#nb!reader

His hands are cold when they press against your ribs, efficient, therapeutic even. You’re not wearing a shirt—ditched it the moment he told you to, because modesty is stupid when someone’s checking for internal bleeding—and the sterile air makes goosebumps rise across your skin.

Or maybe that’s just him.

“Breathe in.”

You do.

“Out.”

The exhale hurts less than it should. Nothing’s broken, probably. You’ve had broken ribs before—this is just spectacular bruising and your body’s usual bullshit of marking too easily.

“You’re lucky,” Hoseok mutters, fingers tracing the edge of the bruise with a touch that’s gentler than his voice. “Another inch to the left and we’d be talking punctured lung.”

“But we’re not.”

“But we’re not,” he agrees, and his hand is still there, palm flat against your ribs, thumb resting just below your breast.

He hasn’t moved it.

You swallow and watch his face—the way his eyes track across your skin like he’s reading something written in the violence. There’s a crease between his eyebrows that only shows up when he’s worried, and it’s definitely there now.

“I’m fine, doc.”

“You came back bleeding.”

“Barely.”

“Bleeding is bleeding.” His voice drops lower, rough around the edges. “And you—you do this too often, Trouble.”

It’s not an accusation. 

It sounds more like something else, something he’s not supposed to say.

“Hazard of the job,” you say lightly, testing the waters. “Good thing I have such an attentive physician.”

His eyes flick up to yours.

Oh.

Yeah, he caught that.

The air between you shifts—not much, just enough to notice. Like the moment before lightning strikes when your hair stands on end and you know something’s about to change.

Hoseok’s hand is still on your ribs.

You’re very aware of this fact.

“Your lip,” he says finally, pulling back to grab supplies, and you can’t (or don’t want to) explain why the loss of contact feels like cold water. “That needs cleaning.”

He comes closer again, now standing between your knees where they dangle off the table’s edge, and you have to tilt your head back slightly to maintain eye contact. 

This is normal, just your usual medical procedure. You’ve done this a hundred times.

But, somehow, today it feels different. 

The antiseptic stings when he dabs it across your split lip, and you hiss.

“Hold still.”

“Trying.”

“Try harder.”

His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb resting against your cheek to keep your head steady, and—

Fuck.

You blink. 

His thumb moves, just slightly, a tiny stroke across your cheekbone that could be accidental.

Except you can see his face and there’s nothing accidental about the way he’s looking at you right now.

“Hoseok—”

“Shh.” The cotton swab moves to the corner of your mouth, careful and meticulous. “Almost done.”

But his hand doesn’t leave your face.

You can smell him from here—sandalwood and something clean, antiseptic mixing with cologne in a way that shouldn’t work but does. 

It’s grounding. Safe. The kind of scent that makes you want to lean in and—

Bad idea.

Terrible idea.

“There.” He sets down the supplies but his hand is still on your face, and now his thumb traces your jawline in a touch that’s definitely, absolutely not medical. “You should be more careful.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Fun.” He huffs something that might be a laugh except it sounds pained. “You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days, pip.”

The usual nickname lands soft, intimate.

Too intimate.

You watch something complicated cross his expression—want and restraint tangled up so tight you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. 

His thumb is still moving against your jaw, this slow back-and-forth that’s making it hard to think about anything except how easy it would be to close the distance between you.

How easy and how stupid.

“We shouldn’t,” he says quietly.

He doesn’t move his hand.

“Shouldn’t what?” Your voice comes out a tad more brittle than intended.

His eyes drop to your mouth—just for a second, but you catch it—before snapping back up.

“You know what.”

Yeah.

You do.

“Then why are you still touching me?”

The question hangs there, dangerous and honest, and you watch him process it. 

Watch the muscle in his jaw jump. 

Watch his hand finally, finally drop away from your face like you’ve burned him.

“Get dressed.” His voice is back to professional, clipped and distant. “You’re cleared for light duty. Nothing strenuous for seventy-two hours.”

“Hoseok—”

“I’ll update your file.” He’s already moving away, putting space between you like distance will fix whatever just almost happened. “Try not to get hit in the next week. Your body needs time to heal.”

You slide off the table, grabbing your shirt from the chair. 

The fabric slides over your head and you catch it then—sandalwood clinging to your skin where his hands had been, mixing with your own cherry cordial in a way that makes your chest tight.

He’s at his desk now, back turned, typing something into the computer with a focus you’d say is forced.

You should leave.

You’re going to leave.

“Goodnight, Hoseok.”

A pause.

Then, so quiet you almost miss it: “Goodnight.”

You make it all the way back to your quarters before you realize you can still smell him on your skin.

Just as much as you notice the ache in your ribs has nothing to do with the bruising.

The inventory request comes three days later.

‘Medical storage room. 1400 hours. Need your dual-division expertise for equipment categorization.’

It’s bullshit, obviously.

The medical wing doesn’t need a Cyber-Seduction hybrid to organize bandages. 

But it’s plausible enough that no one will question it, and that’s probably the point.

You show up at two on the dot.

The storage room is tucked in the back corner of the medical wing—one of those spaces that’s technically on the floor plan but rarely used except for overflow supplies and equipment too expensive to leave in the main inventory. It’s cramped and windowless, lit by flickering fluorescents that make everything look slightly jaundiced.

Hoseok’s already there, standing among half-unpacked boxes with a tablet in hand and tension in every line of his body.

“Hey.”

He looks up, and something in his expression cracks before smoothing over into professional neutrality.

“Thanks for coming. This shouldn’t take long.”

Liar.

You step inside and let the door click shut behind you.

The tension from three nights ago hasn’t dissipated, makes the air feel different right upon entry—thicker, charged. 

He’s wearing his usual turtleneck under the white coat, and you know if you got close enough you’d smell sandalwood.

You’re not getting close.

You’re absolutely getting close.

“What am I looking at?” You move toward the nearest box, and the space forces you into proximity.

The storage room isn’t big enough for two people to maintain distance.

“Equipment audit.” His voice is steady but there’s an undercurrent you recognize now. “Need to cross-reference inventory codes with the digital system. Some items are still under old classifications.”

“And you need Cyber for this because…?”

“Because the database is a mess and you’re better at pattern recognition than my staff.”

Valid reason.

Still bullshit.

You pull out your phone, opening the relevant database while he shuffles closer with the tablet. 

His arm brushes yours—brief contact, could be accidental—and you watch his jaw tighten.

Not accidental.

“Okay, so what am I—”

His hand settles on your lower back.

Just rests there, warm through your shirt, like it belongs.

You forget how to finish the sentence.

“This batch,” he says, voice dropping lower as he leans in to point at something on your screen. His chest is almost against your shoulder now, and you can feel the heat of him. “Cross-reference with storage codes 4000 through 4200.”

“Right. Yeah. That’s—” You struggle to focus on the numbers. His hand hasn’t moved from your back. “That’s a lot of entries.”

“Narrow it down by date acquired. Anything older than two years is getting cycled out.”

You should step away.

And yet, neither of you moves.

