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The mirror stares back at you like it’s trying to convince you of something.

That you’re beautiful. That you’re lucky. That this is what you’ve always wanted.

But the mirror lies.

You’re dressed in layers of ivory lace and silk so heavy it feels like armor. Gold threads snake across your bodice like vines, binding you into a shape you barely recognize. Somewhere behind you, handmaidens fuss with ribbons and brocade, cooing soft words you don’t hear. Your reflection looks poised- majestic, even.

But you feel like you’re drowning beneath the weight of expectation.

Your chest tightens. Not from nerves. No, you’d welcome nerves. This is worse. This is suffocation. The perfume in the room is too sweet. The silence, too loud. Every delicate “Princess” that slips from a servant’s tongue hits like a blade.

You’re getting married today.

To a man you’ve barely spoken to.

A man who’s ten years older.

A prince from a kingdom that needed a treaty more than a love story.

You catch your own gaze in the mirror again. Your lips are painted, your hair perfectly pinned, your veil stitched with symbols older than your name. You look like a queen-in-the-making.

But inside?

You’re unraveling.

“Too tight,” you say sharply, not looking at the handmaiden tying your corset.

She freezes. “Apologies, Your Highness…”

You stand abruptly, fingers tugging the laces yourself until the pressure eases from your ribs.

“Leave,” you murmur.

They hesitate.

“I said leave.”

Their skirts whisper across the marble floor as they vanish, one by one, until the room is yours again. Quiet. Empty. Suffocating.

You exhale shakily and lower yourself onto the velvet stool near the fire. You should feel like a bride. Instead, you feel like a pawn being moved across a glittering board.

A knock at the door makes your spine go rigid.

“Come in,” you say, voice tighter than you’d like.

The door creaks open. And there she is.

Jisoo.

Your older sister. Your kingdom’s golden girl.

She steps inside delicately, wrapped in blush silk with her hair softly swept up, eyes wide with sympathy you don’t want. She’s everything gentle and graceful the court adores. She looks like spring in human form.

And she looks like someone’s first choice.

“Soo,” you say, your tone unsure- too many emotions knotted in one syllable.

She smiles. Soft. Almost apologetic. “You look… stunning.”

You blink at her. “Why weren’t you here earlier?”

“I thought you’d want to be alone.”

“I didn’t,” you admit. “Not today.”

She hesitates a step from you. Her fingers curl into each other.

You feel the question bubbling before you can stop it. “Does he love you?”

The words spill out like poison.

Jisoo’s expression flickers- guilt, shock, something unreadable but she catches it before it fully forms. “Y/N…”

“You don’t have to lie,” you whisper. “Not today.”

“I never encouraged it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You must’ve known.” Your voice cracks just slightly. “He looks at you like you’re the crown he lost.”

Jisoo swallows, her voice quiet. “He’s marrying you.”

You stare into the fire, the flickering light licking at your gown like flame to paper. “But he wanted you.”

She doesn’t answer. And her silence says more than a confession ever could.

You don’t blame her. Not really. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“Maybe you should be the one marrying him,” you say, not able to meet her eyes.

“I would never take this from you,” she breathes.

You turn to face her finally. “Would it really be stealing if I was just keeping your seat warm?”

The air between you thickens. You’re not angry at her. Not really. You’re angry at fate. At politics. At the cold man waiting at the altar who wants a different bride.

Jisoo takes a step closer. “You’re stronger than you think.”

“No, I’m just better at pretending.”

She reaches out to touch your shoulder. You don’t pull away, but you don’t lean in either.

“He’ll learn to love you,” she says gently. “Anyone would.”

You let out a dry laugh, sharp as glass. “You don’t learn to love someone like me. You endure her.”

The bell tolls outside- three slow, echoing chimes that stretch across the walls like the opening notes of a funeral dirge.

It’s time.

You rise. Your gown shifts like water. You steady your shoulders, straighten your crown. You feel her watching you, but you can’t look at her again.

Because you are walking down the aisle

Not as the girl he dreamed of. Not as the sister he wanted. But as the bride he’s stuck with.

The chapel smells like ancient roses and old prayers.

You glide down the aisle slowly, deliberately, as the eyes of two kingdoms drink you in. The train of your gown trails behind you like spilled moonlight. Hundreds of royals, nobles, and dignitaries line the carved pews, all dressed in silks and golds, but none of them matter. You feel them watching, judging, whispering about your age, your family, your worth.

But you only look forward.

You keep your eyes on the altar where Prince Jeon Jungkook stands like he’s carved from ice.

He doesn’t smile.

Not even a flicker of warmth touches his face when he sees you. His expression remains cold, impassive, lips a straight line, shoulders square. You wonder if he even sees you or if he’s just counting the seconds until this political obligation is complete.

The music swells. The world fades.

You reach him.

He doesn’t offer his hand.

The High Cleric begins the ceremony with blessings in a language older than either of your kingdoms. You barely hear the words. Your fingers are trembling in your gloves. You feel like you’re underwater. Everything is soft and distant and slow.

Until it’s time for the vows.

You turn to face him. And his eyes aren’t on you.

They’re on her.

You see it. Just for a second. A flicker. A heartbeat. But it’s real.

His gaze shifts- barely, subtly- but you know the direction. You don’t even have to look.

Jisoo.

She’s seated near the front. Pale dress. Downcast eyes. Perfect posture. As still and serene as a statue. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t acknowledge it.

But you feel it. All of it.

The phantom of his feelings for her settles like a chill between your ribs.

“Repeat after me,” the Cleric intones, unaware of the slow fracture blooming in your chest.

You say the words.

You pledge your body, your name, your crown.

You do not cry.

He says the words, too. Calm. Flat. Emotionless. He binds himself to you in front of gods and ghosts, but his voice doesn’t tremble. Not from nerves. Not from affection.

Because he feels nothing.

He lifts your veil. His hands are steady. Distant.

Your first kiss as husband and wife is just that- a formality. His lips brush yours like the passing of winter wind. No passion. No warmth. No curiosity.

The crowd erupts into applause.

You smile.

You have to.

He offers you his arm.

You take it.

You walk down the aisle together, shoulder to shoulder but not touching, as cheers rain down from the golden arches of the chapel.

You smile.

You have to.

And though you can feel him beside you… 

he says nothing.

═══════

The ballroom gleams with gold and artifice.

You’re standing in the center of it, hand in hand with a man who hasn’t spoken a word to you all day. Not during the procession. Not during the ceremony. Not after the kiss. Not when he escorted you down the aisle like he was walking beside a shadow.

And now, in front of hundreds of watching eyes, it’s time for the first dance.

The music begins. You take one step forward, and so does he.

His gloved hand rests against your waist like he’s afraid to touch you too firmly- as if contact might imply something that isn’t there. His other hand holds yours, just tight enough to be respectful, just distant enough to make your stomach sink.

You lift your eyes to his.

And for the first time, he speaks, “You should smile.”

Your breath catches.

“That’s what they’re expecting,” he continues, voice low, precise. “A happy bride. A glowing princess.”

You try to smile, but it curls wrong on your lips.

“And you?” you murmur, eyes still fixed on his. “Are you pretending too?”

His grip tightens ever so slightly. “I’m fulfilling a role.”

You laugh- soft, bitter. “And what role is that? Dutiful husband or heartless executioner?”

He doesn’t answer.

You move together across the marble floor like strangers trapped in the same song. The music is beautiful, swelling in delicate arcs around you. But you can’t feel any of it.

“What did I do to make you hate this so much?” you whisper.

He blinks, slowly. “I don’t hate you.”

“No?” you scoff. “Then why won’t you look at me the way you looked at her?”

The words are out before you can stop them. His jaw clenches.

“Don’t bring her into this.”

“She’s already in it,” you breathe. “You put her there when you looked at her during our vows.”

The music swells again, a waltz that sounds too pretty for this kind of pain.

“I don’t want to embarrass you,” he says finally, voice tight.

You force a smile- sharp, graceful, empty. “Too late.”

He turns you in a slow spin, elegant, effortless. From a distance, the court sees perfection. A prince and his new bride, radiant under the candlelight.

But you know better.

You feel the space between your bodies like a scar that hasn’t healed yet.

“Do you love her?” you ask, quiet enough for only him to hear.

He doesn’t answer.

His silence slices deeper than any truth could.

You feel your chest tighten, throat burning. But your face? Your face stays royal. Untouched. Serene.

“Will I ever be more than her shadow to you?”

You see something flicker in his gaze, but it’s gone as fast as it comes.

“You were not the choice,” he says at last.

You blink. You stop moving for half a second. Your shoes nearly slip on the polished floor. The world tilts.

But then the music carries on.

So you do too.

He guides you back into motion, and you match him- fluid, poised, empty.

When the music ends, he steps back. Bows. You curtsy.

Applause erupts across the hall. And you smile so wide it almost cracks your face open.

═══════

The halls are empty when you’re escorted to the royal bedchamber.

No music now. No guests. No watching eyes. Just the sound of your heels against marble and your pulse humming beneath your skin.

The doors are already open.

He’s already inside.

You step in carefully, unsure of what you’ll find. The room is as grand as you imagined- pillars of carved obsidian, embroidered silks draped from the high ceiling, a fire crackling in the hearth like it’s mocking you with its warmth. A table is set with untouched wine. Rose petals litter the floor like someone believed romance could be faked.

He stands by the window, facing away from you. Still dressed in full ceremonial regalia. Still silent.

The doors shut behind you with a hollow thud.

You wait.

You don’t know what you’re waiting for. Instructions? Affection? A beginning?

Instead, you get nothing.

You unclasp your cloak. It falls silently around your feet. Your hair is pinned and tight, your corset aching against your ribs. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to be held.

But he still won’t look at you.

“It’s done,” you say quietly, just to break the silence.

He hums in acknowledgment. Doesn’t turn.

You take a step forward, cautious. “Is there something you’d like me to do?”

At last, he speaks. “Sleep. That’s all.”

That’s all.

The words hang heavy in the air.

You try not to show it, but your fingers curl against your side. “Isn’t this… expected?”

“I don’t owe them a performance.”

“And me?” you ask.

He turns to face you now, slowly. His expression unreadable. Cold. He looks at you like a decision he regrets making. Like a formality he’s been assigned.

“You don’t want this,” he says.

You flinch at the assumption. “You don’t know what I want.”

“You want love. Passion. Devotion.” He crosses his arms. “I’m not the man who gives those things.”

“No,” you say, stepping closer, “you’re the man who gives silence. Distance. Glances meant for someone else.”

His jaw ticks.

You keep going. You’re tired of swallowing pain. “You said your vows. You kissed me. You danced with me. And not once did you pretend I was enough.”

“I told you I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Oh, so this is honesty?” you snap. “This- coldness. This rejection. This… emptiness?”

He sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. His voice is quieter now. “It’s mercy.”

You shake your head. “It’s cruelty.”

Neither of you speak for a long moment.

You break the silence again. “Did you ever think that maybe I didn’t want to be just some treaty girl, either? That I didn’t want to marry a man in love with someone else?”

His face flickers. Just briefly.

You don’t know what emotion it is. Pity? Guilt? Regret?

But it fades too quickly to hold onto.

“You can sleep in here if you want,” he says, voice controlled again. “Or I’ll have a separate room prepared.”

You take a deep breath, walk past him toward the bed. You don’t look at him. Not this time.

“I’ll stay here,” you say softly. “Not because I want you. But because this is my marriage, too.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, spine straight, heart hollow. And he walks away without another word.

The doors close.

You are alone.

Again.

You unlace your corset with trembling fingers. You slide the jewelry off your skin like it’s shackles. You curl beneath the covers, staring at the ceiling that feels more like sky than stone.

And for the first time since the ceremony began, you let the tears fall. No one hears them. No one sees. And when morning comes, you will wear the crown like it never hurt.

═══════

The palace is dead quiet after midnight.

You lie still in the enormous bed, staring up at the carved ceiling, your body wrapped in satin, your heart wrapped in stone.

Jungkook came back hours ago.

He didn’t speak when he entered.

He didn’t speak when he undressed, carefully, methodically, folding his ceremonial uniform with military precision and draping a robe over his bare chest. He didn’t speak when he climbed into the opposite side of the bed, a world away from your side.

He just turned his back to you.

And that was that.

You listened to his breathing even out. Watched the fire in the hearth dim into embers. Let the weight of the sheets press your body down like a crown too heavy to wear.

Sleep never came.

The silence around you was too loud.

You watched the moonlight crawl across the walls until your eyes ached. You imagined what it might’ve felt like to be chosen. To be wanted. To be seen.

You almost didn’t hear it.

A whisper. Barely there.

You blink, breath catching, your body frozen as stone.

Then again- soft. Muffled. Threaded with sleep.

“…Jisoo…”

Your heart stops.

The name barely drips from his mouth- half breath, half confession- but it’s real. It slithers through the shadows between you like smoke.

“…Jisoo…”

He shifts in the bed beside you, still deep in dreams.

And you?

You’re wide awake.

The ache in your chest is immediate and consuming. Sharp enough to make your eyes water, soft enough to break you slowly. You don’t speak. Don’t move.

You lie there, paralyzed. Because how can you scream when the knife was never even meant for you?

It was a whisper. A sleep-talk. A mistake.

But it was her name. Not yours.

Not once tonight- not in his gaze, not in his vows, not in his arms- did you belong to him. But her? She owns the quietest part of him. The part he doesn’t even guard.

You turn your head toward him slowly. His face is peaceful in sleep. Untroubled. Like he hasn’t just carved you open.

You stare at him for a long time.

And for the first time since this all began, you don’t feel sad. You feel cold.

Numb. Resolved.

You pull the covers tighter around you- not for warmth, but for armor.

He may have married you.

But he dreams of her.

And if he thinks you’ll stay quiet forever, if he thinks you’ll simply live in her shadow…

He doesn’t know you at all.

═══════

The first week of marriage does not belong to you.

It belongs to the court.

Every morning begins with a maid waking you before the sun, layering you in gowns chosen by someone else, and fitting a crown so heavy you can feel it in your spine. Every day ends with aching cheeks from holding the same smile for hours.

They don’t call you by name anymore.

You’re Her Royal Highness, Princess Consort of the Northern Kingdom.

A title. Not a person.

The palace calendar is full- parades, charity luncheons, handshakes with foreign diplomats, appearances at schools, hospitals, markets. At each stop, you are arranged like part of the decor. A jeweled accessory for the prince’s arm.

He almost never offers it.

When he does, it’s for the benefit of the crowd. An elbow bent at a perfect angle, a smile carved into place like it was taught, not felt. He’s a master of performance.

So are you.

The people cheer for the image of you both. They throw flower petals into the street, shout blessings, push forward to glimpse their fairytale couple.

If only they knew fairytales rot when the gold is only paint.

At the textile factory, you stand beside him while the foreman gushes about the kingdom’s prosperity. At the ribbon-cutting for a new bridge, you’re handed the scissors, smiling for the press while Jungkook stares past you at some distant point, as though the moment doesn’t require him.

Sometimes, you catch yourself wondering if he forgets you’re even there.

You’ve learned the choreography. Sit still. Smile faintly. Look engaged, but not outspoken. Be regal, but not commanding. Be graceful, but not bold.

Be there.

But never be.

The only time you feel remotely human is during the carriage rides between engagements, when the curtains are drawn, and the crowds can’t see you.

That’s when the silence between you becomes unbearable. He doesn’t speak.

You don’t either.

But you glance at him once, catching his profile in the dim light. It’s like looking at a portrait- beautiful, distant, untouchable. You turn away before he can feel you watching.

By the end of the week, you’ve perfected the role:

A crown without a voice.

═══════

It happens because it has to.

Not because he wants you. Not because you want him. But because it’s expected. Because the kingdom will talk if it doesn’t.

The door opens without a knock. You glance up from your seat on the edge of the bed, silk robe tied loosely around your waist, hair falling over your shoulders. He steps inside, closing the door with quiet finality.

“We need to talk,” you say.

“Not tonight.” His voice is low, clipped, as he shrugs out of his coat. “This isn’t a conversation.”

Your brow furrows. “Then what is it?”

He looks at you but it’s the way a jeweler inspects a gem before deciding if it’s worth setting. “It’s what’s required,” he says. “For the line. For the crown.”

Your chest tightens. You know the court’s whispers- how the marriage will be scrutinized until you produce an heir. You know the timeline they expect. You’d expected distance. You hadn’t expected to feel like an appointment.

He approaches slowly, rolling his cuffs to his forearms. When he stops in front of you, he doesn’t touch you right away- just stands there until the air between you grows heavy.

When he stops in front of you, he looks down at you with the same expression he wears in court- measured, guarded, cold.

“Stand up,” he says.

The command leaves no room for hesitation. You rise.

His hands land on your waist, not with affection but with control, guiding you closer. His mouth meets yours in a kiss that isn’t really a kiss- no give, no hunger, no softness. You press harder anyway, trying to spark something. He responds by gripping your jaw, holding you still.

“You’re trying too hard,” he murmurs.

“At least I’m trying,” you bite back.

A slow, humorless smile curves his lips. “Careful.”

He turns you with deliberate force until your knees meet the bed. You sit. He follows, untying your robe in one smooth pull. It falls to your sides, cool air grazing bare skin.

His gaze sweeps over you- assessing, not admiring. “Beautiful,” he says, tone flat. “But beauty doesn’t make you powerful.”

You swallow. “Then what does?”

His eyes lift to yours, sharp as steel. “Control. And you don’t have any here.”

The word sends a shiver down your spine- half fear, half something you don’t want to name.

He presses you back into the mattress with a firm hand to your shoulder, sliding the robe from your arms. His touch is skilled, confident, but there’s no tenderness. Every movement feels deliberate- designed to take without giving.

You arch into him once, testing him. His palm flattens against your sternum, holding you down.

“Do you think I’ll lose myself for you?” he asks softly, mockingly. “You can’t provoke me into wanting you.”

The words burn hotter than his hands.

When he finally takes you, it’s with the same efficiency as everything else he does- controlled, unhurried, purposeful. The sounds in the room are soft but sharp: the creak of the bed, your shallow breaths, the low rumble of his voice telling you to hold still.

His grip on your hips is firm, guiding you exactly how he wants. You try to match his rhythm, to pull him closer. He shifts his hold, pinning your wrists above your head against the mattress.

“Not yours to lead,” he says. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

It’s almost clinical. Almost mechanical. Your body reacts anyway- heat, breathlessness, the helpless ache for more. But you know he’s watching every flicker of your expression like a general studying an opponent’s next move.

When it’s over, he pulls away immediately. No lingering touch. No kiss. Just rises, adjusting his clothes with the same precision he undid them.

You’re still catching your breath when he looks at you one last time. “This is duty, Princess. Don’t confuse it with anything else.”

And then he’s gone.

The door shuts behind him.

You stay there, robe open, pulse still racing- not from closeness, but from the sting of his words.

═══════

The council chamber smells faintly of parchment, polished wood, and the faint metallic tang of ambition.

You sit in the gilded chair to Jungkook’s right, posture flawless, hands folded in your lap. It’s your first time attending a full royal council since the wedding. You’re here to listen. To be silent. To play the part of the well-bred consort.

At least, that’s what they expect.

The chamber doors close, and the discussion begins. Ministers rise, presenting their concerns: border tensions with the Western Kingdom, grain shortages in the southern provinces, a brewing dispute with the merchant guilds.

Your husband listens with that same infuriating calm, speaking only when necessary, voice even, deliberate. A king in training.

But when the Minister of Trade suggests raising tariffs on imported grain to “incentivize” local production, something twists in your chest.

“That would starve half the southern provinces,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Every head in the room turns.

Jungkook’s gaze cuts to you. Sharp. Warning.

The Minister blinks, surprised. “Your Highness, the measure-”

“-would drive up prices so high,” you continue, “that families already struggling would have to choose between bread and rent. And if the people are hungry, unrest follows. That is not ‘incentive,’ Minister. That is negligence.”

Murmurs ripple through the chamber.

Jungkook’s voice is quiet but firm. “Princess-”

You turn your head slowly, meeting his eyes. “Am I mistaken?”

A pause. His jaw tightens.

“You are… uninformed,” he says at last.

You lean forward, resting your hands on the table. “Then perhaps inform me. Tell me how destabilizing our food supply will help secure your rule. Or ours.”

A faint gasp from one of the scribes. A few ministers look away, hiding smirks. The Minister of Trade fidgets.

Jungkook’s expression doesn’t change, but you see the flicker in his eyes- anger, yes, but something else. Curiosity.

You look back at the table. “Instead of tariffs, subsidize local farmers to increase production. Buy excess grain directly from them at fair prices, then sell it cheaply in the provinces that need it most. The treasury loses nothing if the surplus is sold abroad. Everyone wins. The farmers, the provinces, the crown.”

The room goes still.

Then, slowly, the Minister of Agriculture nods. “It’s… a sound plan.”

More murmurs. Agreement.

Jungkook leans back in his chair, studying you like he’s seeing you for the first time. You can feel his gaze on your skin, hot and assessing.

“Very well,” he says finally. “We’ll consider the Princess’s… suggestion.”

It’s not an admission. Not in his tone.

But you’ve already won.

When the meeting ends, you rise before he does, smoothing your skirts. As you pass his chair, you feel his hand catch your wrist under the table.

You glance down at him.

His voice is low, for you alone. “We will discuss this later.”

You smile sweetly. “Of course, Your Highness.”

And you leave the chamber with your head high, the echo of your heels a victory drumbeat in the quiet hall. Yet, the moment the council doors close behind you, you know he’s following.

Your heels click against the marble corridor, echoing between the towering pillars. You don’t turn around, but you can feel him gaining on you- steady, purposeful, silent.

You make it halfway to your chambers before his hand closes around your wrist.

He pulls you into a side room- an antechamber lined with bookshelves and an unused writing desk- and shuts the door hard enough to rattle the hinges.

The air changes instantly.

He steps closer. Not close enough to touch, but enough that you can feel the weight of him, the way his presence seems to draw the oxygen from the room.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he says, voice low, razor-edged.

You arch a brow. “Speak?”

“Undermine me in front of my council.” His gaze is molten steel, locked on yours. “You embarrassed me.”

You take a deliberate step forward, closing some of the space between you. “I saved you from making a decision that would’ve turned half your kingdom against you.”

His jaw flexes. “That’s not your place.”

“And sitting there like a decorative vase is?” Your voice is calm, but each word lands sharp.

He moves closer, forcing you to back up until the edge of the desk presses against the back of your thighs. His hands plant on either side of you, caging you in without touching. “You don’t understand how dangerous it is to overstep in that room.”

You tilt your chin up. “I understand perfectly. They’ll eat you alive if they think you’re weak. And nothing says weakness like a wife too afraid to speak her mind.”

His eyes narrow. “You think you’re clever.”

“I know I am.”

For a moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing. His gaze drops briefly- not to your mouth, but to the stubborn lift of your chin- then returns to your eyes.

“You enjoy provoking me,” he says quietly.

“Only when you deserve it.”

One corner of his mouth twitches- not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. “Careful, Princess. If you make a habit of this, you might find I have… inventive ways of teaching obedience.”

You lean just slightly into the space between you, your voice a whisper. “And if you keep underestimating me, you might find I have inventive ways of winning.”

The tension between you is almost unbearable- not heat, not tenderness, just raw defiance meeting raw authority.

Finally, he pushes back, giving you space. “You’re not stupid,” he says. “But you are mine to manage.”

You smooth your skirts, stepping past him toward the door. “If you think I’ll be managed, Your Highness… you really haven’t been paying attention.”

You don’t wait for him to follow.

═══════

5 years earlier (jungkook’s pov): 

The gala had been suffocating.

Perfume and politics choked the air inside the ballroom. Every step, every word, every glance felt calculated. The music was loud enough to cover whispers but not loud enough to drown them out.

Jungkook slipped through a side door.

The night air hit him like a blessing- cool, crisp, tinged with the scent of rain. He loosened his collar and exhaled, letting the weight of the crown’s expectations roll off his shoulders, if only for a breath.

That’s when he saw her.

Jisoo.

She was standing at the edge of the balcony, moonlight touching the soft curve of her cheek. A pale silk gown flowed around her like water. Her hands were clasped in front of her, her lips moving faintly as she hummed something he didn’t recognize.

She turned when she heard him.

“Oh- Your Highness,” she said, voice light, careful. She curtsied, the movement graceful, unhurried. “I didn’t realize anyone else would be out here.”

“I needed air,” he admitted.

Her smile was small but knowing. “So did I.”

They stood there for a moment, the muffled music from the ballroom spilling through the open doors. He should have gone back inside. Instead, he found himself asking, “Do you come to many of these events?”

“More than I’d like.” Her gaze drifted toward the gardens below. “But my father says it’s important to be seen.”

The words were simple. Obvious, even. But the way she said them- steady, resigned, without bitterness-  struck him. She wasn’t like the others inside, scrambling for attention or advantage.

“I suppose he’s right,” he said.

She looked at him then, really looked, and for a second, he thought she might see past the prince to the man beneath. “You wear the pressure well.”

The compliment shouldn’t have mattered. It was the kind of thing royals said to each other all the time. But there was no jest in her tone, no false sweetness. It felt… clean.

Someone called her name from inside- a soft summons from a lady-in-waiting.

She dipped her head. “I should go.”

And just like that, she was gone.

Jungkook stayed on that balcony long after, the faint sound of her humming still in his ears.

It had been nothing- a polite exchange in the quiet. But in a life where every word was a weapon, her simplicity had felt like a shield.

Years later, he still told himself she was different.

He never noticed that he didn’t know a single thing more about her.

═══════

Two months change nothing… and everything.

The last time you and Jungkook stood together in the council chamber, you defied him in front of his ministers. He hasn’t forgotten. Neither have you.

The winter gala is your first appearance together since then.

The ballroom glitters under crystal chandeliers, every corner alive with silks, jewels, and the low hum of politics disguised as conversation. Gold light spills across polished marble, and the air is warm with the scent of champagne and candle wax.

You’ve chosen your gown carefully.

Silk the color of deep wine, cut low enough at the back to reveal the elegant dip of your spine, the fabric clinging to your curves before spilling loose in a daring slit high on your thigh. By court standards, it’s scandalous. By yours, it’s perfect.

You don’t tell Jungkook you’ve done it for him.

You tell yourself it’s for you.

The heads turn as soon as you enter on his arm. Ministers pause mid-sentence. Noblewomen whisper behind jeweled fans. Men look longer than they should. You feel the power in it- the way the room bends toward you.

Jungkook’s grip on your arm is tight enough to bruise.

“Enjoying yourself already?” you murmur, eyes fixed forward.

“You think this is clever?” His voice is low, dangerous. “Every man here staring at what’s mine?”

“Every man here staring at their future queen,” you correct softly.

He doesn’t reply, but you feel the tension radiating off him.

And then you see her.

Jisoo.

She stands near the far end of the room, surrounded by a small cluster of dignitaries. She’s dressed in soft silver, hair pinned in perfect curls, a picture of refined restraint. The kind of elegance that draws admiration without scandal.

She sees you. She smiles- polite, warm, and just a little too knowing. You smile back, the kind that could be taken for friendliness or challenge.

You make your rounds, greeting nobles, shaking hands, accepting compliments that dance on the edge of impropriety. You can feel Jungkook’s gaze on you even when he’s not beside you- especially when you laugh at another man’s joke, your fingers brushing his sleeve as you speak.

When you finally return to Jungkook’s side, his jaw is tight.

“Careful, Princess,” he says under his breath. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

You sip your champagne, unbothered. “So are you.”

The orchestra swells, the floor clears for the next dance. He offers his hand, not out of romance, but because tradition demands it.

You place your hand in his and let him lead you into the spotlight.

Around you, the court watches. Some curious, some envious, some waiting for one of you to slip.

Under the chandeliers, his hand rests low on your back, almost possessive.

You wonder if he’s imagining Jisoo in your place. You wonder if it’s killing him that he can’t look away from you.

═══════

The ride back to the palace is silent.

Not the comfortable kind.

The kind that crackles with things unsaid.

You can feel him beside you in the carriage, his body still wound tight, his hand flexing once on his knee as though resisting the urge to act. He doesn’t look at you, but his gaze burns into the side of your face all the same.

When the carriage stops, he’s out first, striding through the palace doors without a word. You follow, heels clicking against marble. He doesn’t slow down until you’re inside your chambers.

The door shuts hard behind you.

“Do you enjoy humiliating me?” His voice is sharp, each word laced with steel.

You slip off your gloves one finger at a time. “Do you enjoy pretending you own me?”

He takes two steps forward, closing the space between you. “Everything you did tonight- the dress, the smiles, touching him-”

“-was diplomacy,” you cut in. “Something a ruler should understand.”

His eyes flash, and then he’s crowding you backward until your spine meets the wall. His hand presses against it beside your head, trapping you in place.

“You wanted my attention?” His voice drops lower, dangerous. “Now you have it.”

Your heart kicks hard, but you lift your chin. “And what will you do with it, Your Highness?”

His mouth crashes onto yours- not gentle, not tentative, but claiming. His other hand drags up your thigh, finding the slit in your gown and shoving the silk higher.

“Prove to you,” he murmurs against your lips, “that you can play with anyone else in the room… but you’ll still end up here.”

You bite his lower lip, pulling back just enough to smirk. “And if I’m not impressed?”

His grip tightens on your hip. “Then I’ll try harder.”

He turns you toward the bed in one swift movement, the skirt of your gown bunching in his fist. You go willingly, but when he pushes you down, you twist to look over your shoulder.

“Still just duty?” you taunt.

He freezes for a fraction of a second- then his hands are on you again, rougher now, dragging you back against the hard, unmistakable shape of his cock through his trousers. “Tonight? It’s a lesson.”

The dress comes off in a series of impatient tugs, pooling on the floor. His palms roam over your bare skin like he’s taking inventory, thumbs digging into your ass before parting you just enough to feel the heat of his breath between your legs. You shiver, but refuse to turn your face away.

His clothes follow- not rushed, but stripped with deliberate precision, every motion dripping with control. When he finally presses the heavy, hot length of him against your entrance, he holds there for a moment, letting you feel every inch before he pushes in.

The stretch is deep and sudden, making your breath catch, your nails digging into the sheets. He doesn’t give you time to adjust- his hips drive forward in hard, unrelenting strokes, the thick slide of him hitting deep enough to make you gasp every time. His hands lock your hips in place, forcing you to take him exactly how he wants, his pace a brutal, steady rhythm meant to grind down your defiance.

But you meet every thrust, rocking back against him with just as much force, your slick making every connection filthy and loud.

“Say you belong to me,” he orders, voice ragged.

You shake your head, breathless but smiling even as pleasure twists low in your belly. “No.”

His mouth is at your ear in the next breath, teeth grazing the shell before his words pour over you like molten heat. “You will.”

You push back harder, grinding until the head of his cock drags against that sweet, swollen spot inside you. A moan slips free- you swallow it down before it can give him satisfaction. “Or you’ll learn I don’t belong to anyone.”

The challenge hangs between you, thick as the sweat on your skin. Neither of you slow down, each thrust sharper, wetter, more desperate. The slap of skin fills the room, your breaths tangled with curses and broken sounds you’d never admit to making.

You’re so close you can feel it buzzing in your bones but you hold it back out of spite, out of sheer will. His fingers slip down between your thighs, finding your clit and circling hard until your resolve cracks and your body shudders around him.

He follows with a deep, savage thrust, spilling into you with a low groan, hips grinding through the aftershocks like he’s branding you from the inside.

When it ends, you’re both breathless, flushed, staring at each other across the tangle of sheets.

He doesn’t kiss you. You don’t ask him to.

“You’re exhausting,” he says finally.

“You’re obsessed,” you reply.

And you both know you’re right.

═══════

Two weeks have passed since that night.

The night where anger blurred with want, where neither of you surrendered but both of you took.

Since then, you’ve spoken little. Polite exchanges in public, calculated silences in private.

The world sees perfection. You see the cracks.

This morning, the palace gardens are alive with late winter sunlight. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of blooming camellias and damp earth. You’ve always preferred this part of the palace- away from the council chambers, away from the eyes of the court.

Your ladies follow at a respectful distance as you take the marble path toward the upper terrace. The view from there sweeps over the river, the towers, and the city beyond- a reminder of everything that belongs to the crown, if not to you.

You’re halfway up the wide steps when your heel catches on the edge of your gown.

The world tilts.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp as your foot slides on the slick marble. You stumble forward, ankle twisting hard. The pain shoots up your leg before your knees hit the ground.

And then- 

Strong hands catch you before you collapse completely.

The scent of warm spice and leather floods your senses.

“Y/N.” His voice is low, urgent.

You blink up into Jungkook’s face. For once, his expression isn’t composed. His eyes are wide, scanning you for injury.

“My ankle,” you breathe, wincing as the weight shifts.

Without hesitation, he bends and sweeps you into his arms. The motion startles you, your hands gripping his shoulders instinctively.

“Put me down,” you protest.

“Not a chance,” he says, his tone sharp but not cold. It’s threaded with something you’ve never heard from him before. Fear.

He carries you to a shaded bench, lowering you carefully. His fingers are warm and gentle as they press around the swelling ankle, his jaw tight.

“You’ll be off it for a day at least,” he says.

“It’s just a twist-”

“You’ll rest,” he interrupts, brooking no argument. “I’ll have a physician sent immediately.”

You tilt your head. “Are you… worried?”

His eyes meet yours. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t answer. “You are my wife,” he says finally, voice softer than you expect. “What happens to you matters.”

“You’ll stay in your chambers today. I’ll make the arrangements.”

And before you can protest, he bends again, one arm hooking under your knees, the other around your back, lifting you as if you weigh nothing.

“Jungkook-”

“Save your breath,” he says, eyes fixed forward. “You’re not walking on it.”

The world tilts in a different way now, the solid heat of him under you, the steady rhythm of his steps carrying you through the garden paths. Court attendants bow as he passes, some openly staring, but he doesn’t slow.

He carries you up the palace steps, down the corridors, and straight into your chambers-  only setting you down on the bed once you’re surrounded by the familiar silk and shadow.

His hands linger for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he steps back. “Rest.”

Then the mask is back, and he’s gone.

═══════

The physician leaves just before noon.

“It’s only a mild sprain,” he’d said, binding your ankle with clean linen and instructing you to stay off it for a day or two. “Nothing serious, Your Highness. As long as you rest.”

You’re propped against a fortress of pillows in your bed, silk sheets spilling over your legs, a cup of cooling tea at your side. The room is too still, too quiet. You’ve never been good at sitting still.

Your ladies-in-waiting keep offering to read to you or bring fresh flowers, but you send them away after the fourth polite interruption. It’s not their fault you feel caged. The crown fits heavy enough without being confined to your chambers.

You’re staring at the gilded canopy when there’s a knock at the door.

“Come in,” you call.

Jungkook steps inside.

You blink. “I thought you had meetings all afternoon.”

“I do,” he says, but he doesn’t leave. He crosses the room, the sound of his boots muffled against the carpet. “I wanted to see if you were following orders.”

“Orders?” you repeat, arching a brow. “I didn’t realize marriage came with a chain of command.”

His gaze flicks to your bandaged ankle. “You’re still in bed. That’s a start.”

You expect him to leave after that, but instead, he moves toward the table and pours you fresh tea, setting the cup within reach. You catch the faintest furrow between his brows, the one that appears when he’s thinking too much.

“You didn’t have to-”

“It was closer to me than to you,” he cuts in.

“Right,” you murmur, hiding a small smile behind the rim of your cup.

He stands there a moment longer, as if debating something. “If you need anything-”

“I’ll send for a guard?” you finish for him, teasing.

His eyes narrow slightly, but there’s no heat in it. “Exactly.”

He turns to go, and something in you flares- curiosity, stubbornness, maybe both. “Jungkook.”

He pauses at the door.

“You caught me before I fell,” you say. “Why?”

For a heartbeat, his eyes meet yours. “Because you’re mine to protect.”

Then the door shuts behind him.

You’re left staring at it, unsure whether his words were a claim, a duty… or something else entirely.

═══════

By morning, the dull ache in your ankle has faded to something tolerable. Not gone- but not enough to keep you trapped in bed.

You dress yourself in a pale blue day gown, something soft and unassuming, and braid your hair back in a way that says I am perfectly fine, thank you. Your ladies-in-waiting hover nervously as you make your way to the sitting room.

“Your Highness,” one begins gently, “perhaps you should-”

“I’ve rested long enough,” you say, taking the first careful step toward the door. “There are things I need to see to.”

They exchange looks but say nothing.

The moment you open the door, you nearly collide with him.

Jungkook stands there, dressed in deep charcoal, the morning light catching on the silver clasp at his cloak. His gaze drops immediately to your feet, to the subtle limp you try- and fail- to hide.

“Where are you going?” His tone is calm, but there’s a weight to it.

“For a walk,” you say. “It’s a palace, not a prison.”

His jaw flexes. “Not without me.”

You fold your arms. “You’re busy. I can manage.”

He steps past you into the room, closing the door behind him. “You can barely walk without favoring that ankle.”

“I can walk,” you counter. “And I intend to.”

Something flickers in his eyes- not anger, not quite- before he exhales sharply. “Then I’ll escort you.”

It’s not a request.

You consider arguing, but there’s something in his stance, in the set of his shoulders, that tells you it will only waste time. So instead, you smile- sweet, false. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

He offers his arm. You take it, because refusing would feel like losing, and you refuse to lose to him in anything.

The walk is slow, deliberate. The gardens are busy with attendants pruning roses and sweeping paths. You can feel the eyes on you- the court always watches. Jungkook’s hand stays steady under yours, guiding you away from uneven ground, adjusting his pace without comment when you falter.

It’s infuriating how natural it feels.

When you reach the far end of the garden, you stop beside the fountain, pretending to admire the lilies floating on the surface.

“See?” you say. “Perfectly capable.”

He studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You’re stubborn.”

“And you’re controlling,” you reply. “Somehow, we make it work.”

For a moment, it almost feels like truce.

Almost.

Then he says, “Next time, I’ll carry you from the start.”

And before you can respond, he turns and starts back toward the palace, leaving you to follow with the faintest, most infuriating smile tugging at your lips.

═══════

The royal conservatory smells faintly of jasmine and politics.

Today’s luncheon is meant to honor a visiting trade delegation, but as always, it’s also a performance- a showcase of unity between the prince and his consort. You sit at Jungkook’s right, posture perfect, hands folded loosely in your lap.

The conversation drifts from tariffs to art to upcoming festivals. You answer politely when addressed, keeping your smile fixed in place.

Until Lord Jimin speaks.

He’s old money, old power, and old enough to think his opinion is law. Leaning back in his chair with a practiced smile, he says, “It’s lovely to see you out and about again, Your Highness. I’d heard you’d been… recovering from a fall? I suppose marble steps can be dangerous… for those unused to palace life.”

A polite ripple of laughter travels the table. The words are coated in courtesy, but the meaning is sharp- a reminder you’re an outsider, unaccustomed, and perhaps unfit.

You meet his gaze without flinching. “It’s true. I fell. Luckily, my husband was there to catch me.”

“Yes,” Jimin says smoothly, “though I imagine His Highness has far more pressing matters than tending to scraped ankles. Affairs of state require… sturdier footing.”

It’s a dig. Gentle enough to pass as banter, but you hear the insinuation beneath it: fragile, ornamental, a burden.

You’re ready to respond, but Jungkook speaks first.

“Lord Jimin,” he says, voice even but edged with steel, “you mistake grace for weakness.” The table quiets instantly. “The Princess has already proven herself in council and in matters of policy. She is not a burden. She is my partner.”

Jimin blinks, caught off guard.

“And,” Jungkook continues, his gaze locking with the older lord’s, “if I ever hear you suggest otherwise again- even in jest- I will ensure you regret it.”

A ripple of stunned silence follows. Somewhere down the table, a glass is set down a little too quickly.

Jimin forces a smile. “Of course, Your Highness. I meant no offense.”

“Then perhaps,” Jungkook says, his tone softening but not losing its weight, “you should choose your words more carefully.”

The conversation resumes, but the balance at the table has shifted.

You glance at Jungkook. His expression is unreadable, his focus already on the next course being served.

But under the table, you let your fingers brush his hand- not a thank-you, exactly, but an acknowledgment.

He doesn’t pull away.

The luncheon ends in a blur of polite farewells and murmured congratulations. You don’t remember half the names of the people you shook hands with- not because they weren’t important, but because you could feel Jungkook beside you.

Not just beside you. With you.

Every time you replay his words- “She is my partner”- your pulse stirs a little faster.

The doors close behind the last of the guests. Servants move to collect the empty glasses, but Jungkook’s voice stops them.

“Leave us.”

The room empties quickly. You’re still standing by the long banquet table when he crosses to you, his steps unhurried, but his gaze locked on yours like he’s already made a decision.

“You enjoyed that,” you murmur, chin lifting.

“What?” he says, stopping just close enough that you feel the warmth of him.

“Defending me.” You allow a slow smile. “Making it clear I’m yours.”

His hand is at your waist before you can react, pulling you flush against him. “You are mine.”

The words aren’t cold this time. They’re hot. Dangerous.

You open your mouth to retort, but his lips crash onto yours- not claiming like before, but taking, deep and insistent, like he’s been holding it back all afternoon. His tongue pushes past your lips, tasting you, coaxing a soft sound from the back of your throat.

Your fingers curl into his jacket, dragging him closer. The kiss breaks just long enough for him to murmur, voice rough, “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

He lifts you onto the table in one motion, your skirts spilling over polished wood. His mouth moves to your neck, your jaw, his teeth scraping lightly before his hands shove fabric higher and higher, until your thighs are bare.

“This isn’t about duty,” you breathe, half dazed.

He pushes you back so you’re lying on the table, bunching your dress up, and then he drops to his knees between your legs. Your breath catches. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you open. 

“No,” he agrees, his voice low, almost dangerous. “This is about you.”

And then his mouth is on you- a slow, deliberate lick over your slit that makes you jolt.

He doesn’t give you time to think before his mouth is on you- hot, wet, and devastatingly slow. His tongue slides from your entrance to your clit in one unhurried stroke, making you jolt.

His hands grip your thighs like steel, keeping you open while his tongue circles lazily, deliberately avoiding giving you enough pressure to push you over. He pulls back just enough to blow a warm breath over you, watching the way you shiver.

“Already wet,” he murmurs, smirking before diving in again, licking you like he’s savoring every drop. He alternates between slow, languid strokes and fast, focused flicks over your clit until your hips are rocking into his face.

You try to pull him closer, but he shakes his head against you, forcing you to take his pace. “You’ll come when I say,” he growls, before sealing his mouth over your clit and sucking hard. The sound that tears from your throat is half-moan, half-curse.

He doesn’t stop. His tongue fucks into you, wet and insistent, before returning to your clit. The obscene sounds of his mouth on you fill the room, mingling with your ragged breathing. You’re panting now, thighs trembling against his grip, every muscle wound tight.

When your climax finally breaks, it’s sharp and shuddering, your back arching off the table. He holds you there, riding out every wave, his mouth never leaving you until you whimper from oversensitivity.

Only then does he rise, mouth slick, eyes dark. He leans over you, his cock already pressing against your thigh. “You don’t get to keep pretending after this,” you whisper, still catching your breath.

His hips still for a second, gaze locked on yours. Then he leans to your ear. “Then don’t give me a reason to.”

He frees himself and pushes into you in one deep, steady thrust, the thick stretch forcing a sharp gasp from your lips. The aftershocks of your orgasm make every inch of him feel amplified, your walls fluttering around him as he bottoms out.

He doesn’t give you time to settle- his hips draw back slow, almost teasing, before slamming forward again, the table groaning under the force. The rhythm he finds is hard and sure, each thrust hitting deep enough to make your breath hitch. His hands grip your hips, dragging you into every snap of his body, the sound of skin meeting skin sharp in the quiet room.

You cling to him, nails digging into the back of his jacket as he fucks you like he’s trying to brand himself into your muscles. The slick slide between you is filthy, your wetness coating him, making each thrust faster, harder.

When his mouth finds yours again, the kiss is desperate-  teeth, tongue, shared breath- his pace never faltering. He swallows your moans, dragging them out until they’re rough, uncontrolled sounds you swore you wouldn’t make for him.

Your legs wrap tighter around his waist, angling him deeper, and he growls low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your mouth. His hand slips between you, thumb finding your clit and circling just hard enough to make your vision blur.

“Come for me,” he orders, voice ragged. You do- helplessly- your body clenching around him as the climax rips through you. He groans, hips driving deep one last time before he spills inside you, grinding through the aftershocks until you’re both shaking.

For a moment, the only sound is your mingled breathing.

When it’s over, he stays inside you just long enough to make you feel the weight of it- then pulls out, tucking himself back in with slow precision. He adjusts his jacket, then reaches down, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“You should eat dinner in your chambers tonight,” he says.

It sounds like an order. It feels like care.

═══════

It’s only been a few days since the luncheon- and what happened after- but already, the edges between you and Jungkook are back to cutting.

The council chamber is thick with debate. A dispute over land rights has ministers talking over one another, and you’ve had enough. You speak up, cutting through the noise with a solution that’s both strategic and bold.

The room goes quiet. Even the scribe pauses his pen.

Jungkook’s expression doesn’t change, but you catch the way his knuckles tap the table once- a subtle warning meant for you.

When the meeting adjourns, you rise with the others, smoothing your skirts. You expect him to walk beside you. Instead, he barely glances your way.

“You enjoy taking command in front of my council,” he says as you step into the corridor. His tone is light enough that an outsider wouldn’t catch the bite beneath it.

“They were wasting time,” you reply evenly. “I offered a solution.”

“You offered my solution,” he says, eyes forward. “Before I could give it.”

“That’s not my fault,” you counter, but he’s already striding ahead.

By the time you reach the great hall, he’s gone. No explanation. No dismissal. Just gone.

You wander the palace to cool your temper, your steps echoing in the quiet corridors. You’ve never cared much for the east wing- it’s quieter, more private- but today, you find yourself there.

A door at the end of the hall stands slightly ajar.

Jungkook’s office.

You hesitate, but curiosity wins.

Inside, the space is meticulously ordered- shelves lined with ledgers, a polished desk, the faint scent of ink and parchment in the air. You trail your fingers along the edge of the desk, noticing the papers stacked with military precision.

And then, near the bottom of one stack, you see it.

An envelope. Unsealed. Your name isn’t on it and the handwriting is Jungkook’s.

The date at the top freezes your breath in your chest- the day after your wedding.

You shouldn’t read it. You know that. But your fingers are already sliding the page free.

The first word you see is her. 

Jisoo.

Your stomach twists.

You look toward the door- still closed- then back at the page, your pulse loud in your ears.

You sink into his chair, the letter trembling slightly in your hands.

Whatever’s written here, you already know it’s going to hurt.

═══════

My dearest Jisoo,

I should not be writing to you. Every reason I have been given tells me to let go- to accept the reality they have bound me to. But it is not reality I am living in. It is a sentence.

Yesterday, I stood at the altar with your sister. I said the vows. I placed the ring on her finger. I lifted her veil. And the entire time, all I could think was how wrong it was that it was her standing there, and not you.

You should have been my bride. You should have worn the crown beside me.

But politics is a crueler ruler than either of us. You know as well as I do that your father would never have allowed it- not with the trade agreement your marriage prospects could secure for your kingdom.

You were promised long before I had the right to ask.

Lord Dae-Hyun’s second son was a match your father could not afford to lose, and once your name was spoken, it could not be withdrawn. By the time I realized, you were already gone- sealed off by duty, unreachable by even my title.

They told me it was impossible. That I had to take the match offered. That she was the only way to solidify the alliance.

As though I should be grateful.

I am not.

Y/N is… restless. Too quick to speak, too unwilling to simply be still. She moves like she’s waiting for a fight that no one has offered her, and perhaps that is the part I resent most- her constant need to be seen, to be heard. Even in these first hours as husband and wife, she seems determined to prove something, though I cannot imagine what it is, or to whom.

She will make noise, I am sure, and perhaps even cause enough distraction to make the ministers believe she is worth the trouble.

But she is not you.

She does not have your grace. Your steadiness. The way you can command a room without raising your voice.

When I look at her, I see only the shadow of what could have been. And it is unbearable to wake each day beside the wrong sister, knowing the one I wanted most is still within reach, yet impossibly far.

I do not expect you to answer this. Perhaps you will not even read it. But I needed you to know that, in every way that matters, I am still yours.

I will always be yours.

- Jungkook

═══════

You don’t remember standing.

One moment, you’re staring at the ink-  the words curling across the page like they were meant to strangle you- and the next, you’re shoving the letter back into the envelope with shaking hands.

Your legs move without thought, carrying you out of his office and through the palace corridors. You don’t care if anyone sees you. You just need to be away from there. Away from him.

By the time you reach your chambers, your breath is uneven, your vision swimming. The ladies-in-waiting rush to greet you, offering tea, asking if you’d like to change before dinner.

“Leave,” you say, your voice tight.

They freeze. “Your Highness-”

“Please,” you add, softer this time, but your voice cracks around the word. “I need to be alone.”

