doesn’t mention that part to Jeongguk or Seokjin.

They touch down in a new city, and Namjoon rubs the sleep out of his eyes. He’d fallen asleep on the flight—no dreams. It’s early, but they don’t get the day to themselves. They’ll eat a snack in the cars on the way to the venue, run a short rehearsal for blocking and then Namjoon will do some foreign-language interviews from the hotel. He runs a hand through his hair and pulls his mask up, trying to mentally prepare himself a little bit for the remainder of the day. And then he smells it, as he steps into the airport, a gentle lavender scent that’s so familiar he thinks he might be imagining it.

Namjoon stops in his tracks right outside the gate and starts looking. It’s practically instinctual at this point, head on a swivel trying to spot you. It’s so ridiculous and he knows it. But there’s just something… it’s like he knows you’re here.

Unfortunately, it’s a terrible place to be having a crisis, and he’s literally knocked out of his search when another passenger on their phone runs right into the back of him.

“Fuck, sorry,” you say, only glancing up from your phone for a second.

Namjoon doesn’t look at you, just flushes with embarrassment as if anyone could possibly know what he’s thinking. Keeps his head down, says, “no problem,” and tells himself that the weird pit in his stomach is nothing and the smell he’s so drawn to is in his head. The you of his dreams isn’t possibly in this airport in a city on the other side of the world.

He tries to shake it off all afternoon, all evening, but doesn’t think he’s too successful. Thinks he probably fucked up a couple of the interviews, hopes one of his managers would have stopped him if he was too off the mark, though. It’s probably fine.

That night, for the first time in weeks, he dreams of you.

Gyeongsangnam-do, South Korea — Summer, 1931

In these most uncertain of times, Namjoon is sure of two things: you are the most beautiful woman he’s ever known, and he is so much in love with you that he feels shaky with it.

It’s quiet in your father’s farmhouse save for your soft moans. With a rare stroke of luck, your mother and father have left to negotiate with the angry man who owns their land now, and Namjoon has taken advantage of sneaking away from Pukyong’s campus to be with you. He’d come to review plans for a new barn with your father, but finding him gone was a blessing.

You and Namjoon haven’t been able to find much time alone since he left for Busan. He comes back when he can, which isn’t often, and you sneak out to the edge of the fields to meet him under the moonlight. He’s gotten used to fucking you quietly and in a hurry, helping you brush grass and twigs out of inappropriate places when you’re done. This though, this is a luxury, to be with you in your own bed, in the daylight. To be as loud as you both want—Namjoon could write a dissertation on how nice you sound when he fucks you.

You’re slick and tight, and you’re the only home Namjoon’s ever really known. He sucks one of your nipples into his mouth and watches as you arch your back underneath him, whine a little, tell him not to leave marks where your parents might see.

Because you’re young and reckless and you’ve both only ever loved each other, he knows he’s got to pull out soon, but it’s hard to remember in the heat of the moment.

You call him “Namjoonah,” you tell him how good he feels inside you, breathy and sweet, running your fingers through his hair to brush it off of his forehead. It’s gentle, the way you touch him, like he’s something worth taking care of. You say all the nicest things to him when he fucks you—you tell him he’s strong and handsome and so big, you always emphasize, widening your eyes and palming his cock through his trousers. It’s probably giving him a little bit of an ego, he thinks, but he likes it anyway. Being the focus of your attention is so flattering. He always wants your eyes on him, your hands on him, your thoughts about him. You make him greedy and selfless at the same time—he wants everything you’re willing to give him and he wants to give you even more in return. Wishes this fucking war were over so he wouldn’t have to be on edge all the time. Knows he’s lucky not to have been conscripted to the Imperial Army yet, but that it’s probably a matter of time.

It’s a blessing, being smart, which people have told Namjoon that he is since he can remember. At least they’ve spared him so far because he’s of more use to them at Pukyong, learning how to be the best architect he can be, than he would be as a soldier. Someday, his own father says, he will build castles for a Korean leader, walls to keep the Japanese soldiers out. Those conversations are had in secret, in whispers and gestures. It’s dangerous to be someone like his father, to think there’s a chance for Korean independence, to fight for it in secret… But it’s dangerous to be fucking you into your mattress when your parents could come home any moment, too, and that doesn’t stop Namjoon.

Like father, like son, as they say.

He’s sure it’s not a secret that he’s your boyfriend. Your parents know him, invite him for meals, they like him. They think he’s a sweet, smart, college boy who’s going to give their daughter a better life than they can someday, and they’re not wrong.

Though, he’s also sure they’d like him a lot less if they knew he was a sweet, smart, college boy who loves your body, loves the way your soft thighs feel around his head when he licks at your core, loves the way he can throw your calves over his shoulders and hold you in place as he thrusts home. Loves the small violet bruises he bites into your skin, hidden away under your long skirts and long linen sleeves. Loves how you let him pull out and cover those bruises with his cum, and then especially loves when you run a finger through it and lick it off—when you tell him he tastes good and you thank him for sharing with you.

They’d think he’s ruined you, and he’d cop to it even though it is absolutely the other way around.

