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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

Note

Hi!

I just wanted to say that I absolutely love all of your COD fics! Your Price fics made me fall in love with him (I saw a recommendation for See No Evil on TikTok and just went down the rabbit hole from there (it’s also my comfort fic)) and Laughing Poets made me buy Ghosts for Keegan. Your writing is so beautiful and poetic and has inspired me to start writing again after a really bad writing’s block!

I also did want to put in a request for Ghost (because I love him so much) but given his hype, I understand if you don’t want to write for him or if it may be hard. But I was hoping that this hasn’t been done before (much) and that I could read it in your words since you are so amazing!

I was thinking of the reader being a CIA agent that was working undercover to get classified information and 141 was sent in to extract her after she was compromised. And her and Ghost don’t really get along at first, like they don’t hate each other but they could just care less about one another. But then they get separated and one of them is injured and the other fights tooth and nail to get to them, realizing how much they care. I was thinking that her callsign could be ‘Reaper’ but it can be anything else if it fits better. It can be angsty (because that’s the absolute best genre), fluffy, nsfw, whatever you want to do with it.

I know this is asking a bit much and I’m sorry for that. Feel free to change it as you see fit and do whatever you want with it, if you want to do it. I really appreciate and love your work!! Thank you!!

'Til it Hurts

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Synopsis: You thought that it would be easy - moving on and blazing your own trail, but at every step, memories seem to come back and haunt you. And the biggest memory takes the shape of a man with a skull mask. Can you still deny what you had always felt when he stands at your side once more?

Word Count: 12.5k

Warnings: This duology will be 18+ and contain the following: intense gore, blood, violence, vulgar language, angst, fluff, suggestive content, (smut, p in v sex, virgin!reader (relevant to plot) all in part 2), abuse of power in the past, toxic working environment in the past, copious flashbacks, soft!simon because I love him like that (I guess considered ooc), banter, etc...

A/N: Part 2 will be posted tomorrow after I edit it and the link will be added to this part as well for ease of access. But, anna, that's wild that people post about my work on tiktok, lmfao. I'm so glad I helped you out of that writer's block, though! Enjoy part 1, Love (I did change it around a bit)!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You often think of the friends you had when you were six. The neighborhood you grew up in was full of other kids your age, and there was practically a horde of young boys and girls outside at any given moment. Early mornings were ripe for adventures – ears perking up from your pillows at the sound of bird songs and lawnmowers like an instinctual call to cause mischief. Days would run long and nights would end late with games of tag.

It was inevitable, at this point in your life, to not think about where your friends would be now. Were they happy? Starting families and getting married on island resorts; white sand underfoot and a gentle lapping of ocean water? You’d lost contact a long, long, time ago – never bothered to get back in touch, though you know things might be better if you had.

God, you’d never have friends like that again.

Selfless. Genuine. Without competition or a need to stab each other in the back. Friendships built on a childlike innocence that was never meant to stay or grow with the brutal stretch of years. People mature. They harden, sharpen.

They break themselves to fit a mold of what they want to be without even realizing…Or maybe that was just how you grew up.

Your feet pound against the cobblestone streets of Bergamo, Italy, as you make your way through the packed road of the Upper Old District. Under your chin, your fingers go up to grasp the scarf around your neck and pull the thick navy fabric up farther. Fast eyes flicker over faces as a fake plastered smile splays over your lips, and your jaw holds a tension that seeps into your shoulders.

Keep the act up, you have to remind yourself, fingers heavy at your hips, don’t let the facade slip, or else it’s over before it begins.

At your sides, past the unending sea of loudly speaking humans and loyal animals alike, the broad expanse of ancient architecture calls to the history of this city; red-terracotta roofing, extravagant greenery, and pillars as tall as the buildings themselves. A picturesque land filled with mysteries lost to time, stories never told beyond the scratch of a pen and moth-eaten parchment.

A city now filled with killers.

“Sitrep,” you grunt into the open channel, the earpiece fizzling as it sits in the clutch of your canal. No one answers and, slipping past a family of tourists, you glare at the ground; heart going so fast you feel like it could jump-start a car. “Damnit!”

The seconds draw on and as you pick up the pace, now shoving your way through the crowd, you feel eyes on you. Slithering over your skin like oil.

Not good.

Shit. Karver, where did you go!?

Karver ‘Rigs’ Massarini was an informant – someone who’d been giving you everything that you needed to know about the cell in this area; along with a grouping of eyewitnesses to a stash of ICBMs. A stash that could do some serious damage if they stayed here with the wrong people. Intel suggests that those very missiles were going to be shipped off to Mexico in only a few days, smuggled across the border into United States territory with the intent of doing some pretty awful stuff and framing the US.

If you and Rigs weren’t quick with this, so many innocents would suffer.

You’d already gotten into contact with Mexican Special Forces yourself, warning Alejandro Vargas and Rodolfo Parra of a possible breach and to watch for any unregistered shipments on the docks or coming in from the air.

But now Rigs was missing, and you had a funny feeling you were being trailed.

Back alley. You take a quick right, boots slamming to the ground and heart hammering. Get away from the civvies in case someone decides to go trigger-happy.

This cell was known for being deadly, Mr. Massarini had sent the file over to CIA headquarters before you were shipped out; Laswell had set you on it right away without even taking the time to read it entirely.

“Extremely high Kinetic; I’m giving you full Execute Authority on this, Reaper. We’re running out of time. Find those missiles.”

Torture, kidnappings, mutilations, the list went on for this group and how far they would go to keep secrets. No one had gotten any clear insight as to what their motives were – just that they needed to be put down in exactly the ways they had been doing to others. Ruthlessly, before they grew bigger or spread their influence beyond borders, and created a group that could rival what Al-Qatala had been.

So that was where you came in.

God, you wished Farah and Alex were here with you – at the very least you could rely on them to help, even if you sectioned yourself off from others more than a dying cat. There was a reason you preferred being sent in alone with only your wits.

Mostly because of situations like this.

“Rigs, sitrep. Where are you,” you try again, the close walls shrouding in your shadows. Throwing looks over your shoulders, you take down deep breaths, a growl gradually digging itself a hole in your esophagus. Desperately, you say, “I’m heading back to the safe house ASAP. Wait for me there.”

Your right hand gravitates to your pocket, slipping through the fabric and pushing aside the ripped seam at the bottom. The sheath at your thigh pinches you with every step, but you’ve endured it for years, calluses breeding where the leather had chaffed the flesh to toughness. To an ingrained perfection. Flinching when your fingers bump against the handle, the metal adornments feel cool to the touch despite the sweat dripping down your spine; temperature and nerves leaving your palms sweaty.

None of this was going to plan.

You caress the small Dirk blade strapped to you, and when the first footsteps enter the alleyway behind you, your hand clenched into a loose fist around it. Your eyebrows pull tight with annoyance.

Taking a slow breath as the trailing stranger begins to move faster, you take a corner, halting the second you were out of sight. You nonchalantly turn on your heel and lean into the wall, feeling your body conform to the building and the stone dig into your back.

The material is cold, and as you raise your Dirk up, you flip the blade parallel to your forearm, wrist lax, and fingers still. A slow breath flows from your barely-parted lips.

3 seconds. You don’t blink, only gazing out across the space and noticing the dark shadow gaining ground. 2…1…

Your body jerks forward, free hand snapping out and grasping the fabric of a shirt. Twisting your hips, you plant your feet and wrench the stranger around the corner, breath coming out in a loud snarl. Without a shout, you have the person’s back shoved to the building in an instant, blade held above an Adam’s Apple.

A man, then.

“I’m going to give you one full minute.” Your Italian was only surface level – far better at understanding others than speaking full sentences. But you think whoever this man is comes to a conclusion well enough. “Before I cut you open and watch the life spill from your eyes.”

You don’t recognize this person, his sharp face or dark, sly, eyes, and with a quick assessment of his large stature you figure out he’s the basic definition of a man sent to complete a job. One that would have left you dead if you were anything less than a contracted CIA Agent on a job. You had been trained among the best from your time in the Marines – years on Special Ops forces; taking point. Even if they were the worst times of your life, you still learned a great deal from them, particularly, how to know when to cut your losses.

With one look into his smug face, you know that this stranger would tell you nothing.

Your lips formed a grimace, teeth flashing under flesh at the rod-straight form of the man under you. He was smirking with eyes seeming to be laughing at you. Arrogant. Self-assured.

“You’ll get nothing out of me, Reaper. We are already on your trail.” Your head tilts, a numb huff escaping your throat and pushing the individual's hair back as a breeze would. There was a small pause; tiny shiftings of your feet as your blade digs ever deeper.

A thin trail of blood falls from the placement, and your muscles writhe under the epidermis. There’s no thought behind the laugh that enters the air, that cold, dark, thing that’s more of a bark from a hellhound. It was just a realization that no matter where you went, there could never be anything unique anymore. Everyone was always the same.

“You’ll never get it out of me-”

“Break my bones; rip my flesh, you will never make me talk-”

“If you want to see me beg, you’ll be disappointed-”

There were countless memories you could bring to the precipice of your mind and re-live; moments ingrained into your psyche like a tattoo is to skin. So you can only smile and nod, scarf swishing around your neck. The man looks confused now, if not slightly nervous. That self-assured attitude leaking to the ground. Eyes as dark as obsidian beginning to snap back and forth – looking for a saving grace in the make-up of ancient stone that wasn’t going to come.

You wondered how many people had died in this city throughout history. The stories lost to time. Have these alleys seen war? Famine?

Have they seen murder?

But you are a woman of your word. A minute passes in tense silence, your eyes never leaving his own and ears carefully in tune, twitching like an antenna, to the joyous shouts and laughter just a street over. Here you wait like a rat in a trap, though you like to believe yourself more of the metal Hammer than the unknowing participant in a dance of death and wits.

You tighten your grip on your Dirk, shrugging up at the man. Your face is nonchalant as an understanding smile grows. As simple as a server at a restaurant.

“I believe you.” And you run the knife’s edge across his flesh like a match to a striker before he can scream.

Stepping back, you’re suddenly thankful for the scarf over your sweat-slick neck because as the spray of blood splatters over your nose bridge and forehead, you swipe it away with one of the ends of the thick fabric. You let the body drop, watching large hands snap to the gushing wound like that alone would stop the cold grip of death.

Your mark has been met.

The External Carotid Artery was easy enough to cut, though you had to dig deep for it, and it seemed the man had moved mid-slice. Frowning while the man gasps and gurgles; flails as a fish would, you study your work as you flick the blade clear of blood. Your brows furrow.

“Nicked the Thyroid Cartilage, hm.” Sighing and shaking your head, you sheathe the Dirk and twist on your feet, still intent on making your way back to the hotel safe house and trying to find a lead on Rigs. The slumping of a body reverberates a moment later, a grandiose death rattle, and still, only a street over you hear animated conversations – the bustle of traveling feet, and the sound of the breeze.

You often think about the friends you had when you were six. But, now, instead of being the one who fought off the monsters at the ends of the beds, you had become it. The monster. The boogeyman.

The Reaper.

Oh, what would they think of you now?

You swipe at the blood along your fingertips, seeing the red bleed under your nails with such a numb feeling that it scares you more than anything. Taking down a gathering of saliva that feels more like a slug in your throat, you wonder when you lost the ability to value human life. Of course, the answer was slated in those early years in Special Ops, but you don’t dwell on those times.

In fact, it was better if you never thought of them at all.

Taking a left, you hum a tune under your breath and listen to the birds sing as the blood dries.

—

The meeting room wasn’t even a room, just a vacant air-craft hangar that had been fitted out with two rows of metal fold-out chairs and a projector. Shadows danced over the floor, long streaks of darkness over concrete.

“...I’ll be giving you full Execute Authority – but this mission is completely Black. Host weapons only. No Evac team.” Laswell’s voice echoes off the ceiling, and Ghost’s eyes flow over the projected intel, memorizing the faces and locations with nothing more than a blink of his blue eyes. Fluttering eyelashes caress the hard material of his mask before settling.

Task Force 141 was being sent off on another deployment again, deep into Belarus and near the Russian border.

“Time frame?” The Captain asks, standing a small distance away and leaning against a crate of ammunition. His arms are crossed; jaw is loosely set.

Kate looks at him, above the heads of Gaz and Soap, and nods her head before she comments, “one week.”

Gaz huffs from ahead of the hulking form of Ghost, and the silent man shifts his attention back to the group.

“One week, Kate? No offense, but we don’t even know if the bastard’s in Belarus.”

“‘fraid to get dirty there, Garrick? Ah, we’re good enough for it.” Soap elbows the male at his side, and the masked man releases a puff of breath one row back. The Scot twists in his seat, mohawk tendrils falling over his forehead, and smirks. “C’mon Lt. back me up here. We’ve got this in the bag already.”

“Bit confident, Johnny?” Ghost grunts out, accented voice low and muffled from under the black fabric over his lips. His hips shift over the chair, legs splayed and arms crossed as he reclines back; letting the bulk of his gear weigh heavy. “Just wait until you’ve got us sitting on a pile of dry leads and rotting corpses.”

“Eh, nothin’ we haven’t dealt with before.”

“Focus, you three.” Kate interrupts as Gaz rolls his eyes to himself, fixing his ball cap over his head with a fast flick of his wrist at the antics of the other two. “You’re going to be shipped out at 2000–”

An easily recognizable ringtone starts to play.

Blinking in surprise, Laswell takes a glance at the table that had been long forgotten and spies her phone buzzing over the metal. Her light brown hair, kept securely tied back, swished at the nape of her neck. She wastes no time.

Briskly walking over, the rest of the men in the room watched intently, heads perked up. Ghost couldn’t stop the pique of interest at the strange behavior, though his form remains still, only making a noise under his breath in contemplation. In the hold of his crossed arms, his fingers tighten.

“Not the person I’d imagine keeps her phone on for just anyone…” Gaz makes a slow comment, and John slides up beside him, hands hooking onto the sides of his combat vest. Watching.

“Hm,” their command affirms.

Kate picks up her phone and immediately answers, brows furrowed. She shifts her weight as an inhalation reverberates. The conversation on the other side was too muffled, a small droaning the only signal that someone was on the opposite.