They bow and file out, glancing back as though worried to leave you like this. The door shuts.

The silence is crushing.

You press your back against it for a moment before sliding down to the floor. The sob breaks free before you can stop it-  raw, shattering, the kind that leaves you gasping.

You push yourself up and stagger to the bed, sinking into the mattress as if the weight of the letter is still pressing down on you. The tears come harder now, unstoppable. You press your hands over your mouth to muffle the sounds, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no one left to hear.

Every word replays in your mind- restless, wrong sister, always be yours. Each one cuts deeper, tearing through every fragile thread of dignity you’ve tried to hold together since the wedding.

Hours pass. The light outside dims to gold, then gray, then nothing. You don’t move. Dinner comes and goes. You don’t send for food. You don’t light the lamps. The only glow in the room is the faint spill of moonlight across the floor.

The knock at the door comes late. Before you can answer, it opens.

Jungkook steps inside, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “You weren’t at dinner.”

You don’t reply.

His gaze shifts to your face- the flushed skin, the reddened eyes, the damp lashes. His body stills.

“What happened?” he asks, his voice quieter now.

You just stare at him, the letter’s words burning between you like a secret only you know.

You don’t remember standing, but you’re on your feet when he steps closer.

“What happened?” he asks again.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. “If my father let you marry her right now,” you say, your voice shaking, “would I still be here?”

His brows draw together. “What are you talking about?”

“Answer me!” Your voice rises, breaking against the walls. “Would I still be here, Jungkook?”

His eyes narrow. “You went through my things.”

“You wrote it!” you shout, the tears burning hot again. “You wrote it the day after our wedding! You said you wished it was her. You said I was the wrong sister. You said you’d always be hers.”

His jaw tightens, but his voice stays level- too level. “And what if I did? It was the truth.”

Your breath catches.

“I married you for politics,” he says, each word deliberate, cold. “Not for love. And yes, everything in that letter is true.”

It feels like the floor drops out from under you.

You take a step back, but he follows, his voice sharper now. “You think snooping through my office will make you more than what you are? It doesn’t. You were a convenience, Y/N. Nothing more.”

The sob rips from your throat before you can stop it. “You’re cruel.”

“And you’re naive,” he snaps. “If you thought this marriage was anything else, that’s on you.”

It’s the final blow- not just the words, but the way he says them, like they’re facts, not daggers.

Your vision blurs. You turn away before he can see the collapse happening inside you. “I’m going home.”

“You can’t just-”

But you’re already moving, shoving past him, through the door, and down the corridor.

Within the hour, you’re in the stables, your guards scrambling to follow orders they didn’t expect. The palace fades behind you as the carriage rattles toward your father’s kingdom.

You don’t look back.

If you did, you might see the shadow in the window- a figure watching you leave, unmoving until you vanish from sight.

═══════

jungkook’s pov: 

The door slammed behind her hours ago. And yet, the echo of her voice still lingers.

Jungkook sits at his desk, the untouched glass of brandy in front of him reflecting the moonlight. He’d been furious when she confronted him- furious she’d been in his office, furious she’d read the letter. But fury fades fast when it’s replaced by the memory of her face, wet with tears, breaking in front of him.

Six months.

They’ve been married six months. Long enough for him to know the sound of her laughter when she’s not guarding it, the precise way her brow furrows when she’s deciding whether to speak her mind, the warmth in her voice when she’s talking to anyone who isn’t him.

And long enough for him to notice her- truly notice her. The way she moves, carries herself, commands attention without even trying. The way her beauty isn’t something the court dresses gave her, but something she wears like armor.

He’d told himself from the start that she was a political necessity, nothing more. The letter he’d written to Jisoo had been the truth back then or at least the truth he’d chosen to believe. But now?

Now he remembers the garden. How light she’d felt in his arms when he carried her back to her chambers. How she hadn’t flinched when Lord Jimin made his sly dig, but met it with a smile that made Jungkook want to break the man’s teeth.

The way her hand had brushed his under the table after he defended her. The faint smile she tried to hide.

And after everyone left , the way she’d come apart under his hands. How the urgency between them had been more than anger, more than duty. The taste of her still lingers on his tongue, the sound of her voice when she moaned his name still carved into his memory. It hadn’t been detached, like before- not when he was buried inside her, not when his mouth was on her, not when her nails clawed at his shoulders like she was trying to hold him there forever. He’d been closer to her in that hour than in the entire six months of their marriage.

God, he’d said she was a convenience. Nothing more.

The lie tastes bitter.

He pushes back from the desk and stands abruptly, the chair scraping the floor. His coat is on in seconds, boots echoing against the stone floors as he makes for the stables.

It doesn’t matter that it’s past midnight. It doesn’t matter that the journey to her father’s kingdom will take hours.

He has to see her.

Not as a prince, not as a husband fulfilling some duty- but as a man who knows he’s made a mistake.

The groomsman barely has time to saddle his horse before Jungkook swings into the saddle. The cold night air bites at his skin, but it’s nothing compared to the emptiness in the palace without her.

He rides hard.

He’s going to bring her home.

═══════

The warmth of your father’s manor is different from the one you left.

Here, the air doesn’t feel like it’s pressing down on you. The corridors smell faintly of cedar and fresh bread instead of cold stone. You can breathe without worrying about who’s watching.

For the first time in months, you let yourself sit without the weight of the crown. Wrapped in a thick blanket in your father’s private sitting room, you sip tea, listening to the muted hum of distant conversation.

You’re not healed. You know that. But for now, you’re home.

The knock on the front doors comes just as you set your cup down. Footsteps cross the marble foyer, and then- a voice you never thought you’d hear here.

“Is she here?”

Your blood runs cold.

Jisoo’s voice answers, careful but unmistakably surprised. “Jungkook.”

You freeze, every muscle locking in place.

“I need to see her,” he says- no hesitation, no preamble.

Before you can even decide whether to stand or run, he’s inside. His eyes find you across the room in an instant. And then he’s moving- past Jisoo, past the threshold, crossing the space between you like nothing else exists. He’s in front of you before you can even get to your feet.

Jungkook drops to his knees, the movement sharp and sudden, his hands coming up to cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on. His eyes search yours- not for anger, not for forgiveness, but for proof you’re real.

“Y/N-”

You shove his hands away, the blanket slipping from your shoulders. “Don’t.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then Jisoo, sensing the air between you, murmurs something to your father and slips from the room. The door shuts behind them, leaving only the two of you.

Your voice is low, but cutting. “You don’t get to come here, after what you said, and pretend it never happened.”

He doesn’t argue. He just looks at you- truly looks- as though you’ve hung the stars and he’s only just realizing it.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For all of it. For the letter. For what I said after. For every time I made you feel unwanted.”

You fold your arms, holding your ground.

“I didn’t know I was falling for you,” he continues, “until it was already happening.”

You scoff. “Falling for me?”

“The winter gala,” he says, and you can hear the truth in his voice. “You walked into that room and the whole court bent toward you, even when I was furious. The garden- when you fell, I’ve never been that afraid in my life. Your wit, the way you see through people at council. The luncheon- the way you touched my hand under the table like you knew exactly what it meant. And after… when we were together, it wasn’t just anger or duty anymore. For the first time, I felt like I was with you, not just my wife.”

He swallows hard. “And the quieter things. Dinners where you laughed with the servants and made them forget you were royalty. The way you read late at night, biting your lip when you turn the page. The way you hum when you think no one’s listening.”

Your breath catches, but you mask it with a shake of your head. “Words are easy, Jungkook. You’ve had six months to show me I matter and you didn’t. Why should I believe you now?”

His jaw tightens. “Because I’m standing here, asking you to come home.”

You meet his gaze, steady and unflinching. “No. Not until you prove it.”

The silence that follows is heavy, but you don’t look away. For the first time since you’ve known him, he nods- not in dismissal, but in acceptance.

“I will.”

═══════

jungkook’s pov:

The court is already buzzing when Jungkook walks into the great hall. Ministers in rich silks murmur over parchment, their jeweled rings catching the light. They fall silent when they see what he’s carrying.

An envelope. Old. Unsealed.

He walks to the center of the room, past the council table, past the throne. The letter-the one he wrote to Jisoo six months ago-  feels like it weighs more than steel in his hand.

Without preamble, he sets it atop the silver brazier meant for burning old decrees.

“This letter,” he says, his voice carrying easily in the vaulted hall, “is a lie I let live too long.”

The ministers glance at one another.

He strikes a match and drops it onto the parchment. Flame curls the edges, swallowing the words, until nothing remains but black ash.

“I have one queen,” he continues. “Not simply a wife to fulfill politics, not a placeholder for another. Y/N is my queen- in title, in duty, and in my heart.”

Murmurs ripple through the chamber.

“She is the woman who has stood beside me when I gave her no reason to. Who has shown strength where others expected silence. Who has matched me in wit, in will, and in fire.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “And I love her.”

The last of the letter collapses into ash.

He turns to the royal scribe. “Send word to her father’s court. Let it be known across both kingdoms.”

═══════

The day is uneventful until the envoy arrives.

The royal messenger steps into your father’s receiving room, his cloak still dusted with travel, the sealed scroll in his hand gleaming with Jungkook’s crest.

“For Her Highness, the Princess Consort,” he says, bowing as he offers it.

Your father watches you break the seal.

The parchment is brief but formal- the kind of statement meant to be read in public squares and whispered over in taverns:

A letter burned. Your name spoken in the great hall. You, named not only wife, but queen. And the final line, in Jungkook’s unmistakable hand: I love you.

Your fingers tighten on the parchment. You can hear the pounding of your own heart.

“Seems he’s made his choice,” your father says quietly.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not yet.

You’re still staring at the proclamation when Jisoo slips into your room.

“So… he burned it?” she says, perching lightly on the edge of your bed.

You nod, the parchment still in your lap. “In front of everyone. Declared me his queen. Said he loves me.”

Jisoo studies your face. “And you don’t believe him?”

“I want to,” you admit, your voice low. “But wanting to and trusting are two different things.”

Jisoo’s expression softens. “You’ve always been braver than you think, Y/N. Go see him. Make him prove it in person.”

The next day, you do.

The journey back to his kingdom feels shorter this time, though your heart is heavier with each mile.

When the carriage pulls into the palace courtyard, you expect the usual line of attendants and guards. You don’t expect him- standing at the base of the steps, dressed simply, holding a bouquet of deep red roses.

The door opens, and the early Spring air rushes in.

He looks up at you, something unguarded in his eyes. “Welcome home, Y/N.”

You step down from the carriage, the scent of the roses reaching you before his hands do.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Then he offers them to you. You take the roses, the petals velvety against your fingers.

“They’re beautiful,” you say, your voice careful.

“They’re not enough,” Jungkook replies.

You blink up at him. “Then why give them to me?”

“Because I needed something in my hands when I saw you,” he admits. “Otherwise I might not have been able to keep from-” He stops himself, his jaw flexing. “-from saying too much, too soon.”

The words catch you off guard.

An attendant moves to take your luggage, but Jungkook waves them off. “I’ll walk her.”

You glance at him, then at the long climb up the palace steps. “You don’t usually play porter.”

“I don’t usually try to win back my wife,” he says, matter-of-fact.

Inside, the corridors are quieter than usual. He walks beside you, matching your pace, and doesn’t speak again until you reach your chambers.

“I know words won’t be enough,” he says, stopping at the threshold. “So I’ll show you.”

“How?” you ask, wary but curious.

“By being the man you deserve,” he answers without hesitation. “By giving you reason to believe me every day, not just when it’s convenient for me. By making sure you never have to doubt you are my queen- in every way that matters.”

You search his face, looking for cracks in the resolve. But his gaze holds steady.

“Then start proving it,” you say finally, stepping into the room.

Before the door closes, you hear him say softly, “I already am.”

═══════

The council chamber feels different this morning.

The air isn’t thick with the weight of being tolerated- it hums with the quiet acknowledgment of your place at the table. The ministers rise when you enter, bowing not out of obligation, but something closer to respect.

Jungkook takes his seat at the head of the table. You take yours at his right but for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re in his shadow.

A dispute over the naval fleet’s funding takes center stage. Two ministers argue over whether to cut costs or invest in new shipbuilding.

You listen. And when their voices climb over each other, you speak.

“Cutting costs now will cost us more later,” you say, your tone firm but measured. “If we invest in the fleet, we secure our trade routes. That’s more revenue in the long term- and more security for our allies.”

All eyes shift to you.

One minister hesitates. “But, Your Highness-”

“She’s right,” Jungkook cuts in smoothly, his gaze steady on you. “The Princess’s proposal is sound. It will be implemented.”

You allow yourself a small smile, meeting his eyes.

The discussion moves on, but the shift lingers- ministers asking for your opinion, valuing it, weighing it as they would his. And each time you speak, Jungkook listens. Not with the detached patience of before, but with intent, his attention fixed on you as though no other voice in the room matters.

By the end of the session, the room feels different again. Not because you’ve changed, but because they’ve started to see you as you’ve always been.

A queen in the room.

═══════

The council chamber has long since emptied, but the weight of the day lingers in your shoulders.

You find him in his office, the golden light of late afternoon spilling over the maps and scrolls spread across his desk. He looks up when you enter, his expression softening almost imperceptibly.

“You were remarkable today,” Jungkook says, leaning back in his chair. “The fleet’s commanders will be sending you wine for that decision.”

You smile faintly but don’t sit. Instead, you step closer, your skirts whispering over the polished floor. “I need to ask you something.”

His gaze sharpens. “Anything.”

You stop a few feet from him, folding your hands in front of you. “What do you see in me,” you ask slowly, “that you never saw in Jisoo?”

The room stills.

He blinks once, as if he’s not sure he heard you right. “Why are you asking me that now?”

“Because,” you say, keeping your voice even, “you’ve told me you love me. You’ve burned your letter. You’ve defended me in court. But there’s still a part of me that wonders if you love me for me, or because I became what you needed.”

He rises from the chair, closing the distance until he’s standing right in front of you. “You think I’d confuse the two?”

“I think,” you answer, meeting his eyes, “that I deserve to know the difference.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The only sound is the quiet ticking of the clock on the mantle, marking each second between you.

And then he nods once- slow, deliberate. “Alright. I’ll tell you.”

He doesn’t look away when he speaks.

“When I thought of Jisoo,” Jungkook begins, “I saw… calm. The kind of quiet the court praises. She was gentle, and she fit the image of a queen in everyone’s mind, including mine. But it was a dream I built out of fragments. I didn’t know her. I had a single conversation with her.”

He takes another step closer. “And when I married you… I told myself it was only politics. But then the reality of you started undoing me.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t interrupt.

“The winter gala,” he says softly. “You walked in wearing that wine-red gown, and the entire court turned toward you- not because of your title, but because you owned the room. And I hated how much I noticed. The garden, when you fell-  I’ve been in battles where men were dying around me, and I wasn’t as scared as I was in that moment.”

His voice lowers. “Your wit in council. The way you don’t back down, even when I’ve given you every reason to. That day you outmaneuvered Lord Jimin with a single look and a sharper tongue- I wanted to kiss you in front of everyone.”

You swallow hard, your heart pounding.

“And the luncheon,” he continues. “When you touched my hand under the table, I thought it was nothing. But afterwards… when I had you in my arms, when you let me in completely- it wasn’t anger, or duty, or proving a point. It was you. Just you. And I realized I’d never had that with anyone before.”

He exhales slowly. “You don’t just fit the image of a queen. You are one. And I see you, Y/N- not the crown, not the alliance, not my title beside yours. Just you. And I love what I see.”

He runs a hand through his hair, almost like he’s searching for the right words. “I think I was in love with you before I even understood it. Before I let myself admit it. Every time you challenged me, every time you made me see the world differently, it was another thread pulling me toward you. And now… now I can’t imagine a world where you’re not mine.”

The silence between you is different now- not the sharp-edged kind that’s filled your marriage, but something warmer. Something that pulls you toward him instead of pushing you away.

When he reaches for you, it’s not rushed. His hands frame your face gently, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His kiss is unhurried, deep, and you taste the truth of everything he’s just said in the way his mouth moves against yours.

You let him guide you back toward the bed, but this time there’s no battle for control- only the steady pull of his hands and the unspoken promise in his touch. Every glance, every brush of his fingers is a question, and you answer without hesitation, giving him all of you.

When his lips trail down your throat, you feel the weight of his love in the way he lingers, his mouth pressing gentle kisses, his nose brushing your skin like he’s breathing you in.

Clothing falls away slowly- not torn, but removed like it’s precious. He studies every inch of revealed skin with eyes that are soft and heavy with want, his hands tracing you as though he’s committing each curve to memory.

He eases you back onto the bed, kneeling between your thighs, and lowers himself until his breath ghosts over your core. The first kiss he presses there is slow, deliberate, making you gasp. “You’re so beautiful here,” he murmurs, before his tongue drags through your folds.

The first wave comes quickly- his mouth seals over your clit, tongue flicking just right while two fingers slide inside you, curling until you’re gasping his name. He hums, the sound sending shivers through you as you clench around him, hips rocking helplessly.

He doesn’t let you come down. His mouth never leaves you, his fingers easing out only to be replaced by the wet slide of his tongue dipping inside you, tasting everything you give him. You whimper, overstimulated already, but his hands pin your hips to the mattress, holding you there until the second orgasm crashes over you- sharper this time, your thighs trembling around his head.

When you sag against the bed, panting, he kisses your inner thigh, his voice low and reverent. “One more for me, love.”

You can barely shake your head before his mouth is back on your clit, slower this time, coaxing instead of demanding. His fingers return, pumping deep and steady while his tongue traces lazy circles. The build is excruciatingly tender, your body tightening until you spill over again, crying out and clinging to him like you might drown without him.

Only then does he finally come up to you, his mouth finding yours, letting you taste yourself on his lips. “Perfect,” he whispers, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. “You’re perfect.”

He lines himself up and pushes into you with a long, steady thrust, the head of his cock stretching you inch by inch until he’s buried fully inside. Your lips part in a shuddering gasp, your body still fluttering from the last climax, the aftershocks wrapping around him and drawing a deep groan from his chest.

He stills there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard like he’s savoring every second of being inside you. “God, you feel incredible,” he murmurs, his voice breaking. “I love you so much.”

His hips begin to move- slow at first, dragging all the way out before pressing back into the hilt, making you feel every inch. Each thrust is deep and deliberate, his hand finding yours between your bodies and lacing your fingers together like he’s anchoring himself.

He kisses you through it, the kind of kisses that steal your breath- soft one moment, hungry the next. His free hand strokes your cheek, tucks your hair back, touches you like you’re fragile and the most precious thing he’s ever held.

“You take me so well,” he breathes against your lips. “Every time… every time you feel like home.”

The words make your chest ache in the best way, your hips rising to meet his as the rhythm builds. He shifts slightly, angling his thrusts until the head of his cock brushes that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. His thumb finds your clit again, stroking in slow, perfect circles that have you gasping into his mouth.

“Come with me,” he whispers, his voice almost desperate. “Please… I need to feel you.”

It hits you fast, your body clenching hard around him as your climax rips through you. He follows instantly, his hips stuttering as he spills deep inside, groaning your name into the crook of your neck. He keeps moving, slow and gentle now, riding out every aftershock until you’re both trembling and breathless.

When it’s over, he stays inside you, his chest pressed to yours, his hand still laced with yours. Finally, he eases out, tucks himself back in, and gathers you against him. His lips brush your temple in a soft, lingering kiss.

“I love you,” he murmurs again, quieter now, like the words are meant just for you.

You close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart under your ear, and for the first time since you married him, you let yourself believe it.

═══════

Four months pass, and the court is no longer divided over you.

You’ve stood in the council chamber beside Jungkook, your voice carrying as much weight as his. You’ve walked the gardens with visiting dignitaries, negotiated trade proposals, and heard the people’s petitions in the great hall. Every step, every decision, every glance exchanged with him has been watched- and now, no one doubts.

Today is the day it becomes official.

The great hall is a sea of color, banners of both your kingdoms and his draped from the vaulted ceiling. Sunlight pours through stained glass, scattering jewels of light across the marble floor. Nobles, ministers, and foreign rulers fill the room, their eyes on the dais where two thrones sit side by side.

Jungkook is already there, dressed in ceremonial black and gold, a crown resting lightly on his head. He turns when you enter, and the faint smile that touches his lips is for you alone.

The High Chancellor’s voice rings out, carrying over the hush. “By the will of the Crown and the grace of Almighty God, let it be known throughout this realm and beyond its borders: Princess consort Y/N, beloved daughter of the realm and consort to His Majesty the King, having been found worthy in faith, in honor, and in steadfast devotion, is this day anointed and crowned.

From henceforth she shall be known as Her Most Gracious Majesty, Y/N, Queen Consort of this Kingdom, Guardian of the Crown’s dignity, and sworn companion to the Sovereign.

May her counsel be wise, her heart steadfast, and her reign beside His Majesty bring peace, prosperity, and glory to the realm.

Long live the Queen!”

You step forward, and the crown- lighter than you imagined, yet impossibly heavy with meaning- is placed upon your head.

When you rise, Jungkook takes your hand in front of the entire court, his grip warm and steady. The cheers that follow echo through the hall, the sound of a kingdom bearing witness.

You glance at him, your heart steady and certain.

Once, his heart was elsewhere. Now, it beats for me alone.

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LINK TO REQUEST ♡ MASTERLIST ♡ a03

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These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

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Posted: 08/15/2025

In fact, once Naru’s little legs carry her through the school’s front doors, Jungkook literally coils himself around a tree and refuses to take a single step towards the car. Leaving you to desperately tug at his waist in hopes of forcing him to let go. 

“Jeon Jungkook!” You scold him between harsh yanks that require your entire body weight. “You are a grown man! Release the tree!”

“No!” Jungkook sulks. “I have to be here when she gets out!”

You groan so loud you’re positive he can feel it against his back. 

“That isn’t for another four hours, honey.”

“I don’t care.” 

Another pull, at which point he plants his feet so he won’t budge an inch. Jungkook’s usually the pinnacle of a good husband, but right now he feels like a fourth child. 

“You’re being ridiculous,” you remark. 

It’s clear any further effort on your part will be useless, so you step away while crossing your arms over your chest. When Jungkook realizes you’re relenting, he glances back at you over his shoulder. 

“You know what I think is ridiculous? A four year old going to school. She’s practically a baby!” 

You chuckle in disbelief.

“Funny how that baby is acting more mature than her father.” 

Jungkook pouts, but your comment seems to do the trick because he lets go a second later before turning to face you. 

“I just… what if she needs us?” He poses. “What if the other kids are mean to her or she gets scared and wants to come home early?” 

A part of you wants to be mad, but Jungkook’s love for your daughter is so damn sweet you can’t help but smile. 

“Then it’s a good thing we live right up the street and can come back to get her ASAP.” His lips curve down even more as you close the gap between you to cup his face. “I know it’s hard, baby, but we should be proud and excited for her rather than moping about her growing up.” 

He shakes his head as best he can with it trapped by your hands. 

“I don’t have it in me.”

It’s your turn to pout while deciding how to best approach this; both so you can actually get him to leave and make him feel better. 

“What if we go on a little shopping spree and surprise her with some first day of school gifts?” 

Although your husband hates spending money unnecessarily, he adores buying stuff for you and the kids. Plus, there’s no reason to rush home since your one-year-old twins are currently with their grandparents. 

As expected, Jungkook’s face lights up at the idea and his arms suddenly wrap around your waist so he can pull you in for a smooch. You giggle into the kiss until he breaks it to steal your hand and lead you towards the car. 

You hit multiple different places, including a toy store, book store, and clothing store. Jungkook also shoves you into a jewelry store as an apology for his erratic behavior earlier. Which you and him both know is just an excuse to spoil you. 

Since you’re equal opportunists, you purchase some items for the twins, but not nearly as much because it isn’t their special occasion. 

Naru deserves to be ravished after being so brave this morning. She was pretty nervous leading up to today, but she only cried for about a minute after hugging you both goodbye before the teacher guided her into the classroom. 

It’s your sincere hope she enjoys herself at school. Not only because it’s unavoidable and she has to go whether she likes it or not, but also because she doesn’t have too many friends her age. 

Taehyung and Mina’s son, Leo, is just over a year and a half old, so he’s still too young for playdates with her, as are her own brothers. There are a couple neighborhood kids in the right age range, but you don’t see them around very often. 

When school lets out, you and Jungkook are the first parents outside for pick up, and your husband spends every second practically vibrating with excitement about seeing his little girl. Meanwhile, you anxiously gnaw on your thumbnail in fear she’ll look miserable when she finally emerges. 

As the doors swing open and a hoard of toddlers come scurrying out, you two gasp and bend down so Naru can run straight into your arms. 

“Mommy! Daddy!” 

She weaves through the tiny crowd before barreling into you by throwing one arm around each of your necks. You both cradle her impossibly close while she nuzzles her head between your faces. 

“Oh, we missed you so much, pretty girl,” you tell her. 

“I missed you, too, Mommy,” she chirps. 

All three of you separate and you feel instant relief over how happy her expression is. She looks positively radiant, with flush cheeks, a toothy grin, and those big eyes you fell in love with while she was still in your womb. 

“Was it okay, princess? Nobody was mean? The teacher was nice? You understood everything?” Jungkook asks. 

“Mmhm!” She enthusiastically nods, causing you and him to chuckle. “I made a bunch of friends and my teacher was super nice! She even explained stuff again whenever I had a question.” 

While you beam over the good news, a slight frown distorts Jungkook’s features. That’s when you realize he was secretly hoping she’d hate it and beg to never go back. Not because he wants her to dislike school, but to protect his own ego. No father wants to hear that their child enjoys being away from home; from them. 

“Are you sure? You know, your mom can always homeschool yo — ow!” 

Normally, you would refrain from affectionately abusing him in front of your kids, but this calls for drastic measures. Hence Jungkook having to massage his bicep. 

“No, I loved it, Daddy,” Naru responds after giggling over his predicament. “I can’t wait to go back tomorrow!” 

Your poor husband nearly falls backwards in defeat. If it were up to him, she’d skip going to school altogether and tag along at work with him. In fact, he’d probably prefer all four of you staying by his side twenty four hours a day. 

Naru opens her many gifts in the car before all three of you drive to your parents’ house to pick up the twins.

She’s rightfully ecstatic about her new clothes, books, and toys, which she immediately shows off to both her grandmothers once you arrive. 

The three of them are in the living room as Naru performs a mini fashion show and raves about her first day of school. In the meantime, you and Jungkook greet your twins after missing them like crazy all day.

Jungkook has Ken high above his head while he makes ridiculous baby noises and funny faces so your son will giggle. On the contrary, Kai’s resting on your shoulder where his arms are tightly wrapped around your neck. 

“I missed you, sweet boy,” you tell him with a kiss to his head.

“Missie,” he responds in the most adorable voice imaginable. 

Both him and Ken can only parrot short words at this point, but you’re still able to interpret their thoughts after knowing them for over a year.

“That’s right.” You delicately pry him off so he can rest on your hip instead as you comb through his soft, black hair. “That’s what we say when we’ve been away from someone we love for a while.” 

His massive obsidian eyes peer up at you with such adoration you almost believe he understands. Although your theory’s instantly disproven when he ignores you in lieu of slapping his hand on the apple of your cheek.

“Mama.”

You giggle and brush your noses together.

“That’s right, too.” 

Behind you, the sound of Jungkook and Ken goofing around together echoes throughout the kitchen. You turn to face them and find your husband playfully nibbling on one of Ken’s chubby cheeks. 

“Mama!” The little boy cheers and begins reaching for you. 

Jungkook passes him to you while you do the same with Kai. You were both initially terrified of having two infants to care for at once, but now you're a well-oiled machine. It’s effortless to swap children or even carry them on one hip each. 

“Dada,” Kai coos as soon as he’s safe in Jungkook’s arms. “Dada, Dada, Dada.”

Your husband blushes and smiles so brightly both rows of bunny teeth appear. The twins may have a soft spot for you, but all three of your boys absolutely adore each other. You’re even eager for Kai and Ken to get older so you can watch them interact more. 

“Me? I’m Dada?” The baby boy in Jungkook’s arms starts rapidly nodding. “Uh huh. And Dada loves you so, so much!”

Kai squeals when Jungkook pulls him close for an affectionate nuzzle that sends their hair flying in all different directions. Ken’s clearly tuckered out in comparison, since his head falls to your shoulder with his tiny hand resting on your collarbone. 

“You wanna go home, little man?” You ask while tickling his tummy. 

He giggles and buries his face in your neck, which you accept as an affirmative reply. 

All three kids are fast asleep by the time you pull into your driveway, so you carry the twins upstairs while Jungkook scoops Naru up to bring her to her room next door. 

After everyone’s tucked in for the night, you two meet in your own bedroom which now resides in what was once the basement. You’re both obviously exhausted, considering you unceremoniously flop onto the mattress together. 

On instinct, Jungkook’s arm loops around your waist to pull you closer and you follow his lead by curling into his chest. His lips meet your temple where he places a few lazy smooches and you can’t help but contentedly hum at the sensation. 

“We did it,” you quietly declare. “And no one even died.”

Jungkook scoffs.

“My heart did.”

His response makes you snicker as you lean back so you can look into his eyes.

“It’ll heal, my love. Everything’s new right now, but watching her grow up, make friends, and learn about the world will be so exciting.” 

“I know, but every time I look at her I still see that baby girl you handed me after she was born,” he laments.

The memory produces a warm grin and watery eyes, both belonging to you. No matter what, her birthday will always be the best day of your life. Nothing could ever compare to holding Naru for the first time with Jungkook by your side. 

“She’ll always be our baby girl, Koo. Her age doesn’t change that.”

He sighs and cradles your cheek, letting his thumb gently brush back and forth across your skin. 

“But I can’t protect her out there. Here, at home with us, at least I know she’s happy and safe.” His eyes look to be holding all his emotions, and you can’t help but frown. “I’ve heard so many horror stories, Bams. If something were to happen to her…” He shakes his head. “I don’t just mean physically, but to her heart.” 

“Things will happen. That’s just part of life. But even though we can’t prevent them, we’ll be here to help her through anything and everything.”

You’re pretty good at talking Jungkook down from ledges and he soon concedes his position with a gracious kiss. But unfortunately for you and your assurances, his fears are quickly proven right. 

One issue every child faces when they start school is getting sick far more often. Being around all the new people, places, and things just breeds bacteria and germs no matter how often they wash their hands. The problem is, you and Jungkook aren’t as good at producing healthy babies as you once thought. 

It turns out Naru has a weak immune system. Your poor daughter spends the first three to four months of preschool fighting off a variety of coughs, stuffy noses, and mild fevers. Thankfully, it’s treatable with daily vitamins and medicines to keep her white blood cell count in range. But you guys don’t figure out she has a medical issue beyond her recurring common cold until it puts her in the hospital. 

Every weekday, Jungkook leaves for work around 7 am after kissing you and the kids goodbye. You usually rise about an hour later to wake said kids, get them and yourself ready, and feed everyone breakfast, all to ensure Naru gets to school on time. Since they can’t be at home alone, the twins always accompany you for drop off and pick up. Which Naru loves because it means spending more time with her little brothers. 

This morning begins like any other, with the ghost of Jungkook’s lips on your forehead and his familiar, honey voice whispering that he loves you. Your alarm goes off not long after and you quickly get dressed before heading to the twin’s room. Once they’re secure in their high chairs at the kitchen table, you head back upstairs for Naru. 

She’s been sick the last couple days, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary. When you and Jungkook tucked her into bed last night, her mild fever had just broken and she was only coughing once every hour or so. 

Every time one of the kids isn’t feeling well, you leave a baby monitor in their room because your bedroom is two floors away. Nothing of note happened during the night, so you’re expecting her to be healthy enough for school. 

Upon cracking her door open, the first thing you notice is the sound of heavy breathing. It doesn’t worry you too much considering she has to sleep with her mouth open due to all the nasal congestion. You then flip on the light and sit on the edge of her bed to wake her up. 

Except as soon as you rest your hand on her forearm, you gasp at how scalding hot her skin feels. Up close, you see she’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat that’s matted down her hair and even darkened her pajama top.

“Naru?” You pull the covers away while using the back of your hand to gauge her temperature, but it’s hardly necessary when she’s burning up so badly. With the sheets gone, you can tell she’s shivering and suddenly all you feel is sheer, unadulterated panic. “Naru, sweetie, wake up.” 

Gently shaking her shoulders, you wait with your lip between your teeth for her eyes to open, but even when you push a little harder, she doesn’t budge. 

“Naru, can you hear me?” She’s obviously breathing, and when you peel her eyelids back, her pupils respond to the influx of light, but it doesn’t relieve any of your terror. “Baby, it’s Mommy. You gotta wake up, okay?” 

When she still doesn’t reply, you swear your lungs collapse and your chest cavity concaves around your heart. 

“Naru.” Your hands try once again to wake her by force. “C’mon, baby.” At this point you’re practically hyperventilating and you feel the pressure of fresh tears in your eyes. “Naru!”

After your final attempt fails, you fish your phone from your pocket to call an ambulance. You’re a total wreck as you weep to the paramedic about her condition before they assure you they’ll be there soon. You call your mom next to ask if she can stay with the twins and your waterworks continue relentlessly while you explain the situation all over again. 

Notably, you don’t call Jungkook. You know once he hears the fear in your voice and finds out something's wrong with your precious little girl, he’ll lose it. So, you decide to inform him after you reach the hospital and know more about her condition. You’re already a goddamn basket case and it won’t do Naru any good if you’re both in shambles. 

You remain at her side while waiting for the ambulance to arrive, holding one of her clammy hands and brushing back the sweaty locks of black hair stuck to her forehead. You’re still hysterically sobbing, but do your best to whisper encouraging phrases about how she’ll be alright and that her mom’s right beside her.

It’s so hard without Jungkook beside you. Not only are you a team, but he’s your anchor. Whenever he’s near, you have the strength to face what you aren’t able to on your own.

The paramedics thankfully appear before you completely lose your mind and allow you to sit in the back so you can keep holding Naru’s hand. 

They start by checking her vitals as well as giving her an oxygen mask and what they call an “ice jacket” to bring her temperature down. Besides her extremely high fever, her other vitals are fine, which gives you just enough peace of mind. 

By the time you arrive at the hospital, she’s actually beginning to groan as her eyelids flutter a little. Everyone says they’re good signs, but you won’t be able to breathe freely until you’re certain she’s okay. 

Once inside the emergency room, someone places a chair for you at her bedside while the team of doctors and nurses give her a new ice jacket, turn on some cooling fans, and retake all her vitals. Within five minutes, her voice lifts an indescribable weight off your shoulders. 

“Mommy,” she weakly rasps. 

Her big eyes blink open as her head turns in your direction. That one word alone sounds like a symphony from heaven and you immediately grab her hand again while leaning over to caress her cheek.

“Hi, my princess.”

“Where am I?”

“You’re in the hospital, but you’re gonna be okay,” you explain.

She looks scared despite your assurance, so you squeeze her hand and try distracting her by combing your fingers through her hair. 

The doctors give her medicine to bring the fever down, but her temperature’s already astronomically lower than it was when they first checked in the ambulance. Not long after she swallows the cherry flavored syrup, she falls asleep again and you take it as your cue to finally call Jungkook. 

Except only moments after stepping out into the hall, you hear rushing footsteps and someone frantically shouting your name. Not your actual name, though.

“Bambi!” 

Your eyes widen, but you quickly piece together that one of your parents must’ve called him. The only issue is, Naru’s condition was far worse when your mom saw her being rushed into the ambulance. 

Jungkook barrels into you with enough force to knock you both to the ground, but he thankfully has the foresight to slow his momentum before that happens. 

“Where is she?” 

His hands land your shoulders where you can feel them shaking, prompting you to cradle his flushed, panicked face in your own hands.

“She’s okay,” you profess.

“Your mom said —” 

“I know, I know.” He looks so terrified his whole stature appears smaller. The drive from his office is at least thirty minutes and you’re positive he was in agony the entire time. “But she’s okay, Koo. I promise.”

“What happened?” 

“She had a really high fever, but they brought it down and now she’s resting.”

“Your mom told me she wouldn’t wake up,” he states across shallow breaths; no doubt from all the adrenaline coursing through his veins. “And I… I was so scared, Bams.” Tears instantly well up in his already red eyes. “Please don’t ever scare me like that again.” 

“I know. I’m so sorry, baby.”

“You can’t… you can’t scare me like that.” When his voice breaks and a few droplets roll down his cheek, your heart shatters. “Please don’t ever… you can’t do that to me. Please, baby, don’t ever do that to me again.” 

He collapses into you when the silent tears turn into harsh cries, his arms wrapping around your torso so tight it almost hurts. Your own limbs circle his back so one hand can rest in his hair while the other softly traces his spine. His body’s trembling in your grasp, but you just pull him closer.

This is precisely what you were hoping to avoid by only relaying the situation to him once you knew more. You’re sure your mother meant well and thought she was being helpful, but it put Jungkook through an onslaught of unnecessary fear. 

You continue apologizing and reassuring him of Naru’s condition, even though you know he doesn’t actually fault you for anything. He may be asking you to spare him from something like this in the future, but in reality he’s begging the universe itself. 

Once Jungkook eventually calms down, he lifts his head and trails his hands up your back until he’s cupping your jaw.

“Can I see her?”

“Of course.” 

He surprises you with a kiss rather than bolting right into the room. It isn’t just a peck, either, but a soft, reverent press of his lips to your own. Your foreheads meet once your mouths part, where you remain for a moment before he sighs and forces his head up.

Without another word, you take his hand to lead him into the room where Naru’s still sound asleep. 

She looks perfectly peaceful as you two approach her bed, but Jungkook still drops straight into the chair and presses one of her hands to his lips.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there, Naru,” he whispers.

You pull up another seat for yourself before placing your own hand on his lower back. 

“You couldn’t have known, honey.”

Jungkook shakes his head and turns towards you while resting his cheek on his and Naru’s intertwined fingers. 

“I should’ve.” His eyes flicker towards her again. “I was in a rush this morning, so I didn’t kiss the kids goodbye like I normally do. Instead I just peeked my head in to say I loved them. If I had, I would’ve known something was wrong, and we could’ve gotten her here faster or maybe even avoided it entirely.” 

“Don’t do that to yourself,” you instruct. “She’s here now and she’s going to be just fine.” 

When you tuck some hair behind his ear, a gentle smile appears as he twists his head to kiss your fingertips. 

“I’m sorry to you, too. I haven’t even asked about you yet.” 

“Me?”

“You must have been so terrified dealing with this all by yourself.”

The statement makes you recall how helpless and frightened you felt, but you didn’t focus on your emotions for a single second; Naru’s all that mattered.

“I, uh, I don’t even know how to describe it. On one hand, I remember being petrified, but my mom-brain was also running a million miles a minute.” 

“That’s because you’re a goddamn superhero.” 

You giggle at the familiar compliment before leaning on his shoulder. 

“As long as you’re my sidekick.”

Jungkook chuckles and gives the top of your head a smooch. 

“Always,” he promises. You both shift your attention to Naru to watch her chest gracefully rise and fall at a steady rhythm. Her little hand’s still locked with Jungkook’s as his thumb grazes her knuckles. “I didn’t think I’d ever feel more afraid than when I saw you pass out during the twin’s birth.” 

It’s fairly difficult to forget the traumatic experience of bringing your boys into the world, and it was even worse for Jungkook. 

“Then this morning happened?” 

He nods. 

“The whole drive over I just kept thinking about what I would do if… if the worst happened. Since the moment you told me you were pregnant, I’ve been Naru’s dad, and it was the first time in my life a title actually meant something to me.” His lip begins to quiver. “I don’t even know who I am, or who I’d be, if not her dad.”

Your mouth drops open in shock until a frown takes over. 

“Koo,” you call to him while lifting his chin with your fingertips. “You will always be Naru’s dad, even after both you and her have left this earth. Which won’t be for a long, long time, by the way.” 

A small smile accompanies Jungkook sniffling to prevent any more tears from falling. Just then, you hear a soft moan and Naru’s eyes slowly open, causing you both to gasp and eagerly stand so you’re closer to her.

She still appears a little disoriented, but once her sights set on Jungkook above her, she starts beaming.

“Daddy!”

His expression automatically mirrors her own as he bends down to kiss her forehead and brush some hair back.

“Hi, baby,” he coos. “How are you feeling?”

Her brow creases when she glances down, almost like she isn’t entirely sure.

“I had a weird dream,” she answers. “There were flashing lights, a loud ringing, and lots of strange voices. At first I was hot, but then I got really cold.” 

You decide to move your chair to the opposite side so she can see you both, and unsurprisingly, her eyes light up once you’re in view. She stretches her hand out, which you gladly accept before pressing a couple kisses to her skin. 

“That must’ve been scary,” Jungkook responds to her.

Naru nods.

“I could hear Mommy’s voice, too, but it sounded far away, like she was underwater or something.”

“Well, it’s all over now and the doctors will take great care of you until we go home,” you explain. “Does that sound good, pretty girl?”

Her smile grows and she nods again while sitting up in bed. You click the call button so they can reexamine her now that she’s awake, but it isn’t a doctor who knocks on the door a few minutes later. 

Instead, you hear the frantic padding of a very pregnant, very anxious Jihyo. 

“Is she okay?” Your best friend pants while traveling as quickly as her swollen feet will allow. 

Rather than responding to her yourself, Naru leans back until she’s no longer hidden behind Jungkook. 

“Hi, auntie Ji!” 

Jihyo stops in her tracks before her entire body visibly relaxes and she sighs in relief.

“Oh, thank God.” When she begins walking again, Jungkook stands to join you so she can sit. “I almost had a heart attack when I saw her name on the ambulance intake list.” 

Naru excitedly stretches her arms wide for her beloved aunt, who gives her one of the tightest hugs she’s ever received. She also peppers Naru’s head with kisses until your daughter squeals in protest. 

After plopping down in the empty seat, Jihyo’s hands immediately start massaging her baby bump in large circles, bringing a smile to your face because of how adorable she looks with a bun in the oven. 

“I didn’t check anything in her file before running… well, waddling, over here. Is everything okay?”

You pet Naru’s hair as she settles back into the bed and pulls the sheets up to her chest. It’s obvious she’s still exhausted from everything her body’s been through, so you lull her to sleep before explaining the situation to Jihyo. 

It was fairly soon after her and Namjoon’s wedding that they announced their pregnancy, and now she’s already in her third trimester.

“I can’t believe you’re working seven months pregnant,” you tell her.

She shrugs.

“I’d be too bored if I didn’t.” 

Jungkook’s eyes instantly look in your direction and you reply with a warning glance, but he still chuckles under his breath.

“Funny. I don’t remember that being a problem at all for Bambi,” he teases.

Your elbow jabs his side, leaving him hunched over and overdramatically groaning despite your lack of force. 

The three of you continue to chat until Jihyo has to return to work, at which point you and Jungkook meet with the doctors to discuss Naru’s condition. They explain the details of her condition and why she keeps getting sick before prescribing her a handful of medications and vitamins to take every day. But they assure you she should only need vitamins to keep her immune system healthy once she’s done with the regimen. 

She’s kept overnight just to be safe, so your mom stays at your place with the twins. Thankfully, there’s a small couch in the room you and Jungkook are able to squeeze onto. Except only an hour into the night, Naru begs one of you to join her in the unfamiliar bed. You volunteer for the position and climb in beside her, but once Jungkook sees you two cozied up together, he pouts from across the room.

“So you guys get to snuggle all night while I’m over here by myself?” 

Naru giggles and cuddles closer to you.

“It’s girls only, Daddy!” 

Jungkook’s lips purse until he looks cartoonishly hurt, causing you and your daughter to laugh at his expense. 

“Well, you know what? When we get home, the boys and I are going to have a sleepover and neither of you will be invited!” 

“Please do. I’d love a night off from diaper duty,” you counter. 

Your very mature husband sticks his tongue out, but you’re not much better when you simply blow raspberries right back. 

Although you two love messing around, you genuinely hate sleeping without Jungkook. Of course, Naru’s a great substitute, but having her small frame curled up beside you just isn’t the same as feeling his arms around you or his heartbeat against your back. 

With the knowledge of what’s been causing Naru to get sick, you’re able to prevent further illnesses. It’s honestly life changing because you’re finally able to find a rhythm as a family with her consistently going to school.

The only downside is how damn busy you are all the time. Being a stay at home mom with three kids was challenging enough, but it’s nothing compared to leaving the house twice a day to grab Naru. One might believe it can’t possibly be that complex, but dressing, feeding, and strapping two one-year-olds into car seats for both pick up and drop off while still remaining on time is a Herculean labor. 

It’s also unexpectedly lonely, because while other parents get to mingle outside the school as they wait for their children, you have to stay in your car with the twins. You don’t mind too much considering you have plenty of friends, but it’s difficult planning play dates for Naru when you’re not familiar with any of the parents. 

Which is what you’re currently explaining to Jungkook while moving in and out of the en-suite to complete your nightly routine. 

“So then I feel terrible telling her no because I’m not comfortable sending her to someone’s house I don’t know, and since the other mom feels the same, it’s a wash. We could always do a public play date, I guess, but those are logistical nightmares,” you ramble in the middle of applying moisturizer. 

“Can’t you just get to know this other mom over the phone or something?” Jungkook suggests from where he’s lounging in bed.

“No.” After setting down your last product, you return to your bedroom and lean against the doorframe. “I swear, parents are crazy these days. I would be perfectly fine with it, but everyone else is super strict.”

Your husband sighs and puts his phone down on the nightstand so he can give you his full attention. It’s obvious how distressed you are, which means it’s up to him to fix it.

“C’mere, babygirl.” 

His hand stretches towards you and on instinct, you cross the room so he can guide you into bed. His opposite arm naturally loops around your waist as you straddle his thighs and relax in his lap. Feeling Jungkook’s fingers dance across your ribcage and up your back is mundane, but the familiarity doesn’t make it any less comforting.

“I feel like I’m failing,” you quietly confess.

Your fingertips are drawing nonsensical shapes along his collarbones, one of which is decorated with pretty ink that continues onto his shoulder. 

“I know even if I tell you that you aren’t, you won’t believe me.” Can’t argue there. Your husband knows you a little too well on behalf of him spending the first part of his life as your best friend. “So is there anything else I can do to help? Maybe I can talk to my boss about working remotely in the evenings so you don’t have to lug the twins around. I could even pick Naru up from school myself depending on how busy I am.”

The suggestion makes your brow scrunch.

“No… no.”

“Why not?”

Jungkook’s staring at you with those big, chocolate eyes you can never resist. It’s impossible not to melt in them, including relenting to his idea despite feeling the need to prove yourself as a mom. 

“Because your job’s outside the home, and mine’s in it. You shouldn’t have to pick up my slack when every other stay at home mom does just fine.”

He scoffs.

“Just because we decided to have you stay here with the kids doesn’t mean I’m absolved of my responsibilities,” he argues. “We have twin toddlers, Bams. I don’t give a damn what other moms can or can’t do. I only care about you. And if you’re driving yourself into the ground trying to balance everything, the least I can do is help.” 

“I don’t —” 

“Nuh uh. Look at me.” One of his hands slides up your back to grip your jaw and force your eyes to meet. You were purposely avoiding his gaze both for your resolve and so he wouldn’t see how watery your own are. Once he does, his entire expression softens as he leans in to slowly kiss across your cheeks and nose. “I promised to always take care of you, so please let me.”

Following a deep sigh, you fall forward until your foreheads press together.

“I shouldn’t need to be taken care of, Koo. I’m supposed to be the caretaker.”

Jungkook shakes his head.

“That’s not how it works, Bambi.” His thumb glides along your cheekbone, catching the stray tear that escaped from your waterline. “You’ve got me and I’ve got you.”

You can’t help but smile when his words are sweeter than candy. Nevertheless, it’s always been difficult accepting help from anyone, especially after becoming a mom. There’s a constant need deep inside to prove yourself, even though you aren’t sure to whom. With Naru in school, it’s easy to compare yourself to the other parents, and you have a suspicion you just don’t measure up. 

But you can’t deny how much stress it’d relieve to have Jungkook around. Your pride’s still on the line, but you think you know how to trick your brain into accepting his help.

“Well, I would love to see you more often,” you state. “I miss you so much during the day.”

He knows precisely what you’re doing, because of course he does. Prompting a wide grin to appear.

“Exactly. How could you ever say no to more time together?” 

You giggle and shrug your shoulders.

“And why would I?” 

“Right!” 

The two of you share a bright laugh until Jungkook muffles it by stealing a kiss. His hand on your face roams into your hair as the arm around your waist brings you closer. Your fingers follow his lead, sliding along his shoulders so you can play with the soft hair at his nape. 

With how busy life’s been lately, you can’t remember the last time you kissed and touched one another without rushing. Being parents means most sexual encounters are quickies at best, and ever since Naru started school, even those happen sporadically. 

Hence why Jungkook’s leisurely rolling his tongue into your mouth while your lips collide between quiet moans. 

You miss the slow moments; chunks of time reserved solely for you two. This hectic period won’t last forever, and you both know that, but it’s still hard when you’re going through it. 