You come with a sweet, loud moan. Your throat sounds a little raw when you say his name again, which only turns him on more. With a few strokes, he follows you, leaving his release across your stomach and breasts and thinking that if all art looked like you do in this moment, he’d change his major.

Lazily, he lies next to you and pulls you close. You should clean up, you should get dressed, Namjoon should be sitting at the kitchen table studying his drawings with his shoulders back and glasses smart across his nose when your father gets home. You don’t want him to leave though, asking him to stay just a little longer, turning your head to kiss him softly.

When he wakes up, it’s dark, and he panics. You’re pliant in his arms, still sleeping, and your parents should be home—what if they’ve seen you? What if they know that Namjoon is taking something sweet from you at every opportunity, paying you back with pieces of his heart?

Maybe it’s time he faces this like an adult, he decides. He’s going to marry you someday anyway, it’s a foregone conclusion. They may not like that you’ve been breaking so many of their rules in secret, but someday you will be his wife, and he will care for all of your family as his own, and hopefully that buys him a little leniency with your father. He kisses your temple and gets out of bed as quietly as he can, pulls his clothes back on, and pads out of your room to meet his fate.

He spots them immediately, and as soon as he has the thought that he’s going to be sick, he heaves all over your kitchen floor. It’s going to wake you up, but he needs to spare you from the scene. Somehow, he gets their bodies covered before you get up. It’s the best he can do but it’s not enough—the scream you let out is haunting, half shock and half anguish. When you crumple to your knees, he holds you, lets you sob and scream into his chest and rocks you steadily. He doesn’t know what else to do.

After that day, he files for a leave from school and essentially moves in with you. You use your anger to fuel you, fighting for independence in secret alongside the bravest Koreans Namjoon knows. Your landlord comes around and neither you nor Namjoon even try to hide your rage and disgust. You spit at his feet and he warns you to be polite unless you want to end up like your parents. Namjoon tries to convince you that the old man isn’t even worth your anger, that you’re better off serving your parents’ memory alive than alongside them in a grave.

As the war picks up, so does conscription. Namjoon thinks he’ll be called any day, but the idea of fighting in the Imperial Army makes him ill. So instead, he makes a plan.

It’s only a matter of months before you’re on the ferry to join him on Jeju. He’s been there, building and fortifying. Perhaps it’s cowardly to cut and run, but he doesn’t care. It’s the only way he can be with you, the only way he can keep you safe. With the farm equipment sold off and a bit of his family’s money, he’s made you a home there, and it’s finally ready for you.

There’s a tearful reunion on the dock, and it’s followed by a trip to the courthouse to get married. It all happens in a daze, the memories hazy and dim, but the way he felt as he kissed you and made you his wife burns in him bright, bright, bright.

He makes love to you on the floor of the new cottage that night, slow and sweet. Tries to make you understand how much he’s missed you, how much he loves you. Thinks he succeeds when you tell him you love him as you come, thinks he’s never seen or heard something more beautiful in his whole life.

Finally, he leads you up the narrow staircase to the room he’s built for you. It’s got a big bed, but not too big, because you always want to be close to him when you sleep. Its wooden floors are made warmer with a rug his mother made for you, a wedding gift. The balcony is small, but he designed it himself, based on a wish you’d told him about, that you’ve always dreamed of a place to read in the mornings. It’s shaded from the eastern sun with a balustrade you can kick your feet up onto. There are crude drawings of your favorite animals carved into the balusters, alternating lions and peacocks. Protection and immortality, built into the home he’s made for the two of you. When you see it, you look like maybe you finally understand the way he cares for you, the way he will do anything he can for as long as he lives to keep you happy and safe.

You let yourself out there, and light up the night with your happiness. Namjoon watches you from the bed. He’s been on the balcony, and it’s small. He’s not technically the architect he always thought he would be since he’s left school for good, but he tried his best with this design, and then tried even more when he built it for you.

Maybe he should have seen it coming, maybe he shouldn’t have been so confident. The funny thing about light and sound is that he sees it happen just barely before he hears it. Sees you stumble a little to your right, sees the balcony wobble and thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him. Then he hears the deafening crack and it’s perfectly timed with his stomach sinking and you disappearing from his view, the balustrade going with you.

New York City — Present Day

Namjoon wakes up in a cold sweat, the alarm blaring next to him. He hates this feeling—the one immediately after the dreams. At least he has most of the day off. The company always gives them time for the jetlag, supposed to be for sleeping, but he’ll use it to shake himself out of this fog that settles in after the dreams. Maybe the Met this time; he saw the Whitney last time he was here and he sort of wants to get out of Chelsea, anyway—thinks the walk might help him clear his head.

He sees you when he’s standing in front of a moon jar, wondering to himself what right these people have to even store this piece and then charge people to see it. Wonders if he could get it back to Korea somehow where it belongs, mutters something under his breath about colonialism and notices you smile at that out of the corner of his eye.

It’s exactly like he’d always thought it would be to see you: immediately he knows. There’s no question. You look different again, not quite like you have in any of his dreams, but you smell the same and you’re wearing a blue and green dress, tight around your figure and flouncy at the hem that reminds him so specifically of a peacock he wants to cry. You smell like fancy French lavender soap and you have a smile that could bring world peace.