Unconsciously, Ghost straightens in his chair as the rolled-back sleeves of his undershirt leave his black ink tattoos on display. A deep intrigue spilled in his chest but otherwise, he was still focused on the previous instructions for the next Op. This was just another cog in the wheel, perhaps a location change for their safe house, or an accelerated timeline. No matter, they would get it done regardless–

“Reaper?” Laswell speaks, and blue eyes slide to stare at the Captain, whose legs had tensed. “What’s happened–”

The Lieutenant knows something was wrong just by the simple fact that he’d never seen their Station Chief talk on her personal phone with that look on her face before – he’d seen it mirrored on the Captain and he’d clocked it from her just as simply. The wrinkled skin at the side of her eyes, and stiff-set lips peeled back in a frown. She’d always been serious, but the air was different.

Reaper? He runs through the database of his mind and ignores Gaz’s and Johnny’s muttered words and glances.

“Now who do you think that is, then?” Soap grunts out. Ghost doesn’t answer.

Brows furrow.

Sounds familiar, the man can’t help but admit.

“Patch me through. Now.” Kate slips to the computer a few steps away and opens a fresh tab, sorting through files and months of intel as if it mattered just as much as a bug under her heel.

“Kate?” Price prompts. The woman only holds up a finger and keeps the phone in between her shoulder and cheek, hands fast across the keys.

Soon enough, a feed pops up on the projector, and the three previously sitting all rise to their feet in an instant.

An open wound is in the process of being stitched and displays itself over the entire available space, violent red internal flesh puckering over the edges of…Ghost narrows his eyes, unphased.

Was that a fabric needle and thread being used for sutures? Resourceful, he admits.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell.” The manchester man levels thought the blandness of the tone contradicts itself. “Where’s this feed from, Laswell?”

“What the fuck…?” Soap growls out, and the Scot blinks at the screen in shock as the Brit beside him lets off a sound of disgust akin to a sick cat.

“Reaper, sitrep.” Kate doesn’t flinch, rushing off into procedure as steady hands delve back into flesh, blood falling from their fingers like water to splatter to a rundown wooden table. The world-away computer was most likely getting a rain of crimson all over the keys at this rate.

Price grunts under his breath.

“Shit,” a distinctly feminine voice wafts out, a harsh sigh held back, though the annoyed tone was noticed immediately, “can’t a girl stitch herself up in peace? Besides, Watcher-1 answer me this, huh?” The computer is jerked, its screen going staticky as Ghost watches with roving eyes to take in the background when the visibility returns. A bed, nightstand, and sitting by the floor of the front door, copious amounts of weapons. The man takes stock – an M13 assault rifle, X12 handgun, and Arctic .50 sniper rifle. Ammunition lines the floor in a way that leaves Ghost’s lips thinning under the mask.

Someone’s in a hurry. But from what?

“…what goddamn hotel doesn’t have mirrors in it?” Kate’s sigh can be heard a mile away. “No, I’m being serious here, Watcher – how the hell does that happen?”

Watching you take a step back, Ghost as well as the other three all blink in surprise when you come into view. Your top was off, only a sports bra covering your flesh, as your focus stays on the digging needle you send into yourself over and over.

Yet again a feeling of intense familiarity strikes the Brit in the chest. Your soft face, your hair, your voice. It was infuriating.

Who are you? The inability to call forth a memory leaves the fists at his sides gradually clenching under his gloves.

“Reaper.” Seriousness grows in the Agent’s voice, and Price lets out a slow chuckle that leaves Gaz turning to him in confusion.

“Sir?” But the inquiry is ignored.

“Still as stubborn as ever, then, Reap?” Everyone sees your hurried stitches stop, head snapping up as they clock a veiled panic behind the iris’.

Your eyes tell all the story they need, and Ghost’s body freezes as the color evokes a physical twitching of his hand.

“Holy hell,” he utters under his breath so silently no one even realizes he spoke; eyelids pulling back before settling like nothing had even happened.

“You know, you're the first person who’s been nice to me out here.”

“...Then I’d tell you to get better friends, Sergeant. I’m not sticking around.”

“I never said they were my friends, Ghost, and I never expected you to stay, anyways. That’s not how this works.”

“You’re right. It’s not.”

“Bravo-06?” You ask, voice sometimes cutting out over the line. A laugh breaks out, and a small smirk twitches the corners of your lips, “Hey, Old Man, how’s it going over there? Been a while.”

“What have you got yourself into now?” Price asks, chuckling under his breath with a groaned continuation, “and how do you need me to get you out of it?”

The spectral man now watches with a newfound fervency, blue eyes boiling so violently that if anyone had seen, they would have thought he was about to attack. Like a split second of eye contact with a wolf before it rushes. The build of his shoulders was still loose, however, and the only indication of shock was his optics; the mask shrouded all.

But there was a subtle movement of his hips, feet transferring over the floor to stand shoulder-length apart.

“Oh, this,” you point to your injury with a free finger, tying off a knot on the last line of sutures. “Nah, it’s nothing. A couple of assholes tried to get the jump on me a block back, one had a knife on ‘em.” Your hand tosses the needle and thread to the table, a muttered, thunk, sounding off. Looking down at your work with a raised brow, everyone watches. “Took care of it – they gave me a name, too, but with the trail of bodies I left today, I wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t pan out.”

A pause before you turn your head back up, face now completely serious as you focus on Laswell.

“But we have a bigger problem, Watcher. Rigs is gone; I think my position’s compromised. I’m going black.” Your form leans to the side, and a wrinkled t-shirt is thrown over your head. From your mouth, a stifled groan releases. Ghost blinks in surprise.

The Captain’s lips thin, and he looks at a tight-wound Kate.

“I have a contact in the lower levels, Reaper, meet up with her and she can have you out of the city by tonight. I’ll send over her info.”

“No can do, Watcher.” You sigh, and Ghost simply stares, following your figure as you back up, heading to the X12 and shimmying it into the back of your pants before looking over your shoulder. Kate hums under her breath. “If they’ve got Rigs,” Walking quickly back over to the computer, one of your hands grasps the top of the frame, thumb poking out from the corner. You tilt your head. “I ain't leaving without him right behind me. I’ll be in contact in a month – if I’m not, then I’m dead already.”

Your chuckle strikes a cord through the room and Soap snorts in answer.

“Glass-half-empty kind of person, then?”

“I’d say,” Gaz mutters.

Continuing, you’re about to say something else – lips already partially parted and breath sucked in – before your eyes lock onto Ghost. The atmosphere of the room flips like the page of a book.

You stare at him with what seems to be a million emotions flying past the glossiness of your optics; lids already peeled back and whites showing in a display that showed more than told. The man could only begin to imagine what you were thinking – how long had it been since he’d seen you last? You’d obviously gotten out of your Marines Special Ops unit.

Not quite how I remember you. It wasn’t hard to recall that small branch of the MRR – Marine Raider Regiment – and how they treated you. But that wasn’t any of his business. He’d been there to do a job, and he’d accomplished it. Quite thoroughly, if anyone would have checked the file after it was all over.

Ghost’s life was counted in the sands of an hourglass, small, molecular, bits hitting the bottom one after the other; rarely was that time wasted on pointless squabbles and words but at that moment, he was conflicted.

The Brit had never expected to see you again, and the sand briefly halted when you spoke. Hm.

Yes, he remembered that voice… he’d just never heard you this confident before.

“Ghost.” He watches the emotions on your face settle, and he was thankful for the mask covering his visage because he knows he would have left at least a small twitch of his lips slip. “Long time no see.”

“Mutt.” The Lieutenant nods in a monotone greeting but notices a slight jerk of your shoulders at the name. His eyebrows furrow, but mentions nothing as his pulse slows.

Your neck moves as you swallow, looking to the side as a dark curiosity fills the space in Ghost’s lungs; head nanoscopically tilting to the side like a vulture.

“Nice seeing you, Bravo-06,” You tilt your head toward the Captain before clearing your throat and addressing Laswell. “I’ll be around.”

It wasn’t hard to tell that the title had made you freak, a kind of bad cloud suddenly springing to life above your head.

Seems to bother her more than being in a Hot Zone, Ghost tells himself, the deep well of dark water in his gut still. That didn’t make any sense. He watches your hand slaps over the computer and the feed goes dark in an instant.

The room is more silent than Ghost is.

“Kate, she’ll need our help.” Price shakes his head from side to side; body moving to the front of the room. “I’m not asking.”

The two talk it over as Ghost’s mind trails, head tilting down more towards his chest as his eyelids narrow.

“Hm,” He grunts, arms tensing as his grip shifts. Soap turns around as Gaz goes to join the conversation between the Captain and the agent.

“What? Know ‘er or something, Lt?” The Scot asks, slapping a hand on the taller man’s arm. Ghost eyes lock on the grip before he blinks, looking back up and leveling the Sergeant with a dead stare. Johnny laughs awkwardly and moves his limb back to his side. “Just…didn’t peg you for the type to start relationships.”

The Lieutenant turns down the aisle of chairs and lets out a bland, “negative. Leave it, Sergeant.”

Why did you react badly to the namesake you’d gone by for the entire time you’d been in Special Ops? Mutt was when everyone had called you when he had been around for that short time.

He felt no great concern for you – no hatred or care – you were just another Agent that would probably end up dead like everyone else. Another time, maybe, he’d have gone in a heartbeat, and if the team decided to go after you, he’d follow. A mission was a mission, it wasn’t like it largely mattered.

But there was something in the back of his mind. Intrigue? Yes, perhaps. The blue-eyed Lieutenant wasn’t one to dwell on these types of things, but a colleague was still a colleague.

Whatever the outcome, he’d do his job with all the ruthlessness and tact he always did.

Ghost’s hand goes up to fix the position of his mask and glances at the blank projector stream, eyes boring into it as they darken. A moment later, he was leaning against the ammunition crate that Price had previously been on, arms crossed and ears twitching at the ongoing battle of wills; isolated to himself as his intimidating form towers ever upwards. Spine straight. Bones stiff. Eyes grim.

You’d been nice to him – a person that, for the limited time he’d interacted with, had left an impression that was only just starting to come back full force. Smart and resourceful; not too bad on the eyes.

He takes down a sigh. Stubborn…but undoubtedly loyal.

His thumb brushes your cheek, and you look up at him as if he wasn’t the one in a mask – as if his entire being was laid bare before you. He swipes away the trail of blood with one firm press. The gentleness of your skin is known even through his glove.

“You’ll live, Sergeant.” He utters, teasing in his monotone voice, “now, where the hell are we goin’? Gun’s itchin’ to lay a few out.”

Ghost would have smirked at the way your eyes dilated if he had the ability, but in the end, he brushes past. Because if he hadn’t, you would have seen his own do the same.

‘Reaper,’ he frowns, feeling the ammunition crate dig further into his hip, they never called you that one.

Perhaps the real battle of wills was happening inside of him – not five feet away between his Captain and his Station Chief.

—

You remember every interaction like it was yesterday, and although he might not, you can’t help the memories from flooding as you gather your gear. Stuffing guns into duffel bags and intel into crossbody sacks that weigh you down like boulders.

Fuck, you open the back window and shimmy out into the back streets, knowing that your position is compromised and not waiting any longer to test your luck. Your side burns something awful; horrible stitches peeling back skin as you groan in pain. What the fuck was Ghost doing with Price? I didn’t know they knew each other. And the two other men in the room…eh. Not the problem right now!

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” you pant, swinging your legs out of the window frame and sharply inhaling when a suture tears. “I’m never in the loop.”

In all honesty, you don’t want to be – too complicated. It’s better to just stick around and be told what to do.

Glaring down at the ground with glazed eyes, you only take a breath of hesitation and let off a curse before dropping.

Your knees take the brunt of the force, and the ricochets of landing on cobblestones travel up your ankles and leave your legs shaking. If you weren’t running on adrenaline, you would have come up with a dirty joke to mutter to yourself.

The discomfort can only last so long, you tell yourself, and ignore the spreading liquid on your side, only thinking of Rigs and the mission.

And Ghost.

Gritting your teeth, eyes vulnerable, you turn down the backroad and stay away from others, drowning in memories more deadly than blood. It had been a while since you had thought of it – the lockbox in the back of your mind keeping all under tight watch; guard dogs with metal teeth and chained necks.

But that title; that namesake you’d scrubbed your skin raw over. Mutt and all the others said in cruel breaths. Oh…but Mutt.

Mutt was the worst of them.

Your hands were vibrating, the tremors traveling up your wrists and arms – past elbows and bruised flesh under skin; bloodied nose and quivering lips. Why did they always yell at you? But worse, why did they always make you do the dirty work?

The Captain, everyone just called him Alke, was standing in front of you, berating your accuracy on the last round of target practice. Fortunately, this deep into the Unit itself, you’d found a way to let it go in one ear and out the next, eyes as blank as a starless sky.

You could see the spittle flying from the man’s lips and some even splashes across your cheeks like acid, but there was something artful to the way you didn't react. A culmination of crafted numbness that bleeds like trauma. It was a constant, everlasting, void.

What they were making you into was not what you wanted, but what possible other option was there? Resign? No, this was nearly an unimaginable position to be in at such an age. You deserve to be here. Should you report the blatant unprofessionalism and favoritism in the ranks? And be blacklisted by these people's friends so that you never ascend the line?

Your ears twitch.

“...You’re not sleeping until your marks are perfect – else we’re overthinking your position in this Unit. Can’t have a Mutt in our ranks, can we?” The last sentence is punctuated with a ruffling of your hair almost like a brother would; teasing, but you know that isn’t what it symbolizes. Harsh laughs and mocking remarks from the bystanders. “Least of all one that’s gonna get us killed. Tch.” When you don’t answer, staring off in a daze at his nose in a perfect image of formation, the Captain raises an eyebrow. “Affirmative,” he smirks, “Mutt?”

“Sir!” Your mouth shouts, though the action is more instinctual as your back straightens. He frowns at that, perhaps wanting to torment you more, but huffs and files out, ordering the rest to follow with one last call.

“I expect you to be up for morning drills an hour early. I’ll be checking your shots myself.”

“Sir!”

After everyone’s gone, you blink back to reality. There’s a second of confusion, creases forming in your forehead at the sound of birds and blowing glass. Head turning side to side, your lips thin at the absence of others as if only realizing how spaced out you’d actually been.