“God, I missed the way you taste,” Jungkook mumbles before trailing kisses across your jaw. “Just missed you.” 

The sensation of his warm, wet lips on your skin makes your head lull as you sigh and your fingers rake through his hair. 

“Koo,” you whisper with a gentle tug. 

He merely hums against your throat while continuing to paint you in saliva. 

“I love you so damn much, baby.” 

It’s his last remark before his face disappears in your cleavage, his tongue darting out to trace the curve of your chest. He eventually switches to sloppy kisses as his hand on your ribs moves to caress your neglected breast over your top.

“I —” A short giggle interrupts you. “I love you, too.”

If he hears you, he doesn’t make it known; far too busy gorging himself on your tits. The only problem is tomorrow’s an early morning because the twins have their final infant vaccine appointment. You’d love nothing more than to let Jungkook do whatever he wants with you for hours on end, but it just isn’t possible tonight.

“Honey, we shouldn’t.” Your husband growls his dissent into your chest. “Jungkook.”

“No,” he whines before shoving his face between your tits. It leaves you relentlessly giggling until he glances up with his infamous puppy eyes. “Please, baby.”

If only you could give in, especially considering you haven’t been able to do anything besides him bending you over a counter or pushing you up against a wall in a long time. Alas, parental duty calls.

“I promise the next time we get a chance, we’ll go all night. Okay?” 

Jungkook groans while flopping onto the pillows and you hate the sudden loss of his hands on you.

“It’ll get easier soon, right?”

“Of course, it will,” you answer as your fingers comb through his hair. “Everything’s just so new right now, but once we get a hang of things, we’ll be back to normal in no time.” 

He sighs, but he must believe you somewhat because he flashes you a warm smile that you echo right back. 

“I can’t wait,” he declares. 

You obviously feel the same, and convey your agreement via a chaste kiss.

The following Monday, Jungkook talks to his boss about the possibility of working remotely and they agree to discuss it after the current game launch. 

As much as you hate to admit it, you’d be beyond grateful to have help. Even if Jungkook remains in his home office all day while you go about your normal routine, being able to leave the twins at home with him will lift a huge burden off your shoulders. You also can’t deny wanting to see him more often since you’ve both been so busy lately.

A couple weeks later, you and your pair of rambunctious boys are lying on a playmat in the living room as they match toys of different shapes and colors. They’re both so smart already, just like Naru was at their age, making it all too easy to cheer them on. 

“Re!” Ken shouts while holding up a red cube.

“Red,” you softly correct him, emphasizing the last letter.

He simply giggles in response before slamming the cube down over the circle hole and moving onto the next one. 

Kai, on the other hand, is much gentler in his approach. He rolls the shapes around under his palm to examine them and even gives them a nice bite just to see what information it’ll provide him. Once he’s done investigating, he places the shape into the corresponding hole.

“Good job, little man!” 

Your son smiles as though it’s the biggest compliment in the world, his chubby cheeks rising like freshly baked dough. 

Ken begins to crawl away from you after finishing his pairs, so you keep a close eye on him. He uses the couch to stand and guide himself towards the entrance of the room and you realize his actions have a purpose once you hear footsteps coming up the stairs.

The little boy laughs like a maniac, no doubt recognizing his dad’s familiar gait. He does his best to walk without holding onto any furniture, but he only lasts a couple steps before he’s on his knees again.

Thankfully, Jungkook waltzes in at the perfect moment, and Ken doesn’t even register the fall because he’s too excited. 

“Da! Dada!” 

Like always, a massive smile overtakes Jungkook’s face when he bends down to scoop up the toddler. 

“There you are,” he cheers. “What’s my little buddy been up to, huh?”

Ken joyously squeals while kicking his feet in the air until your husband lowers him onto his hip and gives him plenty of kisses. 

Clearly feeling left behind, Kai makes a break for the action by crawling at light speed towards his father. Jungkook notices immediately, prompting him to place Ken down so he can lift up Kai instead. 

“Hey, you!” As soon as he’s able, Kai wraps his arms around Jungkook’s neck and burrows his face in his chest. “Were you having fun with Mommy?”

Your little boy nods without ever lifting his head and Jungkook snickers in adoration before pressing his lips to Kai’s hair.

After momentarily admiring them together, you stand to greet Jungkook as well. Ken reaches for you as you pass by, so you snatch him from the ground and rest him on your own hip.

“What are you doing here so early?” 

Before replying, Jungkook leans in for a kiss that causes both boys to giggle. 

“Boss gave me the rest of the day off to celebrate another successful launch. Which also means I get to work from home in the afternoons starting next week. All I have to do is come in an hour earlier,” he explains. 

Your jaw drops open when you delightfully gasp. 

“Really?” 

“Yes, ma’am. I know mornings will still be tough, but I hope it’ll help, even just a little.”

“It will,” you assure him. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Jungkook scoffs.

“Are you kidding? More time at home with my wife and kids? Oh, the torture!” 

You smack his bicep with your free hand, but he just laughs and swoops in for another smooch. 

The babies in your arms begin getting fussy, clearly ready to be put down so they can play some more. You gently return Kai to the floor and he instantly takes off on his hands and knees towards the toys. Jungkook follows your lead by setting Kai down, who races after his brother to join the fun.

A moment later, you feel the familiar sensation of your husband's arms around your waist and you naturally melt into his embrace. His head falls to your neck where he places a few kisses while you trace the tattoos staining his right arm. 

“When’s the last time this happened, hm?” Jungkook asks. “Just you, me, and the troublemakers.”

You snicker before resting your head on his shoulder to look at him. 

“Maybe four months?” 

“We should make the most of it, then.”

“Absolutely,” you concur with a peck. 

Suddenly you and Jungkook are standing side by side behind the couch, where you’ve laid down multiple playmats and blankets to form a makeshift aisle. You’re both hunched over with a twin each dangling from your fingertips. The two boys joyously screech and cackle as they hover just above the ground, obviously enjoying being airborne. 

Bam and Usagi watch with hesitant curiosity from their place on a nearby chair. Your loving Doberman’s slightly less relaxed than the cat curled up beside him because his protective nature always keeps him on high alert. 

“On three?” Jungkook proposes.

“You better not cheat.”

Your eyes are already locked on the opposite side of the room, your target destination, but you still hear his lighthearted chuckle.

“I would never.” With a click of your tongue, you readjust your feet to be ready to run as Jungkook counts down beside you. “Three… two… one… go!” 

The very second he shouts the order, you both place your respective child on the floor before taking off towards the end of the last playmat. It’s the finish line for today’s race and the sooner you reach it, the better your chances of victory. 

There’s hardly any time between when you two drop to your knees so you can begin encouraging the boys to head in your direction. From the outside, you probably look like a pair of maniacs as you enthusiastically cheer and holler for them to keep crawling.

“That’s a good boy! C’mere, Ken,” you call while motioning at yourself. 

“You got it, bubba, come to Daddy.” Jungkook adds motivation by clapping, which seems to grab Kai’s attention. “Yeah, there you go!” 

Both twins eagerly follow your commands by crawling across the soft surfaces as fast as they can. They’re neck and neck, so the race will definitely be down to the wire. 

You and Jungkook are already trying your best to guide your sons closer, but once they’re within arm’s reach, you really go all out.

“That’s it, Kai!” 

“Go, go, go!” 

“No mercy!”

“You can do it, baby!”

Their tiny hands are perfectly aligned with only a few steps to go, causing you both to hold your breath in anticipation. 

In a surprise twist, Kai slows down just a hair when he glances up at his beloved dad. Once Jungkook realizes what’s about to happen, his eyes expand in horror and he begins frantically waving his hands.

“No, no, no,” he pleads in desperation.

It’s too late. Your son halts only a couple inches before the finish line to mirror Jungkook’s claps with a massive smile on his face. Meanwhile, Ken crawls right into your awaiting arms for a landslide victory. You let out a celebratory squeal as you stand and twirl the toddler high above your head.

“You did amazing, sweet boy!” You applaud him. “Who’s Mommy’s little champion?” 

Ken coos and stretches his hands towards you. Because despite not realizing he just won you bragging rights for the foreseeable future, he understand his mom’s proud of him. 

After returning Ken to your chest for a loving kiss attack, you notice Jungkook still on his knees with a completely dejected expression. Kai’s just ahead of him, rolling on his tummy while pulling at the playmat. 

“Don't look so down, baby.” His gaze shifts to you with the fury of a thousand suns. “At least you lost because your son loves you so much.”

He tsks.

“There’s no place for love in competition, Bambi.” 

Kai has impeccable timing when he finally crawls to Jungkook, which instantly wipes away his sour face. It’s impossible for him to resist one of his precious babies gesturing for him. Hence why Kai receives a consolation prize of being aggressively snuggled by his dad. 

“What was that again?” 

Jungkook shoots you another melodramatic glare that you respond to by blowing him some kisses. His face automatically burns bright pink, as though you don’t kiss him multiple times a day, but you still feel prideful regardless. 

The twins are more than ready for their afternoon nap after all the fun, so you and Jungkook head upstairs together. Once they’re both tucked into their respective cribs, your husband takes your hand to lead back to the first floor. 

It’s serene with the boys asleep, especially since you’re not alone like usual. 

Maybe it’s weird, but you really love holding Jungkook’s hand. They’re much bigger than yours, but his fingers still fit perfectly in between your own somehow. His hands are always warm and soft, and he also has a habit of squeezing every few minutes as a reminder that he’s there. 

You remember as kids, your parents would constantly tell you two to hold hands while crossing the street or among big crowds. Back then, Jungkook would envelope your entire hand in a firm grip so you wouldn’t lose each other. 

He’s always been so protective of you and it wasn’t until you got older that you realized all the little things. If you were walking along a sidewalk together, he’d stand on the side closest to the road. In packed spaces, his hand would hover near your lower back. On a night out if you chose to separate, he’d ensure you’re at least still in his line of sight. 

It’s just second nature to him, and although you’re not physically intimidating enough to return the favor, you like to think you’ve done the same for him emotionally over the years. Maybe you can’t protect him, but you’re able to protect his heart. 

Your little reverie causes you to miss Jungkook guiding you across the room near the stereo beside your TV. It isn’t until you hear music floating through the air that your eyebrows perk up in a silent question. 

“Don’t worry, I know Naru gets out of school soon.”

“Then…”

He smirks and commandeers your other hand before walking backwards to a spot with more space. 

“You know, sometimes I feel sad we never got to be a couple before having kids,” Jungkook confesses. “There’s a lot of stuff we didn’t get the opportunity to do, so whenever we do have alone time together, I wanna make the most of it.” 

“And how do you propose we do that?” 

“I don’t know.” An obvious lie given the mischievous smile on his face. “Maybe by dancing around the living room?”

You two often grab your kids for a rhythmic twirl around the house, but it’s been quite a while since you did so by yourselves. 

“You’re so cute when you’re being romantic, baby,” you tell him.

Since you aren’t protesting the idea, Jungkook pulls you close and secures your waist with one arm so you can dance together to the slow beat of the music. Your free hand moves to his shoulder as he lifts your intertwined fingers into the proper position. 

“So I’m not cute all the time?”

He raises a challenging eyebrow, causing you to snicker.

“You’re everything all the time.” Your fingers resting on his shoulder slide into his hair and he immediately smiles at the familiar touch. “Cute, cool, charismatic, gorgeous, sexy. You name it.” 

“Wow, you must really love me,” he remarks.

Similar to your wedding day, Jungkook lets go to spin you under his arm before guiding you back in place. You continue swaying along to the song, although you’re both much more focused on each other than dancing. 

“I’m so in love with you it’s scary.” 

“Oh, yeah? What’s so scary about it?”

Your fingertips scratch his scalp and elicit a low, content hum while he awaits your response. 

“Because it’s overwhelming,” you admit. “And because I’d do anything for you without a second thought.” 

Jungkook pensively nods.

“It’s like that for me, too.” As if to show you with actions instead of words, he tugs you closer until your chests brush and uses his arm to anchor you there. “Sometimes I think about you and I worry my heart will beat right out of my ribcage.” You giggle as a light blush spreads across your cheeks. “And I honestly feel a little crazy.”

“What? Why?”

His tongue hits the roof of his mouth. 

“All the guys at work talk about their wives like marriage is a chore,” he explains. “Sure, they might not openly talk bad about them, but their feelings are clear based on their tone and word choice.” He shakes his head. “Then there’s me, who genuinely can’t shut up about you.” His candor makes you chuckle again. “I’m serious, Bams. I’m so fucking obsessed with you I think something might actually be wrong with me.”

You burst into a fit of giggles, but you also know he’s being completely honest.

“Koo, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“But I don’t understand how I can be the only person who’s still just as in love after all these years, when other people’s ‘honeymoon’ phases don’t last this long.” 

“Well, you’re not the only one,” you correct him. 

All the tension in Jungkook’s features disappears as a brilliant smile takes it’s place.

“Of course. How could I forget?”

“I don’t know.” You flash him a playful grin. “But it better not happen again.” 

Instead of replying, he releases you for another twirl, but rather than bringing you back into his arms, he dips you across his body after.

“Or what?” 

Your eyes are stuck on each other, causing you to almost forget you’re in your living room and not somewhere only the two of you exist. 

“Or I’ll have to remind you just how obsessed I am with you in return.” 

Jungkook’s smile widens.

“Promise?”

In an instant, he effortlessly leads you back to your feet before giving your hand a gentle kiss and bowing as if it was a formal dance. Except the charade doesn’t last long because Jungkook seemingly gets an urge he can’t resist and surges forward for a kiss. 

His hands cradle your face while yours sneak around his back to pull him closer. Despite this being at least your one billionth kiss, it always feels like the first because Jungkook kisses you with so much ardor and devotion it steals your breath. Even when the lip lock is short and sweet. 

Which isn’t exactly how you’d describe this one. 

As your lips mold into one, he gracefully walks you backwards until your spine meets a hard surface. The sound of you bumping into the wall makes you both snicker before your tongues wrap around each other inside your mouth. 

Unfortunately, your alarm to pick up Naru goes off before you’re able to do anything else. Jungkook groans and presses his forehead against your own while you sigh in defeat. 

“I’m sorry, my love,” you lament. “We can pick up where we left off later?”

He shakes his head and stands to his full height, letting his hands drag along your curves until he squeezes your hips and drops them. 

“If we get a chance,” he counters. Your face falls, but Jungkook reaches out to caress your cheek. “I’m not upset, baby. I just miss taking my time with you. I can’t even remember the last time I ate you out or… kissed you for longer than a minute.”

Unlike when it was just Naru, you can’t call up your parents or friends to babysit for the evening or weekend. Looking after three kids, especially two under two, is nothing like watching one. Nowadays you can only ship them off to someone’s house during important events or emergencies. 

Not to say your friends and family aren’t still extremely helpful. You genuinely don’t know what you’d do without them, but you aren’t the only couple with kids anymore so you have to handle a lot more on your own. 

Besides Jihyo and Namjoon recently welcoming their beautiful little girl, Yoongi and Jimin adopted a two year old boy and are doubly busy planning their wedding. Seokjin just proposed to his girlfriend and both Tzuyu and Nayeon have moved in with their partners. Mina hasn’t told anyone besides you, but she found out she’s pregnant with her and Tae’s second child. Hoseok and Yujin are still going strong and although Chaewon started seeing someone a couple months ago, Eunchae’s still looking for the right person. 

Unfortunately, no matter how crazy you and Jungkook still are about each other after all these years, life often moves faster than you want it to. It feels like just yesterday everyone in your friend group was single and now half of you have kids. 

It’s like you told Jungkook a few weeks ago, everything’s new and you’re the first couple out of your friends to send their child to school. But you’re confident this dry spell won’t last forever and hopefully your return to normalcy happens sooner rather than later. 

“I know.” You catch Jungkook’s hand on your cheek to lace your fingers together. “Maybe we can find some time this weekend?” 

Even though he’s obviously skeptical, he smiles and nods. 

It’s the first time you’re able to pick up Naru without the twins in tow, allowing you to finally meet some of the parents of the kids she always talks about in her class. 

Your routine becomes a lot easier after that. Mornings are still a mad dash, but having Jungkook home in the afternoon relieves even more stress than originally anticipated. Not only does it mean you can leave without hauling the twins along, but he’s even able to start dinner and take care of some chores depending on his workload. 

Now you’re finally acquainted with all the other parents and you’ve gotten fairly close with a few of them. Naru being friends with their children also helps. You don’t know what you’d do if she got close with kids whose parents you didn’t like. 

The person you get along with the most is Seojun, the father of the little girl Naru calls her “BFF.” He’s chill like you and has a similar sense of humor, so you poke fun at the more uptight parents together. For the past month you’ve stood side by side to wait for your daughters to exit, along with some other easygoing moms and dads. 

Today’s a special occasion because Jungkook and the twins are accompanying you to the school. You’re all heading to your parents’ house for dinner and you need to leave right away to avoid being late. 

Jungkook stays in the car with the boys while you wait for Naru outside the classroom doors like normal. After giving him a quick kiss and crossing the street from the parking lot, you join your usual group on the sidewalk. 

“Afternoon,” Seojun greets you. 

“Howdy.”

“It looks like you’ve got an entourage today,” one of the moms comments.

Your eyes flit back to the car where you see Jungkook turned around playing with the twins. 

“Yeah, we’ve got a fun night with the grandparents ahead of us,” you explain.

“Do they get along? Your in-laws and your folks?” Seojun asks.

The question almost makes you laugh.

“Oh, yeah. Our moms were college roommates and our dads were already friends when they met them. Not to mention, they’re neighbors.”

Everyone chuckles at the cute backstory, but Seojun clicks his tongue once the laughter dies down.

“You’re lucky. I’ve never even met my in-laws because the relationship’s so bad.” 

You frown.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be,” he replies with a wave of his hand. “We don’t need anyone like them in our lives, anyway.”

It’s certainly a great mindset to have, even if you still can’t help but feel bad. 

The conversation shifts to more small talk as you all wait for your kids. You and Seojun exchange your regular jokes and chitchat until Naru finally emerges from the double doors holding hands with none other than Seojun’s daughter, Jia.

“Hey, little bug,” you call to her. 

Her already large smile widens to reveal the small space where her first tooth fell out not too long ago. The older she gets, the more she looks like Jungkook did at her age, down to the adorable dimple in her cheek. It makes denying her anything nearly impossible, just as it is with your husband. 

“Hi, Mommy!” Naru replies.

“Dada!” Jia cheers. 

They drop each other’s hand in order to run at you two and you both bend down at the same time to haul your girls into your arms.

“Did you have a good day at school today, little lady?” Seojun questions his daughter.

“Mmhm. We learned all about colors!” 

“And about why everyone’s eyes see different ones,” Naru adds. 

Jia vehemently nods in agreement.

“Wow,” you comment. “You know what might be fun later?” Your daughter’s eyes go wide while awaiting your explanation. “You can practice by pointing out all the colors in Daddy’s tattoos.” 

Naru gasps before rapidly clapping her hands.

“Let’s do it, let’s do it!” 

“Your daddy has tattoos?” Jia asks in wonder. 

“Yup. A whole bunch of ‘em right here.” 

She raises her right arm and slides her other hand up towards her shoulder to show Jia.

“Mine does, too, but his are all over.” 

You and Seojun snicker at their conversation before informing the girls it’s time to go and wishing one another goodbye. He mentions he’ll text you about setting up a playdate soon and you holler an affirmative response over your shoulder as you cross the street with Naru. 

By the time you reach the car, Jungkook’s leaning on the passenger side door to properly greet you both. Naru, who you put down once you’re in the parking lot, bolts straight into his awaiting arms.

“There’s my princess,” Jungkook remarks while lifting her onto his hip. She’s getting bigger everyday and you know sooner or later neither of you will be able to pick her up, so you’re trying to savor the time you have left. “How are you doing?”

“Good. Mommy said I can use your tattoos to practice learning about colors,” she tells him.

“Of course, you can. But only if you finish eating all your dinner tonight. You remember we’re going to grandma and grandpa’s, right?” She nods. “Good girl.”

Jungkook kisses her head before strapping her into the open car seat while you hop in the driver’s side. He joins you a second later, but unlike usual, he doesn’t take your hand or lean over to kiss your cheek. 

You don’t pay it too much attention since you know it’s been a long week and you still have the entire evening ahead of you. The only issue is, his weird behavior doesn’t stop there. He doesn’t necessarily avoid your touch, but he isn’t welcoming it, either. 

Before, during, and after dinner you notice multiple moments when he does something totally opposite from normal. When you ask him to grab a spoon so you can help taste test for your mom, he doesn’t kiss the top of your head as he so often does. Then at the table, his hand never lands on your thigh despite him always wanting to touch you.

By the time you’re done with the dishes, you’re spiraling too much to ignore it any longer and ask him to join you in your childhood bedroom while the kids play with your parents. 

After shutting the door behind you, you wait with your arms crossed as Jungkook peruses the room.

“I can’t remember the last time I was in here,” he notes.

“What’s going on with you?”

He stops mapping the walls to face you, but his expression’s unreadable.

“Nothing.”

“Koo,” you flatly counter.

“I’m serious, Bambi.” 

You step closer and the way he ever so slightly recoils reveals everything you need to know.

“I’m sorry, since when do we lie to each other?” 

Jungkook shakes his head.

“That’s not what I’m doing,” he defends.

“Then what are you doing?” 

His jaw ticks and he clears his throat as his eyes glance everywhere but at you. But after a lingering breath, he finally returns his gaze to your face. 

“Who was that guy you were talking to earlier?” 

A single eyebrow flies up your forehead before you scoff.

“Wait, have you been giving me the cold shoulder because you’re jealous?” 

“No!”

You know Jungkook well enough to see right through him, and even if you didn’t, the instant denial makes his feelings obvious. 

“He’s Jia’s dad. You know, the one Naru really likes,” you answer. “And the parent I get along with the most. We talk everyday before pick up.” 

“I can tell. You guys seemed pretty friendly with each other,” Jungkook declares while crossing his arms and turning his body away from you. 

“Are you being serious right now?” When he doesn’t respond, you take matters into your own hands by stomping over until you’re face to face again. “You do realize this was the whole point of you working from home, right? So I could get to know the other parents.” 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t expect you to get close with some random man.”

Your eyes nearly roll right out of your head. 

“Random man? He’s our daughter’s friend’s dad!” 

“I don’t care, Bams!” For the first time since you came up here, Jungkook’s emotions are evident in his features. The hurt, longing, and even deep green envy. “I realized today you have a whole other world I’m not a part of. A different friend group, new inside jokes… and I’m just an outsider.” 

All your defenses drop when you hear his explanation. It never occurred to you Jungkook might feel left out as the working parent and now your heart aches. 

“Baby, you’re not an outsider, you just haven’t had a chance to meet everyone yet.”

He shakes his head again.

“You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

You’re staring too intensely to shy away, even though that’s clearly his desire. Thankfully, his arms soon unravel before he pushes his hair back with both hands. 

“I just miss you so fucking much, baby,” he confesses. 

His answer causes your eyebrows to pinch together.

“Miss me? I know our sex life’s been a little dry, but I’m right here, Koo.”

“No, not like that.” You gesture for him to elaborate, but the tension in his face and rigidness of his posture tells you he doesn’t fully know how. “You may be here in front of me, but you feel so far away.” He sighs heavily and combs through his hair again. “Every night you tell me about your day, but your stories are full of names I don’t recognize and moments I can’t relate to. Even if I grabbed Naru from school instead, it’s not about knowing those people, it’s about knowing you.”

“You know me better than anyone,” you argue.

“Yeah, I do.” His hand grazes your arm, but he doesn’t actually grab you yet. “Which is why it broke my fucking heart to see you laughing with someone else. To have to sit in the car while you banter with a guy whose name I’ve never heard before.” 

It’s still too difficult to piece together his feelings. You hear him, but you aren’t sure how to interpret what he’s saying. 

“I wasn’t hiding anything from you, if that’s what you’re implying.” 

Another head shake.

“I’m not accusing you of anything, Bams. I was jealous. I am jealous. Just not in the way you think.” His fingers finally coil around your arm and you release a deep sigh of relief you didn’t even know was being held hostage. “I know you as the mom who spends hours mixing different paints together to make the perfect shade of pink, who pauses and replays movie scenes a hundred times because they make her daughter laugh, and who wakes up early on weekends just to cook her kids’ favorite breakfast foods.”

“Right…”

He chuckles before continuing, unable to hide his endearment even in serious moments. 

“But that guy knows you as the mom who cracks jokes about all the stupid shit other parents do, who drinks a fresh cup of coffee in the afternoon so she has enough energy for the evening, and who signs up for PTO bake sales without a lick of baking experience.”

Ohhh. Now you get it. 

Jungkook isn’t jealous because he thinks you’ll cheat, which is good because that’s absolutely ludicrous. He’s jealous someone knows a side of you he’s yet to witness. 

School and home are two entirely different realms and other than a couple exceptions, Jungkook’s never crossed the divide between them. It’s like you’re playing a video game together and you unlocked a new map, but he’s still a couple levels behind and isn’t able to explore it with you. 

“That’s true,” you state. “The thing is, everyone sees a different side of me. I don’t act the same way with Jihyo and the girls as I do with our guy friends. My mom, dad, and even our kids all experience different versions. Everyone but you.” Your hands encompass his free one so you can pull him closer. “You’re the only person who knows every side, angle, and edge of who I am. No one else gets to see my puzzle pieces put together. You have all of me, Jungkook, and you always have.” 

His eyes turn into miniature oasis, prettier than any night sky you’ve ever witnessed. You watch his mouth open and close a few times like a fish out of water, leading you to save him a reply by pressing your lips to his own. 

He hums at the initial spark of affection; something that sounds like a mixture of pleasant surprise and immense relief. The hand on your arm glides upwards until he’s holding the side of your face as you wind yourself around his neck and force your chests together. 

You’re both needy after months of never having enough time to worship each other like you want, but even so, neither of you turn the kiss into something more. It’s gentle and soft, albeit contrary to Jungkook’s fingertips on your skin. His mouth may be moving in leisurely harmony with yours, but his grip on both your head and waist feels desperate. 

Once you have to break for air, his arm circles your back to keep you close as his lips move to your cheek and then your temple.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “I think I really need to hear that.”

A big smile causes your eyes to crinkle in the corners.

“So you’ll stop ignoring me now?”

Jungkook sighs before a matching grin forms on his lips.

“Yes. I don’t… I don’t know what I was thinking. I just felt so hurt and like… like I was losing you.”

“Koo, that’ll never happen,” you assure him.

“I know, Bambi. I don’t mean it in a literal sense.” He adjusts his hand to cradle your jaw so his thumb can run back and forth across your cheekbone. “I’m so selfish when it comes to you, and I always have been. It doesn’t help that Naru starting school makes time feel like it’s moving at the speed of light. I just can’t shake the feeling of losing control no matter how hard I try.”

You chuckle upon realizing where his brain’s at. 

“You don’t like having to share us with other people.” 

It’s clear you’re right on the money when his lips curl into a lopsided smirk. 

“Not at all.” 

His immediate affirmation makes you both giggle, which helps break the tension still lingering in the room. 

“I would love to say something to make you feel better, but you’re going to have to share me, Naru, and the boys with plenty of people over the years. I mean, you’ll eventually have to give Naru away at her wedding.”

“Woah, hey! Why are you bringing that up? I’ve still got time to prepare myself for that.” 

He’s so full of love you can nearly feel the excess seeping into your own skin. You’ve known Jungkook your whole life, so you understand his possessiveness isn’t from a place of control or ownership, but how huge his heart is. 

“Would it help if I told you Naru still thinks boys are absolutely disgusting?” 

Unsurprisingly, the light in his eyes flickers alive.

“She does?” You nod. “Well, what about you, huh? What’s your opinion on boys?”

It’s obvious he’s alluding to Seojun. Because even though he knows deep down there’s no reason to be jealous, hearing you reaffirm your loyalty always eases his mind. 

“Can I show you something?” 

Jungkook’s face scrunches in confusion, but he still nods and peers over your shoulder when you pull your phone from your pocket. 

A minute later, you lift the device up so he can clearly see the photo on the screen.

“Who are they?” He asks while wagging his finger at the three people in the picture. 

You quietly chuckle under your breath.

Just as Jia described earlier, the other man in the photo has visible tattoos on both arms, one of which is resting on Seojun’s shoulders. 

“That is my new friend Seojun, his daughter Jia, and his husband Hyungsik.” 

Poor Jungkook’s left sputtering as he searches for an adequate response, causing you to snicker. 

“Well, he could be bi,” he poses. 

All you have to do is send him a blank, vexed expression for him to smile and try pacifying you with loving pecks. As always, feeling his lips pepper your skin in warmth makes you squeal and melt into his embrace. 

You two rarely have conversations like this and yet you navigate them like pros every time. It’s undoubtedly because of the many years of friendship between you, but you’re grateful nonetheless. You don’t even know what a relationship without all the trust, compassion, and understanding you and Jungkook have for each other would look like.

Thankfully, you’ll never have to find out. 

After he’s done painting you in affection, you lead him back downstairs by the hand, where your kids and all four parents are waiting for you. 

A Disney movie is already set up on the TV, so you and Jungkook slip between Naru and the twins, who are each sitting on your mothers’ laps. Once everyone’s comfortably cuddling on the couch, your dad presses play while Jungkook’s dad turns off the overhead lights. 

You honestly don’t pay much attention to the film, too enamored by how warm and cozy the room feels with your entire family together. Naru’s head is resting on your lap as your fingers comb through her hair and your opposite hand is being cradled by Kai. Similarly, Jungkook’s playing with Ken’s short, black locks while giving Naru an absentminded foot rub. The scene is bookended by both sets of parents, who are curled up like teens in love. 

At one point you turn towards Jungkook, triggering him to follow suit. As soon as you catch one another’s gaze, his head flops onto the backrest with sparkling eyes full of admiration. His reverence makes you blush, although he can’t see it in the dim light. 

“I’m sorry,” he mouths to you. 

An apology isn’t necessary, and you’re both aware of that, but you still appreciate the gesture. 

“Me, too,” you mime in response. 

His hand stretches across the back of the couch to reach you, momentarily leaving Naru without her massage. He doesn’t do anything special, merely brushes his knuckles along your cheek, and yet your heartbeat speeds up. 

Unfortunately, there isn’t much you can do about Jungkook’s feelings regarding this new chapter of your lives, but you still do your best to show him nothing's changed besides a busy schedule. The easy answer would be alternating who picks up Naru from school, but even though he’s home in the afternoons, he still has to work. 

Things return to their regular rhythm after that night. You become even more familiar with your fellow parents and set up multiple playdates for Naru, she makes plenty of friends who she always raves about in the evenings, and the twins learn and grow bigger everyday. 

The only issue still at large is your sex life. You two do manage to find time amongst the chaos, but it’s either short and sweet or hard and fast. 

You totally understand what Jungkook meant by missing you when you’re right here. It’s been over a month since the last time any foreplay was involved and even longer than that since you actually got naked to have sex. 

Alas, you’re both on the same page about wanting to get your old routine back as soon as you have the chance. 

Speaking of, it’s easy to fall into a comfortable candance when life’s going well. Hence why checking the calendar lately has totally slipped your mind. Not the one of events for Naru’s school or the twins’ doctor visits, but the very familiar, monthly period tracker on your phone. 

As if history’s repeating itself, you don’t realize until you’re restocking the bathroom one evening. Your fingers glide down the cabinet to double check all the supplies and upon landing on a tampon box, you instantly freeze. 

When was the last time you got your period? 

You whip out your phone to search the tracking app you use, but when you look at last month, it’s blank. 

Contrary to your insides coiling around each other, you start laughing to yourself. The volume’s low at first, but the longer your mind reels with all the possibilities, you cackle louder and louder until you sound like an insane person. 

“No, no, no, no,” you chant under your breath. “This isn’t fucking happening. Not again.” 

One child overpowering your birth control was already bad luck, so there’s no chance in hell another one managed to sneak past your impeccably placed IUD. 

God, you knew you should’ve urged Jungkook to get snipped right after the twins were born instead of waiting. 

No, it’s important to stay calm. A missed period doesn’t automatically mean you’re pregnant. All you need to do is run to the corner store for a few tests to find out. 

Your legs feel unstable as you exit the bathroom and of course, Jungkook notices your strange demeanor when you pass him to reach the front door. 

“Bams?” 

The kids are all asleep already, so he’s just lounging with Bam and Usagi on the couch. 

“I’m heading out for a few items, you need anything?” 

Before you’re even able to slip your shoes on, Jungkook’s fingers stop you by grabbing ahold of your wrist.

“Woah there.” He turns you around and his suspicious expression tells you any attempts to sneak out will be useless. “What do you need from the store that’s so urgent?” 

“Just some toiletries. It’s no big deal,” you answer as nonchalantly as possible. 

Obviously your best friend of over thirty years doesn’t buy your little act. His head tilts and his tongue pokes at the inside of his cheek as he surveys your face for a proper explanation. 

“Bullshit,” he accuses. 

“Why would I lie, baby?” 

“I don’t know. Why would you?” 

You don’t want to freak him out before you know anything, but you’re also certain he won’t let go until you reveal your true intentions. 

“Please, Koo, I’ll explain as soon as I’m home.”

He shakes his head.

“I’m not letting you out of the house looking like you’re on the run from a serial killer.” 

Well, it was worth a shot. Without another choice, you inhale and stare into his eyes.

“My period’s late,” you announce.

A singular beat passes before Jungkook’s eyes expand and his mouth drops open. After another weighted moment, he releases your arm to run his fingers through his hair while a disbelieving chuckle escapes his parted lips. 

“You think you’re pregnant?” 

You shrug. 

“I’m not sure. That’s why I have to go grab a test.” 

“That’s… impossible. I was there when they stuck that birth control device in you, okay? It’s way up there.”

“I know. I was there, too,” you retort. “But if you remember, your magical dick just loves putting babies in me.” 

Jungkook frowns and steps closer to rest his hands on your biceps. 

“You’re not pregnant, Bambi,” he assures you. 

“I better not be or I will fucking kill you, Jeon Jungkook.” 

Even when you’re threatening his life, he still smiles at you like you’re all he sees.

“Then who will help you take care of our four kids?” 

“Ahh, God.” 

You feign a gagging sound, but the idea genuinely sets your nerves ablaze. There’s no way you can handle having another child right now, or ever. You’re both already struggling to keep up with everything as is. 

“Listen.” He gently grasps your chin to bring your attention back. “Whatever happens, whatever the result is, we’ll be okay. I promise, baby.”

His finger swipes away a stray tear before you even register one falling.

Rather than wasting more time on “what-if,” you nod assuredly and give him a quick kiss before slipping out the door. 

You spend the entire drive to and from the store praying this is all just some big, bodily misunderstanding. According to your calendar, you’re only about a week and half late, so it could easily be for another reason. Such as stress, something you’re certainly not lacking.

Upon your return, three heads rise to attention at the exact same time. Bam, who’s always on guard duty, Jungkook, looking as nervous as ever, and Usagi, who immediately relaxes once she realizes it’s you. 

Jungkook offers to join you, but you order him to stay put until he hears the timer go off. It’s for his own safety, really, because if you are pregnant, you may strangle him. 

Just like five years ago, you pee on a multitude of pregnancy tests and then wait with bated breath for three minutes to pass. You try not to agonize over the outcome, but you honestly might be more nervous this time than back then. 

When your phone alarm finally rings, you inhale deeply before checking all the tests lined up along your counter. The results carry the weight of an entire elephant and your head drops forward as you slowly exhale. In the midst of your own mental processing, Jungkook throws the door open so he can find out as well.

“Bambi?” He nervously calls for you.

Following a loud sigh, you grab the three little fortune tellers and hold them up for him to see.

“Negative,” you declare with a relieved smile. 

“Oh, thank fuck.” The next thing you know, Jungkook’s hoisting you in the air by your waist. “I’ve never been so happy to see a negative test in my life!” 

Now that you know nothing’s cooking in your oven, you giggle as he swishes you back and forth in little semi-circles. 

“I was so fucking terrified.” 

Jungkook sighs and buries his face in your neck.

“Me, too.” Although your feet meet the floor again, you two stay wrapped up in one another. “I almost lost you last time. I can’t imagine ever watching you go through that again.” 

Even more than a year later, you know how much that day still haunts him. It doesn’t matter that everything turned out fine; Jungkook’s so protective just the memory of you passing out sends chills down his spine.

When you eventually untangle from each other’s embrace, a sense of overwhelming relief is evident on both your faces. In a perfect world, you’d be more than willing to pop out kids until you can’t anymore, but unfortunately, three is all you’re able to handle. 

“Koo.”

“Yes, my love?”

He’s always sporting the most doting, sweet expressions, which is why threats work wonders on him.

“If you don’t call your doctor on Monday, I’ll castrate you myself.” 

Of course, he merely snickers before pecking your cheek.

“Consider it done.” 

Besides you having to take care of Jungkook and force him to keep his hands to himself for a full six weeks to ensure the procedure actually works, that heart attack-inducing incident comes and goes like anything else. 

Before you even realize, the end of the school year’s fast approaching and you couldn’t be happier. Summertime means going back to sleeping in and spending all day with your precious children. Not to mention the boys turn two soon.

Alas, there are still plenty of events to celebrate school coming to a close, like the year-end recital the kids put on for all the parents. It’s a talent show, for lack of a better term, and your daughter’s part of the group who’s chosen to do a ballet dance. 

Naru’s actually pretty good, if what you’ve seen of her practicing is anything to go by. She’s also extremely excited about showing off her new skill to you, Jungkook, and her grandparents. And like the supportive mom you are, you obviously volunteered to help with the event. 

Along with the actual performance, there’s a rehearsal the night before parents are encouraged to attend. 

Unfortunately, Jungkook hasn’t been able to work from home for the last few weeks because of a new game launching soon, so the twins are at Chaewon’s house while you hand out snacks and water at the rehearsal. He mentioned he’ll try to make it tonight, but sometimes duty calls. 

You’re currently passing out bags of trail mix and mini water bottles to students and parents alike. It’s boring, but you love seeing the kids in all their different costumes. 

During a lull in customers at your station, you check your phone for an update from Chaewon, who just sent an adorable picture of her and the boys at a park. 

In the middle of typing your reply, you hear a quiet gasp from the women at the other table, but you’re too focused to glance up. You quickly realize the sound is because they’re gawking at someone who just walked in, based on the conversation you overhear. 

“Whose dad is that?” Someone whispers.

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen him before.” 

“More importantly, is he a single dad?” 

You chuckle at their gossip, but once you hear the man in question’s voice, your heart drops.

“Hi, is this where the preschool rehearsal is?”

That’s when you realize the person they’re talking about is your person. Which is the only downside to having a husband so handsome he’s probably a k-pop idol in another life. 

“It is. Can we help you find a certain someone?” 

Upon finally observing the interaction, you find the three women looking positively enamored with Jungkook, and the one who just spoke is literally twirling her hair like a schoolgirl. You’re also fairly certain one of them is married. 

To make matters worse, he looks fucking delectable. He came straight from work so he’s in slacks and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You’ll have to scold him afterwards because he knows those gorgeous, veiny forearms are for your eyes only. 

Although, that’s a minimal betrayal compared to how he’s graciously smiling back at the women behind the table. You know he’s just being polite, but you can’t help how your feral lady-brain reacts whenever people encroach on what’s yours. 

Which, unfortunately, happens often with a husband as good looking as Jungkook. 

“Honey,” you call before he has a chance to respond to the question.

His head turns in your direction as his smile grows exponentially, satisfying the green demon in your chest. 

“There you are, beautiful!” 

With a pep in your step, you scurry out from behind the table to join him. His arm automatically opens wide for you and once you’re tucked perfectly by his side, he wraps the limb around your waist. 

“I wasn’t expecting you to come.” 

“I know. Thought I’d surprise my girls,” he responds with a kiss on your cheek. 

“Y/N,” one of the women grabs your attention. “This is your husband?”

It might be a little petty for your age, but you’re absolutely riddled with pride when you examine the three surprised faces ahead of you. 

“Yeah! Ladies, meet Naru’s dad, Jungkook.” 

He waves with his free hand and all three of them mirror the gesture like they’re in a trance. 

“Wait, your husband as in your childhood best friend turned husband?” Another one asks. 

You nod. 

“Oh,” the final woman chirps. “If only we were all lucky enough to have a built-in perfect match, huh?” 

“I know, right?” Jungkook chimes in while admiring you beside him. “I am without a doubt the luckiest man alive.” 

It’s obvious she was referring to you being lucky and you adore seeing all their eyes widen when Jungkook flips the script. 

But at the same time, his ardent gaze is causing you to blush like a maniac, so you retaliate by lightly elbowing his side. He giggles at your faux annoyance before tightening his hold, which you certainly don’t mind. You’ll never complain about showing him and your affection for each other off, especially to women like them. 

“Well, we should probably go find Naru before it’s her turn,” you announce. “Would one of you mind taking my place over there?” 

One of them volunteers as you take Jungkook’s hand to lead him into the auditorium. Even while strolling away, you sense their eyes following you. It’s clear Jungkook can tell as well, based on how he snickers a moment later. 

“You weren’t kidding about women and rolled up sleeves. What’s with that?” 

You chuckle and glance back at him over your shoulder.

“It isn’t the sleeves, Koo. You’re fucking sex on legs.” 

It’s his turn to glow bright as a tomato and he even hides his face in your shoulder while you head further into the room together. It isn’t often you get to make him blush in return, so you feel especially satisfied. 

The rehearsal goes off without a hitch and it was helpful because now you’re fully aware what Naru needs for tomorrow. So just before tucking her into bed, you place her costume and other essentials on her dresser to ensure nothing’s forgotten. 

Jungkook’s already sitting on the edge of her bed to kiss her goodnight and you join him once everything’s laid out. 

“You excited about the recital, bug?” You ask her. 

“Yes! I can’t wait for you guys to see it,” she exclaims. “I just wish all my aunts and uncles could come, too.”

The school only gave each family six tickets, not including other children, so none of your friends are able to attend. 

“I know, but we’ll video your performance so they can watch it later.” 

She giggles and enthusiastically kicks her feet, making you both smile from ear to ear.

“Alright, princess, you need lots of rest if you’re going to do a good job tomorrow, right?” Jungkook suggests.

Naru nods while shimmying under the blankets.

“Wait, are you sure you’ll be there, Daddy? You’ve been away at work a lot.”

He frowns at the question.

“Of course, I will. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He leans in to kiss her forehead. “And I promise to sit as close to the stage as possible.”

Your little girl beams and reaches up to hug him before doing the same to you and plopping back into bed. You and Jungkook leave after telling her you love her, which she parrots as you shut off the lights. The twins were tucked in hours ago, so you two sneak away to your bedroom downstairs once you’re sure they’re all set for the evening. 

The next day’s a whirlwind, but thankfully your parents are there to help with the twins while you triple check that Naru has everything she needs. 

Jungkook will have to meet you there because of work, so the eight of you head to the school together. After dropping Naru off with her teacher, you find seats in the auditorium and text him the row number. The problem is, his work’s at least forty five minutes away and when you check his location shortly before the recital’s supposed to start, it shows him still at the office. 

His mom shoots you a worrying glance as the lights go down, but Naru’s group doesn’t perform until the end, so you’re hopeful he’ll make it in time. 

You spend the entire show anxiously gnawing on your lip and surveying the entrances to see if he snuck in the back since you can’t check your phone. Jungkook doesn’t break promises, and he certainly doesn’t miss important moments like this. Even though he was at work, you’re worried something else is keeping him from being here. 

Once it’s time for Naru’s performance, you attempt to focus on her, but when her face falls after realizing Jungkook isn’t sitting with the rest of you, it absolutely shatters your heart. 

The lights come on at the end of the show and all five of you scope the auditorium just in case, but you’re certain he isn’t sitting anywhere else. Which is doubly verified when you look at your phone again to see his location hasn’t moved. 

Both your mom’s send you hopeful expressions that maybe you’re all wrong, but after a single head shake, their eyes drop to the floor. Truthfully, your own disappointment doesn’t matter in the slightest. It’s the look on your daughter’s face you know is coming that terrifies you. 

Everyone does their best to distract Naru when she first runs out from backstage to give you all hugs and accept the flower bouquets each of you brought. But it isn’t long before her eyes flicker between your faces and begin to water as she looks to you for an explanation. 

You bend down to her height and pet her hair that’s slicked back in a ballerina bun to match her leotard and tutu. Even before you open your mouth, it’s clear she knows what’s coming, and it makes your own eyes misty as well.

“I’m sorry, baby, Daddy couldn’t get out of work in time,” you tell her. 

“But… but he promised,” she quietly counters.

“I know.” 

She initially tries to be strong by nodding her head, but then she chokes on a harsh cry and collapses into your arms. You scoop her up and cradle her head so she can let out all her emotions into your shoulder. It kills you to hear her helpless sobs and hiccups, and it’s even more difficult to refrain from crying yourself. 

Your dad drives you back so you can continue consoling Naru, who cries ceaselessly until she’s able to bear hug Bam once you arrive at home. 

After wishing your dad goodbye, you put the twins to bed while Naru cuddles with her beloved pets. As much as you want to let her hug Bam and Usagi all night long, you know sleep will be beneficial for her broken heart. 

Even though you manage to get her upstairs, she refuses to change out of her costume aside from the tutu so she can perform for Jungkook when comes home. You don’t fight her on it, but your chest aches at the thought of her still wanting him to see her dance even after letting her down. 

Once she’s sound asleep, you flop onto the couch and hold Usagi close for some cuddles of your own. You’ve been so busy looking after Naru you haven’t really processed your own emotions. Although, there isn’t much to decode or decipher. You’re fucking angry. Which isn’t an emotion you’ve ever felt towards Jungkook. 

Sure, your pregnancy hormones may have caused you to act a little crazy and sometimes you pretend to be mad or annoyed with him, but you’ve never actually been. You’ve never had a reason to be before tonight. There hasn’t been a single moment in the last thirty-something years when he’s disappointed or betrayed you. 

You hear the door unlock downstairs and inhale a huge gulp of air while returning Usagi to the ground. It’s clear from his footsteps alone he’s dreading whatever’s waiting for him, but that doesn’t make you any less furious. 

He unceremoniously enters the living room and you actually see a large flower arrangement before you see him. His eyes land on you sitting on the couch and he looks relieved at first. Until he notices the fire in your irises. 

“Bamb —”

“I am not the person you need to be apologizing to,” you state as you stand. 

“Baby, listen to me.”

“No!” You drag your fingers through your hair while your mind decides where to begin. “You looked our daughter in the eye and promised her you would be there.” 

“I know, okay?” He responds across an exasperated sigh. “But we had to finish the game tonight in order to meet the deadline. My boss wouldn’t let us leave.” 

“Aren’t you a VP? They couldn’t make an exception for you?” 

“Maybe, but it wouldn’t have looked very good if I’d asked, Bams.” 

You scoff and cross your arms over your chest at the same time Jungkook places the flowers on the coffee table so he can come closer, but you immediately take a matching step back. And you’re far too upset to care about his lips tilting down in response. 

“We only get one shot at this, Jungkook. Naru won’t ever have another ‘first recital.’ So forgive me for not caring if it might've made you look bad.” 

“Do you think I wanted to miss it? You think it wasn’t the only fucking thing on my mind the whole night?”

“I don’t care if it was because that doesn’t change you not being there when she needed you!” Before you can stop yourself, your eyes begin to water and your lip trembles. “You should’ve seen her face when she realized you weren’t in the audience. She cried the entire drive home. We couldn’t even take pictures because she was fucking inconsolable.” 

Jungkook’s expression crumbles after hearing your words and soon enough, you both have tears on your waterline. 

“I never…” He sniffles as a single droplet rolls down his cheek. “Baby, you know I’d never let her down if I had another choice. I just couldn’t be in two places at once.” 

“You could’ve chosen to put her first. To put our family first,” you argue. 

“I put us first every single day! That’s why I get up every morning and go to work. To provide for this family.”

“And what happens when providing for us starts to take precedence over watching our kids grow up?” 

A heavy second passes before Jungkook’s head shakes. 

“It was one night.”

Cue another scoff.

“Until it isn’t.” 

“Bambi, you’ve known me your entire life. You know this isn’t the norm,” he counters.