Your fingers input the search parameters, but you can’t shake off your head how his hand remains on your back, how his arm is pressed against yours, how his breath ghosts across your temple when he shifts to see the screen better.

“There.” Your voice sounds foreign. “Forty-three items flagged.”

“Good.” But he doesn’t pull away to look at his tablet. Doesn’t create distance. “What about subcategory medical-grade diagnostics?”

“Hoseok.”

“Hmm?”

“What are we doing?”

The question sits between you, heavy and unavoidable.

His hand flexes against your back—not pulling away, but pressing in slightly, like he’s grounding himself with the contact.

“Inventory,” he says, but there’s no conviction in it.

“Right. Inventory.”

You turn to face him, which is a mistake because now you’re chest to chest in this tiny room and his hand has slid around to your hip and you can see the exact moment his control starts to fracture.

He doesn’t step back.

Neither do you.

“I want you,” you say quietly, letting your Seduction training color your voice—soft and deliberate and devastating. “You’re aware of that, right?”

His breath catches audibly.

“Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” You tilt your head slightly, studying his face. “Don’t tell you the truth?”

“Don’t make this impossible.”

“It already is.” You shift closer—not much, just enough that your bodies touch. “Has been for weeks.”

His hand tightens on your hip. The other comes up to grip the edge of the shelf beside your head, like he needs something to hold onto.

“We can’t.”

“So you keep saying.” You let your fingers trail up his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath the turtleneck. “But you’re still touching me.”

“I shouldn’t be.”

“But you are.”

His jaw clenches, and you watch him fight with himself—restraint versus want, professionalism versus the very obvious desire written all over his face.

You lean in, slowly, giving him the chance to step back but he doesn’t, until your mouth is a breath away from his. 

Not touching. 

Just close enough that he can feel the ghost of it, the promise of what could happen if either of you closed that final distance.

“You want me?” Your breath ghosts across his lips. 

The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a curse.

“You’re—” His voice is wrecked. “You’re playing a dangerous game, pip.”

“Hmm?” You let your nose brush against his, feather-light. “Am I winning?”

“Fuck.”

His free hand comes up to cup your face, and for a second you think he’s going to close the distance, going to kiss you and damn the consequences—

He doesn’t.

Just holds you there, thumb stroking your cheekbone, forehead almost touching yours, breathing hard like he’s just run a marathon.

“Look at you,” he mutters, and his voice has gone rough and low. “So tempting. So—god, you’re making it so hard to resist.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Don’t I?”

Your lips are still barely a breath apart. 

You can feel the heat of him, smell sandalwood mixing with your cherry cordial until the air is thick with it. 

Can see the exact moment his control starts to splinter.

“I could—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching. “If I started, I don’t think I could stop.”

“Good.”

“That’s not—we can’t—”

“Can’t?”

You shift just slightly, and your body presses against his. 

The contact makes him inhale sharply. 

“Or shouldn’t?”

“Both.” But his hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel exactly how much he wants this. “Definitely both.”

“Liar.”

He makes a sound that’s almost a laugh.

“You’re dangerous.”

“Says the man with his hands all over me.”

“I should let go.”

“Should you?”

But neither of you moves.

You’re pressed together now—chest to chest, his thigh between yours—and you can feel his heartbeat racing to match your own. 

Can feel the way his fingers flex against your back like he’s fighting not to grab you harder.

“Tell me to stop,” you whisper, breath ghosting across his lips. 

“I—” His voice cracks. “Pip—”

“Tell me you don’t want this.”

He can’t.

You both know he can’t.

His thumb traces your bottom lip—not quite touching, just the barest suggestion of contact—and his eyes are so dark you can barely see brown anymore.

“You have no idea—” He swallows hard. “—how badly I want to—”

Footsteps in the corridor outside.

You both freeze.

The moment shatters.

Hoseok’s hands drop from your body like you’ve burned him, and he steps back so fast he nearly hits the shelf behind him. 

Puts three feet of space between you that feels like a chasm.

The footsteps pass by.

Keep going.

Fade.

“This can’t happen,” he says, and his voice is ragged. “We—this can’t—”

“Hoseok—”

“No.” He runs a hand through his hair, destroying the careful styling. “We can’t do this. It’s—the rules exist for a reason, and I can’t—I won’t—”

“You won’t what?”

“Ruin you.” The words come out fierce. “I won’t be the reason you get hurt.”

You stare at him—at the wild look in his eyes, the heaving chest, the white-knuckled grip he has on the shelf behind him like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“What if I’m willing to risk it?”

“Well I’m not.” But his voice cracks on the words. “I can’t—you need to go.”

“The inventory—”

“Fuck the inventory.” He won’t look at you now. “Just go. Please.”

You should argue.

Should push.

But something in his voice stops you—desperation mixed with genuine fear, like he’s hanging on by a thread.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Okay.”

You head for the door.

Your hand’s on the handle when his voice stops you.

“Wait.”

You turn back.

He’s still standing there, gripping that shelf, looking completely wrecked.

“Don’t—” He swallows hard. “Don’t think this means I don’t—that I’m not—”

“I know.”

You do know.

That’s what makes it worse.

You leave before either of you can make this any harder.

But three hours later, sitting in your quarters, you catch sandalwood on your shirt and know he’s probably dealing with cherry cordial on his coat.

The almost is becoming unbearable.

Something’s going to break soon.

It’s past two in the morning.

You shouldn’t be here.

You came anyway.

The medical wing opens up ahead after the elevator doors, and you can smell blood and antiseptic in the air. 

That distinctive scent of wounds being cleaned up, of emergency protocols activated, of Hoseok running damage control on something that went very wrong.

The main treatment area is empty now, recently sanitized, but there are signs of chaos everywhere—discarded medical supplies not yet cleared away, monitoring equipment still beeping softly, disorder that only happens when people are fighting to save lives and can’t be bothered with tidiness.

You find him in his office.

He’s standing at the window with his back to the door, still wearing his surgical scrubs under the white coat. 

There’s blood on his sleeves—not his, you know, never his—and his shoulders carry the kind of tension that speaks to hours of adrenaline finally crashing.

“Hoseok?”

He doesn’t turn around.

“You should be asleep.”

“So should you.”

“I’m working.”

“You’re standing in the dark staring at nothing.”

His jaw tightens—you can see it in profile—but he doesn’t argue.

You step inside and let the door close softly behind you. 

The office is dim, lit only by the glow from the medical wing beyond and the city lights filtering through the window. 

It evokes a sense of disconnect from reality, like you’ve both stepped outside normal time where rules don’t apply. 

“Was it bad?”

“It’s always bad.” His voice is caustic, scraped raw. “But yeah. It was bad.”

You move closer, laggy and chary like he might bolt if you make sudden movements. 

“Emergency?”

“Yeah.”

“Are they—”

“Stable. For now.” 

He finally turns to look at you, and the exhaustion in his face makes your chest hurt. There are shadows under his eyes, tension in every line of his body, and his hands are shaking slightly. 

“What are you doing here, pip?”