Flashing teeth and heated eyes flash through your mind before you blink them away. Signing away the tense nature of your chest, you clear your throat and relax your legs. Your vision slides to the corners of the concrete dugout, snapping past sectioned-off areas for privacy to search if there was someone who might have stayed back.

Not finding anyone, your hands, clenched behind your back, loosen and fall limp to your sides like bags of rock. One weakly goes to swipe at the trail of blood from your nose, wrecking your already wrinkled sleeve with crimson; but soon an identical trail drips off your chin regardless. Licking your lips and tasting copper, you take a shaky breath and nod to yourself.

You knew what shooting all night would bring on – lesions under the firing pad covering your shoulder; deep-rooted pain leading to nerve damage later on. Blisters that leak puss and blood onto your bedsheets. Not to mention the mental strain, the bags under your eyes burn from lack of rest.

Gritting your teeth, you walk over the tossed rifle on the floor and pick it up with shaky fingers, the tips flinching back from the cool metal before encompassing it tightly.

Silently, you get on your stomach and set the weapon in the crook of your already pain-laced shoulder. Your blood splatters the stock.

—

It had been two weeks with no luck in finding Rigs, and you were starting to get paranoid.

Staring at the dead body tied to the wooden chair, you growl and tear your Dirk from the woman’s chest angrily.

There had been increased police patrols from all the corpses you were leaving, so you’d compromised and limited the chance of being caught at the same time.

Bergamo, Italy, was an ancient place, and the underground was what you were now both metaphorically, and physically, exploiting. Sewer systems. Catacombs. You’d lost track of the paths you’d taken a million times over, and had started to hate the constant darkness only kept back by the small hand lamp you’d stolen.

But there were ups to this constant downward slope.

It made interrogations increasingly easier to pull off with multiple feet of stone all around you. The screams don’t meet the surface.

“Catello Tullio,” you mutter, caressing your sensitive side with your free hand and placing your blade on a turned-over piece of rock. The area reeks of blood and gore, a stack of bodies chucked carelessly in the corner beginning to reek something awful; even as you have another to add to the count. It wouldn’t be long before the rats came in droves.

Another given name, another score. But this one was new. Apparently, the title of the one that took Rigs while he was out getting more rations in the market.

You point a finger at the slumped body, “you better hope I don’t find you in hell if you gave me the wrong damn name.”

Grabbing your light, you stalk off down one side of the tunnel back to your camp, dodging drag lines that strike your eyes with their crimson streaks.

The raggedy blanket and gun-sack you’d been using for a pillow take form in the dark, and somewhere in the corridor a rat squeals; feet pitter-pattering until it disappears altogether. You didn’t even want to think of the spiders living down here. Files and notes are strewn along the floor, perfect hiding places for eight-legged monsters.

You couldn’t do anything until nightfall. It was just too risky.

Massaging your side as you bend down, you grimace at the partially healed wound and scoop up your pistol before plopping to the ground with a grunt. With the deadly object held in your lap, you take a moment to breathe and try to push away a growing headache in the back of your skull.

“This has to be one of the worst Ops on record, huh?” your small voice speaks back to you in bouncing waves of echoes as you begin to fiddle over the gun's small grooves and dents. “How did you manage this, Reap?”

Smiling blandly, the overwhelming quiet and nothingness all around you is like a curse. And in those pockets of a void, your mind always trails to him – or at least it had been for your time on the run. Ghost. That dark and brooding mass of horribly bleak humor and…well…you couldn’t call him mean.

Your eyebrows furrow.

He was never mean to me.

There were soft instances where you would question yourself as to if the Brit had possibly had some affection for you. It wasn’t a long shared history of course, but you had sworn that there was something about the way he looked at you…something that you remember so vividly…

You shake your head and stand after a small while, stretching your feet. Placing your pistol in the back of your belt, the weight brings you dull comfort.

Shining your light on the hand-held radio on the ground in passing, you rove back to it after you scan the perimeter. Its black metal mocks you.

No one’s coming to help ‘cept you. One voice says, and another grunts out, get it together, Mutt.

You turn on your heel to go and take a breather to disperse your dark thoughts but only make it three steps before your eyes widen, lips parting in awe. Nearly falling flat over yourself, you whirl around in an instant.

A static enters the air as if the gods above were laughing at you - toying with your fate like it was a rock tossed to the sky. The familiar British drawl causes your chest to tighten, though the sentence is broken and barely understandable.

Someone’s here for me! A smile slashes your face – fierce hope lighting your eyes. You hadn’t wanted anyone to explicitly come for you, but this was a welcome discovery. Someone to talk to!

“--eper…Copy?” Darting like a cat, you move so fast that you stumble over rocks on the way there. “Lead…cafe…red cloth…Out.”

By the time you snatch the small black object, the garbled and firm tone has already shut itself up. Your mouth parts.

“Shit!” You yell, shaking the thing in your hand with an iron grip, hissing like a snake. You look above you at the cracked ceiling of stone and a growled accusation.“I’m too deep…Fuck. Gotta get up there if I want to be able to respond.”

But it hadn’t all been fruitless. Lead. Cafe. Red cloth. You clip the radio to your belt and make sure your shirt covers your weapon; pat your thigh and tell yourself to stop forgetting your Dirk everywhere before setting off in a jog. The light flashes over dead eyes and stiff bodies.

You snatch the blade off of the stone as you pass it, slipping it into your cut pocket and hearing the satisfying clink of it sheathing.

“Let’s just hope I don’t smell too bad…” You say aloud, chuckling, and listening as the sound echoes off the stone. If no other company, you still had the sound of your own voice.

You couldn’t decide if that was a good or a bad thing. But, you were getting side-tracked.

A Cafe with red cloth, then. Not exactly the place you’d go for an intel swap, but if someone had been trying to contact you for more than a week, you’d imagine they were getting desperate at this point.

If I had known…you frown.

Thinking over the multiple blueprints and pictures of the city in your files, you go through your internal cabinet of knowledge for color schemes - not what you’d have thought you’d be using it for, but, oh well. A lead was a lead.

“Golositá!” You laugh, sudden glee on your face as you dodge a pile of large stones; lips peeling back as you take a fast corner. “Gluttony! Of course, that’s the place.”

The bustling business on the upper side of Bergamo with red table cloths as well as red awnings extending into the street. Anyone would be a fool to miss it.

Like blood lining the street.

You force yourself to run faster.

—

You met him last, despite being a Sergeant. The Captain had you up late last night yet again – running the forest trail this time rather than shooting. In the back of your mind, you wondered if it surprised him when you were still up early with the others; from the looks that he was giving you, you just decided that, yes, he was. Or he was just pissed he didn’t have an excuse to get rid of you.

Blinking away fatigue, you keep your stance relaxed as a gargantuan shadow comes to loom ahead of you.

The man everyone had whispered about called himself ‘Ghost’ and, if nothing more, was certainly intimidating. Shoulders wider than a bench, arms as rounded and as strong as boulders; not to mention the tattoos that made him look like he took cross-country motorcycle rides in his spare time. Tan tactical gear and dark patches for the SAS, the red and white British flag. Gloves covered his large hands, straps carried knives on his biceps and thigh. Something akin to a tan cape that was loose around his hidden neck.

But the mask was what really caught your attention; your head tilting with an innocence that no longer lives in you.

Skeletal. Half a visage of a dead and gone intimidation of humanity. Sewn into a hood of black cloth from which only the eye sockets were open…But the eyes there were no different than if the holes had been empty in the first place; as if the person inside was as dead as sun-bleached bone. Was a corpse piloting this suit?

Ice blue. Freezing blue. Harsh. Colder than a grip of a phantom, you thought as you blinked up at him, colder than the nights you would stay awake working yourself to death. You watched this Ghost’s chest move in a steady inhalation and you stuck out a busted-knuckle hand. Foolish, maybe, but there were worse things to be afraid of than a mask. Then of those eyes that made your spine shiver.

But you didn’t look away.

“Pleasure, Sir.” There was a moment of tense silence where your Captain, at Ghost’s side, was frowning at you silently. The man could say nothing as long as this SAS member was here to assist in your next Op overseas. At your sides, your colleagues on the tarmac shuffle on their feet like nervous penguins.

Ghost glances at your hand, and you try not to show how fast your pulse is running when his eyes leave a cold trail as they grace your split knuckles and torn nails. He ends with a slow look at your name patch.

“Sergeant.” He says and slips past without another word. His shoulder brushes against yours, and you inhale smoke and ash; gun-cleaning solvent paired with a canvas tent. Dirt and metallic blood. Snickers bounce off air particles, striking your ears as an embarrassed heat rises to your cheeks, but that scent stays in your nostrils for days.

Your Captain scurries after.

“Erm, forgive, Mutt. She’s a helluva strange woman, that one.” You keep your sneer hidden, a hiss lodged in your throat and a twitching finger. But your anger isn’t directed at the masked beast that stalks away. That yapping bully of a Captain would hold all of it as long as you were here.

At that point, you were sure you’d seen the last of Ghost until the Op – not really getting the feeling he’s a people person so much as a ‘give orders and follow them’ type.

But that was fine by you, it didn’t change anything. You’d been told to go back to the firing range tonight for opening your mouth and ‘making an embarrassment of the Unit’....whatever that meant. All you did was welcome the guy with the barest hint of a good attitude.

You supposed manners were a foreign concept around here.

The world ahead of you was blurring, red circles in your eyes that gloss over with water every minute you force yourself to stay awake. The stars were out, sky dark, and the area was only lit by large lights situated around the base. In some sort of strange way, you enjoyed the sound of crickets and the cold breeze over your bare arms as if the only sense of peace you got was when you were half-passed out, nailing shots from a rifle.

The stock was where it always is, your cheek pressed to the side; staring down the scope at the multiple holes in the paper targets. Dots surrounded by multiple other dots like a slice of cheese. You suppose that made you the hungry mouse in that case.

‘A mouse with a fucking day before she drops.’ You frown, blink, and pull the trigger as the trees rustle. The force lands directly on your shoulder – the kickback is usually not one to bother you, but seeing as your appendage was one bad day away from being dislocated and forever damaged – you took it with a grit of your teeth.

And you took it because you knew you could. Just as you knew that you felt a pair of eyes on the back of your neck. Freezing, you remove your finger from the trigger and loosen your grip. Turning your head to the side, a free hand goes up and shifts the ear mufflers from your head to your neck in a single movement.

You swear your heart jumps to your throat when you see a skeleton’s icy blues numbly watching you; arms crossed while a nice-looking SA-B 50 Marksman Rifle sits against the wall at his side. How…long had he been there? Watching?

“What’re you doing, Sergeant?” Ghost asks sternly, that Manchester accent making him sound harsh. Grating like a rock being run against concrete. “I’m sure your Captain wouldn’t be thrilled at a scene like this, eh?”

Blinking, you remind yourself to breathe before answering – voice tough and hoarse.

“I have my orders, Sir. You’re free to join me.”

You turn back as a grunted huff falls from behind muted cloth. Ghost walks up to your laying form, standing on your left side and picking up the binoculars from the hanging hook in your station. As you look back through your scope you don’t know why, but you hold your breath; waiting for something.

“...Not a bad shot. You’re prone to firing more to the right, judging from the grouping. I’d fix that, less you miss a moving target runnin’ the opposite.” He lowers the object - staring from the side of his eye. From your position, your neck cranes to see his fingers twitch. “Wouldn’t want that, would we?” For someone you’d expected to be quite harsh – though you had no doubt he still was – Ghost was more sarcastic in his mannerisms.

Backhanded comments that wound sting if you got on the other end of them.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sir.” Shifting your grip, you move the stock farther up your shoulder, feeling an immediate release of tension, though the expansive trauma still leaves needles in your tissue.

“Hm, pay attention and you just might learn something.” You feel yourself quirk a lip for the first time in months; your mouth doesn’t stop to think.

“You mentor a lot of people in the middle of the night, then?”

“Only the ones stupid enough to be awake.” He takes a step back, going to grab his own rifle as his footsteps don’t even make a sound.

‘Quiet for a guy with thighs that could choke me out.’

Your brows furrow at the heated thought, taking a slow breath and flexing your hands as the shadow disappears from over you. Why were your hands sweaty?

Were you…afraid? That…that wasn’t it.

“You’re up too, you know, Sir. Bit hypocritical.” This was the first time you’d had a full conversation with someone since you’d gotten in with this Unit. A mildly pleasant one, at least…you wouldn't really call this bonding.

“I can always leave ya’ to it, Sergeant.” Deadpanning the words, you clear your throat and fall silent at the threat.

‘No,’ you wanted to comment, ‘no, I want the company so badly it hurts.’

You swallow saliva and reposition your ear mufflers back over your head, heart bruising your ribs, as you bring down a calming breath of air to still your nerves.

The two of you don’t speak again, and you don’t ask why he takes the shooting cubby right next to yours, the nose of his rifle peeking out from the concrete wall. You certainly don’t ask why he’s up, either.

And in return, he doesn’t ask you the same.

—

When you find Golositá you’ve managed to sneak through the city unseen, taking every backroad and alley you could as the heat of the day increases to near sweltering. Panting, you stick to the thin shadows of the path across the street, eyes dancing over red cloth and flicking to faces; studying visages as one would a medical report.

Your chest hurts, and you run a hand over your side, feeling the raised skin under your shirt before digging into the aching ribs. All this running around and little food to help keep your normal strength was troublesome, and it would only get worse if this Op from hell continued.

I need new intel. Badly.

About to retreat, not finding anyone you recognize off the bat, a black-shrouded figure kisses the side of your vision as if a phantom.

On the outside table, the farthest removed, a man sits stiffly with an untouched teacup in front of him. Smirking, you can’t help but scoff at the thought of Ghost using the thing – you’d think his thumb and forefinger would break the delicate porcelain in an instant. Like a spine over his thigh.

Your cheeks heat.

He looked almost identical to what you remember – minus the gear, obviously – and your stomach twisted at the thought. Was a simple look enough to bring you to the breaking point? Why were your lungs tight?

As if feeling your stuck eyes, those icy blues shift from people-watching to lock onto yours immediately. As hollow as they always were, it seemed. He blinks and the blonde eyebrows on his sliver of visible forehead move.