“Exactly!” He looks confused, but the situation’s as clear as day to you. “I know you better than anyone and not once in more than thirty years have you ever let me down. I remember when you almost lost out on a scholarship to your dream college just because I got dumped and needed a shoulder to cry on. That’s why I’m so fucking terrified about what this means, Koo. Because if after three decades of never breaking a single promise, you could do something like this to our daughter, then maybe I don’t know you like I thought anymore.” His mouth drops open in shock while you wipe away the fresh tears on your cheeks. “I mean, after everything that’s happened this year it just feels like our whole world’s falling apart. Naru was in the hospital, for Christ’s sake. And then everything with her school; me not being able to handle it all and you having to work from home. I understand if you resent me for that. I’m sure I would if you couldn’t uphold your end of the bargain. Not to mention the stuff with Seojun and our fucking sex life that’s practically nonexistent. Also those women the other day. I know you could have anyone you want and I just can’t help feeling like maybe this is all because of me. Maybe you’re falling out of love with me or —”

“No, no, no. Stop right there,” Jungkook commands as he closes the gap between you and cups your face in his hands. “Don’t you ever suggest something like that. Do you hear me?” Your eyes only water more. “Tonight happened because I can be a fucking idiot sometimes. It’s my fault and mine alone. And my mistake has absolutely nothing to do with you, and more importantly, it has nothing to do with how much I love you. Because I do, Bams. I fall more in love with you every morning when I wake up. And I’ll love you more tomorrow than I do at this very moment. Nothing in the world matters to me more than you and our family. I don’t care what happened this year. I don’t care how hard it was or all the bullshit we had to deal with. I wouldn’t care if we never had sex again. I’d still love you more than anyone’s ever loved another person. Do I make myself clear?” Even though his grip on your head’s practically a vice, you manage to nod. “You’re everything to me. And nothing will ever change that. Nothing.” 

You would love to reply to his grandiose proclamation, but you’re crying too hard to speak just yet. Of course, Jungkook’s already working tirelessly to swipe away the cascade of droplets on your face. 

“It feels like everything’s changing and I’m so scared. I’ve never been mad at you before. I hate it. I don’t wanna feel like this,” you confess. 

“But you should be mad at me,” Jungkook declares. “I fucked up. I should’ve done everything in my power to be there and instead I broke our baby’s heart. And even worse, I left you all alone to pick up the pieces.” 

As your waterworks begin to ebb, he drops one of his hands to pull you closer by the small of your back. You don’t stop him, because no matter how angry you might be, he’ll always be your safe space.

“This was only year one, Koo. What if we aren’t a strong enough couple to make it through the other thirteen?”

He inhales while tucking your hair behind your ear and cradling your cheek again, using his thumb to soothe your flush skin. 

“You’re right that this is just the beginning, but the school year’s about to be over and this is only our first fight. You really think we can’t withstand whatever else life might throw at us?” 

You sniffle as a hint of a smile pulls at your lips.

“Okay. That’s… fair.” 

An actual smile appears on Jungkook’s face before he uses his fingers to tilt your head up. 

“I am so fucking sorry, baby. I swear, I’ll never let you or our kids down ever again.” 

After a deep sigh, you shake your head.

“Like I said, I’m not the person you need to be saying that to.” 

His eyes flicker towards the stairs.

“Is she awake?” 

“No, but she only went to sleep about an hour ago.”

“May I?” 

You nod in approval, leading Jungkook to kiss your forehead before you walk upstairs together. As he quietly enters Naru’s bedroom, you flip the light on and lean against the doorframe. 

Her eyes begin adjusting to the influx of light before he sits down at her bedside and once she notices him, her entire face shines with joy. 

“Daddy, you’re home!” She cheers while throwing her arms around his neck. 

Jungkook returns the affection tenfold, hugging her tight and resting his hand on her head to keep her close. 

“I’m here, baby.” His lips press to her temple. “I’m so sorry it wasn’t sooner.” 

After they pull away from one another, the excitement slowly fades from Naru’s expression.  

“What took you so long?” 

“I couldn’t leave work in time. But Naru, that isn’t an excuse for missing your recital,” he explains. “I promised you I would be there, so it doesn’t matter why I wasn’t.” He takes her hands and squeezes them, making her smile again. “The thing is, everyone makes mistakes sometimes, dads included. They’re inevitable even if we don’t intend to do anything wrong, so although preventing mistakes is good, what we do afterwards is even more important.” Naru hums in acknowledgment. “Apologizing is the first step, but an apology doesn’t mean anything unless it’s followed by action. I broke a promise, so now I have to earn your trust back so you know I mean what I say. And that’ll take time, but I’m going to do everything I can to make it up to you, bug. I swear, you’ll never look out and not see me there supporting you ever again. Okay?” 

She nods, but it’s along with a sniffle as she wipes away a stray tear. 

“I was really, really sad when I couldn’t find you in the audience,” she admits. 

“I know, princess. I’m so, so sorry. It won’t happen again.” He gently dries her cheeks with his sleeve. “But it’s alright if you don’t believe me yet. That’s why I have to prove it to you, and I will.” After her cries subside, Jungkook smiles and playfully tilts his head. “Can you forgive me?” 

Naru mirrors his grin.

“Of course, Daddy.” 

“Yeah?” 

With another enthusiastic nod, she hugs him again. It leaves you with a massive smile of your own as you watch them with utmost affection. You knew Naru wouldn’t hold his tardiness against him, but it still warms your heart. 

Following their hug, your daughter looks incredibly eager and you already know why. 

“Can I show you my dance now?” 

“Huh?” 

That’s when Jungkook finally notices her outfit and realizes she’s in a leotard instead of pajamas.

“She wouldn’t let me do anything but take her tutu off,” you add from behind them. 

He glances at you over his shoulder where you shake the pink tulle skirt to show it off. 

“So, can I?” Naru asks again. 

Jungkook fondly giggles and gives her a big, wet smooch on the cheek before gesturing towards the door. 

“Go on, Mommy and I will meet you down there.” 

Naru practically leaps out of bed and grabs her tutu from you on the way out so she’ll be ready for her impromptu performance. 

In the meantime, Jungkook stands to join you near the door. There’s still an unnamed, heavy tension between you, but neither of you mention it. 

“That was a really good apology,” you compliment him. 

Per usual, he smirks and proudly clicks his tongue.

“I may not mess up often, but I always know how to fix it.” 

“Hmm. I suppose it’s easy when you’re the best dad in the world.” 

He shakes his head.

“No, I don’t think I’ve earned that particular title back just yet,” he remarks. “But then again, I don’t know if I’ll ever measure up compared to you.”

“I’m not —”

“Yes, you are.” Jungkook brushes your cheek with his knuckles, eliciting another smile before you can stop it. “You’re the perfect mom, the perfect wife, and the perfect woman. Always have been.” 

You’re unable to counter the statement because he grabs your hand to lug you downstairs where Naru’s waiting with the music already queued on the TV. Jungkook plops on the couch for a front row seat, bringing you down beside him as your pets jump up to watch as well. 

Despite it being a solo performance this time, Naru does an amazing job and it’s just as entertaining. Obviously, Jungkook loves every second, and he’s sporting the widest grin imaginable as his eyes twinkle with adoration. 

When she finishes with a theatrical curtsy, you both pick individual flowers from the bouquet he brought home to toss in her direction.

“Brava!” You shout. 

“Amazing! We want an encore!” Jungkook cheers. 

Naru continues bowing as you throw compliments and roses alike until she eventually b-lines for Jungkook instead. He stands and effortlessly lifts her high above his head, followed by them hysterically giggling together while he spins her around in the air. 

“Did you like it, Daddy?” She asks once he cradles her to his chest. 

“Are you kidding? You’re a star, pretty girl!” The compliment causes Naru to squeal in delight as she rests her head on his shoulder and squeezes his neck. “I can’t wait to see you perform on stage one day. I’m sure it’ll be even better.” 

“Me, too, Daddy.” 

She looks perfectly cozy in her Jungkook’s arms, as always, but you can also tell how tired she is. He notices just after you, triggering a silent conversation that he’ll tuck her in again while you turn down the house. 

“Don’t forget the pretty flowers Daddy bought you,” you remind her while handing over the arrangement. 

Her eyes crinkle in the corners as she takes them and holds them close to her chest before Jungkook carries her back upstairs. 

By the time he joins you in your master bedroom, you’ve already completed the majority of your nighttime routine.

“Did it take her a while to fall asleep?”

Jungkook shakes his head while leaning back against the closed door. 

“No, I just stayed with her for a bit,” he explains. 

“Good. There are only a few days left of school so I’d hate to mess up her sleep schedule now.” 

You hear a responsive hum. 

“Are we okay, babygirl?”

The question gives you pause because your brain, heart, and body are all saying different things. 

“I want to be,” you eventually answer. 

It stings to see Jungkook’s crestfallen expression and you’ll truly do anything to fix it, except you don’t know how after your conversation earlier. Sure, it’s clear your love’s still as strong as it’s always been, but that doesn’t automatically clear away the emotional rubble between you. 

“Then just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.” 

You aren’t sure what words to use, so you cross the room to hold his hands instead. He visibly relaxes when your fingers touch and even pulls you closer until you’re chest to chest.

“I don’t know what I need, Koo. I’m not mad anymore, but I still feel a divide between us.” 

“I feel it, too,” he admits. “And we could probably talk for hours to solve it, but I might have a better idea.” 

If you didn’t know him so well, you’d have to question what he means. Alas, the gleam in his eye and his arm hooking around your waist reveals his intentions without any explanation. 

“Baby…”

“C’mon, Bams. We’ve never had makeup sex before.” 

“Because we’ve never needed to,” you retort. 

He smirks while tugging your body into his own. 

“There’s a first time for everything.” 

You affectionately roll your eyes.

“Then let’s also make it the last. Deal?” 

“Deal.”

It’s barely left Jungkook’s mouth when he tightens his hold and hoists you into the air. You’re already well aware it’s your cue to wrap your limbs around him, even though you can’t recall the last time he carried you to bed like this. 

Months have passed with nothing but speedy rendezvous, so makeup sex or not, you’re thankful about having time to be together without any responsibilities on the horizon. 

Your back meets the mattress as Jungkook gently lays you down in the center of the bed so he can crawl over you. He always looks so handsome above you, the overhead light creating a hazy glow around him. His honey skin, striking features, and obsidian hair are a perfect combination you swear only an artist could think of. Yet here he is. Gorgeous, breathtaking, and yours.

His elbows land on either side of your head when he dips down to kiss you and after all the stress this evening, it feels like being doused by cool water in the summertime. 

As your lips meld together, Jungkook settles between your thighs. You can already feel his bulge pressing against your stomach and it causes all your pent up desire to flicker into a roaring flame. Suddenly all you want is for him to remain buried inside you until the sun comes up. 

In a strange sense, the urge doesn’t feel all that sexual. You always crave him, but tonight it’s the connection itself that matters most. Maybe that’s the reason everyone loves makeup sex so much. 

“I’m so fucking sorry, baby,” he whispers, pulling you from your devoted reverie. “I’m gonna make it up to you, okay? All night long.” 

He kisses you again before you can respond, making you whimper around his tongue when it slides inside your mouth. 

“If you want me to forgive you,” you interrupt the lip lock. “You have to make me come a few times.” 

Jungkook snickers as his lips move to your neck.

“You’re lettin’ me off easy.”  

You echo his laugh while raking your fingers through his hair and down his back. Your sharp nails catch on his shirt, prompting him to lift his head enough to pull the fabric completely off. 

“Wait.”

Before he can return to your throat, you press a hand to his chest so you can admire him properly. It’s been far too long since you’ve seen him shirtless. So, you trail your fingers down his stomach, tracing all the pretty indents and curves. 

“You’re gawking,” he teases. 

“I’m inspecting what’s mine.” 

He giggles and his nose scrunches.

“And is it all up to your standards, ma’am?” 

“Hmm. I think I have to do a more thorough examination.” 

In one smooth movement, you hook your legs around Jungkook’s waist to flip him over. The abrupt action leaves him relentlessly cackling while you get comfortable in his lap, but his hands still cradle your hips by muscle memory. 

Once his laughter fades, he watches with lustful eyes as you descend his torso one kiss at a time. Your lips find his collarbones, then his pecs and sternum, before stalling at the first dip of his abs where your tongue darts out. 

He hums in appreciation while you slowly map him with your mouth. It’s actually a little unfair how ripped he is, but then again, you’re the one who reaps the benefits of his diligent workout routine. 

His fingers slink into your hair as you alternate between light smooches and long licks. He softly moans above you, and although he’s clearly enjoying himself, this is more for you than him. If you had enough time, you’d drag your lips across every inch of his body. 

“Feels s’good, babygirl,” Jungkook quietly slurs. There’s a tug on your scalp that causes you to look up and after your eyes meet, he guides you back to his mouth. “But I need to taste you.” 

Your lips crash into each other, but you’re well aware that’s not what he’s alluding to. Even still, his tongue chases your own while he peels your shirt off and starts unbuttoning your jeans. Once you’re entirely bare, he guides your body higher, leading you to pull back with raised eyebrows.

“What are you doing?” 

“Want you up here.” He kisses you again for good measure. “Come ride my face.”

“Are you sure? I’m not as light as I —”

“Oh, shut up.” 

Next thing you know, Jungkook’s shoving you towards his head before yanking you down by your hips. As soon as you feel his mouth on you, you keen and grab a fistfull of his hair. He groans over the pressure while forcing his face deeper into your cunt so he can begin avidly licking your slit. 

You have no idea how long it’s been since the last time, but it’s always an unequivocal sensation. Especially in this position, where he can use his face’s every contour to bring you pleasure. Which he does joyfully every time, like right now as he slurps your arousal and bobs his head so his nose catches on your clit. 

“Jesus, how do you always taste so good?” Jungkook asks during a brief reprieve. He glances up from between your legs, causing you to make eye contact because your face is buried in your elbow resting on the headboard. “You’re like fucking candy, Bams.”

The praise makes you giggle. It doesn’t help that he looks adorable from below with his big, doe eyes blinking up at you. 

“I think you just love me too much.”

“Well, there’s that, too.” 

His lips wrap around your clit in an instant, leaving you whimpering as your legs shake on either side of his head. He starts by gently sucking on the nerve endings before switching between swirling and flattening his tongue. 

You’re certain you’re gushing all over the lower half of his face, but Jungkook never seems to mind. Rather, he enthusiastically moans into you while moving down to circle your hole with the tip of his tongue. As he begins pushing the muscle into your pussy, the intense pleasure leads you to grind against him. 

There’s a slight fear you’ll crush or hurt him, but he merely tugs you closer with a muffled growl. His fingertips are digging into your hips and ass to keep you right where he wants you, but he also uses the grip to guide your body back and forth. 

All your most sensitive parts are being dragged against his face and it’s sending you tumbling towards an orgasm faster than you can comprehend. Jungkook can obviously tell, since he ramps up the efforts of his mouth and tongue to make you fall over the edge. 

Your climax hits you hard and without warning, at the same moment Jungkook teases your hole and forces his nose into your clit. A loud, desperate whine spills from your lips as you convulse above him, but he doesn’t stop pushing and pulling you so he can continue throughout your entire high. 

“Koo,” you cry. 

“I’m not stopping,” he warns you. “You can handle more, can’t you, baby?” 

Your eyes meet again, although yours are filled with tears. 

Instead of responding when your head’s so high in the clouds, you nod until he buries his face in your cunt once more. 

Jungkook swallows every last drop of cum before soaking your pussy all over again. The second round’s much messier. He drags the flat of his tongue up and down your slit before spitting and slurping the filthy mixture of you and him into his mouth.

It feels heavenly despite being such a sinful act and you can’t resist grinding harder with every lick and lap. 

“That’s it, babygirl. Use me.” 

He only pauses for a second to speak; immediately diving back in so he can wet your clit before suckling on it. 

You come almost as soon as his lips wrap around your pearl and Jungkook groans and grunts in pleasure when you drown his features in arousal. 

“Baby, I can’t. It’s too much,” you whimper while he greedily eats your cum throughout your orgasm. 

Even though the overstimulation’s setting your nerves on fire, your hips have a mind of their own and continue gyrating above him until he loudly inhales and leaves you alone with a final peck. 

“How was that, huh?” 

You sigh and flop onto you back beside him to catch your breath. 

“Fucking amazing. You’re never going that long without eating me out again.” 

“I sure hope not!” Jungkook shouts as he rests on one elbow. “It’s been like wading through the Sahara desert, Bambi. I was parched without the taste of your sweet, sweet nectar.”

His dramatics send your eyes rolling before you playfully shove him away from you. 

“You’re so ridiculous.”

“But I’m serious.” He returns to his previous position and you naturally turn to face him as well. “I would’ve kept going if you didn’t tap out on me.”

“Hey, I need time to work up to our old routine. Okay? She’s not used to back to back orgasms anymore,” you explain. 

Jungkook smirks while pulling you closer by your waist. 

“Well, she better get reacclimated fast because I’m about to fuck you until you can’t feel your legs.” 

In a single second, he tugs you beneath him and puts his weight on his opposite arm so he can hover above you. Even through his pants you can feel the large bulge rubbing against your core and your body naturally arcs towards his own despite having just come down from a high. 

“Is that really your plan to make it up to me? By crippling me so I can’t get anything done?” 

“Mmhm. Because then you can’t stop me from waiting on you hand and foot.”

You can’t stop the laughter bubbling in your chest due to his familiar antics. It’s been so long since you’ve had the chance to just banter in bed together and you’ve missed these moments dearly. 

“What a coincidence. Suddenly there are a multitude of chores to do this week.” 

He parrots your giggles.

“Good. The least I can do for letting you down is scrub some damn floors,” he professes. 

That might be the sexiest thing he’s ever said. It’s no wonder your hands sneak down his back to help him out of his pants. Jungkook cackles upon realizing his words’ effect on you. Only a stay at home mom would get turned on by the idea of not having to clean. 

“You know what, why don’t you do your worst, then? I think I’d like a nice, long break from housework.” 

Jungkook’s responding smile is brilliant as always, and you mirror it as he goes in for another kiss. 

“As you wish, my love.” 

The sound of his pants hitting the floor echoes a mere second before he thrusts forward to spear you on his cock. He has to cover your mouth because of how loudly you wail in ecstasy, even though you’re multiple floors away from your children. Call it a force of habit from parenthood. 

Your next moan is muffled behind Jungkook’s palm when he pulls back, only to return even deeper inside your cunt. 

“Fuck,” you sob into his hand.

“Holy shit, babygirl.” 

He begins at a steady, calm pace, but with each stroke he pushes himself farther into your warm walls. His face falls to your neck as his free hand captures one of your own to force it beside your head. Your other arm’s draped over his shoulder where your nails repeatedly dig into his muscular back. 

“Koo.”

Jungkook softly groans against your skin while leaving lazy kisses all along your throat.

“You feel so fucking good. I missed you so much,” he tells you. “I’m sorry, Bams. For everything this year. I’m… so fucking sorry. I love you so damn much.” 

His hand drops to the pillows to hold himself up, allowing him to find an even deeper angle. You want to reply to his reverence right away, but a whimper’s all you can manage initially. 

“I love you.” You lift his head from the crook of your neck, cupping his jaw and staring into his starry, lovetruck eyes. “Please don’t ever make me mad at you again. I don’t ever want to feel like that, Jungkook.”

“I know.” A reassuring smile lights up his face. “You won’t have to, baby. I promise.” 

He solidifies his vow with a sharp thrust and poignant kiss. One that leaves you moaning into his mouth as his hips pick up both speed and force. 

By the time your lip’s part, he’s fucking you too good to continue speaking to each other. All either of you can accomplish is punctuated grunts that seem to whisper the other’s name. 

Your fingers crawl into his hair once he returns to painting your neck purple. His soft lips encourage your head to tilt so he has more space to venerate you, which quickly sends your mind into a frenzy. Especially when in tandem with the deliberate rolls of his hips. 

Jungkook’s bringing himself in and out of your pussy with ease. Of course, he is, your body’s practically his second home. Your velvet walls know him almost as well as you do and they always welcome him inside without any resistance. 

He knows it, too. Not only is he completely in tune with your emotions, but he can feel your cunt clenching and pulsing around him. 

Hence why he knows you’re going to come again soon. Similarly, you can tell how close he is. His heavy balls are slapping your ass with each thrust and whenever his moans start coming out airy and faint, it’s a tell tale sign. 

“Fill me up, Koo.”

“No,” he rasps while glancing up again. “Not yet. Not after so long of not being able to fuck you exactly how I want.” 

It’s hard to fully comprehend his next movements, but you recognize the sensation of him pulling out and flipping you over so you’re straddling him once again. 

You certainly don’t need to be told what to do and Jungkook whines and claws at your hips as you sink onto his cock until he’s entirely sheathed inside you. 

“Really? Make up sex and you’re putting me on top?” 

Cue an eye roll. 

“Oh, please. Like I won’t be doing all the work.”

After theatrically gawking, you smack his chest. 

“Hey! That’s no way to talk to your wif —”

“Oh, just c‘mere.” 

A gasp slices your word in half when Jungkook wraps his fingers around your throat and pulls you down for an erotic kiss. His tongue conquers your mouth without any mercy at the same moment he flattens his feet on the mattress. The extra leverage presses his dick into your g-spot and once he begins bouncing you on his thighs, you fear he’s buried so far he’ll get stuck.

Everything becomes a haphazard mixture of bodily fluids, panting, squelching, and breathless whines from then on. You can’t even continue arguing with Jungkook because he is putting in all the effort. Between him choking you and pounding into your pussy from below, you’re helpless to do anything but enjoy yourself. 

Sex is always phenomenal in this position and having his large hand on your neck only makes it better. With every plunge inside you, his cock stretches you open and rubs against your tight walls. You two fit together like puzzle pieces and there’s nothing better than feeling his hot skin and thick veins moving in and out of you. 

Your faces are still only millimeters apart, but rather than kissing, you're practically just breathing into each other’s mouths. 

That changes when you push on Jungkook’s chest to sit upright. It creates an impeccable new angle and you enthusiastically cry his name. In response, he tightens his grasp on your throat and goes into overdrive. 

The sudden influx of skin slapping against skin is deafening, yet it pales in comparison to you incoherently sobbing. 

“That’s it. Take this big cock.” 

“Baby,” you pant. “I need your cum. Please, I feel so empty without it.”

“Empty?” Jungkook squawks. “Do you even realize how many inches are inside you right now?” 

As if to prove his point, he wraps his other arm around your waist so he can hold you in place and drive his dick even deeper. The uptick in force causes you to shriek as salty tears roll down your cheeks and neck until they’re stopped by his hand. 

“Fucking hell, Koo.” 

“That’s what I thought. I’ll fuck my cum into you when I’m good and ready.” 

He squeezes the sides of your throat while continuing at the same monstrous pace. In the meantime, you clutch his pecs for support and let your head fall back.

Whether or not he’s going to finish soon, you’re already on the precipice of your third orgasm. Everything feels way too amazing to hold back any longer, but you still want to come together. Which means you have to bring him to the edge along with you. 

“Jungkook.” You purposely make your voice sound airy and seductive while catching his eye again. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if we hadn’t made up.” He still seems entirely focused on fucking you, but you notice his eyebrows twitch just a hair. “I needed this so badly, baby. It’s all I’ve wanted for months. Just you and your perfect cock inside me.” 

“Oh, fuck, Bams.” His eyes roll back as his rhythm momentarily falters. “Don’t stop. Your voice drives me crazy.” 

“I was so angry with you, but as soon as I felt you stretching my pussy open, none of it mattered.” 

“Shit.”

“C’mon, handsome, give me what I need to forgive you.” For good measure, you scrape your nails down his chest and lean over to whisper in his ear. “Put your cum right where it belongs.” 

A loud, throaty groan rumbles through Jungkook’s chest before his hips stutter and you feel the familiar warmth of his seed coating your walls. His release sets off your own and you both wail and shake as your respective climaxes wash over you. 

It takes a full thirty seconds for you two to completely return to earth, at which point you slump on top of Jungkook. He releases your throat so both his hands can roam your back, but you can only graciously hum in your weakened state. 

“You alright, babygirl?” 

“Mmhm.”

“Was the makeup sex worth it?”

You shake your head.

“Would much rather have sex without a fight first,” you answer. 

He chuckles while kissing your hairline.

“I have to agree,” he replies. 

You sigh as he delicately rolls you on your back and once you look comfortable enough, he leaves to find a rag. Per usual, you’re nearly half asleep as he wipes your thighs and pussy with a warm towel. But after he joins you under the covers and pulls you into his arms, you perk up again. 

“Can I ask you something?”

Jungkook’s eyebrows rise.

“I’m sorry, do you even have to ask?”

Following a light laugh, you sit up so you aren’t lying flat on his chest. 

“So, I know when you realized you were in love with me. But I wanna know when you started falling in love. Is there a moment or something that looking back you see was where it all began?” 

Your inquiry clearly surprises him, but a smile begins to form as he debates on an answer.

“Honestly? No. Kinda how you can’t pinpoint exactly when you realized your feelings for me, I have no idea about the beginning of mine.” His grin turns nostalgic. “But if I have to guess, I think I was slowly falling in love with you throughout my entire life and you getting pregnant just accelerated the process.” 

“Oh, yeah?”

The idea of Jungkook’s feelings being a calm waterfall that turned into fierce, whitewater rapids as soon as you got pregnant makes your heart soar. 

“Yes. No matter what, you were always gonna be my girl, Bambi.” 

A childish giggle leaves your lips as you bury your face in his neck. 

“What about you, huh?” Jungkook’s fingers slide along your cheek to lift your head up. “If you asked, you must’ve considered your own answer.”

You’re already blushing like crazy and have to bite your bottom lip to suppress a shy smirk. 

“You remember the night we conceived Naru?”

“Of course. It’s what I think about whenever I jack off.” 

That earns him a melodramatic glare. 

“Well, there was this moment after we reached my room when you were sitting on my bed and I’d just taken my pants off. You grabbed my hand to pull me between your legs, then leaned in and kissed my stomach while I ran my fingers through your hair. I obviously didn’t know at the time, but after thinking it over for a while, I’m sure that’s when I started falling for you.” 

Jungkook sends you a show stopping smile before capturing your lips in a sultry, but romantic kiss. Your mouths move as one in order to convey any other thoughts words simply can’t. It ends all too soon, but you keep your foreheads together to pacify yourselves. 

“I love you more than life itself. You know that, don’t you?” He asks.

“I know.”

“Then just… don’t ever forget again, okay? Above all else, the one thing I can never have questioned is my love for you and our kids.” 

You sigh while moving away so you can actually look into his eyes. The same eyes he shares with the three beautiful children he’s talking about. The ones you’ve found solace in all throughout your life and always will. 

“I promise, Koo,” you assure him. “I know exactly how you feel because I love you more.” 

A single click of his tongue seals your fate; that you won’t be getting much sleep this evening.

“Is this really the game you wanna play, Bams?”

Between Jungkook playfully growling when he attacks you and your screech of fake terror, you aren’t sure which noise is louder. 

Whatever Etsy witch he paid to ruin your life would have been hunted during the Salem witch trials because you never find peace following the breakup. You find out he’d been cheating on you with a plethora of girls, you find out the lady living in the apartment next to yours is moving out, and worst of all, you find out the free elective course you enrolled in specifically to take it easy gives you an assignment on love.

ARTS505: Screen Media Practice Assessment 1: Observational Short Film — “Love” Weighting: 30% Due: Friday, 11:59 p.m. Length: 3–5 minutes For this assessment, students are required to produce a short observational film responding to the theme of love.

Go fuck yourself.

The day your neighbour next door moves out, you tear up at the news and let her believe it’s because you’ll miss her and not because you’re terrified her replacement won’t be nearly as forgiving.

Because she smiles when you run into her at the bottom of the staircase and gives you small containers of food, nagging you in the way old women do about eating healthy and sleeping early. To her sweet, unassuming face, you tell her you will though you won’t, and she’ll nod like she believes you and tells you she’ll try to keep it down, kindly avoiding the fact that she can hear you wail at atrocious hours in the night when you’ve assumed everyone has already fallen asleep.

She understood the highs and lows of being a newly single woman in this current social environment. But whoever moves in next? You’re not so sure will.

Okay, so maybe you do miss her.

Because you find out someone new has moved in from the heavy thumping of feet crossing the floor, the thuds of boxes dropped onto the floorboards, the vibrations seeping into your own floors. It seems Naoya’s Etsy witch still has their grip on you because your new neighbour is horrible. They play loud music in the morning, the afternoon, late at night, usually right when you have convinced yourself that this night you will finally get eight uninterrupted hours of blissful sleep. Thuds, banging, thumping, any onomatopoeia, your neighbour has done it.

Sometimes, they leave a pair of sneakers outside their door for two whole days, directly in your path to the stairs, so you have to step around them every morning. Their moving boxes sit in the hallway for so long they might as well be furniture, and you’ve started dumping your tote on the tower of them whenever you dig around for your keys. Packages get delivered to your door instead of theirs. They seem to always be ordering DoorDash, too, the scent of something sugary-sweet seeping under your door until you start craving DoorDash yourself. 

It’s even worse today. You’d come home with groceries instead of takeout, washed your bedsheets for the first time in a long while, lit a candle called Midnight Sunset, and sat down at your desk with the firm intention of brainstorming your film assignment.  Then, from the other side of your bedroom wall, your neighbour starts assembling what can only be a large, flat-packed piece of furniture. For forty minutes, there is nothing but the intermittent scrape of wood, the clattering of metal parts, occasional low murmured curses, and one very loud crash that caused the floorboards to tremble, along with all the tiny screws that rattled in an echo. By the time the banging finally stops, your candle has burned unevenly, your tea has long gone cold, and the only thing written under love film ideas is: ‘kill him’.

shoko: utahime and i are heading to the library to lock in we’re inviting you so you can’t say shit like there’s always a duo in a trio but don’t actually come we’re probably gonna js make out

you: ?

utahime: she’s joking we’re going to study

shoko: booo u whore you’re a cockblock y/n

you: i literally didn’t do anything if anything utahime is cockblocking you but i’ll come if ygs are actually studying i need a fucking break

shoko: we aren’t

utahime: we are shut the fuck up shoko oh my god

shoko: whats with u y/n u sound grouchy

you: im going to kill my new neighbour hes playing shit music through the wall like i miss the old lady so bad

shoko: you really gotta complain to the landlord or smth

you: hell no im not a snitch

utahime: ure weirdly compassionate abt the wrong things hows the assignment going?

shoko: teacher teacher! im snitching!

you: ? do u want me to snitch or not and its not going good at all how can i think about love when theres someone playing phonk in my ear at 6pm on a random tuesday afternoon?

shoko: have u even seen this person?? go up and give them a piece of ur mind or smth also come lib

you: give me a sec i might ive never seen them though theyre usually out at weird times and doesnt really sleep in their own room ?? but what if its a 40 yo gymrat and i get bodied

utahime: yeah thats actually scary write a note or something

shoko: and then come library

you: give me fifteen minutes

Perhaps Shoko’s insistence on going to the library is contagious because you’re suddenly eager to rip out a piece of paper to spill just how much you appreciate phonk in your ears to your neighbour. Or maybe you really just want to tell your neighbour to die.

It starts off innocently enough, the last of your patience allowing kinder words and a light reminder that your neighbour isn’t the only one living in this creaky, ancient building. But then it gets to you, the music, the thudding, the inability to remove laundry from the laundry machine appropriately, and you find you’re pressing the lead of your pencil deep into the paper until it almost leaves a mark on the table beneath.

You heave out a breath of pure catharsis and read it over, giving it an approving nod. This will certainly do.

Then, with your heart much lighter and a perk in your step, you sling your tote over your shoulder and head for the door. Instead of walking to the elevator after you’ve locked up, you make a small detour to your neighbours door and bend down to slide the letter under their door.

There, problem fixed.

With a smile, you turn and walk to the library, oddly lighter for it.

Shoko and Utahime thankfully do not make out the entire time you’re at the library. Unfortunately, they’re still Shoko and Utahime and the three of you waste time gossiping about the high school dead horse that just broke up again instead of doing anything productive. Your document for planning your films remains as empty as ever, only now it’s been shared to two email addresses so they can witness your writer’s block unfold in real time.

By the time you drag yourself back from the library, night has already settled in and you have to use your phone’s flashlight to illuminate the path to your building. The hallway is hushed in that apartment building kind of way, distant television laughter, pipes clinking somewhere behind the walls, the hum of someone’s microwave. You’re fishing for your keys when you notice it, a torn corner of lined paper stuck to your door with blutack.

You blink, too tired to make the connection straight away, brain still slogging through the haze of a caffeine crash. But then you peel it free, turn it over, and squint at the scrawny handwriting on the back.

are you twelve? what’s with the note passing come talk to me if you have an issue also i told the landlord btw lol have fun with that —4b

You crumple the note in your hand.

That fucking asshole.

The landlord does, in fact, show up at your door the next morning wearing a stern expression and with even sterner words. You apologise with a tight smile, offering up the half-truth that you’ve been under a lot of stress lately and didn’t mean it. And then, because two can play at that game, you finally snitch on 4B too, feeling a sharp jolt of triumph when the landlord sighs and assures you that’ll be having a word with the resident next door.

You incorrectly assume that’s the last of it. Because when you come home at the end of another long day of classes, there’s a sticky note taped to your door.

snitch

A disbelieving huff slips out of you as you let yourself into your apartment, your tote sliding off your shoulder with a dull thump, hands too busy flattening the wrinkled paper to catch it. Five minutes ago, all you wanted was to collapse face-first into bed and sleep through the rest of the day. Now, irritation blazes through you so quickly it feels like caffeine, sharp and immediate, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re fishing a pen from your bag and scrawling a reply across the back.

you literally snitched first asshole. maybe if you weren’t playing anime music at 7pm in the evening i wouldn’t have to snitch on u at all

You stick it to his door on your way back from taking out the trash, pressing your palm against the paper just to make sure it stays there. When you leave the next morning for your usual nine a.m., another note is waiting.

you literally told me to die im not a masochist i wasn’t gonna let that slide ps. ntm on the digimon opening theme that’s something special to me

You write a reply during class, sticking it to his door when you come home.

and u’ve been loud as fuck ever since u moved in here yk the apartment has thin walls right? also what the hell is digimon

It doesn’t take long this time. You’re still boiling water for a coffee when there’s a faint tap at your door. When you open it, there’s a new note stuck smack in the middle, scrawled in hurried letters. You glance up and down the hallway and see no one, and smile as you step back inside.

then just walk those five steps to my door and tell me next time? and ofc someone as unfun as u has never experienced the highs and lows of digimon in ur childhood it all makes sense now

You sip your coffee as you pen your reply.

i swear i’ve knocked in the morning and u didn’t open the door so r u gonna keep edging me or r u gonna tell me what digimon is

It’s only after you’ve already closed your door that you realise you didn’t respond to his second comment so you quickly take a pen and walk back to his door, pursing your lips in effort as you try to add another line against the door. Maybe you’re imagining it but you swear you hear footsteps pause on the other side of the door.

also i just searched it up and i can’t believe my next door neighbour is 12 years old watching cartoons

You quickly scurry back to your apartment just in time, hearing their door open after yours just as you closed yours. A couple seconds later, there’s a knock.

digimon is NOT just for kids

You stare at the note for a second, oddly thrown by the concession considering it had seemed too easy. You’d expected another argument, maybe some smug reply, maybe an insult in even messier handwriting. But instead, he had simply folded.

For some reason, it feels less like a victory and more like a sudden end to something you hadn’t realised you were enjoying. Your other neighbours probably didn’t feel the same considering they had to listen to you and 4B open and close your doors consecutively for the past few minutes.

Still, you tell yourself as you peel the note off the door, a win is a win.

The next morning, you check your door out of habit and is immediately rewarded by a piece of a4 paper stuck to the front.

hey 4a, first of all i want to say that i’ve been very good and very quiet recently which i hope pleases you. please acknowledge my growth — 4b

Because you’re lazy, you flip the paper over and write.

4b, sure ur growth has been noted (?) i feel like there’s more to this do u need something — 4a

You slide it under his door before you can overthink it. By the time you come home that afternoon, there is another note waiting.

4a, thank you for acknowledging my progress but i fear i have received your criticism and decided not to grow from it. maybe head out for the evening also important question do u own a screwdriver ?? thanks, 4b

You frown then write back:

why?

Five minutes later, his reply slides under your door and you watch as the paper slips through completely before standing and reaching for it.

i give u a yes or no question and u still manage to dodge do u own one or not? please. — 4b

The next time you tape a note to his door, you also leave a screwdriver on the ground beneath.

u better give this back

You’re halfway to backing your things for the library when his reply slides under your door. You pick it up while locking your apartment and read as you walk, catching the tail ends of some heavy thudding and hammering from the door beside yours.

people assume just because im a man i must have five screwdriver variants in my drawers or smth anyway im making furniture for my friend and its ikea :( wish me luck 

You snort despite yourself, tucking the note into your pocket as another dull bang sounds behind his door. 

“Good luck,” you think as you walk by, and then, less generously, “and good luck to all the other people living in this building.” 

The library turns out to be the right choice. You spend three hours pretending to work, two hours ranting to the group chat about Naoya’s latest monthly photo dump, and fifteen minutes with your fingers tapping away at your keyboard which is still fifteen minutes more of productivity that you wouldn’t have achieved at your apartment so you’d call that a success.

When you come home, you brace yourself before reaching your floor. 

Surprisingly, there’s a lack of any noise at all. No thudding, no  scrapping, no IKEA-related violence. Your screwdriver sits neatly outside your door, wrapped in a sticky note. 

returned in one piece like i promised! im hoping u took my advice and left the building otherwise can u write your complaint in five words or less? im sleepy zzz

You look at his door, a reluctant smile on your face. For the first time since he moved in, you wonder if maybe the problem was never that he was impossible to live beside. Maybe the walls were thin, and he was loud, and you were miserable, and neither of you had known how to be people around each other yet. 

Maybe, if you both communicated like normal neighbours, this could actually work. 

If you assumed life would look up following this revelation, then you’re sorely underestimating the evil forces (read: Naoya’s Etsy witch) conspiring against your happiness. 

Because the next morning, it isn’t some upbeat anime opening that wakes you up. Instead, it’s the mucus trapped in your airways and the pounding at your temples, dragging you from the dead only to make you feel worse for it. You throw your duvet over your head and pray that when you resurface, your cold will have miraculously disappeared. It doesn’t work, to no surprise, though that thought irritates you too. Then again, maybe that’s just the built up annoyance from having your nose blocked. Miserable and stuffy, you close your eyes and remind yourself to take in a deep breath through your nose when you’ve healed, just to not take it for granted. 

It’s times like this when you miss your good-for-nothing ex, times like this when you remember there used to be someone you could text without thinking, someone you could badger for some chicken noodle soup and maybe a hug and a kiss on your forehead. 

Your own weakness pisses you off.

With great effort, you drag yourself upright and shuffle into your kitchen, pawing through empty pantries. Any plans of heading to that early morning tutorial this morning immediately leaves your mind at your pathetic show of strength. 

You’re halfway through grabbing cereal, any other breakfast option simply too tedious, when a loud voice cuts through the haze. 

“Yeah, she just didn’t get it. And when you have to explain a joke, it’s already over. No dude, obviously it’s her fault for not being with it and not because I’m unfunny, don’t even kid.”

You frown slightly, munching on another chip, thumb scrolling past a video you’re not even sure you watched. Who the hell says ‘with it’?

“If you don’t fuck with with it, then you’re one of the people who aren’t with it. You’re without it.” He continues.

You make a small noise of consideration, vaguely thinking that you might get along with his friend as they seemingly voice your own thoughts.

Your neighbour continues, undeterred from his friend’s unenthusiastic responses. “There’s no chance I’m seeing her again. She did text me but I’m just going to leave her on delivered. Is it cruel or is it saving myself from someone who called my Agumon keychain the deformed twin Charmander consumed in the womb?”

You laugh, sound muffled when your neighbour’s voice peaks.

“He doesn’t, Charmander is from a completely different franchise! And I’ll have you know that keychain was from an artist at Anime Con so when you’re picking on my little guy, you’re making fun of a small business.”

A pause. You scrunch your nose.

“Yeah, I didn’t mean to call it my little guy. If it helps, I gave my dick she/her pronouns like how a truck guy calls his truck a real beauty so she’s not my little guy.”

You snort, crunching down on a chip. You wonder if that sweet salesman next door is as enthralled in 4B’s love life as you were.

“Don’t make such a disgusted sound, she’ll take offence.”

There’s shuffling from above as your neighbour supposedly shifts to a different position, now closer to you such that you could faintly make out the voice of his friend.

“Is liking Agumon such a big deal breaker for you?” his friend says, voice smoother than the whiny tilt in 4B’s.

“Honestly, no. Agumon is my favourite character and I’m not really comfortable sharing him with others because he means a lot to me. But then when I started talking about Digimon she asked me why I didn’t just get a Pikachu keychain instead since everyone at least knew Pikachu and it’ll save me from the questions. Pikachu. The mainstream corporate mouse.”

“Okay,” his friend sighs, “but to be fair, most people know more about Pokemon than Digimon. At least she was trying?”

“That’s the problem!” your neighbour fires back and the image of him in your head changes around his enthusiasm about digital monsters. “No one gives Digimon the respect that it deserves. People act like it’s Pokemon’s weird cousin when really it’s more like Pokemon’s smarter, cooler, better-dressed older sibling who went overseas to continue pursuing their education.”

“And did you tell her that?”

“Yeah, right there in the restaurant."

“You’re never getting a second date.”

He snorts, apparently offended. “Please, like I wanted one.”

Despite yourself you laugh though the silence that follows is enough to rid you of all your amusement. Awkwardly, you trail off by clearing your throat, feeling somewhat like a creep for letting your eavesdropping be known. All this talk about knowing to stay quiet and yet you catch yourself slipping.

You listen as 4B says a quick goodbye to his friend. There’s a rustle, a soft thud, and then his voice comes again, closer this time, like he’s leaned right up against the wall between your apartments.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

For one fleeting second, you think that if this were a horror movie, he would absolutely be the first to die. Not that you’d fare much better, considering you answer him.

“Hi.”

There’s a small pause, then, “No way. 4A? What the hell, I thought you already left for class.”

Your heart skips, thudding against your ribs. For a second, you consider staying quiet and let the walls swallow the moment whole. Pretend it wasn’t you, pretend like the two of you haven’t been trading insults like you were passing notes in class.

There had been a fragile understanding between the two of you to never reach out. And yet, in this moment, you can’t bring yourself to remember why.

You clear your throat, thick with the tail end of your cold. “Well it looks like you guessed wrong. Do I need to send you another death threat for you to keep it down?”

You hear him wince, a quiet sound muffled by the walls. “Maybe we should go back to writing notes to each other. I didn’t know you’d sound like a 40 year old smoker.”

“I’m sick, jackass.”

He hums, unconvinced. There’s a beat of silence as he thinks of what to say. Then, “So, you’re a girl?”

Your eyes roll to your ceiling as you sigh, whatever you were expecting immediately thrown away. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

He huffs out a small chuckle like he can hear the exasperation in your voice and finds it amusing. “I’m just surprised. I mean, you’re so mean to me. Girls usually love me, you know, I’m kind of a ladies’ man.”

That pulls a laugh out of you, rough on your sore throat but impossible to stop. “You? With that personality? Consider me the one surprised.”

“I’m serious. I’m kind of a campus celebrity. Girls flock to me.”

You hoist yourself up onto the kitchen counter, angling your back against the wall where his voice comes through clearest. “You don’t have to lie to impress me.”

There’s a pause and you wonder if your playful insults had gone a little too far in your sick state.

“Oh, I might be into this.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” There’s the faint sound of movement on the other side before your mysterious neighbour talks again. “I meant, what type of person do you think I am then?”

“Considering you fumbled a first date because of a cartoon, I think you have your answer,” you coo with faux sympathy. “You should be nicer to her since I’m sure your cooldown for the next date might take a while.”

“First of all,” he says, apparently offended. “It’s not a cartoon. Second, she fumbled the date on her end. It was a necessary culling for me.”

You snort. “You got dumped over Digimon, let’s settle down.”

“You didn’t even know what Digimon was until I put you on a few days ago.”

You shrug, despite the fact that he can’t see the gesture. “And now that I know it’s even more pathetic. Agumon is the weird orange dinosaur thing, right?”

His whine comes through the wall, only cementing the fact that whoever is on the other side might be the biggest nerd you know. You wonder if he lied about not being a masochist considering he’s taking your insults pretty well. “Hey, come on. He’s just a cute little guy.”

“Right,” you draw out, unimpressed. “Don’t glaze him when he might be the reason you’re a social shut in.”

“That’s a new one. I am now, am I?”

“Please,” you start, warming up to the idea as she speak it into existence. “If women are all over you like you claim they are, why haven’t I heard anyone come over? You and I both know just how thin the walls in this place is.”

“Exactly,” he shoots back. “So why would I bring them back here? Unless you want to be kept awake all night.”

That makes you laugh, the idea of this voice you’re hearing now having any experience at all extremely humourous, much less with the ability to go all night long. You can almost imagine the state of his room, littered with anime posters and plushies making sex feel like a group activity. If you looked up past his figure over you, you’d probably see neon light up stars on his ceilings.

“If you can talk so much about my love life,” he trails off, voice deceptively casual and airy, “do you have a boyfriend?”

That makes you freeze. Something hard and spiky settles in your stomach and you shift on the countertop, searching for a spot that’s comfortable because for some reason, it feels like you’ve lost it. “No.”

The voice doesn’t say anything for a while. “My bad. Touchy subject?”

You shrug despite the fact that he can’t see the gesture and pull your legs to your chest. “It’s fine. It’s been, like, half a year. He was a douche anyway.”

“Okay, six months, not bad.”

Hearing the slight mumble from the other side of the wall but unable to understand it coherently, you frown and press your ear closer. “What was that?”

4B clears his throat. “I’m just saying maybe don’t talk shit when I haven’t heard you bring anyone over either.”

You roll your eyes, forcing your shoulders to relax and somewhat grateful at his deflection. “At least I don’t claim to be a microcelebrity. I keep my circle small and that works.”

“Is there room for one more?”

A laugh escapes you, genuine and surprised. “Why? Asking for a friend or yourself?”

You can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “You diagnosed me as a social shut in, remember? I’m clearing asking for myself.”

“We’ll see, 4B,” you say, though you’re matching his tone with a smile. It doesn’t, however, stop your voice from sounding croakier than intended and you have to painfully make an awkward gargling sound to clear your throat a number of times.

4B winces sympathetically, and he lets you get the worst of it out before speaking again. “Sounds like you might need some water and then a nap.”

“Trust me, that was the plan.”

You start to wiggle down from your counter and grab something to drink, wrongly assuming the conversation ends here.

“Are we going to talk again?” he asks in a rush, and you huff as your feet touch the ground.

“We live next to each other, genius. I don’t think I could avoid you even if I tried.”

“And would you try?”

You sip from your glass, ignoring him.

“Okay, that’s fine. I’ll win you over, just wait.” There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s grinning, you can hear it in the peaks of his voice. “I’ll try to keep it down for you. And then maybe you’ll be less grouchy when you wake up?”

“Go fuck yourself, 4B.”

You roll your eyes, glad that there’s a wall between you to prevent him from seeing your smile. “Goodnight, 4A.”

Gojo Satoru isn’t a man who lacks. 

He’s got the grades (barely, but they’re there), the genes (obviously), the height (something even Suguru finds unfair), the charm (obnoxious), and a reputation on campus that both precedes and betrays him. He walks into a room and people notice. Professors sigh, girls nudge each other, guys scowl though it’ll be his friends that’ll roll their eyes at his presence first. 

He is used to winning. More importantly, he is used to having almost everything in a way that requires very little effort on his part. 

So what the hell is he doing, lying on his bedroom floor where the voice of a stranger still lingers, staring at his wall like it might crack open and offer him answers? She hadn’t even said much, not enough to leave this big of an impression. 

Maybe it was the shock that the person leaving at ungodly hours in the morning beneath him was a girl. He doesn’t know why he’d assumed otherwise. Maybe because the notes had always read so dry, so flat, so quick to snap back at him that somewhere along the way he’d started hearing them in Suguru’s voice. 

Except the voice through the wall had been unmistakably feminine, and now Gojo was having the deeply inconvenient realisation that he might, in fact, be into that. 

It wasn’t even what she said more so how she said it, offhanded and easy as if talking to him was nothing, like he was nothing. and curse his enormous ego, he was Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake. He’s got at least three people in his dms right now asking what he’s up to tonight and it would be as easy as typing back “nothing” to have any one of them. 

But none of them had left a note that told him to get his shit together. None of them made him laugh when ten seconds prior he was so ready to implode, none of them had him craning to his floor like some desperate victorian man listening to the ghostly whispers through the thin plaster. 

Gojo drags a hand down his face, then turns his head again to look at it.

The wall. Plain, off-white, slightly cracked near the skirting board, absolutely identical to every other wall in this terrible building and yet suddenly the most compelling thing in his apartment because now, you’re behind it. Separated from him by a few layers of plaster and paint and bad insulation, close enough that he can hear your laugh if the room is quiet, close enough that he can picture you leaning back against the other side without ever having seen it happen.

Gojo runs a hand through his hair, frowning. 

“This is bad,” he mutters for the second time that day as he explores the foreign feeling in his chest. 

The urge to hear from her again beats like a second heart in his chest, and the distinction between hear and see is important because now it feels less about appearances and more about something else, something he doesn’t have a smug enough name for yet.

Gojo reaches for his laptop, then drops it back onto the floor a second later when even pretending to do work feels stupid when he’s one bad decision away from knocking on the wall just to see if you answer.

Because Gojo doesn’t lack. 

