#And as he stands there sweating in an uncomfortable suit looking miserable and thinking of how shitty his life's about to be | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

scuttling · 3 years

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Sweet Evening Breeze

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 5,042 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Naïve reader, Innocence kink, Oral sex, Unprotected sex, Previous bad sexual experience Summary: Being Jack Hotchner’s babysitter is a pretty great job. He’s an angel, most of the time, and his dad is so sweet and thoughtful, really takes care of you. Really takes care of you... *Requested by anon Link to A03 or read below! “Jack, buddy, time for breakfast,” you call down the hall for the third time. “We’ll play Legos later.” He shouts something nearly incomprehensible back, and you sigh as you stretch up, trying to reach the jam he likes on the top shelf of the cupboard.

Most of the time, the fact that Jack’s dad, Aaron, is very tall gives you butterflies in your stomach, but sometimes it’s just an inconvenience—like when he puts groceries up so high you don’t have a chance of reaching them.

“Dad did not say you could skip breakfast, and it’s not okay to lie. Little monster,” you mutter, and you can feel Aaron’s breath on the back of your neck when he chuckles softly. Whoops. You didn’t even know he was standing there. “I say that with full affection.”

He reaches around you to take down the jam, resting a hand on your lower back, probably for support. The bit of skin exposed by your stretching tingles at the touch.

“Of course, and so do I. Often.” You turn to face him, give him a grateful smile, and take the jar of jam.

“Thank you. Ugh, aren’t you miserable in that?” you ask, gesturing to his usual business suit. As Jack’s babysitter, you see Aaron in a suit almost every day—another thing that gives you butterflies—but you’re in the middle of a heatwave, and it’s 97 degrees in your little suburb of DC, which means it’s probably more like 115 downtown. That’s too hot to do anything, but especially in a suit and tie.

“It’s cool in here, but yes, I’ll probably be miserable the second I step foot outside.” You spread peanut butter on one English muffin and jam on another, laughing softly when a thought comes to you.

“Too bad you don’t have as much flexibility with your dress code as I do.”

At the start of this heatwave last week, you’d asked Aaron—after much nervous deliberation—if you could wear shorts and tank tops around the house instead of your usual jeans and a t-shirt or sweater. Your so-called uniform was self-imposed, because he’d told you from the start you could dress however you were comfortable, but you didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. You weren’t trying to show off your body, or tempt or tease, or anything like that; you were just extremely hot, especially playing outside with Jack.

He had agreed, of course, that you should dress for the weather, and that shorts and tank tops were fine. He also reminded you that you could use the pool whenever you wanted, whether he was home or not, and just thinking about taking a dip later is enough to make you sigh in relief.

“I don’t think anyone would be interested in seeing me in an outfit like that,” he jokes—sometimes people can’t tell when he’s joking, because he’s so dry, but you’re familiar with his humor by now—and you laugh again. It earns you a smile.

“I think it’s more important that you’re comfortable than what people think when they see you in something, but it would probably be a little distracting.” You’ve seen him in his swim trunks on more than one occasion, most recently with no shirt to accompany them, and you can attest to being very distracted that day. You were supposed to be keeping an eye on Jack, and you did, would never put him in danger, but your eyes had also been following the drops of water that dripped from Aaron’s hair, down his throat, over his chest…

You had been hot for more than one reason that day, and your butterflies moved a little bit lower.

You shake your head of those thoughts quickly, glance around you to see that Jack is still not in the kitchen. You sigh, and put the peanut butter muffin on a paper napkin, hand it to Aaron.

“I’m going to go get him, but have a good day, okay? Try to stay cool; maybe you can take a swim tonight when it’s not so hot.”

“Good idea. Maybe you can join me if you’re still here.” That was sweet of him to offer. You smile at his kindness, brush a hand over your head. You wish your hair wasn’t all over the place, clinging to the sweat on your neck, your temples, but humidity is not your friend. He doesn't seem to mind.

“Thanks, maybe I will.” He gathers his things to head out, and you steel yourself and head to Jack’s room, scoop him up, giggling, into your arms, and plop him down for breakfast.

The two of you spend the day inside, because even swimming is a nightmare when the sun is beating down the way it is. You play with Legos, watch a movie, do some coloring pages, and play learning games on his iPad.

At around three, Aaron texts you, lets you know he won’t be home tonight because of a case, and you mentally plan out a small, easy dinner for you and Jack, then a little more playtime, then bed for Jack and a swim for you after.

You tuck him in, turn on his nightlight, and close the door behind you, then head to your room to change into your bathing suit.

You usually wear a purple one piece with shorts over it, something you can play with Jack in without worrying about anything falling out, so you’re surprised to find a pale blue, floral print bikini on your bed—a very tiny bikini—with a sticky note on the tag.

Went shopping for Jack and this made me think of you. I hope you like it. - Aaron

The first two things to pop into your head are, it was so sweet of him to think of you while out shopping, and you’re really glad he’s not here to see you in it, because it only half-covers all the things it’s supposed to cover. You double check the tag, but it’s the right size, so it must just be the intended design. Your cheeks flush hot, but it also makes you feel good, to be wearing so little. Kind of wrong, but good in a way you can’t explain.

You grab a couple of beach towels and step out into the slightly cooler night air, sigh at the feel of it on so much of your skin. You lay out your towels on the lounge chair by the edge of the pool—maybe you’ll lay there and read or play on your phone after your swim—and then step into the pool.

The water is still so warm, and the contrast between it and the breeze that blows across the surface has goosebumps breaking out across your skin. You dip your head under the water, let your hair fall loose and luxuriously wet after being twisted up all day long, and when you open your eyes Aaron is standing at the edge of the pool; you gasp, startled by his sudden appearance, and then laugh lightly.

“Oh my god, you scared me. I thought you weren’t going to be home tonight?” You swim closer to the edge so you can see him better, and he crouches down to your level. He’s taken off his jacket and tie, loosened the collar of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves; your heart races a little at his proximity, and all the dark hair you’re presented with.

“Change of plans, we weren’t needed after all. I texted you, but I see your phone is over there; I’m sorry I scared you.” He looks you over, something calculating in his gaze, and then smiles softly. “You’re wearing the swimsuit I bought you. Do you like it?”

You can feel yourself flush, because you hadn’t anticipated him being home to see you in it, but there’s nothing you can do about that now.

“Yes, I like it. It’s pretty. Thank you.” He must be able to sense your apprehension, because he tilts his head curiously.

“If you don’t like it, you can tell me. It won’t hurt my feelings. Don’t be shy.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it, I love it. That was so sweet of you.” You reach out a hand to rest on his arm, don’t want him to feel like you aren’t grateful. “It’s just a little… revealing.” He makes a soft noise of contemplation, reaches out to brush his fingers over your shoulder, over the strap.

“I was a little worried about that. Why don’t you get out of there and let me see? I can let you know if I think it’s too much.” You appreciate that he’d do that for you, and you respect his opinion, but you feel really exposed in it—and you’re not sure why that makes you feel so uncomfortable and so good at the same time.

Sure, he’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen in your life, but there’s no way he’d ever look at you as anything other than the sitter. You’re just too… innocent.

All the same, you nod your head and lift yourself up out of the pool; Aaron moves back, helps you up, and guides you over to the lounge chair. He sits, and you stand.

From there, he looks slowly over your body; he lingers over your breasts, your hips, then asks you to turn so he can see the back. You swallow, self-conscious under his gaze.

“Have you ever been this undressed in front of a man?” he asks, his voice low, and your breath hitches. “I can tell you’re nervous, that’s all.”

“Um. Once,” you say, flushing. He hums, brushes a hand down the length of your arm, and you feel a chill. You turn back to face him, and he pats the lounge chair, encouraging you to sit next to him. You sit, cross legged, facing him, nervous, but… also not; it’s hard to explain.

“Were you completely naked?” The way he asks it is so casual, but being naked isn’t casual for you; you can barely bring yourself to think about being naked, let alone talk about it. With your employer.

But something about the way he asks it makes you want to answer, at the same time, and there’s almost no one you trust more than Aaron. He’s always been so good to you.

“No. I left something on.” It had been a bra, gray with a pink bow in the middle. You were more comfortable keeping it on, and your ex-boyfriend hadn’t cared. He hadn’t cared about much, it turns out.

“Was it during sex?” The way the word sounds coming out of his mouth makes you anxious, and excited; you can’t believe you’re having this conversation, and you also don’t want it to end.

“Yes, during... sex.” He nods, brings a hand to your cheek and brushes your wet hair back, tucks it behind your ear. Your heart is beating so fast you’re surprised the world around you is still so calm, quiet. Intimate.

“How many times have you had sex, sweet girl?” You close your eyes, embarrassed. You don’t want him to know how innocent you really are, not when he’s so much older and more experienced. He’ll laugh.

Then again, this is Aaron, and he’s only ever made you feel cared about and safe before. So maybe he won’t?

“Um. One time.”

“Just one time? That’s surprising to me; you’re so beautiful.” You shiver, maybe from being wet with the breeze on your skin, or maybe because he brushes his fingers over your lips, or maybe because he called you beautiful. No one’s ever called you beautiful. “Did it feel good?”

You’d wanted it to feel good; it did, for maybe a minute, and you think about that minute all the time, especially when you… when you slip your hand into your panties at night in your bed, thinking about Aaron’s broad shoulders, his thick forearms, his hands, his mouth...

“Kind of. And then no.” His hand freezes and he frowns. His voice is abruptly less low, more serious. There’s a wrinkle between his eyebrows you want to reach out and touch.

“Did he hurt you?” It had hurt, but you know he hadn’t meant for it to hurt. He wasn’t mean. He was just so eager to finish that once he started, he’d stopped caring if you were feeling good, so focused on his own body. You figured that’s just how guys are, and it made you never want to do it again—so you didn’t.

“Not on purpose,” is what you say. He covers your hand with his, big and warm and careful. You’ve always felt so comforted by his touch, and tonight is no exception.

“What happened?”

“It started quickly and ended quickly. I don’t think I was… prepared.” You’re blushing, hoping he understands your indirect statement so you don’t have to say it out loud. He rubs his thumb soothingly over the back of your hand, reaches up with the other to touch your flushed cheek.

“You weren’t wet?” You exhale, a little shaky, tell him no. “Are you wet now, sweetheart?” You’re almost ashamed to say, but he is asking...

“Very.” It’s just a whisper, but it makes him smile a little, touch your mouth again. You could get used to that.

“Good girl. Can I feel?” That gives you pause, for a moment, but thinking of him touching you where you’ve imagined for months—it’s too good of a prospect to pass up, no matter how nervous you are. You nod, and he moves his hand inside your swimsuit bottoms, brushes over your core, slips between your lips easily. He never takes his eyes off of yours. “It would feel really good to have sex now. Do you want to try again? You’re always taking such good care of us; I want to take care of you.”

You bite your lip, and he leans in slowly, presses his mouth to yours for a gentle kiss. You make a soft noise of pleasure, tilt your hips so you’re sliding over his hand, and he groans—it’s honestly one of the best sounds you’ve ever heard in your life. It means he wants you… never in a million years would you have guessed that.

“I want to try,” you breathe, and you feel bold, so you kiss him this time. He pulls you close, deepens the kiss, adds tongue, and you moan at the feel, clinging to his shirt. “Aaron.”

“Let’s go to my bedroom,” he says, voice low, and he moves his fingers up to the part of you that makes you shake with desperate need, rubs tight circles so you’re panting, chest heaving; you nod quickly and he picks you up, hand still moving inside your swimsuit, carries you to the sliding glass door and pushes it open with his elbow.

You assume you’ll head straight for the bedroom, but he stops in the kitchen, sets you on the counter and kisses you again, a little harder than you’ve experienced before; you love it, try your best to match the way his mouth moves, and his fingers press hard against your aching bud, making you gasp with pleasure.

“Have you ever had an orgasm?” he asks, a little breathless himself, and you smooth your fingers through his hair.

“Um. I think so. From touching myself like this.” He moves his fingers faster, and you press your palm against the counter for support, move your hips against his hand. It feels so good, so much better than when you do it that you could cry.

“Has someone else ever given you an orgasm?” You use the fingers in his hair to bring him to you for a kiss, something you both moan softly into.

“No. I want-I want you to be the first,” you murmur, and he closes his eyes, exhales through his nose, and lifts you up again, this time carrying you to his bedroom and setting you on your feet by the bed. He looks down at you with eyes so dark and gorgeous, then asks if he can remove what little clothing you have on. You tell him yes, and he pushes down the bottoms, which you step carefully out of.

When his hands move to the top, you hesitate, always self-conscious about this; he leans in and presses delicious kisses to your neck, your shoulders, slides the straps down, and looks up at you with caring, gentle eyes. You nod, and he pulls your top off, too, leaving you completely naked in front of someone for the first time in your life.

It’s such a rush, you wish he hadn’t waited so long to initiate this.

“You are so incredibly beautiful,” he says, and with the way he‘s looking at you, you actually believe it. He takes your face in his hands, kisses your lips, then moves down your throat again, your chest—he pays your nipples a bit of attention, flicking his tongue, scraping his teeth, and your mouth falls open in a silent moan. “So perfect.”

He puts his hands all over your body, sweeping over your arms, your waist, and he presses kisses to your stomach, your hips, your thighs. You want his mouth where his fingers were, but you don’t ask; it’s almost like he knows anyway, when he looks up at you from his knees.

“Has anyone ever tasted you?” You shake your head, and he puts his hands on your butt, squeezes softly, and guides you to lay back on the bed. “I want you to tell me how it feels, okay?”

Normally, you’re quiet out of necessity, because when you aren’t here you have an apartment you share with a roommate—even though most of the time, you sleep here whether you’re strictly required to or not. You’re quiet here too, because you’ve never wanted Aaron to know how he makes you feel, although now you’re really wishing you’d have found out sooner that he feels the same way. Imagine all the cool, quiet nights you could have spent on this bed, in his arms…

Shaking yourself out of the fantasy—because reality is literally happening, and it’s so much better—you nod, and he carefully spreads your thighs, leans in to tease his tongue along your slit, light and wet.

“Oh. Aaron.” He looks up, reaches a hand forward to twine your fingers together, and you squeeze them, moaning when he dips again, this time pressing his tongue inside you where you’re wettest. “Oh my-oh my god.” He leans in to press damp kisses to your lower belly.

“That’s right, sweetheart. I want you to come on my tongue—come on my tongue, don’t be shy.” Again, he slides it inside, brings his free hand up to rub you, and it’s not long before you do as he asks, shaking and tightening your grip on his hand. You’re almost embarrassed by how loud you are, but he is nothing but sweet when he comes up, whispers in your ear how well you did for him, how pleased he is to be the first to make you moan like that, to taste you.

He kisses your mouth so you can taste yourself, and groans when you reach for his head, hold him closer.

“Thank you,” you murmur, shaky, when the kiss breaks, and he rubs over your lips with his thumb like he did before, smiles softly.

“You don’t have to thank me, sweet girl. I told you I wanted to take care of you; I’m just so glad you let me.” You move your hands to the front of his shirt and rest them there, hoping he’ll take the hint, but he just gets a glimmer in his eye that makes the butterflies flutter low despite your very recent release. “Don’t be shy. Tell me what you want.” You flush, don’t know how to ask a man—especially a man like Aaron—to get naked for you. “Oh, there’s that blush. My sweet, innocent girl. You haven’t even been properly fucked, of course you don’t know how to ask for what you want. But I’ll teach you.”

He sits up, hovering over your body, gets his fingers on the buttons of his shirt and starts to slip them free. He has to unzip his pants to untuck it, and the sight and sound of that makes you whimper—you immediately tense, feel shame at being so vocal, but he just leans in to kiss you, soft and slow.

“You can’t wait for me to be naked too, can you? You want to see what a man looks like, feel what a man feels like. Don’t you?”

“Yes.” It comes out roughly, almost too low for even you to hear; you clear your throat and try again. “Yes, Aaron.” It earns you a slightly harder kiss, and he climbs off the bed to undress the rest of the way; your eyes are drawn to his erection as soon as it’s exposed, and he looks at you with nothing less than lust in his eyes. It makes you shiver and want to open your legs for him again.

“You’re staring. Have you touched a cock before—stroked it with your hand?”

“No. Can I?” you ask, sitting up against the pillows, and he nods, moves next to you, and takes your hand. You’re intimidated by the size of him, all the more so when he wraps your fingers around it, covers them with his, and strokes.

“Feels so good, baby,” he rumbles, slinging his free hand around your hip and holding you close to his body. He is so… just good looking, so different from your ex-boyfriend, from guys your age, and you look up at his face while you touch him, hoping to bring him even half as much pleasure as he brought you. Your eyes flick back down, though, after a short time, transfixed by the wet head disappearing into your fist. “Hmm. Good girl. Do you want to try putting your mouth on it?”

God, do you want to try that. You want to know what it tastes like, feels like on your tongue; you nod, scoot back a little so you can bend over him, and he puts his hands on your head, slowly guides your open mouth to hover over him.

“Careful with your teeth, and keep me nice and wet, okay? We'll go slowly.” He pushes your hair back from your face so he can see you better, which is sweet, and you nod, close your lips around him, let him show you how he wants you to do it.

He feels so big in your mouth, and you remember to be careful, to be wet, like he said. He’s not making you take him deeply, just a couple of inches, and when you’re not so nervous it feels really good, the weight of him against your tongue, his gentle hands teaching you what to do. It makes you feel useful, learning how he likes to be pleasured, and you enjoy finding ways to make yourself useful to Aaron.

“Perfect, perfect. Just like that—you’re doing great, sweetheart.” You hum around him, pleased that it feels good for him, and you’re stricken with the urge to feel him spilling into your mouth, but he groans and offers something even more intriguing. “Would you like to come sit in my lap? I want to press into your warm, tight, sweet pussy; I promise it will feel good, not like last time.” You make another noise, something eager, and he pulls you off and gets his hands on your waist, brings you up to rest against his thighs.

“Will it hurt?” you ask, just in case. You hadn’t thought to ask that last time. “You’re big; what if it doesn’t fit?” You look up at him, and warm, tender eyes peer into yours.

“It won’t hurt, and it will fit, I promise. We’ll make it fit. Lean up.” You stretch up a little, press your hands to his shoulders, and he rubs his hands soothingly over your body, kisses your chest, and then dips a finger inside you; you grip him tightly, moan, hold still while he moves it in and out, then adds another. “How does that feel? Don’t be shy.”

“Feels-feels good,” you breathe, and he pumps them together which feels so incredible, so new. He brings his free hand to your butt and squeezes softly.

“Good girl. I’m adding another. You’re so wet, it shouldn’t be a problem, but tell me if it’s uncomfortable.” The third finger makes you feel like you’re full up, a little snug, but you know you’ll need to get used to it if you want him inside; you breathe, will yourself to only feel the good, remind yourself that this isn’t like last time. Aaron is being so good to you; he won’t stop being good to you.

“Aaron.” It’s a gasp, a plea, a question, and he answers it by pulling his fingers out, putting his hands on your hips, and lining his cock up at your entrance, lowering you slowly onto it. You pant, moan as it slides in; it feels tight to you, and you’re so incredibly full, but his hands feel like safety and you’re not worried. He’s always taken care of you; he wouldn’t hurt you.

“You’re perfect, you’re doing so good. You feel so good.” He squeezes you, stretches up to brush his lips over yours. “We’re going to make you come again; I’ll give you the best night of your life, I promise.”

“Of course you will. This is already the best night of my life,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around his neck, and he kisses you harder; you can feel his hands tighten, and it doesn’t hurt, only makes you want more, rougher. You feel filthy for wanting that, but it’s Aaron, and you want any and everything he wants to give; you also want him to take anything he wants to take.

He moves your body up and down, a show of strength that makes you moan, just a string of desperate sounds you’re a little embarrassed of; he appreciates the noises you make, though, if the way he grips you is any indication, his eyes determined as he makes you bounce on his cock.

“Oh, yes baby, just like that. How does it feel, sweet girl?”

“Mmh, good, so good, so good,” you sigh, your butt making contact with his firm thighs each time he brings you down on him. “Feels so good to be… to have it inside me.”

Aaron hums, frowns just slightly.

“Tell me what it is, baby. Your innocent little mouth can be dirty for me, this once. What feels good? What’s inside you?” His voice is a little tense, like maybe he wants to finish, but he doesn't change a thing, doesn’t hurt you so he can get there faster. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, curl fingers into his hair.

“Your… It’s your cock, Aaron. Your cock feels so good inside me.” You’ve thought the word, never said it aloud, but it makes him groan deeply, so you vow to say it again at some point just to savor that reaction.

“Yes it does, yes it does. Feels so good inside your perfect pussy, my perfect, sweet girl.” His hands move you faster, and you want to help now that you know this is how he likes it; when the two of you work together, it’s quicker thrusts, harder thrusts, your breasts bouncing along with the rest of your body and making you feel filthy, indecent. Amazing.

You lean in for a kiss, and Aaron turns it into something deep and decadent, delicious; you pass moans back and forth, holding tightly to him, the both of you breaking a sweat even in the cool air. You’re so close, so close to the ultimate pleasure you felt with his head between your legs, and you can hear your moans change, eager, needy things.

“Aaron please. Please.” You take his face in your hands, look into his eyes, bounce on him and kiss him and plead for release against his lips, and he holds you so tightly and climaxes, spilling inside you and pumping up into you, breathless.

“Oh, good girl, you did that. You made me come, baby. Not so innocent anymore, are you?” You shake your head—you don’t feel innocent anymore, you feel good, you want more, want to chase the feelings you’ve felt tonight, including the one still building inside you. “Now let’s get you off. I want to feel it.” He digs his fingers into your hips, so hard you think it might bruise, but in your heightened state of arousal it just feels good; you keep moving until your orgasm takes control of you, makes you grip his hair hard in your fingers and slam yourself down on him.

“Yes, yes, mmm.” He brings a hand to your face, softly catches your jaw, and guides you to make eye contact while you ride him through it until you are both spent, sinking against the bed. He sweeps his hands over your body, kisses you softly, and you melt at his touch. “That was so incredible. Thank you.”

“I told you, you don’t have to thank me. I wanted to take care of you; been wanting that for some time,” he admits easily, touching your cheek. “I’m just glad I could give you a good experience after the bad one.”

“Good doesn’t even begin to cover it.” Your voice is light, low, because saying things like this, talking about sex, is still so new to you. “I love being here for you, helping you with Jack, and anything else you need. Do you think you’ll want or need me like this again?”

“Oh, I don’t see how I could do without, if it’s something you want. Although I may have to return that swimsuit. It is pretty indecent,” he says with a somewhat guilty smile.

You figured as much, and for the first time tonight you feel very confident when you say, “No, I think I’d like to keep it.”

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#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #hotch x female reader #hotch x reader #ask answered #anon #prompt

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littlesniggy · 3 years

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Hiii!!!! i can't understand it but i like ichiji so much kwfjwjfjd help. There's just something so attractive about him🥺....... anyway, i'm happy whenever i find something about him that you wrote, you write so gooooooood, i really love it!!

so i want to ask a scenario where he is "jealous" (i don't really think i can feel jealous, but maybe he likes marking territory? something like "yeah my s/o is perfect look at her but don't touch what's mine"), so... a nsfw scenario where he is "jealous" about something his brothers did with his fem s/o, maybe they were trying to flirt with her in front of him, and then ichiji wanted to make it clear to her and everyone who she belongs to

whatever you think fits best i'm sure i'll love it💕

thank you and have a amazing week💕

Hey Anon! Thank you so much for requesting! Sorry it took me so long to write this but I was quite busy with work. As you said yourself, Ichiji probably doesn't get jealous but he can be quite possessive. So, here it is! I hope you enjoy it!!

Warning: 18+, nsfw, dirty talk, slight degradation, overstimulation

Pairing: Ichiji x female reader

Word count: 2.5k

“And he really thought he could beg his way out of this!” Niji laughed, his deep voice echoing from the cold walls. His two brothers joined in, mocking laughter that showed no sympathy for their victims. “And did you see this woman? Trying to negotiate her way into becoming one of our servants. Who did she think we were? Some kind of charity?” Yonji mocked, wallowing in the thought that he was the one ending her miserable life.

Ichiji was simply sitting there, a cocky smirk on his lips, arms crossed in front of his muscular chest. He enjoyed this mission no less than his siblings but he was a little disappointed that you haven’t been here to greet him. Where were you anyway? He didn’t want to show it but he was annoyed that you weren’t by his side.

“By the way, Ichiji, where is Y/n? Thought she would already be waiting here for us to come back.” Yonji chuckled, his eyes looking around in hopes of finding her.

“For me.” Ichiji corrected him.

“Huh?” Yonji raised an eyebrow, not quite understanding what he was getting at.

“She should’ve been waiting for me. Why would she be waiting for the likes of you?” his overly confident voice made it clear he thought he was better than his brothers, not even imagining that you could possibly find either one of them attractive.

“So we can have a look at her, too? Stop hogging her like you own her.” Niji agreed with his younger brother. Ichiji huffed, finding it amusing how Niji really thought he needed to hog

you. He didn’t even bother considering to answer and he didn’t even need to; he felt your presence way before you even turned the corner, his grin widening even more.

“Y/n!” Yonji greeted you. Ichiji could practically see his eyes popping out at the sight of you. You smiled at him politely but didn’t pay much attention to him. Ichiji’s ego grew with every step you took and with every look you didn’t give them. They were nothing more than thin air to you.

“Finally. Where have you been? You know I don’t like to be kept waiting” The oldest Vinsmoke brother scolded you and pulled you onto his lap the second you stood in front of him. Surprised, you let out a yelp but didn’t complain, giving him a long and deep kiss, hearing the whistling from his two brothers.

“Where is my kiss?” Yonji joked yet his eyes told Ichiji that his brother wouldn’t mind it if you actually sat down on his lap and did so. His arm around your waist pulled you even closer to him, a challenging grin on his lips. “Don’t get too cocky, Yonji. She would never stoop so low to even touch either of you, let alone kiss.” The green-haired male scowled at his older brother, not too pleased with his answer.

Niji chuckled next to him, shaking his head. “I think that’s for Y/n to decide, isn’t it?” he opposed, his eyes wandering over your sitting form. Ichiji didn’t like the way Niji talked to you. Who did he think he was? Who did both of them think they are? The oldest brother looked at you, the cocky grin slightly warning when he started talking to you. “Do you want to let yourself get fucked by them, Y/n?” he asked straight forward. You felt a little overwhelmed by this sudden change in atmosphere around you and Ichiji’s grin didn’t make it any better.

“O-of course not.” You stated, feeling slightly uncomfortable now being the center of attention. “Bet she would answer differently if you weren’t here….” Yonji’s voice had dropped an octave, making you shiver. What was going on here? You felt Ichiji’s body tense up a little, knowing full well he wasn’t pleased by his brother’s comment. “S-should I leave?” you asked uncertain, trying to search some other emotion in Ichiji’s face other than disgust towards his two younger brothers.

“No. On the contrary. I think they were actually just about to leave…” his voice didn’t leave any room to argue, even Niji and Yonji realized that their brother wasn’t joking. Niji, the slightly more reasonable one, stood up first, shaking his head in slight disbelief. “Calm your panties, Ichiji. One could think you’re actually jealous.” Niji grinned at his brother. Ichiji didn’t respond, he simply watched how Niji stuffed his hands in his pockets before stalking away, calling for Yonji to follow him. “If you want to spice things up for a change, you know where to find me, Y/n.” you heard Yonji call out before both of them left the room, leaving only the two of you.

There was silence for a while, making you feel more and more anxious. His grip around your waist never wavered, his nails digging into your sides almost painfully.

“Ichiji, I-“ you started but he wouldn’t let you finish your sentence. You weren’t even sure to begin with what you wanted to say. You just wanted to say something.

“Take your clothes off.” Ichiji’s cold voice cut through the air like knife, a fearful yet pleasant shiver running down your spine. His arm left your waist, leaving you room to get off his lap. Slightly awkward, you got off and stood in front of him, feeling his eyes from behind his glasses on you.

Your hands went up, brushing against your chest when you started unbuttoning your blouse, trying to be sexy and seductive. With each button your opened you revealed more and more of your delicate skin, your fingers caressing your cleavage when the blouse was half open.

“I said to take your damn clothes off, Y/n. Don’t make me repeat myself again.” His reaction confused you. Normally, he enjoyed it when you played around a little, seducing him with the skin you revealed but today seemed to be different. His brothers must’ve somehow gotten to him. Maybe he was simply horny? You didn’t know but you didn’t want to stress his patience not more than necessary.

Pleased, he watched you get rid of your clothes, leaving you in nothing more than the suit you were born with. Then, there was silence once again. The room was cold, getting cooler by the second, the more he didn’t move or give you any more orders. You pulled your arms around your body, small goosebumps being visible on your skin.

“Who told you to cover yourself? Are you ashamed to stand in front of me all naked like this? Would you rather Niji or Yonji or maybe both be here and see you like this?” he got up from his seat, stepping forward to stand in front of you, his body heat radiating from him, drawing your own body towards his. You wanted to press your body against his, to feel his muscles against your skin but you restrained yourself.

“No.” you answered, looking up at him from under your eyelashes. The grin was still on his face but it was cold and calculating. “No….that’s what I thought. Bet you fantasize about them fucking every hole you’ve got until you’re nothing more than a moaning, sweating mess, begging to be the cum dumpster for them. Isn’t that right, Y/n?” his words made your heart ponder in your chest and your sex become wet. You rubbed your thighs against each other unconsciously, licking your lips at the thought.

You weren’t actually interested in either of them but the way he said it, with the way he was observing you – you couldn’t help but feel aroused.

“Liar.” He purred. Ichiji lifted his hand underneath your chin, making you look directly at him. “Do you think they can satisfy you the way I can?” he purred, his thump brushing against your bottom lip.

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, licking over his thumb in the process. “No.” you voice sounded raspy, your chest moving faster the more he stared at you, making you feel oh so vulnerable. “Of course not.” He said, shoving his digit past your lips before moving it in and out of your mouth.

“Who is the only one that can turn you into your true self, the needy whore you know deep down you really are?” He withdrew his thumb, giving you the room to answer his question. A quiet moan left your lips, your thighs pressing together. You felt how your juice slowly started running down your legs, being smeared all over your skin by rubbing your thighs together. “You are…” you whispered.

“That’s right…” he growled before pushing you back, you stumbled against the table but couldn’t react fast enough; he was already pushing your upper body down onto the surface, the cool wood scratching against your back. Ichiji spread your legs to reveal your dripping core to him. A pleased grin spread across his lips when he took off his gloves and brush his digits against your sex.

Another moan, this time louder, erupted from your body at the touch and your arched your back, lifting your legs up to place your feet onto the surface. “Whore…” he commented and pushed two digits past your folds; wet sounds could be heard when he started moving them in and out of your body, his second hand resting on your knee, pushing your legs further apart.

You felt heat rise up in your body, being so exposed, so spread open to his eyes and touch. Even if you wanted to deny how needy you were you simply couldn’t; the wet sounds your cunt was making was betrayal enough.

Ichiji added a third finger, curling them upwards, changing the angle this way and making you arch your back once more, throwing your head back in pleasure.

“Whose whore are you?” you heard his raspy voice but couldn’t quite comprehend his words. He pulled his fingers out, leaving you empty and wanton, with no friction to satisfy your needs. “Whose whore are you?” he insisted, his hand that was buried inside your cunt just moments ago came up to your other knee, spreading them even further apart; your whole body on full display for him to see.

“Yours…” you panted, moving your hips up and down, shamelessly begging for his touch. Ichiji’s grin grew even wider at your response, cockiness and confidence dripping down from his lips. “That’s right….and whose cock do you want?” he leaned forward, pressing his clothed bulge against your arching core, moving against your wet entrance.

“Ichiji….please!” you panted at the friction, moving against him in a desperate attempt to get what you want.

“Whose. Cock. Do. You. Want?” he emphasized each word with a thrust, his whole body seeming like a blanket that was covering you.

“Fuck! Yours, Ichiji! Yours! Now please….! Please fuck me already!” you pleaded, voice almost a whine.

“Just because you begged so nicely.” He growled. You felt his hands leave your knees, taking off some of the strain that had been building up in your groin area. You panted when you felt his hands between your bodies, his knuckles brushing against your sex again while he opened his pants, taking out his hard dick, a silent sigh escaping his lips at the gained freedom.

Instinctively, you inched closer to the desired body part, feeling how the tip of his dick already pressed against your entrance. “I’ll make sure you never even think about another man’s dick.” He growled before his hips snapped forward, burying himself deep inside of you in one smooth go, your natural juice being the perfect lubrication.

You moaned out loud, wanting to wrap your legs around his waist but his hands were faster, pushing your legs apart once again, his warm palms pressing against your knees. “Leave them open.” He demanded but not leaving room to argue anyway. He was in his element when he started fucking you with a rough and fast pace, the loud sound of skin on skin echoing through the otherwise empty room.

“Goooood-!” you moaned, eyes shut tightly, concentrating on the intense feeling he was giving you. “I love your dick!” you panted, moving against his hard thrusts ever so slightly, wanting to feel him even deeper. Ichiji watched your messy form underneath him, satisfied with you becoming undone like this. But he never doubted himself in the first place.

“Of course, you do.” He panted, the cockiness never leaving his voice though as he picked up the pace, ramming his dick into you like a madman – and you loved all of it!

“Ichiji!” you moaned, voice becoming louder, no shame about who might hear you outside this room. Ichiji himself was quiet but he felt pride at your moans, being completely aware of his two younger brothers standing not to far away from the closed door, listening to your lustful moans and probably jerking off to it – and they couldn’t have you which was the best part, really.