Shit. Your hips trade weight. Look at you.

Loose shoulders under a rugged buttoned-down and painted balaclava make your breath go thin, not able to resist sneaking a glance at those tattoos you remember so vividly. Yes, that was still Ghost.

Jesus, is this how it felt to see someone you barely even remembered suddenly appear? Was it elation or caution that was making your heart race?

Ghost doesn’t look surprised. His eyes don’t widen; don’t soften or light up. They blankly watch you as you shake away the shock and raise a brow in return. A sarcastic finger goes to your head, and you mock salute.

What are you doing? You seem to ask, a mischievous expression growing as you start forward when he dismissively narrows his eyes. You look ridiculous. Are you asking to be spotted?

The man leans into the too-small chair he sits in, one hand going to hang off the back and the other resting on the tabletop. Gloved fingers tapping morse in slow measures.

Clear. Come here. He follows you with his gaze, head stationary, as you enter the flow of traffic, smiling at people at your sides and letting off polite greetings when you could. Steadily striding, you weave through groups and individuals like water, legs steady even as your ears pick up every little sound.

A comfortable middle point of visible excitement and strict business. Why were you so…happy?

When you approach Ghost’s table, you slip up beside him with a sly chuckle, pulling out the chair to his right. You, softy, lower yourself down into it, not turning to him but instead simply making sure no one had followed you with a quick scan. His heat only adds to the warmth of the day like a walk through damnation.

“Well, well, well,” you smile, addressing the SAS member with his shadow hanging over you once more; such a heavy thing, though you don’t mind. Your expression mellows to have it above you again. There was a safety to it, you had to admit. The cold comfort of death. “Trip to Italy, Sir? Take a little vacation?”

“Came to bail out a bird from my past,” You smell that scent again – smoke and ash; gun-cleaning solvent paired with a canvas tent. Dirt and metallic blood. “And if I ever went on a vacation, I sure as hell wouldn’t pick this place. ‘Bout to burst into flames; traumatize a few kids and their mums.”

Hadn’t he changed even a little bit?

“Now that’s dark.”

“Never said it wasn’t.”

Of course he hasn’t, you answer your own question, feet shifting and skin pliable, why would he? He isn’t like me – didn’t have to reinvent himself based on atoms and in the wake of silent nights.

There was a piece of you that believed that Ghost had always been this way, though you knew it was false. Nobody in this profession was just born like this, they were led to it. Whoever it was under the mask or balaclava didn’t matter anymore.

They had died a long time ago.

“Not a fan of the history, Brit?” You tease, bringing up a hand to itch at your undereye, finally taking a peak at the form that nearly swallows you.

Your lids try not to peel back, but you didn’t realize how close you’d sat next to Ghost – any closer and you would be in the crook of his arm; the relaxed spread of his knee bumping into yours and arm over the back of your seat. Trying to act nonchalant, you ignore the strange swirling in your gut with a hum and a twitching of your leg.

Stop that.

“Don’t care a smidge, just not a fan of the damn heat.” The gruff man responds with his inked arm on the table flexing, as though he was tenser than he showed. Ghost clears his throat, “needs a good downpour, eh?”

“Try living underground for two weeks. Literally. Sun’ll feel like a blessing.”

“Fuckin’ hell…That’s why the radio wasn’t working, then.” While this was all cute – re-learning each other like a shaken puzzle – there were dangers to being this open. The Brit would be fine, but if you got spotted, well, there would be worse things to worry about than an achy side and a pile of bodies in a tunnel.

“You got something for me, or are we here just to stand out like bullet holes in a forehead?” Feeling his head tilt to you, snaking down your form, your body leans forward, palms sweaty as they lock on the table. “Price with you? The other two I saw on the feed?”

“Negative. Op in Belarus. Sent me in alone.” Your knees brush, delicately; like a touch of down feathers. You refrain from taking in a shallow breath, knowing he’s analyzing every movement with a hidden mouth and gentle huffs of air that rises his sculpted chest. Through a grunted sigh, Ghost tells, “The Old Man insisted. Laswell thought you’d be alright by yourself, regardless,” and falls silent.

What was he doing? Why was he talking with that rasp in his tone? Your heart swells at the comment about Kate, but a confusing feeling settles in your lower body. Why did the air feel thick?

The warmth of the sun was making your skin perspire, leaving a sheen of sweat over your arms. But the thought of heat stroke fled as you became hyper-aware of the man beside you, keeping careful not to touch you, though his gaze still bore into the side of your face like prodding fingers anyways.

He can’t quite figure you out, he admits to himself. So much of you was different – and he couldn’t tell how.

She’s lighter, he tightens his face, not the same as when I left.

But there had been an utter satisfaction when he’d seen you in that alleyway, even if you were different in a million ways, that would never change. Ghost’s body had loosened, his clenched jaw let go, and snappy answers to servers stopped entirely.

Because those were still the same colored eyes that he remembered. He takes a long breath.

Through the haze under your creased skin, a red alarm starts to sound off. Not because of the confusing way you felt the chilled form of Ghost on a near internal level, but because of the hooded individual across the street.

When your eyes lock, they back up three paces and bolt down the adjacent street, vanishing into the crowd. Your expression darkens, and Ghost shifts his attention from your face to the streets.

His eyes blankly follow where you were looking.

“Come on,” you get to your feet, hand snatching at the SAS member's sleeve, dragging him with you as a mother would a toddler. It was ironic – if he resisted, you wouldn’t be able to force him to move, not in a million years, but he slid off his chair with fluid muscles.

He doesn’t question you when he’s brought into an offshoot of the road, vacant of tourists or locals besides a stray cat and a few scavenger birds. Flies jump off garbage cans, buzzing through the air above your heads as you level Ghost with a serious stare.

You nearly stumble over your words when you get to look at those long blonde eyelashes that you remember heatedly, but push through as they move to half-lid his blank eyes. Your heart skips beats as you spare looks up and down the space.

What the fuck is going on with me? Focus. This is serious.

But, Jesus, he should really stop looking at you like that.

“You said you had a lead over the radio – anything on someone called Catello Tullio by chance?” You ask, voice like stone.

“Tullio?” Ghost hums in the back of his throat, all business, hips moving under him as he goes to glance at the street. His balaclava moves as he speaks. “Someone made a mention of it. ‘Fore I put a knife in ‘em, ‘o course.” Nodding, he huffs out, “On me.”

Turning on long legs, he starts to walk farther down the path, and you follow at his side, peering up and eager to gain more intel. “You’ve caused quite a panic around here, Sunshine. Cell’s terrified of the ‘Reaper.’ I’m nearly impressed.”

He briefly flashes an optic to you, heart betraying him as he remains locked on your lips. Rotating his jaw, he turns back forward.

“Oh, my,” smirking slowly, you roll your eyes, “whatever will I do without your approval, great Ghost.”

“Dunno – kick the bucket probably.” Shaking your head in false annoyance, the slow, mocking, stain in the man’s tone leaks into your very DNA; coating it with honey. Like a warm sunrise, you clock a small hitch in his chest and equate it to muted chuckles when you laugh.

“Don’t go placing bets, now. I’m not so easily broken.”

“Oh, wouldn’t think of it, Sweetheart. Wouldn’t be my handiwork if it happened,” his tone goes light, “don’t wanna take credit away from you.”

“Brit.” You spit with fake venom.

“American.” He grumbles back, but you clock the small spark in his iris, cold blue bouncing silver light like snow.

He sounded…entertained? Snide in a sarcastic way.

Your mouth rises in a stupid, dopey, grin as you stare from the side of your vision, chest jumping in easy comedy. What a strange pair you two were, but you find you liked his company even more, this time around.

Or maybe he had changed slightly. Or maybe it was just you.

At the end of the day, you were relieved that it was easy to talk to him. Conversations with corpses are a bit one sided, after all.

Ghost’s lips had to be at least quirked under that dark fabric to achieve mischief like what he was spitting out, you leveled with yourself. At the minimum, the man wasn’t annoyed he’d been forced out of his own primary mission because of you.

You remember he wasn’t averse to cracking jokes – particularly dark ones – but it had…it had never felt like his before.

Strange, you admit with a raised brow and a cocked head, cheeks burning for no apparent reason. You’d gotten him to chuckle? Holy hell, you deserve a Nobel Peace Prize for that. I’d think he would be pretty pissed about being sent here. He’s never been one to fuck around.

You both continue in easy silence until you decide to speak once more, intent on asking where you were being led.

Ghost’s head had perked up in what you assumed to be soldier-like attention, but then his head had whipped behind the two of you. Oblivious to his shift in mood, like a dark cloud, you open your mouth.

“Well, where are we–”

“--Get down!” Hands slap on the back of your arm and jerk you to the opposite wall as a loud echo rings out. Whizzing over your head so close that you feel the breeze of it.

Gasping, the air is expelled from your lungs in one fell swoop; your spine grating over the rough stone as your legs scramble to keep upright. Wiping away the shock quicker than an eraser over a whiteboard, your neck snaps to the problem; brain already hardwired to get over being shot at and the adrenaline that floods your veins immediately after.

Across the way, Ghost’s fast hand was reaching to the back of his outfit – without a doubt going to grab a concealed weapon. Eyes fiery and arms tight. And as though you were seeing it happen in slow motion, you lock onto the hostile in the middle of the alley back the way you both came. And then onto the hooded silhouette ahead of you.

Boxed in.

Hyperfocused, all of it happens in only three seconds, two trained professionals protecting each other without even realizing it.

One, you realize how this will have to play out if you don’t act immediately. You don’t know how you can trust Ghost to take the other hostile while you focus on the one ahead, but you don’t question it. Two, your gun lays heavy in your hand as your legs pivot. Three, you fire double shots with a loose finger and hear mirrored gunfire from the man beside you.

You don’t bother watching him drop.

Snapping your head backward with a rageful expression to see Ghost’s corpse hit the floor with a cracking of a skull, shouts start to ring over the city. When you lower your weapon, you turn to notice the Birt examining your own downed hostile with a satisfied stare. If you hadn’t had his back, he would have been shot in it.

But what you didn’t know was that he was thinking the same thing about you.

Turning to stare at each other, your widened eyes lock; fingers twitching along the cool X12’s metal as those stormy iris’ only seem to darken further when they dart to your lips. Like staring into a wild animal’s gaze and pretending you’re not in a trance because of it – stuck in that moment of infinity and nothingness with not a single muscle moving. Waiting for either a mouthful of fangs around your supple neck or for the beast to turn away with grace and practiced steps.

You swore Ghost’s mouth parted under that damned balaclava, but whatever he was going to say was lost when the world came back in a violent storm of screams. Panicking, you gape at the entrance – seeing multiple shadows shoving through the crowd to get to you.

“On me!” Keeping your pistol in one hand, you bolt, hearing heavy footsteps pounding behind you as your mind begins to run.

Ghost trails without a single doubt in his mind as to why he’s following you, and it makes him cautious.

Catacombs, you decide, get under the city and backtrack to the outskirts. Survey and have Ghost tell me his intel before making a move…yeah!

“Where are we headin'?!” Ghost shouts, keeping right your heels as you turn corners. Gunshots ring over your heads as you jump up small groupings of tile steps, blood pounding in your ears. You try to remember the maps you had stored in your files underground. Left…no, two rights. Shit! I need to be higher – see the streets like a bird would! “Reaper?!”

“Do you trust me?!” You call over your shoulder, and though it seems deranged, a smile forms over your lips. “I’ll need an answer in the next few minutes, yeah? I’m on a time crunch!”

“What are you on, Girl?” The adrenaline speaks to you, propelling your legs faster and faster. You vault over a fallen trash bin and take the shock to your ankles as it travels to your thighs. Snickering, you feel the brooding man’s presence like you always could – just beside you like a loyal hound. His focus excites you as you put your gun away in the small of your back. “Bloody hell! Not giving me a choice?”

“Not if you don’t want to get shot in the ass!” Taking one more right, you find yourself rapidly approaching a dead end, tall walls, a balcony, and a large dumpster – the flap already closed overtop. Not answering the man as he barks out a comment, you throw yourself atop it with a puff of breath and spasming lungs.

Laughing, your hands don’t falter. Reaching up with eager fingers, you grab at the black metal front of the balcony a small distance above and suck down a hot breath. Your arms strain, sickly sweet sweat on the top of your lip, and eyes wide with glee despite the gaining footfalls rising like a battlefield cry. Jerking your body up with only your upper-body strength, you slide your abdomen over the railing with barely a second passing. Once your feet are firmly on someone's property, you twist around and slap your hands to the metal with a twinkle in your vision; face wrinkled with all the animated amusement.

A wide grin is stuck on you.

Ghost stares up with slightly widened eyes from the ground, arms poised on the garbage bin.

Oh, hell, when she smiles like that…

“But I can’t judge, can I?” Teasing, you extend a helping grip with a smirk. “Everyone has their fetishes, hm, Ghost? Maybe yours is just having a gun pointed at you.”

He blinks at that, but knowing the urgency in the back of your throat, he pushes himself up with a grunt. You try not to watch his muscles strain, but spy the way the veins in his forearms grow larger as his alluring hips flex. They situate themselves under him as he crunches before straightening in an instant.

Fuck, don’t drool, you scold, lips lightly parted like seven devils were flying in the back of your mind. Jesus, imagine the weight those things can carry…shit. Wouldn’t mind losing my virginity to that.

A leather-coated hand slaps into your awaiting one. You snap back to a screaming reality and stare down into hypnotic sheens of ice and…wait…did Ghost have fucking green flecks near his pupils?

“You sure it isn’t yours, Sunshine?” He harshly comments, and his balaclava moves with a rising of his eyebrow.

Clearing your throat, you murmur a weak reply as your face begins to feel like a blazing fire, squeezing his limb before pulling. He chuffs. Grunting violently, you know he does most of the work in helping himself up, though the Brit still slaps your shoulder in comradery when he’s stable. Kneeling down, he forces himself into the wall behind the two of you, fingers weaving to create a cuff over his knee.

Tossing his head up, he motions with urgency.

“C’mon. Be quick ‘bout it.”