Yet tonight, as he sits on his cold carpet, phone face-down beside him and no urge to answer any of his unread messages, he realises he might be wanting. 

The next time you wake, your fever has left you in an uncomfortable puddle of your own sweat, damp sheets sticking to your skin. A reluctant glance at your alarm clock confirms the worst: it’s 7 a.m. the next day, and you have a 9 a.m. lecture to attend. Somehow, you’d managed to sleep through a near-complete twenty-four-hour cycle, vaguely only remembering how you had stumbled out of bed for the bathroom or small bites of whatever you could find. 

When you open your door to make a hasty exit, jammed toast between your teeth and the delirious hope that you’ll run into a handsome guy around the corner of your block, you almost trip over something that ends your hopes (and almost your life). Thankfully, you catch yourself on your hands and glare down at the perpetrator. 

A sports drink looks back up at you, adorned with a yellow sticky note stuck to its side. After looking left and right down the empty corridor, you pick up the bottle and read the note. 

im not a fan of sick neighbour asmr —4b

You snort despite yourself, heading for the stairs. On the way, you flip the note around and pen a short reply, sticking it to 4B’s door before heading out. 

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Somehow, despite being sick, Shoko shows up to your tutorial later than you. You wave as she dumps her tote under the table and flops unceremoniously into the seat beside you. 

“Are you still sick?” she asks in lieu of a greeting. “You shouldn’t come to class if you’re not feeling well.” 

“What makes you think I’m still sick?” you ask in a voice that can only be attributed to years of smoking or recovering from sickness. 

She gives you a look. “Right. So the eyebags are just your usual go to?”

“It would be fucked up if i always looked like this and you just called me ugly.” You cover your face with your hands. “But it’s not that bad, is it? I still have a reputation I care about.” 

“I’m genuinely afraid of telling you the truth because it might push you over the edge. So yes, girl you look gorgeous.” 

You roll your eyes, slumping to rest your cheek against your arms, looking at her from the side. Her phone vibrates and you hear it loud with your ear pressed against the desk, flinching slightly until she picks it up. 

“What is it?” 

Shoko lets out an unamused huff and shows you the screen. 

gojo (DO NOT ANSWER): wanna hit me up with the pre lab questions? 

It would be a mission to go through university without hearing the name ‘Gojo Satoru’ whether in secretive whispers or muffled in laughter. For one, he’s sport captain for some sport you’ve never paid enough attention to remember. He’s stupidly charming in a way that makes people sigh even when they’re rolling their eyes with an accompanying begrudged smile. Half the girls in your course claim he’s flirted with them whilst the other half say they’d punch him given the chance, before pausing and muttering something like, “but he’s kind of funny, I guess.” 

The only other piece of information you know about him is that he’s loud, annoyingly so which places you in that category of girls that would more likely punch him in the stomach than kiss him. 

You wonder how on earth Shoko could be friends with someone her complete opposite. 

You look up and raise an eyebrow at her. “Well? Are you going to?”

“Do you read with your eyes closed? I clearly saved his contact as ‘do not answer’. If Gojo wants pre-lab questions that badly, he can go flirt them out of one of his fifty fans.”

You snort.“Glad to know you’re a bad friend to everyone and not just me.”

She shrugs. “He thinks I owe him a huge favour for something he did for me a while ago when that is not true at all. I’m sure there’s other people he can hit up for answers. You know how he is, there’s always someone trailing after him like a lost puppy.” 

“Considering I don’t know the guy, no not really,” you say, nudging your cheek more firmly into your folded arms, locking in for a storytime. “Tell me about him.”

Shoko narrows her eyes at you. “You want to know about him?”

“Girl,” you huff, “like gossip. I promise I’m not a groupie. I don’t think I’ve ever actually had a conversation with him so don’t look at me like that.”

“That makes sense. He’s usually only on lower campus so there’s little chance of him showing up randomly, anyway.” 

“Sounds like you don’t like him,” you say, intelligently. 

“I’ve been stuck with him and Geto since high school,” she starts and you actually feel bad for her. “God forbid I don’t want to see him in my formative years, too.” 

You laugh because misfortune is always better on others than yourself. “Now you have to tell me. What did he do to you?”

Shoko doesn’t seem amused. She looks you up and down, eyes narrowing at the smile on your face. “You know, I’m actually an incredible friend and as a friend who cares about you deeply, let me tell you this. You do not want to hook up with him.”

You splutter, lifting your head. “What the fuck? I just wanted to know about the guy! Can we start with being friends first, damn?”

“Let’s just say I know him,” your best friend continues, unfazed. “He wouldn’t be able to stay as just friends with someone like you.”

“Okay, and what the fuck does that even mean?”

“Look,” she says, and you open your mouth to cut her off because the telltale signs that she’s about to change the topic are there. “He’s also in Sig Kap.” The words hit like cold water. Whatever fragile lightness had been carrying you through the morning dims all at once. Shoko notices immediately, of course she does, and some of the bite leaves her expression.

“I just thought you should know.”

You slump back into your chair, crossing your arms and looking down at your table, contemplating if you should start banging your head against the hard surface and end your suffering. “What a mood killer. Did you really have to bring that up?”

“I’m just saying, if you start seeing Gojo around, the chances of also seeing your ex is very high. Sure, they’re not in the same frat but they’re both still in that same group of guys. You know, inter-fraternity relations.” 

“There’s a lot of assuming going on right now, like the fact that I would even see Gojo in the first place, but I’ll let it slide because I suddenly feel the urge to shoot myself in the head.” 

“I thought you were over your ex?”

You don’t say anything for a while, trying to muse out the complex ball of feelings in your gut. 

You had been falling out of love with Naoya for months before the breakup. Maybe even longer, if you’re being honest. It wasn’t like it happened all at once, and there wasn’t one dramatic collapse, no one, big, awful fight, just a slow and steady erosion. A hundred small disappointments, a hundred moments of realising he was more interested in having a girlfriend than being a boyfriend. He forgets the things you tell him, interrupts you to tell your own stories better, talks all pretty to your girl friends and then simultaneously talks shit to you about them when you ask him to stop requesting them on Instagram. 

So if you do miss him, then you might have a masochist streak in you. 

What you miss, maybe, is who you were before all of that. The version of you that believed romance was something soft and mutual and worth fighting for, instead of something performative that slowly hollows itself out while you stand there insisting it’s still alive.

“Y/N?”

You blink and realise Shoko is watching you. “Oh, uh. I am over him. I just wish I could have the pre-Naoya me back, that’s all.”

Shoko makes a disgusted sound on your behalf. “Do not say his name. I gagged.”

“Right?” You shake your head and dismiss whatever useless thoughts still linger, forcing yourself to relax back into something a little more light-hearted. “But it’s whatever. I’ve learnt my lesson now, frat boys are not to be trusted and dating one is like draining all the whimsy out of your body. I honestly don’t care about him anymore and I wouldn’t even think about him at all if I didn’t have that film to make.”

That makes your best friend giggle. “The one about love.”

“Is this funny to you?” you ask with a huff, but you’re grateful that she doesn't force you to say any more than you’re ready for.

“Extremely.” She nods, then dodges when you reach over to try and playfully hit her. “Look, I’m sure inspiration will hit you soon. Love always arrives when you least expect it, and all that.”

You give her a long look, face unmoving. “I don’t want the girl with the girlfriend of three years to say that. Get out of my face.”

Shoko laughs loudly, and you both trail off as the lecture starts. 

The rest of class passes in the usual blur of half-listening and half-heartedly playing minesweeper on the google chrome extension open on your laptop. By the time you make it back to the sketchy, wilted building you unfortunately call home, winter evening has settled in for real, the kind that turns everything blue-grey and has you squinting down the street every few minutes just to make sure the shape in the distance is a person and not a fire hydrant. You had to use your phone’s flashlight for this, and in the last few steps up to your apartment, it betrays you by dying. 

Thankfully, you still manage to make it to your place in one piece. 

You peel the note off your door on your way in, flick on the lights, and let your tote bag drop to the floor with a tired thud.

feeling better?

A soft smile tugs at your mouth before it fades just as quickly, replaced by a small furrow in your brow. Weird.

You’re halfway to the kitchen to find the stack of sticky notes you left on the island in a rush this morning when the world abruptly cuts out.

“The fuck—”

“Ow!” In the sudden darkness, you misjudge the turn around the counter and slam straight into the corner of it.

From the other side of the wall, 4B’s voice comes a little louder. “4A? You okay?”

You suck in a sharp breath, one hand nursing your hip as you try to steady yourself. “Yeah. Just walked straight into my counter corner. What the fuck happened?”

There’s the sound of faint footsteps, then the creak of something shifting as he leans against the wall in his kitchen. “I think this is what they call a power outage. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“I know that, smartass,” you mutter, though not so quietly where he can’t hear. “But how did that happen? It’s not even storming or anything.”

“What’s wrong? Scared of the dark?”

You scoff, already dreading the upcoming conversation. Despite this, you fumble to where that familiar countertop sits against the connecting wall between your apartments and hoist yourself up easily, leaning back so his voice is clearer when he speaks. “No. We pay rent for this place, of course I want to know what’s happening when the lights all suddenly cut.”

“I can text the landlord. If it happened to both of us then it’s probably a building wide thing so it’ll be their responsibility. But all we can do is wait.”

You sigh, long and full of suffering. “This sucks. Couldn’t the power go off at midnight or something?”

“I’ll let the landlord know your availability.” 

You roll your eyes and make yourself comfortable, relenting to stay for however long it’ll take for there to be light again. You mourn the death of your phone then, holding the power button for some kind of miracle and get reminded that, once again, your life sucks and is only full of betrayal and tragedy. 

For a short moment, silence settles between you, and suddenly you’re struck by the irritating realisation that beyond his notes, his terrible taste in alarms, and his frankly irresponsible attachment to Digimon, you know almost nothing about the stranger on the other side of the wall.

“So,” you start.

“Yeah?”

“What were you up to? You know, before the power went out and everything.”

“Curious, hm?” your neighbour replies, that irritating teasing tilt in his tone. “I was just about to lock in for an assignment so I can focus on the midterms coming up in a week.” 

You hum. “What course are you doing?” 

“Physics. And I know what you’re going to say—”

You snort. “Nerd.” 

“You know, some people find intelligence attractive.”

“Do those people also happen to be the same imaginary campus-wide fanbase you keep bringing up?” 

He laughs and you immediately lock onto the pleasant sound, not because you particularly care, but when your vision is knocked out, everything you hear seems amplified. Including the pretty tilt in his tone, the richness in his laugh, and the fact that his voice sits somewhere deeper than you expected from his petulant notes.

“Well, what about you, then? If I’m the resident physics nerd, what are you?” 

You glance out into your dark apartment, the outline of your living room barely there in what little evening light still makes it through the windows. Your camera sits somewhere on the table, your laptop buried inside your tote, your assignment still waiting to be done. 

“Film,” you say at last. “Well, not film-film. I’m just doing one elective this semester to boost my grades but if I could go back in time I would have picked that social media class everyone else does as a GPA booster.”

Your neighbour makes a sound of recognition. “Oh, that! Yeah, I took that in my first year. Our midterm was to write a report on the significance of ‘get ready with me’s’. I’m so serious.” 

You groan, dropping your head onto your knees. “I know, my friend was telling me how she did that class too.”

“Who’s your friend? Wouldn’t it be so funny if your friend was actually in my class that year?”

You roll your eyes. Shoko would have definitely told you about someone like him. “I doubt it. We do the same course and none of our classes are ever near the physics buildings.” 

He hums. “You never know. I get around.” 

That makes you laugh. “Sure, 4B. Let’s stick to hypothetical equations instead of your hypothetical maladaptive daydreams, okay?” 

“You pick on me too much,” he whines. “Give me something to work with, I’m starting to really feel this power imbalance. What’s your film assignment about?”

You let out a long breath through your nose, already hearing his voice in your head and every possible jab he can make. “It’s a film on love.”

He snorts. “Right, because when I talk to you I’m just overwhelmed by the love seeping out of you.”

You sigh. “Kill yourself.”

“See, this is what I mean.”

“All you know about me is my voice,” you shoot back, not necessarily offended so much as annoyed. “I’ve been told that I’m a very benevolent and kind person.”

He hums. “Maybe not when you’re so grouchy then.”

“I’m not being grouchy.”

“At least try and make your point come across.”

“My point is that I’m a delight,” you say flatly. “A warm presence, a gentle soul. Campus-wide rumours actually say I’m beloved by all who meet me.”

“Now who has the imaginary campus-wide fanbase?” he laughs, and even though you roll your eyes, it’s harder to hold onto your irritation when he sounds that pleased with himself.

The dark presses in around your apartment, turning everything into vague shapes and corners, but his voice keeps coming through the wall like a little light you cannot see.

“Okay, then,” he says after his laughing fit. “Prove it.”

You frown, even though he can’t see you. “Prove what?”

“That you’re not grouchy. That you’re a person full of fun and whimsy. If your film is about love, then tell me one thing you love.”

You make a face. “That sounds like world’s worst icebreaker.”

“Someone’s getting defensive,” he sings, sounding far too amused. “Come on, 4A. one thing. It doesn’t have to be deep. Actually, please don’t make it deep, I’m not emotionally prepared for that. Just something stupid that makes you happy. That’s still love, you know?”

You open your mouth with another complaint ready, but nothing comes out. Which is annoying, because it should be easy. Before Naoya, before the breakup, before the awful assignment and the worse timing, you had liked plenty of things without needing to justify them. You liked when orange and pink bleeds across the sky on the walk back from a long day of classes, you liked smiling at dogs when they crossed your paths on the streets, you liked the warmth of a delicious heated drink in your hands on a cold, winter morning. You liked watching people reunite at train stations, you liked filming light moving across your bedroom wall because, at the time, it had seemed like something worth keeping.

Now, asked to name that something out loud, your mind offers you nothing but static.

“Jesus, okay,” he says after a beat. “The silence is very telling.”

There is a soft scrape on his side of the wall, like he is sliding down to sit more comfortably. “Okay, I’ll go first since clearly you need a role model. I love when vending machines actually drop the thing you paid for instead of holding it hostage behind the glass. I love when you think a package is coming next week and then it arrives today like a tiny miracle.”

Despite yourself, you huff. “Sounds like you just love consumerism.”

“I also love when a dog on the street looks like it has somewhere important to be. Like, where are you going? Do you have a meeting? Are you late? Should I call ahead?”

Fuck, that was on your list too. 

“Fine,” you say, shifting on the counter until your socked foot bumps against one of the cabinet handles. “I love when you’re walking past a bakery and they’re making bread, but you’re not hungry, so you just get to enjoy the smell without spending money.” 

“How very financially responsible of you. You’re like the opposite of me. Anti-consumerism.” You can hear the grin in his voice. “Okay, next. We’re making a list now. That’s how brainstorming works, right?” 

You sigh like this is a burden, like you are not already turning the question over in your hands. “I love when the train comes right as you get to the platform.” 

“Really? That sounds stressful.” 

“I love when someone in front of you in line is ordering something complicated and you get annoyed, but then they’re actually really nice to the worker, so you forgive them.” 

“Because is it ever that serious?” 

You roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you by pulling into a smile. It feels strange on your face, like trying on an old jacket you had forgotten in the back of your closet, something that had once been yours. It’s not a terrible feeling, you decide, perhaps just a little unfamiliar. 

“Okay, my turn again,” 4B says. “I love when you see someone running for the bus and the bus driver waits for them.” 

“That’s rare, some people have that sadistic bone in their body that wants to only see others suffer.” 

“Which is why it makes those off chance moments better. Rarity increases market value.” 

“There’s that consumerism bleeding through again.” 

A thought arrives quietly, not quite the decision you were hoping for in the library, but it’s a small, familiar itch of wanting to keep something before it passes.

“I love when someone laughs so hard they make the other person start laughing even if they don’t know what’s funny,” he continues.

Your eyes have gone to the table again. There isn’t a clean, decisive moment to it, certainly no sudden burst of artistic purpose that you might call inspiration. You simply slide off the counter while he keeps talking, careful not to knock your hip into the corner again and feel your way through the dim apartment toward your camera.

“Also,” he continues, completely unaware. “I love finishing a book or movie and getting so into it that you look it up on Twitter for everyone else’s take.”

“Sounds like you just struggle to form an original thought on your own.”

“I’m superseding my opinion.”

“Oh, what a big word! Good job, 4B.”

You finally find your dust camera hidden by more important things, and take it back to the kitchen.

The room is too dark for the lens to catch anything properly. For a second, you nearly give up, but then your gaze lands on the candle sitting untouched on your dining table, the one you bought months ago because it smelled like vanilla and cedarwood and you had convinced yourself buying one candle would somehow turn your apartment into a Pinterest board’s dream. You’ve never lit it.

But for some reason, the desire to make a mark in the wax comes to front and you set it on the windowsill without any more thinking.

The lighter takes three tries to catch.

“What’s that clicking sound?”

“What clicking sound?” you mumble, brows burrowed as the fire dies again.

“Am I going crazy? Just warning you but I have crazy keen hearing. And now with my sight gone, I’m even more locked in. Sounds like… are you lighting a birthday cake? Is it your birthday?”

“That’s what you think of first when you hear a light?” You don’t know whether to laugh or coo at his innocence in your dorky neighbour. “I’m just lighting a candle because it’s dark.”

The candle flame shivers to life, small and uneven. Throwing a weak gold light over the window ledge and the lower half of the glass. It’s frankly a terrible light source, dim but somehow managing to catch the smudge of your fingerprints on the window and turns the kitchen sink into a dark, warped shape in the reflection. When you prop the camera up against your water jug, lifted by two stacked coasters, the frame tilts slightly to the left.

You hit record.

“Okay, your turn,” he says.

You blink at the red dot on the camera screen. “What?”

“It’s your turn again. Don’t think I didn’t notice you going quiet there. Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean you can get away with not contributing your part to this list.”

“As if you’re keeping track of everything.” You settle back against the counter, close enough to the camera that your voice will catch. “Okay, here’s one. I love it when people apologise to furniture after walking into it. Oh, and, when someone saves you a seat.”

He hums, turning the thought over in his head. “That’s a good one. Could even be your thesis statement for your film, honestly. Something pretentious. Like how love is making room.”

You giggle. “Love is setting aside a space for someone.” 

“Love as chair politics,” he says smartly. 

“Love is an empty seat: an interdisciplinary exploration into effort-based decision-making.” 

“Okay, you made this not fun by actually sounding smart. What the hell is effort-based decision-making?” 

“Google is free.”

You hear the grin in his voice as he bounces off your words. “So is a tree, hang from it.” 

The laugh leaves you before you can stop it. It is sharp and ugly, startled out of you in a way that makes you clap a hand over your mouth too late. The sound echoes faintly in your dark kitchen, caught by the camera, your shadow probably distorted by the terrible angle and the water jug propping it upright. 

There is a beat of silence on the other side of the wall. Then, quietly, delightedly, “Oh, you thought that was funny. You think I’m funny?” 

“Please, it was a fluke.” 

“That was the healthiest you’ve sounded all day.”

You make an offended noise and reach blindly toward the counter until your hand lands on a tea towel. You throw it at the wall and it hits with a soft, deeply unsatisfying slap before flopping onto the floor. 

He gasps. “Did you just throw something at me?” 

“Consider it a formal complaint.” 

“I’m snitching to the landlord.” 

“Tell them to fix the power while you’re there.” 

“Fine. But I’m adding attempted murder on top of that previous violent note.” 

You shake your head to yourself, still smiling. If you were sane, you might take the time to wonder what the fuck you were doing, sitting on your kitchen counter, arguing with a man you’ve yet to seen, smiling like an idiot at your own wall. And yet, you hesitate to move. 

For a moment, neither of you say anything and a silence that isn’t quite awkward settles over you both. 

Then, with a sudden electric hum, the fridge kicks back on and the ceiling light blinks once, twice, and then floods the kitchen in a harsh yellow that makes you squint, and makes your neighbour curse in surprise. 

“Oh!” 

From the other side of the wall, he lets out a sigh. “Boo.” 

You laugh again, leaning over to check your camera. “Boo?”

“I was having fun,” he says, almost accusingly. “The dark was doing wonders for our dynamic. You were less mean when you couldn’t see.”

“You mean when I was visually impaired and vulnerable?”

“Exactly. It was bringing out your softer side. Or maybe it was all me.”

Looking at the camera, you see that the little red dot is glowing steadily on the screen, and only then remember what you were meant to be doing in the first place. Most of the clip is probably just your kitchen window, your voice too close to the mic and his voice muffled through the plaster, the two of you listing stupid things that barely count as anything. 

Still, your fingers hesitates over the stop button. 

On the other side of the wall, he shifts and the wall groans. “You alive over there? The light didn’t evaporate you when they turned back on, did they?” 

You press stop. “Now how does that make any sense?” 

You pick up the camera, thumb hovering over the saved clip. The thumbnail is dark and grainy, almost useless at first glance, but when you play the first second back, your own laugh cracks through the tiny speaker before you panic and mute it. 

Your face warms. 

Stupid. 

So, so stupid. But you don’t delete it. Instead, you set the camera carefully on the counter and blow out your candle still burning against the window. 

“Anyway, since the lights are back, I’m going to pretend to do my assignment now. Keyword pretend because I like to keep my goals realistic,” 4B says and the strange mood lifts and dissipates with the candle’s smoke. 

“Good luck with that.”

“Good luck with your love thing.”

You look down at the camera again.

“Yeah,” you say, picking it up before you can change your mind. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

You pause. Then you tuck the camera against your chest and head out of the kitchen. “Nothing.”

Behind the wall, 4B laughs like he does not believe you at all, and you leave before he can ask.

You don’t remember when but sometime along the semester, you begin to enjoy waking up. You hadn’t grown a newfound appreciation for your alarm, no that was still a work in progress, but something about opening your eyes to start a new day no longer evoked a groan. Your next door neighbour did that for you instead.

One morning you were waking up to a quiet early morning and the next, you hear an alarm ring parallel to yours.

You hear it again this morning as you rub the sleep from your eyes as some anime opening plays, muffled by the distance. When you step into your kitchen, it’s louder, and you hear the soft padding of feet against floorboards as 4B wakes.

“Morning,” he’ll mumble, voice rough from sleep, just as he did now.

“Good morning,” you’ll say back and hope he doesn’t hear the smile in your voice.

He’ll grunt in acknowledgement, heading for his bathroom which you’ve come to realise shares a wall with your bedroom. You’ll get started on packing a lunch to take to campus while he takes his sweet time getting ready. You wake far too early for him, after all.

You’ll pause on your way out, just as you did now, tilting your head slightly to listen. If he hears your door open, he’ll call out, “Good luck with your classes!” and if he doesn’t, water too loud or too immersed in something else, you’ll say, “See you later!”

It’s a routine you’ve come to love.

Sometimes when he hears you sigh coming back from campus, you’ll hear him close his fridge and fall into his couch. “Grey's Anatomy?” he’ll ask loudly and you’ll laugh softly, hand already reaching to grab your remote despite your drowsiness.

You tell yourself it isn’t a big deal. Plenty of people have neighbours and plenty of people talk to said neighbours. Plenty of people probably know the exact sound of their neighbour’s footsteps in the morning, the difference between their sleepy voice and their smug voice, the exact pause before they say something annoying just to get you to react. 

Probably. 

Still, the thought follows you out of your apartment and all the way to campus, sitting somewhere uncomfortable behind your ribs. It’s there when you catch yourself slowing down near the front steps because someone ahead of you laughs a little too loud and, for one stupid second, you think it might be him. It is there when you buy coffee and almost order an extra pastry because 4B once mentioned he loves sugary things first thing in the morning and frankly any other time of the day. 

It is there when you realise, with a kind of quiet horror, that you might actually like him. 

Recognising the telltale signs that you’re about to spiral, you decide to at least try and prevent it by taking a walk and touching grass. Unfortunately, you forget that there are evil forces against you because when you step into the main courtyard on campus on your way out, you immediately find yourself in hell. 

Like, actual hell. Like there’s a frat car wash happening in the middle of the campus kind of hell.

A row of cars lines the curb beside the courtyard, soapy water running down the pavement in bright, bubbly streams. Someone has set up a folding table with a cardboard sign that reads SIG KAP CHARITY CAR WASH in marker thick enough to be seen from across the street. A group of people have already crowded around the main attraction snapping away and laughing, the men scattered around yelling over each other as they try and organise the mess. There’s a JBL speaker playing Cbat and other such EDM trap that has you wondering if you’ve walked yourself into a rave. 

And standing in the middle of it all, shirtless and holding a sponge as flexes for his groupies, is Gojo Satoru. 

He’s hot. There’s really no polite way around it. His hair is damp from the spray of the hose, white strands pushed messily off his forehead and curling slightly at the ends. Water runs in thin lines down his throat, over the sharp cut of his collarbones, then lower and lower, disappearing along the hard planes of his stomach and tapering down into droplets that catch the sun on his abs. 

Your eyes follow a line of water that continues further down which is definitely a mistake. 

A deeply human mistake, but still a mistake nonetheless because it means you get an unwillingly thorough look at the narrow dip of his waist, the low-slung band of his shorts, the way his abdomen tightens when he twists the sponge out over the hood of a car. 

You shake your head, rattling any more indecent thoughts from your head. Sure, fine, he’s hot as fuck. But who is genuinely stupid enough to get seduced into donating money because some guy with abs and wet hair smiles at them whilst simultaneously wiping bird shit off a windscreen?

A group passes by the table and drops a note into the donation jar. 

You stare. Okay, nevermind. Apparently some people really will. Still, it has absolutely nothing to do with you. You don’t have a car, you don’t carry cash on you, and you don’t want to entertain a bunch of frat guys especially after all you’ve learnt this year. So, you adjust the strap of your tote higher on your shoulder and keep walking. 

“Hey, you in the band shirt!” 

Your foot catches slightly on the uneven pavement, and you make an embarrassing gesture getting back on two feet. Blind panic and something warmer, something more traitorous, jolts through you like a beam of lightning. 

No. 

No, because that voice—

You’ve barely rationalised anything before your head is whipping so fast over your shoulder you think you’ve given yourself a cramp. It’s instinctive more than anything, a kind of desperate hope for something indescribable, heart leaping up to your throat at the thought that a voice behind a wall has suddenly become attached to a body. 

And what a body. 

Gojo jogs toward you, shirtless and damp and unfairly attractive under the sun, towel bouncing against his neck with each step. There is soap clinging to his hands, water sliding down the firm line of his chest, one hand running through his hair as he shakes it of loose droplets. 

He comes to a stop in front of you, grin already loaded. You don’t even flinch when he flicks water onto your face accidentally. 

“Band shirt! Running away already?” he asks. “I didn’t even pitch you yet.” 

Gojo Satoru just spoke with 4B’s voice.

Your 4B. Except he’s no longer a faceless voice in the dark. He is Gojo Satoru. He is shirtless in front of you. He is looking at you like he’s waiting for an answer. 

“You cryin’? he asks, head tilting slightly as he glances at the droplets on your cheek. “Is the sun getting to you? We have buckets of water back there if you want to dunk yourself. Or maybe you want to dunk me and live vicariously through that? I noticed you staring.”

You force your mouth to move. “I don’t have a car.” 

Unfortunately, the voice that comes out is wrong. It’s too high like you’ve swallowed your own throat and replaced it with someone doing customer service over the phone. 

Gojo blinks. 

You clear your throat. “I mean, I don’t have a car,” you repeat, lower this time. 

Great, now you sound like you’re about to rob him. 

His smile twitches, one eyebrow raising slowly as he regards you. 

“Right,” he says, slowly. “No car. I think I got it the first time. What about a bike? We can wipe down the seat or something.”

You shake your head. 

“Scooter? Skateboard?” 

“No.”

“How do you get around?” 

“Feet.”

He looks down and you suddenly feel self-conscious of your shoe choice. 

“We don’t typically offer pedicures but I could make an exception for you,” Gojo says with a wide grin. “Or we could give your shoes a good scrub.”

“I don’t have anything for you to wash.” 

“What? Don’t tell me you’re attached to that layer of grime you have on them.” 

You’re so offended you temporarily blink of your stupor to splutter. “They’re not that dirty! They’re just well-loved!” 

“They’re clearly crying out for some divine intervention. Lucky for you, I might as well be the second coming of Jesus.” 

You scoff. “No way. Maybe I like them ugly, okay?” 

Gojo’s grin widens. “So you admit they’re ugly.”

You hate that he catches it so quickly. You hate even more that your heart picks up like a trapped hummingbird beneath your skin. 

Behind him, someone whistles. “Satoru, stop flirting and actually help!” 

“I’m not flirting,” he calls back without looking away from you. “I’m recruiting customers!”

He lowers his voice so it’s just for you. “You are planning on being a customer, aren’t you?”

You scoff. “Is this what the whole pitch is? Bullying people’s shoes until they donate?”

“No, that was just tailored marketing.” He leans slightly closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to reveal a conspiracy. “The real pitch is much more moving.”

“Okay,” you say, because apparently you’ve lost the will to survive. “Go on then.”

Gojo flashes you another smile, or maybe he hasn’t stopped smiling not even once throughout this entire encounter, and steps back, pressing one wet hand dramatically to his bare chest. He adopts a pitiful expression as he gazes at you. “Every year, hundreds of cars on this campus are forced to suffer through bird shit, pollen, and the mysterious sticky stuff that appears under trees for reasons science refuses to explain.”

You grimace.

He continues, undeterred. “For just five dollars, you can help one of these poor vehicles experience dignity again.”

“I don’t have five dollars.”

“For just three dollars—”

“No cash.”

“For one encouraging word—”

“Not happening.”

“—you can support a hardworking student athlete in his fight against grime,” he finishes calmly. 

“I think you just want to be shirtless,” you say what’s been on your mind the entire time, letting yourself steal another glimpse of his chest. Is it just your imagination but did he just flex his pecs at you?

He looks down at himself like he has only just remembered the state he is in. “This? It’s a uniform. Works wonders for pulling in interest.” He gestures vaguely over his shoulder where another person has just dropped money into the donation jar without taking her eyes off his back. “See? The system works.” 

“How are you so blatantly shameless?”

He shrugs. “Shame only slows you down.” 

Gojo steps slightly to the side when someone passes behind him with a bucket, and the movement brings him just close enough for you to catch the clean, cozy smell of soap and sunscreen underneath the damp heat of him. The towel around his neck drips onto his chest and a bead of water slips from his collarbone, trailing lower. 

Your eyes follow it again. Good lord. When you force your gaze back up, he’s watching you smugly. 

“So,” he says, voice dropping a little, “should I put you down as morally opposed to charity, or just immune to my charm?” 

“Those are the only options?” 

“Hey, I’m open to feedback. If you have a complaint, I’m all ears.” 

“Add a financially unavailable option.” 

“Okay.” He nods gravely. “Morally opposed, charm-resistant, and broke.” 

“I didn’t say broke.” You cut yourself off when you realise you’ve spent too long arguing with him when you had been so determined to walk away moments before. “Forget it, I’m walking away.” 

Gojo laughs and steps directly into your path, head tilting as he studies you like he’s trying to place a song from the first few seconds.

“You have quite the mouth on you,” he says, and something foreboding settles in your gut. “What’s your name, band shirt?”

Something about his voice tricks you into almost answering, perhaps because 4B has spent weeks training a response out of you. He says something stupid, you respond with something worse, and you fall into conversation that way. But while they sound the same you force yourself to remember this isn’t 4B through the wall. 

You have only one goal here: get out before he starts connecting ‘band shirt’ to ‘familiar voice’ that becomes ‘girl through the wall’ because then you’ll have to move apartments and potentially countries. So, you straighten your shoulders, lift your chin, and speak in the blandest tone you can manage. 

“No,” you say. “Short for none of your business.”

“That’s a terrible name,” Gojo says, nose scrunching up. “What did you do to your parents to deserve that? It’s going to look quite hurtful on the donation receipt.” 

“I’m not donating,” you say, already looking for the cleanest route around him. “So thankfully, your admin concerns are none of my concern. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” 

“You won’t donate, you won’t volunteer, and you won’t give me your name,” he says, still watching you too closely. “But you’ll stand here and argue with me.”

“That’s because you seem like the type who needs things explained slowly,” you quip back. “And besides, you’re in my way.”

His gaze flicks briefly to the open space beside him. You both look at it.

Then he looks back at you, smile unbearably smug. “Am I?”

You hate him because he is right, and because the longer you stand here, the more his voice settles into place with his face, and the more impossible it becomes to separate Gojo Satoru from 4B. You can feel it happening in real time, the two versions of him overlapping until the faceless boy through the wall starts becoming this shirtless jerk with wet hair and water dripping down his chest. 

“You’re very intense about names,” you say, forcing your voice into that same bland, too-flat register. “Maybe work on that before the next person you corner.” 

“Relax,” he says, voice dipping into something smoother. “I’m just saying, if a girl insults me this much, I feel like I should at least know what to call her.” 

“Band shirt is working fine for you. And if it’s not going on a donation receipt then I don’t see why you really need it.”

“Can I guess?” he asks instead, already leaning forward like the idea has thrilled him. 

“Absolutely not.” You take a step to the side, causing him to promptly mirror you. “Dude, quit it.” 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, immediately stepping back with both hands raised to showcase his harmlessness though it’s ruined by his smile. “Got excited. You’re so nonchalant and mysterious it just draws me in, you know? Come on, I’ll leave you alone if you just give me a name, your real name.”

“No.” 

“Okay, not a real one,” he concedes far too quickly. “Just so I have something to call you in my head when you’re already running through it so much.” 

“I’m not giving you a fake name either.” 

“That’s so much worse,” he says, sounding wounded. “Now you’re not even trusting me with a lie? I’m shirtless for charity, band shirt, I’m vulnerable.”

“Vulnerably harassing a stranger for her name in the middle of campus?” 

“Stranger feels harsh.” His smile shifts a little, still playful yes, but the focus underneath it becomes visible. “You don’t exactly feel like a stranger.” 

You need to get out here right now. 

You tighten your hold on your tote bag and start walking, not caring where your dirty shoes led you, not caring if it even led you back to that God forsaken carwash. Gojo doesn’t give up, trailing after you and eating up the distance you try to place with his long legs, body facing yours even as you speed walk. 

“Do I know you?” 

“No,” you say. “We don’t know each other.”

“But it feels like we know each other.”

“We? There’s no we. Maybe you’ve seen me in passing but it’s not something to obsess over. Okay, bye.” 

“Possible,” he says, nodding solemnly. “I do have a wide reach. I’m trying to expand it, actually, which is why I need your name.”

You pass the front of the carwash table once more and someone at the front turns, practically jumping on the spot upon seeing Gojo. He ignores them, still drilling holes into the side of your face. 

“First initial?”

“N. For No.”

“Last initial?” 

“O.”

“Does it have an A in it?” 

“Do you know when to quit?” 

“Is that a yes?”

“No.”

“No, it doesn’t or no, you won’t tell me? Or secret third option, No as in No your name.” He clicks his tongue like you’re the one being difficult. “See, this is getting really confusing. You could solve this entire problem by telling me your real name.”

You keep walking for a few more steps but it’s getting harder to pretend you don’t have a golden retriever trailing after your every step, and word, especially when he’s shirtless and a microcelebrity on campus. 

“Look,” you say, stopping and turning to give him a piece of your mind. “I don’t know you, you don’t know me, so this has been deeply unnecessary. Let’s just leave it at that okay?”

His smile softens as he also stops, looking at you. “Then tell me your name and we can fix that.”

For one stupid, horrifying second, you almost do. His voice dips around his words, warm and familiar, and your brain gives you 4B through the wall saying morning, 4A, soft with sleep, and suddenly your name feels like something dangerously close to being handed over.

His hand lifts, reaching for your wrist at your hesitation but hovers short of actually touching, eyes holding yours for permission. 

Then someone calls, “Satoru!”

His face twists, mouth opening like he is ready to spit out another excuse, when a towel hits him square in the back of his head.

He jolts, hand leaving the space between you to grab at the towel before it falls. “What the fuck?” 

You both look over in the direction of the carwash. 

Sukuna stands by the donation table with another towel hanging from one hand, looking like he would rather be dragged behind one of the cars than be there voluntarily. He is also shirtless, because can you even see a guy with his shirt on in a fifty metre radius around you? Water drips from the ends of his pink hair, sliding down the hard line of his neck and over his chest, his skin still shining from whatever girl had convinced him to stand under the hose for a photo. 

“Oi,” Sukuna calls, lifting the towel like he might throw it again. “Are you done begging, or should we put a bowl out for you too?” 

Gojo’s expression immediately collapses into offence. “I’m not begging. I told you I was networking! You’re really cramping my style.” 

“Whatever you want to call it.” Sukuna jerks his chin toward the cars. “Get back here. Some girl paid ten dollars because you promised to write her name in soap on the windshield.” 

Gojo ruffles a hand through his hair and you catch a glimpse of his undercut before he groans, ducking his head. “Shit! I forgot I said that. Can’t you take one for the team, Sukuna?”

“She asked for you.”

The imaginary campus-wide fanbase turns out to be true, you think mournfully. 

A few people around the table laugh, and Gojo turns just enough to argue back, towel clutched in one hand, wet hair sticking messily to the back of his neck. You take the sight of his back muscles as a sign to leave. So before he can turn back around, you step away. 

Then another step. Then several more, fast enough that your tote bumps against your hip and your grimy shoes slap loudly against the wet pavement. It’s not running, because running would imply guilt, and you are innocent of everything except being cursed. 

“Band shirt,” Gojo calls behind you and because it’s not your name, you don’t turn around. 

You especially don’t turn around when Gojo’s half-groan, half-laugh follows you across the courtyard, short yet familiar enough to make your stomach twist. 

4B is Gojo Satoru.

Gojo Satoru is 4B.

Someone needs to take down the Etsy website.

You never do wear that band shirt again. 

Not that it mattered much because you also don’t really go outside for a week, not if you could help it. You want to call it locking in because the midterms are coming up but in the brief moments when you allow yourself the truth, you admit it’s because you’re preventing any chance of running into Gojo again. 

It’s difficult to do that when he’s your neighbour. Or, well, when 4B is your neighbour. 

That distinction becomes very important to you. Gojo Satoru is someone you saw shirtless in the middle of campus using charity as an excuse to flex obscenely at the general public moving through their day. Gojo Satoru has wet hair, a stupid grin, and is highly dangerous because he has a face and a body and a set of eyes that pins you down, 

4B is a voice through the wall. 4B is his alarm going off too loudly in the morning, all groans and curses as he heaves himself from the warmth of his bed. 4B is ranting about the latest anime he’s watched, whispering through plaster when it gets late, knocking twice against the wall when he wants your attention but isn’t sure if you’re in.

So you let yourself have it. You avoid Gojo, and you keep talking to 4B.

After a while, there aren’t many problems with having Gojo as your next door neighbour. Sure, he can get loud during phone calls with his friends but you quickly forgive him when he gives sheepish apologies and dials down his volume. And sure, his alarm is loud but after that initial morning when you grilled him on the cheerful tune, he had changed it to something more appropriate.

The way he laughs is loud, the way he sings as he cooks is loud, the way he says your unit number is loud, all bright like he’s been waiting to catch you the moment you step into your apartment.

It seems Gojo can’t help but be loud. In every aspect.

You wonder if you should bring it up.

It really was unfortunate that your bedroom and his bathroom shared a wall. Whoever constructed this building many, many years ago must not have planned it out too well and simply settled for fitting rooms of different apartments together like tetris. And because of this, his bathroom ends up right next to your head when you sleep. 

You also gather that his shower is pressed against the said wall that you share with him, if his groans are any indication. 

You should probably bring it up. 

But how does one even bring up such a conversation? Hey neighbour! Not that I’ve been listening but I can hear you jerk off in the shower. Could you stop? 

In his defence, you relent, rolling over and pressing your pillow against your ears, he was trying to be subtle about it. You appreciate that he wasn’t doing it in his room since that would certainly turn you off from whatever you’re eating in your kitchen next to him. But if he believes the rush of water is enough to muffle his moans, he’s sorely mistaken. 

You roll onto your other side, shuffling when even this position isn’t comfortable. Your thin sheets are tangled around your legs and you’re desperately trying to focus on the book you’re reading on your phone. But who are you kidding, your thumb has been frozen on the same paragraph for the past five minutes, mind a million miles away. 

There’s a thud of something being placed down on the tiled floor, a slight rustle. And then, a low, breathy groan—so faint you could almost convince yourself you imagined it. 

But you definitely did not. 

You breath catches as you place your phone down and stare at the ceiling as if that will make the sounds stop. It never works. You tell yourself to just roll over again, put in your airpods and drown it out. You’ve done it before, you can do it again. 

But your hand is already drifting down, sliding over your stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of your shorts. 

The first stroke is unintentional, a simple slow press through cotton just to feel something. But then you hear him again, a sharper exhale, a whispered word you can’t quite make out, and your hips shift, pressing your palm harder against your cunt. 

Fuck. 

You close your eyes and instead of the dark of your room, you see steam. A shower, his shower, the one right on the other side of this wall. 

You don’t want to think about Gojo like this so you settle instead on your 4B. All you know is the sound of his footsteps in the hallway, the messy scrawl of his handwriting, the sound of his door opening and closing, the low rumble of his laugh when he teases you. It’s deep and a little rough around the edges. You’ve built a version of him from the sound alone, and right now, that’s more than enough. 

Fingers tracing the outline of your clit through the fabric, circles so light they’re barely there, you let your mind wander. 

You imagine stepping into that shower. The air is thick and wet, fogging up the glass. He’s already under the spray, back to you, water streaming down his shoulders. You don;t want to see his face, but you can see the way his muscles shift as he turns his head ever so slightly, giving you the slightest glimpse of his side profile before the steam whisks it away. 

It would be foolish to hesitate. You slide your hands around his waist from behind, palms flat against his stomach, and he laughs, the vibrations meeting your chest. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice deeper, lower with him so close to you. “Look at you, giving me a helping hand, hm?”

“Shut up,” you’d probably mumble against his shoulder blade, fingers already trailing lower, through the thatch of hair at the base of his cock. “You’re always so loud.”

He’d be hard already, and you can feel the heat of him, the slight twitch as your fingertips brush the underside of his shaft. 

“No, I don’t think that’s right,” he says. “Because you’ve been listening, haven’t you? All those nights wrapped up all pretty in your blankets, thinking you can get away with using me to feel good, thinking you’re an angel for trying not to listen. But you know exactly what I sound like when I’m close, don’t you?”

Your breath hitches as you wrap your hand around him, and he groans, deep and guttural, exactly the sound that’s coming through the wall right now. Your hand moves in time with the fantasy, slow strokes, thumb pressing into the slick tip, and he leans back into you, letting his head fall against your shoulder. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “Such a good girl. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to touch me. Wanted to feel your hand on my cock for so fucking long, angel.” 

“Since when?” 

You stroke him faster, twisting your wrist the way you imagine he does, and his breathing turns ragged. 

“Since the moment you opened that pretty mouth and told me off. Fuck—faster, angel. Just like that, don’t stop. Your hand feels so perfect.”

Your own fingers press harder against your clit through your shorts, and you let out a tiny whimper you hope he can’t hear through the wall. Maybe he can, maybe he really does know exactly what you’ve been doing. That thought makes you even wetter, a choked gasp escaping. 

In the fantasy, his body tenses. His hand comes up to cover yours, pressing your grip tighter around him. 

“I’m gonna cum,” he says, voice strained. “I’m gonna paint the tiles with it, and you’re gonna watch. You’re gonna listen to me fall apart because of you. And then—fuck—then I’m gonna fuck you.” 

His hips jerk forward, and you feel the hot pulse of his release against your hand, the way he shudders and moans your name (which he doesn’t know, but you give it to him anyway, a whispered invention). His cum slicks the inside of your fingers, and you keep stroking until he pushes your hand away with an overstimulated whimper that might be your own. 

He turns around. 

You still don’t see his face, just the broad outline of his chest you saw during the carwash incident, the water catching in the hollow of his collarbone. He pushes you back against the cool tile with one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding down your stomach, between your legs.

“My turn,” he purrs. “I’m gonna fuck you right here, in my shower, where you can hear every sound I make. And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you? Gonna be an angel for me and let me use this pussy like I’ve been dreaming about.”

You nod, mouth open, and he sinks two fingers into you without warning.

The gasp that escapes your lips is real. “Gojo—!”

“Nuh uh, pretty,” he coos in your ear. “Call me Satoru. C’mon, say my name, angel.” 

You shake your head against your pillow, back arching. “That’s—that would be weird.” 

He slows down, taking his time with you, dragging his fingers against your gummy walls before sliding over that spot that makes you see stars, chuckling when you gasp. “I’m making you feel this good and you’re still talking back? Gonna need to fuck that attitude out of you.” 

You bite your lip hard. “Satoru…”

He stills, before he presses down hard. “Hm? What was that?”

“Satoru!”

His voice is a rough, airy thing in your ear. “That’s it, pretty, you’re doing so good for me.”

Your own fingers mimic the motion, pushing inside yourself while your thumb circles your clit. You can hear him through the wall—a wet, rhythmic sound, faster now, and a string of words you catch in fragments. “Yeah… that’s it… take it…”

You imagine his cock,thick, already half-hard again from the feel of you, sliding between your thighs. He lifts your leg, hooks it over his arm, and presses the head against your entrance.

“Look at me,” he says, and you try, but his face is a blur of heat and water, just shadows and the gleam of wet skin. “Look at me while I fuck you. I want you to remember this.”

He pushes in slow, and you feel the stretch in your fantasy and in your own body as your fingers sink deeper. You bite your lip to keep from moaning out loud.

“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans, his forehead pressing against yours. “You feel that? That’s my cock filling you up. That’s what you get for listening in, for touching yourself to the sound of me cumming.”

He sets a hard rhythm, the slapping of wet skin echoing off the shower walls. Your fantasy-self clings to him, nails digging into his back, and he keeps talking, his voice ragged and dirty, exactly what you need.

“That’s it, it feels so fucking good, huh? Bet you love this, love that you didn’t know what I looked like but you know the sound of my balls slapping against your ass. You’re such a fucking slut for it. Is it hotter now that you know who I am? Open your mouth and tell me, Y/N.”

You whimper, hand curling into the sheets. “I—I can’t. You’ll hear.”

“I know, I know, you’re trying so hard to be quiet for me,” he mumbles, so soft and understanding even as he drives into you. “But I’m going to need to hear you, okay? Need to hear how much you want this.” 

Your fingers move faster, matching the pace in your head. Your breathing is ragged now, little moans falling from your lips that you can’t hold back. You don’t care if he hears, and maybe if you’re slightly truthful, you hope he does. “Oh god, Satoru, it feels so good!”

In the fantasy, he’s close again. You can feel it in the way his thrusts lose rhythm, in the way his grip tightens on your hip.

“I’m gonna cum inside you,” he growls, and it’s a question and a statement all at once. “You want that? Want to feel my cum dripping down your thigh?”

“Yes,” you whisper out loud, into your empty room.

He buries himself deep, and the fantasy explodes in a rush of heat and words: “Fuckfuckfuck—take it—take my cum, you dirty little thing—gonna fill you up so full—”

You climax with a gasp, your back arching off the mattress, your fingers pressing hard against your clit as waves of pleasure roll through you. You hear yourself moan, a high, broken sound, and you don’t care.

The sounds from his side of the wall change.

There’s a final, shuddering groan and the squeak of a hand against tile. And then silence, broken only by the rush of water from a showerhead.

You lie there, panting, hand still between your legs, your skin flushed and damp. You can almost smell the steam, almost feel the ghost of his fantasy-body pressed against yours.

The shower turns off and you climb out of bed, running away to the living room. 

You’re not a freak. You can’t be. 

You’re a kind, virtuous person who knows no sin, who is gracious and angelic and trustworthy and not someone who listens in on her neighbour jerking it in his shower. That’s simply not who you are and not something you’d ever do. 

Despite this obvious fact, your brain tells you otherwise. And when you are at war with yourself, what else is there to do but consult your friends?

You find Shoko outside the campus cafe, sitting at one of the metal tables with an iced coffee and her laptop open, clacking away with a frown. The chair opposite her is empty though not welcomingly. It’s buried under her tote bag, a packet of cigarettes jutting out that would have her girlfriend at her throat if she saw. 

You walk over, tuck the box further into her bag and under her jumper, before putting her bag on the ground. “You’re smoking again?” 

“Hi,” Shoko says, looking up briefly before slumping down over her laptop. “Just to get the edge off. Midterms are coming around and I’m already feeling the effects.”

You nod, stealing her drink and taking a long sip. She looks at you again, squinting. 

“You don’t look as bad as I thought you would.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“Isn’t that film of yours due next Friday? Where’s the panic and stress? Also, that’s my coffee you whore.” 

You take one last long sip and slide it back over. “I have bigger fish to fry. But shit, Shoko, you look completely under it already. We can call off girls’ talk for another day, I promise it’s not that serious.”

“Not that serious?” Shoko scoffs, hitting enter before closing her laptop. “You triple-texted last night at 3 a.m. not making any sense at all. What happened? Did Naoya text you again? You didn’t unblock him, did you?” 