The more he hammered into you, the more you felt your climax build up inside your lower stomach, your insides feeling as if they were on fire, intensifying the feeling of his dick rubbing against your inner walls with each thrust. “Gonna….gonna…..gonna cum….!” You panted, not being able to form coherent sentences anymore. “Already?” he chuckled, halting suddenly in his movement.

Confused, sweaty, and desperately you looked at him, heaving from the fast pace he was fucking you with. “Don’t stop….I’m so….I’m so close!” you pleaded, shuffling underneath him. But Ichiji didn’t move. Instead, he just looked at you, standing completely still, his dick still buried deep inside of you. Restlessly, you tried to move against his dick but he wouldn’t let you, holding you in placed.

Your walls clenched around him, trying to suck him in but failing miserably. “Ichiji….” You whined, your form a panting mess. You tried to concentrate on his dick that was filling you out in just the right way; just one inch deeper and he would press against your g-spot! Why was he doing this to you?

The more you thought about how good his dick felt inside of you, the more you felt your climax build up inside your lower belly again, moaning in desperation and pleasure alike. Ichiji watched with fascination how you seemingly still got closer and closer to your orgasm, just with him being inside of you!

“You love my dick so much that you cum just by it being inside of you?” he teased, his words finally pushing you over the edge. “Ichiji!” you almost screamed when your walls tightened around him. This was his cue; he started thrusting into you again, fucking you through your orgasm like there was no tomorrow.

“Ichiji…!” you panted, feeling how his ministration turned your whole body into one sensitive nerve that was about to rip apart. “I’m not gonna stop!” he chuckled, pressing himself deep inside your dripping cunt. “I’ve told you before that I will make sure that you’ll never think about another man’s dick ever again…”

#one piece #op #op ichiji #Vinsmoke ichiji #ns.fw #Ichiji x reader #Ichiji imagine #Ichiji x female reader #x reader #x female reader #female reader #op imagine #op x reader #op x female reader #Vinsmoke niji #Vinsmoke yonji

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arhvste · 3 years

Text

002 SAKUSA KIYOOMI X SHUT UP AND DRIVE SERIES

++ MSBY GARAGE

❝ get you where you wanna go, if you know what i mean, got a ride that’s smoother than a limousine ❞

dt — @omisluvr i hope you like this, i had a lot of fun writing about you and your husband <3

warnings — nsfw : oral [recieving]

“what the fuck were you even thinking when you said yes to him anyway?”

sakusa pinched the bridge of his nose as he stood in the doorway of his high rise apartment. you were looking up at him, eyes glossy and hair drenched. your skin soaked not just from the rain, but from the fresh, hot tears that had run down your face as your hands scrunched the hem of your soaking sweater, the material quickly growing uncomfortable to wear.

the outside hitter sighed before stepping out the way to let you in.

“stay there.” his deep voice rang through your ears as he left to grab you a fresh towel to use.

you stood there, glancing around the sleek apartment as the city lights from down below leaked softly through the windows emitting a soft glow around the room. moments later, you heard footsteps approach as your eyes flickered over to the hallway.

sakusa strode over to you, handsome features highlighted and sharpened under the dim lights. sticking his hand out, he dropped the plush white towel into your awaiting arms as a plastic bag. you looked up at him confused regarding the bag, but before you could ask, he cut straight in.

“strip.”

“excuse me?” you choked out as you stared at the man in disbelief.

“you’re excused.” he muttered bluntly as you wiped your face with the warm towel. “you’re all wet. strip here and go shower and then we’ll talk.” he finished as he turned to leave you standing, dripping wet on the doormat of the entrance.

sakusa walked down the hall towards the bathroom and began to run the hot water and ensure the vents were working for you. having him out of sight, you sniffled and began to peel the wet clothing off your body and toss it into the plastic bag you’d dropped onto the floor. after stripping bare, you wrapped the inviting towel around your cold body and padded towards the bathroom. sakusa had left the light on and had already heated the water for you to prevent any time wasted.

you dropped the plastic bag on top of the white wicker laundry basket and stepped into the wet room style shower. the cool tiles beneath your feet caused shivers to run through your body as you turned the tap on for hot water to flow out.

as a fresh wave of hot water flooded down you, so did a fresh set of hot tears. you did your best to hold back the sobs you’d been keeping in, but it was all too much now.

‘better get it out now before talking.’ you thought as you let the tears flow freely down your face.

luckily, sakusa kept an array of various shower products so you knew you wouldn't have to come out the shower smelling like a six foot plus man who’d had a shower at the gym. after knowing sakusa for so many years, you knew he was picky about his products and you were eternally grateful for his favoured and toned-down scent of ‘ocean waves’.

lathering the soap across every inch of your now warming skin, your sobs slowed down and your breathing less jagged. your chest still hurt, but whether that was your crying causing chest ache or your now-ex causing heart break, you didn’t care anymore. you saw the end of your already deteriorating relationship approaching from a mile away anyway. if anything, you were partially thankful it had come crashing down, ending the anticipation that kept you on edge everyday. you just didn’t think it would actually hurt.

rinsing the soap off and feeling a bit better, you stepped away from the shower head as the water came to a halt. grabbing the fresh towel sakusa had left waiting for you on the radiator, you dried yourself as much as you could before wrapping the towel tightly around your body and stepping out the steaming room.

wandering through the dim hallway, you peeped into sakusa’s room as he scrolled through his phone, slouched on the king sized bed adorned with a firm, but certainly luxury mattress.

you knocked gently as his eyes snapped up at you. his expression still agitated looked, but softening at the sight of you.

“i don't have any spare clothes.” you murmured quietly, stepping into his clean and immaculately kept room.

he hummed before getting off the bed and rummaging through his own drawers. you stood there glancing around all of his medals and trophies won from years of playing in highschool and now pro. you had been present when he had won multiple of these awards. you happened to be one of the lucky few allowed close to sakusa. yes, you had known each other from a young age, but sakusa was ruthless in the sense of cutting people off; you had been someone exempt from that treatment though.

after a few moments, sakusa grunted with a pair of sweats in his hand as he looked down at your damp form.

you were taken aback slightly because despite sakusa slowly becoming more comfortable with personal boundaries, particularly in the recent years, you still grew slightly shocked everytime he willingly loaned you something of his own.

“thanks.” you whispered as you took the dry clothes and headed over to his en suite bathroom.

locking the door behind you, you quickly threw the sweats on and inhaled the natural scent that had rubbed off onto the clothes. sakusa smelt expensive in your opinion. yes, it was his natural scent, but anyone could tell he was a man of serious selfcare just from the scent of his clothes alone.

satisfied with your dry attire, you hung the towel on the radiator before switching off the light and stepping back into sakusa’s bedroom.

the sweats were definitely too big for you, but he had done his best to find one of his older sets in hopes of them perhaps fitting you a little more and for the sake of his own comfort knowing you weren’t wearing any clothes he’d regularly wear and fear catching too many external germs onto. you smiled weakly at him upon catching eye contact as he sighed and patted beside him on the bed.

staying close friends with the germaphobe had definitely benefited you as you had only grown closer to the pro-volleyballer over the years, allowing the two of you to naturally grow physically closer too. there’s not a lot of people in the world sakusa would’ve allowed for them to shower, wear his clothes and especially not sit on his bed, but once again, you were exempt from that, you always were; and he knew why.

“so,” he began, cutting through the thick tension lingering. “what happened exactly.”

always so straight to the point. maybe running to sakusa immediately wasn't the best choice.

“he cheated.” you spoke dryly as sakusa’s frown grew deeper.

“explain.” he pressed as you felt your chest increasingly tighten.

“i showed up to his house and-” your eyes watered as tears began to spill out. opening your mouth to continue, you struggled as no noise came out. scrunching your eyes up in frustration, you sobbed once more but stopped as you felt a warm hand take in your own.

you looked up through blurred vision as sakusa had a firm, but sincere look on his face. tightening his grip slightly on your hand, you shakily breathed out before continuing.

“the door was unlocked, i went in and i saw.”

“saw what?”

“her. the girl he told me not to worry about. the one he promised me was nothing more than a friend.”

sakusa scoffed as you sighed warily, tears dripping down your chin.

“they were um- you know-”

“-having sex. yes, i get the idea.” sakusa quipped as your heart dropped.

“um, yeah. i just left and well, here i am.” you laughed bitterly, face wet once more and vision blurred.

“what a fucking loser.” sakusa spat out bitterly as you hung your head low.

“i don't even know why you said yes to him. what the hell does he even have going for him? tell me what exactly it is that he brings to the table, i’ve been dying to know.”

you looked up as sakusa’s hand held yours tightly.

sakusa looked almost as hurt as you did. you quickly put that idea to bed and assumed it was natural protectiveness. he was your best friend after all. you just didn’t know just how badly he had wanted more than that though.

“he was just- he was just there i guess. someone for me to date. maybe i was just lonely, i don’t know. i, fuck- i dont know omi! i dont fucking know anymore!” you sobbed as sakusa’s eyes softened.

“well. what are you gonna do now?” he spoke sharply, eyes fixated on you.

“nothing i guess. i’ll get over it, i knew it was bound to end anyway.”

“and running to me was your first option?”

“are you really that surprised? i just didn’t know who else to go to.”

sakusa sighed before standing up and urging you to stand up with him.

“where are we going?” you asked, begrudgingly standing up beside his toned form.

“to take you out. i’m not having you soak my sheets with tears caused by a loser.”

“but i’m not dressed for that!” “we’re staying in the car for the most part.” he confirmed, notioning for you to follow him back to the front door where his car keys were left.

you sighed but followed suit as sakusa grabbed one of his own sweaters to put on. looking back at you, sakusa noticed your down expression as his own heart tugged slightly. he could only hope you’d perk up by the time he’d taken you to where he intended. he almost felt bad. almost.

you huffed but followed sakusa out the apartment behind him and waited as he locked the door swiftly behind him. trailing sadly behind him towards the elevator, sakusa watched as your miserable state wallowed in sadness behind him.

waiting for you to get over the damage caused seemed pointless in his opinion. ever the efficient one, sakusa knew exactly how he wanted to go about getting you over your ex faster. he could only hope you’d cooperate with him.

the ride in the elevator with the occasional sniffle from you occupying the majority of the silence. at last, the elevator had reached below ground level and into the underground parking lot for residents to use.

you followed the man out the elevator and stayed close to him and the two of you headed over to sakusa’s reserved parking space. you heart picked up slightly upon locking your eyes onto sakusa’s car.

a matte black aston martin DB11 was parked perfectly into its designated space. the tinted windows showed you back your own reflection as you were met with the sight of your downcast face. brushing stray strands of hair out of your face, you sighed and waited for sakusa to unlock the car for you to get in.

to you, getting into the pro players car was no big deal, you were simply getting into a friends car for a casual outing. to anyone else, this would’ve been a huge deal though. nobody was allowed in sakusa kiyoomi’s car. he denied requests to drop off and pick up others and even teammates. the only exceptions from this rule were yourself and komori. nobody else.

sakusa unlocked the car and you clicked the door open on the passenger side. immediately, your nose was met with the heavy scent of air freshener and leather. the clean and polished interior never failed to impress you every time you rode with sakusa.

the outside hitter climbed into his own seat before shutting his door and waiting for you to shut your own. the leather of the seat cool under your sweats. shivers ran up your spin and the cold temperature car started up at the press of a button.

“strap in.” sakusa glanced over at you before fastening his own seatbelt and looking into the mirror to back the car up safely.

“hold still for a sec.” sakusa muttered as you felt his hand land on your shoulder as he looked back. his body close to yours, sakusa swiftly swung the car out his space as your breath hitched. why the hell did he have to get so close?

“you could’ve held the back of my seat.” you looked over at him as he revved the engine ready to speed out the exit.

“yeah you’re right, i could’ve. i just didn’t want to.” and with that, sakusa hit the acceleration and the car sped out the clear exit at high speed.

your head was thrown back and your heart fluttered at his words but you kept quiet as you tried to calm your nerves. sakusa however, looked like he was out to kill. you were just thankful the roads were clear in the late night.

his jaw tense and eyes sharp, sakusa made no mistakes as he swerved in and out of lanes so cleanly, leaving other drivers with no reason to complain.

“where are we even going?” you spoke up meekly as the man beside you pulled up at a red light. clicking his tongue in annoyance of the hold up, sakusa tilted his head to face you, his wavy mop of hair flopping back as his salient eyes met your own, throwing your heart off course.

“you’ll see.” was all he said as the light flashed amber. head snapping back to the front, sakusa revved his engine once more, hands both tightly gripped the finely stitched leather of the wheel. prominent veins running down the back of his hand, sakusa flexed his fingers before gripping the wheel once more and slamming back down on the accelerator throwing your head back into the headrest for the second time of the night.

if looks could kill, you were certain any driver in your best friends field of vision would’ve been dead at least two times over. you had no idea why he was so angry, but you’d be lying if you said you didn't find him at least slightly attractive. you just couldn't bring yourself to fully admit it though. you were fresh out of an awful break up and the heartache was still there even if sakusa was capable of effortlessly throwing you into a fit of excitement.

you gazed out the window as the car sped along the highway as pulled off the main roads and into the more separated streets. you paid no attention to where it was you were going until a wave of familiarity washed over you. your stomach tightened and your eyes flashed in fear as you quickly turned to see sakusa as focused as before, pulling into a parking space resided along the street of houses next to it.

“what the fuck kiyoomi! why are we here”

“where else would i take you?”

“oh i don't know, 7-11 maybe?!” you huffed as sakusa scrunched his face in disgust.

“that’s not going to help you get over him. this will.”

sakusa nodded towards the houses outside. more specifically, your ex's house.

“i can’t do this, i don’t need this.”

“you can and you want to don’t you?

you stared at him in disbelief as you shook your head.

“not like this, not now.”

“look at me.” sakusa demanded as his hand reached up to cup the side of your face, pulling your gaze directly onto his face.

“he’s a fucking loser. you’ve cried over him enough already and i just can’t sympathise with you anymore, show him that he fucked up.”

you opened your mouth to speak but no words came out. once again, shaking your head, you pulled away from sakusa’s grip as he stared at you confused.

“how? how can i just confront him in this state? you don't understand omi! it still hurts, and i can’t just-”

“-it hurt me too. this whole time it hurt.” sakusa cut in swiftly.

“ever since you said yes to him, i couldn’t understand why it hurt until recently. maybe i should’ve been happy for you. i just couldn’t though. i don’t like him, i never did and you know what? he didn’t deserve you, but i think i do.” he confessed, expression sincere and voice clear and sharp.

“kiyoomi i-”

“-don’t answer me now. it’s not fair of me to just throw something like that at you, i’m sorry but i’m also really not. i’ve been waiting to say this. just please, don’t let yourself fall off over someone like him okay?” he turned away, one hand still firmly gripping the wheel as his other hand reached to start the engine again to drive you both back. your hand intercepted though, stopping him from starting the ignition.

“you’re right, i’m sorry. i promise i won’t so, let me prove it to you.” sakusa turned to face you and raised an eyebrow at your sudden change of attitude.

“i don’t want to cry anymore. not over him, not when i knew it was approaching sooner or later.” you admitted looking up at him. eyes glinting under the dim lights the streetlights provided through the tinted windows.

“then don’t let him make you cry anymore.” sakusa breathed out, voice taking on a soft tone.

“i’m relying on you to keep me in check then.” you whispered slowly leaning into him and letting him meet you halfway.

“well, don’t you worry your pretty little head about that.” his final words muttered out as his slender fingers ran under your jawline as he tilted his head up to meet his own. eyes fluttering shut, sakusa mentally thanked whoever the fuck was looking out for him, because he’d been waiting for this moment for longer than he’d ever care to admit.

pressing his lips onto your own, sakusa’s heart ran laps as you gasped at the feeling his hands gripping your jaw tighter. humming in satisfaction, he deepened the quickly escalating kiss as he pulled you closer and closer to him. god, he just couldn't have you close enough to him.

sliding his hand down to your thighs, sakusa felt the way you had them tightly pressed together as the slow and languid kiss quickly heated with each whine he drew from your lips. growing greedy to hear more, sakusa dominated the kiss completely, teeth scraping along your bottom lip ever so gently, drawing a sharp gasp from your throat. with your lips slightly parted, sakusa slipped his tongue into your mouth groaning at your responsiveness to his actions.

pulling away, he left you gasping but gave you no time to catch your breath as his lips strayed from your own and you felt his hot breath teasing the warm skin of your neck. not wasting another moment, sakusa let his canines dance along your sensitive skin, teasing you and leaving you unaware of his every next move. finally, letting his teeth drag along your collarbone for so long, sakusa kissed, sucked and bit everywhere he had access too. he needed to mark you as his. it would give him enough mental confirmation that you were finally his and you seemed to have no obligation to this in the slightest.

“omi, i can’t-” you whined, frustration building up as the clothes you were wearing now became more and more of a bother.

“i got you princex.” sakusa grunted, shifting his body away ever so slightly.

“please!” you groaned, glaring at the now smirking man.

“whatever happened to ‘i can’t do this’?” he mocked relishing in the control he had over you.

“i didn’t think you meant this!” you whined as sakusa pulled himself off of you momentarily. looking down at your hot and bothered state he felt a wave of pride hit. he did that to you.

“backseat.” he demanded notioning behind him.

“what?” you breathed out.

“you heard. backseat.” you grumbled but obliged regardless, climbing into the backseats of the luxury car. sakusa followed suit and hovered over your aching body as you rested your head against the doors tinted window, waiting for sakusa to do something, anything.

“so obedient.” he sighed trailing his fingers along the waistband of the already loose sweats, hands slowly slipping under the material, tugging them off painfully slow, much to your impatience.

your breathing stuttered as the man pressed a soft trail of kisses along your now exposed thighs, the temperature of the car only increasing as the air got thicker and thicker.

“please.” you whispered as his kisses met the ache between your legs.

eyes lustfully looking up at you, sakusa smiled against the skin of your inner thigh, breath hitting dangerously close to where you needed his attention the most.

“since you asked so nicely.” he praised, fingers hooking under the thin waistband of your soaked through panties. pulling them down, his eyes flickered up to meet your own. a look of sincerity glinted in his eyes as you nodded at him, permitting him to grant what you both wanted, what you both needed. you wanted this as much as he did and he’d be a fool to pass up an opportunity like this. the opportunity to show you what you could’ve had from the start, none of that mattered now though. you could his now, he’d make up for all the time lost, starting with now.

gasping at the sudden feeling of his tongue dipping into your slit, sakusa’s confidence only built up knowing you were comfortable with this. the warmth of his tongue causing you squeeze your eyes shut as shivers ran up and down your spine. fully trusting himself now, sakusa worked his mouth on your clit, hungrily chasing the desperate pleads ands gasps he’d quickly grown attached to. he needed to draw more of these out of you and he’d do just that.

toying with your clit with his tongue, sakusa groaned at the feeling of your hands quickly grabbing the base of his hair, tugging him closer and closer in desperate attempts to get him to go deeper. he made it his aim to get you just as hooked onto the feeling of intimacy as he was and you seemed to be following suit perfectly.

“k-kiyoomi!” you gasped, tugging harder at the dark strands tightly gripped between your fingers. his eyes flashed up at you, an almost unreadable expression shown as he pulled away momentarily. “you’re so beautiful you know,” he sighed before moving his mouth back down to your twitching core “so fucking beautiful.” he praised as he glanced up to memorize each pleasured expression that twisted across your face. he felt so proud knowing he was the one doing this to you, only he could make your eyes roll back the way he did, only he could draw out those pretty sounds that escaped your lips. he knew he was the only one capable because he knew he was always the better choice for you, he was better than your ex in every single way and he was just relieved he was finally getting the chance to prove it to yourself.

completely encasing your core between his lips once more, he swallowed everything you gave him so selfishly, refusing to let anything go to waste and spill onto the seats, it’s not like he could let anything go to waste anyway, not when you tasted this fucking good and certainly not when you were in his clean car.

“o-omi, more!” you chanted as sakusa grunted as you felt the knot inside of you progressively tighten. firm fingers gripping your hips, sakusa curled his tongue inside of you making sure to lap up everything he got out of you. you whined and chanted sakusa’s name like a mantra as he continued to worship your body with his mouth.

“please, please, please!” you recited desperately over and over again as you felt yourself closer to the edge.

“so good for me.” sakusa praised pulling away and loosening his grip on you, your arousal coating his chin. keeping one hand firmly gripped onto your waist, he moved his other hand down for his fingers to pinch and toy with the bud as his tongue quickly dipped back into your tight pussy as you felt your high quickly chase up on you.

“f-fuck!” you cried out as you felt your back arch as the ecstasy crashed down on you. his actions didn’t stop though, as his thumb continued to circle your clit with slow but firm movements only further forcing your mind to go blank. mindless babbles dribbled out your mouth as you slowly came down from your peak, sakusa continued to let every drop of arousal spill into his mouth before he pulled away panting.

face flushed, but satisfied, he caught his own breath and waited for you to fully come back to your senses. your own breathing once again jagged, you looked up at him shyly as you leaned forward to rest your head against his.

“s-shit, i didn’t think it would go this far.” sakusa admitted, grabbing a tissue from the side compartment to wipe his face. a look of disgust flashed momentarily on his face when he saw the mess on the tissue, but silently praising himself for keeping his car free from any spills onto the plush leather seats.

you laughed breathily before fluttering your eyes shut.

“i knew coming to see you was a good idea.”

“you didn’t know this was going to happen, fuck, i didn’t even know this was going to happen. i only brought you here to confront him.” the dark haired male sighed before pulling away from you.

the two of you stayed like that for a few moments, a comfortable silence lingering in the compressed air of the car. you hadn’t verbally confirmed it yet, but sakusa knew from this moment onwards you were finally his. a blissful feeling bubbled up inside of him as he processed what had just happened.

suddenly, a loud tap on the window caused the two of you to jolt in shock as you instinctively gripped the hem of the disregarded sweats in attempts to cover your exposed body. leaning over to the front drivers seat, sakusa peered at the window and was met with the furious face of your ex. scoffing, he slid into the driver's seat and let the window roll down to come face to face with the man you called your boyfriend several hours prior to what had just happened.

“what the fuck are you doing here?” you ex spat in anger as sakusa glared back equally as bitter.

“enjoying myself.” sakusa boredly stated as your ex’s face twisted into an expression of horror upon noticing you climbing back over to the front passenger seat with your clothes now back on, but appearance definitely disheveled.

“with that bitch?” the man outside of the car hissed as sakusa blocked his view.

“first of all, that so-called bitch? mine now, should’ve been from the start actually and secondly, get your disgusting presence away from my car, i’ve already had it deep cleaned this week and thanks to you, it’s gonna have to go back to be cleaned thoroughly again.”

your ex scoffed before backing up slightly.

“whatever, get the fuck out of my parking space though, and you,” he started past sakusa and directly into your eyes. “this makes you just as bad as me now so get off your high-horse.”

“actually,” you spoke up, hand resting on sakusa’s forearm to calm his peaking rage. “it doesn’t. kiyoomi was just a friend throughout the entirety of our relationship, he should’ve been the one to have been more than that though. it was never you.” you spoke briskly and cooly as sakusa smirked beside you.

before your ex could even open his mouth, sakusa let the windows slam but up before pressing the ignition.

“let’s just get out of here, you’re tired and it’s been a long day for you.” he offered a small smile as you nodded. outside, your ex was still yelling and begging for answers as the two of you took no notice. firing the engine back up, sakusa didn’t bother looking back before slamming onto the acceleration and speeding the two of you back through the streets and onto the main highway to take you back to his apartment where the two of you had things to talk about.

there was a lot lingering in the both of your minds, but you were certain the two of you were finally on the same page.

sakusa was upset you were hurt, but it didn’t matter now. you were his and over time, he’d help build you back up again, hand in hand, he wanted to put the time and effort into you that he had been wanting to do from the very start.

there weren’t a lot of people sakusa kiyoomi allowed close to him, would go out of his way for, would even care about for that matter, but as always, each and every time, you were exempt from that.

++ TAGLIST! @crescenttooru @miss-angel-ash @sarahvvictoria @babierin @omisluvr @s0utien @toobsessedsstuff @omibaby @kenkodzu @sugabeaniee @lovesunas @slutawara @bunny-on-crack @shouyouorange @memorableminds @whootwhoot @yikes-buddy @sweetsamus

#LMAOOO I FUCKING HATE THIS #I WANNA REWRITE IT SOMETIME </3 #sakusa kiyoomi #sakusa x reader #sakusa x you #sakusa smut #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #haikyuu smut #shut up and drive series!

668 notes · View notes

junicai · 3 years

Text

ridin’ n rollin’.

| order no. | 8/21

| summary | When the world is already off kilter, should you not free fall down to meet it?

| word count | 2.4k

| warnings | injuries

| era | circa. April 2020

Aria stumbled into the changing rooms, fist shoved into her mouth to stop the broken cry from jumping out on the wave of tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. Her free hand was pulling at the mic pack, desperately trying to unwind it from where it was tucked in on the waistband of her trousers.

A pair of hands joined her, unravelling the wires quickly and efficiently. Once the mic pack was removed, it was handed off to someone else - Aria wasn’t sure who - and she was being spun around to face a concerned Renjun.

“What happened?” He demanded, already searching the rest of her body for injuries.

Aria didn’t know.

The day had started off on the wrong foot; like god himself had woken up on the wrong side of the bed.

Donghyuck had stumbled into the bathroom at six in the morning, and his retching woke up Jisung who was sleeping next door. The maknae had sleepily shuffled into the bathroom to see what was wrong, but when he was greeted with a shivering Donghyuck clutching to the toilet bowl like a lifeline, the tall boy snapped awake.

Aria had been woken up, and then Jeno, and Renjun and Jaemin woke up soon afterwards from all the noise caused by the commotion.

It took them two hours, but by eight, Donghyuck was curled miserably into the corner of the couch, pale cheeks contrasted by a bright red flush sitting high on his cheekbones. A waste bin was placed on the floor in front of him, and two fever reducers were all but force-fed to the boy.

At first, Donghyuck had adamantly refused to take them; saying that he wasn’t sick, he had just eaten something that hadn’t agreed with him and he was fine now, see?

Aria all but scoffed at that. She held it in, because she knew she’d be doing the exact same thing, would she be in his position. The broadcast performance was scheduled to be filmed that evening, and no one liked stepping down. Not even for a day.

It was only when Aria had fixed him with a pleading look, eyes wide and worried, that Donghyuck caved. The two pills were swallowed, and when he was once again comfortably swaddled in as many blankets as they could salvage from around the dorm did the members return to their own morning routine.

After all; the world doesn’t stop turning for a sick member, although sometimes Aria wished it did. She hated to leave Donghyuck alone; and she knew he’d never admit it to them, but he hated it to.

All of them did, really. It was visible in the way that Jeno had put the back of his hand up to Donghyuck’s forehead three times in the last ten minutes; in the way Jisung was hovering anxiously, waiting for an instruction to go get a glass of water or another pillow; the way that Renjun had only rolled his eyes a tiny bit when Donghyuck insisted he was well enough to perform but stumbled backwards onto the couch when he attempted to stand up. Jaemin had lunged for his arm, catching the sick boy before he could do himself some more damage.

The van had pulled up outside the dorms several hours later; and Donghyuck had waved them a sullen goodbye from his position on the couch. Aria closed the door behind her, but not before reminding him again to take another fever reducer in an hour, and to keep himself hydrated.

Donghyuck had rolled his eyes, and told her to stop worrying. “You’ll turn yourself grey, mom.”

Aria had narrowed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, swinging the door shut. She relished in the bright burst of laughter that echoed through the hall.

The journey to the venue was quiet.

As was the changing room - the only noise coming softly from Chenle’s earbuds that he’d put in the second they’d located their room, and the soft bustling of the stylists as they moved around the members.

Aria was tensed in her chair, anxiety running up and down her spine at the thought of something happening to Donghyuck while they were gone.

What if his fever spiked again?

What if he fell and didn’t have the strength to get up?

What if-

“Noona.” Jisung’s voice dragged Aria out from her own head. His larger hand encircled her smaller one, gently but firmly unravelling the fingers that were digging her nails into her palm.

She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Thanks, Sung.” She whispered, patting his hand lightly.

Jisung made no move to leave, and instead took up the vacant spot beside her on the plastic-covered sofa in the corner of the room. “You’re worried.” He stated.

Aria turned to look at him. Jisung had lost a lot of the baby fat from his cheeks that year - accentuating his jawline. He looked older, more mature. It suited him, she decided. Maturity was something he wore like it belonged on him; settling like the sun sets comfortably without fail.

“We all are.” Aria sighed out eventually, taking a glance around the room. Jaemin was laid back in the chair as a stylist worked on fluffing up his hair, keyboard clicking obnoxiously as he typed on his phone.

Normally the sound would bother Jeno - who was sitting adjacent, in a similar position - was it not for his phone making identical clicks.

Aria couldn’t blame them; she’d turned her phone off silent the second they’d left the dorms in case Donghyuck called one of them.

If the boy knew how frazzled the group was without him there, he’d have a fit. He’d never let them live it down.

“It’s hyung, noona. He’ll be fine.” Jisung said, nodding resolutely.

“He will, Sung. He’ll be fine, and then we can all go back to complaining about his presence.” Renjun made his presence known as he entered the room, directing his attention towards the pair immediately.

“Ari, they’re looking for you for mic check.” He said, jerking his head over his shoulder.

“Right, okay. Thanks, Injunnie.”

The following thirty minutes passed in a smushed blur of costume fittings, foundation brushes and an uncomfortably suffocating amount of hairspray. Aria was coughing by the time the stylist let up, waving a hand to try and disperse the smell.

“Ari? We gotta go.” Jeno called, already halfway out the door.

“C-coming,” She choked out, eyes watering slightly but determined not to wipe at them, less she end up with a streak of black across her cheek.

By the time Aria had met up with the others in the wings, sliding her in-ears in, her breathing had steadied, and a little knot was beginning to form in the bottom of her stomach. She still got nervous before performing - didn’t think it ever really went away completely - but those were normally excited nerves.

This pit that was slowly growing felt foreboding.

It went ignored, sliding under the radar as her in-ears began the steady metronome click that she’d become so accustomed to. She zoned out, and zoned back in, body moving in time with the others in flawless unity.

Dancing without a member always felt off - felt empty, but it was nothing the group hadn’t dealt with previously. They knew the formations, knew who took what lines to fill in, and where their positions changed to keep formations looking slick and clean and not like one of them had been knocked over like a bowling pin; out for the count.

Aria stepped backwards to let Chenle take her place as centre. Her mind was busy, tracking Jaemin’s positioning and making sure she stayed far enough away to give him space; so when a heavy, piercing sound ran through her right ear, she hardly registered it.

It took her a moment, but her gasp of pain was heard over the microphones, a both hands coming to clap over her ear as the in-ear continued to bleed head-scrambling sounds into her brain. Aria tilted sideways, knees crumbling beneath her as she lost her balance and went crashing to the floor.

She didn’t hear the gasp that floated up around the room; skimming right over her head that was pounding like a sledgehammer. Her hands scratched at the floor, trying for purchase and finding none.

Jeno, behind her was already half-dancing his way closer to her, and trying to help her back up without completely abandoning the song entirely. Aria’s breath was coming fast; the tech team having enough sense to cut her mic for the time being.

When a half bar of silence sounded instead of Aria’s vocals, Chenle stepped in, ever the professional, singing her lines for her as the girl tried to regain her balance.

Despite Jeno’s insistent push towards the wings, Aria shook her head minutely at the boy, rejoining the second last chorus. She could feel the boys’ eyes on her, burning into her back.

The in-ears bounced around her neck on their chords, having unconsciously tugged them out from her ears.

Per the formation, there was to be a metre and a half gap in between each member, but Jaemin paid no mind to that, coming to stand almost directly beside her in the final few bars of the song; completely prepared to catch her should she take another stumble.

Aria was the first off the stage, stumbling over her own legs.

She stumbled into the changing rooms, fist shoved into her mouth to stop the broken cry from jumping out on the wave of tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.

Her vision swam like she was sea-sick.

With her free hand pulling at the mic pack, desperately trying to unwind it from where it was tucked in on the waistband of the orange trousers, her breath was coming in heavy, shallow gasps.

“What happened?” He demanded, already searching the rest of her body for injuries.

“I don’t- I can’t- ringing-” Aria gasped, hands coming to clutch at Renjun’s jacket. “My ear, it’s- it’s ringing, I can’t-”

“Ari, I need you to breath, hold on a second, okay?” Renjun asked, shooting a look at Jaemin, who went to gently pull off Aria’s sweat-soaked jacket.

She sunk to the ground, knees giving out for a second time. Renjun followed her, Jeno’s arms slipping beneath her armpits to stop her hitting the ground too hard.

The only sound in the room was Aria’s uneven breathing, coming in irregular pants and choking her.

The members settled around her, but being mindful to stay a comfortable distance away. Should Aria slip too far into her own mind, too many hands could send her flying into another panic.

“I can’t hear.” Aria whispered eventually, hands still maintaining their tight grip on Renjun’s jacket. He inhaled sharply, turning to face her dead on.

“What? What do you mean you can’t hear?” He questioned, his own hands moving to gently grip the sides of her face.

“Ringing,” Was the only explanation that Aria offered, canting sideways in his grip.

Renjun choked lightly, trying to hold her upright. “No no, Ari, you gotta stay sitting like this, okay? What happened?”

Chenle and Jeno exchanged a glance.

“Did she hit her head?” Chenle asked.

Jeno instantly shook his head. “No, I saw her fall. She was clutching at,” he pointed. “Her right ear though.”

Renjun looked back to him, before returning his focus to Aria. “Hey, Ari? Ari, your ear is ringing, right? Am I right?”

Aria nodded slowly.

“Okay, that’s okay. Was the feed too loud, or something?”

This time, Aria shook her head, lifting a hand to mime an explosion by the ear. “Was like it exploded.”

Jisung looked frantic. “Did her earpiece blow up?!”