Catching one foot in the basin of his clutch, you force down your illicit thoughts about Ghost and jump, pushing off with your opposite leg on his shoulder and his added boost. Scaling the wall, you arch and scramble - with a growing bite in your side – to the terracotta-shingle roof.

Following after and checking your six, the beast of a man joins just in time.

Shadows dart around the corner far on the ground, and the both of you are speeding animals over the rooftops in the meantime. Against better judgment, boots pounding the tiles, you release loud bouts of genuine laughter.

How long had it been since you’d had such fun? Enjoyed someone else's company like this? Running across homes, you look at your side, only to find Ghost’s eyes already digging into you. Unrelenting. Unmovable. Panting, you smile brightly, giggles making your sides hurt something awful but your pace doesn't slow for an instant.

All it took was a glance at the streets – you know where you are now.

“Enjoying yourself, Reaper?” He asks, arms pumping and barely winded, and you wonder for a moment how he breathes under that covering of his – it had to smell horrible by the end of the day.

“For…the first time in ages, Ghost.” He chuckles at that, and it is a betrayal of his nature. How could someone so violent, so cloaked in oceans of blood, produce such a soft sound? A genuine sound that makes your stomach flip?

His bewitched eyes rove back in front of him, and he can’t deny the simplicity of speaking to you. It wasn’t a chore, just a conversation with a person who he wouldn’t mind having on 141 at his side.

There were few people worthy of that.

You swallow thickly and take point, leading the shadow of death to your home underground so you can re-evaluate.

You can only wonder why you don’t feel nervous as he watches over you, skin marked with horrors but his hand had fit so well in your own. And you also wonder how you can come to care for someone you haven’t seen in ages so quickly, as if you’d both been around each other for years.

Had you really ever forgotten him? Or just tried to push the affection, both emotional and physical, for him out? But that was the problem, you tell yourself with a clenched jaw, that physical attraction. All of that was just…tied into a million knots. Complicated.

You’d never had sex before.

And, Ghost questioned himself as he watched your legs move, did he forget you out of necessity? Because those eyes of yours won’t leave him alone, and he so very much enjoyed looming over you.

He sighs heavily and follows in silence.

—

When you first joined them, they all created rumors. This was long before you were permitted solo Ops, long before half of your file was filled and bleeding with black ink that would shame a warlord. When everyone just thought you were signed up because you were some unhinged kid, brimming with unchecked problems and willing to throw everything away just for the chance to prove yourself. Who got into it for kicks.

They would say you enjoyed it, killing. Reveled in it, really. That it got you off when you were covered in blood and crimson guts as they pooled at your feet.

You suppose that was what turned you away from sex in general – those heavy comments said with no remorse that stuck with you. It was fear almost, a genuine twisting of your mind to make it your fault. It wasn’t your fault, you knew that; you could sleep with anyone you wanted and the comments weren’t a brand on your skin.

You could forget about it. You should.

But the words were so mean. Just cruel for the sense of being cruel. And it stuck with you.

If that was all anyone would see, why try and force them to look away? You kept to yourself, never spoke unless spoken to, and shoved all of it down like a kill switch. No sex, no relationships. Nothing to make you think about the rumors.

Getting off on death? You were horrified at the concept, horrified that people would play around like that with you – with your life!

You just ended up telling yourself you wouldn’t feel it until it hurt too bad. In a way, you were right…but you can only force emotions down for a while until they break forward like a fist to the mouth.

Besides Mutt, they had many names for you – titles and backhanded monikers. Rabid. Demon. Devil. Monster. Sometimes, beast.

But they all had the same meaning. Inhuman. Wrong.

It shouldn’t have bothered you that much. It…It shouldn’t have made you stay up at night still thinking about the way they would laugh and pinch your arms as you were left shaking; drowning in gore not your own because they sent you into the heart of the Hot Zone for a few jokes. Teasing you about how you probably touched yourself because of it.

But it was just an excuse to make you too scared to leave. Your reputation…

“There’s that Devil for ya’, always ready to slit some more throats for us. You think you could do the next few, Mutt? You’ll love it, I know you will. I’ll give you a good report if you do it without alerting the guards – see there… ‘Course you will. Fucking freak.”

Your eyes stare forward blankly, Dirk leaving a dotted fluid trail over the dusty ground.

Why did they do this to you?

TAGLIST SIGN-UP || Here

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(sorry that some of these don't work! I have no idea why!)

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nimmie-nugget · 7 months

Text

~Reincarnated as a Knolastname~

Note: HAPPY SPOOKY MONTH!! 🎃👻 gonna be honest- I actually think Crimson might have cared atleast a bit for Moxxie when he was a child 😭 Anyway~ take some reincarnated Moxxie’s Sister Reader Headcanons!! 🥳 Do keep in mind that characters may be ooooooooc, and when there’s 8 O’s you know it’s extreme 🤯. Also I haven’t been doing Tokito Twin’s content for a while so I just wanna reassure that I have some HCs coming up for them 😫!! Enjoy!

P.s in the back flashes of EXES AND OOHS I think Moxxie was 4? Yeah so that makes you 7, your 3 years older 😋👌 tho age is not mentioned at all- and I will make fics of this 😤

Warnings: a lot of slang(not rlly a warning, just thought I’d mention), ooc, may have punctuation, spelling grammer/etc errors,

Info: idk man just wanted to add this 😐

Edit: HOW DOES SOMETHING LIKE THIS- A POST I BARELY PUT ANY EFFORT INTO GET MORE RECOGNITION THEN THIS POST, THE ONE I ACTUALLY PUT EFFORT INTO 👹👹 I appreciate the likes tho don’t take it in a bad way- 😭👌

Edit#2: I recommend u don’t read 💀👍

Helluva Boss Masterlist

______________________________________________________________________

~Reaction to being Reincarnated~

-long story short you don’t know how you ended up here but you found yourself being the daughter of some random old ass guy that’s gonna be the main reason for your character development arc.

-at least that mom with an unknown name will provide you sweets and shit-

-gonna put sum realz shizz on this family fr.

______________________________________________________________________

~Death~

-isn’t this Tumblr? Yeah long story short this turned into a Wattpad story for a second and the famous Truck-kun killed you 🗿 but you forgive Truck-kun since Truck-kun’s just being Truck-kun 😌.

______________________________________________________________________

~Inside a Mansion~

Yup this “Mansion” is someone’s womb, zamn how da heck do you still have memories of your past life? Also why does your very tiny unformed body kinda look like an imp? Just like one from your favourite show Helluva Boss? How can you even see??? It’s pitch black bro- meh it’s whatever 🤷‍♀️ it’s fun kicking at least-

______________________________________________________________________

~Borth~

…I’m not even gonna explain this 🫡 but just so you know Crimson was not there for your birth 😶

-at least you still have the same Borthdah as you did before you were reincarnated???

-Girly just 🖕 this bullshit why’d you have to be re-born in this family out of all the ones in Helluva Boss? I mean- you don’t mind being Moxxie’s gay emo sister but like- Crimson…CRIMSON. Tho make sure to start those teenager phases early so no one becomes suspicious of you when your going through the teenage thinga ma jig 😔

-but yay! You bet that Moxxie’s mom- well basically your mom now, WILL BE THE BEST 😩

-but girly you weren’t even fazed when reincarnated- just accepted it like a champ 😎

______________________________________________________________________

~Crimson’s First Thoughts On You~

-Absolutely nothing- 😃

-only thought of you as his heiress and DEFINITELY to lead his Mob in the future 😔

______________________________________________________________________

~[Unknown]’s First Thoughts On You~

-this is the Mom btw 😃

-gonna be honest I don’t know much since we’ve never really gotten a FULL view of her personality- all that I know is that she’s kind? 🤷‍♀️ Yuh so I won’t really directly say what she thought but I guess I can just- I don’t know man just read I guess 😃👌

-101% THOUGHT YOU WERE CUTE AF!! what happened to infinite%? 😢

-she felt a warm and fuzzy feeling inside, something she never felt ever since she married Crimson 😔.

______________________________________________________________________

~Moxxie’s First Thoughts On You~

-‘Guppa duppa poo daaah dooo’

-don’t tell me you actually expected a real thought from him- Broski was just born 😔

______________________________________________________________________

~Your First Thoughts On Moxxie~

-‘zamn bro’s crying on his borthduh I could never 🙄💅’

-girly he’s like a few minutes old what on Satan’s ass are you talkin ‘bout? 😀

______________________________________________________________________

~What Crimson Thinks Of You~

-your a nuisance, like- what do you mean when you say “put those dawgs away💀”

-yeah you definitely got in trouble so many times- this stupid MF can’t understand slang and just thinks your insulting everyone around you 😶

-forget about you being his heiress, might as well make Moxxie his heir instead 😠

-Now take a very ooc dialogue 😋 btw this is after the Mom’s death 😃

-“[Name], cut it out. That will happen if you don’t stop.” He says calmly, too calm for you to know he’s pissed. (he was implying that he will drown you just like he did to the Mom btw-)

______________________________________________________________________

~What [Unkown] Thinks Of You~

-Loved you from the moment she layed her eyes on you 😩 (cheesy much 😶)

-wrote more then a dictionary just to prove how much she loves you 😔

-yuh that’s all I got 😐

______________________________________________________________________

~What Moxxie Thinks Of You~

He’s 4 rn-

-HE LOVES YOU!!

-your his sister why wouldn’t he- ?

-your basically his partner in crime 😈 both of you steal treats from the kitchen when your not supposed to 😤👍

-if the Mom found you 2 being naughty then sorry to tell you but yer’ both getting a time out 😔

-…BUT IF CRIMSON FOUND YOU- yuh that’s somehow gonna become a family issue problemo 😶💦______________________________________________________________________

I sometimes forget writing is for fun- but I certainly had fun writing this 😎 now I’m gonna tag this in some tags that this doesn’t even relate to which will make everyone hate me but they will soon worship me after reading this masterpiece. Praise this shit rn *points gun at you*

#helluva boss x reader #crimson x reader #crimson knolastname #moxxie x reader #moxxie knolastname #helluva boss fanfiction #helluva boss headcanon #knolastname x reader #fizzaroli x reader #asmodeus x reader x fizzarolli #blitzo x reader #millie x reader #loona x reader #stolas x reader #stella x reader #x reader #striker x reader #helluva boss crimson x reader #helluva boss moxxie x reader

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aenwoedbeannaa · 1 year

Text

Not So Fast, Darlin' || Joel x Reader

Summary: You know that venturing out into the abandoned QZ was a bad idea–especially alone. But with your rations dwindling to next to nothing, you know that raiding the old settlement for whatever you can find is your only option. You expected runners, maybe a few clickers. What you absolutely did not expect to find was a way too attractive man pointing a rifle square at your chest.

Words: 3.4k

Warnings: 18+, this is pure smut lol, I guess age gap but reader is in late 20s and this is only 10 years after the outbreak, unprotected p in v sex (don’t do the pull out method irl, guys), soft!Joel

A/N: I am so used to writing for Geralt, so I hope I manage to give them different voices. Thanks for reading, and maybe consider reblogging if you enjoy! Anyways–kofi here, masterlist here, taglist here. Enjoy!

You rifle your hand through your backpack once again, as if you’ll find something new inside. Your stomach grumbles and a wave of nausea washes over you. You’d think after all these years spent surviving on whatever scraps you could find would have made you stronger by now, but the lack of food is making you sick.

Groaning, you pull out the crinkled map you’ve carried with you since you slipped out of the Chicago QZ years ago. It’s a FEDRA map, so QZs are marked on the glossy paper, as if they were some bastions of society. You scoff, shaking your head at the thought.

You’re not far from another one now. You’ve spent three days in the forest, atop a hill, watching the settlement below. You know it’s abandoned. You haven’t seen a single person go in or out. No FEDRA officers on patrol, no armored trucks carrying “fresh” rations.

It should be safe enough, you tell yourself.

Taking a deep breath, you gather the rest of your things and toss them unceremoniously into your backpack and throw it over your shoulder. You had better go now, while there is light left. Sneaking into a possibly infected-infested old QZ at night could be a death sentence. Granted, sneaking into a possibly infected-infested old QZ in the daytime could also be a death sentence. But, shit, you’ve got no choice.

It takes you nearly an hour to pick your way through the woods, down the hill, and to the perimeter of the abandoned settlement. After being on your own this long, you have learned to trust yourself. No sound, human or infected, can be heard anywhere. Still, you hold your pistol firmly in both hands as you walk as silently as possible toward the gaping hole where the entrance to the QZ must have been. You can never be too careful.

Once inside, your eyes scan the many buildings–mostly falling apart, this hasn’t been a QZ for a long time–looking for any sort of convenience store, grocery store, or anywhere you can possibly raid for ten-year-old canned goods. Down the block, you spot an old building that you are fairly sure must have been one of the QZ market centers.

Ok, best place to start, you confirm, moving silent as a shadow from building to building until you reach your target. You approach the shattered window and peer inside, barely suppressing a small outburst of happiness upon seeing that there are still cans on shelves, still boxes stacked towards the back.

Perfect. You are careful not to step on shattered glass in case any clickers are hiding around. You have no idea why this QZ was abandoned–whether it was just one of FEDRA’s many failures or some sort of civilian uprising. No matter how this place ended, you know that there is a high possibility that there are infected lurking around.

You are so focused on the task at hand and listening for infected that you are completely oblivious to a man hiding just behind an old counter. Well, at least until he sprung to his feet, rifle in hand.

“Not so fast, darlin’,” he says with a rather thick southern accent.

You jumped at his appearance, but you are used to situations like these, so the fear doesn’t rise in your gut like it used to. Every other day, it seems, someone is pointing a gun at you or you are pointing a gun at someone else. What a way to live. At least he wasn’t a hunter. Or, you are pretty sure he isn’t. They tend to shoot first, talk later.

You raise your hands, not letting go of your pistol, “I’m just here for–”

“Food’s taken.”

First of all, you don’t enjoy being cut off, and second–there is so much food left in the old store that this one man couldn’t possibly take it all himself. Unless there were others with him… But you didn’t see or hear anyone, and certainly if he had any travel companions with him, they would have surrounded you by now.

“Really?” you cock an eyebrow, “All of it? Bullshit.”

“I suggest you turn around and go back to wherever you came from, little lady.”