The sight of you makes him freeze. What would he even say? There’s nothing he could tell you that wouldn’t make him sound insane, nothing that he’s willing to admit to a stranger, even if that stranger is you. His heart races and he feels himself start to sweat nervously. He’s been looking for you for years, and when he finally finds you, it sends him into a panic. How perfect for him.

He can’t stand in front of the same moon jar forever, though, so he swallows his nerves and stands up a little straighter and begins to turn to you, even if just to introduce himself like a normal person.

Namjoon’s heart sinks when he realizes you’re already gone.

He’s talking to Jeongguk while he sits on the steps of the Met, phone pressed to his ear.

“I know it’s her,” he says, sending Jeongguk into a frenzy of questions.

Namjoon is contemplating the possibility that he’s fucked up his only chance to meet you, when you appear, out of the blue, to take a seat a few feet away from him, he rushes out a “Gotta go, Kookie, bye,” and hangs up as Jeongguk is still talking.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi.”

“This is probably so weird, but…” You straighten out your skirt and don’t make eye contact. You look equal parts beautiful and nervous. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Namjoon gets this question a lot. Usually, it’s fans trying to ‘play it cool’ when they run into him in Seoul, trying to give the impression that they don’t immediately know who he is. And yeah, he thinks he’s more humble than some people less famous than him, hates to assume, but it’s always pretty transparent. But, for as much as he gets this question, as often as he brushes it off with an, “I don’t think so,” and a rushed exit from wherever he’s been recognized, he has no idea how to answer it when it comes to you. So, he just gapes at you. It’s mortifying.

“Sorry,” you continue. “It’s just that… Well, this is probably gonna sound crazy, but I think I’ve had dreams about you.”

“Holy shit,” Namjoon says, living up to his reputation as a certified genius and a clever songwriter.

This response flusters you even more, it’s clear you’re embarrassed. The way your eyes flit around and look for an exit from the situation tells him everything he needs to know.

“Sorry again,” you groan more than speak. “Nevermind.”

You start to stand, and Namjoon barely gets his shit together in time to grab your wrist and finally speak. “It’s not weird. I have them, too. The dreams.”

“No fucking way,” you whisper, your eyes wide.

“Yeah.” Namjoon nods in agreement. “How’d you know it was me?” He asks.

“Just knew it,” you shrug, wrist still kept tight in his grasp. “I’m not sure. It’s like… you feel the same. You smell like you, too.”

“Come on,” he says, dropping your wrist finally and standing. “Want to get coffee or something?”

To his relief, you do.

It’s awkward at first. Where do you start with someone you feel like you’ve known forever but you’ve never actually met? Namjoon has a million questions he wants to ask you but none of them seem to fully form in his head. It’s bad enough he has to think through how to not be seen with you—his lifestyle adds a whole layer of complication you’d never faced together in his dreams. Eventually, you knock on his hotel room door about ten minutes after he gets in. It had been a little stressful, waiting for you. He made you promise three times you’d actually show up and then on the fourth one, he made you pinky promise. When you took his little finger solemnly, instead of laughing at him, he was finally (mostly) convinced you’d be there.

And now, here you are, sitting at the little table in his room, clearly trying to be polite and not look at the mess of stuff he’s accumulated in just one night. After all this time wishing he could find you, he’s got no idea what to say to you.

“So… why the Met?”

You smile a little sheepish and shake your head. “You’ll think it’s stupid.”

“I doubt that,” he says, trying to be as reassuring as he can for such a weird situation.

“I thought it’s where the lion statues were… you know… on the steps. I thought if I went there, maybe you’d be there. I was sure it was you at the airport but by the time I realized it, you were gone. So, I guess it was the only place I could think to look for you where you might look for me, too. But they’re at the library.”

“The lions?”

His confusion seems to make you a little shy; you duck your head and shake it, like you’re telling yourself off before you even explain. “You always say I’m like a lion in the dreams. No matter where we are or what’s happened to us. You say I’m strong and brave and beautiful—”

“A lionheart,” Namjoon whispers.

“Yeah,” you brighten at that. “Is it like that in your dreams, too?”

Namjoon tells you it is. And then he tells you about all the dreams he can remember. Not in detail, and not the worst of the bad endings, but enough that the two of you can compare notes. Enough that you realize you’ve been having basically the same dreams, although not at the same time. Both of you have had some the other hasn’t had yet. He loves it when you tell him about one that ended happily, the two of you betrothed in the Joseon era and figuring out how to fall in love. You think it’s supposed to mean something that the two of you are always facing something that’s keeping you apart—you wonder out loud what might keep you apart in reality, too.

“I hope nothing will,” he says without thinking.

“You don’t even know me!” You’re laughing, but he’s clearly taken you by surprise.

“Don’t I, though?” And the mood changes. You swallow thickly and he tries his best not to break eye contact with you even though he thinks you’re so gorgeous he might not make it through the day without passing out. “Can I kiss you?” he asks quietly, but he’s already moving to your side of the table and you’re already scooting your chair back to make space for him.

You don’t kiss like you do in the dreams. In the dreams, you kiss him like he’s the beginning and end, like you’ll take anything he gives you. There’s something nice about that, makes him feel wanted and strong. In reality, you kiss him like you know it’s the other way around. You’re confident, teasing—you smile against his lips when you do a thing with your tongue that makes him let out a moan.