“Checking on you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

Something flickers across his expression—frustration or maybe relief that someone sees through his bullshit.

“Go back to your quarters, pip. I’m not—I don’t have the energy for this right now.”

“For what?”

“For pretending.” The admission comes out harsh. “For acting like I’m not—like we’re not—”

He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

You take another step closer.

“How long have you been awake?”

“I don’t know. Twenty hours? More?” He rubs his eyes. “Lost count somewhere around the third transfusion.”

“You need to rest.”

“I need—” His voice splinters. “I don’t know what I need.”

Liar.

You both know what he needs.

“Hoseok—”

“Don’t.” He holds up a hand like he’s physically stopping you. “Don’t—I can’t—my control is shot to hell right now and if you—”

“If I what?”

His eyes meet yours, and there’s something wild in them. 

Desperate.

“If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to do something we can’t take back.”

Your heart hammers.

“Maybe I want you to.”

“Fuck.” The word comes out broken. “Don’t say that. Don’t—I’m trying to do the right thing here and you’re making it impossible.”

“The right thing,” you close the remaining distance between you, “is standing here alone in the dark, falling apart, because god forbid you let someone care about you?”

“That’s not—”

“You were scared tonight.” It’s not a question. “I can see it all over you.”

His expression fractures.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “Yeah, I was fucking terrified. And I can’t—I’m so tired of being scared. Of pretending I don’t—that you don’t—”

He doesn’t finish.

Doesn’t need to.

“We shouldn’t,” he says, but it sounds hollow now. Defeated.

“I know.”

“The rules exist for a reason.”

“I know that too.”

Neither of you moves away.

The office is so quiet you can hear both your breathing—his ragged and uneven, yours picking up speed to match. 

Can smell sandalwood and antiseptic and underneath it something raw and honest that you’ve never caught before.

Fear.

Want.

Surrender.

“If we do this—” His voice drops to almost nothing. “If I—there’s no going back, pip.”

“I don’t want to go back.”

He makes a sound that’s half-laugh, half-breaking.

“I’m serious.”

“Good.”

That’s what does it.

That single word that cracks whatever’s left of his restraint, and then he’s crossing the space between you and his mouth is on yours and it’s nothing like the almost-moments before.

This is desperate.

This is surrender.

His hands cup your face like you’re something precious, and he kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re air. 

There’s no gentleness, no careful testing—just need poured into the contact, weeks of wanting finally given permission to exist.

You kiss him back just as hard, fisting your hands in his bloody scrubs, and he groans against your mouth.

The sound goes straight through you.

“Fuck,” he breathes between kisses. “Fuck, I’ve wanted—so long—”

“Yeah,” you manage. “Me too.”

His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel how much he wants this. Can feel him hard against your hip, can feel the way his hands shake when they touch you.

“Tell me—” He pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide. “Tell me you want this. I need to hear you say it.”

“I want this.” You meet his eyes. “Want you. Please.”

The ‘please’ breaks something in him.

He walks you backward toward the examination table in the corner of his office—the one he keeps for quick checks, private assessments—and lifts you onto it with an ease that makes heat pool low in your stomach.

“If we’re doing this—” His voice is wrecked. “If I’m—god, I can’t believe I’m—”

You pull him between your legs, and his words cut off in a groan.

“Hoseok.” Your hands find the hem of his scrub top. “Stop thinking.”

“Can’t.” But he’s already helping you pull it off, revealing skin and muscle and the kind of body you’ve imagined too many times to count. “This is—we’re in the medical wing. Anyone could—”

“No one’s here.” You trace your fingers down his chest, watching his abs contract. “Just us.”

“Just us,” he repeats, and something about the way he says it sounds like he needed the reassurance.

His hands find the hem of your shirt, and he pauses.

“Can I—”

“Yes.”

He strips it off you, then your pants, slowly but surely, until you’re sitting on his examination table in just your underwear and he’s looking at you like you’ve destroyed him.

“Look at you,” he breathes. “So perfect. So—I don't deserve this.”

“Shut up.”

He almost smiles.

Then his hands are on you—sliding up your thighs, over your hips, ghosting across your ribs with a touch that’s way too honest and way too imbued in want. 

And when his thumbs finally brush the underside of your breasts, you arch into it.

“Sensitive,” he murmurs, taking inventory of your responses like they’re precious. “Good to know.”

“Hoseok—”

“Shh.” His mouth finds your neck, kissing and biting a path to your shoulder. “I’m taking care of you.”

And he is.

His hands map every inch of exposed skin while his mouth works your neck, finding the spots that make you gasp, that make your fingers dig into his shoulders. 

When his thumb brushes over your nipple through the fabric of your bra, you make a sound that’s almost embarrassing.

He does it again just to hear it.

“You sound so pretty,” he says against your skin. “Going to sound even prettier when I make you cum.”

The words send heat straight between your legs.

“Confident.”

“I’m very good at my job.” He palms your breast properly now, and you arch into his hand. “And right now, my job is making you feel good.”

Your bra comes off next, and then his mouth is on you—tongue circling your nipple before sucking it into his mouth—and your head falls back with a moan.

“That’s it,” he encourages, switching to the other side. “Let me hear you.”

His free hand slides between your thighs, pressing against the damp fabric there, and he groans.

“Fuck, you’re so wet already.”

“Your fault.”

“Yeah.” He sounds devastated by it. “Yeah, it is.”

Your underwear joins the growing pile of clothes, and then his fingers are where you need them most—sliding through wetness, finding your clit with relative ease—which honestly speaks to medical knowledge put to very unprofessional use.

The first touch, inevitably, makes you jolt.

“Easy,” he soothes, circling slowly. “I’ve got you.”

He does.

His fingers work you with careful attention, reading every single one of your tiny reactions to figure out exactly what you need. 

Then he slides one inside you, and your hips buck.

“More?”

“Yes—please—”

He adds a second finger, curling them just right, and the sensation makes you gasp. 

His thumb stays on your clit, circling in maddening patterns while his fingers work inside you.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Take it. You’re doing so well for me, pip. Good darling.”

The praise mixed with the physical sensation is simply overwhelming, so much so that you can feel yourself getting close, that tension building low in your belly—

He stops.

“What—”

“Not yet, darling.” His voice is rough but controlled. “Not until I say.”

“Hoseok—”

“Trust me.” He kisses you, slow and deep, fingers still inside you but not moving. “It’ll be better. I promise.”

You believe him.

He starts anew—slower this time, building you up slowly once more. Kissing you, letting you get near the precipice again before he’s stopping his motions.

“Please,” you finally break. “Please, I need—”

“I know what you need.” His free hand cups your face. “But we’re not there yet.”

He pulls his fingers out, and you actually whimper at the loss.

Then he’s stripping off his remaining clothes, and you get your first look at him fully naked and—

Fuck.

He’s beautiful. He’s breathtakingly beautiful, all golden glistening skin, and his cock is hard and flushed and exactly as perfect as the rest of him.

“Like what you see?”

“Shut up.”

He grins—the first real smile you’ve seen all night—and pulls you to the edge of the table.