“What? No! It’s…” you groan, covering your face. “It’s worse. It’s so much worse. I think I’m at the edge of the abyss staring down. Like whatever I do here on out will either make or break me.”

“Okay,” she replies slowly, clearly not expecting your response. “And who is this about exactly?” 

You wonder if you can tell her the truth. Hey Shoko, you might decide to start with, I’ve been crushing on the voice of my neighbour for the last month who I just found out is Satoru, you know your friend? Also, I’ve been listening to him jerk it for a while now and I have an inkling that he knows.

Instead of any of this, you whisper, “Satoru.” 

She flinches as if you’ve slapped her. “What?”

Your finger comes up to point before you stop yourself, realising it was impolite to point, but your gaze is far too telling. She hesitates, taking in your horrified expression before looking over her shoulder to find Gojo stepping into sight, head turning about as if searching for something. 

You almost delude yourself into thinking that when his gaze stops at your table, his eyes light up because he’s looking at you. You almost delude yourself into thinking that he’s making his way to your table. You almost delude yourself into thinking the smile he wears is for you. 

Only one of these things is true because the moment you see him, you’ve pulled your hoodie up until it’s almost flopping back over your eyes, leaning back and tucking your chin in.

Gojo saunters up to your table and stops just beside Shoko. Your friend groans, dropping her head into her hands. 

“He’s right behind me, isn’t he?” 

Not wanting to speak, you only shrug uselessly. Gojo doesn’t even spare you a glance, whining as he tugs on her sleeve to grab her attention. 

“Come on, Shoko, I’ve been trying to text you for hours now. Ignoring me isn’t going to make me disappear, you know.” 

“I know now,” she mumbles before yanking her arm away from his touch. “Okay, out with it, Gojo. I refuse to be seen in public with you so let’s get this over with.” 

“I need your help with something.” When Shoko only stares, unimpressed and not surprised, he presses on. “It’ll be quick, I swear! And it isn’t about the pre lab questions this time, I promise. I’m cashing in that one favour you owe me from last year.” 

“What favour?”

“Me hosting a party that got you and Utahime together.”

Shoko shoots him a withering look. “That wasn’t a favour, we just happened to meet at your party. You didn’t even know her back then.”

Gojo grins, and for a moment, you get lost in it. It would be so easy to tell him now and have that smile directed at you with recognition instead of casual politeness. You don’t think he’s doing it on purpose, but you feel yourself getting smaller as he keeps talking to Shoko and only Shoko, sitting there silently as if being quiet and sipping at Shoko’s coffee might excuse your lack of presence. 

Shoko rolls her eyes, turning to look at you. “Sorry, Y/N. We’ll talk after I’m done dealing with this kid.”

You wave her off stiffly and she narrows her eyes at you, sensing something off when you don’t say anything. Gojo seems to notice you then, looking over at you briefly. He tilts his head at you before Shoko’s voice pulls him back. 

“So? What do you want?”

“I need help finding someone.” 

You choke on your drink, hastily wiping at your chin when they both turn to look at you, a range of concern across both their faces. You wave them off dismissively, making small sounds to clear your throat as they continue. 

“For revenge or…?”

He hums, seriously considering her quip. “Maybe the opposite?” 

She narrows her eyes at that. “I don’t know everyone on campus. How are you so confident you can come to me for this?” 

“Because you’re doing the same degree as her and you’re a girl and so is the person I’m trying to find.”

There's still liquid in your throat and it’s getting harder for Gojo to pretend like his friend’s friend isn’t slowly dying from across the table. He lifts his eyes to study you, taking in the way you’re clearing your throat, struggling to keep quiet, and he sighs. 

“Hey, breathe through your nose.” 

You finally look up at him, the hood obscuring most of your vision though you still try to shoot him a look as if to say, oh no, really? and he smirks at that.

“I'm serious, just breathe for a second. Through your nose, come on. It’ll get rid of that coughing fit.” 

You close your mouth with effort and take a deep, shaky breath in. It goes in smoothly though the urge to cough still persists and you have to concentrate to not relapse. 

Gojo pushes your iced coffee closer to you, wiping his wet hand on Shoko’s sleeve after despite her protest. You take it gratefully, taking in a few sips before clearing your throat. 

Realising you couldn’t get out of this without speaking at least once, you lower your voice as much as you can and mumble, “Thanks.”

Gojo hums, accepting it easily, but his eyes linger on you for half a second too long before he turns back to Shoko. “She's someone in your course doing cardiovascular physiology. She has a lab on Tuesday and morning tutorials on Friday." 

You don’t miss the way Shoko has been staring bullets into you though her eyes flicker over to Gojo every once in a while. “A lab on Tuesday, you say.” And there’s something in her tone that has you looking up frantically. 

Gojo doesn’t seem to notice, nodding instead. “She usually comes back late, at around 5:20? Which means her classes end around 5 p.m.”

“5 p.m,” she repeats, her eyes never straying. 

You try to shake your head as subtly as possible. 

“She has the prettiest voice you’ve ever heard and the softest laugh when she finds something amusing. But then when she finds something funny, like really funny, her laugh is super loud and bright and it’s honestly cool the way she doesn’t seem to care.”

You kick Shoko’s foot under the table and she barely winces, realisation or something similar dawning on her. 

“I don’t need to know any of that, that won’t help.” Her lips quirk upwards slightly. “And why are we looking for this girl, Gojo?” 

He pouts at her words. “I’m looking for my neighbour.”

Shoko makes a gesture as if to ask if he’s serious. “Just go knock on her door? You literally know where she lives. That’s probably more than I could ever tell you.” 

“You don’t get it,” he says, tutting, wagging his fingers even. “We have this thing going on and I don’t want to ruin her trust by camping outside her door, for example. So instead, I’ll just conveniently come across her on campus because somehow our timetables seem to line up.”

 Shoko stares at him blankly. “So stalking.”

“Don’t be so crude, Shoko. It’s not stalking if I’m being emotionally considerate about it.” He leans forward slightly, hands on the table, and for a moment his voice loses some of its usual shine. “I don’t want to scare her off, okay? I know where she lives, but that feels like cheating. If you know her, ask her first. Ask if she’s okay with me knowing, or if she wants me to stay clueless and suffer with dignity.” 

Shoko’s expression barely changes. “You don’t do anything with dignity.” 

“I could start for her,” he says, then seems to realise what he’s admitted because he looks away with a small, helpless laugh. “Look, I know it sounds stupid, but I like talking to her. I like not knowing too much. I like that she can hang up on me by walking away from the wall whenever she wants. If I just knock on her door, then I’ve taken that choice from her.” 

For once, Shoko doesn’t interrupt. 

Gojo rubs at the back of his neck, grin returning but weaker this time, more embarrassed than smug. “But also, I’m going a little crazy. Call me pathetic, but sometimes she says something and I forget what my own point was. She’s mean in this really specific way, and funny, and then every now and then she’ll be nice like she didn’t mean to, and it fully ruins me. So yeah, I want to know who she is. I just don’t want to find out in a way that makes her regret talking to me.” 

You kick her foot again. 

“And what happens if you do find her?” she asks, rubbing the toe of her shoe against the floor like you have injured her beyond repair. “You’re going to walk up and say, hi, I’ve been listening to you through the wall for weeks and I reverse-engineered your timetable?”

Gojo makes a face. “No, obviously not. I have charm. I’ll make her fall for me first.”

You stand with a start, slamming your hands on the table, knocking your empty cup over. You hastily pick it up, shooting Shoko as many SOS signals as it’ll take for her to follow your lead. She lets out a slight laugh, especially after seeing Gojo’s bewildered face, and stands, albeit slowly. 

“I think I have an idea of who you’re looking for.”

“You do?” Gojo says, eyes wide and smile hopeful. 

“I have a feeling.” Her eyes leave yours after a pause, moving to shove her laptop into her bag. “But I’m going to need to confirm it before I tell you. Wouldn’t want to drag an innocent into your life.” 

He nods quickly and you mournfully think that he looks like a puppy. You didn’t need that imagery, especially not right now. You tune out the rest of their conversation though it mainly consisted of Gojo demanding more details and Shoko shooting him down firmly. When you have your tote over your shoulder, Shoko tilts her head towards the door. 

You all but run out. Vaguely, you hear Gojo ask, “What’s up with her?”

“Boy problems,” Shoko says before she catches up to you and the two of you walk out. 

“Where are we going?” 

You look over your shoulder, heart only settling when you don’t catch any glimpse of white hair. “Away.”

“Oh, so now you feel like talking.”

“Please, Shoko. Please.”

She laughs, loose and unrestrained. “Want to tell me what that was all about? Gojo looking for some Cinderella and you looking like you’re about to choke to death?”

You spin around, hands coming up to hold her still by the shoulders. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s exactly that. Shoko, stop looking at me like that, I’m going to freak out.” 

“Okay, okay.” Her hands come up to wrap loosely around your wrists, not pushing you off, just holding you there. “Take a breath. He doesn’t know.” 

“He almost knows.”

“I’m pretty sure he only suspects something,” she corrects. “Those are two very different things. And if you really don’t want him to know then I’ll tell him that. He might seem a little clueless in areas such as personal space, but he’s not a complete jerk. He’ll respect that.”

You let go of her shoulders slowly, though your hands stay half-raised between you like you might need to grab her again if she starts looking too entertained. “He was describing me.”

“He was describing his neighbour,” Shoko says, softer now. “You are only panicking because you know that’s you.”

“That does not make me feel better.”

“It should a little.” She tilts her head, cigarette-less and serious in a way you rarely get from her before noon. “Look, if he wanted to corner you, he could’ve knocked on your door. He literally knows where you live. But he didn’t. He came to me because, in his own stupid Gojo way, he’s trying not to scare you.”

“That’s the complete issue,” you sigh, folding your arms tighter across your chest. “The issue is that he’s Gojo, the exact kind of guy I said I was done with. I know what these kinds of guys are like, hell, I dated the textbook example of one.”

Shoko’s expression softens and in the silence, something bubbles up. 

“4B wasn’t that,” you say, voice smaller than you mean for it to be. “4B was just mine.” 

The second it leaves your mouth, your face warms. Mercifully, Shoko doesn’t pounce on it and instead nods slowly, looking away from you. 

“I get that,” she says and when you glance at her, she repeats herself. “I do, you’re not crazy. But Gojo being in a frat doesn’t automatically make him Naoya variant 2.0.”

“I know that,” you grumble. 

“Do you?” Shoko bumps her shoulder against yours. “You don’t have to trust him just because he’s 4B. You also don’t have to punish him just because he looks like the kind of guy who would have ruined your life last semester.” 

“So what am I supposed to do?” you ask. 

“For now? Nothing. You don’t have to suddenly jump out and introduce yourself, but you also don’t have to shut up and ghost him forever. See for yourself what kind of guy Gojo really is now that you know both sides to him.”

Sometimes, Shoko’s rationality surprises you and you find yourself nodding along to her words, a small, dawning hope struggling out of its shell inside your heart. Just as you’re about to thank her profusely for her wise words, she opens her mouth and says, “You should come to Utahime’s this weekend.” 

“Uh.” You blink. “What?”

“It’s a small party, like actually small,” she says before you can look horrified. “Not a frat thing. It’ll just be a few of Utahime’s close friends, some drinks and food, you know. I haven’t seen you come out of your apartment for an entire week, Y/N, it’s setting off alarm bells. You’re hot. Funny. Maybe you’ll meet someone there that doesn’t remind you of Gojo or Naoya.” 

“Oh my God,” you say slowly, disgusted. “Why are those two people my only options right now? You’re right, I need to go out.” 

“I’m sure you didn’t mean it,” Shoko says with sympathy before groaning. “Can I say ‘I told you so’ yet or are you still spiralling? Because I told you so, I told you to stay away from Gojo but lookie here, who’s scouring the campus for even a whiff of you?” 

You glare at her. “Not helping, Shoko.” 

Shoko bumps her shoulder against yours. “You can tell him when you’re ready. Or let him figure it out slowly if you want to be annoying about it.”

You shove her shoulder back in return, and she laughs, and for a few steps, it almost feels like a normal afternoon. Like you are just two girls walking across campus, talking about weekend plans, not one girl trying to outrun the consequences of accidentally falling for her neighbour through a wall. 

Then Shoko tilts her head toward the bus stop. “So. Do you want to go back to your apartment or not?” 

You think of the wall, of 4B’s—Gojo’s—voice slipping through it, probably asking why you were so quiet this morning, probably making some stupid comment about your sleep schedule, probably having no idea that your whole life has just rearranged itself around his face. 

You sigh. 

“Unfortuntely,” you say. “I live there.”

Gojo wonders if he has an addictive personality. 

Or maybe it’s just you. 

But when it’s just him alone in his mind, hands running through his hair to try and catch every last runaway thought about you, he allows himself the truth. It’s probably just you. 

And the kicker is that he was only 90% certain you even existed. Suguru was the one who planted the idea in his head, that the physics had finally fucked him over and he was hallucinating the voice of a sweet, snarky girl, If he hadn’t collected your sticky notes over the last few months, that statistic might have even fallen to a good 38% and even then he wouldn’t be too sure if it was the twisted humour of his friends or if he genuinely had his own Wattpad neighbours-to-lovers arc. 

He sighs and leans back into his chair, feeling it give way under the motion with a creak. He wonders, as he so often does these days, if you heard it. His body stills and he waits for an indication that you might be home, a soft chuckle, an exasperated sigh, or his favourite, that soft way you say his name (read: unit number). 

When it doesn’t come, he slumps. 

Fuck, he was so far gone. 

It’s not like this is new to him, the wanting. Gojo wants things all the time. He wants the last pudding cup from the convenience store, wants Suguru to stop pretending he’s above gossip when he’s the nosiest person alive, wants Shoko to stop stealing his lighters despite the fact that he doesn’t smoke because he needs them to light up his birthday candles. He wants good grades with minimal effort and attention when he enters a room and for his hair to sit right without having to do anything about it. 

He also wants you. 

Gojo’s phone buzzes against his desk and he only looks at it because he’s desperate from his own thoughts. Though he immediately regrets this when Utahime’s name lights up on his screen. 

utahime: party this weekend

show up or dont 

idc

He snorts. 

gojo: woww dont get too excited inviting me im basically suffocating in ur enthusiasm 

its chill though if u dont want me there

i wont go ive got plans anyway 

Another notification drops down after he hits send. 

shoko: do NOT come to utahime’s this weekend 

that was a mistake 

DO NOT COME 

Gojo freezes, eyes blinking at the message. He taps it, opening up his chat history with her that consists of many, many time stamps and read receipts, and very slowly, something that critical thinking sparks behind his blue eyes. 

Do not come, said so blunt and immediate and so suspiciously timed right after Utahime’s invitation as if Shoko had decided his presence would cause a problem. 

A problem for who? 

Gojo’s mouth parts. Then, slowly, his grin spreads. His thumb quickly swipes out to re enter the chat with Utahime and glides across the keyboard. 

gojo: actually ykw 

wouldn’t miss it for the world <3

utahime: wait im uninviting u 

gojo? 

i said u cant come

dont leave me on read you dick 

Gojo laughs, turning off his phone. 

He turns his head toward the wall, still grinning like an idiot, thriving off the single crumb he’s been graciously fed after days of searching for you. 

“You going to Utahime’s this weekend, 4A?” he asks softly, knowing you are not there to answer.

The wall says nothing but Gojo’s grin doesn’t fade.

“That’s okay,” he murmurs, phone warm in his hand. “I’ll find out.”

There are two possible explanations for your current situation. Either Shoko is a liar (completely and utterly plausible) or her girlfriend has around 50 close friends. You don’t put it past Utahime either but at least Utahime did you a favour and made sure not to invite anyone from TDP so you settle for shooting Shoko a withering glare.

Music thrums through the floorboards, bass rattling the soles of your shoes as you tap your feet subconsciously against the beat. It’s loud, too loud for talking unless you enjoy shouting directly into someone’s ear, though no one seems to mind. Certainly not Shoko as she leans close to Utahime, mouth brushing against her ear, eyes half lidded as she practically has her on her lap.

You roll your eyes, feeling slightly sour.

Shoko notices your bitter look and acknowledges it with a slight chuckle, taking your cup of orange juice and switching it with hers. “Loosen up!” She yells over the music.

Without many other options, you take the drink and cup your hand around your ear as if you can’t hear her, just to piss her off.

Utahime snickers when your friend swats you away, her hand comfortably wrapped around Shoko’s. The sight of a happy couple sickens you and when Shoko yells for you to “go find someone to make out with!” you do decide to stand up and leave, though not because of her words, obviously. 

You’re just getting air, maybe a refill. And maybe putting at least one wall between yourself and Shoko’s terrible, smug, in-love face. 

The rest of the apartment is no better. Utahime’s place is bigger than yours, of course, because some people get exposed brick and large windows while others get mysterious ceiling stains and a neighbour loud enough to seep into your own personal life. 

Bodies crowd every available inch of space. Someone is sitting on the arm of the couch with a drink in one hand and someone else sprawled across their lap, fingers pushed into their hair. A group by the kitchen is screaming the lyrics to the song currently playing and there’s two girls taking photos in the hallway mirror, swaying together, cheek to cheek. 

You’re halfway through to the kitchen when you see him. For a second, your brain doesn’t even attach a name to the sight. It only registers white hair, too tall, black shirt, one hand loose around a red cup as he leans against the wall near the hallway. 

Then your stomach drops. 

Gojo. 

The thought arrives with immediate, unreasonable betrayal. 

What the fuck? Didn’t Utahime promise you she wouldn’t invite any frat guys? 

Not that you care. You absolutely do not. Gojo Satoru could attend every party in the city and you would remain unaffected, obviously. It is just the principle of the thing. You had been promised a Gojo-free environment, and there he is, laughing at something one of the girls around him says, head tilted down so he can hear her better over the music.

There are three that you see, maybe four. It’s hard to count when they keep shifting, hair shining under the cheap coloured lights, shoulders angled toward him like flowers reaching for the sun. 

It would be easier to be angry, to roll your eyes and hate him in the clean, uncomplicated way you usually do. Instead, something dull and familiar settles under your ribs. 

You turn away before he can look your way. 

The drink in your hand is half-empty and you make it fully empty in one long swallow, grimacing only after it burns the way down and cursing Shoko’s name in your head. Someone near the kitchen cheers for no reason and you suddenly decide that if the universe wants to be annoying, if that stupid Etsy witch wants to fuck with you that bad, you might as well ruin yourself first. 

By the time Shoko finds you again, you have acquired another drink. And then another, and then even more. She squints at you with the vague concern of someone who knows your limits better than you do but you’re already being dragged toward the cleared space in the living room by one of Utahime’s pretty friends, and the music there is cathartic. 

So you stop thinking. For the first time all night, you let yourself move without checking who is watching. Your drink is gone, your cheeks are warm, and the room is soft and bright, all coloured light and laughing mouths and hands in the air. There is no assignment, no terrible apartment, no faceless neighbour slipping into your life through the poor insulation, no Gojo leaning against a wall with half the party orbiting him. The houseparty is bumping, the ladies look good, the alcohol is flowing. There is much pain in the world, but not in this room. 

Then an arm slides around your waist. It’s muscled, warm, steady in the way it wraps around you, the scent of something masculine and fresh entering your peripherals. 

For one stupid, glittering second, you let yourself hope. It’s only the alcohol, probably. The music, even, the heat of the room or the betrayal of coloured lights making everyone look better than they are. 

But the arm is firm around you, and the body behind you is tall, and when he leans in, his breath skims close to your ear. 

Maybe. 

The thought is so sweet it makes you dizzy and you almost lean into the hope. 

“Having fun?” 

Your stomach drops so fast the whole room seems to go with it. You turn, and Naoya’s ugly face is looking down at you. What the fuck is he doing here? Oh, you are so having a word with Utahime about this. 

And okay, Naoya isn’t actually ugly, not in a way that has anything to do with his features. What’s really ugly is his expression, the entitlement in his smile and the slow drag of his eyes over you like he’s appraising something he believes is his. 

His mouth curls and all at once, the music goes thin and static-y. 

You shove him away and stumble a few steps at your own strength. “Don’t touch me.” 

Naoya lets his hand fall, but not before making a show of it, palms lifting like you are the unreasonable one. “Relax. I was just saying hi.” 

“Okay, well you’ve said your hi. Now leave.” 

He laughs, eyes dropping to your mouth, then back up again. “You’re still so dramatic. I forgot how much effort it takes to talk to you when you’re like this.” 

You step back, but the floor tilts slightly beneath you. Fuck, too much alcohol, too much heat. There’s too many bodies pressing around the living room, none of them paying enough attention as you try to place distance between you and your ex. Your shoulder knocks against someone behind you and you mumble a sorry without taking your eyes off Naoya. 

He notices the stumble and his grin sharpens. “You’re drunk. Haven’t learnt how to control yourself in this kind of places yet, have you? It’s cute.” 

He leans closer, voice lowering as if the two of you are sharing something intimate. “Did you dress up for someone tonight?” 

Your face twists. “As if it’s any of your fucking business anymore, Zenin.” 

“No, I’m serious.” HIs eyes flick over you again, slower this time, and your skin crawls. “Don’t tell me you’re still pissed about being blacklisted. Sometimes things happen to teach you a lesson, you know? Looks like you’ve learnt to finally put more effort into what you’re wearing again. You should be thanking me.”

“I am not doing this with you.” You try to sound confident but you both hear the pathetic slur to your words. 

“You’re not doing much of anything,” he says. “You’re just dancing around hoping some desperate fucker takes pity on you and notices.” 

“Fuck off, Naoya.”

His expression hardens, that little thread of irritation pulling tight because you did not blush, did not smile, did not give him even a crumb of the reaction he came looking for. “You know, this is exactly why people get so tired of you. You make everything so fucking difficult. I’m trying to be nice, and you’re acting like I cornered you in a damn alleyway.” 

“You put your hands on me!” 

“An arm, Y/N. I put my arm around you,” he corrects, like you’re the one being embarrassing. “Don’t make it sound so ugly.” 

“Well, it felt ugly.” 

For a moment, you think he might finally drop the act. But then his mouth curves again, albeit thinner and meaner at the edges. 

“Come on,” he says, taking a step closer and the crowd seems to bunch in to prevent you from leaving. “Don’t be like that. We know each other, don’t we? You don’t have to do the whole untouchable thing with me.” 

The alcohol is making everything lag a second behind. The music, the lights, the heat under your skin now sickening, the disgust rising sharp and sour in your throat. You know what he’s doing, you know it so clearly it almost sobers you. That glint in his eyes as he shamelessly trails his gaze down your face and between your tits, the way his hand is already lifting to grope you, how his voice has softened to be more convincing. 

You take another step back. 

“I said leave.” 

Naoya laughs. “You’re seriously going to act like you weren’t leaning back into me a second ago?”

“I thought you were someone else.” The words are out before you can catch them and shove them back down. 

His expression drops in a way that’s almost satisfying, if not for the fact that it twists into something worryingly familiar seconds later. You hate that your stomach sinks. You hate that, even now, some stupid trained part of you expects the punishment that comes after disappointing him. 

Naoya leans in again, close enough that you can smell the alcohol on his breath under whatever expensive cologne he sprayed on himself. “So what was the plan? Get drunk enough that you could pretend it was an accident when you went home with someone?” 

Your fingers curl into a fist by your sides. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

“Like what?” he asks, eyes wide with fake innocence. “I’m just saying, you’re the one dancing around like you want attention looking like that. You can’t get mad when someone gives it to you.”

“Move,” you hiss. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You always do shit like this. You act so above everything it’s a surprise you haven’t been humbled yet. Is that going to have to be my job now too?” 

“You don’t know anything about me anymore.” 

“Don’t get such a big head,” he sneers. “You’re still so easy to read. Still so fucking pathetic. Still need to feel someone’s attention on you, need to feel wanted, just so damn needy all the time.”

Your hand comes up so fast that you know the weight in which it’ll strike across Naoya’s face will give you the nicest, most satisfying crack. 

But before you can bring it down against his stupid fucking face, someone grabs your wrist and gently redirects it.  It takes you a moment to register what just happened. Someone had cut cleanly into the space Naoya had taken from you, still holding your wrist behind his back, and you blink at the grey shirt until you look up and see white hair. 

“Is there a problem?” Gojo’s voice is light enough that, for a strange second, it almost sounds like he’s walked into the wrong conversation. 

Something imperceptible flashes across Naoya’s face, something easily missed if you didn’t know his every tell. 

“Not your business, Gojo.” 

“Oh,” Gojo says, “don’t be like that. It looked fun over here. What were you guys talking about?” 

You don’t care for this passive aggressive approach of his. You yank at your arm. “I was about to slap him.”

Gojo glances back at you. 

You’re too drunk and too angry and too humiliated to care that his face is suddenly closer than expected, all pale hair and blue eyes and a mouth pressed into a thin line. You tug again, uselessly. 

“I’m serious,” you insist. “Let me slap him.” 

Naoya scoffs and takes a step back like he has other things on his agenda than to be publicly embarrassed. “This is insane. You’re both insane. Whatever, I’m done here anyway, what a fucking turn off.”

He turns to walk away, one hand running through his piss-coloured hair. 

Gojo’s other hand snaps out so fast you barely catch the motion. One second, Naoya is tilted to walk forward and the next, Gojo has his wrist caught in one hand, fingers locked around him with an ease that makes Naoya’s whole body jerk to a stop. 

Naoya suddenly hisses. There’s a thin red line where one of Gojo’s rings has bitten too hard into the skin. Despite this, Gojo does not give him the time of day. Instead, he looks at you. 

“Hm,” he says, tone casual, as if you have asked him whether he wants another drink. “I hear you, band shirt, but there’s an issue. If you slap him, you might get into trouble.” 

“I don’t care.” 

“He’s the president of—”

You squeeze his arm holding yours. “I don’t care. He’s never been slapped before in his life and it’s obvious. He needs to be slapped, Satoru, he deserves this.” 

Gojo pauses. Then, very seriously, he starts to nod slowly,  “I suppose that does make a lot of sense.”

Naoya jerks against his grip. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Gojo’s hand only tightens, short nails digging into the skin, though he still doesn’t look away from you, not even when you whip your gaze over to your ex, wishing that looks could indeed kill. 

How did you ever date a guy like him? You stare at Naoya, at his ugly, furious, blotchy-red face, at the way he keeps looking around like there should be someone here to save him from the consequences of his own mouth. He keeps tugging and pulling but Gojo effortlessly keeps him there. 

“But it looks like you just got your nails done,” Gojo ponders. “And you could hurt yourself.” 

“It has to be me, Satoru.”

Gojo’s eyes soften at that and he finally smiles, voice going lower. “I know.” 

Then he shifts, letting go of your wrist. For a second, you think he’s going to tell you not to do it after all, that he is going to be sensible in ways that severely go against his reputation. Instead, he lifts his free hand between you, palm up. 

“Okay,” he says. “Then don’t hurt yourself doing it.” 

You blink. “What?” 

“If you’re going to do it, then do it properly,” he says, still speaking to you like Naoya is not standing there trying to pull free. “No weird wrist thing, And don’t throw your whole body into it just to put more force behind it. It’ll just make you fall over because you’re a little drunk and unsteady. You’ve gotta plant your feet.” 

Naoya laughs, no humour behind it. “Gojo, are you serious?” 

Gojo ignores him. “Also,” he adds, glancing at his own hand, “now that I think about it, rings might help.”

He holds your gaze for a little longer before offering you a kind smile and lowering his hand to you, fingers pointing towards you. 

“Are you sure?” you ask, gaze flickering up to his face then to his rings. “They might get bloody.”

“It’s okay, just take your pick. I can always clean them. This chance might not come again for you,” he tells you in a similarly soft tone. 

You reach out and take the one from his pinky finger because any other ring might be a size too big, and slide it onto your middle finger. 

Naoya’s face pales. 

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” he snaps, trying again to wrench his wrist free. “You’re going to let her hit me?” 

Gojo finally looks at him. The smile he gives Naoya is bright enough to be mistaken for friendly. “Hey, man, it’s none of my business.” 

The ring is still a little too loose, the metal heavy and cold against your skin, and your hand trembles once before you curl it into a fist and open it again. 

Gojo notices and his attention is back on you. His voice drops just enough for only you to catch it again. “You sure?” 

You look at him, then past him, at Naoya’s pale, furious face. “Yes.” 

Gojo studies you for half a second longer, something soft passing through his expression before it disappears beneath a bright, almost cheerful smile. 

“Okay!” he says. “Then first, plant those feet and let your shoulders relax a little. If you hit him like that, it’ll go through your wrist, and then you’ll be mad tomorrow because he got your hand and your mood.” 

You nod and adjust. 

Naoya jerks in grip. “No, wait—”

Gojo doesn’t look at him. “You don’t need a big wind-up. It’ll be painful even if you don’t hit hard so no pressure.” 

“Hey,” Naoya snaps, voice pitching higher. “Someone get him off me.” 

“But I want to hurt him,” you say to Gojo. 

“You will,” Gojo says, very simply. “But you don’t have to hurt yourself to do it. You’re doing this for you, remember? To get it off your chest.” 

Naoya tries to laugh. It comes out wrong. “Come on, man. I said I’m sorry. Tell her to stop being dramatic.” 

Gojo tilts his head at you, as if listening to a distant appliance hum. “Do you hear something?”

You stare at him, cocking your head in a mirror of his own gesture. “The music?”

“No.” He waves his question away. “Something annoying. Anyway. Hand open, shoulders down and feet on the ground. You’ve got this.” 

You do as he says and then turn to look at Naoya. 

For months, he had made you feel like every reaction you had was too much, too loud or too needy, too embarrassing, too difficult to love. He had taught you how to swallow anger until it sat heavy in your stomach and called that maturity. He had always walked away with his shoulders up because you were always the one trying not to make a scene. 

And now, you’re finally going to leave a mark on him. 

You slap him. 

The sound cracks across the room, sharp enough to split cleanly through the music. Naoya’s head snaps to the side at the force of it, mouth open, but finally, finally, nothing leaves it. 

Your palm burns immediately, a bright sting rushing up your arm and the ring presses back into your finger, cold against the heat of your skin. It hurts a little. But it hurts so good. 

Gojo lets go of Naoya at once. Your ex stumbles back, one hand flying to his cheek, eyes wide with shock. “You fucking—”

“Holy shit!” Gojo says loudly. “Is that Naoya from TDP? Dude, what are you doing here, do you even know Utahime?”

Naoya’s face drops slightly in confusion. “What?” 

Gojo’s voice carries easily over the music now. “No, seriously. Aren’t you the guy that one post was made about in the group chat? I wouldn’t have come to a party when you haven’t even said anything about the allegations.” 

The crowd surrounding you instantly starts murmuring amongst themselves, shooting Naoya dirty looks. 

Naoya grits his teeth, anger flooding his face all over again. “I didn’t—”

“It’s weird, I really don’t think Utahime would have invited you.”

“I was invited.”

“By who?”

Naoya opens his mouth but nothing comes out fast enough.

A girl by the couch scoffs. “Utahime would never invite him.”

“Yeah, didn’t she literally say not to let him in?”

“How did he get inside?”

Someone near you nods along to his words, and a girl wraps her arms around you, running her hand up and down your side. It could have so easily gone wrong, Naoya yelling something about being hurt and suddenly you became the problem. The drunk girl, the angry ex seeking vengeance. The one who slapped someone in the middle of the party. 

But now everyone is looking at him. And Naoya seems to realise this too because his eyes dart around the room, searching for sympathy and finding none. 

“Creep,” someone mutters.

“Get him out,” another voice says.

Naoya points toward Gojo, furious and scared in a way you have never seen before. “He’s lying. She’s drunk and she’s always been—” 

“Ugh, spare me, I know you were creeping around me too!” 

Gojo doesn’t stick around for the aftermath and you don’t either, his hand closing around your other hand to gently tug you through the growing crowd, his broad back guiding the way. 

It’s nice, you realise, which is a stupid thing to immediately think of next after slapping your ex-boyfriend in the middle of a party. Still, it is. 

The way he moves through the room without dragging you behind him, the way people part for him easily, but he keeps glancing back anyway, like he’s making sure you’re still there  and not swallowed by the music and body and the roaring awareness of what you’ve just done. His hand is warm around yours, loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to, firm enough that you don’t have to think too hard about where you’re going. 

You let yourself follow. Past the kitchen, past the hallway mirror, past two girls whispering near the wall,  both of them looking over your shoulder toward where Naoya had disappeared, their expression twisted with disgust. 

The noise dulls a little near the back of the house. The music still reaches here, bass-heavy and insistent, but the air feels cooler, less packed with breath and perfume. Just before the back door, Gojo stops. 

You nearly bump into him and he chuckles, turning around.

“Careful.” He looks you up and down not unpleasantly. “How’s the hand?” 

“It’s fine,” you say automatically. Then you pause, looking down. 

His ring is still sitting crooked on your middle finger, too loose and faintly warm now from your skin. Your palm is red and your fingers tingle but the slap keeps replaying in your head in satisfying flashes: the crack of it, Naoya’s face turning, and any regret you might have felt dissipates. 

“Okay, it might sting a little.” 

Gojo’s expression softens. “Let me see it.” 

You lift your other hand not in his, and he reaches out to take it, a sharp thrill running up your arm when he makes contact. He turns your hand over carefully, fingers light and ticklish against your palm as he inspects it. For a moment, you wonder about this gentleness that he shows you, how sharply it contrasts with the way he had held Naoya hard enough to draw blood. His fingers move over your palm with careful attention, thumb brushing beneath the base of your fingers, moving down to the sensitive skin of your wrist and making you shiver. The hallway is too warm and too cold at once, music pulsing behind you in dull waves, but all you can really feel is the shape of his hand around yours and the ridiculous, traitorous flutter under your ribs. 

“You’ll live,” he says eventually, fingers splaying over your wrist and forearm before dropping. “And you’re staring.” 

You blink when you process that he’s looking right into your eyes, his lips quirked into a small smile as he watches you.  “Thanks for helping me slap my ex.”  He shrugs. “It’s no problem, band shirt. I think my ring did the bulk of everything.”  You look down at your hand and notice that he’s right. The silver sits crooked on your finger, too loose and too pretty, catching the hallway light like it has any right to look innocent after drawing blood across Naoya’s cheek. Thank you, pretty silver ring, for your service. May your efforts haunt him for at least a few business days. Gojo lowers his hand under yours again and for a second, you think that he’s going to ask for it back. Instead, he lifts your hand slowly such that you have the chance to pull away. His eyes stay on yours until the last moment, before he lowers his mouth and presses a soft kiss to the ring.  Technically, it’s his ring and not your hand he kissed. Still, the warmth of his breath brushes your skin, and something bright and winged breaks loose in your stomach. Your fingers twitch once in his hold as your breath catches. His lashes lower into the kiss, before he opens his eyes again and looks up at you through them.  He smiles at you cheekily.   “Can’t run away from me now, can you?” he asks, lowering your hand just enough to comfortably interlace his own fingers with yours. “I never did give you my name that one time before but it’s Gojo Satoru, though it looks like you already know. Come sit with me.” 

‘Me’ ends up being him, and also his friends. Which is not as awkward as you thought it would be, mostly because the second Gojo opens the back door, Utahime and Shoko both sit up from where they’ve been lounging together on an outdoor chair like two cats disturbed mid-nap. Their fingers point at you at the exact same time.  “You!” “With him?”  “Hi guys.” You drop your hand from his under the piercing gaze of your friends. “How’s the party?” Gojo doesn’t say anything, only stepping around you with that easy, unbothered smile of his, and joining a conversation with some guys standing around the bonfire. 

Utahime’s backyard has been transformed into something of a cozy hangout spot. Cheap fairylights hang crooked from the overhead roof, blinking out of sink, and a few mismatched outdoor chairs and beanbags sit in a loose circle around a low table cluttered with cups, jackets, and a neat stack of cards. There’s a small lit fire further out, but you drag your eyes away from its company to focus on the people you do know.  Shoko shuffles closer to her girlfriend, patting the space next to her which you gratefully take. “Hold on, so did you find someone to make out with after all? And was it…?”  You quickly look back at Gojo who is now talking quietly with someone you don’t know, the long-haired boy nodding in serious thought at whatever is leaving his mouth. His eyes slide to you and when they meet yours, you flinch, looking away. “No! That’s not—God, my head is killing me. I didn’t make out with anyone, okay? I’m not here to find someone to hook up with.”  “Why are you here then?”  “You threatened me to come.” You point out.  “Well, you weren’t going to not come, that’s not in the cards.” Shoko presses you another cup into your hands and, because you have yet to learn your lesson from earlier, you take a trusting sip.  You almost choke out the battery acid when it hits your tongue, covering your mouth with your arm as you glare at your friends. “Oh, ew, Shoko. Seriously? Can’t you make something good for once? Your jungle juice is always so ass.”  “That’s how you know it works. Tongue loosened up yet? Why did you just walk out with Gojo? What’s going on between you two? Does he know now?”  You lean back into the seat at Shoko’s interrogation, and take another deep chug of Shoko’s disgusting drink. “Before you grill me, I have to grill you. Want to tell me what Naoya is doing at your party, Utahime?”  Utahime blinks. “Naoya is at my party?” 

“Was,” you correct yourself. “I think he got the message after I slapped him that he shouldn’t be here.”  “You slapped him?” Utahime sits up with a bright smile. “Oh my God, tell me you got that on video! To clear my name though, I definitely did not invite him. He must have snuck in or something.”  “Well, basically everyone saw so I’m sure there’s a video on someone’s story by now.” You look back at Gojo now standing with just one other guy. “Satoru just happened to be there at the right place and time to help. That’s it.”  When your friends don’t immediately press for more questions, you turn back and find them whispering and giggling to each other. When they feel your suspicious gaze, Shoko looks up. “Sorry, yes, right. Gojo saved you.”

Utahime clears her throat suddenly. “Wait, shut up. Three o’clock.”  You stiffen when a weight presses against you, someone’s body dropping into the narrow gap between you and the armrest. 

You instinctively shuffle closer to Shoko to make room, though there is not enough room to make. Your thigh presses ages his, shoulder brushing against yours, and his arm slides along the back of the chair, not quite touching your neck, but close enough that your skin tingles.  Shoko mutters, “This chair is clearly only meant for three.”  “I’d hate to think you don’t want me here,” Gojo says cheerfully. “What are we talking about? Me?”  “Your head is so far up your ass you only ever think of yourself,” Utahime grumbles.  You freeze, unsure where your limbs should go when you’re pressed up to the person behind the faceless voice in your walls. Admittedly, this realisation comes a little late. You should have armed your walled defenses the moment Gojo had grabbed your wrist and pulled you behind him, should have simply walked away after slapping Naoya (that was a non-negotiable, canon event) instead of letting him drag you back where you’re now trapped. Because he doesn’t know you’re her. And right now when you’re drunk and unsteady on your feet and thoughts? This might be the worst possible time for him to find out.  “That over there is Suguru,” Gojo suddenly leans in to say, breath ghosting the shell of your ear. His voice sends shivers down your neck and along your spine, every sensation suddenly all too much. The fabric that isn’t your own grazing high on your thigh, his hair tickling your cheek, his feet nudging yours slightly so you can move over just a little bit more for him.  “That’s Kento, with the frown and beside him is Yuu, without the frown. And those, on the table, are my Digimon cards. Who the fuck brought them out here?”  Haibara laughs. “Geto did! We were playing truth or dare with them!”

“You’re lucky that’s my dupe deck or I’d end this friendship right here and now,” Gojo says, an easy grin on his face as if he wasn’t pressing up against you, his chest warm and hard against your side, your elbow awkwardly jutting into him.  Your hand flexes around the cup, and the ring shifts slightly on your finger. Gojo’s gaze drops to it for half a second, a private little smile cutting across his mouth before he looks back at the table.  “We heard about what happened inside,” Geto says. “Are you okay?”  Would it be too late to suddenly go mute? If you’re able to recognise Gojo by his voice, then the chances of him putting name to face with the girl next door and you is also very high. Though, considering the way he isn’t immediately pulling you aside to ask if you are indeed the voice in his walls, you want to believe that he has yet to figure out your identity.  So no, it isn’t too late to go mute.  You nod in response to Geto’s question and flash him a smile, hoping none of it comes off as rude.  Gojo hums beside you, the vibration travelling through your bodies. He leans down to speak into your ear, a conversation just for you. “Not much for words? What happened to all the snark earlier?” You stall for time by taking a long sip of Shoko’s concoction, the sting temporarily skyrocketing to the top of your concerns. This may or may not be a bad idea because now that you’re seated, all the previous drinks sloshing around in your stomach and this adding sip burning down your throat, you feel the world tip a little. You probably can’t deflect this question, not when he asks like this, so you settle for something else.  Clearing your throat, you try for a lower octave than usual. “I only talk to the people that deserve it,” you say, then let out a small huff at how ridiculous you sound.  The grin he shoots you is all confidence and self-assurance, leaning in a fraction closer. “How would you know if you’ve never given me a chance?”  “It’s pointless, I already know what you’re like.” Maybe it’s the bonfire or the drink in your hand but you are getting really warm. You take another long sip. 

“We talked for ten minutes max the other day, I highly doubt that,” he cocks his head at you. “Do I know you from somewhere else?”  You hum. “Maybe.” 

“I think I would remember someone like you.”  That causes you to raise an eyebrow, letting his casual flirt roll off you.  “Flattery,” you start, poking his chest. You let him catch your hand in his, holding it there against his heart, “won’t get you anywhere especially when it’s empty.” “Who said it was empty? Besides, I know I wouldn’t forget such a pretty girl.” “Oh, you would. You are.” You laugh again, finding the inside joke hilarious. “Try a little harder to remember, hm Satoru?”  The challenge makes his eyes glow just like you knew they would, always have known from the moment when a wall still separated the two of you and he had laughed at your provoking, all dark and not humourous at all.  “Maybe if you gave me a name.” You’re not quite ready to hear his name from your lips just yet so you only shake your head, wagging your finger at him playfully. “Where’s the fun in that?” “I’m usually a patient man and I’m all for the chase,” he starts, fingers inching closer, brushing hair from the back of your neck as he leans in, “but you’ve left me high and dry for so long.” His words go in one ear and out the other, your breath hitching at the slightest touch. Despite yourself, you gulp and taste the bitter alcohol in your mouth. You feel it too, warmth pooling in your gut and making your head spin.  “I’m not an easy person,” you whisper, eyes flickering down to his lips and you bite your own, the rush of all your fantasies suddenly overwhelming you. In all other them, you’ve never once imagined his lips on yours, not until now. And you don’t doubt that after this, you'll be thinking of them often.  “Trust me,” he chuckles. “You’re not easy, you’re stubborn as hell and you always give me a hard time.” As if sensing your temptation, Gojo’s eyes trace the way your teeth dig into your lip, watching the pull before you release it, red and slightly jutted out. It makes him want to sink his teeth into your bottom lip and lick the marks it leaves behind. 

Your breath hitches. He leans in slightly, looking up to search your face and wait to see if you’ll pull back. When you don’t, when he accepts whatever look is in eyes, he leans forward more. The anticipation builds and morphs into budding frustration when he continues to play this game of chicken, giving you countless moments to pull away if needed even when you’ve shown no sign of stopping.  Shoko clears her throat and you jump, accidentally crushing your solo cup. The liquid bursts up and flows down your wrist and into your lap.  “Shit!” you curse, immediately jumping up and pulling the fabric away from your skin.  Gojo quickly follows, one hand hovering on your lower back in case you tip back.  “Oh, fuck,” Shoko says. “You okay?”  “Yeah, it’s just super sticky.” You wince, accepting the tissues Nanami hands you though they do little good. “Ew, it’s, like, sticking to my skin.”  Utahime speaks up, watching you from over the rim of her cup. “There’s a bathroom down the corridor. Gojo knows where it is, he can show you.” “And maybe the two of you can make out there instead of right in front of us,” Geto says offhandedly, though his cup can’t completely hide his grin. The people around the table giggle at his words, Shoko probably the loudest.  You blush, immediately going to deny his accusations but Gojo beats you to it. “Shoko and Utahime are one second away from eating each other’s faces off but no one says anything about that!”

“That’s because this is my party, Gojo.”  “Yeah, well it was my party that got you two together,” Gojo shoots back childishly.  Everyone laughs again, chattering as they descend into the topic of other inside jokes, playing word association as they leap from memory to memory. There’s a sense of belonging that oozes from everyone as they lean into one another and talk and gossip. You might have appreciated this moment more, enjoyed the fact that they’re allowing you into this intimate moment, if not for the sudden blossoming warmth inside you. Before you can really think about it, you tug on Gojo’s shirt.  He immediately leans down, angling his ear to you. “Hm?” 

“Take me to the bathroom?”  Gojo stiffens, eyes flickering to your face then down your body. He bites his lip hard to focus, ignoring the temptation to let his mind wander at your innocent words. They had to be innocent, right? You, who was now looking up at him through your lashes with a pout playing on your lips, one hand tugging on the hem of his shirt, thumb rolling over the fabric slowly. You who was fidgeting ever so slightly, thighs rubbing together due to the cold. “Yeah,” he says suddenly, all humour gone. “Let’s go.”  Someone cheers behind you as Gojo helps you up and opens the back door for you, though neither of you seem to care. He doesn’t bother with answering greetings, only smiling shortly as you pass familiar people, something more impatient when he guides you than before.  He leads you down a corridor and into a dark room, closing the door behind you. Your heart leaps to your throat until he turns on the light, and you wince at the brightness.  “Sorry, pretty. Should’ve warned you,” Gojo says, only looking vaguely apologetic as he leans against the closed door, one hand still on the knob like he’s giving you a chance to back out.  He watches you carefully, tracing the line of your jaw, the slightest twitch of your brow and then, his favourite part, the flush climbing your cheeks. “The bathroom should be safer than a spare room. Who knows who is in there doing what.” You hesitate. “You didn’t have to follow me in.” 

“No?” He tilts his head, eyes roaming over you before settling smugly on your face. “You’re still holding onto my shirt. Maybe let go if you want to sound convincing.”  You shiver, letting go immediately and stepping back closer to the sink. You open your mouth to say something, a stupid excuse perhaps, but he beats you to it.  “You cold?”  “What?” “Earlier.” His eyes fall to your legs. “You were fidgeting. Thought maybe you were cold. Call me a desperate guy if you want, but don’t ask a guy to take you somewhere private while looking at me like that.”  “Like what?”  Gojo pushes off the door and you take a step back instinctively. “Like you wanted me to misunderstand you.”  You hesitate, looking around the bathroom. He seems to notice, and stops immediately, eyes softening. “Hey, I’m not going to do anything you don’t want. Just shove me away and I’ll go, I promise.”  “It’s not that,” you bite your lip.  “Then what is it, pretty?”  “You talk too much. You’re too loud,” you manage to say, warm despite the chill of the drink on you. “Always have been.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah?”  “Yes.”  “Good.” He takes one step closer. “Then make me shut up.”  Your back meets the sink before you realise you have moved, the contrast of cold porcelain against your overheated skin making you gasp. He’s on you in an instant, hands roaming down your side until they’re gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.  “You’re so tense,” he murmurs against your neck. “You have no idea I’ve been watching you all night, do you? That little skirt? This tiny little top?”  He slaps your tits and you jolt, looking up at him in surprise to which he only grins down at you. You can’t seem to form a coherent thought, not when there’s alcohol swimming in your veins and turning your limbs to jelly, mind to fog. Still, you manage to say, “Did you just slap my boob?” “Don’t act like you didn’t like it. If I shove my hand down your skirt, am I going to find you wet, pretty?”  His knee nudges between your thighs, spreading them open as he steps closer.  “You are so gross—” you start, but he cuts you off with his mouth on yours.  The kiss is brutal and demanding all at once. His tongue slides against yours, tasting of expensive liquor and something sweet, or maybe that’s just your taste and he’s shoving it back against your mouth. One hand leaves your hip to fist in your hair, tilting your head back. 

He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down your throat, sucking hard at the pulse point. “Don’t lie to me. I know you’ve wanted this since the first time I heard you. You have quite the perverted streak to you, don’t you?” Your breath hitches. His hand slides down, palm flat against your stomach, then lower. He doesn't bother with the fabric of your panties, just pushes them aside and drags his fingers through your slick folds. “Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re soaked. And you're gonna tell me you weren't dreaming about this? Getting yourself off to the thought of me touching you like this?”  His middle finger sinks into you without warning. You cry out, a sound that would be embarrassing if you had any sense left. But all you can feel is the stretch, the fullness, the way your body clenches around him desperately. “That's it,” he coos, tone shifting to something truly mocking. “You’re really feeling it now, aren’t you?”  He adds a second finger, fucking them into you with a rhythm that has your knees buckling. His thumb circles your clit in lazy, torturous circles. You're already so close, the buildup of tension from hours of dancing, of drinking, of watching him across the room, it all crashes toward a peak. “Please,” you whimper. “Please what? Use your words, pretty.” “Please fuck me,” you manage to gasp, fantasy and reality crashing together in a dizzying mess.  He pulls his fingers out abruptly, and you groan at the loss. But then you hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, the zipper of his pants, and your mouth waters. He takes himself in hand, strokes once, twice, and then the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance. “Look at me,” he commands.