“Come the fuck on,” you roll your eyes. “There’s so much here, there’s no way you’re taking it all.”

“Got people that count on me.”

“Well, I don’t,” you don’t back down. “I’ll take a few cans and you can take the rest.”

He seems to ponder your words for a moment, lowering his rifle.

“You ain’t got anybody with you?”

“Oh, first you point a rifle in my face, and now you want to play twenty questions? Because in that case, I have a few questions of my own.”

“Gotta answer mine, first.”

You scowl, slipping your pistol back into its holster and crossing your arms, “Yeah, I’m alone.”

“Fine,” he says gruffly, gesturing to the loaded shelves, “Have at it.”

Despite the fact that your stomach is still screaming at you, you stay where you are. You hate yourself for it, but there’s something about this man that entices you, draws you in. Brown curls, beard, captivating eyes, and damn, his muscles. You can tell just from his bare forearms visible thanks to him rolling the sleeves of his flannel up that he is practically made of stone.

Even in the apocalypse, I’m still horny, you think, cursing yourself for it.

“Not yet,” you break the silence, “I have some questions of my own.”

You see the man look from you to the shelves of food, contemplating his next decision.

“I haven’t eaten yet, either. Why don’t you grab a couple cans and we can sit.”

“Hm,” you consider, “Fine. As long as you promise not to shoot me.”

In response, he simply slings his rifle over his shoulder, “No shootin’, got it.”

“No shooting,” you confirm.

You turn to face the still stocked shelves and scan the labels. Chef Boyardee. Shit was full of preservatives and other unnatural ingredients even back before the cordyceps infection broke out, so you’re pretty sure it’s safe. You grab two cans and head to the back of the store where the man is still standing.

“Alright,” you say, “You gonna sit?”

“Yeah, guess so,” he says, lowering himself to the ground. You follow suit, extending an arm to hand him one of the cans. “These won the Least Likely to Give Us Botulism Award.”

His stoic face actually cracks into a small smile at that. “Let’s hope it don’t.”

“That would be pretty embarrassing,” you say as you open your backpack to dig around for a knife so you can open the ancient can. “There are literal zombies walking around but you just puke yourself to death.”

“At least we know for sure now that expiration dates are a scam.”

The two of you are silent for a moment as you open your respective cans of ravioli. It isn’t as uncomfortable as you’d imagine.

Still, you break the silence, “Y/N.” You extend a hand in greeting.

He pauses for a long moment before finally extending his own, “Joel.”

You almost shiver at the way your hand feels clasped in his. You’ve been on your own for so long, you forgot what human interaction felt like. It’s not horrible.

“So, Joel,” you like the way his name sounds on your lips, “What do you need an entire store full of food for?”

“People.”

“You have a family, then?” Despite your immediate attraction to this man, your hunger wins out and you rather aggressively stab a piece of ravioli and shove it into your mouth.

“No.”

“You’re not much of a talker, are you?”

“Mostly I’m just wonderin’ how you haven’t got yourself killed yet,” He dodges the question.

“I have my ways,” you smirk.

“Looks like you haven’t eaten in weeks.”

“They used to call this look Heroin Chic.” Now they just call it Literally Starving and Trying Not to Get Bit or Ripped Apart.

He bursts into laughter at that, but his eyes don’t quite match. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he looked concerned. “Are you even old enough to remember that shit?”

“I was 19,” you clench a fist at the memory, “Plenty of time to learn things.”

There is silence while the two of you eat before you do what you usually do and break it, “Are you even young enough to understand ten-year-old pop culture references?”

He smirks, looking too damn good while he does it. “Do I really look that old?”

He actually sounds serious, so you laugh and shake your head, “Nah. You look… good.”

Well, fuck me.

You can’t take the words back, though. You don’t think you want to take the words back.

“Good, huh?” There is a glimmer in his eye. The type of glimmer you haven’t seen since before you fled the Chicago QZ. Your insides are in knots.

Well, since you’re fucked either way–”Very.”

“You tryin’ to flatter me, darlin’?”

“That depends–is it working?”

“It’s workin’, alright.”

Forgetting about the Honorable Chef Boyardee, old pop culture references, and all the horrible shit that went down that night nearly ten years ago, you scoot closer to Joel, allowing yourself to fall into old patterns. You haven’t fucked anyone since you left the QZ, and goddamn do you want to fuck Joel.

For a moment, Joel seems like a deer in headlights, only more stoic than scared. You almost shrink back–maybe you had misinterpreted his words? But a moment later, he sets down his half-eaten can of ravioli and shockingly casually slings his arm over your shoulders.

The feeling is strange and familiar all at once. When was the last time you had even felt the touch of another person that didn’t involve being kicked in the head or otherwise injured? You can’t recall. Still, you lean into him.

“Tell me, lil’ lady,” he pulls you in closer, “How the fuck you’ve been survivin’ on your own?”

“Just shut up and kiss me,” you evade yet another question.

“Since you asked nicely.” He places a rough, calloused hand, under your chin, tilting your head to be even with his. Your breath catches in your throat the way it always did at this moment - the moment before the kiss. The moment where everything is still new and pure and lovely. Except, this wasn’t like those old times.

Ok, you lean in closer so your lips are just inches apart, maybe not exactly pure.

Joel closes the distance, pressing his lips against yours. For all his gruffness and rock-solid exterior, the kiss is gentle at first - hesitant. It is nice, sweet. But then again, it is the apocalypse, there is no time for hesitation.

You deepen the kiss, parting his lips with your tongue. When you do, it seems to flip a switch somewhere in his head. His lips crash against yours, his tongue pushing past your parted lips, vying for control. And you let him take it.

Jesus fuck it’s been a long time.

You let him pull you into his lap, sliding your hands up his muscled chest and gripping his shirt so tight you might end up tearing it off. He responds by running his hands down from where he had been holding your face, fingers ghosting over your neck and collarbones. He stops there, pulling apart only inches. The two of you take heavy breaths, eyes locked on each other.

For a moment it is quiet as you catch your breath.

“Let’s take this somewhere private.” He smirks, and it’s enough to make heat pool in your core. You need this. You need him.

So, you follow.

***

A makeshift tent made up of a tarp hanging over some ropes tied to trees hardly seems more private than the old shop, but you don’t complain.

“We’re here, darlin’,” Joel murmurs, wrapping his arms around you tightly, almost possessively. He doesn’t even bother to usher you into the “tent.”

Before he can kiss you, you pull back slightly, “Shouldn’t we be in there?” You jerk your head toward the tarp blowing in the breeze.

“Ain’t nobody comin’ out all this way,” he laughs, vibrating his chest and making you feel too warm and fuzzy on the inside. You’ve made it a point not to let anything or anyone sweep you off your feet - but Joel seems to be the exception.

Without warning, his fingers gently brush your cheek before he rests them under your chin, tilting your head up to look at him, “Do you trust me?”

You don’t even have to think about your answer before nodding in response, “Yes, sir.”

“Mm,” he growls, “Good.”

When he pulls you closer to kiss him, your knees buckle and you quite literally lose your balance and fall into the soft grass. Rather than lean you pick you back up, he simply shifts his balance, so he is positioned over you, most of his weight resting on his elbows. Those strong forearms… There is no more need for words as he leans down and brushes his lips against yours, kissing you slowly and deliberately.

His tongue traces your bottom lip gently and you part your lips for him, sighing contentedly as his tongue begins its careful exploration of your mouth.

The warm sunlight bathes your exposed skin in its warm amber glow, making the process of removing your flannel and jeans all the more pleasurable. Joel is surprisingly careful and deliberate as he pushes your top, over your shoulders, and slightly less so as he pulls your tank top over your head. A growl of appreciation escapes from somewhere in his chest as his eyes rake over you, deft fingers finding the clasp of your bra and unhooking it easily.

Wanting something more to look at yourself, you reach up and grasp at his shirt, pulling at it with much less care before Joel finally pulls it off himself. Your eyes widen at the sight of him - bare chest and arms. Muscles rippling beneath his skin. You indulge yourself, letting your fingers trail down his chest and stomach, stopping when you reach his jeans.

You are about to start undoing his belt, but he stops you with a stern look. “Uh uh, not so fast, baby girl.” You melt at his words, “I got a few things I’d like to do first.”

His mouth travels the whole of your body, drawing small gasps and moans as his tongue explores that sensitive spot between your neck and shoulder and pulls each nipple gently into his mouth, flicking them first gently and then harder, nipping one and then the other between his teeth, making you gasp.

Your hips buck up to meet his, and a small moan escapes your lips when you feel his hard length between the layers of fabric separating you from him.

“Patience, darlin’,” he drawls, moving away from you to unzip your jeans and pull them along with your soaked panties off your hips, tossing them into the grass.

Before you can conjure up an adequate reply, Joel slides a calloused hand up your thigh and rests one finger on your sensitive nub. You moan louder as his finger traces back and forth with the perfect amount of pressure, just the way you like it - however the fuck he knows that.

You are dripping wet by the time he pushes one large finger into your entrance, gently massaging that sensitive spot inside of you, making you buck your hips in response. “Fuck,” you breathe.

He smirks as he lowers his head, dark curls ghosting over your exposed skin. You can’t help but bury your fingers in those curls as his tongue picks up where his now occupied finger left off, lapping at your clit with fervor while one finger becomes two rubbing against that spot inside you.

It is only a matter of moments before you fall apart under him. “Joel, oh fuck, Joel!” you cry as you come undone. You’d be embarrassed at how quickly he made you cum, but hell - it’s been so long, and he is just… so good.

For a moment you just lay in the grass, the world coming in and out of focus as he continues to work his fingers, more gently now, helping you come down from your orgasm. When he sees that you are spent, he removes his fingers and brings them straight to his mouth, savoring every last drop of you. But without his large digits inside of you, you are already yearning for more. You need to feel him inside of you. Thankfully, he is already in the process of removing his pants.

“Please,” you whimper, urging him to move faster, “Please, Joel.”

“Please, what, baby girl?”

“P-please fuck me. I want you to fuck me.”

“Well, since the lady asked nicely,” he smirks, finally kicking off his boxers revealing just how large he is.

“So big…” you murmur, not capable of much more speech. “Holy shit.”

First, he smirks at the compliment, but a moment later his face grows serious, “Now darlin’, if I hurt you, just tell me and I’ll st–”

“No,” you cut him off, “I don’t want you to stop.”

“Well,” he growls, “Have it your way then.” He is clearly enjoying this.

When he enters you, it is with the same care that he has exerted this whole time. So different from the gruff man who pointed a gun at you over some ten-year-old cans of spaghetti-os. He could be as rough as he wanted and you’d still enjoy yourself.

He buries his head in the crook of your neck so that with each thrust, his breath tickles your ear. The grunts that escape his lips rumble in your ear and make you shiver. Goddamn, you would never get tired of this.

His thrusts come faster and faster as both of you cry out into the empty forest around you. His thrusts, each more bruising than the last, fill you up, his member lusciously raking over that bundle of nerves you can never seem to reach with your own fingers.

He reaches a hand down, still effortlessly holding himself up with his other arm so as not to crush you beneath him. The pad of his thumb rubs circles on your clit as he thrusts harder, bottoming out with each one, making you a writhing mess beneath him.

It isn’t long before you feel your second orgasm creeping up on you. It’s just too much, you can’t take it. “Joel, I- I’m–”

“I know, baby girl, I know.” You had no idea a nickname could have such an effect on you, but here you are. “Cum for me, one more time.”

That was about all the encouragement you needed. You are a writhing mess, the walls of your pussy clenching around him frantically as he fucks you through your orgasm, his breaths growing more and more frantic with each thrust.

“Fuck, Y/N, I’m–” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before forcing himself to pull out, finishing with a groan has he spills all over your stomach. You like the way it feels, being covered in his arousal. It makes you feel like you are his. And, fuck, you realize how much you really want to be his.

But there are too many unknowns in this world, and you know that after this, you will both return to your lives and this will fade into memory. But for now, you can enjoy this moment.

He rolls off of you and into the grass, and you can’t help but snuggle up close, feeling safer than you have felt in ten years with his arms wrapped around you and your head on his chest.

You don’t speak. You don’t want to ruin the moment. But, finally, he does.

“I know solo travelin’ can be good,” he says slowly, as if he’s been thinking long and hard about the words he is about to speak, “But I got a group. A few people. Plenty of room for one more.”

“I–” you certainly weren’t expecting this, “I–Yeah, a group. That sounds… nice.” No more sleepless nights with no one to keep watch, no more being hopelessly outnumbered at every turn. And, more importantly, Joel.

You could get used to his company, that’s for sure.

#tlou #tlou fanfiction #fanfiction #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #joel x reader #joel miller x reader #soft!joel #joel x reader fanfiction #joel x y/n #joel miller smut #joel miller fluff #pedro x reader

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sunboki · 10 months

Text

— START TO FINISH a Han Jisung fiction

🧸 : Han Jisung x implied! fem. reader

TROPE. enemies to lovers, forced friendship, friends to lovers, angst, fluff

WORD COUNT. 6.2k ☆ 31 minute read

WARNINGS. lots of cursing, underage drinking(reader & han are 18, legal drinking age in korea is 19), making up, reader punches someone

AUG'S NOTES. i know i know, after so long the fic is finally here!(thank goodness) and i just remembered how @geneziesm was excited for this back in.. february?? so apologies for the wait sweetness, hope you don’t mind that i changed our love interest from changbin to jisung :’) btw, the cabin they’re staying in looks like this

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. From start to finish. That’s how you ended things with Han Jisung, starting with your fist balled up and ending with a slam right to his cheek. Or so you hoped. “I mean, they’re just kids, what could they do?” Was what both of your parents said as they spoke over the phone without you knowing. Without either of you knowing you learned later on, luggage in hand as you stared at the dangling road sign beside the cabin’s entrance. Gangwon Cabin, the place you’d be occupying with Han Jisung, your mortal enemy, for two months. It could be worse.. right? No. This was the worst it could be.

or alternatively :

Two months ago you were certain you’d hate Han Jisung forever, but what about now?

You’re. Fucking. Kidding me.

"You take one step into this room and I cut off every limb attached to your body, understood?" Is what you hissed at the boy who looked too smug standing in front of you.

"Awe, aren’t you just the sweetest?"