Then he pauses.

“I don’t—shit, I don’t have anything here.” His jaw clenches in frustration as he looks over the area. “The condoms are in the main supply closet and I’m not—I can’t—”

“I’m on birth control,” you say. “And I’m clean, remember? Last medical check included testing.”

“I’m clean too.” His voice drops. “But if you’re not comfortable—”

“I want you.” You meet his eyes. “Like this. Please.”

He groans.

“You’re so unfair.”

“Good thing you like it.”

His laugh is breathless.

Then he’s lining himself up, the head of his cock pressing against you, and—

“Wait.” He leans his forehead against yours. “You okay with this? Really?”

“Yes.” You wrap your legs around his waist, look into his eyes. “Yes, I am. Please, fuck me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

The first press inside is patient, giving you time to adjust. 

He’s bigger than his fingers, stretching you in a way that borders on too much, and you watch his face the entire time—the way his expression goes slack with pleasure, the way his breath comes in short gasps.

“Good?” he grits out.

You nod quietly, watching the way he sinks in. 

“So good. More.”

He indulges, inch by agonizing inch, until he’s fully seated inside you and you’re both breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—I can’t—so perfect—”

“Move, please.”

And moving, he does. 

It’s slow at first, careful, but you can see him struggling to maintain control. 

His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, and when you clench around him, he makes a sound that’s almost pained.

“You’re—don’t do that—trying to last here—”

“Don’t want you to last,” you manage. “Want you to lose it.”

“Fuck.”

The next thrust is harder, deeper, and you cry out at the sensation. 

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Take it. You’re taking me so well, darling.”

Your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders as he fucks you meaner now, each thrust sending sparks through your nervous system. 

The examination table creaks under you, and somewhere in the back of your mind you remember you’re in his office, in the medical wing, where anyone could walk in—

It just makes it hotter.

“Lay back,” he says suddenly.

You do, and he follows you down, bracing himself on his hands beside your head. This position is different—more intimate, nowhere to hide as he looks down at you.

“Give me your hands.”

You lift them, and he pins your wrists to the table above your head. Holds you there while he thrusts into you, and the feeling of being pinned, being held, being completely at his mercy—

“Oh god—”

“Yeah.” His voice is wrecked. “You like that? Like me holding you down?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—”

His fingers lace through yours, and somehow that’s even more intimate than the sex itself.

Holding hands while he fucks you, faces inches apart, breathing the same air.

“I’ve wanted this,” he confesses, words spilling out unchecked. “Wanted you. So long. Every time you came to medical, every time you smiled at me, every time you called me those ridiculous nicknames—”

“Hoseok—”

“You’re so addictive.” He leans down to bite your shoulder, not gentle, and you gasp. “Can’t get enough. Never going to get enough.”

The devotional quality in his voice, the raw honesty—it’s intoxicating.

Your cherry cordial scent must be everywhere by now, mixing with his sandalwood until the air is thick with both, and you can see it affecting him. 

See the way his pupils dilate, the way his breathing goes ragged.

“You smell so good,” he groans. “Smell like—fuck—like something I should stay away from but can’t—”

His rhythm becomes more erratic, less controlled, and you can tell he’s close. 

Can feel the way his cock twitches inside you, the way his grip on your hands tightens.

“Please,” you beg. “Please let me—I need—”

“Not yet.” But his voice is strained. “Little longer, darling. Want to make this last.”

“Can’t—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.” He releases one of your hands to reach between your bodies, finding your clit. “Come on. Be good for me.”

You try, god you try so hard to hold it for him, but you’re right there on the edge, muscles tensing, breath coming in gasps—

“Now,” he finally says. “Come for me. Let me feel you.”

Permission granted, you shatter.

The orgasm oozes out of you, pleasure crashing through your entire body, and you hear yourself cry out his name. Feel yourself clenching around him, feel the way it drags him closer to his own edge.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m—” His rhythm stutters. “I’m gonna—where—”

“Stomach,” you gasp. “Pull out—”

He does, barely, and then he’s coming—hot across your stomach, striping your skin—and the sound he makes is broken and honest and absolutely devastating.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Just breathing hard, hearts racing, processing what just happened.

What you’ve done.

“Hey.” His voice is soft, grounding. “You with me?”

“Yeah,” you manage. “I’m here.”

“Good.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering. “That’s good. Just breathe, okay? I’ve got you.”

Then his medical training kicks in, but gentle, always so gentle when it concerns you.

“Hold still,” he says, voice tender. “Let me take care of this.”

He’s already moving, grabbing gauze and warm water from the supply station. His hands are gentle when they touch your stomach, cleaning you up with careful attention. The cum comes off easily, and he’s thorough about it, making sure your skin is completely clean before tossing the gauze in the medical waste bin.

“Okay?” he asks softly, hand coming to rest on your hip. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Your voice is steadier now. “No, you didn’t hurt me.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He lets out a breath he seems to have been holding.

“Good. That’s—that’s good.” His thumb strokes your hip absently. “Water. You need water. Don’t move.”

He crosses to his desk, still naked, and returns with a bottle of water from the mini-fridge he keeps stocked. Twists the cap off and holds it out.

“Drink.”

You take it, but your hands are still shaky enough that he notices.

“Here.” He guides the bottle to your lips, one hand supporting the back of your head. “Slow sips. There you go.”

The water is cold and perfect, and you didn’t realize how thirsty you were until it hits your tongue. 

You drink half the bottle before pulling back.

“More,” he says gently.

“I’m okay—”

“Humor me.” His voice is soft but firm. “You need to rehydrate. Just a little more.”

You drink again, and he watches with that attention to detail that’s so distinctive of him—the doctor who notices everything, who makes sure his patients are properly cared for.

Except you’re not just a patient anymore.

And he’s not just your doctor.

When you’ve finished enough to satisfy him, he sets the bottle aside and helps you sit up properly, moving with you so you don’t have to do it alone. 

Then he’s pulling you against his chest, arms coming around you like he needs the contact as much as you do.

“You okay?” His voice rumbles through his chest. “Really?”

“Yeah.” You let yourself relax into him, feeling his heartbeat start to slow. “Are you okay?”

He laughs, but it’s shaky.

“I don’t know.” His hand comes up to stroke your hair, slow and soothing. “I just—we just—”

“I know.”

“And I don’t—” His voice stills. “I don’t regret it. I should, but I don’t.”

“Me neither.”

He presses his face into your hair, breathing you in—cherry cordial mixing with sandalwood.

“We could get in serious trouble.”

“I know.”

“And I still don’t regret it.” He pulls back just enough to cup your face, tilting it up so you have to look at him. “I don’t regret you.”

The intensity in his eyes makes your chest tight. “Hoseok—”

“I need you to know that.” His thumbs stroke your cheekbones. “Whatever happens next, whatever we have to deal with—I don’t regret this. I don’t regret us.”

“Neither do I.”

His smile is small but genuine, and he leans in to kiss you—soft and sweet and nothing like the desperate kisses from before. This is careful. Reverent. 