You force your eyes open. His are dark, pupils blown wide, a little furrow between his brows. 

“Are you with me?” he asks, brushing your hair out of your eyes.  You nod, rutting forward pathetically.  “Come on, pretty, I need to hear you say it.” “I’m here!” you choke out, gasping. “Please, I want this, I promise I—I want you. Satoru, please.” He groans, the tip of his cock pressing forward beyond that little ring of resistance, swearing at the involuntary thrust. “Okay, okay, I’ve got you.”  He noses into your temple, inhaling deeply, one thumb holding you open as he presses in and groans, filthy and depraved.  “Fuck—you’re so tight,” he gasps, cock stuttering through until he’s buried deep.  The sensation of being stretched wide open on his cock makes you tense, before a ragged, grateful cry escapes your swollen lips. You can barely breathe through your nose, head spinning with pleasure.  “Oh god, oh my god!” you cry out, head thrown back. 

“Shh,” he hisses against your ear, his breath hot and sweet. His cock rams into you—a thick, punishing rhythm he picks up easily—and every thrust pushes your back against the sink. “You gotta stay quiet, angel. We don't want anyone hearin’ how much of a slut you are, do we?” But of course, all good things have to come to an end because through the hazy pleasure, you hear a grating voice.  “Hey! Y/N! I know you're in there!” You can recognise Naoya’s voice anywhere even, it seems, when you’re being fucked for every inch of your life.  Gojo’s hand closes around your mouth as he looks at you, grunting softly with every thrust. He pulls out briefly and you whine until he turns you around and presses you up against the cold tiles, driving up into you like he never left. His rhythm doesn’t falter, if anything, he pounds harder.  “Mm-mm,” you try to say, shaking your head, panic rising. He doesn't stop. He slams into you and your body jolts, your forehead knocking against the tile. “I said I know you're in there!” Naoya's voice is slurred, angry. He kicks the door. “Open the fuck up! We need to talk!” Gojo’s hand slides off your mouth though not enough to leave completely. It’s just his palm moving, his fingers hooking into the corner of your lips, prying your mouth open. Two of them slip inside, salty with your own slick, and he pushes them back until you're gagging.

“Answer him,” Gojo whispers, his lips brushing your ear. “Go on. Tell him you’re busy.”

You can’t. His fingers are deep in your throat. You gag, tears springing to your eyes, and he just laughs, low and dark. “Oh, right. You can't talk with my fingers in your mouth, can you?” He pulls them out, slick and wet, and wraps them around your jaw, tilting your face toward the door. “Try again. Use your words.” “Naoya,” you choke out, your voice wrecked, breathless. “I’m—I’m fine. Just—” “Just what?” Gojo thrusts, hard, and your sentence crumbles into a gasp. His cock sinks so deep you feel it in your stomach. “Just getting fucked stupid? Tell him the truth.” There’s a beat of silence. You can picture Naoya on the other side of the door, his fists clenched, his jaw tight. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, certainly enraged. “You’re lying. I can hear you breathing. Open the fucking door.” Gojo’s hips slow. He pulls almost all the way out, leaving just the tip, and then drives forward in one smooth, devastating motion. You cry out, quickly muffled by your own hand. “Don't make me break this door down,” Naoya warns. Gojo chuckles, right in your ear. “He sounds mad. Poor guy. You really do know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?” He leans closer, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But you’re not his anymore, are you? You're mine. For tonight, anyway.” He fucks you slow now, deep and deliberate, his cock dragging along every inch of your walls. You feel every ridge, every vein and your legs tremble in the delicious drag.

“Tell him,” Gojo whispers, “that you’re busy. That you don’t have time for him anymore. ‘Cause he’s nothing to you now, right? Tell me he’s nothing to you.”  You swallow, wanting nothing more than to open your mouth and babble about how incredible it is to get railed in a bathroom, how brainless Gojo’s cock is making you but you have to be good, he’s waiting for you. So instead, you manage to say, “Naoya, leave me—ngh—alone!” Naoya growls at the closed door before him, even going so far as to stomp his feet like a petulant kid. “Fine! Fucking fine, Y/N! But I promise you, you’ll regret this! I’ll make sure you do!”

Sure, you think, eyes rolling back, as if your Etsy witch can touch me anymore when Gojo is fucking me. You slump forward, relief flooding you when you hear his footsteps retreating, but Gojo doesn’t let you rest. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, and resumes his brutal pace. “Good girl,” he purrs. His voice is different now, softer, honeyed and  almost affectionate. “Such a good fucking girl. You did so well. You listened. You obeyed.” He kisses your shoulder, open-mouthed, wet. “See? I knew you could be good for me.” The whiplash is dizzying and it only makes you arch more, something inevitable and delicious approaching in the far distance.  “That's right,” he murmurs, still fucking you deep and slow. “You took that so well. Pretended you weren’t getting your tight little cunt stuffed while your ex was right outside. That takes skill, pretty. You’re so fucking perfect for me.” His hand snakes around your front, fingers finding your clit. He rubs slow, tight circles, and your hips buck. “Bet you've been practicing, haven't you?” His voice is a low, knowing drawl. “All those nights you thought nobody was listening. Thought nobody could hear you moaning. But weren’t you the one to tell me? The walls are thin as shit, angel.” He’s ramming into you now, fast and rough again, his words spilling out between each thrust and all you can do is be a ragdoll in his hold.  “You'd lie in bed, late at night, fingers in your pussy, listening to me stroke my cock. I’d hear you. The wet sounds. The little ‘oh, yes’s. And I’d think... fuck, I need to have that. I need to feel that cunt clench around me.” You're dizzy, overwhelmed. His hand on your clit, his cock in your cunt, his words in your brain, it’s all too much. “Did you think I didn’t recognize you at the party tonight? The girl with the needy little moans?” He bites your earlobe, hard enough to sting. “I’ve been waiting for an excuse to corner you. And then you showed up drunk and sad, with that asshole on your heels, and I knew tonight was the night.” He’s watching you in the mirror and you catch his reflection. His eyes are dark, lips parted, face flushed. He’s absolutely beautiful.

“I'm gonna fill you up,” he growls. “Gonna pump my cum so deep inside you it leaks out for days. And when you walk past my door tomorrow, you're gonna know. You’re gonna remember this. You’re gonna touch yourself to the memory, and I’ll be right there, on the other side of the wall, stroking myself to the sound of you coming undone.” His hips slam into you. Once, twice, three times. You feel the pressure building, the coil in your belly tightening to the point of pain. “Satoru—” you gasp, hands fumbling for purchase on the wall.  “I know, angel, I know. Cum for me,” he demands. “Wanna finally feel you cum on my cock—fuck.” You shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, your cunt clenching around him, your body shaking. You cry out his name—Satoru—and he follows a second later, buried to the hilt, his cum hot and thick inside you. He holds you there, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slick and sticky. Then he pulls out slowly, watching his cum drip down your thigh. “Good girl,” he says again, his voice a warm, approving caress. He turns you around, cups your face in his hands, and kisses you, soft, tender, unhurried. “You did so well, pretty. So, so good for me.” Your knees are weak and he notices, turning you and pressing you to his chest to keep you upright. He continues to whisper in your ear as your senses return to you, and when you finally lift a hand to gently push at his chest, he lets you, eyes immediately flickering down to your eyes.  “Still with me?”  You nod, before you fall forward into his arms. 

When your body breaks down alcohol, it converts the ethanol into acetate, a process that produces a lot of NADH from NAD⁺. The imbalance of the NADH⁺ ratio leads to the feelings of weakness and grogginess that come from a horrible night out.  You wake now, approximately ninety percent NADH and ten percent regret.  For a while, you refuse to move. You only stare at your ceiling, blinking slowly at the familiar crack in the paint above your head, the soft grey light pressing through the curtains, the horrible cotton-dry feeling your tongue against the top of your mouth.  How the fuck did you get home? Your own bed, in most cases, the preferred place to wake up after all. It’s safe, it’s familiar, and most importantly, it’s yours. But the last thing you remember is not collapsing into the warmth and security of your own bed. The last thing you recall comes in fragments: Utahime’s party, Gojo’s hands on your body, the bathroom light flickering too bright overhead, the sink cold behind you and his voice low in your ear.  And then nothing. You suppose there are brief pieces after that, blurry and soft around the edges. Glimpses of a car window, someone cursing under their breath, the sound of your keys jingling and the vague sensation of being carried. That one must have been a drunken hallucination because it’s humiliating and therefore cannot be the truth.  You fumble for your phone which is not beside your pillow where you usually place it after your nightly doomscroll before bed, but placed neatly on your bedside table. There’s a few texts from friends on your lock screen, but there’s only one person you want to text. 

shoko: alive?

actually don’t answer if you’re dead

if you’re alive though please drink some water and let me know that you’re ok 

You laugh softly. Why did you jump to conclusions so quick? Of course it was Shoko that took you home! Who knew her upper body strength was so good that she managed to carry you into your own bed after a night of drinking. 

you: im alive!!

thank u so much for taking me home btw 

i owe u :3

She quickly reacts to your message with a heart before the typing indicator appears. 

shoko: i didn’t take u home (?) 

gojo did obv

he WHAT? is probably what you’re thinking but please remember to breathe and drink some water before you crash out 

You are, in fact, thinking he what?And because Shoko accurately called you out on that, you decide to follow through on the rest of her advice. You turn your head and stop a sticky note stuck to the glass of water beside your head, bright yellow and neat as a warning label. 

water is important when you’re recovering from a hangover! — satoru

Then, a little to the left, attached to a packet of painkillers, 

because i know your head probably feels like shit rn — still me 

“Oh my god,” you whisper, unsure whether to laugh or to run away. 

You do neither because your head really does hurt like a motherfucker, and take the painkillers along with a generous gulping or two of water. The cool liquid does little against the parched nature of your throat, but when you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, you feel alive enough to venture out of your bed.  There’s a sticky note on the ground next to a pair of slippers you swore you had separated, one in the kitchen one somewhere in the living room. 

the ground is cold! wear slippers! — forever urs :3

“Forever yours?” you repeat aloud, voice wrecked with sleep and dehydration even as you shove your toes in. 

There’s another note on the back of your bedroom door. 

no matter what u see in the mirror remember you’re beautiful! — shrek to ur fiona?

You open your bedroom door and make your slow, regretful way to the bathroom where you lay your tired eyes on your puffy face. You have definitely seen better days. There’s another note stuck to your mirror. 

face wash is on the left toothbrush is on the right if you use the face wash as toothpaste, that’s between you and god — not your doctor 

Huffing out a sound that might be amusement, you pick up your toothbrush and ensure you squeeze toothpaste onto its bristles. The toothpaste is minty and makes your eyes water slightly, but by the time you rinse your mouth, you feel one step closer to not feeling like the undead. 

There’s another note stuck to the towel rack. 

if ur eyes are puffy, put a cold compress over them! — still not a doctor

From the bathroom back to your room for a change of clothes and even on your way to the kitchen, you’re guided by a series of sticky notes. 

clean clothes! i didn’t look through your drawers dw — feminist 

welcome to the kitchen! huge milestone for you — ur biggest fan 

water already boiled in here so when you wake up to reboil it it’ll take less time — the kettle knower 

drink real water first before the coffee !! seriously don’t put coffee in me just yet — mug 

soup inside on the second shelf :3 not homemade so don’t get too excited i’m handsome, not magical i couldn’t have it both ways — :(

in the microwave for two minutes with lid half on! take it out when it’s boiling — the soup sipper 

You finally feel alive enough to laugh, embarrassingly loud in the quiet of your kitchen. You stand there in your slippers, teeth brushed, face washed, and dressed in clothes when any other time you might have still been under the covers. 

The apartment feels full of him. A note when you open your utensil drawer for a spoon, a note sitting on top of a coffee pod conveniently placed on your counter, a note against the body of a vase you’ve placed on your dining table to feel more homey. 

eat slowly, you get hiccups when you rush! 

The notes take you away from your drying rack when you’ve finished the store-bought soup and washed your spoon, taking you to your living room. Your camera sits on your coffee table, a sticky stuck on the surface that reads: “turn me on ><” You roll your eyes but do so, lifting it up and framing the sorry state of your living room before hitting the record button. The first shot captures just how many sticky notes litter the surface of almost every object, the words telling you a funny joke or reminding you to put something back. You take your time walking through all of them, his handwriting everywhere, his name everywhere (except when he decides to write down a silly nickname). 

Satoru.

Satoru.

Satoru.

Then, you find the last one on your front door. 

if you’re overwhelmed, you don’t have to open this today. if you’re angry at me, just yell at me through the wall :( if you’re okay, i’d like to see you — satoru

And then, before you can think it through, you reach forward and open your door.  Gojo stands in the hallway, a bouquet of flowers clutched in both hands like he’s praying. His eyes light up when you open your door and he moves forward instinctively. He’s so close that the toe of one sock is nearly edging over the threshold of your apartment.  You let out a short scream.  He startles just as badly, eyes going wide as he reaches forward on instinct to steady you, and your camera slips from your hand. “Oh—”  It hits the floor before either of you can grab it, bouncing once, then sliding sideways across the carpet until it knocks gently against the leg of your couch. The camera keeps recording from there, tilted on its side. It catches the lower half of your open door, Gojo’s socked feet in the hallway, your bare feet on the carpet, and the hem of your sweater falling over your shorts. “Are you okay?” he asks in a rush. 

“What are you doing standing right in front of my door, you creep?” you shoot back, one hand pressed to your chest. “Were you standing there the entire time?” 

“I was trying to be romantic.” He shoves the bouquet toward you, panic making his voice crack at the edges. “I literally got you flowers!”  You take them automatically, bewildered by the weight of roses in your hands. “Thank you? Is that why you’ve littered all over my apartment?”  His face falls. “Was that not cute?” 

You blink. “Cute?”  “Did you not think it was cute?” he asks, suddenly horrified. “Because I thought it was cute. I mean, not in a weird way. Well, maybe a little weird. But intentional weird. Charming weird.” 

“The sticky notes?” He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Look, I’ve never done anything like this before, okay? This whole romance thing is seriously above me, I have no idea how I’m meant to ask you this without scaring you away.”  You stare at him for a long while before laughing. The sound pulls from your throat loud and bright that it almost hurts with an incoming headache, but it’s so funny you just can’t stop. “I knew you had no experience with women. I called it all along, didn’t I?” “Please, this and that are completely unrelated.” His shoulders seem to relax at your laugh, and he finally cracks a smile, running a hand through his hair. “You never were going to make it easy for me, were you?” 

“Easy? When you’ve just left forty sticky notes in my apartment and then lurked outside my door?” His smile trembles, trying to stay bright, but the nerves are still there beneath it. You can see them now that you know to look. The way his fingers flex at his side, the way his eyes keep flickering from your face to the threshold like he is measuring the exact line he is not allowed to cross.  “I wasn’t lurking,” he says, quieter. “I was waiting.”  Your fingers tighten around the bouquet.  Gojo looks down at it, then back at you. “I wanted to knock earlier, but I thought if you woke up and saw me before you were ready, you’d panic.” “Please, I wouldn’t have panicked.”  “You literally panicked ten seconds ago.” “Touche.” You look at him for a short while before glancing down at your slippered-feet. “I’m still scared, honestly. I think I’ve been cursed in every possible aspect of love. That’s why when I heard your voice all the way back during that carwash event, I didn’t want you to know it was me. It would break what we had going on through the wall and I liked that. It felt like something I could just keep to myself. And then I found out you were Satoru and it was obvious you weren’t just mine anymore.”  Gojo lets you talk, lets you call him Gojo again without saying a single word until you finish. Then he says, “Were you disappointed?”  “No,” you say immediately. “It wasn’t like that.” 

He smiles then, head tilting to the side. “Then I can be just Satoru. Just your Satoru, if that helps.”  It’s so stupidly cheesy that you have to scoff, even as your cheeks warm.  “I’m serious,” he chuckles along with you, stepping a little closer. “I liked being 4B. I liked that you knew me when I was just some guy through the wall that you liked talking to. I liked talking to you through blackouts and through shitty phone calls. I liked what we had too. Have, if you’ll let me.” “Are you asking me out?” He huffs, a weary smirk on his face. “Isn’t it obvious?”  Instead of answering him, you shove the bouquet of flowers back into his chest, watching as his brows furrow in confusion, before you’re reaching forward to cup his face and kiss him. In one suspended second, Gojo simply stands there doing absolutely nothing. He freezes so completely beneath your hands that, if you risked opening your eyes, you might find his bright blue ones staring back at you. His lips are still against yours, the rest of him gone rigid, roses crushed between his chest and yours, fingers locked around the stems not quite sure what else to do.  You almost pull back. 

But then, in a rush of movement, the bouquet is gone.  He throws it blindly into your apartment with a kind of urgent, graceless force that makes several roses scatter across your carpet. Before you can laugh, his arms are around you.  One arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close enough you half tread on his feet, other hand coming up to cradle the side of your face, warm and shaking just slightly. Nothing in the world has ever felt so right.  There’s too much smiling in the kiss, and your noses are pressed awkwardly for the kiss to be smooth but then he tilts his head and gets it right.  You kiss him until your lungs begin to object and then slowly, you pull away. Gojo follows you for half a second before he catches himself, eyes opening slowly. His pupils are blown wide, hair a mess, and his mouth is parted without anything clever coming out of it.  “So,” he licks his lips, eyes flickering down for a moment. “Is that a yes?”  From the floor, your camera continues recording from its crooked angle. It captures none of it neatly, not your face and not his, not the way his thumb brushes your cheek. It catches the fall of the roses, the way your bodies draw the other in in a rush, the stumbling as he walks you back into your apartment and you both disappear from the frame in a fit of giggles and whispered words.  “Yes, Satoru,” you laugh, letting him guide you further into your apartment. “It’s a yes.”  Later, when you edit the film, you leave the shot in. It isn’t as graceful as it could be nor will it win an Oscar in cinematography, but for your love assignment, you decide that this will do. 

The entrance to Tokyo Jujutsu Elementary opened up to the main hallway; with classrooms upon either side, and doorways spaced between walls that were kaleidoscopes of crafts and schoolbag hooks and polaroids of students over the years. If Toji looked hard enough then he’d even be able to find the polaroid where Megumi was flipping the camera off—he’d learned that one from him, see.

That was an awkward parent-teacher meeting.

But that was also the day he properly met you - beyond just the polite nod and hasty small talk at drop-off and pick-up. 

With your adorable flowery apron on - courtesy of elementary school policy - and your lips trying very hard not to twitch up into a smile—very nicely telling Megumi that that wasn’t something good kids do.

Toji agreed then. He’d have agreed with anything you said.

“But you were the one that taught—”

He’d slapped his hand over Megumi’s mouth then.

You’d let a small laugh slip- and he was a goner. 

After that meeting, Megumi may have lost something (iPad privileges for a whole month), but Toji gained something: this little ember of attraction that he couldn’t shake off no matter how much he tried. Every routine pick-up and drop-off, every bake sale, every little notification that lit up his phone—you typing into the parents’ groupchat about some announcement or the other. And though it’d never be anything too personal, his heart always thundered in his chest as he clicked those notifications open. Is it weird that he set a different tone for your notifications?

The harder he tried to ignore it, the further it kindled.

Until he evidently couldn’t even walk inside that damn building without feeling some part of him melt just a little…

Even now, his skin burns as he watches you. 

Biting back a laugh as one of your students hugged their guardian goodbye- so hard that both adult and child topple over. And then you’re being grappled into the same embrace, which you’re letting yourself be tugged into—soon enough, three more of your students join in. One tucks a wildflower from the garden behind your ear.

Sunlight falls across your face as your head falls back in a laugh - and then you’re leaning forwards and grabbing all of those tiny bodies in a hug. 

Toji can’t help but wonder whether you’d like to be embraced just the same. Toji can’t help but wonder whether you’d laugh just like that when you’re picked up and spun around, feet never touching the ground. Toji can’t help but wonder why the hell Itadori Yuji was pointing and laughing at him.

“Mr. Fushiguro’s dad, your face looks funny—!” He squeals. Loud enough for multiple parents to turn and look.

Toji grumbles something underneath his breath and straightens, like the respectable adult - the respectable adult - he is. Cool. Calm. Collected. Mature. “Oh yeah? And your hair looks funny, kid.”

Now those same parents were turning to him and glaring. 

“What—?!” He gruffs out at them, hands raising in surrender. “He started it.”

Itadori turns to them and smiles an utterly precious, gap-toothed smile. 

He tells himself that he’s imagining the way they seem to be pulling their kids away from him.

Itadori stops laughing and ruffles his own coral-pink locks. The boy had strong-armed himself to become one of Megumi’s best friends since their first day; and he always has made himself known as the chatterbox of the group. The sweetheart. The trouble-stirrer (one of them, at least). “My grandpa says it’s um- jeanetic. My father had pink hair, too.”

Toji raises a brow, “Oh?”

“Yeah! Did you know my uncle’s in prison?” The boy looks squarely up at him and beams. “He sets things on fire.”

“Same, bud.”

“I eat dirt.”

“…what the fuck.” Toji whispers underneath his breath- though it must’ve been loud enough for the keenest of eavesdroppers to listen, because before he knows it, a little boy with a face mask and the most atrocious bowl cut Toji’s seen in his life—pulls out a notebook from his backpack and starts furiously scribbling something down.

Assumably the profanity he’d just spoken.

Inumaki Toge, was it?

Now he’s the one stepping away from these damn kids. 

But before he can get too far, Toji feels a tug on either arm—he looks to his right: Itadori. 

Attempting to climb up his forearms and biceps like monkey bars.

He looks to his left: Kugisaki.

Looking knowingly between you and him.

“These partners stink of-”

“What was that?” Kugisaki asks. 

“Nothing.” Toji quickly replies. And then there was the other one: Kugisaki Nobara was impossible to miss in a classroom. If not by her chattering that was just as loud as pink-haired Itadori’s, then by the red, rubber hammer that she seemed to be fond of, smashing it on top of people’s heads if they displeased her. He was just in the middle of wondering whether he could be successfully knocked out if she hit him hard enough when-

“Where…are you taking me?” He quickly narrows his eyes- just as soon as the little girl started pulling him by the hand. Towards your classroom. “Hey—”

“Oh, c’moooon.” She rolls her eyes in a manner that was far too expert for her age. “How is the male lead going to get the heroine if they don’t even talk?”

“I’m not the main character?”

Itadori - who had by now managed to perch atop his right shoulder like some parrot - whispers uncomfortably in his ear. “How’s the rizzler going to get the skibidi?”

Toji whirls to him- “Bless you?” The fuck…

Megumi follows and nods sagely. Deadpanning. “Dad’s not sigma enough for that.”

“Not you, too?!”

“Hi?”

The Earth had given way from underneath him. But in reality, it was just your voice breaking through the chaos of the elementary lobby—Itadori had begun gripping onto his shaggy, black bangs for balance now- and Toji was doing all he could to peak through the boy’s cutely chubby fingers.

A breath catching in his chest once he realizes that they’d walked him all the way over to you.

Apron on. Brows raised. A flower tucked prettily behind your ear. Standing right at the door to your vibrant classroom; you kept a hand on your mouth to stifle your obvious smile. Though nothing could hide the light in your eyes.

And before Toji’s given the opportunity to wax shitty poetics about it in his mind, you’re nodding at the boy latched onto Toji’s head. With a smile- “Down now, Yuji. What have I said about climbing people like monkey bars?”

He sighs and removes his hands covering Toji’s eyes, “To not climb people like monkey bars.”

“And what are you doing right now?”

“Climbing people like monkey bars.” 

“Down, please.”

Yes, ma’am…Toji’s thinking to himself. Snap out of it, man.

It was like a miracle. Itadori Yuji - for however much of a sweetheart he was - was never the type to listen to authority so directly—you could tell the kid to not eat glue and he’d chug down the whole bottle. Toji knows. From experience.

But it’s as easy as butter that he’s sliding off the older man now- and soon enough, his small red shoes are hitting the floor. And he’s staring up at Toji with his scarred mouth gaped open.

In fact, everyone was.

“Um, Fushiguro-san? Is everything okay?” Your brows then pinch in concern.

Kugisaki slaps her forehead, and Megumi seems to sink deeper into his bangs. As quickly as the words are registering in his head—he’s shutting his mouth and faintly puffing his broad chest out. Making sure that you see the way his beefy biceps flex as he scratches behind his neck. “Yeah- yeah, everything’s alright. How about you?”

“Can’t complain.” You giggle. And when there doesn’t seem to be a follow-up question, he flexes even harder. “I see uh…you’ve been hitting the gym lately, Fushiguro-san.”

“Oh, me?” He has the audacity to look a little shocked. “That’s cute, doll. But I don’t hit the gym.”

“You must take steroids then.” Itadori pipes up gleefully. “My uncle takes them, too-”

“I’m all natural—”

As this subsides, you’re taking control of the chaos like the professional you are. “Alright, oh- look at the time!” Sweeping a glance behind you at the classroom clock, “We’re almost late for attendance and rehearsal time. Let’s get inside, kids.” 

You start ushering some of them inside- and Toji squirms as those balls of energy rush past him. Evidently you were preoccupied with them, but you have enough time to look up at the older man and flash him a smile-

“And I’ll see you at pick-up then?”

Faintly, he nods. “Uh-huh.”

“Good.” You cock your head up at him, “Hope you have fun with the gym then~”

“U-uh-huh.”

He can only watch mutely as you whisk a few students inside and clap your hands to get their attention—some of the parents were filtering out and he knows he must look like such a creep…but you were just so astounding. And at least he hadn’t completely fucked up that interaction-

“Mr. Fushiguro’s dad, sorry for your aura loss.” Itadori pats him comfortingly on his side. There were still some students milling about with their goodbyes. 

He whirls, “Fushiguro Toji doesn’t lose aura-”

“But you did.” Kugisaki nods with her arms crossed. “You fumbled, Fushiguro-san.”

He turns to his beloved son for reassurance. 

Megumi looks at Toji blankly. “You never had aura to me, dad.”

“That’s it-”

“But it’s okay.” Kugisaki says, “The male lead never gets the heroine in the first five minutes. They have to suffer first. You just messed up Phase One.”

He almost feels sorry asking. “And…what is Phase One?”

“The rizz phase.” This time, it’s Itadori that answers. “You have zero rizz, Mr. Fushiguro’s dad. But—we have a plan.”

“A plan?”

Itadori holds up three fingers. “Four more phases before you win Ms. Teacher’s heart!” Not so loud…he’s grateful you haven’t noticed them yet. 

Megumi holds up the correct number of fingers. “Four more phases to embarrass yourself, dad.”

What moral support, son.

“I don’t know…” 

Itadori nods seriously, “Take it this way, Mr. Fushiguro’s dad- there’s a red button and a blue button in front of you. If you press the red button you die alone like my uncle probably will. If you press the blue button you totally rizz Ms. Teacher up and live happily-ever-after before she divorces you. Which button would you press?”

Neither?! His jaw drops. “What the fu-”

“We just want to matchmake you!” Kugisaki shoves Itadori aside. 

He eyes the kids warily. Leaving his love life to three elementary schoolers? Has Fushiguro Toji really fallen this far? Oh…he really is getting old. “Whatever. I don’t a shi- damn.”

And the answer is yes, yes he has.

But then Kugisaki clasps her hands together and beams, “Then in the end you’ll be just like Jinu and Rumi from K-pop Demon Hunters!”

And beside himself, Toji cracks a little smile. “Yeah…yeah, maybe we will.”

“You’ll die in the end and she’ll become a demon!”

“…let’s just stick to Phase Two.”

.

.

.

FUSHIGURO MEGUMI’S (and co.) FIVE-STEP PLAN TO MATCHMAKE HIS FATHER AND HIS TEACHER—PHASE TWO: SWEET TREATS!

Status: Pending…

Why did he agree to this shit again?

Though it wasn’t exactly Valentine’s Day; Fushiguro Toji was lugging a cart ‘round the candy aisles of Maruetsu supermarket, followed by three children with sticky fingers that just kept on piling even more sweets into the hefty chocolate-filled cart. And more. And more. And more-

And though Toji agrees that there was never a wrong day for chocolate - he was just damn relieved that yesterday had been pay day. These brats didn’t even glance at the price before throwing chocolate bars and heart-shaped candies over the cart rim.

Right alongside a bunch of flour, butter, and whatever shit one needed to make cookies. 

Because yes—Fushiguro Toji was apparently the type to make cookies now. 

Itadori tosses a bunch of Daddy Tony’s Chocolonely into the cart. “We’re totally chocolate-mogging everyone in the store right now.”

Why did he agree to this shit again?

It’d been their idea.

Tokyo Jujutsu Elementary’s annual talent show was nearing. The decorations were being made. The kids were rehearsing after-school. And Toji didn’t care too much about such things—the only reason this had stuck in his mind was because you’d sent a message about it in the group chat. And he’d read that little sentence over and over again until he memorized it. 

To raise funds for such an endeavour, the elementary was hosting a bake sale; where parents - should they choose to do so - could contribute their own baked goods and little treats and candies that could be sold. The year before, Toji had honestly just sent Megumi off with a bag of chips that Itadori had scoffed down in all of three seconds. 

Though, in his defense, it wasn’t mandatory and he didn’t know what the fuck a bake sale was supposed to be. 

Phase Two of the plan seemingly consisted of emptying out Toji’s pockets- the three of them had insisted that this bake sale was the perfect opportunity for Toji to make his move on you.

It was simple, really—bake cookies for the sale, sell them there, and when it came to you- woo you with a special heart-shaped cookie and ask you out. Simple! 

Was it obvious that this plan had been concocted by a bunch of nine-year-olds?

Toji sighs.

He glimpses Megumi wandering into the meat section and reaching for ¥50,000 Wagyu-

The next day, after burning the first few batches of cookies and setting fire to his kitchen only twice, Toji found himself crammed into a pretty pink-frilled booth at the official annual bake sale. Equally as pink apron cinched around his waist—and his t-shirt so tight that he catches a few single parents giving him appreciative looks.

Though he wasn’t paying attention to that. 

He was keeping his eyes on you- making your way from booth-to-booth, laughing along with parents and trying out everything your students had to offer. 

Toji lets out a long, lingering sigh.

He was never going to get over this damn crush—

Next to him, Megumi and his two best friends were the ones manning the counter and giving out cookies to paying customers. He hates to admit it, but business was booming. 

“Hey…hey, if I pay you in chocolates would you sell this shit again for me?”

Megumi looks up at him blankly. “I want 60% equity and ¥5 for every unit sold.”

Toji drops a cookie he was holding over the counter—“M-maybe not…”

“Hey, there’s Ms. Teacher!” Itadori squeals. 

And then…and then the most sweet, seraphic sound echoes in his ears- too close for it to be something he’d imagined, too removed from him to be anyone but you. You’re making the tall man freeze where he was leaned over the counter - and the hairs on the back of his neck rise…he’s pausing to listen for you before he knows it.

“Oh, let me get that for you.”

Toji hadn’t noticed you walk over. Toji hadn’t noticed you bending down to pick up the cookie he’d dropped. “O-oh, no you don’t need to—” Not before you’re straightening up and holding it out to him with a beautiful smile. 

“It’s no problem.” You chirp. 

Mutely, he takes the crumbling cookie from you.

He wanted that cookie badly.

“So…I see business is booming.” You nod down at the three little ones manning the counter, “Good job, sweethearts. How are you today?”

“Good.” Both Megumi and Kugisaki echo.

“My grandma got hit by a bazooka!” Itadori beams.

Your smile falters, though Toji’s impressed at how quickly you recover. “Well…that’s certainly a time, isn’t it, Yuji? And how are you, Fushiguro-san?”

“O-oh, me—?” His faze sizzles at being called out so suddenly. And the older man hurries to scratch behind his neck—did his biceps look good in this apron? “Ah…chill.”

“Chill, hm?” You smirk. Eyeing him, “I dunno- I’d say it’s a rather hot day today.”

Features scrunching up, Toji leans his head out and looks at the sky. “Is it? Those damn weathermen always lie.”

Megumi smacks his forehead. 

“No, I just meant…” You’re flitting your gaze at the paper-thin fabric of his t-shirt, wrapped around his chiselled limbs so perfectly. Gift-wrapped. And then you’re shaking your head, instead turning to the rows of cookies put on display. “Anyways- any recommendations you guys have for me?”

Toji furrows his brows at the abrupt change in conversation. Beside him, reaching just past his knee, Kugisaki kicks him in the shin and hisses- “The cookie! The cooooookie! Make a move, male lead!”

“Oh. Oh.” Toji startles. Bending down and whispering back, “Now?”

“Yes, now!”

“But-”

“Go.”

“Wait—”

“Go!”

Finally, he holds one calloused palm out at you. Bandaged and slightly aching from baking all day yesterday. “Stay here, we made something special for you.”

“Oh?”

Toji shuffles around in the box of cookies that they’d brought with them; packaged away and separated from the rest was one particular cookie—your favorite flavor, which he’d probed out of the kids. Specifically made in the shape of a heart.

His hands shake a little bit as he turns to you with it.

Scarred lips parting, “This is…”

“For me?” You cock your head with a sweet smile.

He nods. “Free of charge.”

“That’s too sweet, I couldn’t possibly-”

“Please—” Toji interrupts, fingers weak - barely holding onto the crinkled package - as he holds it out to you. “I insist. For taking care of my son.”

Something changes in your expression, and your fingers twitch closer to his.

The trio watches open-mouthed as your hands close the gap in mid-air before—

“Oooooooo, cookie! Fanum tax!” 

Before one Todo Aoi leans over the counter and snatches the cookie fast- before everyone could even blink, all of Toji’s emotions, hopes, pursuits, and dreams find themselves stuffed down the crumb-coated maw of the little boy. Chomped to bits.

Everyone looks at him in stunned silence.

He polishes off the cookie in three bites.

“What?” Todo asks as the silence stretches even longer- and he notices the stares around him. “Needs a little more salt…”

Toji feels like keeling over. “I am going to-”

“Here, Ms.” Megumi picks up one of those cute, floral-decorated cookie packets on the counter and pushes it into your hands. “Free of charge.”

“Thank you. I…” You look at Toji as though you’re about to say something more—but then a call of your name from across the school field catches your attention. Another teacher was waving you over for something- and with an apologetic smile, you’re bowing your way out of there.

Itadori whistles, “Wow, Mr. Fushiguro’s dad. Maybe if you hadn’t waited around bein’ a scaredy-cat then Ms. Teacher might’ve gotten the cookies before Todo.” 

Immediately Kugisaki gets down from the counter- grabs her rubber hammer, and slams it down on Todo’s head. 

Then before Toji can feel a rush of pride, she grabs two cookie packets and beckons him to crouch down to her height.

Once he does, she presses both packets to his cheeks and asks seriously. “And what are you?”

“A fuckin’ idiot cookie.” 

A small gasp.

From the other side of the counter, he hears furious scribbling as someone jots that particular word down—he doesn’t need to look to know that it’s that Inumaki Toge again. Nooooo—! It’d slipped out accidentally, he promises. Also on the other side of the counter was Todo Aoi who was now eyeing the other cookies enviously- Megumi frowns and starts pulling them away from him.

Itadori turns to Toji and shakes his head as though he’d been the adult in this situation. “It’s a shame, though. Phase Two has also failed - take the L, Mr. Fushiguro’s dad.” 

“L.” Kugisaki echoes.

“L.” Todo.

“L.” Somehow Toge.

Megumi nods. “Loser.”

And somehow that hurt the most—

He groans.

Todo huffs. “Can’t believe you just got framemogged by the TJE class monitor, old man.”

Toji whirls around with a glower. “Mugged? I’ve never gotten mugged by anybody-”

“But since you’re all just begging me—” Todo turns to the bemused others with his arms crossed importantly. “-I’ll teach you the true art of rizzing.”

.

.

.

FUSHIGURO MEGUMI’S (and co.) FIVE-STEP PLAN TO MATCHMAKE HIS FATHER AND HIS TEACHER—PHASE THREE: A DATE.

Status: -84834832849 aura.

A date.

Not one he’d asked you out on, of course. 

Spring had neared like a reawakening of the Earth; the breeze was warm. The Sun cascaded softly. The birds were twittering. And Fushiguro Toji was losing it—he had already had enough of making a fucking fool out of himself in front of you.

And now he was about to do it all over again.

Megumi’s elementary school was hosting a picnic with the kids in Ueno Park, in honor of the cherry blossoms beginning to open up. 

Parents were invited too, of course. 

And it was inevitable that you’d be there.

Now with that kid Todo - a student a year older than the trio, it seems he’d found himself attached to Itadori though Toji has no idea how that friendship started - onboard for the scheme, Toji was finding himself pulled around like a marionette. This ridiculous scheme to kinda-sorta try and make you fall in love with him…

That he was going along with.

So for the outing, the four had emphasized that Toji wasn’t to come unless he was looking his absolute best. They’d told him to burn that usual black t-shirt of his - no matter how many times he tried to insist that he had a wardrobe full of identical ones. He wanted Megumi to vouch for him, but the boy had lied.

That traitor. 

Thus on the Saturday morning it’d been planned; Toji spent a good few hours in front of the mirror.

Tugging back the sleeves on his white cotton sweater- he’d been told that people appreciate forearms more this way. Dousing himself in perfume. Putting on one of those face creams Kugisaki had recommended after asking her guardian. Attempting to tame his shaggy, black bangs. He made sure his biceps were looking good that day—and stuffed Megumi into his matching sweater as well n’ rushed off to Ueno Park.

He thought he looked pretty good, honestly.

Todo eyes him warily once he arrives, “…That’s the best you’ve got?”

“The hell’s wrong with it?”

“It’s just…not sigma-”

“Shut-”

A few parents turn to look at him.

“He started it—he—”

After certainly no small amount of bickering (and much apologizing from the woman that seemed to be Todo’s guardian), they managed to make it to the picnic area. Where a row of multi-colored checkered blankets were laid out across the green grass like some form of a quilt—Megumi wastes no time before waddling over to where Itadori and Kugisaki were seated with their families.

And before long, the three kids were tugging several blankets closer together and creating a larger one. 

As Toji sighs and stalks over to them—he’s suddenly stopped by Todo Aoi. Evidently having broken free from his guardian for far, far greater purposes; he holds his hand up and makes Toji freeze. “You have much to learn, don’t you, old man?”

“Haaah?” He balks down at the boy.

“True rizzlers don’t sit around playing teatime with kids—” He throws his arm behind at the other three, “-and my beloved brother, Yuji—” They were related?! “True rizzlers have to be tall and nonchalant even if they’re short and chalant.”

Toji eyes him warily. “…Okay? And what am I supposed to do?”

“Talk. To. Her.”

“How—”

“Go there-” Todo stabs a finger in your direction. But Toji didn’t need it to know where to look. 

He sweeps his eyes across the cherry blossom gardens- and his eyes seem to find you as they always do. Even in a garden of the world’s brightest and rarest flowers, you would be the most beautiful. 

“Brother eugh, you’re getting that sappy look on your face again- nonchalant. You have to be nonchalant!” Todo exclaims.

You were wearing a summer dress that fluttered around you in the soft breeze- and before he knows it, the little boy was pushing him towards where you were standing.

“W-wait—”

“Oh, has Phase Three started already?” Soon enough, Itadori’s voice is piping up right beside him. And he’s pushing Toji, too.

Then comes Kugisaki. “Ooooo they always have a cherry blossom episode! I love those.”

The dark-haired man looks to his son for help, and he pretends not to meet his eye.

Dammit.

“Fine—fine.” An unstoppable force meets an immovable object. Toji’s pushing back against their persisting guidance, and they just won’t have it. You’re going to notice him being made a fool again. “I’ll talk to her. Don’t rush me—I said don’t-”

“Why is it that every time there’s trouble, it’s got something to do with the five of you?” 

Too late.

With your hands on your hips, you’re walking over with a playful smile.

Though there was nothing playful about the way his heart thunders-

High-pitched giggles emanate from behind him, and he doesn’t have the time to compute before all three sets of small hands - and Megumi’s mildly disappointed stare - vanishes. The kids are running off, leaving the two of you alone, once you’ve properly walked up to them—leaving Fushiguro Toji to fend for himself and also…collapsing to the ground. Because of the lack of force from behind now, his ass hits the soft grass and you’re trying not to laugh from above.

Pretty hand reaching out, “Everything alright, Fushiguro-san?”

“Toji.” He somehow manages to blurt out, taking your hand and getting to his feet. “Call me Toji.”

“Of course.” And then you’re sharing your own first name. He repeats it like a spring breeze.

Then, like the fool he is, Toji stands around admirin’ you—long enough that the silence stretches a little awkwardly, and you’re starting to shuffle on your feet. He hears a chorus of small groans from somewhere behind him, and quickly amends- “Uhhh, do you like walks down cherry blossom paths?”

You’re raising a brow in faint amusement, “Yes?”

“Have you walked down cherry blossom paths?”

“Not this year.”

“Will you walk down cherry blossom paths?”

“Fushiguro Toji, are you asking me to walk together?” You bump his shoulder with yours, then loop a hand around arm - he felt like arm candy, but don’t save him—Toji was exactly where he wanted to be - and start walking between pink-shedding trees. “You should’ve just said so. Should we have invited Megumi as well?”

“Who’s Megumi?”

Your startled laugh echoes—and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.

The two of you loop around the pathway and then back again in companionable silence; though questions and confessions constantly bubbled up to Toji’s throat. Are you having fun? Is his body too warm? Can you hear his heart beating? Do you like the cherry blossoms? Do you know you’re far more beautiful than them?

Why do you glance at him with that knowing smile? 

What secrets do you hide?

Before he knows it, the two of you have reached the spot where you met once more. And four eager children wait for something to happen- for something to be said.

Toji knows he might not get another opportunity—so as soon as the cherry blossoms are tapering out to more of the green grass, he’s turning to you and stammering. “I-I have something to ask…”

“Yes?” You smile.

“And it might be strange-”

“Yes?”

“And weird-”

“Oh, yes?”

“And creepy- don’t be afraid to say no if it’s creepy.”

“Huh?”

“But…” He feels the question: would you wanna grab coffee sometime? claw at his throat. Toji knows you’re waiting, anticipating—and then a cherry blossom flutters down and lands on your crown—making you look far too angelic. “Would you…happen to know that Japan is turning footsteps into electricity.”

You balk. “Excuse me?”

Toji whispers to himself faintly. “U-using piezoelectric tiles…every step you take generates a small amount of energy. Millions of steps…together…”

“Okay, old man, let’s get you to bed.” Todo’s - Todo, of all people - is coming to his rescue. Ushering him away, whilst his son hopefully manages to cover for his father with a good excuse—

“I do not know that man.” Megumi tells you, then leaves.

You’re left shrugging. Ah…

As they’re walking back to their picnic area, Kugisaki murmurs. “This is the cherry blossom episode. Next is the episode where you get hit by a truck-” Toji really hopes it is. “Guess this’ll be that sort of unfinished love drama…”

“My uncle loves hitting people with trucks.” Itadori beams. 

Megumi smacks his forehead once more-

Toji narrows his eyes. “You’re gonna give yourself a concussion if you keep doing that.”

The boy smacks his head even harder. “I hope so.”

Toji mutters to himself. “Fuckin’ me too.”

Behind him, he already knows that Inumaki is jotting this somewhere in some bushes. 

As the picnic continues—more and more of Megumi’s friends join their combined blankets. Toji notices you fluttering about, too.

So caught up, in fact, that he doesn’t even notice four matchmaking masterminds roping in their schoolmate Yuta into a deep conversation.

Toji sneezes- someone must be talking about him.

.

.

.

FUSHIGURO MEGUMI’S (and co.) FIVE-STEP PLAN TO MATCHMAKE HIS FATHER AND HIS TEACHER—PHASE FOUR: THE MARRIAGE.

Status: Toji, you’re scaring the huzzzzz-

It seems that Fushiguro Toji was getting married.

Though not exactly of his own volition.

And to whom, exactly? Well, that would be none other than you—

The wedding shall be held in the idyllic venue of Tokyo Jujutsu Elementary’s sprawling playground; amongst the swings and pieces of chewed-up bubble gum stuck underneath slides. Music shall be provided by the choir team. Snacks are Goldfish crackers and nothing more—you won’t want to miss it. 

Don’t bother to RSVP.

Invitations are open to no one, he’s bound to make a fool of himself.

Again.

Toji should’ve known that something was up the second Megumi told him to come for pick-up a little earlier than usual. Elementary classes ended their day with around fifteen minutes of playtime, before official pick-up commenced.

And though Toji didn’t mind coming in earlier - he usually staved his entrance off for the allocated time so Megumi didn’t have to play with his dear ol’ dad looming over his shoulder.

Something had to be wrong- maybe he was sick? And yet…Megumi was the type to never let out even a peep even if he was—he’d have to be dragged out of class and still try to convince Toji that he was feeling well enough to go back. He’d never leave hints like that.

Maybe he didn’t like playtime anymore? That certainly couldn’t be it- playtime always exhilarated Megumi, no matter how much his deadpan son attempted to hide it. He loved his friends. He loved the small rabbit pen that the school had. He especially loved the twin black-and-white wolf spring riders on the playground.

Or maybe…maybe he was getting bullied-

Toji shakes his head clear of that thought immediately.

He’d no sooner be bullied by his son than have his son be bullied-

In fact, before he’d met Itadori and Kugisaki- Megumi loved the playground for…very…different reasons. He’d pile his ‘opponents’ high like a small kid mountain. 

Toji shudders. 

So what could it be—?

That’s exactly the thought tumbling ‘round in his mind as he walks up to that multi-colored painted building. Instead of going up those steps, however, he’s rounding the corner towards the playground on the other side - where he could hear cheers, laughter, and shrieks. Those youngsters touched the air around them with happiness, and it made some part of Toji’s chest soar to think that his son was one of them.

That’s until he’s actually in-view of the playground and spotting you. Right in the middle of the chaos of elementary classes in playtime. 

At the foot of the slides.

A bundle of weeds in your hands

A paper veil atop your head.

With that kid Yuta from the grade above Megumi’s stood solemnly beside you. An officiant. 

It looked like…a wedding.

And the space in front of you was empty for your partner.

Ah.

He looks at Megumi who was avoiding his eyes- so this was the plan…

Fuck.

He must have made a noise of bafflement- because just then you’re turning and letting a smile splash across your face. You exclaim. “Ahhh—there’s my groom!”

Oh…oh, he might faint.

Toji feels numb to the small hands that tug on his arm- “C’mon, c’mon! You’re late, Mr. Fushiguro’s dad—!” And he’s being dragged all the way to the front of the slide, where his bride-to-be was awaiting him, it seems…“After this we need time for the divorce-”

“No, the divorce should happen like four episodes later.” Kugisaki rolls her eyes.

“There shall be no divorce.” The seven-year-old Yuta speaks above them - out of them all, he seemed to be taking his role the most seriously. And he beckons the happy couple closer to one another—fuck, Toji couldn’t even meet your eyes.

Standing in front of you, he stuffs his hands into his pocket and keeps his eyes trained on the ground- giving you a brief nod. “‘Sup?”

“On second thought, there may be a divorce.” Yuta solemnly declares.

“Hey-” Toji sends a glare at the black-haired little boy with the wide eyes, then crosses his beefy arms. “So are we gettin’ married or not? Chop chop.”

You shake your head fondly, “Don’t worry- we cut into rehearsal time for this, it seems.”

“Start the music…” Kugisaki whispers to Megumi…simply standing on the sidelines and sinking deeper into his bangs with every passing second. “The music—!”

Megumi lets out a sigh beyond his years, and clicks on the classroom speaker they must’ve brought from inside. 

In mere seconds, Stateside by PinkPantheress with Zara Larsson starts flooding the playground. Kugisaki hums to herself with a smile- “PinkPantheress n’ Zara always makes things better.”

Soon enough Yuta’s reading out of a scribbled notebook in his hands, “We’re here today to um- something about marriage.” He looks between the two of you—“Hold hands, please. They always do that in the movies.”

The two of you share a look.

And then you do.

Your fingers are warm n’ perfectly fitted in his - he doesn’t have to think to curl his own fingertips around yours. It’s as if his hands were made for holding yours—the thought zips through his body and he wonders why the hell he was getting emotional as though this was a real wedding…

Yuta continues, “-ummm, something about love.” Toji almost jolts. “Something about caring. Something about taking care of each other when you’re not feeling too good- like my momma always does, heh. She makes this chicken soup that-”

“Get on with it—!” Kugisaki hisses.

“Wait- what sort of chicken soup?!” Itadori pleads.

“That’s my rizzler! Toji bro—!” Todo cries.

“Oh, yeah—” He looks back down at his useless notes. “And stay together forever and ever and ever for at least 67 years no matter how far apart you are, or how scared of your feelings.” Yuta looks at Toji pointedly- who did this kid think he was?! “Does the happy couple have any vows?”

And maybe this was it.

Maybe this was his moment.