Jaemin emerged from the doorway, a mic pack clutched in his hand and a dark look on his face. “Feedback.” He grit out. “Mic pack malfunctioned, sent nearly 120 decibels into her right ear.”

Jaemin held up the offending piece of equipment. “It even fried the voice coils.”

Renjun was trying to keep Aria from slipping sideways. “What does that mean?”

“It means, Ari just got blasted with the sound of a fire cracker right in her eardrum. It’ll be ringing for a while.” Jaemin moved to crouch behind Aria, taking some of the weight from him.

“Permanently?” Jisung asked.

“They don’t know, but probably not. It’s mostly the shock of it, that causes ringing, I think.”

Jeno swiped a hand over Aria’s forehead, swooping the hair back from her face. She whimpered at the act, nosing her way closer to the hand. Leaning down to her left ear, Jeno lowered his voice to let him whisper gently.

“Hey, baby,” He began, keeping his voice level. “You’re gonna be okay, alright?”

Renjun’s arms tightened around Aria’s middle, and it wasn’t long until Jisung and Chenle moved forwards to do the same.

“The in-ear got a little loud, that’s all,” Jeno continued, hand coming to gently flick at her right ear. “No explosions - your ear is still there. Do you want to try standing up with me?”

At Aria’s mild agreement, Jeno shifted into a crouch and the multiple pairs of arms around her waist loosened minutely.

“You’ll be a bit off balance, baby, but that’s fine. That’s normal, and you’re okay. If you feel like you’re going to fall, then I can carry you, okay?”

“So, what I’m hearing is, we’re never using in-ears again?” Donghyuck whisper-yelled from his position on the couch; Aria tucked into his chest.

His fever had broken while they had gone, and their manager suspected it was just a twenty four hour bug.

Aria shifted slightly, whining at the noise, and Donghyuck instantly began crooning at her, whispering soft words of comfort in her left ear to get her to go back to sleep.

Renjun rolled his eyes. “Jaemin considered it.”

“Hyung looked like he wanted to murder someone.”

"I still do."

345 notes · View notes

lsholland · 3 years

Text

𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄 (𝐓𝐨𝐦 𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝)

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈 - "𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠?"

Word count: 3.7k

tw: addictions (alcohol, drugs), swearing, disease, murder...

genre: psychological thriller / suspense / drama

Synopsis: Tom Holland is Hollywood's #1 celebrity and is adored all around the world. But this rise to fame hasn't been easy for him. With fame comes his own demons: addiction issues, a relationship that's about to end and...he doesn't know it yet, but he's about to kill an innocent woman. How is he going to get through it?

You can also read it on Wattpad.

Reblogs and comments are appreciated :)

"Tom! Tom!!! TOM!!!" shouts a woman in a black hoodie among a hysterical crowd of young boys and girls trying to get this man's attention. "PLEASE!!! I love you so much" her voice crackles, she's sobbing in despair.

He stops walking and stands right in front of her, a sharpie pen between his fingers and an unnatural grin on his face. Even though these people claim they love him, he's tired of them. It's something with the drama, the screams, and the perpetual inconsideration that drains his energy. His straight face says it all, if only they weren't obsessed with his looks, he'd be pleased to spend time with them. But he knows he's just an object of their fantasies. He forces a smile, or something close to it, and accepts to take a picture with her. He stands next to her, his arms in his back, his fingers intertwined and shakily holding the pen, glancing at the camera lens, lost in his thoughts. His body is present in the moment, but his mind is thousands of kilometres away in the universe that is his brain.

And she's so happy to finally have that precious picture that her smile shows all her impeccable teeth; she's sweating and rapidly breathing and laughing with the same high-pitched voice as everyone else; she's just a typical fangirl. All her friends gather around her and whisper as if they were hiding a secret from an alien.

And onto the next one. Same hysteria, same cry for help, miserable for his attention. She hands him a picture of him in a Spider-Man suit and asks for an autograph while she's filming the scene with her brand-new iPhone.

It has to do with the way they treat him. The way they pretend he doesn't notice their weird behaviour. The way they simply believe he's not a human being. That he must be good-looking, happy, nice, and funny all the time.

"We've gotta go" says his assistant as he presses his shoulder with his hand. Tom looks at him with relief and closes his eyes for a second. He lets out a sigh as a soft smile appears on his angelic face.

"A'ight, I'm sorry guys" he apologises, but that's not enough. Many of them start crying and push through the thin barrier to get a hold of him; like monsters that haven't been fed, like addicts when you can't provide their usual dose of drugs. They look so disappointed and hopeless; leaving now would reduce all his efforts to dust. Keeping a good image and reputation is the key. He doesn't want to be hated.

Guilt rushes through him like a thrill; he glances at his watch and gulps. He gives them another 5 minutes for pictures, autographs, and hugs. Even if he's late. Even if he's going to miss his interview. Because he owes his success to them; or at least he thinks he does.

And when he goes into the back seat of this huge black SUV with no registration plate, he slams the door shut and . . . Peace. Finally, the moment he's been waiting for. The pressure leaves his body like a bubble burst. He sighs and relaxes his muscles, his head falling back on the seat. His eyes are closed; he doesn't say a word for the whole ride. His time alone is so rare and valued.

And when they arrive in front of that gigantic building to pass this final interview, Tom prepares to show his usual bright smile and pretends he's happy. Nobody notices what's hidden in his gaze. But his eyes are telling the truth. His eyes show how hopeless he is. But nobody dares looking into his soul. They only see the superficial layer, the mask he puts on every day. Because nobody knows who he is. Nobody cares about him.

It's so much simpler to ignore sadness in other people. We just tend to believe only good moments are worth sharing. We just pretend we're happy all the time because that's what everyone else does. And why would he show his sadness anyway? He has it all: a girlfriend, loads of money, a caring family, success . . . What can he be sad about?

The interview is done, Tom is in the car, cruising in the city. He's finally going home after a long, tiring, and stressful day.

He unlocks his phone and checks his text messages. They're plain and all related to his fame or his work. All his conversations are so self-centred. What are his plans? What does he like? And what's his opinion on this subject? He, he, him, him, again and again!

He's so tired and wants to be entertained. This empty space laying in his heart and brain becomes bigger and bigger. It's become harder to ignore it, especially when he's alone like tonight. Besides, he's too used to entertain others that he almost forgets what it's like to be passive and watch people do things. As if the world revolved around him.

Here we go. Instagram. The most toxic of all social media platforms. He scrolls through pictures of his friends. The famous ones on red carpets or photoshoots; the anonymous ones a drink in their hands. They're all so superficial. All the same. And the algorithm showing him pictures fans have taken of him earlier today . . . Icing on the cake. Why would he watch this? He doesn't need it. But he decides to read what the fans say, because he's curious. Or because he's obsessed with what people think of him. He needs to be known, loved, remembered, at the centre of attention – adored. He wouldn't need to sell his soul to the devil because it's already in him, and he's now paying the price of this sin.

The fans he met earlier, who were so happy to finally see their idol, were bullying him on social media. They aren't even aware of it. All these people objectifying him, posting pictures of his family – invading his privacy – and saying he can't 'write' or 'walk' or do anything properly because he's just human. They say they are joking except it's not funny. Tom's feelings are hurt, again. He should have written 'you're' instead of 'your', he should have noticed there was a hole in the grass and not trip . . . These images are roaming in his brain like a car's spinning wheels when you brake at 60 miles per hour; the pressure of the tyres scratching your mind, and the intrusive thoughts that can't be stopped like the wheel. Ever. And you eventually hit the wall.

He glances at the rear-view mirror and see his driver focused on the traffic lights. He glances around to make sure no paparazzi is watching and takes a flask out of his back pocket. His trembling hands poorly hold it, but he needs to drink something to feel better; to feel energised. He spills his boose on the leather seats and sighs with annoyance. Grabbing his hoodie feels like lifting the weight of the world; he manages to wipe it off and savours the sweet taste of vodka. Just one sip can't hurt.

That's how you know it's too late.

"Do you really need it?" says the assistant in the front passenger seat who caught him.

"It's just a drink" Tom replies instantly, frowning his eyebrows.

"I'm just worried about you, you know" he adds as he turns around and looks at him in his eyes.

"There's nothing to worry about," Tom mumbles as he feels relaxed "I can stop if I want to."

"If you say so . . ."

And even the people surrounding him day and night aren't trying to help him. Everyone's aware he's slowly getting addicted and is wasting his potential, everyone but the fans. Everyone pretends to love him, but nobody truly cares. They're just after his money, power, and fame . . .

It's like watching him tiptoeing on the deck's edge of a ferry and being shocked when he eventually falls off in the unforgiving cold, dark sea.

He smiles when the car stops in front of his London house. That's the only place where he feels like he can truly be himself. Or the last of it. After all, who is he really? Spider-Man? An actor that pleases 13-year-old girls? A failure? An impostor? Or no one at all?

What happened to the young boy who was excited about everything and anything? What happened to the one who used to laugh more than he'd breathe?

He is torn. He can't love anymore. He's had many girlfriends, each one more famous and beautiful than the last, but they couldn't bring him back to life. He truly loved them though. He felt good with them and always thought they were a match until he messed up. Making up a behaviour so they'd leave him because he's not strong enough to quit. Because he is just like this. A kid who can't handle success.

He currently has a girlfriend. Everyone loves her. He thinks she's too good for him though. Too beautiful, too clever, and maybe too famous. He feels like she's achieving much more than he is and that scares him. He can't even make love to her without feeling like he's not worth it. So, he ignores her calls, takes days to reply to a text, becomes cold as stone, distant, and unstable. This is how cowards break up. But she holds on to him.

Once he gets home, he sits on his couch and starts watching TV. His stomach is empty; he hasn't eaten all day but the only thing he wants is to drink more. It's like a voice in his brain that takes control of his body. He sees everything but can't do anything about it. The smell, the thirst, the mind that can't think of anything else. His hands are shaking, breathing becomes uneasy, he's uncomfortable in his own skin; he's a stranger to himself until he drinks. He's desperately waiting for someone to help him. But they're all too busy with their own problems.

He tries to drink from his flask, but it is empty.

He groans. "One more isn't gonna hurt" he whispers to himself as he walks towards the kitchen area. He opens the fridge and grabs a cold one.

And another one.

And another one . . .

The saddest thing about the situation is that he truly believes in his excuses. He doesn't realise he desperately needs help.

Now, the fridge is empty. But he still doesn't feel it. He doesn't feel the uninhibited state he wants to reach. He's still a victim of his thoughts; the sadness, the anger, the feeling of being trapped in a never-ending game.

He glances at his 80,000 dollars Rolex and decides it's time for him to go to a bar. He grabs his phone and calls his assistant. No answer. He calls his second assistant then. No answer.

"It's only 2AM, come on!" he grunts.

Only?

He thinks for barely a second and grabs his keys and gets into his car. There's a night bar in Kingston that he absolutely loves, and he knows he's always welcome there.

As a celebrity he's obviously welcome everywhere. But he noticed the way people looked at him with pity when he spent an entire night drinking without speaking to anyone. Alone in his thoughts that only he knows. It's different there, the barmaid usually talks to him and entertains him. And she just doesn't care he's famous, which is rare nowadays.

He's been caught drunk driving many times, but he was always released without a word because he's so famous. As if all the police officers have daughters who worship him.

Maybe his problem is thinking he's above all. He who used to be so humble, kind, and generous.

He parks in front of the venue, but the lights are off. He rolls down the window and squints to read the paper sticked to the door.

The bar is closed for annual leave.

"Fuck it!" he shouts. He checks on his phone if another bar is open tonight. Miss Jackson is. It's not the bar he usually spends his time in, but the beers are good and it's not too crowded for him. He absolutely wants to avoid fans tonight.

Most of them are underage, it's dangerous for him. One mistake and he'd become a paedophile. That's why he swore to himself to never do anything with a fan, no matter how hot they are. It's harder to respect this rule when he's drunk though.

"Let's go then" he says in a lazy way, the alcohol slowly taking control of him.

His eyes are red, everything he sees is blurred. He can't keep his thoughts straight.

He starts the car and puts some music to lighten his mood. He needs this to feel better. If something bad happens while he's drunk it ruins his mood. And when this happens . . . he starts having very dark thoughts. The kind of thoughts you better keep to yourself if you don't want people to be scared for you. Where your life is on the line, and you don't care about tomorrow because you just want to stop it . . . The sadness; the anxiety; the constant fears. Because the only moment you feel happy is when you sleep, as if you were dead. Tom feels like this all the time, and he hides it well.

But now he's focusing on the moment. The boose allows him to feel better. He listens to this pop song and its energy is spreading in his body. He's pushed by the music; the excitement and adrenaline take control over his body. He's ready to go.

He quickly backs up the car. He's so excited to go to the bar to finally drink some more and—

BOOM! His car abruptly stops, it sounds like a crash. An alarm is wailing, echoing in Tom's ears, making him feel dizzy. The shock was so intense he hit his face against the airbag of his steering wheel leaving his skin half-burnt. He passes out.

Tom startles as he wakes up, "what the fuck just happened?" he hisses. He stays still giving time to his brain to proceed the information and checks his rear-view camera. It's been disconnected.

He jumps out of his car and checks what happened. He collided with another vehicle. A much smaller car with a crushed bumper. Tom's car is damaged as well, but he doesn't care, he walks over the small Fiat 500 and scans the surroundings. His heart is pounding; air isn't traveling down to his lungs. He suffocates as if he were trapped in a cage down the ocean. He doesn't control his shaking fingers rubbing against his sweating forehead. His lips are parting, gasping for air, while his eyes are wide open looking straight to the ground.

For a second, he realises that he can be in big trouble if anyone knows about this. This can be enough to be fired by the Marvel Studios and ruin his entire career, his life. No one wants a drunk superstar to ruin a movie's reputation.

He hesitates. He wants to run away. He faintly grabs his head in his weak hands and is heavily panting. He can taste iron on the tip of his tongue. He rubs his forearm against his mouth and feels wobbly at the sight of his own blood.

What is he going to do? Has someone seen what happened? And if he leaves, what happens to the unconscious person in the car? But if he helps them, what guarantees him he's not going to be prosecuted? And lose it all? But what if he leaves and this person dies? What if they die and someone knows he killed them? Each scenario is getting worse and worse.

There's only one viable option for him.

"Hey, are you alright?" he says as he approaches the fuming car.

He glances around, but the street is empty. That's the reason why he usually loves this place; because it's so quiet.

"Are—Are you okay there?" he stutters.

He opens the door and see blood. Dark, thick, red blood. An unconscious woman with blood all over her face is lying on the steering wheel. Her car is so old there is no airbag. The shock must've been tough for her. She might even have a brain injury.

Tom places his hand on this woman's neck to check if her heart is still beating. It's weak. She needs help or she'll die because of his stupidity, because he's a drunk who can't even check his surroundings before backing up his car. Poor woman whose life is on pause for his mistake. She'll die because of him.

He dials 999 on his cell phone and repeats what he's going to say once someone picks up the phone.

"There's a woman—she's injured! Car accident!" he cries. He doesn't even try to make sentences; he just wants this to be over. "Please come quickly"

"What's your name, sir?"

His body is wavering, tears are streaming down his face – it's absolute chaos in his mind. He can't tell his name; he'd rather die than publicly suffer from the consequences of his actions. He needs to fly away; he needs to escape from this nightmare. He needs to leave, and now.

He hangs up in a hurry. No one can know he is drunk, and he almost killed someone. He walks back to his SUV and catches one last glimpse of this woman's body before closing the door and driving away.

As soon as he leaves, he regrets his decision, but sticks to it anyway. His soul is crying for him to go back there and help this dying life, but his cowardice tells him to hide and wait until this is over. He's reaching his lowest point, and the only person he wants to see now is his mum. When she holds him in her arms, the weight of his problems is bearable; he can even feel relaxed. And he wishes she'd be able to do it tonight. But it would kill her to know what monstrosity her son just did . . .

He's home, all alone. It's been a few hours since the incident happened, and Tom can't think of anything else. This woman's face, her blood all over the windshield, her crushed car.

Why didn't she see him? Why was she driving so fast in an empty street at night? So many questions roam in Tom's brain, it's slowly eating him alive.

He's sobering up as the morning lights glow on his face. It's already 6AM and he hasn't slept at all. He watches himself in his bathroom mirror and only see dark circles, pale skin, and the features of a monster. The broken blood vessels in the white of his eyes give him an evil aspect. He raises his arm and see the pink burnt skin, another scar for life. How on earth could he leave a dying woman?

He doesn't only feel remorse; he doesn't recognise himself. He's lost and wonders what happened in his life to be so miserable he considers his career more important than someone else's life.

He firmly rubs his face with the palms of his hands and takes off his clothes in a simple sweep. He crawls onto his bed and covers his body with a weighted blanket. He's almost trying to forget he exists when he squeezes his eyes shut and stops breathing until his lungs pressure him to open his mouth. Nature has done a wonderful job preventing us from suffocating on purpose. What a bummer for Tom; he would be dead already if he could just stop breathing . . .

He takes his phone, his only friend and his worst enemy, and checks the local news. Maybe they've mentioned the accident and he'll be able to know what happened to his woman. Not many articles have been published since last night. He keeps scrolling until he finds what he's been looking for.

25-year-old in coma after accident in Southeast London, fugitive remains unfound

Tom's heart skips a beat; this article must be about her. For a second, he apprehends and hesitates to read the article. But his guilty mind needs to know everything about what happened since he deserted.

As he reads the article, he gently places his hand over his mouth to stop him from crying out loud. The woman was so heavily injured they needed to put her under artificial coma to keep her alive. She was on her way to meet her dying husband, in the same hospital she's at now.

Such an emotional shock inflicts a profound pain to Tom's heart. He sobs in silence and passes out due to sleep deprivation. He's finally at peace; no thought, no nightmare. His mind is off, and his body is fully regenerating. His brain is solely focused on keeping his body alive. His soul is resting for a few hours until his cell phone starts ringing.

Tom wakes up with a start and answers his phone without checking who's on the line.

"Tom, what are you doing? I've been knocking at your door for the past 10 minutes," shouts his brother "what happened to your car? Dude what are you doing? You've gotta get ready for GQ!"

"Wh—What?" he mumbles.

His brother knocks at the door. Tom gets off his bed and walks down the stairs with difficulty. When he opens the door, the lights blind him, it's too sunny outside. He'd rather stay inside for a few more hours.

His brother checks him out and sighs. "Have you been drinking? The photoshoot is in less than an hour and you look like shit"

Tom remains silent, trying to process the information.

"And what happened to your car, man?"

And here it is. Every memory comes back in his mind like fireworks and his feet are failing, he can barely stand still. He grabs his brother by his shoulder and holds him tight in his arms. He's the only one who can really help him feel better. He wants to tell him everything that happened, but he can't admit he's got a problem.

He's lost.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading! What do you think so far of the story? Tom is in a very bad situation, I wonder how he's going to get through it?

Please like this post to be in the taglist.

#tom holland #tom holland series #tom holland fanfic #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland fic #tom holland fiction #tom holland imagines

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sicjimin · 3 years

Text

✈ First Flight ✈

A.N : cant found a namjin gif where they were at planes TT so this will do ... and hello again w mpreg stories

TW : emeto, mpreg

Seokjin held his newly permed hair back with his hand when his body jolted forwards, as brown chunky liquid rushing from his mouth, filling the toilet bowl. He felt himself gag a bit at the smell of vomit and sweat, his other hand clutching tightly on his mid-section, feeling it jerked when he belched more of his dinner last night.

"Uurrkk-"

His face scrunched up in disgust as he sees the mess he made. He flushed the toilet, leaning his forehead tiredly on the seat, ignoring how unsanitary that is. He moves his hand to slide under his baggy hoodie—not his actually, Namjoon's, that he proclaimed as his— placing his palm and start making a circle pattern against his bump. He closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath through his nose.

"Please stop making me nauseous ...", he mumbled quietly. Seokjin knew he was being overdramatic but he can't help but feel like this is all too much right now. He just wants to sleep and wake up feeling better.

He huffs, slowly stands up, still keeping his head down and walks to the sink and wash his face with cold water.

5 AM.

He could squeeze in 2 more hours of sleep before they had to go to the airport for their season greetings shooting. The image of flying while his morning sickness has been on wack got his stomach churn. But, maybe everything will be fine since he never got motion sickness before, right?

+++

Seokjin sighs, walking to his bed, sliding himself under the duvet.

"Morning sickness again?", Namjoon rasps beside him, barely awake as he pulls his pregnant boyfriend body closer to cuddle. Seokjin sniffles, curling his body small, " Mhm"

"You sure you can handle the flight today?", Namjoon asks in worry, shifting his body so he can see Seokjin's features.

"Its too late to cancel anyway", Seokjin mumbled, his voice scratchy. " I will be fine, i never had motion sickness before. I don't think it will be any different now"

Seokjin unconsciously placed his hand over his stomach. He guesses that was a new habit he grows the moment he knew there's a human being in there. He throws the glance over the airport. It feels nice, no cameras, no reporters. Just the rest of the members and their managers. He fixed his sunglasses and mask, smiling behind it when he feels Namjoon's steady hand circling his waist.

" Are you feeling alright?" Namjoon whispered quietly in his ear.

Seokjin smiled softly. "A little bit nauseous, maybe it's the car. But i'm alright"

Namjoon hummed contently at hearing those words.

Seokjin was optimistic that the earlier vomiting session was the only one episode of morning sickness he gonna had today as he succesfully eat breakfast, and now it's already 1 PM, he hasn't thrown up again. He even can get snacks! —croissant and decaf coffee during their waiting for check-in.

"Where's your bag?", Namjoon looks at him. He handed his backpack, and let Namjoon placed it in the cabin baggage.

He mutters a small thank you and settled on his seat. Namjoon plopped beside him, taking his cap off. He ruffles his already messed up black locks with ease, making sure none of them falls on the back of his eyes.

Seokjin felt his stomach flip and turn, he can feel it clenching his insides, and the belt that pressed against his lower stomach did not help everything at all. He sucked a deep breath, desperately trying to ignore nausea and placing his hand on the bump, hoping that it would calm the baby in there.

When the flight attendants announce take-off of the plane, that's when things start going south for Seokjin.

He felt sicker than ever.

" Hyung? Are you okay?", Namjoon asks, pulling off his headphones as he could sense Seokjin's distress. Seokjin closes his eyes, pressing his fist against his lips when bile shooting up to his throat. He swallows thickly, " I think my breakfast came back up again..."

"Oh shit", Namjoon says in a low voice. Seokjin nods lightly, closing his eyes tightly shut. Namjoon rubs his back soothingly as he watched Seokjin try to control his breathing.

Seokjin took a deep breath, trying his best to not puking his guts out. But he gave up.

" Can you get me the sick bag, Joon-ah?"

Seokjin hears the shuffling and rummaging around. He takes one long slow breath after another as nausea has draped over him like a wet blanket. He opens his eyes to see Namjoon placing the sick bag on his lap.

Seokjin reaches over and grabs hold of the bag. Namjoon watches him worriedly, " Do you need anything else hyung?", the younger male offers.

Seokjin shakes his head slightly, " No, I think i'm good now, Joon."

Seokjin looks away for a few seconds, feeling so weak from sickness, he feels lightheaded. He barely registers the stewardess and engine roaring around him as they start to take off. His fingers clutch tighter onto the sick bag.

"It's gonna pass soon", Namjoon said softly, rubbing Seokjin's arm reassuringly. Seokjin nods softly, focusing his gaze on the window. He feels like he might throw up again.

"Jin... You're really pale".

He turns to look at Namjoon, who's staring at him concernedly, eyes wide, brows furrowed in worry.

"I am?", he asks weakly before he groans, " I can't hold it anymore"

Seokjin shakily opened the bag, bent over it, and gag immediately.

Seokjin feels Namjoon's hands on his shoulders as he leaned over the side of the seats and throw up again. His body convulsing as the contents of his stomach rushed out.

"Uurrrkk-"

"You're doing great baby, let it out", Namjoon encouraged, squeezing the older's shoulder gently.

Seokjin clutches the sides of the sick bag tightly, eyes screwed shut as he tries to push the food back inside but failing miserably when he gushes out more of watery vomit. The bag already heavy in his hand.

He continues emptying his stomach, feeling it churn uncomfortably, until nothing left but dry heaves. He straightens his back slowly, coughing as he wipes his mouth off. Namjoon helps him drink some water.

" Are you done?", Namjoon asked worriedly.

Seokjin nodded, swallowing thickly, " I think, yeah.... Thank you Joon."

Namjoon smiles gently at him, rubbing his back gently. Seokjin feels exhausted.

"Our little one here giving you a hard time, huh?", Namjoon laughed lightly when Seokjin groaned in response, slumping against the seat exhaustedly, closing his eyes.

"They gave me a new experience, at least", Seokjin replied tiredly, his eyelids fluttering shut, " I never had motion sickness during 28 years of my life", he adds, making Namjoon chuckled softly.

He wrapped an arm around Seokjin, holding him close to him, nuzzling his nose against Seokjin's soft hair.

Seokjin smiles faintly, nuzzling closer to Namjoon as well, feeling the younger boy's scent engulfing him. Namjoon's arms tightened around him, hugging him closely. They stay like that until Seokjin's stomach starts rolling once again.

Seokjin grimaces, pushing himself away from Namjoon and sitting upright. Namjoon follows suit, looking worried.

"Again, hyung?"

Seokjin looked down, resting his palms on his knees, " Yeah, just a little queasy."

"You want me to get another bag?"

Seokjin huffs, "I don't want to puke again, my tummy hurts .. but-", he groans, " Gosh, Joonie .. i hate this"

Namjoon places a comforting hand on the side of Seokjin's neck.

"I know, love, i'm sorry .."

Seokjin exhales heavily, feeling his stomach churn. He squeezes his eyes tightly shut, his face twisted in discomfort.

"Excuse me sir, is there anything you need?", a woman's voice asked. Seokjin turned to look, a stewardess flashing them a smile. Namjoon turns the smile, " Can we get a sick bag, please? He's not feeling too well"

She nods, "Of course, just one second"

Namjoon watches her walk away, then turns back to look at Seokjin. He leans forward, placing kisses on the top of the other's head softly.

Seokjin lets out a shaky breath through his nose, "How long until we land?"

"About 40 minutes", he answers softly, rubbing his thumb gently on the side of his cheek.

Seokjin huffs, turning slightly in his seat.

Not long after, the stewardess returned with the sick bag.

"Is he alright?" She asked in concern.

Namjoon smiles kindly, "Yeah.. He's fine, thank you"

Seokjin smiles weakly, nodding.

Once she leaves, Seokjin holds the bag, pulling off his mask as he rests his chin on the edge of the bag. "I don't know why your baby decided to—uurrkkk", his words got cut off when his stomach lurched. Seokjin groaned loudly as he hunched forward, and end up vomiting water he took earlier.

Namjoon frowned, rubbing his neck in comfort as Seokjin's body convulse with every heave he let out. He waited for his boyfriend to finish throwing up. Once the other was done, he pulled out a tissue and wiped the tears and stray saliva from Seokjin's cheeks and lips.

"Sorry", Seokjin mumbles sheepishly, sniffling quietly, " Gosh .. this is humiliating"

Namjoon chuckles, " It's okay hyung, everyone understands"

Seokjin grunts, "I don't get why your baby decided to freak out when we had to go somewhere", he grimaces as he sips the water Namjoon gives him. His tongue tastes bland. " If they make me throw up again i will never get out from our hotel room"

Namjoon laughed lightly. "Want to use your pregnant privilege hm?", he teases.

Seokjin rests his head on the younger shoulder. Namjoon pulls him closer, " Can i?", he asks as he places his palms over Seokjin's sweater, wanting to rub the bump.

Seokjin hummed, guiding his wrist to his bump. Namjoon grinned brightly.

"This is amazing, isn't it?", Namjoon sighed happily as he laid his head back down, his hand caressing the bump, " My little one is growing so much, I can't believe it"

"You're saying that because you're not the one who need to vomit everytime", Seokjin grunts, but smiling regardless.

" Of course!", Namjoon teases, gaining a pinch from the older, "I'm breaking up with you"

#bts sickfic #bts emeto #tw emeto #tw vomit #sick!seokjin #caretaker!namjoon #and again another mpreg fic

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oftenderweapons · 3 years

Text

Illicit Affairs — Hoseok

Pairing: Hoseok x reader (nicknamed Giggles)

Wordcount: 11.2k

Genre: Smut. A tiny little bit of angst and fluff too but. Smut.

Rating: 18+

Hi bumblebees! Thank you for staying with me so far and for being so kind with hey works and my continuously shifting schedule.

Quick plot! Hoseok and Giggles have just met: Giggles was the substitute for Mickey’s vet and she helped the doggo and Hoseok during an emergency, however the hour they spent together was enough for Hoseok to develop a quite intense crush for the young woman. He decides he wants to invite her to a date and picks his apartment as the location, going out of his way to try to impress her. However, the elegant dinner miserably crashes once his poor nerves abandon him. Fortunately, Giggles can take the reins, but is also willing to give them up at the right moment.

Special thanks to beta extraordinaire, @hobiandsprite I really love you. Please, don’t be sad and let those giggles out every now and then.

Moving on to The Big Stuff.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Alcohol consumption, swearing. Basic BDSM training, Sir!Hoseok x sub!reader; safe sex, briefest mentions of masturbation (male and female), grinding, humping, making out, lots of tongue action, food play (and very messy one at it), cum play, cum eating, mild choking kink, one (1) breast slap, mild fetishism (panties, perfume/smells). Hoseok is overall very controlling, especially while he’s giving her basic training. There’s some sort of exhibitionism (if you like,,,, squint). Also Hoseok is a neurotic mess, Giggles is also quite tense and both like each other a lot, which leads to a few moments of weakness here and there. Mentions of vet emergency (don’t worry, Mickey is doing alright, he was just suffering from the hot temperatures).

Here you can check my full masterlist

Enjoy 💜✨

Jung Hoseok was nervous.

He was tense, palms sweating, nape drenched in perspiration.

He was a ball of nerves and he had never felt like this in a long time. Maybe ever since his first performance in the U.S.

Not like the day of their debut, but close.

And all of this for a stupid date.

He just wanted to know you, see if the image he had built of you actually corresponded with your actual personality.

He cracked his neck and shoulders, pacing back and forth, wondering if it were a good idea having you at his place.

After all, you were Mickey’s vet. He could be safe with you, right? You wouldn’t expose him now, would you?

It was the first time he ever brought someone in his home and he was way too nervous to feel comfortable.

He immediately picked up his phone.

“Jung. Hoseok. I don’t even know why I picked up this call. Why aren’t you getting prepped and polished for your date?” Yoongi’s voice was quiet and gravelly from the other side. It was seven pm, he shouldn’t have been sleeping, Hoseok mused, shaking his head once he realised Yoongi was spending the weekend with Kitten and the two had probably been dozing off on the sofa all afternoon.

“I think I fucked up. I like this apartment, I can’t jeopardise my home.” He panicked, finally losing his cool.

Yoongi inhaled and groaned as he stood up, leaving Kitten alone to rest undisturbed. “She seems a kind person. A smart one too. Just talk to her.”

“You know I suck at talking!” Hoseok whined, combing his hair off his forehead. “I don’t know why I want to impress her so bad.”

Yoongi chuckled. “Because you have a crush on her.”

“But I don’t even know her!” Hoseok protested, sitting on the sofa for a second before standing up again.

“That’s the key ingredient of a crush. Once you start getting to know her, you either grow out of it or fall in love.”

Hoseok cocked his head and toyed with his earlobe nervously. “Do you think she’ll like me? I mean, she looks so sweet, and so innocent and I can’t even imagine her being into—”

“Don’t judge. Strange fits sometimes work. Think Jimin and Princess. Seokjin hyung and Angel. They work. Strange, I know, but they do.”

Hoseok exhaled.

“Stop pacing. Don’t be too hard on yourself. First date is always a bumpy road. Maybe you’ll find out she’s not your thing and all these worries will be gone by the end of the night.”

“What if I like her and she doesn’t like me?”

Yoongi softened. “It’s all part of the game, Hobah.”

Hoseok nodded. “I have to go see if the chef needs help.”

Yoongi grinned. His friend was really going out of his way. Once, all he wanted were hotel rooms and quiet, curvy brunettes with so many sins they had officially given up on heaven at least a lifetime ago. “No matter how it goes, I’m sure you’ll find someone right for you.”

Hoseok nodded curtly before realising his friend couldn’t see his reply. “Thank you, Yoongi.”

“Sweep her off her feet, Casanova.”

With a bubbly laugh, Hoseok interrupted the call, headed to the private kitchenette. “Can I help you in any way?” Hoseok asked, still keeping his hands on his stomach, trying not to touch anything that could possibly cause a disaster — which considering the setting and his poor cooking skills meant everything.

“It’s okay. I can take care of everything. Don’t worry. Relax.” The chef almost wanted to take a second to pat the younger man’s back. He was probably six years his senior but the stress of a first date was timeless.

And the poor guy was sweating disastrously.

“Okay, then I’ll go check the table.” Hoseok murmured.

“Already settled. And the cake is waiting in the fridge. It’s still too hot for it.” The chef replied as he turned off the stove since the sauce for the noodles had reached perfect texture. “Maybe a small glass of soju could help?”

Hoseok shook his hands in panic. “Oh, no. That would make it all worse. Why is it so hot in here!”

He walked away from the kitchen, once more staring at the table near the wide floor to ceiling windows. The view would soon turn stunning, the Han river running like a pitch black road, cutting the city in two, Itaewon lighting up in the distance and emerging like a glowing mirage against the night sky.

What if she’s scared of heights?

He banged his head against the wall, pacing again, texting the group chat.

HS: “What if she suffers from vertigo?”

SJ: “You didn’t place the table by the window, did you?”