A promise.

When he pulls back, his hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together.

“We’re going to have to talk about this,” he says quietly. “About what it means. What we do now.”

“I know.”

“The rules—”

“Still exist.” You squeeze his hand. “But so does this.”

“Yeah.” He squeezes back. “So does this.”

And you can’t bring yourself to regret it.

Not even a little bit.

taeyong ₊˚. ✧

when you come home from the bar, taeyong is excited to see you. he wraps you up in a hug and you giggle dizzily into his shoulders. he tells you how he spent the night but doesn’t fail to let you that it can’t have been as much fun as whatever you were doing tonight. if it were up to him, he would have tagged along but alas; he understands the boundaries of having a friends only night.

“i’ve been thinking about you all night, i was getting lonely.” “you had fun right? i knew it.”

yuta ₊˚. ✧

when you get home yuta doesn’t even hear you come in, he comes to the kitchen to get a snack and there he sees you slumped against the counter. you may have drank a little too much. he pouts at you — he feels bad that you feel shitty, but selfishly, he’s also grateful for the opportunity to baby you. he gets you a bottle of water and invites you to curl up on his chest on the couch. rubbing your back and pressing a million kisses to your hair and forehead.

“aw, you drank to much, huh, princess?” “you can sleep it off on me and i’m sure you’ll feel better soon enough.” “you want a blanket or are you too warm?”

doyoung ₊˚. ✧

when he hears the racket you make on your way in, he swears he’s getting robbed. he tiptoes into the front room cautiously, only to be met with you looking sloppy as hell. then he rolls his eyes. you run to him, obviously, slinking your arms around his neck because he just looks so sweet and huggable. even after you startled him half to death out of his peaceful sleep. reluctantly, he returns your hug, because as much as he wants to stand on his annoyance, he could never stay mad at you.

“you scared the shit out of me.” “you’re okay, though? i’m glad you made it home okay.”

jaehyun ₊˚. ✧

after fiddling with the key at the door for god knows how long, you wobble into the house, humming a new song you shazamed in the club. jaehyun just watches with a smirk on his face. you’re trying to get through the house to change into sweats or pajamas or whatever but every once in a while, he very gently pokes at your shoulder to see you change the direction of your walking. he thinks messing with your drunk self is the funniest shit ever.

“uh, bedroom’s this direction, baby.” “you gettin lost, sweetheart—? woah! don’t fall.”

jungwoo ₊˚. ✧

when jungwoo opens the door to you, he almost can’t believe what he’s seeing. he has only seen you with alcohol in your system like twice and you were hardly two drinks in on both occasions. this was a stark difference. you blinked up at him in a half-lidded stare, telling him you’re sooo tired and you’re never drinking again. he could only laugh. seeing you drunk was an experience in itself.

“omo…”

mark ₊˚. ✧

when you come home from your bottomless brunch with a dopey smile on your face and phone threatening to drop from your hand at any moment, mark knows exactly what went down. he’s stifling laughter watcing you verbalise your inner monologue and stumble on the way to grabbing some water. he can’t decide whether it’s the cutest or funniest thing. either way, he’s laughing at you. that is before he has to lock into his crazy reflexes and save your phone from smashing to pieces.

“ooh, someone had fun.” “hey, how many fingers am i holding up?”

haechan ₊˚. ✧

it’s around 10pm when you knock at the front door, you didn’t wanna stay out too late because you knew your man would miss you. that being said— you shouldn’t have been worrying about that tonight. he might as well have been there with you. similar to taeyong, haechan couldn’t stand the fomo, but instead of getting bored waiting, he decided to just have a party of his own and bust out the most expensive bottle of wine he could find.

“haechan, baby, why do you smell of alcohol?”

“why do you smell of alcohol?”

“Lost in thought again?” The voice was soft, low, and unexpectedly close.

You turned to see Dan Heng standing behind you, his spear sheathed neatly at his side. His expression was unreadable, as always, but there was a subtle curiosity in his gaze—quiet, patient, without judgment.

“I… guess,” you admitted, unsure how to put the swirl of emotions into words. The dysphoria, the discomfort, the constant questioning of who you were—it never had a simple explanation.

Dan Heng remained silent for a moment, his eyes tracing the motion of the stars. Then, as if deciding something, he spoke, voice steady and deliberate. “It’s not easy, carrying something inside that feels like it doesn’t belong to the outside world.”

Your breath caught. He had no way of knowing the full extent of your struggle, and yet he had phrased it so precisely that it felt as though he had glimpsed your inner turmoil.

“I… I don’t know how to be me,” you confessed, words trembling in the quiet hum of the train. “I don’t feel right in my body, in my skin. Everything about me feels… wrong.”

Dan Heng took a slow step closer, the faint clinking of his spear’s strap echoing softly. “You’re not alone in feeling misplaced. But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong.”

His words struck something fragile inside you, a delicate reminder that maybe—just maybe—you weren’t the only one carrying this weight silently.

“I don’t know if anyone… could understand,” you admitted, looking down at your hands, fingers twisting nervously. “It’s easier to hide, pretend… just to survive.”

Dan Heng nodded once, sharply. “Pretending is a defense. But hiding everything only prolongs the burden.”

The honesty in his voice, the calm, unwavering presence, made your chest ache with a mixture of fear and hope. You had spent years avoiding this conversation, fearing judgment, fearing rejection—but here was someone who didn’t recoil, who didn’t ask you to explain beyond what you could give.

“I’ve never really… told anyone,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Not fully.”

“You don’t need to,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Not unless you want to. But I can… try to understand, if you let me.”

The offer, though simple, felt monumental. You swallowed hard, unsure how to articulate the storm inside. Slowly, carefully, you began to describe the gnawing discomfort in your chest, the unease with your reflection, the way your name sometimes felt wrong, like it belonged to someone else entirely.

Dan Heng listened without interruption, his eyes never leaving yours. He didn’t offer empty platitudes or rushed reassurances. Instead, he offered presence, and in that, a strange kind of validation.

When you finally trailed off, exhausted by the vulnerability of speaking aloud what you had hidden for so long, Dan Heng reached out—not touching, but close enough that the heat of his hand brushed against yours in the dim light of the observation deck.

“You are not defined by what others expect you to be,” he said softly. “Your identity… is yours alone. And it doesn’t need approval to exist.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, unbidden but welcome, the first tangible release of months of pent-up fear. You wanted to tell him everything else—the confusion, the longing, the hope—but words failed you.

Dan Heng’s gaze remained steady, unwavering. “You don’t have to face this alone. Not here. Not while you’re with me.”

Something shifted in the quiet between you, the hum of the train no longer oppressive but protective, carrying your whispered confessions like a fragile treasure. And for the first time in a long time, you felt a flicker of something you hadn’t dared to name: hope.

The silence stretched comfortably, not empty but filled with understanding. And in that quiet, Dan Heng’s presence became a tether—steady, calm, unyielding—anchoring you to a space where being yourself was not just allowed but accepted.

“You… make it easier,” you whispered, voice raw.