Maybe this was…

Toji’s scarred lips open. “I-”

Suddenly the speaker playing music explodes—not literally, though for a moment there it did feel like it. The dance-pop song that’d been playing inexplicably heightens in volume until their ears rung- and Megumi hastens to turn it down. 

Kugisaki smacks the speakers with her rubber hammer a few times before it stops. Then with nothing to play in the background, she elbows the pink-haired boy in his side—“Yuji, hit it!”

“Me?!” Itadori yelps, before noticing everyone’s gaze upon him. It’s slowly dawning upon Toji that this might not be the best place for a real confession when Itadori suddenly starts doing some confusing two-step. “You gotta go and I can’t…ehh, sorry. Uhhhh…Nepal. I just don’t want to say that-”

“Please.” Megumi drones. “Please stop.”

He stops.

Mutely, Kugisaki smacks the speaker once more and Stateside blares again.

Toji turns to the officiant- and shakes his head.

Yuta looks at you, “And what about you, Ms?”

“Oh—my vow is that you’re all getting extra homework if eeeeevery single one of you doesn’t dance to the reception tomorrow.” You look at each and everyone.

Small faces scrunched in glee.

Yuta hisses at Itadori. “Time for the rings—the rings!” And the pink-haired boy startles to hand them to him- just a single one plopped onto Toji’s open palm. It was one of those cheap ring pops; still slightly sticky and encrusted with flecks of strawberry candy from before. The actual candy part of it had been very-obviously eaten…

“Sorry.” Itadori still smiles. “I ate it.”

“And the…other ring?”

“I ate that, too.” He excitedly claims, “Plastic and all!”

“I…love whatever’s wrong with you.” Toji furrows his brows. “But also what.”

“Enough talk—exchange the rings then vow your undying love!” Kugisaki yells. “Then die!” She turns to some of the other kids looking at her strange- “What? I don’t mean it like that—the drama’s just better when they die. Where are you going- where are you-”

“Scary kid.” Toji comments. “But sweet. But scary.” 

Megumi distances himself from everything.

Before long, Yuta’s announcing that they ‘exchange’ rings. 

You mime putting one on him.

From the sidelines, Todo sobs into Itadori’s t-shirt—seriously, were they actually related or not?! “Marriagemaxxing already…I’m so p-proud of you my rizzler…my brother in rizz…my sidekick…”

He jerks. “Side—”

Yuta speaks. “And do you, Ms. Teacher—take this auraless man to be your husband?” He can already tell who came up with this officiant’s script- but before he can throw a glance at the trio and Todo, you’re nodding.

“I do.”

Toji feels his heart flutter. He grows warm.

And his fingers are just as tender and sweet as they slip that ring pop onto your left hand—“Then I announce you married- uh. Smooch?”

“Euuuuuuuugh! Gross-” Megumi wails.

If Toji thought that he’d been warm earlier—then he wasn’t prepared for right now. It feels as though his entire body was on fire from the inside; every vein, every cell, every single part of him that hummed with delight at the notion. That made him blush.

So embarrassingly, as though this was his first-ever crush.

Toji catches your eye- and you give him the briefest of nods. 

And then he’s leaning in…he’s hearing your breath catch- and pressing his lips to the back of your hand - just the lightest of grazes, where the ring pop stood out - before pulling back just as quickly. Nothing indecent. Nothing that would give away anything to you—

That ring…

It tasted sweet on his lips.

The surrounding kids cheer- loudly. Now it seems that everyone in the playground had joined in on this little act—and that’s exactly what it was.

Just a little act.

Toji’s lips quiver with the beginnings of a sentence he’s been aching to say for so long-

And then the school bell rings denoting time for pick-up.

Around you, the kids run to their classrooms and their backpacks - excited to tell their parents about what they’d just done in the playground. And as the sea of small bodies moves and thrashes against the two of you…Toji just remains standing. Staring. 

Something within him still unfinished and unsatisfied—

You’re keeping his gaze for a few more seconds, before finally dropping it and unscrewing the plastic ring from your finger. “I uh…sorry about that- and thank you for playing along.”

“Yeah…” He faintly says. “Yeah, no problem.”

You give him a tight-lipped smile. “And if you don’t mind, I should probably…”

You gesture to the parents that had started walking in now, and he jerkily nods. “Yeah- yeah, go do…that.”

“Yeah, I…” You’re then holding your hand out to him- nodding at him to keep his palm open. Then dropping the strawberry-scented ring pop into his hand. “Guess the divorce came a little sooner than expected, huh?”

“Two seconds, that’s a new record.” 

Starting to walk back—you briefly wave. If he was a cockier man, he’d have called you nervous. “I’ll see you at the talent show, ex-husband.”

“Hopefully sooner, ex-wife.”

“Oh- yes, the upcoming parent-teacher meetings.”

“That…” Toji murmurs to himself. That too, he supposes. 

And as he watches you leave…Kugisaki is the first to speak up. “Not even a date? Awww man, I hate slowburns.”

He gapes, “I uh…”

“No, he got scared of his feelings—” Itadori adds. Toji squirms. “Did you know my uncle says he doesn’t have feelings? My grandpa agrees.”

“Dad.” Megumi pulls on Toji’s t-shirt to get his attention. 

“Yes, son?”

And so deadpan, so unexpected- “You fumbled just like Klay Thompson.”

Dammit, son.

Speedwalking to the school with them. “The fuck just happened?”

That one he mouths- he mouths. But Inumaki writes that one down fast-

.

.

.

FUSHIGURO MEGUMI’S (and co.) FIVE-STEP PLAN TO MATCHMAKE HIS FATHER AND HIS TEACHER—PHASE? CURRENTLY ON HOLD…

Reason: Parent-teacher meetings.

Status: Dire. Auraless. Megumi doesn’t claim him.

Will the plan have to be abandoned?!

“So.”

“So…” You’re twiddling your thumbs together on top of the desk, eyes trained on Toji whilst his own dart around the colorful classroom. “Megumi’s such a good kid- honestly there’s nothing more to say about him.”

Because today was the day of parent-teacher meetings; that half-an-hour where parents sit before you and leaf through crayon drawings and mathematics that made them cringe. Toji himself hadn’t been the biggest fan of them when Megumi was younger—why the fuck would kindergarteners need parent-teacher meetings?!

But now that his teacher was you…

At least it gave him something even more to look forward to.

So he sets his elbows on your desk and leans in—every meeting had been conducted sitting on opposite sides of your teachers’ desk. It was far too much proximity for his poor heart to take—but you sure as hell won’t hear him complaining.

Not a single peep.

He glides his roughened fingertips over the pages before him- Megumi was never the type to be cagey about his grades. And either way he did get everything above an 80%. 

Toji tries not to let the tips of his lips twitch upwards into a smile—especially as he looked over one of the artworks that Megumi had done: a slightly-smudged drawing of three small figures, one with pink hair, another with a brown bob-cut, and then a portrait of himself. 

And then two larger figures on either side of them

Toji and yourself.

The prompt had been Megumi’s family…

“You should be very proud, y’know.” Your gentle voice breaks through the quiet air in the classroom. 

Toji had come slightly after the other parents, as organizing Megumi’s little sleepover at the Itadori household (with Kugisaki and Todo in tow) had been absolute chaos. Today they’d offered to take the children in because apparently Itadori had gotten some earthworm movies he’d wanted to share. And though Megumi didn’t seem particularly excited at the prospect of earthworms, he’d been begging for weeks to have this sleepover. 

Now. The sunlight dipped beneath the horizon outside, casting the classroom into its warm embrace—like kindling fire. The light bounced off your features and touched his lips, too. Where things were perpetually encased in day and the hours were hot and lazy—like the leaping spark from a fireplace. 

For the first time in a long time, Toji lets himself smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

You’re nodding with a smile- “He speaks about you a lot, did you know that?” Once Toji shakes his head, you’re continuing. “About how strong you are, about how you’re funny—” Your nose crinkles, “-but an awful cook.”

“Hey!” Toji squawks, indignified. “I try.”

“I know.” Something about that felt so knowing. “It really is a pleasure having Megumi in my class- he’s quiet but I think Yuji and Nobara are slowly bringing him out of his shell. He’s diligent. He’s quietly kind. He’s a sensitive kid, he notices things faster than most.”

“I’m sure he gets that from me.” He smirks.

You hum, staring at the blood-orange sky outside. There’s a long pause before you speak again—“And I think it’s sweet how he’s trying with his friends to set the two of us up.”

Toji’s jaw drops.

Actually drops.

For a moment he’s speechles—hell, he thinks he might be speechless till the end of time. Sure, he’d guessed that you must’ve noticed something being off…but he never thought you’d actually realize the two of you are being set up—!

You catch the look in his eyes- “Oh, c’mon. You didn’t think I wouldn’t notice, did you?”

“I uh…”

“The cookies. The wingmanning. The wedding. The plans-” Stifling a laugh. “Elementary schoolers aren’t very good at whispering, you know that?”

“Damn.” Toji fists his hands, softly thumping them against the table. “And here I thought a bunch of elementary schoolers could fix my love life…”

You hum—something coy in your tone. “Why don’t you fix it yourself?”

And Toji’s snapping his head up so fast that he thinks he might’ve caught whiplash-

“Would you…” He swallows. He starts off unsurely. “…maybe…like to get coffee sometime-”

“Yes.”

Barely waiting till the sentence flies off his tongue before you respond- it makes Toji wonder whether you’ve been waiting for this as long as he has. 

Embarrassment shows in your slightly-frantic movements, as you start picking at the stationary on your desk and smoothing out your clothes. Nervous. It hits him. “I uh…you’re my last meeting of the day, actually. I’m free to grab some coffee now, if you want?”

He’s never agreed to anything faster in his life.

Less than twenty minutes later and the two of you have found yourselves in the cute new coffee shop down the road. The faintest memory of sugary goods still etched on your smiling lips, and your cups of drinks warming your hands—the two of you were sitting and talking at a window booth when the rain had started.

“Oh, shit…” You peer outside. “You were right.”

“Hm?” Toji takes a sip of his black coffee.

“The weathermen always lie.”

More than the panging warmth at the idea that you’d remembered a throwaway comment he’d said- was what you’d followed that sentence up with.

“Hey, I know this is out-of-the-blue, but…I don’t have an umbrella with me, and taxis are costly this time of evening.” You shift in your seat, avoiding his eyes for perhaps the first time since he’s met you—“My apartment’s close by if you’d wanna maybe grab an umbrella from there? You could even hang around until the rain subsides, if you want…”

This time, it’s his turn to reply embarrassingly fast. “Fuck yeah.”

And so you’d ran.

You’d ran hot on each other’s heels as though someone was chasing you—maybe fear, maybe your inhibitions, maybe the feeling that Fushiguro Toji wanted to kiss you so badly.

So bad. 

You’re sploshin’ the five-minute walk it takes to reach your apartment- before you’re both darting inside and closing the door to the world. Just the two of you. On opposite sides of the narrow vestibule connecting the entrance to the living room. To your bedroom.

Toji presses himself against the cream-colored wall and breathes in. heavy.

This entire place carried your sweet, sweet scent—and it was driving him crazy. 

In front of him, your hands seemed to absent-mindedly reach for the umbrella holder- blindly clasping around one polished handle. “I uh…”

“You-”

You’re both attempting to speak at the same time—then abruptly stop when the other speaks. You gesture for him to continue, and he does the same for you-

“I just meant- here’s your umbrella.”

“Thanks.” Like a zombie, he’s reaching out and clasping it. 

This was it—this was really it.

He was about to leave.

He was about to wake up from this dream.

Before Toji’s letting the umbrella drop to the floor- and you’re both crashing into one another. It’s built and built—and the coil of tension had tightened and tightened before finally snapping—!

Lips against lips.

Tongues against teeth.

His lips sliding against yours and positively ravishing you—one of his large hands finds purchase on the back of your head. His warm touch. Toji feels the pretty pulse on your neck quicken as he tips your head back and delves his tongue even deeper - memorizing the taste of you to every crevice in his brain. 

Your essence…he wants it imbued into him.

Absolutely starving.

He just couldn’t get enough of you.

He just couldn’t get enough of you.

The two of you are making out sloppily- and the sounds of lips lifting from lips permeates your entire apartment. Punctuated occasionally by the hollow grunts that Toji himself was letting off. 

Your cunt twitches between your legs - and you’re pressing yourself into Toji even further. Pushing against his toned body. Rolling your hips against the raging, hot erection that’d found itself home in his pants. Just the sheer size of it- the thickness, the way it throbbed against you was enough to make you let out a soft, simpering nose.

One that he’s gladly swallowing up whole—greedily, even. Because that’s exactly what he was.

A fucking greedy man for everything that’s to do with you.

And he’s waited for far too long.

In no time, you’re taking him by his larger hand and pulling him to your bedroom. Leaving the umbrella and your reservations behind. 

Toji lets out a hallowed groan as he’s being pushed back into the bed- the backs of his knees hitting the mahogany bed frame. Your hands flying to the ties of his trousers. Your own knees striking the floor—

“Easy there…” Toji brushes one hand down the side of your face- reaching back into your scalp and tightening. “Don’t want my girl to get hurt.”

“Your girl?” You grin. “You haven’t even asked me out on a proper date yet.”

“And you should be buyin’ me dinner before this. Lecher.”

You’re huffing as you’re able to tear that wretched fabric off his muscular legs- finally. And your jaw…drops…

He was so…

Fucking big. 

From the moment his achin’ cock’s freed, Toji springs out and seems to pulse even thicker—the start of his base reminding you of one of those soda cans. Toji reaches down to wrap his other hand ‘round it, his palm covering some of the dark curls decorating his pelvis, and he seems to look even bigger when framed like this.

Rock-hard. Covered in numerous veins.

They were dappled all across his inches and throb-throb-throbbing- so ravenously hard that Toji’s length twitched the moment he’s feelin’ the cold bedroom air. 

And not only was he big, but that curve of his shaft was delicious.

It made you wonder what it’d feel like to have him curve up inside…

Upwards tilted. That crown of his craning up at the ceiling. The pointed end of his cock ended off with his blushin’ mushroom tip- so fat n’ already soaked in his wads of sopping precum. The color of it was the prettiest tannish pink you’ve ever seen in your entire life—and so you really couldn’t help but lean down and press a chaste peck-

The taste of his salted-caramel pre takes over your tastebuds immediately.

“O-oh…” Toji’s head throws backwards with a gravelly groan. “Don’t go teasing me now, doll.”

“You’re the one that’s been teasing me this entire time.” You counter. Though you’re loosenin’ your jaw and taking him in even further. Inch by solid fucking inch.

It’s hard to stuff Toji’s cock all down your throat like you so-badly wanted- he was big. N’ those zig-zagging veins down his length made you want to linger…massaging the roof of your mouth with a few semi-gulps that rub his inches on top. Again and again.

You’re shuttering your eyes and moaning deep into his shaft at the carnal scratch he somehow seemed to soothe.

“Ah ah—” You’re hearing him before you’re feeling him- suddenly, two thick fingertips are pinching your poor nostrils together. Eyelids flapping open to stare up at him.

Toji has the most cocky smile across his beautiful scarred lips as he peers down at you. “Now what’s this about refusin’ to take me anymore?” He asks you, punctuating the that of his sentence with a thorough nudge of his bulbous tip down your throat. “You don’t wanna take me any further, doll? Or you…”

And another.

Though, this time, it wasn’t a nudge at all.

And Toji’s massive length is pushing apart the wet walls of your throat- and mazing his throbbing cock inside. The noises you’re letting out when you slurp him up are so pretty—

And the older man uses his second hand to wipe a stray tear off your cheeks, “-can’t?”

“Mmm–mmmfg.” Choking down both your needy sobs n’ your breaths. You’re clawing at his thicks- so thick and toned. 

“What? Whaaaat?” He pinches your nose even harder. “Wha’s the matter, teach?”

“You-” Barely able to mangle out some semblance of coherent syllables - you’re going cross-eyed trying to both take him in deeper, and look at the fingers blocking off your airway. “Mmm- ngh.” Whatever mess of a sentence that was meant to be, it’s coming out embarrassingly jumbled.

Embarrassingly so.

And tears are just starting to stream down your cheeks- your cunt’s getting even wetter at his actions and pushing against his toned calf- once he finally lets go. Finally. 

With a loud pwah! you’re removin’ your swollen lips off of his cock. Feeling for your poor nose that’s startin’ to sting—“So mean, Toji. I should’ve bit that dick off.” You joke.

He looks at you with a leer, “We both know that out of the two of us, you’d be the most disappointed with that.” And it was true- it really was true. But Toji takes it a step further by lazily reaching his calf over and pushing it against your cunt. Dripping wet even through those panties of yours- your pretty dress was hiked up n’ already exposing that sweet puddle that’d formed in the middle of your underwear. 

His mouth waters at the sight. 

“See what I mean?” Then Toji straightens up and pats the top of his manspread thighs. An invitation. 

“But, I haven’t even…”

“S’okay.” He nods at you reassuringly. You didn’t have to worry about any of that needing to please shit with him- he’d be the one driving you wild tonight. “I have something even- heh, sweeter in mind.”

And hopefully every night after that.

In a mere few moments, you’re settling yourself on Toji’s lap. And then he’s attacking your mouth in a mind-numbing kiss, tongue swipin’ between your lips before ultimately sucking on those tastebuds of yours. Sucking. Like candy. 

He then maneuvers the two of you to then drape you across the sheets; slightly sodden with lust and perspiration. The blankets stick against your clammy skin as Toji presses your hips down on the mattress- “Down, girl.” His fingertips dig into the side of your waist.

“What’s that about not teasing?” You pant.

With a low chuckle, Toji presses a peck on the left side of your hips—then creeps himself down until his handsome features were huffin’ and puffin’ against your sodden cunt. His own hot breath seemed to reach out to you—curling, cloooouding, it seemed to stroke down that watery slit of yours. “Fushiguro Toji never teases.”

“You’re teasing right-”

“M’just waiting for the perfect moment.” And there’s not a second wasted- before Toji lurches himself nose-deep between your legs and gives your dripping pussy a good lick!

“O-oh…” Your mouth waters at the brazen touch- body jolting just a little. Though if you thought that Toji would let you so much as squirm whilst he’s locked between those thighs of yours, then you’d be sorely mistaken. His fingers dip down the expanse of your legs and clutches you close against his ravenous maw—“Aren’t you going to take off my panties, Toji?”

“Don’t be vulgar, doll.” He mutters- just to tease you. “M’gonna eat you through your panties, of course.”

And it’s the only warning you’re getting.

Before Toji latches his puckered lips to your cunt- properly, this time. And his loooooong tongue was lavishin’ across every inch of your pussy he can reach. Through your panties—Toji gapes his mouth open and laps like a fuckin’ animal at the leaking slit your underwear was stick to, your swollen folds, your utterly needy button. 

“Mmmmpf-” Toji’s prominent nose pushes apart your pussylips, and he’s feelin’ for that puckered, pretty nub. Already throbbing like you’ve been so impatient for him this entire time.

He presses himself closely against your clit for a few seconds—throb-throb-throb!

Like a ticking time bomb. He’s driving himself absolutely wild; before snakin’ your panties to the side and thrashing his tongue against your raw cunt. Slurping. Sucking. Everything and anything of you he could find - he’s pushing himself so nose-deep into your pussy that he damn-near can’t breathe—and eating you out like an animal. “Mmmm, don’t you move a s-single inch now.” Toji tightens his hold on your quivering legs. “I haven’t even started yet.”

“Started what…?” You babble out - your hips were yearning to push off the creaking mattress.

Though all it took was a fraction of his strength to pin you back down, roverin’ his tongue on the slick-glued insides of your folds. Rooooound and round in circles that left your mind dizzy. “Heh- what else d’you think?” Toji answers. “M’teaching this pussy how to take Fushiguro Toji, that mouth of yours barely could.” 

“Rude.”

Before you could pipe up anything more witty, he’s spankin’ four fingertips down on your glistening pussy. “S’not rude if it’s true.”

“I’m the teacher here, though.”

“Then maybe I’m the principal.” He leers- swabbing the fat edge of his tongue into your hole. “Gonna grade you and everything…”

“That’s fuckin’ corny—”

“Made your pussy weep, though.”

And just in good time, too- because almost immediately he’s letting that first inch of his tongue fuck inside your cunt. Just the first inch. But it was already enough to make your toes curl n’ your back arch—Toji’s wet muscle was just so thiiiiiiick.

He’s pluggin’ up your orifices with a mere few thrusts - the ridged texture of his tastebuds kneading your tight walls. Shovelling you open. Shovelling himself deeper inside. The flickerin’ tip of his tongue laps against some of your most tender areas n’ then pushes up into the sensitive roof of your cunt- 

“Sh-shiiiiit—” You’re keening out in the prettiest trill he’s ever heard. Toji has the audacity to let out a wet giggle at your dripping core - clenching ‘round him.

His ears burn at the musical note- and before long, your folds are burning at the searing smack! that he’s planting on top of your cunt. Your head drops down to stare at him in shock.

“That’s a C- for handling yourself.” He echoes. Two more spanks follow—before Toji nuzzles your gummy pussy n’ laps his tongue across your clit. “But an A for pretty moans.”

“I th-think that grading syllabus is a little- ngh! skewed, don’t you think?”

Yet another spank.

“Not at all.”

He was merciless. Ruthless. 

Absolutely impounding you with those slashing, scouring strokes of his - Toji’s thrusts manage to reach so much deeper than you’d have ever guessed. And when he felt that his tongue was stuffed inside your pretty pussy far ‘nough, he’s flaring those edges outwards and scraping his tastebuds down the sides of your walls. Stimulating your snug channel sooooo fuckin’ good—

“S’that so?” Toji flutters his long, dark lashes up at you. It takes a second for you to register that you might just have said that last thought out loud. 

Though you’re merely steeling your expression and nodding-

He’s plasterin’ his fingertips against your puckered pussy with a chuckle. “Cute. But flattery’s gonna get you nowhere- with all this damn squirming you’re doing, your C’s dropping down to a- haaaah, D.”

Your eyes pop open. “B-but…”

“And just think-” Toji continues without a single speck of mercy for you. His tongue’s tunneling and thrusting- faster than your frenzied mind can keep up with. “-that if you’re reacting like this to just my long tongue…” Thrust after thrust after thrust—the curvaceous inches of his tongue don’t leave a single bundle of nerve unprobed. Zig-zagging and swabbing wildly - your eyes are rolling to the back of your head. “-yer gonna fucking run away when it comes to my cock, doll.”

“Oh—” You’re tumbling your hips constantly up to him. Attempting to heighten the friction. “Promise I won’t. Promise-”

“And now look at you.” And after all he’s taught you…Toji grasps his left hand underneath your arching body. Grabbing a nice handful of your ass cheeks- it makes him smile to watch your mouth drop in shock at the lecherous action. “Dropped down to a D-.”

A fucking minus.

That earns you several more wet spanks. And then a fucking pinch—right on your clit. 

And Toji merely trundles, “Where the fuck does this pretty pussy think she’s going?”

Crashing his lips into…yours. Quiverin’ your weakened limbs around the back of his neck- 

Your ankles are weakly latching themselves there- slightly glissading down his glossy strands. It messes up his hair just a little, and Toji’s soon finding himself smirking against those pussylips.

“Tch…fine, you get a B for neediness.”

Only a B?!

But perhaps it was better that you’d kept your mouth shut - mostly because you couldn’t speak over the primal moans that kept escaping your throat - because then Toji’s sinking his canines ‘round your clit and swervin’ his face aaaaaaall around your pussy. Every corner and inch.

He’s fucking coating his features in a layer of your shimmering slick.

Like a damn medallion.

It clings to him in long, ropey excess. 

“O-oh my god—” And then your trilling vocals break the very second that he’s intruding your hole once more- this time, with his fingers…

You weave your own hands into Toji’s sweat-dampened hair and hold on for dear life. 

“Hmmm, a little possessive, huh? M’bumping that neediness to a- hah, A+...heh.”  As a reward, you’re getting his textured lips encasing your sopping clit—just so desperate and damn-near flinching with how hard you were pulsing between your legs. Needing. Needing. 

Your breath comes out in stuttered bursts, and it takes everything in you to echo. “A-and what do I have to reach to- mm, get your cock, Toji?”

“I dunno, aren’t you the one with a t-teaching degree?” He’s babbling- before that haziness in his eyes clear up once he realizes what he’s just said. “No, wait—I’m pretending to be…I’m the one gradin’ now…”

Toji looks down at your pussy as though offended. A spank wasn’t enough, he’s properly spitting. 

“This pussy’s made me pussydrunk, heeeeh?” He scoffs n’ edges in to suckle on your clit—all while his two bulky fingers were scissoring between your pussylips. “An A+ for that…”

Pussydrunk.

Though you’re not doing too well yourself.

You’re just sizzling from the very insides - even your very vessels seemed to be vibrating with that carnal sort of needy for him. And as Toji’s slashing strikes with his fingers accelerate, so does that kindling pit of pleasure in your stomach. “I th-think m’close, Toji…”

“Close?” Toji’s breath hitches. “Close? And we haven’t even finished the grading yet—buck up, doll, because m’not holding back anymore.”

“Th-that was you holding back?!”

Evidently so. 

And you can surely attest to that—in mere moments, he’s adding in a third finger with a lecherous slurp! of his honed inches bein’ all sucked in. Down every single joint. Down to his damn knuckles; you’re feeling those mountainous ridges push up against your sensitive pussy, and Toji’s three fingers were rovering and reeeeeaching every single spot inside. 

Claiming them as his. 

Toji laps up a silken line of slick that’d dripped from your cunt and down his wrist—you were claiming him as yours, too…“Got a second to hear your grades, doll?” Whilst the desperate pleads start to bubble at your throat- “Won’t be given’ you this cock until you do…”

“Then tell them to me—” You shriek. Haaaauling at the thick tufts of his scalp, “Fucking tell them, Toji.”

“Well, manners fuckin’ F.” Toji huffs- but he couldn’t fool you. Ohhh, the expression on his face was pure ecstasy as you guided his lapping face around your cunt. “But manners for this pussy…hmmmm…B.”

“Only a fucking B-”

“Roughness: used to be C- but oh, m’thinking it’s now an A.” He comments - the more and more frustrated you become, the more your carnal urges surface. Your grip is searing on his scalp. Your legs are locking around his neck. “Doesn’t mean you can go easier on me now, teach.”

“Fuh-fuuuuck, Toji—”

“Wetness: A+ of course.” Rolling his eyes as if that should be obvious, “Sweetness: A++.”

“Fuck-”

“That mouth of yours? D.”

“Fuck you.”

“M’trying to. And hmmmm, about the way she clenches…” He ponders- before then directly diverting his round, rotund fingertips to the spot just a few inches into your channel. He’s already mapped your smallest ridges n’ crevices out by all of these thrusts- and you’re feeling pure white-hot pleasure run down your spine as Toji then rams his dexterous fingers into your fucking g-spot. “That’s an A+++”

Because of course, you’re keeping him hostage.

Of course, you’re squeezing your velvety walls around him until his joints were turning white—and Toji’s fingers were havin’ a tough time moving back and forth stuffed between those clingy walls of yours. 

And yet…he’s scissoring apart your needy grip and rammin’ into your deepest, most sensitive depths. 

Again and again and again- “Yeah…this pussy’s definitely gonna take me now. Isn’t that right, teach?” But the only thing your fried head can urge you into doing is nodding. “Tha’s what I thought. Dumbification: A.” Toji cocks his head. “Don’tcha think I’m being too nice with these grades?”

Shaking your head fervently- through sobs.

“Mmmm…well, I think I am.” His canines teasingly grip your clit and draaaaag that swollen nub out. “S’alright doll. After this, you can grade my cock when s’time…”

He smirks - still keeping that firm attachment onto your most sensitive place - and you can feel it. You can feel it—

“And you can be as fuh-fuckin’ ruthless as you want.” Toji’s long fingers then curl inside your cunt for a final time before…“Because I know m’gonna be fucking my girl right.”

Before you’re shattering.

Breaking into your high—it first starts with an explosion of pleasure between your legs- before teleporting right up to your fuzzy head. Your thighs were quaking. Your pulse was thundering so loud you could hear it with your own ears- and it felt as though those torrential waves of bliss were just taking you over.

“Oh—oh, fuck.” Clawing your hands through Toji’s hair. The only anchor you had was this- and the tunneling digits that were fingering you to ecstasy- he was hitting at every peak. He was elongating your orgasm more than you ever thought possible. “Fuck, fuck, fuck- fuuuuuck, Toji.”

“Tha’s right- say my name.” He grunts. Such lecherous slurps! echoing from between those legs of yours as he sucked n’ sucked on your clit simultaneously. “Say my name- say my name. Who’s making you feel this good?”

“Toji.” You hiccup. “Y-you, Toji.”

A sudden spank! resounds across all four corners of the room.

Your high crescendos even further than your limits- or at least what you’d assumed them to be. 

“I was lookin’ for sir, but that works, too…” Your jaw drops at the boldness of this man. 

“Sir? D-don’t think that you’re getting off easy when I- ngh, when I finally ride you stupid.” As the last few pangs of your orgasm shimmer through your body, you’re managing to gather your thoughts better than before. “What do you think you’d get anyway?”

Toji pulls off your oversensitive pussy with a loud plap! “A’s across the board.”

“Oh, don’t be so humble.”

With that said- you’re reaching out and grabbing Toji by the collar. He gets dragged upwards—the bed dips as the larger man cages you in with his strong forearms. He leers, “I think you pass, don’t you?” You could see that somewhere during makin’ out with your pussy, Toji had tugged down his pants- likely to jerk himself off as he did so.

And his long cock stood aching and rock-hard between his legs.

That round, reddened tip of his seemed to wink up at you as he dribbled out a single bead of precum. Aaaaall the way from the edge of his cockhead, and aaaaaall the way down to his bushy black curls at the base. 

Your mouth waters. 

Hands on his body- his fingers tearing through your own fabric. Soon enough you’re naked beneath him—and he’s just as devastatingly bare. Perfectly-aligned abs. Chiselled pecs. Fushiguro Toji had a body that made him look as though he was hand-carved by Hercules himself- it was just so sensual the way his ladder-like core pushed down against yours.

And it’s so difficult to keep a stern face facing him when those bulky biceps of his were flexing—right next to your face. 

But somehow you manage- you were a professional after all, weren’t you?

“I’m serious about what I said on riding you stupid.” You’re murmuring up at him, “Flip over.”

He smirks, “And if I don’t?”

Within split-seconds, you’re grabbing a fistful of his hair and watch as his cock twitches at the rough manhandling—at the way you’re turning the two of you over and straddlin’ his hips. Toji bucks with a groan underneath you, but you’re quicker than that- and you’re clasping a hand around his gulping throat. Sweaty and scorching to the touch .

“Ah ah-” You tut. “You already had your fun. Now it’s time for mine…”

“Aye aye, teach.”

“Quiet coyote.”

Toji mimes zipping his lips shut—but there’s openin’ back up again almost instantly once he feels your sultry hips swivelling down his cock. You duck a hand underneath yourself to grab his throbbing hilt- and before long, his wet tip’s smushing apart your pussylips. He’s intruding that hole of yours and bucking up into where you needed him the most. 

He shovels in a few more inches with an echoing sluuuurp! of your pussy viciously gulping him up.

“What did I…oh.” Beside yourself, your head’s throwing backwards at the sheer pressure he was creating inside. “What did I say about staying still?”

“Actually…you didn’t say anything about that.” That grin of his was infuriatingly handsome. “Still, mmm, cockdrunk?”

“You wish…” Though that wasn’t an outright denial.

It was true that your mind was coiled with fog after your last orgasm; the dopamine still coursing through your body. And the way that Toji’s thickened, textured length was pushing your walls aside wasn’t helping—it was making you feel sensations so raw and carnal- that saliva’s dripping down one side of your mouth after a mere few semi-thrusts.

Just the bulging edge of Toji’s tip scourin’ your channel inwards.

“Awww, don’t tell me I was right?” He asks you- and it registers as mere distant words. Toji reaches out his right hand and wipes away that splatter of spit - before bringing it up to his own mouth and sucking. What an animal. “Can’t grade ol’ Toji’s cock? Or is it- heh, so good that I’m breaking all the scales?”

“You fucking-”

“Yeah yeah, wish- right?” He scoffs meanly. But honestly…he might be teasing you but he was completely infatuated with the idea of your smart mouth babbling for him like this.

The way you were twitchin’ with every light graze of his flared tip.

Your insides were getting used to him, and Toji was only stuffing himself even deeper. “Right…” Though of course- Toji himself wasn’t doing all too hot. Just a single one of your adhesive-like clenches and he can’t help but buck—

“Easy, eeeeasy- you can take me, my girl.” He grits his teeth. He blinks back the tears in his eyes. He’s guiding your impatient hips n’ grinding your cunt dooooown onto his pelvis. “Fuck- fuck, and how d’you grade the stretch?”

Your eyes pop open. “The stretch?”

“Mhm- the streeeeetch—yeah?” Toji’s chest rumbles in delight as he watches your every microexpression and reaction. Even the smallest curlings of your toes. “Such a big stretch feels good, yeah?”

“Mhm- I rate it a…” Your jaw hangs open- as though to purposefully influence your grading, he’s shovelling his length a few more times. Faster. “B.”

And that…what the fuck?!

“A fucking what?” That makes Toji’s maw gape, and his handsome face twist into something of bewilderment. You look at him and you honestly let out a little chuckle - but that seems to only spur his driving hips even further. “Oh noooo, doll. You’re joking.”

“I said what I said.” Biting back. “It’s a B because…” Throwing your head back and arching—you’re gaining more movement in your hips and letting him push inside. “-you’re just not- fuck. Bottoming. Out. Fucking do it already—!”

His feet plant ever-so-slightly on the ricketing mattress- and that means you were feeling the plushness of his muscular thighs against your back. Those tendons and rippling strength. There’s honestly nothing more for you to do but gnaw down on your trembling lower lip in the hopes that those embarrassing noises won’t escape-

Because Toji then glues his hands upon either side of your hips and slams your cunt down onto him.

It’s such incredible friction. It’s so many of his winding veins- pushin’ apart your walls and scouring you all over—

You’re arching your back into him and gasping- “A…”

“A what?” 

“A for your veins.” And that honestly manages to catch him off-guard and make him let out an exhilarated bout of laughter. Being in your presence was like four shots of espresso—fucking you was four shots of vodka. Straight. He’s dizzy and he’s clamorin’ his numerous inches up your pretty channel, watching as you drip glittering globs of slick all ‘round him. 

“Oh…” Toji seems to grow even bigger inside you. He grips you as hard as your pussy was clenchin’ him. “Keep going-”

“And a- fuck, an A for your pace—” Just perfect. Dizzingly fast; whilst still being steady and balanced enough that you were able to feel his textured length slipping into every spot he needed to slip into—“And a…a fucking F for your attitude.”

“Hey…” Toji juts his scarred lip out in a mock-attempt at a pout. “Don’t imply m’sassy when your pussy speaks like that to me.”

Right on cue, you’re letting out some of the most sinful slurps as your cunt slaps right down onto him. Onto his hefty balls. 

Toji’s thick brows raise at the sounds- even he didn’t think that your pussy could get this chatty. Mouth falling agape as he watches you drip-drip-driiiip.

You’re grabbing onto both of Toji’s sculptured deltoids for balance, increasing your pace as your legs start to grow limp. Perhaps noticing your little struggle, he’s supporting one of your legs with his left hand—and thumbing over your clit with his right. “And then? What else—dick got yer tongue?”

“You fuckin’ wish.” You snipe back.

“Yeah.” Toji simply replies. Without a single warning, he’s craning his head up and signalling you to open your mouth- instinctually, your tongue sticks out. Perfect for him to spit—a heaping mess between your lips. “You looked so pretty with my cock stuffed down your throat, too.”

Grumbling - though it was just for show - yet you swallow. “That was a B- since you almost missed.” One of your hands reaches up to swipe at the splattered saliva piled on the edge of your mouth.

“Oh, no.” With such a loving glint in his eyes, he’s leaning up and kissing the mess he’d just left behind. “That was totally on purpose, doll.”

“F-filthy…”

“You know it, teach.”

Both of your bodies were slick with sweat and glissading against one another- Toji himself was especially frenzied with his movement. His thrusts. His battering rams. The way his pointed tip struck the end of your cervix—bottomed-out, and then smeared apart your channel to drag aaaaaaall the way back down. Aaaaaaall the way back in.

And through it all- you’re sputtering out the same ruthless grading of his cock. Red-hot and ruining your insides with every thrust. Pump after pump- “Deepness…B.”

Bruising his tip’s circumference at the very back of your pussy. Dribbling out ribbons of pre. 

“Hmmm, alright a B+.” Pleasure runs through your body the more n’ more Toji grows irritated- because that meant the more he was trying to prove himself. The harder he was fucking you. “And the- hah, curve: an A.”

“Damn right.” That, he could most certainly be proud of. That slightly upwards curve of him was the perfect shape to mold your walls- to let his honed tip be the searchlight.

And your sweetest spots were what he was aiming for.

After a few more vulgar strokes, Toji’s rediscovering and ramming himself into none other than your g-spot. That throbbing bundle of nerves that’d just kept on and on waiting for him to probe you with his shaft—perhaps a bit too long at that…“What took you so long to find that spot again, Toji?”

“Take it easy on me…” He pleads with a slight hint of amusement. “Your pussy was to- mmm, hypnotizing. You can’t blame a guy for taking a little time…needy fuckin’ pussy.”

That last bit was said to himself- underneath his breath, in fact.

And yet, your proximity means that you’re catching onto every single word - and without a split-second of hesitation you’re countering back. “Oh? What was that…I’m sorry, maybe I was- hngh, hearing things? Because it just sounded to me like you wanted all your g-grade to plummet to an F?”

His lips part. “You wouldn’t…”

You peck him on the mouth. “Try. Me.”

And fuuuuuck—it’s clear he’s not expecting the way that sends pangs of excitement coursing through every inch of him. It’s clear he doesn’t know what to fucking do with himself- once he propells his ruddied cockhead to hit against the door to your womb.

And Toji’s thighs are left shivering at the way your walls immediately rush to embrace him.

Suctioning him.

A ribbon of drool drips slowly from the edge of his mouth, “A-and what do I have to do to make it up?”

“Hmmmm?” The fact that you made the Fushiguro Toji stutter so blatantly like this…it was driving you wild. It was making the cockiest smile plaster across your face- he wanted to kiss it away so bad but you were teasingly inching your lips away, making him work for it. 

He growls and repeats- “What do I have to fucking do to get- hah, extra credit? To make up for my…” Toji’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs. “-mistake.” 

“There now. Was that so hard to- hah, admit?” You coo. “Gimme a D.”

“Huh?” Toji gapes. “Aren’t you the one supposed to be- ngh, giving out the grades?”

“Yeah, I know. I’m just telling you to shut up and fuck me harder with your fat dick—”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

He lightly stirs his hips in semi-circular motions to get the most out of his veiny cock- to make sure that those prized n’ precious vessels were massaging your insides just right. “Fuck-” Your entire upper half is shaking from stimulation - “Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuck—just like that.”

“Hngh, oh yeah?” Honed canines beared.

“Faster-” And he listens.

“Harder.” And he listens once more.

“Fucking-” You’re it escape you in a trilling tone. “-b-breed me…”

Toji’s breathless once the words register to him. “Yes, ma’am…” 

Pumping up into you - meeting your bouncin’ cadence - like he was angry with you. Like he was trying to shove to your deepest depths n’ then probe his erect cock even further. Like he was trying to meld your bodies into one—

He was fucking you in a way that was so animalistic.

And Toji can’t help it- fuck, he can’t help but throw his head back—it just feels so good. Eyes shuttering. Brows furrowing. His hips unsticking from the now-dampened bedsheets to arch properly up into you-

But that’s when he feels those familiar fingers ‘round his throat again.

“Ah ah ah—” You tut. Your vision was just a little bleary from all the tears and pleasure clogging up your mind- “And who said you could- hah, move, hm? Seems like you’re the one running away, not me. What? Scared m’gonna milk you too hard, Fushiguro Toji?”

He growls. “You little…”

“F- for handling yourself.” Remembering just how much he’d teased you earlier for similar reactions just made these words so much sweeter on your tongue. “In fact…”

Toji looks eagerly up at you through his bangs.

To which you’re taking your lazy time changing your sloppy cadence into figure-eights instead. It swerved n’ stirred his pussy around your depths; and made it so that the most sensitive parts of Toji’s veins - that pinkish line underneath his slit, the frailest of his veins, where his balls rested - were being stimulated. Making him pour out wads of precum into you as though it was a waterfall—

“See me after class.”

“Fuck yes.” Toji grunts to himself- his hair was flying into his face, and every bit of his skin seemed to be furiously flushed. “Fuck—fuck, I need to cum inside you.”

Plap after plap after plap! of his hips hitting yours. “Mhmmm—”

“I n-need to fill you up until here-” His thumb briefly detaches from your clit to graze your lower stomach, where your womb was wont to be. “I need to feel it pouring out of you- then fuck it all back in.” And he was pistoning into you like it, too.

“Shit, m’close-”

Hard. Fast. The wads of his sappy precum only get stronger and more frequent - “I n-need to…”

Toji’s voice hatches into nothingness in his throat, and you’re cooing down at him cutely. “What’s thaaaat?”

“Need you to make me a f-father for a second time.” Toji utters.

And then with a particularly hard press on your heart-shaped, swollen clit—you’re both tumbling into your highs together. Tumbling into one another as you both hold each other through your strong orgasms - even stronger than the one you’d had prior.

Zaps and twinges of pleasure. 

Goosebumps dapple across your skin.

Your spine arches into him. 

Now you have Toji’s ravenous cock bulging into your walls- his globular tip searchin’ for every sweet spot and pinpointing them using his shape. That only elongated the sparks of your high until it felt never-ending; and dopamine washes over your body and leaves you wracking. Hands clawing down wherever you could latch onto the older man. Your knees squeezing tighter around his waist to milk him through his own euphoria. “Yes—yes, just like that.”

“Oh…oh, look at the way m’dripping out of you…” Toji’s mouth unfastens. Your cunt had already been bloated around his cock- now with his volumes of cum being webbed up inside, it was almost too much for you to handle.

And Toji’s orgasm rips through him strong—even his powerful limbs were wrapped around you as he powered through it. His thumb tremblin’ as he rolled and rolled.

He breathes out hot and heavy when those fingers of his dare to wonder…right along where a sheen was spreading along your inner-thighs. Every satiny drop of cum he was pouring out gets slid down your cervix- and then trickles deep inside of you. “So messy, this pussy o’ mine.”

“Yours?” You gasp. Though even that tiny reaction meant you feel his warm wetness splosh! inside you.

“Mhmmm—” He nods drunkenly. Left arm wrapping behind you and pulling you to him - resting you against his chest. “But don’t worry…this cock is yours, too.”

You scoff. “The audacity. Didn’t I give this cock an F?”

“Yeah, you sure did give me a fuck.”

You decide that the only way to shut up him is to overstimulate him by fuckin’ him—perhaps unfortunately for you, Fushiguro Toji seemed to have had the same idea.

“Mmm, now what about the parent-teacher meeting? We already- oh, handed out the grades, didn’t we?” He’s whispering in your ear once he’d somehow manhandled you into a doggy position. Sculpted abs pressed against your spine. Beefy arm wrapped around your throat in a headlock—

“T-to say what?” You’d wheezed out.

“That m’not done fucking this pussy pregnant.”

.

.

.

FUSHIGURO MEGUMI’S (and co.) FIVE-STEP PLAN TO MATCHMAKE HIS FATHER AND HIS TEACHER—PHASE FIVE: 𝕲𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖚𝖕…

It’s so over.

Today was the day of the talent show; and Fushiguro Megumi had never felt more untalented. 

And no…it wasn’t because of any of the other competition—if he had any idea how these things go, at the end they were going to say that everyone won and everyone gets a prize. This was elementary school, after all. And he was quite grown up. 

Anyways—the point is his, Itadori, and Kugisaki’s magic show had been quite the hit amongst parents especially.

And that wasn’t why he was feeling untalented. 

It wasn’t because Todo’s PG-censored version of a Megan Thee Stallion song had been honestly…quite good. It wasn’t because Yuta’s puppeteering act had been something that’d drawn endeared laughter from both kids and parents alike. It wasn’t even because of the act that was happening right now…where Inumaki was standing alone on center stage with a notebook opened up in his hands. The last act of the night.

The rest of the show had gone swimmingly.

Inumaki was a bit more of the quiet type, but at this moment he speaks into the mic loud and clear. 

“For my talent today, I am going to read out vocabulary words taught to me by Fushiguro-san. Thank you Fushiguro-san!”

The audience coos and turns to try and find the aforementioned man.

From his position peaking-in from backstage, Megumi watches his father pale from the first row. And then sink deeper into his seat.

Deeper.

And deeper.

And deeper-

“Bud.”

Though the rest of the audience nods in sweet endearment- Toji’s damn-near jumping out of his seat in surprise. That was…clearly not what he had been expecting.

Not at all.

Inumaki continues.

“Cookie.”

And Toji has gathered enough bravery to…perhaps properly sit up in his seat. Clapping along with the other parents- looking around to make sure that he wasn’t just hearing things. And this was actually what Inumaki was reciting.

“Concussion.”

That one draws some admiring sounds. Such a big word for such a small kid—good on Fushiguro Toji, right?

He might just be safe…

“And divorce.” That one draws mixed reactions- but Inumaki closes his infamous blue notebook, and Toji lets out a sigh of relief - one that was nearly audible backstage. 

Along with the rest of the parents, he can whole-heartedly start clapping now. Maybe even throw in a cheer or two.

Let the audience know that he was the mastermind behind such academic advancements. Yeah, maybe they should pay him.

But Inumaki wasn’t done yet.

“And my favorite yet—” Which one was it? Which other important vocabulary word had Toji so graciously bestowed upon this kid? Which other aspect of his life had Toji alleviated by the sharing of precious, precious knowledge? Inumaki firmly grips the mic. “Is fuc-”

Megumi leaps onto stage and snatches the microphone out of Inumaki’s hand before he can complete that specific word…

But the implication must have been evident either way, because then each set of eyes turns behind to the black-haired man. And glares. Toji flips them off. The applause is more polite than willing now. Then he decides that he’s never showing his face ‘round here again, he’s never stepping a foot through those damn multi-colored doors if it fucking kills him, he’s never—

Just then, you’re stepping onto the stage and graciously taking the mic from Megumi. He’s so back.

“Hello? Is this thing on?” You chuckle into it. 

And Toji…Toji knows. He knows he wouldn’t mind being thrown a dirty look from every single person he meets- so long as you’re there to spot him out in a crowd. Tugging his son close to you—as you beckon all the other kids on-stage and start your speech.

It’s mostly thanking those that made it possible; the parents, the staff, and especially the students. Toji isn’t quite ashamed to admit that he’d been too busy drowning in your gorgeous tone to even register your words—

Expectedly, you were telling the kids that everyone won - and Principal Yaga had been called on-stage to hand out prizes to every one of the kids. And as Fushiguro Megumi holds his prize - a custom trophy with his name, a certificate, and a bunch of art supplies - he’s suddenly remembering why he’d been feeling so untalented.

It had been a week since Phase Four of the mission to get you and his father together. And it had been a few days since parent-teachers meeting and Toji had come to pick him up the next day, smiling dopily.

Megumi’s sure his father’s losing his marbles. 

And he has the strange, sinking feeling that after tonight- they’d either forget about the plan or abandon it altogether. Feeling so hopeless—it’s so over.

“Hey, Fushiguro…” Itadori not-so-successfully whispers to the black-haired boy, ultimately drawing attention from whomever was around the two of you. “Fushiguro, isn’t that your dad coming up the aisle?”

“And why does he have such a big bouquet of flowers?” Kugisaki adds on.

Though…once Toji reaches the foot of the stage everything becomes very clear.

Because with a hand coming up to your mouth, and the spotlight shined on you, he lovingly hands you the plush bouquet of roses from below. Roses. Red, red roses.

With a silent thank you—you’re kissing Toji on the cheek.

Every. Single. One of their jaws drop-

Inumaki starts scribbling something down in his notebook.

Yuta sticks an approving thumbs-up.

Even some of the parents in the audience whisper to one another - most nod approvingly. 

And Toji catches Megumi’s eye to wink. “We’ll talk later.” He mouths.

Megumi nods mutely- excitement thrums through him so fast that his fists clench—and Itadori has to clasp onto them. They succeeded? They really, truly succeeded?

His eyes are glimmering as he turns to Itadori and Kugisaki- both nodding excitedly in agreement. They couldn’t squeal like they wanted to right now with Yaga’s speech droning on in the background, but after…after, they had a loooot of questions for the new couple. 

Together; they loop their arms together in a silent victory.

They’re so back.

Though being silent was never something for Todo Aoi.

Yelling. 

“Fushiguro Toji rizzed Ms. Teacher before GTA 6—?!”

Status: W. 

A/N. Honestly AHAHAH- this was so unserious.