Hoseok tugged at his hair, undoing a button on his shirt. Why was everything so fucking hot?!

HS: “Should I move it? I have ten minutes! I can move it.”

TH: “Don’t. You can place her with her back to the window if she feels uncomfortable.”

JK: “You’re such a loser, hyung. Relax, it will work out.”

HS: “DON’T TELL ME TO RELAX YOU UNGRATEFUL RASCAL”

JM: “Okay, let’s calm down. Personally I would feel even worse with my back to the window. You can move to the coffee table. It will feel more informal and you will FINALLY GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS,

JM: “she probably just wants to chat over fried chicken while you’re going to make her uncomfortable with all that finesse.”

NJ: “Gotta agree with Jimin on this one. She’ll simply want to chat. You’ll want to chat and get to know her.”

YG: “I told you it will be alright now stop spamming.”

HS: “AND I SUCK AT CHATTING”

JK: “yeah, you kinda ramble”

JM: “not helping Guk.”

The doorbell rang.

Fuck.

He pocketed his phone and headed to the door. “Yes?”

“Uhm… It’s confusing here, I think you need to pick me up.” You said anxiously over the intercom.

“I’m coming. Wait in the foyer.” He slipped on his shoes and got in the elevator, cracking all the joints of his fingers as it descended, going through the process again once he had cracked them all. He dumbly wished he had more fingers.

The door opened and there you stood with your back to him, your shoulders covered by a messy tumble of hair.

“Hello?” He called, making you turn around immediately.

His stomach turned upside down when you hit him with your sweetest, most radiant smile as you faced him. “Hi!”

He felt dumbstruck. You looked adorable, way too pretty for him. Way too incredible for anyone in the universe. “Hello.” He repeated, feeling a nervous smile constrict his face.

It almost looked like a grimace. For a second you thought you had somehow disappointed him. Maybe your dress was too informal? Were you too underdressed?

Staring at his outfit, you realised you were.

“You look very handsome.” You flattened your dress nervously, aware of every movement you made, feeling ridiculous.

“Oh, thank you.” He emitted the most neurotic laugh. Pull yourself together, Jung Hoseok, he innerly scolded himself before gesturing to the lift. “Shall we?”

You nodded, your glee completely lost. Staring at your dumb flats, you approached the opening doors and entered, Hoseok following suit.

You both stayed silent for a couple floors. “How was your day?” You managed to find the guts to ask.

“Uhm… Okay, I guess? My family came to pick Mickey up the other day so it’s been very quiet and a bit lonely.” He smiled but he looked sad.

You nodded. “Pets really change the whole feeling of home.”

He noticed you pressing your hands together before your lap, tucking your elbows against your sides as you tried to shrink yourself enough to disappear. You knew you should have bought a nice dress for this. You cursed your childish tastes and your sweet saffron dress, too demure and cheap for him. You had maybe spent 30,000 won on it, probably the equivalent of his shoelaces.

Screw that — obviously even his shoelaces cost more than that.

You started sucking at your lips, frowning at yourself for messing up your lipgloss. Out of nerves, you started twisting slightly side to side, your dress moving slightly with the motion, your eyes still focused on your shoes.

He was intimidating. Why in the world did you accept a date with him? He was way out of your league! All it would be was one date you would remember someday in your old years, annoying your grandchildren with that one time you had dinner at one of the most incredibly powerful and famous artists of the world.

Hoseok surreptitiously dried his palms against his trousers. He looked at you. His stomach turned again. He wondered how he would manage to eat all that food. All he could do was look at you and take in the cute freckles, that peppered your nose and cheekbones, and your arms too.

“You have freckles.” He noted absentmindedly, a thought unwillingly turned into speech.

You turned your head to him, batting your lashes confusedly. Was it a good thing or a bad thing?

“Yes.”

“You look like a strawberry.” Jung Hoseok, what the fuck.

You frowned. Again, was that good or bad?

“No one has ever told me that before,” you replied with a tense giggle.

He cocked his head at the sound. That was sweet. He liked that. Could he make you laugh like that again? “And you look very pretty in the dress. That shade of yellow really compliments you.” He confessed, feeling his whole face blush.

This felt like his first crush, when he would hide behind corners not to face the girl he liked, and when he would hide his face because it made him feel strange to be looked in the eye by her. She was way too pretty for him.

Thank the heavens, you thought as the doors finally opened on his floor.

He was drenched in sweat. He could literally feel the back of his shirt stick to his skin. He hoped you wouldn’t notice.

He smiled again, this time more relaxedly as he led the way. The lighting was perfect, the deep night sky splashing its colour over Seoul, the billowing darkness of the Han, the magical glimmering of Itaewon, like a flock of fireflies in the distance.

“Goodness gracious,” you exclaimed, walking toward the window and looking out, completely ignoring the table. “This is… It’s like flying.”

He smiled and let his shoulder sag in relief, his elated exhale cooling his heated chest. “I was panicking because it kind of hit me that you could be scared of heights. Like one of those last minute panic thoughts.”

You turned to him to comfort him. “It’s—”

You noticed the table. You noticed the gargantuan quantity of bowls and dishes and plates and cups spread all over it.

Suddenly it all made sense.

“Was this supposed to be a formal dinner?” You asked, your whole face scrunched in perplexity.

He froze in utter confusion. “Just dinner.”

“Are you okay?” You asked, looking as his left eyelid started pulsating with small flutters.

He hurriedly placed his hand over it, turning his back to you. “Yeah, just… Hot weather, blood pressure...”

You walked closer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He was drenched. “Jung Hoseok,” you called calmly.

You could feel his heartbeat get three times faster.

“Hoseok. Turn around,” you told him sweetly, rubbing his shoulder-blade softly, completely ignoring the way the fabric stuck to his skin.

He turned to you, still cupping the left side of his face with both hands.

“Are you nervous?” You asked, feeling the ridge of his shoulder with your fingertips.

He nodded shyly, giving you the smallest pout.

“And you got a full meal for this? Were you trying to kill me by overfeeding me?” You asked with a tiny smile.

“I— I didn’t know what you like and I hired a chef so we could have excellent food here at home and—”

“This wasn’t necessary, you know that right?” You rubbed your thumb against the muscle and bone of his shoulder. “I mean, it’s not like I don’t appreciate it, but it seems like you went maybe… slightly out of your way for this.” You noticed more details, like the flowers and the candles and… wait, he hired a chef? There was another person that would take part in your date as a silent, distant viewer?

“Is it too much?” He asked, frowning and grimacing.

You offered him a lopsided grin and tipped your head to one side, then to the other, back and forth in a so-and-so gesture.

He covered his whole face with his hands and collapsed on the sofa. “Shit, I fucked up so bad.”

You crouched down before him, making sure that the dress didn’t expose too much of your thighs. “It’s okay. Would you like to have a formal dinner?”

“I just wanted to make a good impression.” He whined, tugging at his hair once more.

You touched his forearms, trying to ease his tension before realising that you were technically strangers and maybe he didn’t like being touched. You scolded yourself for your over-tactile approach, and your dumb habit of treating everyone like abandoned puppies. Embarrassedly you placed your hands on your lap, his face raising to meet yours as he felt your fingers leave his skin. Had he done something wrong? Had he made a fool of himself one more time, without even knowing?

“You already made a good impression—”

“I wanted to confirm it!” He wailed exasperatedly.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you tried to calm him down. “We can walk this walk or do something more low-key. More... relaxing,” you suggested, smiling easily, calmly.

He could feel himself calm down. “Would it disappoint you if we just… I don’t know... ate some noodles over a glass of soju and beer?”

You giggled. “That would make me ecstatic.”

“Let me go call off the chef then.” He stood to his feet. “Thank you so much.”

You shrugged and beamed at him. “No biggie.”

In two minutes the chef came out of the kitchen, bowing at you while you still sat on the sofa. “Good evening. I wish you a good meal. I hope you’ll enjoy the food.”

“Thank you for your hard work! I’m sure I’ll enjoy it!” You replied politely and warmly, watching the man collect a bag from the entry room and bow to Hoseok as he accompanied him out.

“He had already finished cooking.” Hoseok exhaled. He looked ten years younger and significantly less stressed. “The meat had already been grilled, it just needs to be warmed up in the oven.”

“You mean there’s more food?” You asked, eyes wide in terror.

He started shaking his hands in equal fear. “We don’t have to eat that too. Maybe just a couple short ribs?” He wondered.

You stared at the rice and side dishes on the table. It was probably four times what you normally ate, and that was without considering his half of the table. “You have glass noodles?” You asked, and he nodded excitedly at your interest.

“With aubergines and mushrooms and pork belly?”

You felt your mouth water. “Can we have those though?”

He smiled excitedly. “The chef was stir frying the vegetables so we would have to finish that.”

You shrugged. “I can do that while you go get changed, if you’d like. Wear something fresh and cozy.”

He looked around nervously.

You immediately realised what was wrong. How could he let a stranger wander through his house? And he wasn’t just anyone. He was a celebrity. A famous person. What if he thought you would sneak through his private spaces and sell information about him to the press?

“Uhm—”

“Oh my god. No, it’s okay. Who would let a stranger stay in their home while they’re in the shower. Dumb me. Sorry.”

He blinked a couple times. “It's the first time I have invited someone in my house, except for my close friends.” He looked down and smiled, his cheeks shooting up in a complicated mix of sadness and joy. “I'm nervous because of that too.”

You nodded. “I know it could sound dumb to say but I care about you. And I'm not interested in gossip and press and all of that. I will respect you and your home. It's basic human decency,” you said, sitting next to him. “I only suggested you go get a change of clothes because that cannot be comfortable and I wouldn't be surprised if you wanted out of that.”

He looked up at you with big, soft eyes. “It would really be okay?”

“Yes, it would, Hobi.” You flinched at the nickname. “Hoseok. Sorry.” You wanted to tear your own tongue off.

However, just as much as you felt disappointed at yourself for the small slip, he felt warm about you calling him by a nickname. He wanted you to say it again. And again. And well… again but in other ways.

“I'll be back in five minutes, just to rinse off and get comfy.”

You nodded. “I'll wait here and then we'll get the noodles ready.”

Hoseok felt extremely relieved once he changed his clothes. The loose linen joggers felt like a soft cloud around his legs, air already circulating better against his skin. And the satin shirt made him feel classy and casual at the same time.

He was pleased at the comfort-looks ratio of his outfit and exited the room confidently. He was further reassured once he found you scrolling through your phone, sitting there innocently, smiling at him once you saw him appear.

“Okay, ready to go?” He asked, standing in front of you, all set to accompany you to the kitchen.

You nodded and took his hand as he helped you up. “Let’s go.”

He smelled amazing, like anise and patchouli. Something sweet and manly at the same time. It suited him perfectly.

Standing a bit too close after he tugged you up, you surreptitiously tried to sniff him, your eyes falling shut once the vaguely honeyed fragrance met your nostrils.

He observed you as you stood there, clearly entranced. Heat crept up his cheeks as your breath tickled down his neck: he was slowly becoming aware of your presence, of the warmth that your skin radiated, of the way a strand of your hair skimmed his arm.

“I like your perfume,” you whispered.

He felt his knees grow vaguely wobbly, a swoony, shy smile stretching his lips.

The moment you opened your eyes, you realised his face was just a few inches away from yours, his blush visible in high definition right before your eyes.

He looked so incredibly, adorably embarrassed. “Thank you,” he replied quietly, almost afraid of breaking the spell of the moment.

Your eyes met his, and for a second he hoped you would get on your tiptoes and kiss him, but you casually turned around and started walking away, turning to him only to ask about the kitchen.

Trying to keep his delusions on the low, he led you to the kitchen, where all you could see was the tidy chaos of creation.

A few bowls were piled neatly in the sink, together with lined up utensils. You let him show you the several drawers and cabinets, explaining where to find a frying pan for the vegetables, the noodles already cooked and marinated in the secret sauce the chef had prepared.

All he could do was stare as you easily made your way through the motions, the main dish of your meal ready to be served after a few minutes, the vegetables keeping a crispy texture while the noodles hit a chewier feel once you mixed the two together.

You set both on different bowls and offered them to Hoseok. “I’ll put a couple short ribs in the oven.”

He nodded and reached the dining table, frowning at all the food spread there in cups and plates and dishes and bowls.

His disappointment was short-lived.

“Don’t worry about it,” you murmured gently, completely incapable of keeping yourself from tracing his spine in between his shoulder blades.

You watched his back straighten, the glossy satin glimmering at the shift of muscles and tendons underneath.

You wanted to see that again. No shirt on, next time.

You shook your head and blinked rapidly, trying to awaken yourself from your fantasy.

He set the bowls down and you sat in front of each other, thanking for the food quickly before you started chatting about which food was where.

The meal went on calmly while you talked about your family, your job, and the pets you had visited during the day. At the same time, he explained some of the undercover dynamics of his job, like all the training and briefing and preparations necessary before interviews, photoshoots, or even something as basic as a public appearance where all they had to do was stand and look pretty for the photographers. He teased the theme of the Run episode they had just filmed — which was almost fifteen episodes ahead to the one that had just been aired.

You chit-chatted for a long while, your conversation resembling the sound of chirping birds thanks to Hoseok’s naturally melodic intonation of speech. He was lovely when he stumbled a bit over his words, the ridge of his ears scarlet with embarrassment once a slip of tongue had him making a lewd allusion you caught with a mischievous grin he couldn’t quite catch since your eyes were glued to the table; he had been too busy being ashamed of his freudian lapsus to actually notice that you had enjoyed the reference.

He was saved by the sound of the oven beeping, telling him that the ribs were warm and ready, which made him excuse himself.

He returned just a minute later with more soju and beer, asking if you were okay with the serving or if you were full.

The smell was so inviting you let him convince you.

No matter the large dinner and the several dishes, you managed to eat way more than what you thought, only a quarter of the table remaining untouched.

“Okay, maybe we could pack up the leftovers.” You suggested, standing up once your conversation hit a natural pause, comforted by the feeling that Hoseok no longer felt like a stranger to you.

You helped him, easily getting acquainted with his living room and kitchen. It felt nice to get gradually more independent, enough that you could easily help him up with the containers and that you could assist him with organizing the tupperware in the fridge.

It was all going okay until you were standing in front of the open fridge, ready to close it when his hand landed on yours on the handle, holding the door open. He leaned against your back, grabbing a paper box from the top shelf.

“Sorry,” he spoke quietly, all chirpiness gone.

Shivers propagated from your spine to your limbs, your brain suddenly struck by the feel of perspiration coating your inner thighs. You felt wet and you weren’t sure if it was sweat or actual arousal.

His perfume came in again once he stretched to reach the box.

Hoseok’s attention moved to the mole on your neck as you leaned your head against his shoulder. “Careful, it’s heavy,” he said, giving a quick look at your lashes, at the freckles peppered over your cheekbones, your face turned to the side, ready to nuzzle into the crook of his neck.

His hand was hot against yours, his back light and solid at the same time.

He parted from you, feeling disappointed with the fact that he had to move, biting his lip as his arm struggled keeping the box upright.

You caved slightly as cool air replaced the warmth of his chest, still feeling the phantom presence of his touch.

“Let’s go back to the living room.” He bit his lip, grabbing another bottle as you almost ran from him.

You weren’t okay with what was going on. Not one small bit. You were not okay with the idea of getting drenched and making a mess of yourself on the first date. You were even less okay with the idea of going back home and spending all night with your hand between your legs, thinking about the mind-blowing sex Jung Hoseok was most definitely capable of performing. With a body like that and years of pilates lessons, there was no doubt he could rearrange your organs as your legs and arms bent to accommodate him and please him.

You were even less pleased by the way you craved to satisfy him. You wanted to hear him moan and whine with his melodious voice. You wanted to hear the symphony of his pleasure, the sound of his cries, the smashing of skin against skin, and maybe the legs of the bed scraping against the floor, the headboard thudding against the wall.

You wanted his perfume on your neck, against your chest. You wanted your thighs to smell like him, the scent of your sex mingling with his cologne. It was primal and visceral and obscure and thrilling.

And then a sick side of you wanted to wake up all the neighbours, let them know he was living the night of his life. And since you could only hope of getting a second chance, you found yourself ready to use the night you’d been granted, if fate would allow you an in to the sinful heaven you were imagining.

After all, you weren’t even sure he still liked you.

As he sat in front of you, Hoseok observed your side profile while you stared out of the window, completely lost in your thoughts, your cheeks reddened because of the alcohol.

He was so whipped for you.

However, he knew the initial thrill would eventually fade and leave him with an adorable, beautiful young woman who could never own his heart or tend to his vulnerable side. It had happened so many times before that he was just waiting for his interest to die down.

Because right as he stared at your dreamy expression, he realised he would never lay a finger on you.

You were far too precious for him to sully you with his dirty paws and devilish ways.

With a sliver of sadness tainting his smile, he placed the cake in the middle, preparing two forks, one on your side and one on his.

“I’ve heard champagne is great with strawberries,” he commented, opening the bottle and awakening you from your daydream.

You blinked a few times. “Oh, just a little or I’ll end up dizzy,” you replied with a small smile. “This cake looks beautiful.”

“I hope you aren’t allergic to strawberries or dairy products,” he mused, lifting up his glass to clink it with yours. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” you repeated before answering his questions. “Luckily I don’t have any allergies. Usually I prefer eating fruit and vegetables, but I’m pretty cool with any kind of food.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hoseok replied before realising he’d better never see you again. You were too tempting, too pretty, too gentle and overall too attractive for someone like him. Chances were you would be a bit disappointed but would find a proper date within the next two weeks. Women like you were far too requested and treasured in a city like Seoul.

You were suitable from head to toe. You had a degree, a job, a place to yourself, you were accomplished. And then your innocent looks, your kind manners, the caring side he had the fortune of catching a glimpse of.

You would be taken in less than three weeks. He could tell.

It was a mystery to him how you were still single after eight months in the city.

He found the courage to look up from the dessert, only to regret it immediately.

Your mouth was wide open in an attempt to chomp on a huge strawberry, your lips rosy, your nose smeared with cream.

I shall not.

I cannot.

I should not.

He paused.

Fuck. I will.

He placed down his fork and stood to his feet, your eyes following him as he came to your side.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, looking at his stone-cold expression.

You put your fork down, staring back at him with concern.

His hand moved tentatively to your cheek, laying gently along your jaw.

Turning to him, you stared some more, your chest inflating and deflating rapidly and deeply — which was not lost on him.

Too afraid to look, you closed your eyes as he leaned down his thumb moving closer to your mouth, parted as you found it increasingly difficult to breathe.

Your whole world was dark and hot once his breath fanned over your face.

With overwhelming desire coursing through him, Hoseok stared at every single detail, drinking you in with eyes so hungry, like he could swallow every freckle, every mole, every bit of plump flesh and bony edge.

With his hand trembling slightly at the strange position, he dragged his thumb against the tip of your nose, collecting the cream smeared there.

Your eyes opened in surprise at the unanticipated motion, meeting his lowered eyelids, his lovely lashes making an appearance against the fair skin.

And then his thumb met your lips, covering them in sweetness.

“You had cream on your nose,” he said, his eyes never abandoning the curves of your lips.

Jung Hoseok knew he was a sinner already. But with heartbreaking realisation, he knew the next action would deem his fall.

His tongue slipped out of his mouth, guided by a need so deep he could barely control. With the worst intentions, he focused on touching you as little as possible, trying to scoop up the cream caught on the gentle petals of your lips.

What he didn’t expect was for your own tongue to slide out and brush against his.

From there, it was only ruination.

His tongue slid in your mouth, catching on all the flavours of the dessert. It was strawberries. Strawberries everywhere; your freckles, your hair, your shampoo, your dress, he was possessed by them, drowning in a forest of strawberry bushes growing all over him, climbing into his mouth and underneath his clothes.

“Hobi,” you called weakly as he let you go, your body shooting up on your feet as you tried to chase after his mouth, tried to have his arms around you.

He moaned and caught you, placing his forearm against your lower back and holding your cheek with the other. “I’m so sorry, baby.” He placed a chaste kiss on your lips. “I promised myself I wouldn’t but you’re too hard to resist.”

You looked at him with pleading eyes, kissing his jaw, trying to reach the underside of his ear. “Please.”

You tried to calm your breathing by inhaling deeply through your nose, which in retrospective was an awful move since his scent filled your lungs and all you could do was whine in reply, the sound ridiculous and embarrassing to your own ears.

“I’ll do bad things to you, honey. We should stop now,” he said, trying to be judicious.

“Please,” you begged again, rubbing your face against his neck, already trying to cover yourself in his perfume. “Just a kiss, please.”

Closing his eyes, he gave in, following the line of your neck, the sweet mole at the base, drawing your throat with the inner side of his lips.

“Hobi…” You whined once more before receiving a gentle tug at your hair.

“I’m getting there, don’t be impatient,” he growled, making your neck stretch backwards. Once more his tongue slipped out, drawing a line from the hollow between your collarbones all the way to your chin, stopping at your lower lip. “If you’re patient you get a reward, see? That’s how it works with me, sweetheart.”

He kissed your mouth, first delicately, tentatively, trying to feel you open up and give in.

Once you did, he locked your face against his with the hand of his nape, following your body as you walked backwards, reaching the sofa.

“What do you want to tell me, my pretty strawberry?” He teased once he allowed you to let go of him.

“Thank you.”

It was not what he expected, but it made his stomach churn with longing. He needed to please you more, give you more, just to hear those words again.

“You’re welcome, honey. Now, tell me. What do you want me to do, sweetie?” He watched as you sat on the carpet.

You remembered how soft it had felt earlier under your knees. “I wanna make out?” You asked, lashes batting. You didn’t want to sound eager.

“Just make out?” He asked, sitting down in front of you. There was no way he would allow you to blow him tonight.

You looked at him with sparkly eyes. He wanted to dive into them, to feel the magic they held glow inside his body. “Am I allowed to ask for more?” You questioned with the sweetest pout.

“You can ask me anything, honey.” He skimmed the skin of your jaw with the back of his fingers before feeling the hot curve of your neck under his palm.

“Would you think ill of me if I asked for more?”

He shook his head and smiled softly. He would never think ill of you. Not even if you asked him to fuck you for a whole audience of connoisseurs to stare. “You're my cute, little strawberry. I could never think lowly of you.” He cooed.

“What if I wanted you to… to fuck me?” You asked, biting your lip nervously before looking at him.

He thought about the consequences for maybe half a second. He felt awful because, at the end of all the reasoning he knew he would hoard you and every single ounce of pleasure he could coax out of your body.

“Are you sure you want that?” He asked, letting his hand follow the path between your breasts, down to your waist gripping your side.

You licked your lips and nodded. “I'll be so good to you.”

His grin was outright evil. “I know you will, baby.” He kissed your temple. “I need to go get protection if that's what you want. I'll give you a minute to think about it and if you still think so when I'm back, then we're gonna deal with your needy head, mh?”

You nodded, staring at him as he stood up, incapable of not studying his crotch where his cock was visibly tenting his loose trousers.

He chuckled as he watched you stare. “It'll be yours if you still want it later.”

Your eyebrows raised in disappointment as you watched him leave.

So… it was actually going to happen. Did you want it to happen?

What a stupid question! Yes. Of course.

You wanted him and it scared you and thrilled you at the same time.

His footsteps reached the room once more, disappearing once his feet touched the carpet.

“Okay. Here we go, sweetie. Are you still sure you want to have sex with me?” He asked, kneeling and moving your hair off your face, your head reaching his sternum from your seated position.

“Yes, I'm sure,” You confirmed curtly. “Please.”

Oh, to hear you beg. He could cum from that alone. It was intoxicating. And he wasn't even touching you. He could only imagine what sounds you would make once his cock would fill your cunt.

“You want the bedroom—”

“Here. Please.” You shut your eyes tight. You felt like an animal, willing to fuck wherever, and the immense temptation of feeling the plush carpet underneath your back, the city lights illuminating his skin…

Hoseok inhaled.

You were wilder than what you looked and such information aroused him immensely.

“Lay back, honey.” He murmured, extracting three small squares of foil from his pocket and laying them on the coffee table.

Slowly, you lowered your back to the carpet while he kneeled close to you, your legs rotating so that your feet laid right in front of his knees, your legs bent and pressed together.

“That's nice, ____. Lovely,” he said before placing his hands on your knees. “Would you like to spread your pretty legs for me?” He asked, his fingers sliding down your thighs, reaching the hem of the dress.

You looked adorable once you demurely parted your feet to offer him some space between your knees, the hem of the dress moving closer to your lap.

His legs slotted between your thighs and he bent down, reaching for your face. “Such a good girl,” he praised you, cooing once he noticed your cheeks redden. “So adorable.”

On all fours on top of you, you felt the unique shape of his mouth draw your throat before giving a lick. “I bet you taste like strawberries all over.” He started kissing down your chest, rubbing his cheek against your small breasts. “You make me feel like a man starved,” he continued, kissing your stomach, your abdomen, laying one small peck on the fabric covering your belly button.

“Hoseok,” you whined, feeling his hands around your hips.

He stopped brusquely, his body entirely leaving yours. “Now, now, sweetie. What did you just call me?”

You batted your lashes as you stared at him in confusion. “Hoseok.”

“Okay. If you want to have sex with me, honey, that name will not do.”

You stared at him some more.

“I’m Sir,” he affirmed sternly. “The moment you get wet between your legs, I become Sir to you, understood?”

You nodded quickly, breath and brain completely stolen out of you.

“No nodding, my cute berry. Either ‘yes, Sir’ or ‘no, Sir’. Let’s try again. Is it clear what you must call me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He grinned and kissed your belly again, just a bit lower. “That’s excellent. Well done, ____.”

You smiled and placed your hands on his hair, feeling the soft locks as he looked up at you.

He growled at that, your fingers naturally curling in fists as you brought them to your chest. “A very good girl indeed.”

You propped yourself up to your elbows once he lifted the skirt of your dress.

He could barely believe you. “Goodness.”

“At first I thought my dress was stuck on my underwear when you called me strawberry.”

Under the cutest, loveliest, most girlish dress he had ever seen, he was met by another adorable surprise. You were wearing a playful pair of ruffled panties in gingham print, with a small strawberry embroidered on your mound.

“You’re going to kill me,” he moaned, eyes closing before he dipped his head between your legs, studying the patch of wetness on the gusset of your panties, drawing a line from there to your clit, eliciting a moan. “You’re so sweet. And so evil at the same time.” He bit your inner thigh, making you wince. “Can’t believe that song predicted you on my carpet.”

You giggled and arched your hips against his face, your wetness meeting his cheek lewdly.

He inhaled you, completely intoxicated before he came back up, his arms caging your head. “You really rubbed yourself against my face, honey?” He asked with a stone cold expression.

You were afraid again, but that didn’t keep you pussy from clenching around nothing.

“Yes, Sir.” You replied, the respect in your voice nothing but a taunt.

“If you make a mess you gotta clean it, sweetie. Understood?” He asked, grabbing your face and angling his cheek to your mouth. “Clean it.”

“Please, Sir,” you mewled, trying to push your crotch against him, crying out once you noticed his body was too far away for you to find something to grind against.

“Clean after yourself. Now.”

You did as he told you, feeling the salty, bitter tang of your arousal transfer from his smooth skin to your tongue.

“All of it,” he muttered once you stopped after the first lick.

You completed your task, his pelvis lowering to yours as a reward. “There you go. Now thank me.”

Your arms moved around his torso, trying to get him closer, just to brush your chest against the soft, smooth satin of his shirt.

“I said, thank me.”

“Thank you, Sir.” You felt him cave immediately, giving you his hard and lithe body against your chest, your crotch, right in your arms as your legs wrapped around him. You felt crazy, grinding against him like a teenager, ridiculously reminded of how you used to go off by humping a pillow. “Please, inside,” you wailed, your sigh hitting his chest and disappearing underneath his shirt. Once you inhaled, his cologne felt like a bruising kiss, your hips meeting his harder, faster.

“You like my perfume?”

You nodded furiously.

Not again. He violently separated himself from you. “What did I tell you about replies?” He scolded you.

“I’m sorry, Sir.” You looked down with repentance. “I like your perfume very much, Sir.”

“That’s right. Good girl. Now, after I praise you, thank me.” He pushed your dress up as his hand dragged heavily from your crotch to your throat.

“Thank you, Sir,” you replied obediently, watching as he got on his knees and tugged his trousers down, the white boxers underneath surprising you as they outlined his length perfectly.

“You want it out?” He asked, watching as you sat up straighter and licked your lips.

You were almost ready to nod when you caught yourself, Hoseok smiling proudly once he saw you correct your behaviour. “I want it out, Sir.”

“Excellent.”

He lowered his underwear too, his cock standing erect immediately, it fluttered even straighter once you kept looking, your hands touching your breasts needily.

Hoseok stretched to the coffee table, grabbing a condom and tearing the foil open, sliding the latex on quickly and firmly.

“My cute berry, I need you to be very careful about this. You know what a safeword is?”

You shook your head. “No, Sir.”

He momentarily covered himself, needing to get all your focus on his words. “Safewords are what you use to communicate with your partner in a BDSM scene. A safeword means that you don’t like what is going on and you want to slow down or stop. We will use the traffic lights system. If you say ‘yellow’, I will slow down, if you say ‘red’, I will let go of you entirely and help you recover from whatever it was that hurt you, mentally, emotionally or physically. On the other hand, ‘green’ means that you’re okay and you are ready to get back into the scene after a ‘yellow’. If I ask you your colour, you reply with those. All clear?”

“All clear, Sir.”

He grinned proudly. “Then explain to me how it works.”

“If I want to slow down, I call ‘yellow’. If I want to stop, I call ‘red’. If I’m all good, I call ‘green’ — Sir.” You added for good measure, knowing that one too many wouldn’t hurt for sure.

“That’s my good girl.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

He smiled as he looked in your eyes. He knew he would remember you forever, even if he never developed any feelings for you. You were by far the most unique woman he’d ever had under him so far.

For a second he observed your cute, frilly undies, wondering if he wanted them off.

No.

He took his cock out of his underwear, letting the waistbands of his trousers and boxers rest on his mid-thigh.

“Wanna keep these pretty panties on.” He murmured once he laid on top of you. “Tell me if the elastic band hurts you.” He said, moving the gusset aside and testing your wetness with his fingers, spreading the slickness over your folds. “So fucking soft. Dammit. Can't wait.”

He dipped his head against your neck. “You want it?”

“Yes, Sir.” You placed your hands on the small of his back, his eyes closing as he relished in your touch.

“Beg for it.” He murmured, dragging the tip up and down your slit.

You rolled your eyes. “No, Sir.”

“You won't beg?” He asked, looking at you.

You pouted. “Why do you want me to beg?” You asked with a frown.

“I need to know you want me, my sweet berry,” he pouted back. He touched your face giving you a few kisses to convince you. “I want to hear your sweet voice saying 'please', just one more time,” he whispered, feeling merciful, especially after all the ways he had already pushed you.

Your will bent to his. “Please.”

And just like that, his tip entered your warm, tight cunt, a moan exiting his mouth. “Yes, yes, ____. Yes, baby,” he groaned, at which you responded with a mewl.

“Hobi…” You cried, squeezing around him once he bottomed out.

“Don't make me punish you,” he murmured, exhaling raspily. “You've been such a good girl. Don't get naughty.”

“Sir, please.”

He started snapping his hips out, slowly, then in again, one inch at a time, so deep and slow, over and over. “Yes, baby. Tell me how good it feels.”

“It feels too good, Sir, I'm…”

He hummed in pleasure, feeling the skin of your neck under his lips. “Too good. My berry, you're so tiny and tight.” His hips trusted in quickly and unexpectedly.

“Holy… Sir, please, again, please.” You squealed, feeling his thumb slide your panties further aside to reach your clit.

He breathed out with effort against your ear as your mouth reached his earlobe. “Fuck, not there, Berry. Not there,” he said, tugging his ear out of your mouth.

“But Sir—,” you tried objecting before his pace became irresistible. While one hand reached the crown of his hair, holding him against you, the other one met his glute, your nails sinking in his flesh. Your breath started coming in short hiccups, leading you to your climax as he outright hammered into you, his back curved away while his forehead stayed glued to your neck.

“Am I fucking you right, ____? Is it good enough for my golden girl?” He growled once he felt you tightening around him more intensely, with longer squeezes.

“It's perfect, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” you reacted readily, shaking your head as pleasure started overpowering you, trying not to hurt him.

“Cum, my sweet berry. Show me.”

The hiccups of your breathing started turning in tiny whimpers, then squeals.

You were ready to bury your head in the ground and never come back because you knew what would come next.

The squeals turned into an uncontrolled cascade of giggles. Giggles.

Hoseok picked his head up at the curious sound, only to see your palm covering your mouth in an attempt to bottle the stupid reaction.

Hoseok smiled through gritted teeth, going faster, harder, deeper now that he understood that the sweet gurgling laugh was due to your orgasm peaking.

He pinned your hand away from your face, basking in the desperate joy of your bliss before he felt himself ready to blow.

“I'm gonna slide out now,” he warned, making sure that your high had faded and your body laid limp and drained underneath him.

Your body relaxed against the carpet, your eyes closed, your lungs still working hysterically to give you back some oxygen after the ruthless fit of giggles. You whimpered once you felt him pull out.

“Look at me, honey,” he called, making you prop your upper back on your elbows as you looked down, only to be met by the sight of Hoseok slipping off the condom. “Let me cum on your cute panties, mh? Can I? I promise I'm clean, I can show you the—”

“Do it,” you replied, giving him official permission.

“Really?”

“Really— I mean, yes, Sir.”

He smirked and started pumping himself furiously, his expression frantic as his tip pressed to your mound and he came apart, his hot seed drenching the red and white cotton, an animalistic growl making his whole chest shake.