Dan Heng inclined his head slightly, his expression as stoic as ever but softer in some imperceptible way. “Then hold onto that, if only for yourself.”

You nodded, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the star-strewn sky outside. For the first time, the reflection in the glass felt less like a stranger. Maybe, with time, it would start to feel like you.

The lighthouse was quiet, save for the faint crash of waves against jagged rocks far below. You had come to Nod-Krai seeking something unspoken, a place where the noise of the world and the eyes of others could not reach you. Yet even here, surrounded by the solitude of sea and stone, the mirror in the small room offered no comfort.

You stared at yourself, trying to locate a sense of familiarity in the reflection, only to be met with dissonance—the mismatch between your identity and the body you were given, the words others used, the assumptions that weighed heavier than any burden you had ever carried.

A voice interrupted your thoughts, smooth and deliberate, carrying a timbre that belonged to a presence both commanding and disarming.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Flins said, stepping from the shadows near the lighthouse’s spiral staircase. His eyes—piercing yellow with flecks of melancholy—met yours with a scrutiny that felt like both judgment and invitation.

You flinched, unsure whether to answer. “I… I just needed…” Your voice trailed, lost amid the crash of your racing heart.

He tilted his head slightly, the faint glow of the blue gem in his chest catching the dim light. “Silence often carries more truth than speech,” he observed. “And yet, you came to speak, even if only to yourself.”

There was something in the way he spoke—eloquent, refined, yet carrying the weight of grief and loss—that drew you in despite yourself. You lowered your gaze, fiddling with the hem of your sleeves, trying to disappear within your own insecurities.

“I…” You hesitated, the words bitter on your tongue. “I don’t feel… right. Not like this.”

Flins’s expression softened, imperceptibly. He stepped closer, the faint metallic clink of his boots muted against the stone floor. “You mean your reflection, yes?” His voice was low, not accusing but probing gently.

You nodded, unable to articulate the storm of feelings that had been gnawing at you for as long as you could remember. “I don’t… I don’t know how to be me in a world that insists I must be something else. Every mirror, every word… it’s like it’s telling me I’m wrong.”

He considered this, eyes distant for a moment, as though recalling some private memory of his own pain. “It is a cruel mirror that demands conformity,” he said finally. “And yet, the world is rarely kind to those who refuse to reflect what it expects.”

You felt a flicker of recognition in his words, a mirror of your own struggle cast back at you. “I just… I want to feel like I belong in my own skin,” you admitted. “But it feels impossible.”

Flins took a step closer, close enough that you could see the subtle tension in his shoulders—the same tension that must have haunted him through battles and losses long past. “Belonging begins not in the acceptance of others, but in your acceptance of yourself. No medal, no title, no honor can replace that truth.”

His words were deliberate, measured, and they carried an authority you could not ignore. You wanted to believe them, and yet the fear, the dysphoria, clung stubbornly.

“You…” You faltered. “You seem so… certain of yourself. How can you understand?”

Flins let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. “I am no stranger to burdens, nor to shadows that linger despite the passage of time. Perhaps certainty is an illusion. Perhaps understanding is simply the willingness to bear witness without judgment.”

The simplicity of his statement left you shaken. You had spent so long hiding your pain, so long fearing the reactions of others, that the idea of someone simply witnessing your struggle without recoiling was both foreign and profoundly moving.

“I… I don’t know if I can,” you admitted, voice cracking. “It’s always been… overwhelming.”

“You need not face it alone,” Flins said gently. “This lighthouse, these graves, the weight of the past—they are my companions, as I imagine your struggles are yours. But even the solitary can find solidarity.”

You met his gaze, and in the depths of those sharp, spectral eyes, you saw something unexpected: empathy, acknowledgment, a reflection of your own fear and courage intertwined.

“I… I don’t know what to do,” you whispered.

“Do not demand immediate answers from yourself,” he advised. “The world may press, the mirrors may deceive, but your truth exists independent of the reflection. And those who witness it with patience, even in silence, are rare.”

Something inside you loosened, the tight coil of guilt, shame, and confusion unraveling slightly in the warmth of his attention. For the first time in years, the mirror seemed less threatening, and your reflection less alien.

Flins extended a hand—not in command, but in offering, an unspoken promise of solidarity. “Step forward, not for the world, not for me, but for yourself. Even the smallest motion toward truth is an act of courage.”

Trembling, you placed your hand against his. It was steady, grounding, a tether in the storm of your own mind. And in that simple contact, you felt a faint but undeniable sense of possibility: a world in which your identity could be honored, where your dysphoria could exist alongside hope rather than despair.

“You…” you began, voice quivering. “You make it feel… possible.”

Flins inclined his head, the faint glow of his gem casting a serene light on your shared shadows. “Then hold onto that. Even if only for a moment, it is enough.”

And in that quiet lighthouse, amidst the echoes of the past and the whispering waves, you allowed yourself to imagine a future where you could belong—to yourself, if to nothing else.

.

Karlach

Cheesy handmade coupons for hugs. Physical affection is a big part of the way she shows love, yet no hugs feel better than the ones she knows both of you want, rather than only her. These hand drawn coupons are to give her reassurance in a way that you also crave her embrace as much as she does.

Taking you out to her favourite spots. Introducing you to all her past and current friends. Absolutely involving you in every aspect of her inner circles and slowly integrating you into her world. She wants all the people that she loves to know each other, to be there, and to support each other. Friends, family, and neighbours, she craves a community.

Carrying your stuff. Be it your bags, equipment, or anything. She enjoys being strong for you, never letting you lift a heavy thing ever. Giving you her jacket if you get cold, even switching your shoes if yours are uncomfortable. Dress however you want, she knows how to fight after all.

.

Gale

Homecooked meals. Frozen soup in food containers. You'll never go hungry with him around. Love is a major ingredient in each dish he makes, recipes passed down from generations. Restaurants' food becomes dull in comparison. No bakery dessert can compare to his home baked pie.

A picnic near the sea side. It's windy, the air is refreshing and nice. Waves come crashing gently, almost brushing against your feet before retreating back. Tara purrs in your lap, her wings warming your hand underneath it as you scratch her fur. Gale is by your side, telling you about a new discovery he made in his research. Content in staying by your side despite the crown laying at the bottom of the ocean in front of you.

Constellations seeming brighter, the sky looks as if it held twice as many stars than usual. There's a sparkle in his eyes, wrinkles at their edges from his smile.

.

Shadowheart

Wine/non-alcoholic drinks and sweets. She has a taste for delicacies and sharing them with you. Whatever she picks, it's always somehow very rich in flavour, melts against the tongue, and the aftertaste is an experience by itself.

Takes you to her home, visiting her parents who welcomed you as if you were another child of theirs. For the first time in her life, she has a family, and she wants to include you in it. You are a part of it, after all. A part of her.

Nursing your sickness away, sticking with you through thick and thin. Even at your most ill of states. She doesn't pat an eye at you throwing up, sneezing, or not having the energy to shower. She helps you through it. She never judges you over it, unconditional love in its purest forms as she ensures your recovery.