In the dreams, he can’t remember ever kissing anyone but you. But now he’s got your lips on his and you’re definitely not the first person he’s kissed by a long shot, but you’re absolutely the best. It’s almost like having something to compare it to makes it even better.

Maybe there should be some hesitation, but neither of you seem to have any. Not when he pulls you up from the chair so he can kiss you without bending all the way over, not when he walks you back toward the hotel room bed, leaving a trail of tender kisses up your neck and across your jaw in a surprising show of coordination.

It’s inexplicable, he thinks, how he feels like he’s done this a million times with you before but in the best way. He can kiss you without any of the awkward, nervous, first time worries he normally has. He can trust you without knowing quite why, and that part is probably the weirdest thing about all of this because he can’t trust anyone outside of the members and his family usually.

“Is it weird I feel like we’ve done this before?” you ask as you run your hands from his shoulders down his arms.

Namjoon just shakes his head and winds his fingers with yours, leaning in to kiss you again. “No, it’s the same for me,” he says.

Because of the familiarity, maybe, it’s not urgent when you undress each other. He takes time to appreciate this version of you, the one he’s actually holding in his arms, the one who pinches his side gently and then laughs. “Just making sure you’re real,” you say when he yelps in protest.

There’s a moment when you’re both naked, standing in front of the bed, when the air feels thick between you. You’re holding his jaw in your palm and he’s got his hands around your back and neither of you speak for a long beat. For him, it just feels incredible to be here with you. He doesn’t care that he has no idea what you do for a living, where you live… Doesn’t know anything about you except that he thinks he has loved you for a long time. Thinks maybe he was put on this planet specifically to love you. Wonders how the two of you could have messed this up so badly in every other universe, but is actually really glad you did, because maybe that’s why you’re finally here with him now.

“I… I think I love you,” he says timidly. “Makes me feel crazy.”

You have a tear falling down your cheek, but you’re smiling—Namjoon is pretty sure you’re not supposed to be crying before sex like this, but you seem happy. “S’not crazy, I think I love you, too. I’m so happy I finally found you.”

“I looked for you in every city,” he confesses before he presses his lips back to yours, then kisses the tears off your cheeks.

You go soft under him, body pressed into his, and he guides you onto the bed. The two of you laugh into each other’s mouths, mutter how you can’t believe it’s happening, let your breath grow heavier as you take time to learn each other. Namjoon loves it when your lips move against his pulse point, when you get a little rough with him, leaving small bites and bruises in places the stylists won’t give him shit for. You like when he talks to you, tells you how you make him feel, how much he wants to be with you—he whispers right into your ear, the sweetest confessions sandwiched by pure filth that makes your breath hitch and a shiver travel down your spine.

Namjoon’s dreamed you a hundred ways, in a hundred places, but here, spread naked underneath him in this hotel bed and laughing with him while he fucks you slowly is better than any dream he’s ever had.

“Can’t believe you’re real, baby,” he breathes as you run your fingertips down his sides. He looks down to see where his cock is moving inside of you, and he thinks this must actually be a dream. You’re perfect, he thinks as he moves fingers to your clit and presses there gently. When you pull him down to kiss you, it feels familiar again. You brush his hair off of his forehead like you’ve done in every one of his dreams, and now he feels like he could cry—he’s just so overwhelmed by you, so in awe just like he knew he would be. Just as he always has been.

You whisper his name when he makes you come. You tighten around him and dig your nails into his shoulders and Namjoon thinks this is the closest to heaven he might ever get. When you finally work through your orgasm, you encourage him to change positions, to lay on his back and let you ride him.

The way you know exactly what he likes is magical, that deep grinding of your hips in his lap. You don’t have to ask to know what makes him tick, bringing his hand to your lips as you move, sucking two of his fingers into your mouth and whining around them.

He’s always preferred this to something faster. This way, he gets to watch you, feels like you’re taking your pleasure from him, feels like you’re both getting precisely what you want from each other. He could lift his hips and fuck into you, could hold your waist and get you to bounce on his cock like you’re making a sex tape. But this is better. This is you and him, moving like you’re meant to be connected.

You absolutely are, he’s sure of it.

It’s a movie script ending when you come again just as he does for the first time—he wishes he could feel all of you when he spills into the condom, wishes he’d found you years ago and built a more tangible history with you. Hopes more than anything that you want to try to do that with him now.

The two of you clean up with a little bit of shyness; you hide your face as he cleans you carefully with a warm washcloth, and he tries not to let you see him get rid of the condom. It’s not as easy as the dreams where those things sort themselves out, but Namjoon wouldn’t trade these awkward moments for anything.

There’s not really a need to ask you to stay, he knows somehow that you will, but he asks anyway, preens when you agree and ask to borrow a shirt.

He can’t really risk room service with you here, but he gets a manager to bring you food (hand stuck shyly through a crack in the door as to not interrupt), and while you eat, he peppers you with questions about your life. Feels like he knows the important things that are the same as in his dreams (he loves you, you’re loyal), but wants to learn all the mundane stuff, too.

Much later, before the sun rises but after some people would already call it morning, you fall asleep in his arms and he lets himself drift off thinking of lavender and peacocks and falling in love.