You welcomed him in your arms once he collapsed on top of you, right hand smeared in slickness. “I’m gonna call you Giggles.” He said, kissing your mole, the precise spot where he could feel your blood run underneath the skin, the hollow just under your earlobe. “It was the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.”

You felt your whole body blush. “It’s so stupid but I can’t stop it.”

“Don’t stop it, it’s adorable.” He sniffed at your hair, “you still smell like strawberries.”

“Must be my shampoo.”

“Fuck. So good.” He sniffed some more. “I thought it would kill me earlier, by the fridge.”

“I thought you would kill me.” You said, feeling his neck with your lips. “Your perfume might be aphrodisiac.”

“You’re too tempting.” He chuckled. “I might need another round.”

“I can’t believe you actually fucked me on your living room carpet.” You said, combing his hair as he still regained his energies.

“Aren’t you happy?” He asked, suddenly panicked.

“No, I mean. I’m… I’m really happy. I’m just… incredulous that this is happening to me.” You replied with a surprised laugh.

“Maybe I should give it another go to make sure you actually understand what’s happening.”

“Would you mind helping me understand on the dinner table?” You batted your lashes cutely and paired that with an angelic smile.

“Are you even real?” He touched your face with his clean hand, giving you an inquisitive look. “You appear, all cute and innocent and then you want me to get you all dirty and filthy?”

Your smile widened. “The other ones were a bit scared by this side of me.”

“I won’t be scared of your needs, Giggles.”

You blushed again and hid your face.

“No hiding,” he reprimanded before rolling on his side, leaving you some room to obey the orders he was about to give you. “Keep giving me those sweet giggles,” he said, tracing your belly with his fingertips before trying to tickle you.

The effect was immediate. You clenched your legs and slapped his hands away from you, the torturing sound parting from your lips in a series of childlike gurgles. “Stop! I’m gonna mess up!” You screamed, trying not to stain your dress or the carpet. “No! No! Wait! Yellow!”

At that he took his hands off you immediately, your body laying on your back breathless.

“You good, Giggles?” He asked, voice drenched with worry.

You nodded, still panting.

“Can I take your clothes off?” He questioned, watching you move your head in confirmation.

“Okay.” He looked at your dress, trying to find a zipper. “Should I—”

“Start with my underwear, please?” You asked, your breath laboured due to arousal rather than exhaustion.

He nodded and licked his lips as he slowly tugged your panties down, careful about keeping his release from touching the carpet or your legs. Once the garment unhooked from your ankles, he folded it carefully to keep the wet fabric tucked in.

“Kneel, Giggles.”

You followed his command blindly, watching as your hands slid up under your skirt and tugged your dress up, his palms meeting your ribs and dragging the fabric upwards, past your breasts, then up against your armpits and backwards to your shoulder-blades, slipping the the neckline past your head.

Dress off, he let it fall distractedly to the floor, his eyes going from your face, to your hair, to your nipples — sinfully rosy — following the line leading from your breastbone to your belly button. He kissed the first piece of skin that met his lips, someplace where his heartbeat felt like a drum, like the bass coming from an old boom box. It was so comforting in a way he barely understood.

He needed room to think. “Get on the table.” His voice was once more stern and distant, especially once you watched him grab the opened foil containing the tied up condom, then stand up and leave.

You followed his direction nonetheless, standing awkwardly by the table, watching the cake and stealing a strawberry since the orgasm had awakened a certain sweet tooth in you. You dipped the strawberry in cream and brought it to your lips, relaxing just a little after you heard the water run in the kitchen.

He was probably washing his hands.

You took you time licking up the cream, only to start chomping down on the incredibly large fruit right after. That’s when Hoseok appeared.

He was shirtless now, the garment dangling from his spindly fingers before he laid it neatly against the back of the couch. You stopped mid-bite.

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt your snack, go on, honey.” He licked his lips and gave you a steamy look before going to the table and pocketing the condoms left. “Is it good?” He asked, walking to stand right in front of you.

You felt slightly unnerved as he seemed completely indifferent to your naked body.

“Sit on the table,” he ordered

You frowned and hesitated.

At that, he let his hands hover over your hips. “Shall I help you with it?” He asked, giving you the chance to avoid his touch before laying his fingertips delicately on your skin. “Gimme a colour, Giggles.”

“Maybe yellow.” You bit your lip, insecurity getting the best of you.

He moved his hands to your face, suddenly turning comforting. “Quick tip, my pretty berry.” He caressed your face in a way that made you feel way too at ease. “If it’s a ‘maybe yellow’, then it’s a yellow. How can I help you, ____?”

Your real name made you come down to earth. You shook your head and looked away, Hoseok suddenly scared of having gone too far.

“I’m not comfortable with the way I let you control me, maybe.” Which was not entirely true. You were not comfortable with the way you craved his control after spending maybe four hours with him — including the afternoon he entered the vet studio with Mickey in his arms and a hopeless, lost look on his face.

“It’s all up to you, ____. I know it’s a cliché thing to say, but the answer is really within yourself. I can’t make you more comfortable with how you feel,” he said, still not even considering your nakedness in front of him.

In such a moment his indifference was welcome.

You looked down, your hands disappearing into your hair. Maybe this was the only night you were granted. Did you really want it to end already?

He did not touch you as you mulled over every option.

“I’m… I’m not— We’re technically strangers, I shouldn’t be trusting you like this, you shouldn’t be trusting me like this either, I mean this is all so— all so twisted and wicked and fast and—”

Hoseok was ready for reality to slap him across the face. He was ready for your regrets and you walking to your dress on the floor and cursing your messed up panties which you most definitely could not wear to go back home. He was ready for you to call what you did a mistake and say that there was no way for a woman like you to be with a man like him.

“My mind tells me I shouldn’t, but I want it so much.”

He lifted his eyes from the floor, finally finding the courage to meet yours.

“I’m sorry, that’s not true. I’m comfortable with the way you control me.” Slowly you took a step back, your ass meeting the surface of the table. “I’m just questioning what that means to me.”

He nodded. It explained a lot about your innocent, greedy approach to sex. You were exploring and you had found something you didn’t expect to even remotely consider.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head and sat on the table. “No, Sir.”

His eyebrows shot up before he regained his composure. “Colour.”

You allowed yourself to stare at his chest. He was so well-built. Harmonious. He looked like a painting. “Green. Very deep, dark green. Sir.”

He took a step closer. “Green?”

“Forest green. As green as a clover.” You felt his hand on your belly, dragging against your skin all the way to your throat, pushing you down as you lowered yourself on your elbows.

“If you feel uncomfortable emotionally or mentally speaking, you call a yellow. Please, promise me you’ll be very careful about it, Giggles. I care about your mindspace. It means everything to me.”

“I promise, Sir.”

He removed his hand from your throat and placed it against your cheek, placing a chaste kiss on your lips once he bent over you. “You’re talking to Hoseok right now, ____. Promise me you’ll keep an eye on how your mind’s doing. Promise it.”

You kissed him back, closing your eyes once his tongue caressed and molded against yours. Breathless, you parted from him. “I promise, Hobi.”

“I don’t want you to regret anything about tonight. It would break my heart, okay?”

Your eyes widened in surprise before you nodded. “I’ll take care. I promise.”

“Good girl. Now stay right there, lovely. Look what I got for you.” He found the cake, placed carefully away from your laying body. Skillfully, he dipped a strawberry in cream and brought it to your lips, dragging the tip of the fruit across them like lipstick.

He bent down and licked a fat stripe following the seam of your mouth, only to repeat the gesture once more; however, this time you let your tongue lash out and tangle up with his, the strawberry held away from you, trying not to catch it in your hair.

“Open up,” he commanded, pushing the treat past your lips, into your eager mouth. “Suck. Now.”

Your gaze became bubbly once more as you followed his lead, your cheeks sucked in at the pressure you were making with your mouth, the strawberry emerging completely clean from your mouth.

He smirked at the sigh, arching an eyebrow at the result. “You make it hard not to push my cock in your mouth.”

“Maybe that’s what I want you to do.” You raised an eyebrow right back at him, getting cocky.

“Not happening. I wanna hear that laugh again, Giggles.” Tentatively, he gave a small slap to your breast, surprising you and making you arch your back, gasping in pleasure. Your legs tightened around him, trying to clench your thighs shut at the feeling of arousal slipping out of your hole and sliding down to your behind. “And don’t you dare be a brat to me. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.” Your voice was squeaky once you managed to reply.

“Did you like it, Giggles?”

The treacherous sound escaped your mouth once more as you nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, Sir.”

You wondered if you would ever get tired at the reply. You doubted it very highly.

“Let’s see if you like this too,” he mused before pouring more champagne in a glass and dipping the strawberry in the wine. He fixed his stance between your legs. “Remember our safewords?”

You confirmed before he lifted the strawberry and let a droplet fall right in the middle of your chest, splashing heavy and wet on your skin. Cold too.

“I’m going to make you my dessert, my pretty strawberry. Remember? Strawberries go well with champagne, lovely.”

He let one more drop fall to your breast, your breath stopping completely at the coldness, Hoseok’s eyes amused at the sight of your nipple awakening and hardening, lengthening even. It became impossibly rosier as another drop fell.

It felt stupid not to repeat the same treatment to your other nipple, which responded twice as quickly now that arousal was abundantly flowing through every single inch of you.

The strawberry drew a neat line of champagne pearls from your belly, which you sucked in at the cold, all the way up to your neck — a line that Hoseok followed with his mouth, letting his tongue stretch out of the way whenever a droplet rolled out of place.

He let the strawberry fall into the glass, extracting the condoms from his pocket and placing them on the table before taking off the rest of his clothes. He tugged at himself a couple times, getting hard enough to wear a condom.

His hands were going to get dirty, therefore he had no other options than getting ready very quickly.

“Giggles?”

“Yes? I mean, yes, Sir?” You corrected yourself in a millisecond, not wanting to risk another delay in your pleasure.

“I’m going to get really dirty now, lovely. Would you be okay with showering here?”

You let your lashes flutter a few times before nodding.

He gave a curt nod in reply before wearing protection and letting his cock rub against your crotch. His body stretched over yours, his thumb collecting a dollop of cream and dividing it with his other thumb. You observed his movements attentively as his clean fingers laid against the side of your breasts and his thumbs landed on your nipples.

Your mouth opened silently once the sensation flowed in, his digits starting a rolling motion over your peaks, playing them in small circles that innocently reminded you of a joystick.

“Colour.”

“So, so green. Can I have a blue for mind blowing good.” You tried to pick your head up, letting it thud back down once his cock dragged perfectly against your clit, eliciting a purr from your throat and a groan from his, his sex perfectly sandwiched between your and his belly.

“Blue— I— ” He talked in small babbles and hiccups. “I get what you— ah— what you mean.” His forehead met your collarbone.

He found unspeakable strength and managed to rise from your breasts, collecting half a handful of cream spreading it over his entire palms and fingers like lotion before grabbing your breasts and kneading them, his hands dwarfing them entirely.

“Sir, please, I need your cock,” you found yourself ridiculously begging, ready to hump anything that met your core.

“Slip it in for me, Giggles.”

The moment he got inside, you didn’t even try to keep it down, riding him no matter the difficult position or the awkward angle. You let your hands scratch down his chest and grip his arms — and he allowed you.

You were getting more and more unhinged and he wanted to see every little detail, every little second, every single step that brought you to bliss and ruination, giggling like you’d never been half as ecstatic in your life. His hands slipped and groped your gentle curves, his mind growing hazier by the second.

All his control came back once he noticed your legs leaving the ground, as you scooted back just by a few inches, your calves latching behind his back before you shook your head.

“What?” He asked, bending his arms to get closer to you.

“Position. It’s…” The soles of your feet met the edge of the table, your hands securing your legs in position before you felt your hips hurt.

“Bend them to your shoulders,” he suggested, helping you fix your knees with his elbows. “Good. Can you touch yourself for me, Giggles.”

You obeyed without even replying, feeling him groan as the new position allowed him to reach deeper and rub your g-spot in the process.

That’s when the squealing started. And then there it was, pleasure. Right before you.

“Give me all the giggles, my sweet berry,” he cooed, nodding and smiling once the soft laugh started.

He let himself grow wild, his fingers sliding to your neck, gripping it gently before he led them against your chin and into your mouth, bathing your tongue in cream — or rather, what was left of it.

The other hand secured your waist, using it for leverage as he rammed into you, pushing his cock in your cunt, constricting it after the muscles remained tense after the orgasm.

This time he came inside you, still covered in latex, but inside you.

He was too fucked out to think of how you would feel without a condom, too fucked out to care that he was pressing his mouth — fuck, his entire face — against your dirty chest, getting his hair sticky with cream, his cheeks and chin and nose and eyes and forehead… His mouth welcomed the sweetness, sucking at your skin before his tongue came out to lap at the sugary mess. He was too lost to care, sinking deep and staying perfectly still as he enjoyed every second of his high inside your most intimate place.

You came to your senses just in time to watch him process the situation he was in.

“Oh, hell.” He rose from the table, standing up, looking at you, at his hands, running the back of them against his cheeks before shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter.” He settled down again, your legs wrapping around him.

“Are you okay?” You asked him, rubbing your palm against his spine.

He hummed in confirmation. “Are you?”

“Yeah.” You mussed up the hair at his nape.

He licked up your nipple, catching it with his lips and suctioning it into his mouth.

You closed your eyes and enjoyed the cuddles. From the exhaustion radiating from his body and the overall disaster you both were, you knew your night was over.

“Can I go clean up please? It’s getting chilly.” You asked, using the excuse to get some space to yourself.

He stood slowly, slipping out of you attentively. He took off the condom, completely lost in his silence, knotted it up and kept it carefully between his fingers as he slipped on his underwear. “Let me show you the bathroom.”

Once he showed you the way, you let him understand you didn’t want him to shower with you.

Feeling the scent of his body wash cover your skin was painful now. You tried to indent the name in your mind and hoped it wasn’t too expensive. Once you managed to exit the shower stall, you dabbed your body dry, realising too late that you hadn’t brought your dress with you.

You wrapped the towel around you and opened the door, walking out once you were sure you wouldn’t drip over the floor.

“Hoseok?” You called.

Once you reached the living room, you found your dress, slipping it on and realising a second too late that your panties had disappeared.

“Giggles?” Hoseok appeared from the corridor, still shirtless, with a pair of bermuda on.

“Uhm… I should… Go, I guess?” You said, staring at the floor awkwardly. “I…”

Hoseok felt fear grip him once he thought this could be the last time he would see you.

“Wait. I—” He stretched his hand toward you. “I think— Uhm, underwear. Since I messed up yours.” He rubbed his nape. “I could wash your… panties and return them to you… Next Friday?” He looked up at you with a sheepish smile. “Over fried chicken and a chill dress code?”

Your cheeks shot up as you felt yourself smile. “So this is not a one time thing?”

“Absolutely not.”

You nodded, increasingly convinced.

You gingerly wore his boxers, noticing they were relatively comfortable on you, the cotton breezy and light, definitely soft over your abused skin. “Then I’ll return these on Friday. Over fried chicken and chill dress code. And maybe my peach frilly undies?”

“It’s a deal then, Giggles.”

“Deal.”

#jung hoseok x reader #hoseok x yn #hoseok smut #jhope smut #thetruthuntoldnet #houseofddaeng #bangtansorciere #thebtswritersclub

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sammoonwatcher · 3 years

Text

A fic for

@dbh-found-family event

Despair... ---> Hope

Sorry I still don't know how to do the cut off in mobile. So angst beyond this point.

Despair

It wasn't exactly unfamiliar to the old Lieutenant. It was a presence as familiar to him as his own scent of sweat and reeking, burning alchohol. It rarely left his side. Until he had something else taking up its place. An annoyance for sure. That android who never left him alone. Who kept repeating himself like the glorified answering machine he was. Never obeying an order like...

Well. He appreciated the annoyance over the despair. Annoyance was grating, it made life difficult. Despair on the other hand was crushing, and made life at times unbearable. Day by day the annoyance became less grating. Though the old Lieutenant would never admit it. He was starting to find himself just a little less hostile to the damn evidence locker with legs. Hell, he was even starting to get along with it. He didn't even realize when in his mind that It became He and Tincan became Connor.

But he could pin point the exact damn second he became son.

As much as he'd like to forget it.

He didn't think of much while at the tower. Other than that an awful lot of mess had been made to broadcast a single message. Thank whoever there was to thank there were no casualties. (At the time he believed it to be sheer luck rather than the grace of the deviant leader). He was still swaying on his feet from the night before and he was more than content to find a corner to sulk in and let the forensics roomba do his own damn job. Though he found himself trying to match the coin tricks that the annoying thing could always pull out of no where. He was collecting witness testimony from the swat team when Connor rounded the corner Thirium was dripping from a weird circle in his lower chest and his normally tidy suit had been torn.

"It's a deviant stop it!"

Hank turned his head to the android that had just been called out only to see it steal the fully automatic arms of a swat officer.

Out of all the times in his life to feel despair... he didn't even particularly feel it then as the barrel was lowered at him.

The Lieutenant knew the sound of gunshots but at first he couldn't figure how he was on the ground. Something was leaking all over him. It was too cold and sticky to be blood. He opened his eyes against the bright fluorescent lights of the hallway. Connor's face hovered above him. He pushed the android off of him, taking in the destruction around him. The deviant must've taken out at least 3 people, itself not included.

"Goddamn..." The Lieutenant swore. "Good thing you were there Con-"

He froze as he looked back and saw the android, his partner... in a puddle of blue blood. It had the consistency something like motor oil. It stained his hands and his clothes as he pulled the android into his arms. The bullets had shut him down instantly. His led had no life. The bullets were nestled safely in his chassis. Bullets that were meant for a human. Bullets that were meant for Anderson himself. The blue coated his hands. A crushing wave of despair washed over him, something he didn't even know he had left in him.

God he still had nightmares about that. Every time he'd wake up in a cold sweat and have to enter Cole's... no, now Connor's room, and see that slow blue spinning led light. Just remind himself that Connor was okay. That Connor was safe, and not throwing his life away for some stupid old alcoholic... god it made his heart stop aching.

Androids slept so weirdly. Connor always said he never had any dreams. Even the Lieutenant could see that wasn't true. The way the kid snored sounded like an old style laptop's cooling fan. Every now again a word or two would slip out, like just listening to the android was like listen to a radio with randomly changing frequencies. But sometimes a whimper would come through. Or the led would turn red. The worst of times was when he kept whispering a name.

Amanda.

Hank didn't know who this Amanda was. But he was sure if he ever met her he'd have to remove his reservations against hitting women. After all that name was never whispered like the other words. It was filled... seething with so much goddamn Despair.

It sounded so much like a human... no. So much like Hank himself. He couldn't stand it. He found that, it was enough to tuck the kid in, make sure his pillow wasn't too hot to put the led back to blue.

It always made Hank so tired in the morning. He knew it wasn't normal behavior but he didn't have a normal kid damnit. Connor was clearly going through something he couldn't ever grasp. And he wasn't a normal parent. He had Connor die in arms three times too many. And another son pass as well. But this time if Connor died... without the cyberlife network to back him up, he'd simply cease to exist. He would die. Hank would be alone... until the rest of his miserable human days.

"Hank..." Connor said one day. "... I've noticed you've been monitoring my sleep patterns."

Hank sighed, at least he wasn't calling him Lieutenant anymore.

"It was that obvious?" He said sarcastically.

"Well I first noticed on nights when I achieved a high quality sleep, you were always exhausted." Connor explained. "Then one morning I woke up and you were still there by my bed... sleeping. So yes... it was obvious."

Hank didn't expect to find himself reacting the way he did.

"... sorry kiddo. I didn't make you feel uncomfortable did I?"

"On the contrary... you aided my sleep cycle... I'm just confused why you felt the need to do so."

"... well you're my son. Every father protects their kid from nightmares... give them hope and safety."

"Hope..." Connor said softly. The Lieutenant could just see the kids eyes glaze over and he gained the 100 yard stare. The revolution. The torment. The suppression of will. The deaths he died for someone else. The lives he stole for someone else. Hank could practically just see the kid get swallowed up by it. It broke his heart.

The Lieutenant wrapped his arms around his son, snapping him out of the trance. Connor slowly moved to return the embrace, sobbing.

"Shit kid... I didn't mean to make you cry again."

"I'm sorry- I'm sorry .. I just... I wasn't made like this. I wasn't made deserving attention and support."

"Connor..." Hank muttered sadly, once again wishing he could personally 'interview' each and every goddamn cyberlife employee. How much of that worthlessness crap had they drilled into his head?

"... I wasn't built to be loved..." Connor whined. His voice just dripped with despair and pain. It just rang true for Hank.

"But you are loved Connor..." He said. "... now chin up. You're gonna help me find a new suit for you."

Connor pulled away, a bit confused, and his tie slightly off kilter.

"... why... why are we going shopping for new clothes?" Connor said.

"Because." Hank said, fixing the kid's tie. "You deserve it..."

The android's led slowly turned blue again as they walked to the car.

"... Hank?"

"Yeah kid?"

"... can we find new dog toys for Sumo after this?"

" 'course kid."

That night in new striped pajamas Hank tucked Connor in. Reading him a few things.

"... hey kid. Do you know what hope is?"

"Hope is the human concept that... well everything will be okay?"

"Something like that. There's a lot of bs about there about what people think hope is. Something with feathers. Something with wings."

"... that's not possible hope is not a physical object. How can it have wings?"

"I dunno."

"... what about you Lieutenant..?"

"... Me?"

"What do you think hope is?"

"... hope... hope is a strange... hard to understand thing. But you know that no matter what happens, you need to keep it by your side. Sometimes hope can be wrong. But alotta time's it's right... basically what I'm saying is... to me... hope... is an android sent by cyberlife."

He watched the realization slowly dawn on Connor's face.

"You consider me your hope Lieutenant?"

"It's hank and I do..."

Connor laid there a while. Not sure how to respond.

"... Hank... dad... I think you're my hope too. I love you."

"I love you too son."

#hope #despair #fic #it was a ficlet once #now big #dbh #dbh found family #connor anderson #hank anderson

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hale-13 · 3 years

Text

Conditioned

By Hale13

For the Summer of Whump Day 16 - Touch Starved

“Can I take a shower?” Peter blurted out, shifting uncomfortably. He felt gross from the dried sweat and the bloody residue that was left on his scalp and around his hair line felt the intense need to get cleaned - broken arm be damned.

Words: 2084, Chapters: 1/1 (Complete), Language: English

Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)

Rating: Gen

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Helen Cho

TW: Literally None - Just Fluff

Read on AO3 or below the line break.

“Well Peter, I see no reason why you should have to stay here any longer as long as you promise to actually rest and allow yourself to heal,” Helen said firmly but with a smile toward him and Peter nearly sagged with obvious relief.

“Oh thank god,” he said he’d, already struggling in his attempts to climb out of the MedBay bed he had been sentenced to since the day before with some help from Tony. He flinched a little as he tweaked his sore arms, moving the wrong way, but trying to keep his muscles as relaxed as possible to prevent any further damage. His recovery is going to be annoying enough as it is without making it worse.

In his most recent fight against the Shocker the night before, he had caught a direct hit on his right arm which had successfully and cleaning broken his radius and ulna in two. In his haste to get away and then catch himself on a poorly shot strand of webbing he had dislocated his left shoulder. The pain had been so stunning he had barely been able to finish webbing up Shocker and get away before the police showed up.

It probably didn’t do much to help the injuries when he had swung back to the Tower but he had been numb and delirious by that point so he probably wasn’t really thinking straight. He does remember Tony not being super impressed with him when he nearly passed out as soon as he landed.

“I’m serious about resting,” Dr. Cho warned him as she helped him settle his, still sore and recently reduced, arm into a sling. “You need to take it easy for at least another few days or you’ll risk re-injury and possibly surgery.”

“Oh that shouldn’t be a problem,” Tony said breezily. “I have no problem cuffing him to a bed if I have to.”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter whined, trying to stand and balance without using either of his arms – it was much harder than he thought it would be – and already trying to edge toward the door. Tony just quirked up an eyebrow at him.

“Your aunt, definitely against her better judgement and with an amazing amount of misplaced trust, is letting you stay here with me so you don’t get into any more trouble during your convalescence so if you could just work with me for a couple of days here that would be much appreciated,” he told Peter very pointedly with a final wave at Helen as he herded Peter toward the elevator at the end of the hall.

Peter just rolled his eyes at his mentors dramatics but allowed himself to be directed – to tell the absolute truth, his arms still hurt pretty badly and he wasn’t really looking forward to his oral painkillers (that made him sleepy and emotional) and his anti-inflammatories (that made him into a right bastard if he was being honest) and trying to convince Tony that he didn’t need either. He wasn’t super confident about his success rate with that. “Can I take a shower?” He blurted out, shifting uncomfortably. He felt gross from the dried sweat and the bloody residue that was left on his scalp and around his hair line.

“You know that you can’t get your cast wet,” Tony reminded him holding up a hand when Peter opened his mouth to interrupt. “I mean, I suppose I can wrap it in a bag or something if you really want to shower that bad.”

“Yes please,” Peter eagerly agreed. Ever since the Bite all of his senses had been more sensitive but none more so than his sense of smell and he wasn’t a particularly big fan of the fact that he could currently smell himself. It made his skin crawl and was completely disgusting.

“Alright then,” Tony nodded. “Shower first and then a movie marathon slash prescribed nap directly after. Do we have a deal then Mr. Parker?”

“Only if we can get pizza for dinner later,” Peter bartered as the elevator opened up on Tony’s floor of the compound. “With pineapple this time,” he continued with a wrinkled nose, “the olives you got last time were disgusting!”

“You have astonishingly terrible taste but yes fine. Pizza later.” Tony nodded, herding both of them into the kitchen with a single-minded determination. The Wal-Mart and cling wrap cast protection apparatus Mr. Stark rigged together left a fair amount to be desired in the looks department but was completely functional when it came to water-proofing which was good enough for Peter.

It took some skill to slip away from his mentor but Peter was soon slipping into his room, struggling to get out of the sling on his own and finally succeeding. It made him wince from the extra pain it caused but it didn’t overshadow the relief of doing it on his own. He knew his limits from previous dislocations and knew that it was crucial to not overdue it while the joint was healing or he risked the chance of re-injury and, as Dr. Cho had reminded him earlier, surgery.

With a grimace, Peter rested that arm across his stomach and used his bagged up right arm to pull his shirt over his head. He was barely able to manage it when it pulled at his sore muscles and broken bones. Maybe he should use a button down or zippered hoodie instead.

Thanks to FRIDAY (bless her seriously), the water of his shower was already running and warmed up to his preferred setting of skin melting and he was quick to turn his back into the spray and luxuriate under it for an extended time. The high pressured water felt amazing on his back and shoulders, loosening up the knots and clenched muscles and providing relief.

“You doing okay in there kid? You drown yet?” Tony asked, knocking on the door and indiscernible amount of time later and knocking Peter out of his stupor.

“I’m good!” Peter called back, hurriedly reaching out for his body wash and cloth painfully and cleaning himself up to the best of his – limited – ability. By the time he was ready to wash his hair and hairline he felt exhausted and achy despite the excellent water pressure and all the good work it and the heat had done to relieve the pain in his shoulder and back. “Fuck,” he cursed, trying to lift his arm above chest level and spectacularly failing, finding himself unable to without making his muscles seize.

Peter was pretty bendy due to his powers so he attempted a couple different contortions to reach his head before just flat out giving up, turning off the water and taking his towel off the heated towel rack installed in the bathroom (rich people – seriously). It took longer than Peter cared to admit, but he was able to dry and dress himself in sweats and a zippered hoodie. He was even able to shuck the bag off his cast with little struggle so he was feeling pretty decent when he ventured into the living room with his hair sopping wet and dripping onto his shoulders since he wasn’t able to adequately dry it. Whatever. It would dry on its own eventually.

“And what’s all this supposed to be?” Tony asked, glancing up from his phone and wrinkling his nose but not moving from where he was leaned against the counter in the kitchen. “Why are you dripping all over my floor?”

Peter fought off a blush and tried to hunch his shoulders, stopping when it hurt. “I couldn’t reach up to get my hair,” he grumbled, failing to completely push down his blush.

“I guess that explains all the blood still caked in there,” Tony hummed, leaning over to move the dampened curls around to look at the blood still matting some of his hair together and crusting up around his scalp. “Well that’s pretty easily remedied. Welcome to the salon Underoos,” Tony said, pulling over one of the barstools and setting it in front of the kitchen sink, gesturing for Peter to sit.

“Uh… what?” Peter questioned, brows furrowing in confusion.

“I’ll wash your hair for you,” Tony clarified, looking pointedly between Peter and the stool again. “Just sit down while I go and grab some things!” And, with that, he took off in the direction of the bedrooms and associated en suites.

Peter, still pretty confused but (mostly) trusting his mentor, sat down unsteadily on the stool just as Tony came back around the corner with an armful of towels, shampoo and conditioner bottles along with a wide-toothed comb and an expensive looking hair dryer. He triumphantly arranged everything on the counter next to the deep sink and wrapped one of the towels around Peter’s neck. “Lean back buddy,” Tony said, using a finger to push on the center of Peter’s forehead until he gave in and let himself be pushed back to lean back with his head in the sink.

Doing his best to ignore the weirdness of it all (weirdness was pretty common around Tony Stark after all), Peter closed his eyes and crossed his arms across his stomach as the water turned on. He tensed up a little when he felt fingers start dragging through his hair but was quick to relax and release the tension in his body under the careful massage of his mentor’s hands through his hair and the warm water cascading across his scalp. He let out a little hum of contentment.

Tony let out a soft chuckle, squirting a healthy dollop of the shampoo into his hands and lathering it up before applying it to Peter’s hair, working through the snarls and tangles with care and scrubbing the leftover blood out of the curls. Peter went nearly boneless under his ministrations and Tony would definitely be lying if he said he didn’t milk the washing and conditioning portion at least a little bit. He knew that Peter had to be feeling pretty miserable and it settled something buried deep inside him to provide just a little extra comfort.

All too soon, though, he had rinsed out the last of the conditioner leaving Peter’s hair clean and dripping as he turned off the water. Peter made no move to get up or to open his eyes, breathing deeply and seemingly on the very verge of sleep, so Tony grabbed one of the towels and started to wring the extra water out of the kid’s hair, running the towel through it cautiously. “Just need you to sit up for a second here kiddo okay? Then you can nap, scout’s honor.”

Peter grunted and grumbled but did slit his eyes open and let Tony help him sit up, swaying back and forth and little on the stool and Tony ran the towel through his hair a couple more times to really get rid of the water as much as possible. He dropped the towel on the counter in exchange for the comb and the hair dryer. He ran the comb through the mess a few times before starting the hair dryer up. Peter practically melted as the warmed air fluffed up his curls. It didn’t take long to dry at all and, by the time he was done, Peter was listing forward nearly into Tony’s chest.

“Couch or bed buddy?” Tony asked with a fond smile, running his hands through Peter’s warmed and clean hair.

“Couch,” Peter muttered, leaning into his petting and making Tony’s chest warm up. This kid… god. He ended up supporting most of Peter’s weight but was able to quickly get him lying face down on the supple cushions with his head pillowed on one of the throw pillows resting on Tony’s lap, the ratty fleece blanket Tony kept draped over they back of the couch draped over him and a heating pad resting across his healing shoulder.

“Let’s start a Star Wars marathon FRI. Volume at thirty percent,” FRIDAY was quiet as she dimmed the lights and started the movie, the familiar logo and music making Peter relax even further into the couch, completely gone. As the opening theme ended and the camera panned to the shots of Leia’s ship, he felt Mr. Stark’s hand rest on his back, digging into the knotted muscles of his back.

It maybe wasn’t ideal to mess up his arms so much but, Peter thought, he couldn’t think of a better way to spend his recovery.

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump16 #Prompt: Touch Starved #irondad #spider man #Summer of Whump 2021

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noirlevity · 3 years

Text

Scent Chapter 4

Pairing: TadaAi

Fandom: Sk8 the Infinity

Synopsis: Ainosuke once loved Tadashi, but ever since he broke his heart, he decided to never have anything to do with him. But what happens if he meets him again after so many years and finds out a secret that will change both of their lives forever?

Chapter summary: Ainosuke reunites with the ghost in his past.

Tags: Omegaverse, forced bonding, forced marriage, sorta angst, slow burn

Read: AO3 || 1 2 3

The wail of the engine blares as the plane prepares to touch down. Droves of people line to exit the plane. Ainosuke jostles through the crowd as he makes his way to the bus. The vanilla sky and the cold morning air greeted him as he walked.

He’s finally back in Okinawa.

Inside the building, there were only a few people. Ainosuke waits for his luggage on the revolving platform. When he finally sees it, he grabs it and leaves. He reaches the exit and sees three familiar middle-aged women. Looking at them, Ainosuke quietly rates how bland their styles were. Ainosuke wore his custom-made navy suit with his newly bought oxfords. He was probably overdressed, but he needed to look smart and presentable for this reunion.

Ainosuke takes off his gucci shades and smiles pleasantly at his Aunts. He gives his luggage to the chauffeur.

“I’m back, Aunties.”

“Welcome back Ainosuke.”

His Aunts kisses and hugs him. Ainosuke only smiles to drive the awkwardness away. He isn't particularly pleased with being with them again.

“We missed you very much. You resemble your father now.”

"So handsome and smart looking. Truly the embodiment of how a Shindo heir should be. We're so proud of you."

Ainosuke wants to curl his lips in disgust but he stops himself.

“When was the last time you went home again? Ah, if I remember correctly it was Aiichiro’s funeral 2 years ago.”

“Yes, it was Auntie."