.

Astarion

Precious poetry he wrote himself. As much as he scoffs over anything too chessy, he can't help using his mother tongue and spinning endless lines about you in elvish in his private journal. On the rare occasion, giving you a glimpse through it. Pretending to leave his journal open by pure coincidence in front of you, on the exact page of the peom with your name on it.

The both of you traverse the underdark. He takes you to a special spot he found under a sussur tree. The blue glow of the silver branches lights up the edges of his hair like a halo, and your eyelids feel heavy with your head on his lap.

Stiching the holes in your clothes. Maintaining them in his free time and making sure they are cared for. Each piece that might hold a sentimental value to you or a precious memory receives special treatment from him. Sometimes, he stiches a joke or two into your undergarments that you don't realise until much later on.

.

Laezel

Gifts you a sharp and expertly smithed sword. Silver in colour with various ruby red stones decorating the handle, it feels at home in your grip, specifically made for your hands.

Takes you as her guide through Faerun, let's you introduce her to the places you love, the things you like. You can tell her interest is genuine, he curiosity is evident as she tries everything you recommend to her.

Reads to you, each night she'd indulge your curiosities and read one of the many githyanki literature disks you've accumulated. Her voice never tires, she pronounces each word with care and emotion. It's beyond soothing, even her comments inbetween narrating the story never fail to make you smile.

.

Halsin

Blessings of nature extend to you as well. The birds don't fly away when you approach, the tree branches don't get caught in your clothes, and the bugs take a polite detour around you as they crawl. He shares the love he received with you.

You've never seen so many children rush to you before, look up to you with respect, and search for guidance. He grants you the opportunity to raise the ones who will hold the torch after us, to imped your wisdom upon them, and help shape a better future.

Never growing cold again, buried deep against his soft fur as gaint bear paws hold you so softly. Despite the pouring snow outside, you sink deeper into his warm embrace. Cute round ears flicker in the corner of your vision, and you can't help but rub them alongside his soft belly.

.

Minthara

jewellery, each one is unique and more expensive than the last. Various earrings with pearls and necklaces with glittering diamonds. Even a special one that hugs your neck deliciously, with her name on it. Body accessories hugging your curves and wrapping around you. A pair of matching rings.

Takes you into her heart, behind the iron walls, behind the mazes of ice. Shows you her tender beating vulnerable flesh, the small kindness she protected so fiercely and hid from the world. Her true love, yours for the taking and yours alone.

The disembodied heads of your enemies in a gift box wrapped for you, everyone who has ever wronged you has their skulls displayed on the shelves. She becomes your blade, your sword and shield.

.

Karniss

Prayers. Offers them to you as he kneels, talking in a hushed tone as he begs a greater being for your safety, for your heart, and for you love. For their blessings upon him to shield you from the darkness, his split mind making him seeth in anger and hatred at all those who dared hurt or question you.

Brings you to his nest, a small cave with tight webs shielding the entrance. He teaches you how to slip through them, holds you close as he lifts you in his arms and makes passage inside. You're a very welcome addition to his home, his sanctuary.

TW: angst, hurt to comfort

pt. 1(?)

A/N: This isn't necesarilly autistic!reader coded, this can count for everybody! also i dunno if I'll make a second part, but we'll see.

Satoru Gojo

You were out with your boyfriend, Satoru, to a café in a more quiet part in Tokyo after a long business trip he had to take. He held your hand in his, fingers intertwining while sitting next to the other as you both looked at the menu to see what drinks and foods sparked your interest the most. You pointed at something on the menu, it was a pancake sandwhich shaped like a cat! It was absolutely adorable in your eyes, and you just had to show your boyfriend!

"Satoru, look! A pancake sandwhich shaped like a cat!"

The white haired sorcerer chuckled softly upon your excited chirping. He peered over your shoulder to see the food item that got you so excited. A little smirk formed on his lips as his sunglass-covered eyes scanned the picture

"A pancake sandwhich, huh? You're really lettin' yourself go, babycakes."

Satoru commented as he kissed your cheek. He didn't hold any malice in his tone, he was just teasing you. But to you, it felt like he thought you were gaining too much weight. You placed the menu card down, and got up. Mumbling you had to go to the bathroom. Satoru noticed the look in your eyes. But before he could ask anything, you already went to the restroom. Satoru decided to wait for you to come back, not thinking much of it. That was, until you were in the restroom for longer than usual, which made him grow concerned. He grabbed his phone, texting you.

.

"Mochi? What's taking so long?"

.

After a couple seconds, Satoru noticed you read his text, but you didn't reply. He knew you only left him on read if you were either multi-tasking or if you were mad at him. He assumed the latter.

Meanwhile, you were crying in the bathroom stall, thinking your boyfriend thought you were getting too fat for his liking. You tried to calm yourself down by playing with your rings, but it didn't help much. In the midst of your crying session, you could hear a familliar knock on the door of the women's restroom and a soft voice speaking from behind it.

"Honeybun? Are you there? Can you come out for me, please?"

You let out a shaky sigh, stepping out of the stall. You quickly washed your face and dried it with a paper towel before stepping out, avoiding your boyfriend's concerning gaze. He gently took your hand and lead you out of the cafe to a side alley before speaking

"What's wrong, sweetpea? Did something overwhelm you? You can talk with me, I'll listen"

Satoru stated, a soft smile on his lips as he tried to comfort you by rubbing a thumb over your knuckles, waiting patiently as you gathered the courage to voice your thoughts.

"Toru? Do you think I'm gaining too much weight for your liking?"

You avoided his widening gaze when the words fell from your lips. Satoru was silent for a second before speaking up, his voice soft

"What? Of course not, babycakes! You're perfect to me, so what makes ya think that?"

A lump you didn't know was in your throat got swallowed as a red blush crept on your cheeks from embarassment and endearment. Of course Satoru thought you were perfect, he always told you that. But his words just felt so mean to you..

"Well.. When we we're ordering and I showed you the pancake sandwhich, you said I was really letting myself go.."

Your boyfriend's blue eyes widened as guilt slowly filled them, he totally forgot that you had a hard time taking hints like sarcasm and teasing, taking things often too literally. He carefully wrapped his arms around you, holding you in a gentle embrace as he hid his face in your hair

"I'm so sorry, babycakes. I was just teasing you.. Didn't mean to make ya feel bad 'bout yourself.."

He mumbled, kissing the crown of your head. You hugged him back, sighing as you hid in his chest. You both stayed like that for a while until Satoru spoke up, a smile on his lips

"Cmon, babycakes. Let's go get those pancake sandwhiches. I'm starving"

It's save to say that Satoru would be trying his best to hold back his teasing comments for your own sake and self-esteem

Suguru Geto

Suguru walks after you in one of the bustling malls of Tokyo. Your boyfriend was internally disgusted by all the filfthy monkeys around you both, but he didn't let his distaste show. After all, today was supposed to be a fun shopping outing for the both of you since he has been preoccupied lately. Meanwhile, you happily gaze at the shop displays to see which shop you wanted to see first. Eventually, a cute display caught your eye. It was a beautiful layered dress with white frills at the edges. You headed towards the display and showed it to your raven-haired boyfriend

"Suguru, look how cute that dress is! Wouldn't it fit so well with my new shoes?"