"Better yet, I could cut off your tongue."

"The more the merrier." He stuck out his tongue connivingly, earning a hard slam of the door right in the face.

You don’t care if you have to slam that door a billion more times to escape from him, you’d do it in a heartbeat.

Your only priority for these two months? Avoid Han Jisung at all costs.

Han Jisung is the boy that ate sand as a kid. You’re sure of it.

You’ve convinced yourself he somehow ate enough sand to where it creeped up into his brain and made him into a complete asshole for the rest of his life. A shame, really.

You didn’t know if that was true or not —though you wouldn’t be surprised if it was— but the theory served as a decent explanation of why he acted like an absolute piece of shit… For the most part.

Honestly, the hatred was sort of mutual. If you define mutual as in unspoken glares across the classroom and his malice-filled smile glittering right back at you, then yeah, mutual.

Starting from the moment you stepped into Mr. Jeong’s class and took your seat beside him, a blazing electric bolt strung itself between you two. And despite being unsure why, the bolt grew stronger without sign of stopping, alighting hatred and dislike.

Was it fair carrying the burning grudge? Not at all, but if Han Jisung kept egging you on like he always did, it would stay that way.

Except what was once anger noticed by only you quickly escalated into heated, gas-lit arguments the entire school heard—because Han Jisung found the perfect timing every time. Heavy on the sarcasm.

Best example? You had utterly bombed your chemistry midterm, one you tirelessly studied for as well when a shadow loomed over your desk belonging to none other than the Devil’s offspring himself (if you guessed anyone other than Han Jisung, you’re dead wrong).

"I wouldn’t recommend crying in class, but that grade is pretty shitty so if you need a shoulder, I've gotcha sweetheart." He cockily pats his shoulder while sending you a wink, and you couldn’t believe someone would so blatantly ask for a broken nose, yet here you are.

Trust that your list of reasons to plan a burial for the seat-mate goes on as long as you breathe.

And apparently, whatever chemical reaction you’d fucked up during the exam turned out to be highly explosive on a Friday afternoon, unfortunately without the addition of Han’s broken nose. You were close though.

That day he picked. Picked and picked and picked enough that your fist found itself smashed against his jaw, the boy’s hand immediately coming up to shield the wound. Instantaneously, the classroom became noiseless apart from the sound of blood pumping in your ears and Jisung’s heavy breathing.

"Han Jisung, Ln Yn, go to the office. Now!" Mr. Jeong called from the doorway, noticeably out of breath from his brambled hair and glasses askew upon his nose.

The customary lecture about how you should "never resort to violence" was nothing new for the both of you, Counselor Kim’s furious tapping of her foot reflecting the glare she burned your way. From the other side of the room Han sat on the patient-bed, a bandage sized to his cheek covering where you’d unapologetically swung all your frustration. You had zero remorse and would continue to have zero remorse. Forever.

"For the love of god what are you two standing there for?! Apologize. This. Instant!" And with the final crack in her flaming attitude she stomped out the door, fanatically shaking her head with dismay.

Ravaging every advantage, you sauntered towards the boy, releasing a heavy sigh just to announce your 'sincerity' first and foremost. Now was prime time to sugar him up, and you’d be sure not to take it for granted.

Stepping forward, you lift your head to deliver a faux smile.

"I’m so sorry for everything I’ve ever done to you leading up to this, especially after punching you in a spot that won’t heal for a long time because you never deserved that and most definitely did nothing wrong." Delighted to finally be pushing his buttons just as he did yours, you plaster the most guilty expression you can manage, voice dripping with lies.

Jisung breathes a rather bored sigh.

"Nice try."

Geesh, he’s exasperating. Take a hit for once, why don’t you.

"You want me to pray for your forgiveness or what?" Managing to omit the derogatory nickname attached to your sentence, you spare a hasty glance at Ms. Choi, the nurse who every other male at the school had a crush on. She types into her laptop at an alarming pace—fortunately either ignoring or oblivious to your brewing cat-fight.

The boredom appears to leave him instantly for a reason you couldn’t guess. Regardless, you knew it meant bad news.

Exasperating. He is unbearably exasperating.

"'Didn’t think you were that in love with me, but no. I want you to give me a kiss," Using the hand he’d previously ran through his hair, he pointed to his cheek. "Right here."

Is no one else hearing this? He’s not serious .. right? And why are your hands sweaty?

"Bullshit."

Aha, there’s the usual Oxford graduate vocabulary. Let’s hope Ms. Choi didn’t hear anything.

"Sadly. Worth a try though." Jisung deflates, swinging his legs around aimlessly. He’s daring from a point you can’t figure out. His inability to piss you off is easy to discover, but there’s something else there—a word your finger keeps skipping over.

Then suddenly, in the midst of observing your lost-in-thought expression, he piques with realization. By the time you notice, all your earlier remorse voluntarily throws itself out the window. Not that there was any remorse anyway. Definitely.

"Wait- don’t tell me you’re actually going to apologize, hold on I need to record this—"

"SHUT UP! I’m leaving, have a good evening Ms. Choi." The poor woman jumped out of her skin, shakily bowing farewell as you stormed from the infirmary, seething rage billowing out both ears.

Your walk home lasted much longer than usual, probably because you didn’t even want to step foot on the property; wanted to savor every moment of fresh air before seeing your parents in their fury glittering glory.

Unbeknownst to you, they’d already gotten the call—four hours ago, to be exact. Though you didn’t realize that’s how long you’d been procrastinating, and neither did Han Jisung, who was doing the same thing.

Except while you walked around killing time, he occupied a swing at the old neighborhood playground, humming a tune to himself.

So as you turned the corner, the last person you expected to be there was there, seeming quite aloof as he gazed off into the distance.

"What’re you doing?"

You swore he leaped a solid foot into the air, hand frantically clutched to his chest as if you were the doctor telling him he wasn’t allowed to jack off anymore.

"Jesus! You scared me. I should ask you the same thing," Han grumbled, lips pulled into a taut pout.

This momentary peacefulness, or whatever isn’t hostility occupying the space between you is gross considering you’d socked him mere hours earlier, still able to make out the light bruising scattered along his jaw.

You kick off some of the mulch lingering atop your shoelaces. "Procrastinating going home, you?"

Laughing bitterly, Han settles back into the swing. "I guess that’s something we can agree on," He says, causing you to sort of falter.

Sadness lingers in his tone and you can’t decipher it, not when your average Han Jisung would be rearing to tease you. Instead, he remains quiet enough that when your phone buzzes in your pocket, you flinch.

"I’ve gotta go. This is the eighteenth time she’s called, I wish I was joking." You breathe through your nose, staring at your mom’s number flickering atop the screen.

Why you even dismissed yourself you don’t know. It was Han Jisung, why did you bother? You should’ve acted spiteful and left him at that. But you couldn’t. Not when he seemed so.. miserable. You staved down the gnawing guilt.

"What color do you want to wear in your casket, I’ll be sure to tell your parents."

Well there goes any chance of being nice.

"I hate you," You automatically snarl, spewing those words as if they had no weight anymore.

Looks like everything is back to normal, for now.

Currently standing at the doorstep, you thought back to all the excuses you’d used in the past and which one seemed suitable this time around. Which one would, hopefully, secure your life for another day.

There’s the truly heroic "he was insulting you guys! Saying you didn’t raise me right!" that would earn a bit of sympathy, or maybe you could even go bigger and say he was threatening to rob you and— the door opened. Shit.

"Come in! Tell me about your day at school." Your mother, strangely enough, smiled.

Okay. What the fuck is going on. Where’s the berating and disowning threat, seriously.

"Aren’t you mad?" You skittishly ask, only receiving a swift jerk of her head signaling for you to come in.

Hence, you tentatively, like an ax would strike you at any moment, obediently tip-toe into the living room, glancing around cautiously.

She finds her spot on the couch beside your dad and you nonchalantly shift a good distance from the two, just to be safe.

Who knows, perhaps they’d planned collaborative man-slaughter.

"Oh no, we’re livid, but we talked about it and have a fantastic idea that we’re sure will help!" Help what, you’re not sure. All you know is that this cannot possibly end well.

Your ungodly hour wake up was the first unfortunate event, basically being shoved into the car to who knows where and before you knew it, the sunlight illuminating the road in front of you became shrouded with shadows of tall alpines looming overhead. They spared no hint as to what their "fantastic idea" was yesterday, so the jury ruling your case as a third-degree murder was only something you could wonder from the backseat. Something you could wonder for a long, long time.

Thankfully, decades later, the vehicle eventually came to a halt and your parents wasted no time shoving you just as easily as they did into the car, outside of the car. Adjusting to the brightness, you find yourself facing a building only definable as a cabin from the wooden exterior and forest surroundings.

A creative collaborative homicide, definitely.

"We’re here~" Your mom calls from the passenger seat, helping unload stuffed suitcases from the trunk.

Suitcases. Lovely.

Alright, staying here for a while doesn’t sound too bad aside from the feeding yourself part. Yogiyo Food Delivery could find their way here, surely. You’d just have to give a generous tip, that’s all.

Clapping her hands together a little too excitedly, the woman pats your shoulder, gesturing to the abundant amount of luggage your dad heaved to the entrance, or wherever the rickety door leads.

Hold on, whose car is that parked beside yours?

Almost like she read your mind, her brows lift cartoonishly as you follow the click of a car door opening in unison.

"Oh! Right! Now we wanted to make sure this would be beneficial for both of you, so we invited Han’s parents to have him stay with you for these two months!"

Haha.

You’re dreaming. This is all a dream. Because Han Jisung did not just get out of that Kia, and she did not just say two months.

Automatically, your hands fly into the air, willing to battle your way out of this one if that’s what it takes.

"You’re leaving me here? Are you serious-what’re you-Hey! Don’t drive away!" Before you can open your mouth the two cars back out of the dirt road without so much as a goodbye to the children they’d utterly abandoned, might you add the children that wanted nothing more than to bury each other a day ago.

And so, the two months of summer hell began.

..Albeit, out of all your troubles, the scenery wasn’t too hellish opposed to the internal screaming echoing around your skull.

Instead, serene, comfortable sound consumed the wilderness surrounding the cabin, filling your ears with the hum of evening birdsong and water trickling from the river below. At least that part was tolerable.

You perch on the edge of the railing and listen, trying to distract yourself from your mind for a moment—allowing you to bask in a billion thoughts you wished to drown out.

Han had already gone inside without even a hello (not that you expected one), seeming to feel the same amount of hopelessness as you did after hearing your fate. Peaceful, until the creaking patio door opening rips every inch of calmness right out of your grasp.

"The view is nice, isn’t it."

Stop it. Stop talking like we’re friends. It’s not normal. We are not normal.

The sensible part of your mind tells you this is how people that don’t go for the throat talk, but you can’t convince yourself to communicate like that. Not with your history, not now.

"Nice without you interrupting me." Your grip tightened on the fence supporting you, refusing to even spare him a glance in fear of watching disappointment flood his frontal. You’d stab a stake through your chest before succumbing to him, before sympathizing his feelings.

"I’m going inside," you mouth, quickly slipping past him through the half-open door without another word.

Unforgiving. You are both very unforgiving. Or maybe it’s you, unable to forget about your grievances, unable to let go. For a second—closing the door behind you—you fear you’ll never be able to let go.

Radio silence inhabits the aged home, and you both hurry off to separate sides to digest everything’s awfulness in your own, unique ways. Han resorts to strumming the acoustic guitar he’d stuffed in his bag before leaving Seoul, and you, well, you cope, furiously pacing the room until exhaustion overtakes your limbs and you pitifully flop onto the floor.

The suitcases will have to rot outside tonight because leaving this spot, no less passing by the living area, meant Han Jisung exposure, the last thing your sour mood needed. You rationalize—you really do—but fleeting thoughts and whatever keeps itching your leg steal your chance of thinking positively.

Wait.

Alternatively, during what he assumes to be your sulking-about-how-life-isn’t-fair session, Han’s daily mug of coffee (the one he’d missed out on due to being forced up at the asscrack of dawn) was cut short thanks to a shrill scream. He hurriedly placed his beverage on the counter, racing to where you stood glued to the wall of the hallway, finger shakily pointing to a bug crawling along the floor.

Mischievously, Han crossed his arms over his chest, surveying the chaos that could ensue with a simple request. This was already off to a great start.

Why not get his fair share? Toying with you was way too fun after all.

"Y’know, there’s a great way to deal with this." He takes his last swig of caffeine while you basically crawl into your skin, impossibly backing up further from the skittering insect.

"And what would that be?"

Rookie mistake. He can tell you’re aware of exactly what he’s going to say next, already two steps behind him before you realize you can do anything about it. What to choose, what to choose.

Then, Ding! A marvelous idea strikes.

"I’ve always imagined the nickname Sungie would sound cute coming from you," he sings, dreadful anticipation vividly apparent. He’s having a blast.

Wrinkling your nose, your glare radiates nothing but red-hot animosity, patience walking a thin wire. Han loves every bit of it.

"What the hell are you talking abou—"

"You might wanna say it, that beetle is getting closer," He says, voice laced with devilish intent.

Unfortunately for you, life and death were the only ways to get through this. Naturally, you leaned closer to choosing death for the sake of your reputation, but life had to be an asshole and shatter your ego into a billion tiny pieces last minute.

"FUCK- Sungie- kill it now!" You shout, releasing a very frustrated scream you’re certain could’ve topped Regina George’s.

Beneficial? She called this beneficial?

"I knew it’d be cute,” He snickered, instantly covering the god-forbidden demon with his empty cup and grinning up at you with crescent moon eyes as if he hadn’t brutally manipulated your terror seconds before.

You hate him. Hate him hate him hate him.

God. You wanted to cry.

. ..

Jisung would’ve loved to see your reaction if he caused a ruckus so early, but he was being nice this morning, carefully traveling around the kitchen island to fill his thermos with water when he dropped the metal bottle and the loudest, most blaring screech echoed around the entire house.

Truthfully, it was an accident. Truthfully.

You wouldn’t believe him.

Not even a minute later, low and behold, the adorable grumpiness identified as you peeked out from a blanket burrito, noticeably seething from your bedroom door.