Ainosuke looks away as his Aunt Sayuri chatters. Memories of his Father’s funeral flash in his mind. He remembers a familiar face leading the ceremony with solemn, empty eyes. He sat quietly at a corner as guests paid their respects. Tadashi looked so worn out then, pale. His youthful glow was no longer there. The dark circles underneath his eyes made him look like a stranger. Staring at the distance as his Aunts conversed with visitors, Tadashi's thin face and hunched figure painted a pitiful man. He looked so different from how he looked years ago when he last saw him.

Even though they had their issue, Ainosuke wanted to go to him to greet him, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t able to bring himself to. The sweet smell that used to make him happy made him feel sad. Ainosuke believes that the feelings he once harbored for Tadashi have long thawed. Yet bitterness still remained. At that time, he realized that Tadashi’s betrayal was something he couldn’t forgive. Ever. Later when he asked his Aunt Kaguya about why Tadashi was leading the ceremony, he found out that Tadashi had been working for his Father. She said that Tadashi was hired a year after Ainosuke left for the states. At that time, he didn’t pay attention to such information because he told himself he was not going to think about him and make himself miserable.

“Ah yes, Ainosuke. Remember Tadashi? Since he is your Dad’s secretary, and he’s capable and hardworking, we decided to make him your secretary. You don’t need to worry, he can be trusted and we can vouch for his competence."

“Are there any other options?” Ainosuke asks, adamant that he didn’t want Tadashi to be his secretary.

“Tadashi is really capable. He is almost like an alpha in that regard.”

“But..”

“Ainosuke.”

“Ah, I understand. Tadashi it is “ Ainosuke smiles. He looks around to search for the man in question. Noticing that Ainosuke was searching for someone, his Aunt Sayuri spoke, “Tadashi is not here, he was finishing some preparations for the family so he could not accompany us today.”

“He insisted though, but we thought it would be better for us 4 to spend some quality time together. It’s been such a long time since we bonded. We couldn’t visit you in America all the time.”

Hearing his aunts talk makes him uncomfortable. Inside the car, Ainosuke is quiet. He only responds and smiles when he is asked a question. His thoughts linger on the thought that Tadashi is going to be his secretary.

He didn’t like it.

He didn’t want it to be him.

However, he couldn’t be stubborn about it. After all, he was voiceless in the Shindo household even though he was the heir. His aunts seem fond of Tadashi despite him being a beta. He assumed that was his gender considering he was hired. His family only hired either alphas or betas. For sure, he was a beta with how his Aunt Sayuri and Kaguya talked about him.

While Ainosuke was in America, he didn’t hear any news about Tadashi. His Aunts never mentioned him as well. That was why when he learned he worked for his father he was irritated. He remembers the picture one of the maids mistakenly included in his luggage and how through the years he tried getting rid of it but he could never bring himself to. It was the only picture he had of both of them together since he burned the others. He might have to try getting rid of it once more.

His Aunt Chieko takes a call and announces that the restaurant they booked for Ainosuke’s return was ready. As they ate, Ainosuke’s Aunts didn't hesitate to talk about marriage and for Ainosuke to meet people with that in mind. Ainosuke already had his fair share of relationships but it always ends abruptly. Well, except for one, but that too had to end. He was sure it would be the same this time as well. Maybe shallow relationships were what suited him. Knowing how persistent his Aunts were, he pretended he was interested in the thought of marriage.

They drive home. As he stares outside of the car window, he notices that they were driving past the streets he traveled when he tried visiting Tadashi once. When they finally turned to the corner that leads straight to their mansion, Ainosuke felt overwhelmed. Earlier, it didn’t sink in that he was finally home but now it did. The mansion was unchanged. Sure it looked grand and expensive, but that was all there was to it.

Ainosuke sees Takahisa, the senior butler, and greets him. Takahisa, the old butler who took care of him, looked older. Despite his age, he still looked smart and handsome. A younger butler bows and takes care of his luggage. Ainosuke didn’t know him. As they enter the hallway entrance, another butler was instructing the maids and the other staff to line up for their introduction. The staff lined up face to face like they were in a military inspection. His eyes roam around. Beads of sweat glisten on his forehead as he continues to search. A single drop sluices down his chin so he takes out his handkerchief and wipes it off. Ainosuke taps his feet irritably. He presses his thumb against his index finger and inhales as his Aunts introduce the staff one by one.

Looking at the faces in front of him, he tries to search for faces he was familiar with. He notices that some of the maids were new. It seems that more staff were hired since he was last home. He mentally takes notes of the changes he noticed.

It always starts with a faint, dull kind of aroma; a pinprick scent tickling his nose. A nanosecond was enough for Ainosuke to find himself back to square one as if 8 long years was still not enough for him to make a single step forward. The sweet scent becomes heavier and he feels like he is still 16. His throat feels like sandpaper; his hands colder than winter.

How funny it all was.

The scent that always made him feel warm and happy now made him remember the hollowness of the word love.

Ainosuke hasn’t forgotten anything. Even though he wanted to, the memories were still there in his heart and now like opening pandora's box, everything turned into chaos inside of him. His stomach feels like a whirlpool. Memories and the feelings that came with it that he didn’t want to remember harassed him: Tadashi’s smiling face that always made him feel soft inside; his bubbly laughter and the way he used to hold him in his arms. Ainosuke freezes. Sweat glistens on his high forehead. It’s really been a long time since they’ve seen each other. Eight years was too long a time for a reunion. Time manages to make some feelings go away, but it seems the feelings that he tried so hard to bury are not one of those feelings time can extinguish.

Ainosuke anticipated this meeting. He even prepared himself before he left, but the real raw sensation Tadashi’s scent gave him was different from what he expected. He always thought that it had the same scent as roses, but it did not. It was similar but different at the same time. The dissatisfaction that always enveloped him recedes. As he basks in the sweet scent, he feels complete. He feels like he has truly come home.

“Tadashi, you’re back. How were the preparations?”

“It’s almost complete madam.”

“Ainosuke?” His Aunt Kaguya tries to get his attention.

Ainosuke stiffens. He forces himself to smile when he turns around.

“Tadashi is here. He’s going to take it from here. Everything is going smoothly for your introduction to society next month.”

Tadashi bends to greet him. Ainosuke just stares, his heart beating gravely in his chest. The anger, pain, and longing he felt all those years twisted in his stomach so much he wants to vomit.

“Welcome back Ainosuke-sama.”

“Well then, we’ll excuse ourselves.”

The Aunts left, leaving Ainosuke standing there as if he had just seen a ghost. He stares and stares as if embedding Tadashi's image in his mind. The real thing was right in front of him now. He takes a deep breath as his heart constricts and his lips feel dry. He takes a step forward.

Don't. Stop. Don't you dare take another step. He reprimands himself.

Tadashi looks up and gives him a faint smile. He finishes the introduction and guides Ainosuke to the garden. They walk side by side. Tadashi’s silence appears cold; distant. The apathy hurts Ainosuke more than he can admit to himself. After 8 long years, Tadashi still has nothing to say to him. To shrug off unnecessary feelings, Ainosuke clears his throat and rotates his shoulders.

The sweet smell is distracting. It was unbearable. Ainosuke used to crave it, but now, he is overwhelmed. It was not helping that Tadashi was close. Unable to withstand it any longer, he wrinkles his nose and stops walking.

Tadashi walks back and looks up at him. Ainosuke sniffs and furrows his brows. He takes a step back and looks away.

“Pollen allergy?” Tadashi takes something out of his suit hands him a face mask.

“Change your perfume. It’s too strong.” Ainosuke complains, still looking away; his mouth in a pout.

Since Ainosuke didn’t take the face mask, Tadashi mumbles an “excuse me”. He hangs the face mask string on Ainosuke ears, and gently says “But I don’t wear any.”

The soft brush of skin against Ainosuke’s ear flusters him. Out of embarrassment, Ainosuke glares but finds himself cornered at how close Tadashi’s face was to him. He could feel the warmth of the older man’s breath. Truthfully it is giving him gooseflesh. When they ended up meeting eyes, Tadashi was the first to look away. Ainosuke’s mouth quivers. He swallows a lump in his throat and clenches his hand into a fist.

“So you're still sensitive to smells.”

As the words left Tadashi’s mouth, Ainosuke feels like he is put on the spot. He was often told he was sensitive to smells, when the one saying it is Tadashi it feels as if he was being judged. He tried to grab him. By the time he reached out, Tadashi already wheeled around and walked to the garden. Ainosuke hates himself for being caught in the flow.

Like what the maids and butlers did, the gardeners lined up and were introduced one by one. As they introduced themselves, Ainosuke realized that Tadashi’s Father was nowhere to be found. After the introductions, they walked back to the mansion.

“Your father is no longer working here?”

“He got sick when you went to the states so the master replaced him.”

Ainosuke falls quiet. So his father got sick. It’s a pity.

“What does he do now?”

Tadashi was hesitant.

“The Master gifted him a botanical garden for his work over the years. He also helps my mom with the flower shop.”

The response makes Ainosuke raise an eyebrow. He finds it odd that his father gifted someone something as expensive as a botanical garden. He's never heard anything about his Father going out of his way for a friend. Did he like Tadashi’s father that much? Ainosuke wasn't sure. He was not knowledgeable when it came to his Father’s acquaintances outside of politics. This thought made Ainosuke realize how estranged he is both mentally and emotionally from his father. As he stares at Tadashi, he couldn’t help but feel at a loss.

“My old man gifted him a garden? Wow.” Ainosuke scoffs. “How kind of him.”

Both of them enter his Father’s office. Tadashi explains that it is going to be Ainosuke’s office. Ainosuke is familiar with the room. Sometimes this was where his father punishes him. He looks around the room and walks towards the shelves. Ainosuke ran his fingers through the spine of the books.

“Ainosuke-sama, the master, donated some books to libraries so some of these books are new.” Ainosuke found the book that he used to ask Tadashi to read to him when he was little.

He read the title with his eyes,

The little prince.

"Of course I’ll hurt you. Of course, you’ll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence means accepting the risk of absence.”

Tadashi turns to him.

Ainosuke smiles. “I just remembered that from one of Exupery’s letters.”

Tadashi didn't reply.

“The important documents are stored inside this room. The master liked things organized so we tried our best. It isn’t large but important copies of agreement contracts and party documents are here.”

They enter. The room was half the size of a servant's room. It had a single window at the end. Lines of filing cabinets filled the space. Tadashi explains how the files were organized. While he explains the contents of the compartments, Ainosuke can’t stop staring at him.

He is distracted.

He couldn't concentrate much on what Tadashi was saying because he got too conscious of their closeness inside the stuffy room. The sweet scent that permeated the air only added to his problems. He thought that if he pushed him down here and now, no one would help Tadashi even if he tried to struggle. But Ainosuke was not that kind of man. Even if he hated Tadashi, he won’t be able to do something that could truly hurt him. He has accepted this fact.

A white fabric peaked out of Tadashi’s suit. Ainosuke reaches out to fix it. When Tadashi backed away and stared at him with a surprised look on his face, only then did he realize what he was about to do. Ainosuke clears his throat.

“Since you’re my assistant now, you better look smart and presentable. This won’t do.” Ainosuke fixes the collar. He feels Tadashi stiffen under his touch. He irons Tadashi’s shoulder with his hands

“I can’t believe you were hired. You weren’t even taking a secretarial course in university, weren’t you? Or maybe you did, I just didn’t know.”

After a pause, Tadashi responds, “You’re right sir. I didn’t take anything related to secretarial work in university. Unfortunately, I had to stop my studies. We were having financial difficulties at that time since Father got sick. I had to quit school.”

Ainosuke feels bad at the revelation. He always thought Tadashi had great potential so it was such a waste he wasn’t able to finish school.

“The master was kind enough to reach out to my Mom and offer me a job. He helped us out a lot with my father’s hospitalization bills and medicines. I’m grateful to him.”

Tadashi’s eyes were solemn when he said that. There was also a hint of sadness when he said he was grateful. With how things turned out, shouldn't he be happy? His father got the help that he needed at a critical time. Furthermore, he was given a stable job.

Aichirou helped them a lot. His Father got his botanical garden. And now they own a flower shop. But why does Tadashi seem so sad? Was it because he missed Aichirou? Was he that important in his life? Ainosuke concludes that he must miss him. After all, he was his benefactor. He was the person who was there for their family when they needed it the most.

“That’s good.” Ainosuke finally manages to say after he fell silent. While he was having the time of his life in the US, Tadashi was working his ass off. The two of them truly lived such different lives, that was probably why their relationship, albeit only friendship, didn’t work out.

#tadaai #ainosuke shindo #tadashi kikuchi #sk8 the infinity #fics

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coldflame96 · 3 years

Text

To Move Forward

Summary: Kyo and Akito come to an understanding. Post-manga and pre-Another.

Rating: T

Can also be found on AO3 and FF.net

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to go down there right now?” he asked his wife for the umpteenth time.

“Hmm?” she cocked her head adorably. “We go down there every summer.”

“Well, yeah, but we’re supposed to reach record high temperatures down there this week.” He gave a fleeting look towards her stomach area. “I don’t want you to exert yourself too much.”

She kissed his cheek. “I’m fine, Kyo-kun, really. And I promised Akito-san I would go and visit.” She frowned sadly. “She’s having a really rough time with the pregnancy and she’s due in only a month or two.”

He wanted to argue that Akito’s issues weren’t Tohru’s problem, but he knew it was a losing battle. His wife was always trying to help everyone and had so much love to give. It was one of the many things he loved about her.

“Fine,” he sighed. “But if you’re going to the main estate, we should leave Hajime with the rat. That place is oppressive and I don’t want him to deal with it.” And I don’t want him near Akito either.

Tohru paused for the briefest moment, chewing her lip thoughtfully. She probably had wanted Hajime and Akito to meet, and maybe they would one day, but not now. Not if he could help it. He wanted to preserve his son’s innocence for as long as he could.

“Alright,” she agreed quietly. And then she smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes and clapped her hands. “I’m sure Yuki-kun won’t mind. Mutsuki-kun loves Hajime-kun.”

He could tell she was disappointed, but he curbed the instinct to cave in. She was friends with Akito and trusted her and he respected that, but she was always a much better person than he was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s so hot!” Tohru gasped, her movements heavy with the heat.

He nudged her gently on the head with his fist. “That’s why I told you to bring your sun hat, dummy.” She’d left it behind at Dad’s place because she’d insisted she didn’t need it. “It’s not that far a walk, Kyo-kun!”

“Dad,” Hajime whined from his other side, breaking him out of his thoughts. “Are we there yet?”

He ruffled his hair. “Yeah, we’re almost there.” And then he pointed ahead. “Look, there’s Mutsuki’s house right there.”

Normally the walk from the train stop to Yuki’s wasn’t too horrible, but in this heat, it was practically unbearable. Living up in the mountains really spoiled them.

He approached the door with lead footsteps and knocked quietly.

The door slid open a little too fast to be natural, the child behind it gasping with wide eyes.

“Jime-chan!” Mutsuki yelled, launching himself at Hajime. Jime-chan? What kind of nickname was that? Hajime seemed to share the same sentiment as he wrinkled his nose, but was kind enough not to actually say anything. A trait he clearly inherited from his mother.

“Mutsuki,” a woman who sounded like Kuragi scolded from the hallway. “Don’t leave them all standing out in the heat.”

“Sorry, Mom!”

The small child grabbed Hajime’s hand and Tohru’s at the same time, dragging them both inside while Kyo followed.

Kuragi appeared, face impassive as usual, but she did smile softly. “Sorry you had to come down in this weather.”

Tohru waved her hands. “Oh, no, it’s no problem at all!” Then she looked around curiously. “Yuki-kun’s not here?”

“Him and my stupid brother went to the store. Can I get you anything?”

“No, that’s okay! You’re already doing more than enough watching Hajime-kun for us.”

Kuragi’s eyes were sharp and she smiled wryly. “It’s not a big deal. He’s a good kid and he keeps Mutsuki occupied.” They both watched as Mutsuki grabbed Hajime to drag him towards his room. And then she looked to him and nodded. “You guys are raising him well.”

He nodded back. “Thanks.” He never knew what to say around Kuragi, she was typically pretty quiet, especially compared to her brother, but she was nice enough, he supposed, and Tohru liked her. But then again, Tohru liked everyone, even creeps like Shigure, so that wasn’t saying much.

“Hey, senpai,” she was addressing him now. That was another thing that was weird about her. She always called him ‘senpai’ like they were still in school and not fully grown adults with children. She got a teasing glint in her eyes. “Yuki should be home soon if you wanted to wait and say hi.”

He snorted, not rising to the bait. “No thanks, I’m sure I’ll have to deal with him later when we pick up Hajime.”

“Oh, really?” she cocked her head a bit too innocently. “But he’ll be so disappointed he missed you. Kakeru too.”

He twitched and Tohru spoke up, bowing. “Thank you so much for your help, Machi-san. We really should be going to the estate, but I’d love to catch up with everyone later!”

Kuragi smiled, more open this time. Tohru did have that effect on people. “Yes, I would like that. I’m sure Yuki would, too. We’ll make sure Hajime gets back to you in one piece.”

“Thank you so much!” Tohru bowed again, and if this continued, they’d be here all day.

He put his hand over her face gently, dragging her away. “C’mon, Tohru, we gotta get going.” It was already past noon.

“Right! Thank you again, Machi-san!” she said, while she was being dragged away, “Tell Yuki-kun thank you too!”

Kuragi gave a small wave and then they were out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Even after all these years, going into the main Sohma estate made him...uneasy. The few times he’d interacted with Akito here as a kid never meant anything good. It was where he made that bet...he looked to Tohru, who greeted all the maids politely and smiled to himself. Without that dumb bet, he never would’ve met her.

He thought nothing about Akito would’ve shocked him more than when she came out in that kimono all those years ago, pledging to turn over a whole new leaf, but he was wrong. The sight of her pregnant and sweating, lounging around in her sleepwear and looking absolutely miserable, was more of a shock.

Her eyes widened and she looked so innocent he had to look away completely.

“Tohru,” she breathed, “You made it.”

Tohru smiled softly. “Akito-san!” And she went to hug her, taking care to be gentle. “It’s so good to see you!”

Akito grunted in response and Tohru frowned. “Are you alright?”

Akito paused and then mumbled, “No.” Her voice trembled. “Tohru? Please help me. I’m scared. I’m so, so scared.”

He was never good at handling crying people, not even when that crying person was Akito. “Tohru?” he called out gently, catching his wife’s attention. He gestured to the door. “I’ll be outside.”

Akito stiffened and then stared at him, dark eyes lingering which made him shift uncomfortably. He wouldn’t be surprised if she had only just noticed him. It was so...stifling in here all of a sudden. Hot, even. It was when he closed the door behind him as he stood out in the hallway, he allowed himself to breathe again. He slumped down on the floor, energy sapped away.

He was glad he’d stuck to his guns about bringing Hajime here. The last thing he needed was for his small son to see how weak his dad was. It was stupid, the way just hearing Akito’s voice made something start clawing at his throat, made him freeze in place...like a coward.

“Were you banished to the hallway?” A familiar, irritating voice asked, and he looked up to see Shigure staring down at him curiously, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. Of course he would be here.

“Leave me alone,” he sighed, “I don’t have the energy to deal with you.”

Shigure being Shigure, he instead took that as an invitation to sit next to him, much to his annoyance. “I’m assuming Tohru-kun is in there then?” He nodded. And then Shigure asked, “How did she look?”

He gave him a weary look. “What do you care? You’re spoken for already.”

“I was referring to Akito.”

He furrowed his brow. “Shouldn’t you know? She’s your wife.” And he still had a hard time wrapping his head around that. After everything Akito put them through, what was Shigure thinking? Then again, it was probably better he didn’t know.

Shigure gave a carefree shrug, but if Kyo didn’t know any better, he would say he looked...bitter. “She’s been cooped up in there for days and refuses to let me see her.”

He scoffed. “What? And you just listened? It’s not like she’s God anymore.”

He got a dark look in his eyes. “Old habits die hard, I suppose.”

This guy’s flippancy really pissed him off sometimes. He tried to imagine what he would do if Tohru refused to see him for days. Especially if she was pregnant with his child...break down the door, probably.

He recalled the wide, trembling eyes he’d gotten a glimpse of before he left the room. “She looked...terrified,” he finally answered.

He heard a light thump against the wall and saw Shigure resting his head, a defeated look. “Yes, I was afraid of that.” He smiled ruefully. “Despite how far she’s come, she’s still afraid to be seen as weak in front of me.”

And yet you’re her husband and you’re just letting her cry alone. Scumbag. He glowered at him.

Shigure chuckled nervously. “Hey now, what’s with that ‘you’re a horrible person’ look?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he growled. “Your wife is in there, crying and scared, and with your child, and you’re out here shooting the breeze with me while my wife does your job?”

Shigure stared at him coldly, mocking, all friendly pretense gone. “I didn’t realize you cared so deeply about my wife.”

“I don’t!” he snapped. “I just hate that I have to be here because of you when I could be spending time with my own family.”

“If I recall correctly, it was Tohru-kun’s idea to come, was it not? No one forced you to be here.”

“Yeah, well I’m not a prick like you so of course I wasn’t gonna leave her alone!”

“That’s all well and good but you and I are not the same. I’m not a nice person, and comfort is not my strong suit. Never has been.” His eyes were hard. “Akito knows that.”

He was almost starting to feel bad for Akito and that was not a feeling he was equipped to deal with.

“Whatever. You piss me off. I don’t get you at all.” He wanted to storm off but he didn’t wanna leave Tohru alone and he didn’t have much energy to really do anything except lean against the wall.

Thankfully, Shigure took the hint this time and didn’t say anything else, so they both just sat in a tense silence. “Terrified, huh?” Shigure mumbled so quietly Kyo was sure he wasn’t supposed to hear it. “That makes two of us.”

He didn’t say anything, he couldn’t say anything. Even if he tried, he would get brushed off. But he did silently feel a bit of solidarity at that rare instance of vulnerability. He remembered how terrified he was before Hajime was born, that visceral fear that he would fuck him up like his own biological father did, that maybe the curse would come back somehow, and that feeling never quite went away.

He only vaguely registered the door being opened behind him and then a gasp. “Oh! Shigure-san!”

“Hello, Tohru-kun!” Like a switch, the man next to him laid on the charm. “You’re looking as radiant as ever. I would even say you’re glowing.” Shigure smirked in his direction and that moment of sympathy was gone.

Tohru blushed. “Oh, really?” She scratched her cheek shyly. “You think so? I don’t think I look any different than usual.” She really was glowing...and gorgeous of course, but Kyo was biased.

He stepped in between the two. “You ready to go?” he asked his wife softly.

“Yes!” she confirmed. “I just have to use the restroom real quick!” And then she pecked his cheek before running around the corner.

She left the door open and out of the corner of his eye, Kyo saw Akito slumped over a table, hair and clothes half askew.

She looked so small. Pitiful, even. It wasn’t an image that went with what he always knew about her. That she was someone to be feared. .

“Shigure?” she called out weakly.

“Yes, my flower?” he responded, tone playful but strained.

She didn’t look up. “Get Hatori.”

If Kyo didn’t know any better, he would say Shigure looked almost disappointed by that.

“As you wish,” he responded, and to Kyo’s surprise, he actually obeyed. There was more going on there than he cared to know about...He made to follow the direction that Tohru went.

“Kyo?” Akito called him and just like when he was a kid and he was still wrapped up in the curse, he froze.

Akito lifted her head, looking paler than usual, almost ashen, as she attempted to get up slowly, the weight of her stomach hindering her, and if Kyo had to guess, the heat probably wasn’t helping.

He should just walk away. He didn’t owe her anything and he had no reason to talk to her. He should walk away.

She padded her way to him slowly and it was like his feet were stuck inside the floor.

“My little monster.” The cruel tone rang through his ears and his eyes widened.

“Don’t come closer!” he burst out. He expected her to keep coming anyway like she would’ve before, but to his surprise, she stopped, still halfway across the room. Her expression was unreadable. And from his experience, that was always a bad thing. But she was barely holding herself up and she certainly didn’t appear hostile, so he allowed himself to relax, if only a little bit.

He took a deep breath. “Did you need something?”

She averted her eyes. “No.”

He nodded and prepared to walk away again when he heard behind him. “I appreciate you bringing Tohru here.”

He gave her a cool look. “She came here of her own choice. I don’t control her.”

She had steadied herself enough to look in his eyes, gaze steady. “But you came too. I’m sure that wasn’t easy.” He wasn’t sure what to say to that, this was the last thing he wanted to be doing right now, so she took that as her cue to continue. “I know it doesn't mean much at this point, but I wanted to-”

“Save it,” he cut her off, already knowing where this was heading. “I never expected an apology, and I don’t need it either. It doesn’t change anything.” He clenched his fist. “I just...want to move forward.”

She looked surprised. “I see. I never expected this from you of all people.”

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” he responded as neutrally as he could. “I’m only here because of Tohru. That doesn’t make us friends.”

He saw those eyes darken in anger for just a flash and flinched away, waiting for a blow that never came. But Akito just wilted in defeat, her eyes turning sad.

“I understand.”

Tohru sure was taking a long time. Maybe he should check on her. He nodded to Akito, but she called him back.

“Kyo?”

He looked at her expectantly, but she smiled, a shy, broken thing. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Your honesty. You were never much of a people-pleaser, always saying exactly what was on your mind no matter how much trouble it got you in.”

He felt himself bristle, “Look, you-”

“I never said it was a bad thing.” she cut him off coolly, her eyes steely, but not angry. He felt himself deflate. She was...complimenting him? It was weird and backhanded, but it was a compliment, wasn’t it?

“I’m finished!” Tohru came back, breaking the tension. She grabbed his hand. “We can get going now.” And then noticing the thick air, she frowned. “Was I...interrupting something?”

Akito smiled at her warmly, which was something Kyo didn’t think she was capable of until now. “I was just thanking Kyo for taking the time to come visit.” And then her eyes shifted to him, sharp and calculating. “Right, Kyo?”

Well, it wasn’t a lie. “Yeah.” And then he turned to her. “What took you so long?”

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly, “This mansion is so huge I got a bit lost.”

Figured. “You should’ve asked one of the maids to help you.”

“Oh, but I didn’t wanna trouble them! I found it eventually.”

“Tohru?” Akito called softly. They both turned to her and Kyo had to be dreaming because it looked like she was...blushing. Akito. Blushing. “Thank you...for coming. I hope you can meet Shiki one day.”

She grinned. “Oh yes, I’d love to! I’m sure he’ll be adorable!” It was just then that Shigure returned with Hatori in tow. Kyo wondered if he took so long on purpose.

Tohru bowed. “Thank you for having us, Akito-san! Good luck with little Shiki-kun!”

Kyo didn’t bow or say anything, but he did dip his head in acknowledgement. Akito gave them both a grateful look.

Today was a weird day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was quieter than usual on the train ride back to Yuki’s. She’d been quiet ever since they left the estate now that he thought about it. He wondered if something happened between her and Akito. Did they fight? He felt a surge of protectiveness. He wouldn’t hit a woman, and especially not a pregnant woman, but Akito better not have done anything to his wife or she’d be sorry.

“Tohru.”

She jolted like she’d been spacing out. “Yes?”

“Did you and Akito get in a fight or something? You’ve been really quiet.”

Her eyes widened. “No, of course not!”

Well, if it wasn’t Akito then…”Did Shigure say something weird to you?” One of these days he was gonna send that guy flying for real.

“It wasn’t Shigure-san,” she mumbled.

Then did that mean…”Was it something I did?” She stiffened and he felt the dread in his stomach. Was she mad at him? Was it because he left the room? He hoped she didn’t think he was trying to abandon her..

“You and Akito-san…” she started, “What were you talking about before I got there?” Tohru normally didn’t ask questions like that, so he felt he owed her to be honest.

“Exactly what she said. She was just glad we came to visit.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. Why?”

“It’s just...you seemed really tense. I was worried that maybe…” She didn’t need to finish that sentence. For someone so openly trusting, the fact that she was willing to doubt one of her friends for his sake was...touching. He always found a new reason to fall in love with this woman. He put an arm around her, kissing her hair.

“I was tense,” he admitted, holding her close, “But she didn’t say anything bad.” Tohru leaned her head against his shoulder in response. “Actually, she complimented me, I think.”

She blinked in surprise. “Oh. Really?”

He nodded. “I guess she really has changed.”

The grip on his arm tightened. “I’m glad.”

He wanted to share that sentiment. He was glad Akito had changed for the better, especially since she was bringing a child into the world. For once, it had felt like they were on equal ground, no longer a God talking to a lowly monster. But even still...when she looked at him, he couldn’t quite forget how she’d used to look at him before, with pity and hate. He’d told her today they weren’t friends and that was true, but he’d also said he wanted to move forward. How could he do that if he only ever saw her as who she used to be and not who she was now?

“Maybe in the winter,” he found himself saying, “Hajime could meet his new cousin.”

He heard a light gasp from next to him. “That...would be okay?” She almost looked skeptical like she was waiting for him to say ‘sike!’

“Yeah, I think so. It’s his family, right?”

The look of pride on her face was too much for him to deal with. “Right.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was early evening by the time they made it back to Yuki’s and the heat hadn’t let up at all, but Tohru hardly seemed bothered at all by it this time around. Hell, she was practically skipping to Yuki’s house. He suspected that what he told her on the train had something to do with it…

In a repeat of this morning, they were knocking on Yuki’s door again, only this time it was answered by...

“Oh hey, it’s Kyon!” an overly cheerful voice greeted. Manabe. Of course it’d be him.

“I told you not to call me that,” he grunted in annoyance.

“Good evening, Kakeru-kun!” Tohru greeted cheerfully. “Can we come in?”

He shrugged, “Sure.” And then he shouted across the house. “Hey, Yun-yun! Your mom’s here!”

Tohru blinked in confusion and Kyo resisted the urge to hit something. What did Yuki see in this guy?!

And like he was the devil himself, Yuki appeared with a dangerous glint in his eye and a sinister smile. “Kakeru, I will literally send you flying into the sun.”

Manabe started laughing but then his eyes went wide as saucers. “Oh shit,” he muttered, “Kou no, that’s not a toy!” And then he ran around the corner, out of sight.

“Yuki-kun, it’s so good to see you!” Tohru said sweetly. “I’m so sorry we missed you earlier.”

He gave her a warm look, stepping aside so they could go further in. “You can thank that idiot over there for that,” he gestured towards Manabe, who was wrestling with a toddler, “He forgot the grocery list so it ended up taking twice as long. It’s good to see you, Tohru.” And then his gaze cooled towards him and gave him an amicable nod. “Kyo.”

He nodded back. “Where’s Hajime? I wanna make sure you didn’t corrupt him.”

Yuki got that sinister look back. “Oh? Is this how you typically repay favors, stupid cat? And to think I took my entire day to watch your son for you.”

“What, was a 6 year old so difficult you needed four adults for him?” He fired back. “How pathetic.”

“You say that and yet you’re the one who apparently couldn’t handle him. Hence why he’s here.”

Tohru looked like she wasn’t sure whether to be concerned or amused and then a flash of sandy orange bolted behind his legs.

“Hajime-kun!” Tohru cooed. “Did you have fun?”

Hajime pouted. “No.” Then he pointed at the two kids chasing after him. “Michi keeps trying to make me play dress up!”

Oh right, Manabe’s daughter. The girl in question frowned adorably. “Oh, c’mon, Jime-chan! You’ll be so cute!”

“I don’t wanna be cute! And stop calling me ‘Jime-chan’!”

“Yeah, Michi-nee!” Mutsuki strutted in, wearing a dress and looking way too proud of himself. “Jime-chan’s a scaredy-cat so just forget about him!”

Hajime’s face flushed in embarrassment and Tohru started giggling. He pinched the bridge of his nose, huffing in amusement. His poor son would have no dignity left by the end of the night.

“Don’t call me a scaredy-cat!” Hajime bristled.

“Well, then put on the dress then,” Michi mocked, “Scaredy-cat.”

“Fine, I will!” And then he stomped over to the other two, snatching the dress from the smug looking girl. Well, that was easy bait. He could see Yuki staring at him and just knew he was about to make a smart ass remark.

“Don’t,” he said.

“Don’t what?” he asked innocently with that damnable smirk. Bastard.

Kuragi appeared at that moment. “Komaki went to get us dinner. Did you want to stay while the kids are having fun?”

“Oh, we wouldn’t want to intrude,” Tohru tried to backtrack.

“You’re never intruding, Tohru,” Yuki smiled at her, a genuine one. “You’re always welcome here.”

He saw Tohru about to protest again because that’s just how she was, always worrying about being a nuisance, and gently covered her mouth. “We’ll stick around for a bit. Thanks.”

There was a dull thud from the next room over where the kids went and Yuki’s smile dropped. “I’ll go check on them.”

When he was gone, Kuragi turned to them. “Did you want some tea, Tohru-san?”

Kyo pulled out a seat from the table for her as she said, “Oh, that sounds wonderful. Thank you!”

Kuragi nodded. “How about you, Kyon-senpai?”

He glowered at the nickname and muttered, “Just water for me.”

Her lips twitched in amusement and he rolled his eyes, pulling the chair out next to Tohru.

These people all drove him crazy.

But...he supposed...as his wife turned to him to smile warmly, and as his son played with his friends like the normal child he himself never got to be...and how in a few months, his family would be just a little bit bigger...he supposed they weren’t all bad.

"Hey, stupid cat!" Yuki came back in, eye twitching and holding a ripped piece of fabric. "You owe my daughter a new dress."

Scratch that.

The damn rat was still the worst.

#kyo sohma #akito sohma #tohru honda #shigure sohma #kyoru #fruits basket

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bb-bambam · 3 years

Text

Sports

Jinyoung is in a cafe with Jackson, waiting for their parents to pick them up. The faces of the people passing by outside the cafe window tell Jinyoung that being inside the uncomfortably over-air-conditioned building is preferable to the sticky humidity of the outdoors. And the cafe also has the added bonus of having Lim Jaebeom, the attractive classmate Jinyoung has been pining over for the past year, working there, so Jinyoung is doubly content to stay for as long as he needs to before his mom arrives.