Namjoon’s alarm goes off, and the sun must be high in the sky because the light in the room is a bit muted. It’s the first time in a long time he’s woken up content, hesitates for a second before he remembers why, remembers everything that happened the day before, remembers that you were real and here and in his bed and his arms. He lets himself just exist there for a minute, eyes closed, thinking about what might come next, how he’ll explain you to his family…

Then it sort of dawns on him that you should be right there, that he fell asleep wrapped around you and now he isn’t. He panics for a split second when he realizes you’re not pressed against him, doesn’t think he could handle it if this was a dream, too. Tries to be rational, but for some reason can’t quite bring himself just to tip his head over and open his eyes.

Instead, he takes a deep breath, smells hotel laundry detergent and sex and the faintest hint of lavender. He says a silent prayer and then sticks his hand out to the other side of the bed to feel for yours. Thinks he might scream when he doesn’t feel you there immediately.

Namjoon snakes his hand across the sheet and hopes he never has to dream to see you again.

#bts x reader #namjoon x reader #rm x reader #namjoon smut #namjoon angst #namjoon fluff #rm smut #rm fluff #rm angst #bts imagines #namjoon imagine #rm imagine #kvanity #bts smut #bts angst #bts fanfic #namjoon fanfic #rm fanfic

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k2ntoss · 3 months

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okay, so, adding onto your, as of this moment, most recent post, just picture it: you catch onto the fact that jason gets all smug seeing his handiwork on your nails when you jerk him off, and decide to surprise him by going out and testing literally every possible red nail polish available until you find the exact perfect shade that matches his helmet, and giving it to him as part of his gift for some occasion or another (personally I'm thinking either his birthday or Christmas, anniversary could work also)

but like, just imagine how thrilled he would be and how eager he would be to get that colour on your nails, and how impatient he would be for them to dry so he could see them in action, yknow? 👀👀

-🦊 (also omg i have my own tag now?🥹)

allow me to tell you that since you're the first "formal" anon with an emoji you are indeed my favorite, plus i'm always happy to see you around here bc you feed my delusions so thanks 🦊 ily, so yes you have your own tag

jason had to get used to his birthday being a little different since he started dating you, he had a reason to celebrate now and it was lovely, since he woke up you would shower him in details and little gifts and he loved to feel like a spoiled child because he felt all the love you had for him.

this year it wasn't different and his day was filled with things he liked a lot until he had to leave on patrol for a while so it was the perfect opportunity for you to prepare his last gift. it had been a while since he found out he liked painting your nails just to see artwork when you wrapped your hands around his dick, it simply made him grin proudly because it was his girl pleasing him and showing off her pretty nails, done by him so you decided to feed that little monster in jason's head. a whole week going into every store you saw to get the perfect shade of red that could match his helmet, carrying a pic on your phone just of the color to compare it until you found the one.

as soon as he slid into your apartment through the window he noticed the lights of the living room on which meant that you were there waiting for him so he made his way there. as soon as he saw you he took off the helmet, holding it under his arm and giving you a wide grin "isn't it past your bed time, princess?" jason asks teasingly as he walks towards the couch to sit next to you.

"no, it isn't because i have two last things for the birthday boy" you reply with a mischievous smile, handing him a small white box tied with a pretty red bow that he didn't wait to undo just to open the little box.

the smile that crept to his face was enough to know he was thinking about the reason behind the red nail polish bottle he was holding between his fingers, his eyes fixed on yours before he leaned in to kiss you but he stopped as soon as you tilted your head "are you gonna give me your pretty hands or do i have to ask?" jason's voice drops low and it makes a shiver run down your spine and even lower between your legs because you know what he wants.

"isn't it past my bed time? maybe we should wait until tomorrow morning so we can sleep" you reply, pushing jason a little just to build a little more of that pretty glint of need and desperation on his eyes and you let out a chuckle when he shakes his head, hair going messy and his white strand mixing a little with his jet black hair.

"you don't expect me to wait, right? give me your hands and let me see how they look when you use them on my cock, baby" jason's words make you swallow hard before you lay your hands on his thigh so he can start painting your nails and he's quick without messing it not even a little bit and you can't help but smiling when he's blowing on them to dry the nail polish.

"someone is getting a little impatient" you tease him which only earns you a low growl from his lips, he's impatient and needy because you can already see the outline of his half hard dick under his tactical pants and how his chest heaves under the chest plate so you blow a little too on your nails. jason stares at you, he even counts into his head how many minutes he has to wait until his trained eye sees the paint is dry.