Suguru switched his gaze from your beautiful face to the shopping display. He let out a soft huff, imagening you in that dress. It wasn't exactly your everyday style, but he knew you could make anything look good.

"Someone's feeling a little bold today, isn't she?"

Once those words left his mouth, you couldn't focus on what he was saying next. Did he think you wouldn't look good in it? Did he hate the dress? Was he making fun of it, of you??

Your racing thoughts distracted you from how he said you'd look good in it. Your feet simply dragged you away from the display. Suguru's eyebrows knitted together in concern as you suddenly left without a word. What happened? He couldn't tell. Your boyfriend wasted no time in following after you.

"Darling, what's wrong? I thought you said you liked the dress? Don't you want to get it?

He was met with silence, which he didn't like. He firmly grabbed your wrist, but still making sure not to hurt you.

"Sweetheart, I asked you something. The least you could do is answe-"

You suddenly pulled your hand out of his grip, telling him to leave you alone as you ran into the busy crowd. Suguru was concerned, what happened? Did he do something wrong? He honestly couldn't tell. When he tried following after you, he eventually lost you in the large crowd. Frustration and concern bubbled up inside him. The raven-haired cult leader sent out some of his smaller curses to search for you across the mall.

Meanwhile, you were infront of some sort of bookstore, panting heavily from how fast you were running. You felt like crying. Suguru's comment made you confused. He never said something like that to you, so it made you feel sad. You knew you shouldn't have just run off like that and give him an answer, but your emotions got a hold of you.

Still upset, you decided to head to a cafe across the bookstore and order yourself something to cheer yourself up. You sat on a sofa and ordered your favorite. A few minutes later, you got your drink and were about to enjoy it as much as you could until you noticed something out of the window.

It was one of Suguru's curses, jumping and pointing at you. In the distance, you could see Suguru approach. When he saw you through the cafe's window, he seemed relieved. Suguru flicked his wrist and the curse dissapeared as he made his way inside.

You sheepishly averted your gaze, your eyes filled with guilt. Suguru sat next to you and wrapped and arm around your waist, pulling you closer

"Oh, sweetheart. You're alright.."

His voice was filled with relief as he tenderly kissed your forehead before placing a hand on your soft cheek, his eyebrows still slightly furrowed.

"Why did you run away, love? What's going on? I wan't you to tell me the truth."

A sigh escaped your lips, averting your gaze as he cupped your face so tenderly. It made you feel bad about not telling him before.

"Well, when I showed you that dress, you said I was getting bold.. Do you think I'd look ugly with the dress, Sugu?"

Your boyfriend's eyebrows raised, realizing why you reacted like that so suddenly. He felt stupid now. He completely forgot you can't easily tell when someone's just teasing you.

"Oh, Y/N, I didn't mean it like that! I was just teasing you, I think you would look wonderful in that dress, my pretty girl."

Your cheeks reddened a little, feeling silly because of the way you reacted..

"I'm sorry, Sugu.. I should've told you earlier instead of acting so childish.."

Suguru smiled softly, kissing the top of your head while rubbing your back tenderly

"It's okay, pretty. 's not your fault." he mumbled, grabbing your hand in his.

"Let's go back to that store, and you can try out that dress to see for yourself how pretty you'll look, alright?"

And with a smile, you nodded. Quickly paying for your drink before walking hand-in-hand with Suguru to the shop. Guess this day will have a good end after all.

Toji Fushiguro

You and Toji had been dating for a while. You were aware of what he did, and that he wasn't always home because of it. But you didn't mind taking care of Megumi when he wasn't there, you loved the kid with your whole heart!

Today was one of those rare moments when Toji was home. Megumi was fast asleep and you two decided to have a cozy night in, watching TV. Though, you weren't really focused on the show in front of you, instead, you were talking Toji's ear off about a comic series you read with Megumi the other day. Toji listened to your every word, though it didn't look like he seemed interested, he was, really. He was happy whenever you and Megumi found something you both enjoyed, it made his heart swell despite the aloof exterior he always tried to keep.

Middle into your info-dumping session, Toji interrupted you

"Yeah, ma, sounds really interestin'. How 'bout we continue watching the movie, yeah?"

To Toji, it didn't feel like he said anything wrong, he just wanted you to also focus on the movie a little since you kept on asking him to see it. But to you it felt like he was dismissing your info-dumping. A seed of insecurity was planted into your head as the idea of Toji finding your constant chatting annoying gnawed at the back of your mind. So much to the point that you just zoned out.

Toji looked down at you, mindlessly staring into space. He waved a hand infront of you, but when you didn't react he called out to you

Eventually after the fifth time of him calling, you snapped out of your 'trance'. You looked up at Toji who seemed a little concerned

"Hey ma, y'r alright? You were kinda out of it just now"

You gulped, nodding your head while averting your eyes. You didn't feel so good, so you got up, saying you had to go to the bathroom.

Toji was a bit concerned, but he figured you just needed to wash your face or something.

So when you didn't come out the bathroom after 15 minutes, he got up and knocked on the door, being careful to not wake Megumi who was asleep down the hallway

"Everything good there, ma? You been there for a while now.."

Truth be told, everything was not good. You couldn't help overthinking about what he said, which lead to you subconsciously scratching your lower arms. You didn't hear Toji calling out for you until the door was suddenly kicked open.

There in the doorway stood Toji, who got onto his knees infront of you, holding your hands

"Hey, hey, ma. What's wrong, huh? Why y'r scratchin' yerself? Come on, talk to me, sweetheart."

You managed to look up at Toji, blinking a few times and taking some deep breaths before speaking

"It's.. It's just- God, Toji- do you think I'm.. annoying? That I.. talk too much?"

The raven haired man's eyebrows knitted together at that question, one of his hands went to caress your cheek with his thumb while the other still held your hand

"Hah? Course not, ma. What makes ya think that?"

You look down at your hands before looking back up at Toji. God, you felt so embarassed, and for what? You didn't know. You let out a shaky breath before replying

"Well.. When I was talking to you about the comics I read with Megumi the other day, it felt like you were dismissing me cause I talk to much.."

Toji let out a huff when you said that, though it wasn't one of annoyance. He gently wrapped his big arms around you, bringing you close

"I'm sorry, dollface. Didn't mean to make you feel that way. I love hearing ya talk, ma. But I wanted to have you focus on the movie 'cause you kept asking to see it with me."

That made your cheeks flush in embarassment, you hid your face into Toji's chest, mumbling apologies which earned you a gentle swat at the back of your head from Toji.

"Don't apologize, dollface. Now, how 'bout we watch the movie another time and you tell me all about those comics, yea?"

When Toji saw you nodding your head, he grinned and picked you up over his shoulder, which made you squeal in surprise. The assasin went to grab the doorknob, but then realized that he had kicked it down...