"You know," Jackson says, glancing not-so-subtly at the counter where Jaebeom is greeting a customer with a bright smile. "I heard that Jaebeom is trying out for the cross-country team this year."

"Really?" Jinyoung asks, surprised. He remembers making an off-handed comment about cross-country runners looking cool some time last spring when Mark told them that he was made captain of the team, but he never imagined that he would get the chance to see Jaebeom participating.

"Yeah," Jackson says, chewing on the straw of his drink absently. "Mark said he signed up. I guess he is into sports after all."

Jinyoung reflects on this momentarily. "I think I need to try out for the soccer team," he finally says.

Jackson stares at him, his straw slipping out of his mouth. "You don't know how to play soccer," he says, which – well, he does have a point.

"He must be into jocks," Jinyoung says. "Remember when he made that comment about muscles looking good last year? This is my chance!"

"Uh huh," Jackson says skeptically. "I love you, dude, but...good luck with that."

~~~

In hindsight, Jinyoung probably should have listened to Jackson when he reminded him that Jinyoung does not, in fact, know how to play soccer. He trudges into the locker room defeatedly after a miserable tryout, only to find none other than a shirtless Jaebeom sitting on one of the benches, staring at Jinyoung with wide eyes.

"Oh!" Jinyoung says, blinking rapidly, torn between looking away out of embarrassment and staring out of interest. "Sorry!"

"No, it's – no worries!" Jaebeom stammers. "I mean, it's a public locker room."

"Right," Jinyoung says, furiously trying to keep his cheeks from turning red. "So, um, what are you doing here?"

To his surprise, Jaebeom's face flushes at that. "Uh," he says. "I was trying out for the cross-country team, but, well. I guess running isn't really my strong suit?"

"Oh, that's, that's too bad," Jinyoung says awkwardly. "I – if it makes you feel better, it turns out soccer isn't really my forte either."

Jaebeom offers him a small smile. "Sorry to hear that," he says. "But there are a lot of other things you're good at."

"You too!" Jinyoung blurts out before wincing, hoping that he wasn't too loud. He's just a little caught off-guard by the fact that Jaebeom has apparently seen him doing things before. "You're good at other stuff too."

"Thanks, um...Jinyoung, right?" Jaebeom says, and his face is still pink but he looks happier somehow when Jinyoung nods dazedly – he hadn't realized Jaebeom knew his name. Jaebeom pulls on his shirt and stands up, throwing Jinyoung one last smile. "I'll, uh, see you around?"

"Yeah," Jinyoung says, remembering at the last minute to return the smile. "See you."

~~~

Somehow, despite Jackson's constant needling, Jinyoung doesn't learn from his mistakes and finds himself trying out for the basketball team towards the end of the fall. "I need to at least try to be on a sports team, Sseunie," he insists to Jackson, who clicks his tongue doubtfully. "I'm sure Jaebeom isn't into bookworms."

"Okay," Jackson says, shaking his head. "If you say so."

Unfortunately, Jinyoung's basketball skills are about on par with his soccer skills, and he once again tastes the bitterness of a failed tryout. This time he's the one resting on the bench when Jaebeom walks in, decked out in fencing gear and his face glistening with sweat.

"Jaebeom," he says before he can think about it. "You tried out for the fencing team?"

Jaebeom turns red. "I tried," he says carefully. "I figured – well, your best friend is the captain, right?"

"Yeah, he's the sabre captain," Jinyoung says. Absentmindedly, he adds, "He didn't tell me you were trying out, though?" Then he realizes who he's talking to and backtracks hastily. "I mean, he – usually he tells me who's on the tryouts list, that's all. It's not like he would be telling me about any specific person." He laughs nervously.

"Right," Jaebeom says, offering a weak laugh of his own. "Well, anyway, I'm, um, not destined to be a fencer for sure."

"Oh, just like me with basketball, then," Jinyoung says, and he actually feels a bit amused now.

Jaebeom's eyes widen slightly. "I guess so," he says, and his laugh sounds a bit more genuine this time. "Are you – I mean, is there any spring sport you're going to try out for?"

"Um," Jinyoung says, blurting out the first one that comes to mind, "baseball."

"Cool, cool," Jaebeom says, nodding a few times. "I was, uh, planning on trying out for tennis."

"Nice," Jinyoung says, cringing a little at how awkward he must sound. "Well, good luck, I guess?"