"down on your knees. now" he almost barks the order as he spreads his legs to let you sit between them on the floor just to be met by his helmet placed between his thighs "put your pretty hands on the helmet, baby" jason says and you do so, his blood is boiling at the sight because the shade is exactly the same and his hands go a little clumsy when he decides to undo his belt and the buttons of his pants, taking away the helmet just so your hands can start to stroke him over his boxers.

there's soft grunts escaping his lips even if you're not touching him completely yet but he's so turned on by the color on your nails he can't really help it. leaning in he grabs your hips to move your body until you're sitting over his heavy boot, the rough material making you tremble ever so slightly "be a good girl and sit pretty there for me, yeah, love?" his voice is low and he smirks when you are the one sliding your hand under his boxers to wrap your fingers around his hard dick, nodding at his words.

for jason there's nothing hotter than his girl but seeing you like this, getting him you know he likes to use with you makes him feel so good, the way you always seem to guess what he would enjoy a lot is like touching heaven and having you know, kneeling in front of him while you jerk him off sitting on his boot feels like the perfect birthday gift. your hand going up and down his length with the right amount of pressure before your thumb slides up to play with his tip drives him crazy, he thrust his hips a little just to urge you to keep going at the same time his hand holds your chin slowly guiding two digits into your mouth "don't you have anything to say to me, baby?" he asks with a smirk as his thumb presses your tongue to mess up with your words.

"happy birthday, jay..."

#⭒ 📬 ⭒#🦊 anon #I NEED TO I NEED TO UHHHHHH #jason todd i need you so BAD #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd blurb #jason todd x y/n #jason todd imagine #jason todd smut #red hood imagine #red hood smut #red hood #jason todd #reader insert

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astrxealis · 1 year

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actually. mikoto or fuuta or yuno or mahiru or shidou or kazui or muu or haruka or akito or tsukasa or zenos or lady maria theme

#⋯ ꒰ა starry thoughts ໒꒱ *·˚#I KNOW I ALREADY SPINNED A WHEEL LIKE 3+ TIMES #but look i added zenos to my list now :))#amane ily kiddo but ion want green. sorry.#ilyt kotoko but i'm not feeling a theme for you also. sorry #zenos is now a choice bcs i really want to do something with his red and gold... but it's hard doing ffxiv themes #akito and tsukasa i've been thinking about them a lot. milgram i get obsessed w it again everytime i see it again #g'raha tia is Not an option bcs i've already done a theme for him. themis also isn't bcs i love him so much but i'm not inspired rn.#lady maria is still a choice but it's fucking christmas so maybe not.#oh maybe i should do a christmas theme. okay.

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i-literally-cant-with-this · 2 months

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A/N ::: I did dishes tonight and was bent over, yeah, you guessed it, filling up the Jet-Dry thingy and thought how nice would it be to have Draken come up behind me and whack me on the ass. And then it just got terribly, terribly out of hand and now we're like 2500+ words shorter on life. I'm so sorry I do this shit. But you don't have to read it. (THOUGH ILY ALL SM FOR READING IT!!!!)

C/W ::: Domestic!Draken x F.reader, fluff, some smut.

WC ::: 2,572

You're bent over the dishwasher filling up the rinse agent again. Because even though everyone that comes through your home CAN do things, doesn't mean they WILL.

You're filling it up and it hasn't spilled yet. Like, all of it has gone into the receptacle and it's perfect. You hear Draken's heavy, booted footsteps approaching you and you're so excited to tell him your stupid little feat over the dishwasher. "Ken! Ken! Guess what I just di-" he smacks your ass with a cupped hand. And so hard, too, that it almost makes you fall forward onto the open dishwasher door.

"What. The. Fuck. Have. You. Done!!" you say to him in a tone that's borderline scaring him. "Did you not see what I was doing here? I c- hoh man. Oh my god, Ken."

"W- why're you talkin' to me like that? What'd I do? Why ... why is your face so red, sweets, hm?" You stood up and turned around, the jet-dry all over your hand. And you're so much shorter than him. He doesn't understand this fear that's bubbling up in his stomach at the way you're staring at him with such ... murderous intent.

"Um, th-thank you for doing the dishes ... right? Is that what I'm supposed to say right now?" You slap his arm, making him yell in surprise. "Ow! Wha-"

"Don't interrupt me!" you yell at him. "You know damn well why I'm upset with you. Don't play dumb."

"Ohh, is this about the ass smack?"

"Yeah, it's about the ass smack! Do you realize how perfectly I was pouring that stupid dishwasher spot rinse this time? You just ... you ruined it! I'm gonna have to wait until it's run out and try again! AGAIN!"

He laughs. "Aw, baby, you're cute when you get all mad like this. It's adorable."

"Ryuuguji. This is not fucking funny to me! You can't just hit me like that while I'm trying to do something else. I was bending over for god's sake. You couldn't just, I don't know, tap me or something?"

"Uhhh, but you love it when I smack your ass, babe. Don't even try to deny it."

"That's beside the point! You can't do it every time."

"Well, maybe if you weren't so fuckin' hot when you're bent over like that, I wouldn't feel the need to!" You stare at him with your mouth agape. "I'm just sayin'!" he adds.

"Just. Shut up. And go back to your show." You turn around and start filling up the dishwasher again. He puts his hands on your waist, sliding them around to your stomach. "Ken ... I love you, but don't touch me right now."

"What if I don't wanna watch TV anymore? What if I wanna watch that pretty mouth of your wrappin' around my..." he pressed his erection against your ass. "Hm? You look so pretty."

"Are you kidding me?"

"What, you don't want my dick anymore? Is that what you're saying?"

"Yes! That's exactly what I'm saying! I don't want it right now because you're being insensitive!" He laughed.

"Why are you being so fuckin' psychotic about this? It's just the stupid spot rinse. And anyway, wasn't I helping you by getting more of it to circulate around in there? I think I deserve a thank you for being so insightful without even knowing it."

You turned around and shoved him away. "You're unbelievable. Seriously." You put the cap back on the spot rinse and walked away from him. "I don't wanna talk to you."

"Oh, come on! Baby, don't be like that! It was just a joke!" He followed you into the living room, where you were sitting on the couch with your arms crossed. "Sweetie, I'm sorry. I'll let you do your thing from now on, okay?"

"And how am I supposed to know if you're just saying that to appease me? You can't just apologize like that and expect me to believe you."

"I'll prove it to you. I'll watch your every move and make sure you’re not doing anything else before I smack your ass. See? I can be considerate too."

"Okay, well, if you can go a week without smacking my ass when it's poor timing, I'll believe you."

"A WEEK? I can't smack your ass for a whole week? Babe. Come on. You're being cra- unreasonable about this."

"I'm being what?"

"Nothing. Just. Fine. A week it is."

"Good." You smirked at him. "So, you can start by letting me finish filling up the dishwasher right now."

"No." He said. "Puttin' my foot down. And - and no. You getting all huffy about the fuckin' dishwasher has me hard as fuck and I want you to sit on my lap. Now."

"Are you kidding me? No! I'm not having sex with you after you made me spill my hard-earned dishwasher spot rinse!"

"Baby, it's just dish soap."

"AH-HA! It's not dish soap. It's a rinsing agent!" You don't know why you felt like you'd won the whole thing right then and there. But Draken just shook his head at you and walked to the bedroom and flopped down on the bed, undoing his pants.

"Fine. Just know that I'll be over here, jackin' off while you're doing your little thing. And you'll be missing out on a good time, so, you know. Your choice."

You didn't care. You went back to the kitchen and started filling up the dishwasher again. This time, you had a timer set for 5 minutes. If you couldn't fill it up in that time, you were going to give up and come back to it later.

Draken stayed on the bed with his cock in his hand, stroking slowly while he watched you from the bedroom. It was kind of hot, seeing you so determined. He knew you weren't going to let him win this one. And that turned him on. A lot.

But you couldn't do it. The timer went off and you still had a little left to do. And it pissed you off. You walked back to the bedroom and threw a pillow at him. "Happy?"

He smiled at you. "Why don't you come and find out?" You looked down at his hard cock and back up at him. You rolled your eyes and grabbed the pillow, throwing it back to its spot on the bed.

"I'm not gonna have sex with you while you're being such a brat." You started to walk away but he grabbed your arm and pulled you toward him.

"I- sor- sorry. I'M being a brat? Who the fuck do you think you are! Talk-" he pulled you so you were standing right in front of him and yanked your yoga pants and panties down in one motion. "Talking to me like that. You're the brat here, brat. And you know what," he laid you over his lap so your ass was in the perfect position to spank, "you're about to get a little lesson in respect. I'll show you who's a brat."

"K- Ken ... don't you dare!" But he was already bringing his hand down on your bare ass, making you yelp in surprise. "Ah! Ow! Don't you fucking dare!"

He smacked you again, harder this time. "Respect, bitch!" He smacked you again and again, alternating between cheeks. "Who's a brat now?"

"You, Ken! You! Oh my- oh my god, please stop!" You were laughing so hard that tears were running down your cheeks and you couldn't believe he was doing this to you. It stung but it was also turning you on.

He stopped spanking you and pulled you onto his lap, laying you on your side so your ass wasn't touching anything. "You okay, baby? Huh?" He ran his fingers over the red marks on your skin.

"I hate you so much," you said, still laughing.

"No. You don't." He kissed your cheek and ran his hands over your body. "You love me."

"Yeah, I do."

He lifted you up and positioned you so you were straddling him. "Good. Now. Let's have sex."

"Um. I don't think so." You slid off of him and looked around for your pants. They were in the garbage. "Really, Ken? The garbage can?"

"What? It's not like I meant to throw them there."

"Mm-hm. And besides, you just spanked me! Multiple times! So no. N-O spells no." You started to run away from him, still bare assed. Your ass jiggled all the way down the hallway and he couldn’t take his eyes off of it.

"Oh, no, you don't!" He ran after you and tackled you onto the couch, pinning you down with his body. "I didn't say you could go anywhere. You're staying right here with me."

"Ken, please!"

"Please, what? You want me to spank you more? Is that it? You liked getting your ass slapped, huh? You little slut." He pushed his cock against you, pressing it against your clit. "You wanna get fucked?"

"Yes! Yeh-hess, I want you to fuck me, Ken."

"Hmm. Not so fast." He pulled away from you and got down on his knees on the floor, lifting your legs up over his shoulders. He kissed the inside of your thighs, his lips ghosting over your skin. "You know how much I love these thighs of yours?"

"Mhm. Ken, please."

"Really. Now you're begging me for it? You're fuckin' unbelievable. So needy 'n shit. Got some nerve." He pressed his tongue against your clit, flicking it back and forth. "I don't know if I'm ready yet. You're gonna have to work a little harder than that to get me going. 'Sides, you had your chance. Several, actually. So really, this is your fault." He went back to licking your pussy, his tongue delving into your folds.