Jaebeom smiles, his eyes disappearing into little crescents, and Jinyoung feels his breath catch. "Thanks, Jinyoung. You too."

~~~

When spring rolls around, Jinyoung is disappointed but not surprised to find that he truly cannot play baseball either. "Hey, at least you tried," Jackson says, patting him on the back consolingly on the way to the locker room. "Most people would have given up after the soccer debacle."

"This was my last chance, though," Jinyoung says, moping a little. "Now how am I supposed to impress him?"

"Impress who?" Jinyoung's mouth goes dry at the familiar voice, and sure enough, when he turns away from Jackson, he finds Jaebeom looking at him with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Uh," Jinyoung says. "Um. No one?"

"You," Jackson says cheerfully at the same time, and Jinyoung makes a mental note to strangle his best friend later.

Jaebeom's eyes go comically wide. "Me?" he asks, gesturing at himself.

Jackson, traitor that he is, just claps Jinyoung on the back and wanders off with a wink and mouthed Good luck, leaving Jinyoung to turn bright pink as Jaebeom stares at him.

"Well," Jinyoung says, swallowing. "Yes?"

"You wanted to impress me?" Jaebeom repeats, looking stunned.

"I – it's just, you said you found muscles attractive," Jinyoung says, because at this point, he can't possibly become any more mortified than he already feels. "So I thought I should, well, try to play some sports."

"I thought –" Jaebeom clears his throat. "I thought you were into sporty guys," he says. "Since your friends all do sports."

"No, I –" Jinyoung breaks off, realization dawning upon him. "Wait, so you were trying out for sports because of me too?"

Jaebeom looks incredibly embarrassed. "Yes?" he says. "I – I think you're really cute and, and I always see you reading really interesting books, and I wanted to talk about them with you some time."

"Me too," Jinyoung breathes. "I think you're super handsome and sweet and I'd love to talk about books with you."

"Really?" Jaebeom asks, his expression so hopeful that Jinyoung could melt on the spot. "Do you – do you want to, um, get coffee or something after we shower?"

Jinyoung abruptly remembers that they're both still in their sports gear, sweaty from their tryouts. "Yeah, I'd love to," he says, smiling shyly. "I'm guessing you didn't win a spot on the tennis team?"

"No," Jaebeom says, smiling back brightly. "But I did win something a lot better."

#writing #jjp #sometimes you have a mental breakdown at 12 am and then later that very same day you write the silliest thing you're ever written

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jefferoni-quotes · 4 years

Text

hotter than this heatwave

Jamilton, 13,045 words

I am begging y'all, don't let this flop it took an ungodly amount of time and I am so proud of it. Full fic under the cut.

Also, leave feedback! I love reading what you guys thought of my writing!

Hamilton is hot.

There’s no other way to say it. He’s hot, miserably so. Even with the air conditioner full blast, and a fan directed straight into his face, he’s simply sweltering in the heat. His childish refusal to remove his shirt (even in the privacy of his own home) isn’t helping the sweat cease in their races down his back, and the base of his ponytail sticks to his neck. He grimaces every time he even tries to move, and thus he’s resided himself to the expanse of couch, positioned himself under an open window. But there’s no breeze, none reaching him anyway. If he lifts himself on his shaking arms, and peers out the window, he can see the trees aren’t swaying. The leaves bustle occasionally, but it’s far from the usual dance they perform. He can hear all too clearly conversations, chatter from those subjecting themselves to the summer heat. Perhaps Alexander is more a winter person, ever since he had moved to America he had been, after all, he saw snow, something he thought only existed in movies, and immediately fell in love with the season. Being able to choose if he was to be pleasantly warm, or surprisingly cold during winter was an experience. To have the option of curling up like a cat by the fire, or lying in snow, making snowmen and such. And Christmas dinners- Alexander could go on and on for hours about the wonders of the coldest time of year, alas Hercules would disagree, argue Summer was so much better. But Hercules is Irish, he has enough of the cold to last him a lifetime. Now Hamilton would bet the man wishes he had just held his tongue, because he must be suffering in the heat too.

Fuck heatwaves, and fuck New York.

He thinks to himself as he throws a cushion across the room in frustration. It hits his air conditioning unit, and before he knows it the apartment is plunged into a volcano. The unit malfunctions, turns off and doesn’t turn back on, even when Alexander shoots up from his languid position and desperately tries to fix it. He beats his fist off the top with pent up frustration, sincerely hoping that magically it would be fixed. Alas, it was not, it gave one last spluttering attempt to turn on before dying with a not so graceful clank. What sin has he committed to be tortured in such a way? It feels as though Satan himself is clawing his way up from the circles of Hell, and has declared Alexander’s apartment his spawn point, where the Heaven vs Hell war will begin. Whatever war is about to commence, Alex is on Satan’s team, as God must have something against him to send this wave of heat his way.

“Fuck!” He yelled, kicking the machine and cursing even louder at the shock of pain coursing through his toes. He clutches his foot, hopping around his apartment like some hurt rabbit and hisses through clenched teeth. He finally jumps his way ungracefully back to his couch, collapsing onto it in one foul swoop. His legs involuntarily give out under him, and he’s almost thankful for it as he half considers stripping out of his shirt, aching for some kind of relief. He starts tugging on the hem of his shirt, mulling over the idea before pushing his own hands away in disgust. A respectable man always remains fully dressed for any occasion. What if a visitor were to come by? He would likely demand their exit from his home, but he would at least like to do so in style.

The rooms are quick to grow stuffy, uncomfortable and as though the walls are too close and getting closer. Suddenly removing any clothing is a thought long forgotten, quickly replaced by the innate desperation to escape the closed doors of his apartment. He scrambles for purchase on the arm of his couch before forcing his muscles to revive and motor him towards the exit. He passes by his kitchen, opens the fridge for a moment just to feel the coolness on his body. He closes the door before all his food defrosts, albeit reluctantly. He would stand there all day if he could. Leaving the kitchen, he examines how his kettle has evaporated of all remaining water inside. There goes Plan B of making iced coffee, or worse, iced tea. Who could subject themselves to the bath water like clutches of cold tea? Disgusting.

He doesn’t stop to grab sunscreen, doesn’t consider sunburn a thing as he grabs his keys and shoves them in the pocket of his ratty cargo shorts. He pushes his feet into sandals, Birkenstocks, brown ones. He half contemplated putting socks on with his sandals, and automatically laughs at how much that would irritate Jefferson if he just so happened to run into him. The man is obsessed with his looks, conceited and vain in every way. Alexander wouldn’t be surprised if the man carries a pocket mirror on him, just to examine his appearance and remind himself of how goddamn gorgeous he is. Because he is gorgeous. Alexander is stubborn, not blind, and even he can admit the things he would give up for a fling with the man. His pride would never allow him to plead Jefferson for a one night stand however, and he knew Jefferson would never come to him, so that fantasy may as well remain just that. A fantasy.

So he leaves the socks behind, but not because he cares what others think. Of course he doesn’t… simply because socks would just be extra layers. He doesn’t care if people think his hair is a mess, which it is, so he drags his hand through it. The hand comes back damp, and he grimaces, wiping it on the tan material of his shorts. And he certainly doesn’t care that one of the buckles on his sandals is about to break. He glares at it, willing it to sew itself back together. It does not. Hamilton sighs and folds, giving up on attempting to appear presentable. It’s not like anyone else outside looks much better, save for the few teenagers posing on the streets in incredibly short shorts with a Starbucks they probably waited an hour for.

Alexander practically throws his door open and is met with a pleasurable breeze as it swings, which quickly dissipates into a blast of scorching air, as though opening an oven too quickly. You would think after being born in such a humid climate he would’ve grown used to the hot weather. Apparently, this was a false assumption. He fishes his keys back out of his shorts and locks the door, standing out in the lobby of his apartment complex.

Now that he’s escaped the confinement of his home, Hamilton doesn’t know what to do. He could run down to Starbucks, take his mind off the heat with an ice cold Frappuccino. However, that would only distract him for a moment, perhaps an hour, until every drop of coffee has been drunk, and he’s left with an empty cup and a smoldering heat once more. And besides, if he's so desperate for an iced coffee then he could just make his own. That idea drains down the gutter, because he doesn't have any ice and there's no way water would freeze very fast in this temperament. He can briskly walk to work if he so pleases, despite being ordered to stay off, but that would require changing into a suit and now that he thinks about it… does his office even have air conditioning?

A long, broken sigh escapes his lips and he drags a hand through his hair, which has grown ever so slightly damp with sweat. Maybe a walk to clear his head, and if he strolls in the right direction, the wind will hit him perfectly and he should cool down.

He accepts this as the perfect idea and walks his way out onto the street, practically able to feel the burning tarmac through the soles of his sandals. He hopes there are no poor dogs or felines roaming the streets, or on daily walks on this day. The pavement would be far too much for their paws. Alexander feels which way the warm breeze is flowing and begins to trek directly into it, finding a sense of overwhelming relief at the sensation. (Even if it is relatively brief.)

Alexander’s feet carry him wherever they please, walking him down long streets, past empty stores. He stops to glance into a bustling Starbucks, hears through the glass a man screeching at a barista who is refusing to take his order because, “no shirt, no service.” He continues past, rather glad he had decided not to go inside, as it looks far too crowded, even for a small man such as himself.

His strides are short but swift, floating him along the streets with an air of confidence that he is known to possess. It is undeniably cooler outside, a welcome surprise as a gust of wind blows his hair from his face. He hears the simultaneous sighs of alleviation from the few on the streets, clearly walking around for the same reason as Hamilton.

Time ticks by and Alexander allows his mind to wander, as it all too often does when he gives it the chance. His thoughts speed past a mile a minute, tempting his brain to consider them longer, grabbing them like falling petals before letting them drift to the ground and blow away once more.

He passes through Time Square, finding it bustling, more so than he had imagined. However, it’s not ‘Christmas Crowded’, the eloquent name given to Time Square by Lafayette for when the area becomes full at the most amazing time of year. He makes his way past people, brushing shoulders and probably contracting some undiscovered disease off of some of them. It’s New York, he wouldn’t be surprised. He jumps out of his skin when some man behind him traces their fingers up his spine, but when he turns around the person is gone, laughing to their friends. He scowls, half considers shaking his fist and exclaiming about “kids these days!” But he doesn’t, he just shivers despite being roasted alive and continues on his way.

He spaces out again, wondering about work and then he doesn't know what he starts thinking about. But in his head he can picture a man. A man with a jawline that could cut glass, eyes blacker than the depths of the sea, yet shining as though filled with fire. He can see springy curls, imagines himself running his fingers through the mystery man's hair and cooing as he mumbles his disagreements. He sees a dark complexion, sharp cheekbones, with soft edges. The colour purple is prominent in his clothing, and it takes a moment further for Alexander to identify the male in his mind.

He zones back in as soon as he realises he's thinking about Jefferson. Again. He's thinking about Jefferson in a good way, thinking about doing couple things, about dates. And he grimaces. He convinces himself it's just a fluke, only because he sees Jefferson every day at work.

He starts checking the watch on his wrist, which is starting to heat up in the sunlight. It’s been almost an hour and forty five minutes since he began walking, and he checks the number on the street. It’s all okay. He can always catch a cab. He looks around and finds himself no longer in the bustling parts of New York, but instead part of a classy suburban area. Rows of white picket fencing and neat little gardens, full of wilting flowers meet his eyes. In the lawns of a few are men and women of all ages tending to the plants, feeding them with water to try and keep them going through the unbearable summer heat.

All the homes are different colours, some a perfectly average, cream white, others slightly more lavish baby blues. There’s one where the exterior walls are a glowing lemon colour, and it fills Alexander with an unexplained wave of joy. Then again, the colour yellow always has. It feels warm, welcoming, like a friendship long awaited. Something that has awakened the craving in him that demands the enveloping arms of a smothering hug.

A child - probably around eight - runs down the street, being chased by who looks like his friend. The girl racing after him knocks him to the side and he goes down on a patch of grass, flat on his back while his friend stands over him with a look of pure pride. Her curls bob as she jumps up and down beside him with glee, and Alexander observes as the boy stands. They lean against the tree beside them for a moment, before he mutters something and this time the girl takes off sprinting, the boy following five seconds later. He chuckles at the purity of the situation and takes it upon himself to continue his walk. It’s warmer than ever, but he doesn’t care as much anymore.

The kids race ahead, the girl much further ahead until she stops. Alexander observes from the sidelines as he walks, and the boy taps her on the shoulder. They stand there, childlike joy radiating from their area.

Alexander breezes past them, halfway down the stretch of street. The houses grow larger than the previous as he continues to walk, yet still feel as homely. An amazing feat really. He can hear the soft patting of his Birkenstocks as they tap off the pavement each time his feet hit the floor. A car trundles past, down the street, at what must be 10 miles an hour, giving kids on the road time to move out the way. He doesn't catch a glimpse of the driver, but he has respect for them nonetheless.

As he passes a large, pastel green house, a tall woman exits her garden. She’s old, that much is obvious, but she doesn’t live up to the ‘little old lady’ aesthetic. She’s tall, she’s not hunched and the only part that gives away her age is the wrinkles lining her face. She brushes a grey curl from her face, tying back her hair afterwards. She’s mumbling under her breath, something that sounds like, “it starts soon! The concert!” And for a moment he feels awfully bad for her, thinking she has Alzheimer’s or something similar.

She has a thick Southern accent, and reminds him of Jefferson in a way. Her curls are similar, perhaps not as bouncy or as soft looking (in fact the only similar thing is that they’re curls,) but it has the same obvious care put into maintaining their pristine appearance. Her skin tone isn’t at all similar to his however, she’s pale while Jefferson’s complexion is almost tawny in a way. He can’t see her eyes from where he stands, but if they’re anything like Jefferson’s, then they must be dark, and perhaps they sparkle like his does when he gets passionate about what he’s speaking of… And when did he start thinking about Jefferson so much? Why does he know Jefferson’s eyes glimmer in certain lighting, or burn with a fire when they argue? Why is he paying so much attention to the man's pupils, and how they fail to hide the emotions his stone-cold face manages to maintain? When did he begin to study his rival so closely that he noticed all these oddities? Little details; like the way his lips twitch into a soft smile when talking to Madison, or recalling fondly his time in Monticello. Or now his eyebrows quirk upwards whenever Alexander opens his mouth to speak during meetings, conveying his irritation, yet innate fascination with the words flooding the room. How does he know that Jefferson’s curls would be soft to touch, without ever being close enough to feel them between his fingertips. Why does he feel that the man could go pliant with a scratch to the right place of his scalp? Where did all this knowledge come from? The depths of his bustling mind-palace? Or is it some fountain of information that Alexander and few others have access to? Is there some key to access the quirks about Jefferson, a key that he has? Or does he simply have the mould, a fragmented ideology of a key? Has Jefferson personally handed him this key, trusted him with it? Or has Hamilton snatched it from his clutches like a criminal from an off-guard prison warden? To think of it, why does Jefferson - the ever flowing river of confidence - stash his emotions away, hiding them like a gold hoarding dragon in a cave. He sits on them as though a mother bird would protect her eggs. He keeps them unseen to the passing onlooker. Is he scared? The idea is ridiculous. Thomas Jefferson? Scared? Hell would freeze over before the moment Jefferson is frightened. Or is anxious a better word? Why does he covet to know what it’s like to wake up secured in those arms? (God those arms.) Why does his head claw for the intelligence to feel Jefferson? (Whether that be a warm hug or a simple swing of their hands, linked together?) Why is Alexander asking himself all these questions? Why is his brain grasping and reaching for the answers, as though the forbidden apple that he craves a bite of.

Why does he care?

It’s a recurring thought, one that his mind cannot seem to formulate a complete answer to. Perhaps because it’s the nice thing to do? But no, fantasizing about someone’s eyes like some schoolgirl is not a “nice thing to do.” It’s a crush, is what it is. Wanting to know more about Jefferson, seeking the answers to his many personal questions is not simply because it’s a nice thing to do. It’s because he needs the answers. His mind demands he become closer with the man, the vain, uncaring man. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Out of all the people his heart could sing a yearning song for, it chose Thomas fucking Jefferson.

Why has his attention been undeniably captured, held hostage, by the Southern fuck?

This one, he can justify. It’s a simple answer really, one that is half the solution to his hundreds of other questions, the ones that buzz in his ears like insistent flies. And it’s two words, one word if you so wish to keep it incredibly succinct.

His wit.

His brain, his intelligence only matched and rivalled by Hamilton’s own. The way his fingers tap out word after word on keyboards, or scratch out essays upon essays onto paper with pens, pencils, whatever he can get his hands on. His intense expanse of knowledge that spans from American finance, to Shakespearean literature. His ability to argue and debate and speak for hours and hours with Alexander without losing his pace. The way his mind formulates sentence after sentence where he debates and there’s a fiery, yet somehow icy cold, passion in his tone. The fact that Hamilton finally has an equal. Where it’s unlike arguing against Burr, a stone wall of indifference. Jefferson is a stone wall that Alexander knows exactly how to make crumble. And he does. Over and over, yet Jefferson keeps rebuilding, stronger than before. He makes Alexander fight for his right to get his ideas across and as much as if pisses him off… he can’t deny that he loves it. He adores having to work his way up, enjoys knocking away obstacles that continue to respawn. What’s life without a little competition after all? Alexander enjoys hiking, and Jefferson is the ultimate mountain to climb.

But he wants more. He needs to know more about this mysterious man. He wants to know what it’s like to share sweet moments with him, wishes to be granted passage to his heart. He wants the key to be given to him, not stolen away. He wants Jefferson to trust him. He wants to know his talents, his skills, his hopes, his dreams. He wants to know about his past, his present and his future. Wants to know his real personality, the one he has secured in a vault. Because Alexander is stubborn, this much as already been said, but he’s not stupid. He can see the twitch in his fingers, the brief panic that flashes through the man's dark eyes whenever he has to present in Congress. He can hear the way he stumbles and stammers his way through speeches, as though he’s ready off a particularly shitty script. It’s only when they debate, when they argue with that familiar intensity, that the inferno is let loose. And Alexander is happy to be consumed in its flames.

The thoughts are almost enough to frighten him. The way they consume his constantly changing mind until he can think of nothing else. The burning heat in the air has been forgotten, replaced with a searing, white-hot pain through his chest. A heart attack maybe? More likely a soul attack. Hamilton uses his clairvoyance, he isn’t stupid. He knows this crush has been around since the day they had met. Since the first inklings of their argumentative ways. The kindling that sparked a fiery rivalry. One sure to last a lifetime. Well, maybe on Jefferson’s end. Alexander has felt this way, this white hot pain for a while, but now his body registers it and it hits all at once. Like a slap to the face, a punch to the stomach and a kick in the balls. It’s never hurt this much. Not with Aaron, not with John, not even with Eliza. The three most important relationships of his life had never been this intense, and he and Jefferson aren’t even together. Perhaps that’s what caused the pain to harm him so much. The craving of a thing he can’t have.

He gets the same feeling, the same way he felt around his other relationships. With Aaron, it was calm, predictable. It was boring. He needed more, he needed a spark, something he could bounce off of and then melt together. Aaron was grey. Monotone, and straight lined. He was a man who needed something still. He required security and promises to stay the way they were. But Alexander was a storm, unpredictable and wild and fully intent on ravaging the waters, while what Burr really needed was a lighthouse. Someone who was a beacon of light to shine him to the right place. Hamilton could never provide that.

John had been close. He had been orange. Intense, swirling like a fire, like a burning heat. But not enough. He was too quick to back down, to agree and leave arguments unsettled. He didn’t put up enough of a fight, backed down from debates and left Alexander with many more points to push across. They had the same opinions, there was no need for a friendly debate. It just wasn’t enough for him. There was passion, but not in the way Alexander’s heart craved. John needed something grounding, someone to match his intensity with a cute yellow or a fellow orange. And he found that, he found that in Peggy and Alexander was happy to watch him go. He wanted his orange to be happy.

The third person had been blue. Eliza was the sea and the sky. She was beautiful and calm and swaying. She was helpful and loving, quick to input her opinion only to retract it later on. Alexander had thought she was perfect. She was, Eliza was perfect. But Alexander was not. Blue didn’t mix right with whatever colour Alexander was. Blue turned dark and foreboding, into something he didn’t want to experience. Their fire had been wrong, and if Eliza was the ocean, then Hamilton was the smoke on the water clouding her. She needed a similar colour, a green like the Earth whom she could surround and heal. Or another blue to swim with. It appeared Alexander was neither of those.

But Jefferson. Jefferson was different. He was intense and angry and punched out. He was red. A dark crimson that demanded attention at all times. A matching light to Alex’s own. They bounced off each other, before they crashed together in a mess of colours, an abstract painting of similarities. Jefferson was passionate, he had an intensity that matched Alexander’s previously unrivalled one, and he loved it. He loved red. Red was the colour he needed, the colour that felt best in his heart of hearts. And that’s when he knew that he was red too, that he was a candy red. He was bright and flashing and Jefferson was dark and mysterious and together they were perfect. Together they formed a shade of undiscovered colour.

That’s what Alexander needed. He needed his red. Everyone else had theirs! It was his turn! It was finally his shot to find love, and he had no intentions of throwing it away.

In his time thinking, he’s almost completely forgotten the putrid heat, and the fact that the woman from before is walking down the street just a foot or two away from him. She’s brisk, in a hurry clearly, occasionally checking the time on her surprisingly high class smart-phone. In fact, another person joins him on his venture down the street, the little girl from before, but without her friend. And if he thought the woman reminded him of Jefferson, then this girl is the spitting image of him. Same hair, but longer and tied into puffy pigtails, the same wide and toothy smile as she taps Alexander on the side.

“Hey there, Mr!” She waves, and the first thing he can think is Stranger Danger. Did this girl's parents never teach her the importance of not talking to random people on the streets? “I’ve never seen you round here before, are you lost?” He supposes that he sort of is. He doesn’t know his way home, but somehow he’s not concerned. He can call a cab, or an Uber or Lyft. There are plenty of ways for him to arrive back home. But the fact that she asks him this is evident that this is one of those neighbourhoods. One where “everyone knows everyone.” Which is sweet, but annoying, because now he stands out. He wants to blend in with the crowd for once, but as he looks around, that’s been impossible for a while. He notices everyone out in their gardens or on the streets are white, which is expected at this point. It’s a flaw in the American housing system, one that he should bring up in Congress. Perhaps he could get Jefferson to support him for once, team up even. That’s the dream.

He hasn’t said much for a few seconds, and the kid looks up at him with large, expectant eyes. “Oh, I’m not lost, no. Just going for a walk,” he nods gently and she seems to understand. He thinks she’s just going to run off after receiving an answer, but she seems insistent to interrogate Alexander a little more.

She hums to herself, “what’s your name?” She asks ever so superficially, like an employer ready to write someone up for bad behaviour or poor customer service. Alexander knows those write ups all too well, it’s the reason he’s been forced off work today, something he was happy to let happen as soon as the heatwave hit. Work doesn’t have good air conditioning, if it has air conditioning at all.

“Alexander,” he answers with a flick of his head, casting his glance to the sky. They’re still walking, nearing the end of the street. The old lady has stopped, and the little girl has too, which subsequently has Hamilton stopping. He looks down at her, chin tilted down as she glares up. She seems livid at his name, and he wonders what he’s done wrong until he realises she’s staring directly into the sun as she tries to suss him out. Her gaze is warm and welcoming however, childlike and pure and it’s a nice break from the cool stares he’s used to.

She nods happily, “my name's Patsy, I’m eight,” she grins and turns on her heel, casting one final look over her shoulder. “I’m going to play, if my Pops leaves the house tell him that’s what I’m doing!” She runs off, leaving Alexander wondering who her father is. The old lady is leaning on the fence of the house in front of him, glancing up to an open window. She looks like an NPC in a video game, purposefully placed in a specific spot just for unimportant exposition. Alexander is an expert in certain video games, and if her position isn’t just begging for him to go interact with her. She seems as though she may have some enchanted knowledge to pass down onto him, maybe even a cherry pie recipe if he’s lucky.

He walks over to her side, resting his forearms on the flat tops of the white fence. The house in front of him is painted a soft violet, it’s pretty. There’s neat rows of tulips and petunias in the lawn, which is freshly trimmed so it seems. There are bushes in the middle of the grass, cut into a point. Everything is seamless, blending together. It’s homely and calm, and Alexander smiles. The woman is smiling too. He glances at other things in the garden. Tucked away into the left corner by the porch is a barbecue, and not too far from that a wooden bench. There are thin cushions resting on it, but no one sits there. The lights in the house are off, the windows open along with the curtains. But when he looks in, he sees no one. Then again, he can only see directly into the window and up, so anything at the other end of the room is out of sight. Perhaps he should’ve worn his glasses today, unable to see very far in front of his face. In the driveway is a family car, a blue Chevrolet still spongy with a few soap studs. Newly washed, he notes.

“It starts soon,” the elder comments, gesturing vaguely to the home before them. So she’s not an NPC. Alexander can’t put his finger on if that’s annoying or perfect, because he doesn’t have to start the conversation.

Yet his interest has been piqued, he was always a curious soul. It gets him into fits of trouble occasionally, but for now it seems as though the only thing he can get out of it is an intriguing talk. “What’s starting?” He asks quietly, tone low. His lips are dry, and he smacks them together to coat them with saliva to hopefully stop them cracking.

“The concert,” she answers, as though it’s the most typical thing in the world. Alexander is about to open his mouth to argue against that fact, to insinuate that a concert happening in someone’s home is ridiculous - (Even if all the Disney Channel movies taught him otherwise.) - but the woman is talking again. “Tommy always plays at three in the afternoon on a Sunday.” She seems transfixed, and every time Alexander tries to speak she hushes him. She holds up her hand to silence him, and it gives him the same feeling George Washington gives him, authority radiates from her and Alex finds himself actually shutting up. It’s two fifty-nine now, and he’s waiting for the music to start from this mysterious “Tommy.”

He’s impatient, and authority only hushes him for so long. He fidgets, picks paint off the fence and then speaks. “When does it start?” He hisses, bored. Come on, it’s three! Almost at least.

“I told you, he plays at three.”

“It is three!” Alexander whines pathetically, crossing his arms over. He’s stood still in wait for long enough, and if music doesn’t start in the next thirty seconds he’s going to walk away and never look back. He’s all set to move when the lady grabs him by the shoulder.

She hisses, “it’s starting!”

And indeed it is. Through the open windows, pouring out the house are the sweet chords of an expert violinist. It’s a harmony, seems sad, longing almost. The melody starts slow, and carefully picks up pace as it goes. He can only imagine who the player is, male or female it doesn’t matter. His mind whirs with ideas, forming the musician in his mind.

Their hands would grip the bow with precision, glide across the strings with a focussed expression. He can see their- no, his, eyes turned down to the instrument, pupils darkening as they get lost in the notes. The violin is balanced on his shoulder, tucked under his chin and his hair falls into his view but he keeps playing. The straight, actually, it’s curly. The ringlets of curls are brushed away quickly, in one movement as he continues to play.

Alexander spaces out, losing himself to the music. It appears the lady beside him does the same, but he can’t be sure. He tries to put a colour on the tone of it, tries to decipher the meaning behind the song. The violin fades into an instrumental where it’s clear the player should be singing, but they don’t. He tries to picture a face, going as far as to close his eyes and block out everything but his own imagination and the melody flowing to him. It’s like a siren call, coaxing him towards sudden death. And Alexander is all too happy to submit to the urges.

He finds a face, dark eyes, curls, complexion. Once again he’s picturing Jefferson. Over and over the man comes to mind. He tries to push him away, attempts to imagine someone else standing in the home and playing just for him. But it’s futile. And the song does feel like it’s for him. It feels like it matches the music his heart sings, the yearning harmony that lathers his soul is rivalled by this player. By Jefferson. It’s not like he’s ever going to meet the violinist, so he’s free to picture whoever he pleases.

He’s sweating, it’s the heat, it must be. His palms that are clenched into fists by his sides are coated in a thin sheen of sweat, his forehead growing damp again. He makes no effort to wipe it away, he lets the heat sweep over him. He allows the flames to engulf him, the chords of the song floating to him still.

But as soon as it’s begun, it ends. The violin fades out, leaving the music buzzing pleasantly in his veins. The lady smiles, nods and starts to walk off, back to her house. The concert comes to a close, curtains shut and shun all backstage visitors away. But when has Alexander ever abided by the rules?

His feet march him into the garden, down the lawn and up to the porch. He steps up the stairs, both of them at once. He’s having trouble summoning courage, something that’s rare for him. Typically he isn’t walking up to a strangers home just to congratulate them on their musical talent… that he probably isn’t even supposed to hear.

It takes Alexander a long minute of just standing there before he swallows his pride and taps his knuckles off the door. There are footsteps, coming closer and as they do he rids himself of the urge to run away.

He’s almost expecting Jefferson, he’s built him up in his mind and placed him on a pedestal. Or maybe it’s better to say that he’s trying to force the man into a treasure box, as he does with all the things he loves. His mother’s memory goes in there, his pens and his laptop and the pendant necklace from his mother. He’s trying to push Jefferson into the box too, to keep him by his side but he won’t stay. Perhaps it’s impossible to keep a person preserved in a treasure chest, or maybe it’s just Jefferson. He needs room, he needs space to evolve and change and grow and Alexander’s treasure chest can’t provide that. Alexander can though. He just has to let Jefferson stay out of the box.

Like he said, he’s almost expecting Jefferson to be at the door. But he still gets shocked when it actually is. It actually is Thomas fucking Jefferson standing in the doorway and Jesus he’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt so tight it should be illegal. It’s difficult enough for Alexander to handle when he can practically see Jefferson’s chest through his sheen white dress shirt at work, but this is too much. This man is an Adonis. He’s the sun, Alexander is an icarus and he feels as though he simply has to fly closer.

“Hamilton!”

Shit, has he been speaking this whole time? Alexander flicks his gaze to Jefferson’s face, and fuck him he’s wearing glasses. Chunky black hipster frames that balance on the bridge of his nose. Christ, he’s in deep isn’t he?

Jefferson waves his hand in front of Alexander’s face, grabbing his attention. “Hu-uh?” Alexander stumbles out his words pathetically, lighting up red soon after. He goes the same crimson as Jefferson’s shirt, the colour he identifies the man with. He looks like he’s about to slap Alexander across the face if he doesn’t start properly talking soon.

“Are you even listening to me?” Jefferson hisses, venom laced in his tone. He’s like a snake, coiled up into a spring, ready to attack and bite at the next to approach. In his hands (lord, those hands!) he holds a clear water bottle, knuckles white with the ferocious way he grips it. He brings it up to his lips and takes a careful sip, eyes trained like a sniper on Alexander.

Hamilton collects himself, gathering his thoughts, which shouldn’t be as difficult to do as it is. He coughs into his fist, realising how dry his throat is. The aspect of water is welcoming, and he wants to reach out just to snatch the plastic (reusable, how environmental) bottle off of Jefferson to guzzle down the remaining liquid. Alas, he does not. Because that would be weird.

He still hasn’t answered, thus Jefferson continues with a hiss. “What are you doing here?!” He’s not angry, Alexander knows this. He has seen the man angry.

One time, he had seen the man in his furious element. The cabinet meeting had just ended, and Jefferson had stormed out after Washington had taken Alexander’s side once again. It wasn’t Hamilton’s fault he was better! Jefferson had stalked towards his office, and Hamilton had followed after him, the cheap fake leather of his shoes squeaking on the polished linoleum. Alexander had continued his argument, much to the dismay of the taller man. Jefferson had tried his very best to slam the door on Hamilton’s face, using all his force (which was a lot) to close it behind him, but Alex managed to stick his foot in the gap and wretch it open, still blabbering away. Jefferson had collapsed into his office chair, held his head in his hands and muttered to himself as Alexander got closer. His voice had stayed a constant, boisterous and accompanied with gesticulating gestures until he lost his cool and whipped Jefferson’s seat around himself.

“Answer me already! You spit and stumble your way through speeches, I bring out the real you! I bring out the fires! Show me him and argue back!” The animosity had been high in Alexander’s tone, he liked the unabashed Jefferson who fought with him. The man who poured wisdom from his tongue like his mother language. Why he held it back when talking to anyone else baffled him beyond belief. But this meeting he had barely spoken, just shared his points with a quiet voice and sat back down, not bothering to debate Alexander. He was furious, made sure to target Jefferson in some of his words just to try and get a rise, a reaction, anything! But it had not worked, so he resorted to his last lifeline, and followed the man to his office.

Jefferson snapped his gaze up, and there it was, the fire he so dearly wanted. The red-hot passion that licked at his pupils, threatened to burn Alexander. “You bring out the real me?! No, Hamilton,” he had spat his name like it was some dirt on the bottom of his polished shoes, “you bring out the worst in me! You bring out the angry, tired part of me that doesn’t want to deal with your bullshit!”

“My bullshit?” Alexander had smirked as though he had won, and in his sense he had. For a moment at least. Because he had gotten a reaction, the thing he craved as much as air. He had gotten his red to reply and that’s all he really needed. He was happy from here on out. But, he could always push it further. So he had. “Care to explain to me what my bullshit is? Is it my financial plan? Is that what it is, Jefferson?” He had remained sickeningly-sweet, words sugary like honey, dripping in the same way.

Jefferson had laughed, hysterical really. A break from his usual smug laughter. A break Alexander didn’t enjoy very much. He was never one to like breaks, preferred to continue in a way he always had. And he and Jefferson had a dance, a specific way they did things that they had yet to break. A routine that Jefferson was so arbitrarily destroying just with a fit of chuckles. “Your financial plan is a piece of insulting garbage, but that is not what I mean-“ he had scoffed, and rose from his seat, towering over Alexander with a menacing glint. “-You are a parasite to me, you trail around like some sad puppy, desperate for attention! But why me? I stammer through speeches, but alas it’s better than talking a million miles a minute where no one can understand you! You bring out the fire, the hellfire! You make me want to snap you into pieces and scatter you on my lawn like fertiliser. Do us all a favour and get out!”

A little shocked by the imaginative insult, Alexander resisted. “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

Jefferson had him by the collar next, shoving him up against a wall, face so close he could feel the hot breath of his rival on his face. “You talk a big game, Hamilton, yet you forget to follow through. The fire you bring out in me is the worst part about myself and I’d prefer to hide it away,” he had growled, low and rumbling in his chest, “you’re not good enough to lick the dirt off my shoes. You must think you’re so special, yet all you do is hump the President’s leg until you get what you desire. God knows why he takes your side on every political matter.” He had dropped Alexander after that, left him scrambling to his feet. “Get out of my office.”

Scared, but stubborn, Alexander had supplied a retort. “Or what, old man? Gonna make me?”

Jefferson had grit his teeth together, grinding them so hard Hamilton was surprised they hadn’t faded away. “Or else.”

“All bark and no bite.” Alexander scoffed in return, making his way slowly to the door. He cast a look over his shoulder in time to see Jefferson physically slump back into his chair, looking tense and stressed and he couldn’t help but feel bad. He had felt Jefferson’s eyes on his back the whole time he had left, felt them searing holes through his jacket and burning into his skin. Not that he was complaining though.

And once again, Alexander peers up at him with wide eyes. “Oh, well um-“ he directs his gaze over Jefferson’s shoulder, “it’s kind of a long story.” He’s hinting quite obviously at his pleas to come inside, and Jefferson must catch on because a hint of realisation casts over his dark eyes, the eyes Alexander spends so much of his time thinking about.

“I have time,” came Jefferson’s grimy reply. One long finger came up to push his glasses up by the rim, unlike anyone else who would push them up by the bridge. Alexander inadvertently stashed this information away in his treasure chest. He taps his foot in a way that almost feels surreptitious. Or perhaps that’s the incorrect word. Jefferson keeps looking over Alexander’s head, then glancing behind him, eyes darting in all directions.

Alexander has the sun beating down on his back, and he can see Jefferson squinting in the light. It’s hot again, too hot in all the wrong ways, and Alexander only feels hotter with Jefferson’s eyes on him. “Well- uh- it started because my AC unit broke and-“

“Hamilton, I didn’t ask for a life story,” Jefferson fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt, looking almost nervous. Which was ludicrous! Jefferson? Nervous? That… made a lot of sense actually. His stammering through meetings, his constantly tensed shoulders, the time he had overheard Madison and Adams talking about him a few years back, saying “He was born stressed out about something.” It makes the shuffling around start to add up, how he loses his cool around Alexander and loosens up because he stops thinking. He stops worrying and starts concentrating solely on deconstructing Hamilton’s argument. He feels a little rush of pride at that, that he can get Jefferson to let go. Yet at the same time, it feels like it’s perverse knowledge he isn’t supposed to have access too, which brings him right back around to the key metaphor. A metaphor he’s using so often it’s beginning to lose meaning, and he’s beginning to imagine an actual key, which confuses his head even more than it already is.

He’s broken from his thoughts by Jefferson speaking once more, “would you like to come inside?” He asks quietly, shifting foot to foot. Alexander steals his gaze downwards, unable to look Jefferson in the face as he processes that question. His rival (whom he’s established as the man he wants to date, and god it feels so much more real when he thinks of it like that), has just invited him into his home. His home that Alexander always imagined to be bigger, more spectacular and less… welcoming. “You could inform me of why you’re standing on my doorstep in broken sandals over a glass of Chardonnay?”

“How am I supposed to say no to that?” Alexander responds almost mockingly, stepping into the home as Jefferson moves aside. He shuffles and a hand goes up to card through his curls, and Alexander wonders if they’re as soft as they appear. He resists the urge to stride over and find out for himself as he steps inside. “I would take my shoes off, but I feel as though barefoot is even more disrespectful.” He hums absent-mindedly.

Jefferson seems to tune back in at that as he flicks his gaze to follow Alexander. “And since when have you cared about being respectful towards me?” His words are sharp, upset almost. It’s strange, but Alexander kind of likes the vulnerability, it feels special. As though Jefferson is trusting him with the real real him. “Just leave your shoes on,” he adds carefully onto the end with a flippant wave and a frown.

Alexander does just that, but wipes his feet on the welcoming mat Jefferson has placed in his hallway. “What’s your liquor of choice?” Jefferson asks, sauntering off towards his kitchen, voice growing quieter as he walks off. Alexander finds his eyes following his back, watching the way his red shirt clings to the muscles of his back, and he swallows slowly, with intent.

“I believe I was promised Chardonnay, Mr Jefferson!” Alexander calls after him, taking it upon himself to look around the hallway. It’s cooler inside, thank god, but it’s not chilly. Jefferson knows how to set his AC without breaking it, Hamilton could never relate. The walls are painted a warm brown, framed family photos lining the hall. There is one, where Alexander counts twelve people in the image. The camera quality isn’t great, but all the people in the photo are similar in appearance, the only two who stand out are the ones who look like parents, as their hair is turning grey and there are wrinkles along their foreheads. He spots Jefferson - well, Thomas because he’s managed to figure out everyone in the photo is a Jefferson - rather quickly, he’s the second tallest in the picture, just after the one who looks like his father, but he looks younger, smiling wide at the camera and holding a baby boy on his hip. He looks much too young to have a son, so he must be Jefferson’s brother.

There's another photo of him cradling a small child in his arms, a newborn, little girl based on the pink wool hat on her head. He looks older than the previous photo, so Alexander deciphers that this is his child. He looks around. There are no children about. He’s smiling wider than he’s ever seen before, down at the baby whose eyes are tightly shut. Alexander grins to himself and ghosts a finger over Jefferson’s face, or at least over the glass. There’s a corner of a woman’s face in the top left, she looks tired. Jefferson does too, bags under his eyes and smile creases by his lips. But he still looks… god, what word can he use?

The next photo makes his fond smile fall faster than a rock from the top of a cliff. A wedding photo, Jefferson in his mid-twenties, dressed in a suit (that hugs him in all the right places, damn) and kissing a short woman in a flowing white wedding dress. He looks so happy, beaming as his hands rest on her hips. A wave of jealousy crashes over him as he studies the image closer. It’s outdoors, must be in Virginia, and the two newlyweds are standing under an arch laced with pink roses and light pink tulips. He frowns, there goes his chance. But it won’t hit him yet, it only will at around midnight, when he’s emailing Washington where he will pause and scream for a minute as it sets in.

He’s so focused on the wedding pictures that he doesn’t even notice Jefferson coming up behind him. “That’s Martha,” the low voice by his ear makes Alexander jump out of his skin, clasping a hand over his mouth to stop himself from crying out. “Sorry, did I scare you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer and continues to talk, “I thought you would’ve been in the living room, but I suppose I never told you to make yourself at home.” Alexander turns around and chokes on a breath. Because fuck, Jefferson is right there, glasses slipping down his nose, cheeks dusted red and lips inches away from his own. He swallows again, takes a step backwards and hits the wall with his back.

Jefferson hands him a champagne flute with a bubbling glass of white wine, and Alexander nods in return. "Thank you," he studies Jefferson carefully as he flicks his chin up quickly and takes a step away, giving Alexander room to finally breathe. He quickly glances back at the few photos on the wall, catching a glimpse from his peripheral vision as Jefferson sips from his glass. "Martha was…?" He waits for the other to finish his sentence impatiently.

"My wife," Jefferson answers with ease, gulping back a small drink. "A million years ago at least." He chuckles. And Alexander doesn't quite understand. Typically, divorcees don't keep photos of their marriage hanging in the entrance way to their home. Apparently the confusion is evident in his expression, because his host keeps talking. "She passed away eight years ago, just after giving birth."

Alexander bites down on his bottom lip, regretful. He was just thinking about how jealous he was, thinking about going home, calling Laurens or Lafayette and talking shit about Jefferson and his supposed wife. Well he certainly wouldn’t be doing that anymore. “Oh,” he says, rather ineloquently, “I’m sorry.”

Jefferson shrugs, takes another long drink from his glass, like the conversation pains him. It probably does, Alexander realises. “It’s alright, it was a long time ago,” he drawls, making sure to not finish his glass. It’s half full now, and Alexander sips the sparkling liquid. Jefferson clears his throat, looking much like he does during meetings. Uncomfortable, small almost. “Well, can I tempt you to sit in the parlour with me?” He raises an eyebrow, leads them through to a room with windows that are almost floor to ceiling, spar for the comfy looking window seat (covered in a knitted quilt and tartan pillows) that Alexander plops himself down on. The other man seats himself by a small round table, mahogany for the looks of it.

Alexander wants to speak, as always. His tongue flicks in his mouth, forming words but Jefferson cuts him off. “So, Alexander, tell me, what brought you to my doorstep on this… boiling afternoon?” It doesn’t slip past him that Jefferson uses his first name. The way it rolls with his accent, drawling slow as always until Alexander is hanging onto every syllable.

His brain catches up with the question after being so hung up on the way his given name sounds on Jefferson’s lips, and the fact that he would love to hear it in other contexts- God, he needs to stop. But the man is right there and- No. “I broke my air conditioning unit, and needed to get out.” He shrugs and takes a slurping drink of Chardonnay, perhaps if he irritates Jefferson enough, he’ll see the fire he wants.

“That doesn’t explain why you knocked on my door,” Jefferson flicks his wrist and places his glass down. Alexander can practically hear the cogs in his brain (that wonderful mind) whirring as he thinks. He can see the intelligent man putting the puzzles pieces together, in order to view the whole picture. He stops to admire his fellow Secretary’s brilliance far too often, and he always has. It’s a constant, a comma in his life where he pauses and admits to himself that Jefferson is smart. And sometimes he hates it. He hates that Jefferson is so so bright, but is full of only stupid things to say. Like he doesn’t learn both sides of the argument before presenting. Or perhaps that’s just how humans work, they’re always going to be biased.

Alexander coughs into his fist again, seeing Jefferson grit his teeth that he had the audacity to slurp his expensive (probably French, pretentious bastard) wine. “I decided to go for a walk,” he began to explain, as confident as always. “And then I ended up here,” he chewed on the inside of his cheek, “because I heard you playing violin and wanted to come speak to whoever the player was. Didn’t know it was going to be you.”

Jefferson appears uncomfortable. He finishes his glass in one large gulp and places his now empty glass on the table. He pushes his glasses up his nose by the rim once more, sighing softly. “You say that like it was bad playing.” He said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. He glances at his empty glass, refilling it with only his eyes and exhaling as it refuses to fill. How disappointing.

“No, no!” Alexander waves his hands in a flurry, almost spilling his Chardonnay on the laminate flooring. Jefferson’s eyes catch the droplet that flies from the glass and lands on one of his quilted cushions. Hamilton is too busy explaining himself to realise. Why is he being so considerate of Jefferson’s feelings? (He has a crush on him, he knows this. He knows it’s because the man looks so much more vulnerable in his own home, in shorts and t-shirt and glasses. And oh fuck he’s staring again.) “I wanted to come tell the violinist how incredible their playing was!” He watches the man who is supposed to be his rival smile, genuine and pure, and his heart soars. Butterflies swarm in his stomach, flapping their wings at a hundred miles an hour. It’s like he can take flight, all because of Jefferson’s shy little grin, watching the way his lips twitch upwards. It’s so different from his other sly, wicked smirks, all teeth and hatred. Is it hatred really though? Alexander doesn’t have the time to ask himself all of these questions again, he’s never going to find an answer.

"I've played ever since I was a child," Jefferson replies, tapping his fingers off his thighs. As Alexander has established, everything about this man seems to be carved by the gods out of stone and his legs are no exception.

"Impressive." He isn't lying. Alexander finds it wildly impressive, violin is a difficult instrument to master. He believes Jefferson mutters something along the lines of 'thank you', but he isn't particularly paying attention. He needs more to drink. He doesn't want to have to think anymore, so he doesn't. Instead, he downs his glass.

“Want a refill?” Jefferson drawls, rising to his feet and taking both empty glasses. All Alexander can do is nod and watch as the man walks off, eyes concentrated on his back and definitely not other places because that would be crude.

Alexander crosses his legs (sits criss-cross applesauce) on the windowsill seat, fluffing a pillow behind his back and cautiously leaning back to rest against the window panes. He’s almost scared of breaking them, or of the glass popping out. So instead he turns and tucks his knees in slightly, sitting along it sideways to lean on the wall that slightly juts out. He must appear comfortable, because when Jefferson comes back in he laughs carefully. “Made yourself at home I see?” He hands Alexander the glass of Chardonnay, and he notes that in his other hand is the bottle.

“Yeah, got a problem with that?” Alexander responds sarcastically. Jefferson plops himself down - surprisingly - beside Alexander, in the small space between his feet and the other wall. He hadn’t expected the sudden closeness, and all cognitive thought grinds to a stop when he realises he can smell Jefferson’s overpriced cologne. It’s probably perfume, when he thinks about it. Flowery and reeking of money. But Alexander thinks (after smelling it before, and now smelling it here) that he’ll kill Jefferson if he ever wears anything else.

Jefferson sips from his glass. “Not at all.” Alexander wants to stretch his legs out, but felt as though he couldn’t do that. Jefferson was right there! What can he do? Put his feet on the man’s lap? … he could do that. He could actually do that. “Whatcha thinkin’ about, Hammy?” He purrs teasingly, raising a curious eyebrow and chuckling to himself. Alexander can’t help but notice the slight flush of his cheeks, the dusty pink across his skin. He eyes him suspiciously, before he finally realises that the man must be a lightweight. Now there’s something he didn’t expect.

“Hammy?” Alexander quirks an eyebrow, suspect. It’s amusing how Jefferson seems to relax that slight bit as he sips his Chardonnay. The slightly older man just nods in return, bringing his glass to his lips and taking another drink. Alexander does the same, swirling the wine in his champagne flute with a chuckle. “Just that I wanna stretch out.” He shrugs and continues to drink, observing as Jefferson’s face scrunches up unattractively. Somehow, Hamilton still finds it adorable. Who would’ve thought he would find Jefferson cute? How strange.

“Then just do it,” Jefferson suggests with a smile, shrugs his shoulders and sips his drink. Alexander is surprised, never would’ve thought Jefferson would allow him to kick his feet up. It feels intimate, like a cute-couple thing to do. He hesitantly stretches his legs out, untucking his knees and placing his feet up on Jefferson’s lap, who hums his approval.

Alexander sips his Chardonnay, starting to speak. And Jefferson? Jefferson starts to listen.

Half an hour, and the rest of the bottle of Chardonnay later, the two are on the right side of tipsy. They’re just drunk enough to feel comfortable enough to sit shoulder to shoulder, resting against each other without looking like they’re being forced into the close proximity. Except they are no longer shoulder to shoulder, in fact, they’re closer than that. Alexander has his head on Jefferson’s lap, his glass long forgotten on the table, along with Jefferson’s champagne flute too and the empty wine bottle. Alexander is continuously muttering about the current political climate, ranting quietly while Jefferson listens, occasionally inputting his opinion.

“Are you not gonna argue with me?” Alexander raises an eyebrow. He’s trying to irritate Jefferson, and pokes his cheek to try and agitate him more. But Jefferson doesn’t react, other than blushing an even darker crimson. The colour he is. He’s crimson, but now he’s dull and Alexander misses his booming red.

Jefferson hums to himself, eyes fluttering shut. Alexander reaches up and pushes the other man’s glasses up his nose by the bridge. Jefferson flicks his eyes open suddenly and stares down at him, catching his wrist in his hand. Alexander feels paralysed, feeling his large palms around his own bony wrist and holding it in a loose grip. He doesn’t answer the question, “it’s so nice outside. Why are we still sitting here?”

“Why indeed?” There’s a ever so slight slur to his words, drawn out a little more than usual. Alexander kicks his feet to the ground, standing so casually it’s like he stays and hangs with Jefferson all the time and not never at all. He turns to face Jefferson, overlooking his features. He’s never had a chance to look at him so relaxed, and he notices how tense Jefferson typically is compared to now. At work, his shoulders are straight, hunched up to his ears and his posture is a horizontal line. Whereas now, he’s a little more slumped, tension gone from his body. It’s a breath of fresh air, one he never thought he would experience and accept so easily.

Jefferson rises to his feet, and typically he would be towering over Hamilton yet now, he doesn’t feel as dominating. Instead, he’s softer, edges aren’t as sharp or predatory. The mirthful glint in his pupils has faded, but the fire still licks at his eyes. It’s a welcoming heat, like the fireplace on a freezing day. And despite the current heatwave, Alexander finds himself wishing to curl up by the fire like a purring cat. “Come on, let’s go sit in my backyard.”

Alexander expects to trail after him, certainly not for the man to offer his hand to Hamilton. But he takes it, ignoring the way his heart pounds in his chest and the way his head is screaming at him. “You’re holding his hand! You’re holding Thomas Jefferson’s hand! He offered it to you! You didn’t even have to ask!” His pulse races in his ears, as he leads the two of them into his back garden. It’s beautiful, a large monkey puzzle tree in the far right corner, casting a lovely shadow over a section of the yard. Jefferson guides Alexander over to the tree and sits down under it, gesturing next to him. “C’mon, Hammy, I don’t have all day.” Alexander feels his heart flutter again, starting to race at the ridiculous nickname. If anyone else used it, he would be quickly driven mad. It’s all because of this damn Secretary.

Alexander takes a seat by him, leaning against the bark of the tree and exhaling. It’s warm, but at least vaguely cooler under the tree. Jefferson certainly seems to appreciate it, as the slightly intoxicated man removes his glasses and places them on the trimmed glass next to him, tips his head back until it hits the tree truck and breathes out happily. Alexander eyes the expanse of skin by his neck, and starts to feel like a particularly famished vampire, gazing at the muscles of someone’s neck of all places. But there’s a familiar itch in his fingertips, the urge to have his face tucked into the crook of his neck and just breathe. The thought would be scarier if it wasn’t for the alcohol in his blood. He feels confident, confident enough to lean against Jefferson and carefully hide his face in his shoulder. Not his neck, sure, but it’s close.

Alexander can feel his counterparts breathing stutter and he gently nuzzles against him, appreciating the muscle under him. “Hamilton, are you alright?” He’s sobered up, the shock of Alexander curling around him like ivy clings to a house seemingly having knocked the wine out of his system. He allows Alexander to wind himself tighter around his body, like it's cold out and he’s the only viable source of heat. It’s not. It’s still absolutely sweltering, evident in the way sweat beads at Jefferson’s brow and Alexander longs to reach over and smooth out the developing stress lines.

“Mhm…” Alexander hums his answer and buries his head into Jefferson’s neck, finally finally being close enough to him. Yet… somehow he’s dying to be closer. “I’m great, perfect! Even,” he giggles, the alcohol definitely making him a fun drunk. He’s a lightweight, that’s for sure, but when it hits him, it hits all at once. He’s got a rush of flirtatious courage surging through his veins, hot in his blood.

Jefferson moves his hand across and gently caresses Alexander’s pink cheeks, observing how he keens into it like a cat. That’s exactly what Alexander reminds him of, a cat. Hissing and violent in his worst moments, yet clingy and desperate for attention in his best. It’s a good thing Jefferson likes cats then. He drags an arm around Alexander’s shoulder, taking in his appearance. Small and (gross, his back is damp) hunched over, tucking into him and smiling, pink lips twitching into a happy grin. He’s so soft like this, vulnerable in a way Jefferson’s never seen him before. He’s intensity is being channeled into a new emotion, and Jefferson knows he’s still red. Still a fiery red, but it’s dragged in a different direction. It’s pulling him into love, and it makes his stomach do flips. Because if he has to be honest to himself, he’s had a crush on this ridiculous gremlin (excuse of a man) politician since the day of their first Cabinet meeting. Alexander could keep up with his thunderous talking pace, and he loves it. He loves it so much. “You’re sure?”

“Well,” Alexander decides it’s now or never, “I suppose there’s a way it could get…” he darts his tongue out and licks his lips, “even better.” He moves an inch away from Jefferson, eyes flickering between his eyes (no longer covered by lenses) and his lips, which look all too kissable. Jefferson doesn’t seem to catch on, just catches Alexander’s gaze with his own intense one.

“How so?” He raises an eyebrow, arched brow almost judging him.

“Kiss me,” Alexander breathes, tilting his chin upwards and leaning forward, hoping Jefferson will close the gap. And he does. God he does. He leans down and in, dipping his head and pressing his lips softly to Alexander’s own. They’re soft and insistent and gentle against his own chapped ones. And Alexander finds himself sober, before getting drunk on the feeling of Jefferson kissing him and ha! He’ll be able to rub this in Lafayette’s face later! Suck it, Frenchie!

Alexander cards his hand into Jefferson’s curls, because he’s scared he’ll never get the chance to feel them again. They’re as soft as they look, springy between his fingers and wonderful to the touch. It’s such a wonderful kiss, their first kiss, and Alexander wants to keep on kissing him forever. Jefferson makes a quiet whimpering noise and Alexander forces himself to pull away before he melts and never does. “Jefferson,” he breathes across his lips.

“Thomas,” the other corrects delicately, a meer whisper before he’s tangling his hand in Alexander’s hair and tugging Alexander back to meet his lips. It’s feverish this time, desperate and needy. The roasting heat must be getting to them, because they’re rivals, are they not? Well, not anymore. Because he’s pretty sure enemies don’t kiss in summer heatwaves, under monkey puzzle trees in their rivals back garden. But they do now, because Alexander isn’t giving this up for the world. Not now. He has his red.

“Thomas,” Alexander repeats Jeffer- Thomas’s words as they break away again. The name feels heavy on his tongue with the taste of its owner on his lips. Like it should be a sin, a sin to have enjoyed that so much. But he will gladly go to hell if it means getting to experience that intimacy again. The base of his ponytail has started to be tugged out, knotting where his fingers have tangled in the locks. He lays his head on the man’s shoulder, starting to slide half in and half out of his lap. It’s insane, the burning feeling in his chest as he locks this memory away in his treasure box, saving it for a rainy day, just in case this was a one time thing.

Thomas cradles Alexander’s chin in one hand, thumb hooking under his jaw and tilting his head up so that he can look into his eyes. Hamilton could get lost in those eyes, as he has many times. So many times during cabinet meetings he has stared at Jefferson, at those dark eyes and simply dove in, gleeful at the aspect of drowning in them. Only for the man to spout some ridiculous shit and drag Alexander out of the waters, slap him around and take him to his senses. “Yes, dear?”

That voice was going to be the death of him.

“I-“ He lost all forms of cognitive thought, the train must’ve derailed when Thomas pressed their lips together. Because fuck, he can even feel the violin chords buzzing in his veins again and it’s all so much and he loves it. Alexander flicks his gaze around Thomas's face, (he really has to get used to calling him that) kiss-swollen lips, the deep blush across his cheeks. He must look like an awestruck child from Thomas's perspective, because the man chuckles and takes his free hand through Alex's hair, taking it out of the pony tail in one movement. "Red." Alex mutters finally.

"Red?" Thomas repeats with a cocked eyebrow, hands Alexander his hair tie and brings both hands back to his lap. He really isn't sure what Hamilton means. What does red have to do with anything? If he had to put a colour to this moment, he would call it tickled pink. Intense and warm, but full to the brim of love and devotion. Pink.

Alexander nods, presses a finger to Thomas's chest, and another to his own. "Red," he nods, taking his fingers away, instead splaying his palm across Jefferson's chest absent-mindedly. "That's our colours. We're red."

Thomas never imagined he would be agreeing with Alexander so easily. With Martha, their relationship had been a soft pink. The fire was there, buried beneath the surface of dedication and loyalty. It was comfortable, it was perfect. He never needed anything else, because everything he needed was in Martha. But was he pink? Certainly not. She was his high-school sweetheart, the only real relationship he had ever had. He didn't count the many women (and men) in France, they never lasted longer than a night of sub-par activities and a morning of awkward goodbyes.

"We are, aren't we?" Thomas hummed, eventually pulling himself from his thoughts before he sunk too far. Thinking was a dangerous activity, one he didn't take time to do in fear of never emerging again.

"But," Alexander continues, and Jefferson's heart sinks. There's always a catch, isn't there? "We're the opposite reds. You're the darker red, most definitely. You're secrets and feelings are locked away, while I display mine like the lights on Broadway."

Thomas gulps. Never before has he been called out so boldly, or in such a forward manner. Yet Alexander has hit the nail on the head, first try and won the prize so it seems. He softens a little further, slumping against the tree. A low hanging stick swats at his head, and he bats it away with one hand.

"You keep everything behind lock and key… no one else has the key, I don't think," Alexander draws little swirls and patterns with his fingertip on Thomas's chest, the art fading as fast as it appears. He feels the man quiver, trying to hold himself together, and he knows that stone wall he hides behind is breaking.

He shakes his head in a curt motion. "Ja- Madison has a key," he corrects, inadvertently agreeing with Alexander, "Martha… Martha had a key." He finishes there, hands folding into each other, fingers fidgeting with discomfort. His face contorts as he screws it up, not allowing his mind to drift, forcing himself to stay in the moment. Stay in the tickled pink time. But how do you make pink from two reds?

"I'd like a key," Alexander adds, "if you'd be willing to lend me a spare." He glances up at Jefferson through his eyelashes, shall he offer something in return? The key to his treasure chest perhaps? The place he stores his most prized memories?

Jefferson chews on his lip. "I think you already have one. Whether we realised it or not… you've always had one." The metaphor is starting to confuse him, muddling with his mind. So many keys, and so many possible doors they could unlock and it's all a bit much. What door should he go through first? None of them have labels, none of them have a clear cut future secured behind them. How does he choose? Maybe he should let Alexander choose for him, go along for the ride.

Alexander smiles. He drapes himself further across Jefferson, kicking one of his legs over both of the man's and leaning into his shoulder, tucking himself there. The hot air, accompanied by the events that just occurred have sobered him almost entirely, but it feels so much better to experience this without the alcohol tainting his memory. "Thank you."

"For what?" Thomas raises an eyebrow, because as far as he's certain, he should be thanking Hamilton. Or cursing him. Cursing him and whatever magical force drew them together. This may just make him believe in fate, in destiny. He wasn’t a Christian, not anymore anyway, but this had him thanking god. Thanking every god for bringing them together. This was good, he could sit under this monkey puzzle tree, feeling the way he is now for the rest of eternity. Not good, no, that didn’t do this justice. Amazing? Fabulous? Stupendous?

"It's a preemptive thank you, since you'll be paying for tonight's date. Say seven o'clock." Alexander smirks up at Thomas, watches as the man chuckles. That laugh, there's a sound he could get used to. And to know he caused it? Fills him with joy. The laugh is like yellow. He doesn't know why, it just is. Colours fit everything, his mother was a deep navy blue, his father a cold icy white. Lafayette is purple, a mix of strength and flowing like the sea, but passionate like red. Hercules is green like juniper, he’s a grounding presence, one that Alexander can rely on to stay strong for them all. Angelica is pink, full of passion, but for some reason she just doesn’t hit that red mark. Washington stands bold in yellow, along with Peggy, but much like Thomas and Alexander, opposite ends of the spectrum. He can’t say why these colours fit, where he got them from or why they are this way, but it just does. It all slots together, everyone in his life has an assigned colour. And he thinks they always will.

Thomas raises an eyebrow. "Alright, I'm sure the neighbour will be fine taking care of Patsy for a bit," he hums. It's nerve wracking, because Jefferson doesn't have a clue if Alexander is alright with kids or not. His brain is screaming at him that Alexander is going to see sense and run, hear the talk of kids and sprint. After all, they're both in their mid thirties, so it's normal for someone their age to have a child. What if Alexander doesn't like kids? God, was this a mistake?

“Patsy? The little girl playing out in the street?” Alexander asks, laying himself across Thomas. He feels comfortable, like himself already, and he feels like this could go places. Because reds match, and opposites attract. They’re just lucky they’re opposite reds.

“Yeah, yeah, she’s playing with John,” Thomas sighs out his nose, grabbing his glasses and pushing them up his nose. He smiles at Alexander and giggles, actually giggles, a sound that makes Alexander’s heart fly like doves around his chest. “Dress comfy, I hope you like picnics.”

“Picnics?” Alexander raises an eyebrow. “I love picnics.” It’s true. Hell, if they picnic in the back of Thomas’s garden, criss-cross on a blanket under this tree, that could be one of the best dates of his life.

“I’m glad, it’s my dream date,” Thomas admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, “look at us, getting to know each other already!” He chuckles again, noticing the flush it causes to Alex’s cheeks. Gorgeous. He cups his jaw, watches as the smaller man leans into the touch with a soft purr.

“You know what’ll make it even better?”

“What, if I bring more Chardonnay?”

“No!” Alexander bats at his arm playfully.

“Then what?” Thomas asks through laughs.

“If you kiss me again.”

And he does. God, he does.

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please this is 13,045 words I spent to much time on this I'm begging yall, if you liked it please reblog it, I dont want this to go unnoticed.

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#hamilton #alexander hamilton #thomas jefferson #jamilton #jamilton fanfic #jamilton fluff #jamilton fic #jamilton fanfiction #hamilton fluff #hamilton fanfic #ee #ee writes #ee does writing #ee's writing #ee.txt #fuck this took forever #jefferson #jefferson will be sad #patsy is here for a bit too

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