You brought your fingers to your mouth and licked them, rubbing them over your clit, moaning as he ate you out. He pushed your hand away and replaced it with his own. He started to rub your clit faster, making your hips buck up. "Mm. Good girl."

"Ah! Ohh, fuck!" Your orgasm hit you hard, making you moan loudly. "Ken! Ahh, fuck!" You tried to push him away, but he kept going, licking and sucking at your wetness until you couldn't take it anymore. "I can't! Fuck, I ca- hah!"

He finally stopped and sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with his hand. "There. Now. How do you feel about fucking me now?"

You laughed at him. "Fuck off."

"Aww, come on, baby. You know you wanna." He leaned forward and kissed your lips, his tongue dipping into your mouth. "Let's finish filling up the dishwasher together, hm?" He helped you up and pulled your shirt over your head, leaving you completely naked.

"I can't believe you," you said, laughing. "You really did that."

"Hey, you said no sex. I was just taking it a step further by removing all of your clothes so you couldn't even pretend you were gonna have sex with me. In this household, nudity is not frowned upon. In fact, I may tell our friends that if they come over, they have to take their clothes off. You'd like that, huh? I see the way you look at Mikey and Baji. Kazutora sometimes. And Chifuyu. And Mitsuya."

"OK! Jesus. Yeah, your friends are hot. But I'm in love with you, you caveman."

"I know. But it's okay. They don't mind that you're in love with me, either. So don't worry about it. You can fuck any of them if you want."

"I ... wh-what? I don't want to fuck them. I just like lookin' at them. Jesus. Way to give me up so fast! Wait, have they - have they said anything about wanting to fuck me? No no no. Don't answer that. Let's just do the dishes so you can fuck me."

He laughed and grabbed you by the arm, pulling you toward the kitchen. "Fine. Come on, then. Let's fill up the dishwasher and get you back into bed for round 2."

"Oh god, please don't call it that."

"What? What else would you call it? Fucking?"

"Yes, that's it."

"Oh, right. The fucking. Got it." He walked over to the dishwasher and grabbed the spot rinse. "Here. Fill it up. I'll watch." He leaned against the counter, his arms folded across his chest.

You sighed. "Fine." You picked up the bottle and filled it up, not spilling a drop. "You're ruining my fun by watching me so closely."

"Nah. You're just being a little brat again." He stepped closer to you and pressed his erection against your back. "And you know what happens to brats, right?"

"Yeah, they get punished."

"That's right, baby. That's exactly right." He spun you around and kissed you, his lips pressing against yours hungrily. "I'm gonna fuck you so hard right here on the counter, you’ll never do the dishes again without thinking about my cock."

You giggled and shook your head at him. "You're such a horny fuck, Ken. I love it." You started to push his boxers down his hips.

He pulled them down and stepped out of them, his cock hard and ready for you. "That's my girl. You ready for me?"

"Mhm." You lifted your leg up and wrapped it around his waist, pulling him closer. "Fuck me, Ken. Fuck me right here."

He thrust his cock into you, making you gasp in surprise. "There it is. That's what I love hearing from you." He fucked you hard and fast, his hips snapping against yours as he pounded into you. "Ahh, fuck. You feel so good. You feel so fucking good."

"Ohh, Ken! Ah! Fuck! Oh my god! Hah!!!" You cried out, scooting closer and closer to him off of the counter.

"Yeah? Fuckin' feels so good yeah? Fuck I love it when you're loud!" He began thrusting even harder into you.

"No! There's a fork stabbing me in the ass, get me off of here!" you yelled, trying to get away from the sharp metal object.

He laughed too hard at that and picked you up, carrying you to the bedroom. "There you go, baby."

You sighed in relief. "Thank you." He climbed onto the bed with you and pulled you on top of him. "Now I want you to ride me. Ride my cock." He held your hips and helped you move up and down on him. "Fuck, you're so hot like this. Yeah, just like that."

You moaned as you rode him, your hips rocking back and forth as you took him deeper. "Ken, you're so fucking good." You leaned forward and kissed him, your tongue sliding into his mouth. He kissed you back, his tongue rubbing against yours.

He started to thrust up into you, matching your rhythm. "That's it, baby. I love forking you." He smirked.

"What the fuck did you just say? I'm done. This was not meant to happen today." You climbed off of him and went to the bathroom to clean up.

"Babe, I'm sor-" he couldn't talk he was laughing so hard. "I'm sorry! Come here. C'mere."

"No. You know what? No. Go fork yourself, Ryuuguji. Don't speak to me for the rest of the day." You chuckled.

You don't know what you did to deserve this beautiful man in your life. But you thank the God's everyday that he loves you back.

Taglist ::: @kazutora-kurokawa @darkstarlight82 @viburnt @arlerts-angel @katkitkats @honeycloudz @lesyeuxde-amour

To the people I never tag, I only tagged you because you <3'd my silly little post. I won't tag you in anything else (unless you specifically request to be so. Thanks!)

#draken #ken ryuuguji #ken ryuguji #domestic fluff #tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers fluff #draken fluff #domestic draken #draken smut #ken ryuguji fluff #ken ryuguji smut #ken ryuguji x reader #draken x reader #draken x you #draken x y/n

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