"It’s five in the morning you lunatic, what is so important that you’re leaving at five in the morning," you grumble, instinctively pulling your blanket tighter when he approached.

"You really want me to stay with you that badly, honey? All you had to do was ask~" You tiredly push away his kissy face leering close, clad in pajamas and not quite awake enough to put up with him.

He twirls the keys, stopping to dramatically blow you a kiss in the process.

"'M going on a run, don’t miss me too much,” Jisung waved, and with the click of the door closing behind him, he’s gone to who knows where.

His cockiness makes you roll your eyes as you begin whipping up some form of breakfast to satiate your stomachs complaints, knowing your chances of going back to bed were slim to nothing due to being woken up so mercilessly.

If he dropped what sounded to be a iron pipe to wake you up, thinking about what his next "alarm clock" would be gives you goosebumps. Yep. No going back to sleep for you.

Except the minute hand ticks by, and what used to be a short run turns into an uneasy feeling by the time the third hour rolls around.

Three hours and twenty minutes.. Three hours and thirty minutes.. Three hours and forty minutes..

Screw it, you’ll go looking for him.

"Jisung? Jisung, where are you!" Your shouting has to have echoed around the entirety of Gangwon at this point, stopping to catch your breath on the side of the never ending dirt pathway. Miles and miles you scour, gradually reaching a bench covered by a willow tree where you slump down, enjoying the swift moment of rest.

What you hadn’t expected enjoying your much needed break was to find the exact boy you were searching for, lying fast asleep in the shade.

Covering your mouth to mute your gasp, a string of mumbled curses fall off your tongue as you get up from your spot and hesitantly approach the sleeping beauty.

Oh so slowly you sit down in the grass, paying attention not to make too much noise from the crunchy leaves.

"It’s not fair that you’re pretty even when napping," You mutter, infatuated by his mesmerizing looks that seem to glow in the minimal light emerald leaves reflect.

That is, before his eyelashes dust and you noisily rush to your feet, flushing pink at an alarming pace. The prince-like beings' cheeks puff, blinking rapidly to clear the sleepy haze.

"Huh? Y/n, when did you get here? You’re red; are you okay—"

"Yeah. C’mon." You speed-walked ahead despite Jisung calling out for you to slow down, terrified he’d seen you or, worse, heard the things you’d said.

He stalls to pick up something and you experimentally glance back, noting a green color visible through the plastic bag he held. What’s inside is only recognizable by the clinking of glass colliding together.

"Did.. did you- is that…" Words pour without making sense, squinting accusingly at the bit of a label you can see reading "Chum Churum Soju."

Your bewilderment keeps you planted to the ground, scrolling through your mental list of possibilities explaining why it couldn’t be alcohol. And suddenly you genuinely question if Han’s delinquency appeared outside of school as well.

Surely, because the smirk painting his features when he caught sight of your shocked expression left no room to wonder.

"Won't it be fun?" He shakes the bag. "We’re irresponsible highschoolers anyways, and the grandma working there said it has the best flavor this time of year."

So that’s how he managed to get by without an ID. Of course.

Problem? One, you’re underage. Two, who knows if someone found out. Three, you had no goddamn clue what you were like drunk, and the last thing you wanted to happen was a detrimental mistake under the influence with Jisung. Everything about this foreshadowed disaster, how he couldn’t figure that part out was beyond you.

Or maybe he wanted disaster to strike, maybe it was all a part of his plan, the cherry on top to ruin your life permanently.

Yeah, you’re not letting even a drop enter your system.

"Aigoo— don’t cry," Han whines, obviously a bit tipsy, though compared to you who’s almost completely wasted (rocking back and forth while spilling nonsense to nobody in particular), he’s basically sober.

It was an accident, you swear. You couldn’t help it, he called you a coward and dared you to a drinking contest that put your precious pride on the line—leading into this shithole of a situation in the first place. Backing down meant ultimate defeat, and knowing you had at least three more weeks stuck here narrowed down the last option available.

"'M not crying asshat.." You sob, hand feebly hitting the table in a pitiful show of aggression. Your brain is fuzzy and everything feels so weird and dizzying. Then you feel it.

Oh no. Word vomit. You can’t stop it.

"I just don’t think it’s fair, Jisung," You blurt, Han blinking tiredly upon hearing his name. "You have such a pretty face for such an awful person."

You’re babbling now, blurily viewing multiple emotions unfold prior to opening his mouth. You guess in some way he heard what you said below the willow tree, even as a drunk confession.

"You.. You think I have a pretty face?" Though seconds after he finishes speaking you lean across the table to press your index against his lips, the boy’s eyes growing to the size of saucers.

"Shut uppp, I don’t wanna hear your voice, ever." Interrupting the question, you wobble to your feet, grip fumbling on the chilled door knob before blindly plowing into the room and collapsing on your mattress.

Meanwhile, Jisung attempts to stop you. Keyword: attempts. He does, almost there, and then the carpet trips him somehow (his own way of pretending he didn’t slip over nothing) and he’s kissing the floor, exhaustion immediately numbing his entire alcohol-ridden body till he succumbs to oh so welcoming sleep.

Gasping awake, a rampaging headache greets his skull, unevenly carrying himself to grab a barely there cup of water that’ll hopefully ease some tension. He assumes this must be a hangover, and man, it’s more of a pain than he thought.

The Jisung back in Seoul wouldn’t be able to fathom getting drunk at noon before ending up here, a place that was certainly not home. Well, the Jisung back in Seoul wouldn’t be able to fathom getting drunk at noon along with waking up on the floor, being stuck in this place with you, and an entire collection of things he couldn't name off the top of his head.

Being completely honest, he’s amazed he hadn’t slept the rest of the day and night after earlier, filled with crude small talk and stolen alcohol sipped from styrofoam cups. And you calling him pretty, that too.

Said styrofoam cups scatter in disarray all over the floor, evidence of how drunk you’d both got that painted quite an impressively messy picture.

There’s not much to see staring through the fogged window; Gangwon’s relentless humidity leading to a nearly impossible view of the lake outside. Though he doesn’t mind. In fact, knowing that no one can find him here, you and him, isn’t too bad. No teachers looming over him, nor were his parents reprimanding him for grades slightly below perfect.

Although in the midst of his headspace, a floorboard creaks exceptionally loud and you stand, rocking back and forth on your heels and gazing at him through half-lidded eyes he can’t quite read. What he distinctly spotted, however, was the smile casually gracing your lips. A dreamy, loopy smile that told him something wasn’t exactly normal.

"Sungie.."

Han cranes to hear what you say, bewildered by the nickname you swore to never utter. Were you still drunk? You had to be, or you wouldn’t have approached him with open arms like that to bury your head into his chest where he feared you’d hear his hammering heartbeat—frozen stiff as a board with your arms wrapped around him.

"Are.. are you still drunk?" Han timidly asks and you absentmindedly groan before your movement stops, the boy doing a double take in case you managed to pass out buried in his clothing.

Slowly, cautiously, he pulled you off of him, body curled in disgust due to the saliva staining his t-shirt where your face had been.

Yep. You had fully passed out while hugging him.

"Wow, how much did you have to drink again?" Laughing to himself, he struggles guiding you to the couch to sit down without stumbling over each other.

Propping a pillow behind your head, the boy hesitates, feeling a sort of déjà vu he can’t make sense of. Though quickly enough, he shakes off the phenomenon and begins raising up, but a softness threading through his fingers stops him in his tracks for a second time, and he has to blink multiple times to register what was happening.

Although appearing passed out still, your hand found its way to reach for his, holding onto his pinky so lightly, so carefully. The boy's heart pounded, collecting all of his self control to refrain from making decisions he'd regret.

"Stop. We can’t." Sentence trembling on his tongue, he steadily pulled away, nearly wincing when you shifted slightly.

You were only dreaming, you never would have done this if you were awake, he reminded himself, glancing back to where you lie once more as if you’d magically spring up and announce your undying love for him. Did he want that to happen? No, he’s just joking, just a joke. Right.

It hurts, he can’t name why.

He prays you don’t remember.

"Please tell me why it’s so freaking cold in the middle of July," You mumble to nobody, spotting your cell mate’s cabin mate’s backside crouched over the fire pit. What he busied himself doing you couldn't guess, unpredictably unpredictable.

Curiously, you shuffle to the window, observing the charcoal he added before flicking the lighter and setting the lumber ablaze, flames licking at the dark sky above. Starting at age ten you learned curiosity killed the cat, but never did you think it killed humans as well. That was, prior to Jisung noticing you watching him. Astonishingly, however, he motioned for you to come out, refraining from the average jerk behavior on this occasion.

Unpredictably unpredictable, like you said.

"Have you given up yet? Hating me, I mean." Appearing beside the lawn chair you had cozied into, he tossed a few additional branches into the brewing flames, dropping down to warm his hands. Apparently, you don’t remember. Only Jisung would realize that.

"You talk about it like it’s a choice." Stuffing your hands inside your coat pockets, you avoid him per routine. Confidence comes easier that way, especially with him—someone you’re weak for.

You’d never admit that.

"It’s not?"

Your tongue pokes at the flesh of your cheek, ticked.

"You don’t seem to understand the hell I go through every day I come to school. Han Jisung, you give me every reason to hate you," You state coldly, fists clenching and unclenching where he can’t see.

This argument is fearful. You both glare at anything but each other, turning away from mere face-to-face contact in fear you’d apologize. Jisung is always first to look, first to try understanding.

Those times are never noticed by you, someone who doesn’t give in.

"But we're not in school anymore; we’re free in a cabin in the middle of Gangwon. So could you at least pretend to not hate me?" He looks. Looks at each minuscule twitch of your mouth, the soft cupid's bow perfectly carving your lips. Han scolds himself. He gets lost in you sometimes, a habit. Times that he’s glad you avoid him, unlike now, desperately needing you to see.

"Pretend? Did you say pretend? You’re fucking insane thinking I can just pretend nothing has happened. You think I can walk away from all this like it’s nothing, because I'm nice and sweet and do anything for anybody? You’re heartless, Jisung."

The boy hastily clutched onto the sleeve of your puffer jacket as you got up, fanning flames revealing your broken expression.

You shakily inhale, tears unconsciously slipping down your cheeks. This is the last thing you wanted, to end up crying in front of him. But here you are, walls crumbling down.

"Stop trying to make us right when we’ll lead to a bad ending."

You tremble and his grip loosens automatically, lingering there.

"Look at me."

"Let me go."

"Look at me, please."

You foolishly look like he did. Look and note how deep the pools of dusky caramel dancing in his eyes are. Look and pinpoint the mole residing on the right side of his face, effortlessly close to pretty pink lips. Look and admire the sweet curve of his eyes complimented by the shape of his brows, furrowed with sadness that match the tone you’d heard that day you found him on the swing.

You curse your hiccuping, delving into the softness of his palm while his thumb delicately swipes your tears. He’s warm. Han Jisung, though you never thought you’d say it, is warm to the touch.

"We’re not leading to a bad ending, Y/n. You want a bad ending because of what I’ve done, so you can feel like your anger is justified. This is my fault, and I’ll take responsibility, so give me a chance to fix it and quit burdening yourself because of my mistakes, okay?" He tips his head, tenderly caressing the delicate tear-stained skin beneath your lower lashes.

Today, tonight, everything you ever believed about Han Jisung was proven wrong.

His perception and his kindness, which you didn’t even know existed, forged through the surface and tore your heart in halves. He’d revealed himself to you and in actuality, he always had; you just closed your eyes.

But today, tonight, he didn’t let you close them; he held them open to see him, see his apology, see his acceptance—and it gave you no choice but to comply, to nod your head and trust him, something you’d never done before.

You take a seat again, yet the stifling company isn't stifling anymore, and a sensation akin to relief floods the brisk air surrounding Gangwon cabin. He brings you tissues and you say thank you, it’s new. He smiles and you smile back, it’s new as well.

You’ve never liked things you were unfamiliar with, but this is okay.

For once, being around Han Jisung feels okay.

"..Did it hurt?"

He blinked, fixating you with a confused stare.

"When I punched you, did it hurt?"

Slowly, his mouth stretched into a grin, chuckling. That’s new too, you think you like it the most so far.

"Like a bitch."

. ..

You’d say your relationship evened out, not finding an incessant need to respond with something even nastier. It was weird at first, coexisting and all. Weird being so friendly, despite the annoying banter paying occasional visits.

Better, better this way.

The moon rose up high in the sky only to settle, and you’d periodically climb to the top of the house in a way Jisung had taught you, hand placed on your back reassuringly as you climbed the cob-web infested windowsill up to the roof. You’d also say that gesture didn’t affect you. You lied.

Nonetheless, the rooftop "dates" helped you appreciate how bright and brilliant the twinkling balls of fire were after being pulled out here where artificial light is infinitely scarce compared to Seoul’s amusement park of electricity.

"That," Jisung points, finger drawing an imaginary line connecting specific stars lighting up the sky. "Is the constellation Cygnus, it’s Greek for swan. When I studied in Malaysia there was a great hill to stargaze, that’s where I learned about them."

You nod, savoring the otherworldly view paired with his voice.

Comfort. He’s comfortable telling you about himself. Your heart feels happy.

"I always thought Lyra and Cygnus would make a good couple," he says, beats of a silence passing before you burst into a fit of giggles, the boy raising up to lean on his elbow appearing quite offended.

A constellation? He thinks constellations would make good couples?

Han Jisung is full of surprises.

"Yah I’m serious! They’d be perfect together! It’d be romantic and sweet and— you’re mean." He whined playfully, suppressing his own laughter noticing how hard you were trying not to laugh.

Quietness, silence if you must, replaces the once child-like conversation. Not the I’m-counting-the-seconds-to-your-funeral type silence that occurred daily prior to your campfire crying/make-up session, but a calm silence.

"Could you imagine what the kids back home would say?" He breathes his words airily whilst admiring your eyes staring up at the sky—twinkling. To him, those eyes hold the galaxy in them. Eyes that weren’t introduced to him until recently, on a night he’s certain he’ll remember for the rest of his life.

"We’re not home, we’re free, like you said." You don’t glance at him and ironically, he can’t stop gazing at you. You move and he watches, enraptured by this. Whatever this may be.

Ah, he’s staring again. Lost in you again.

Abruptly, your dramatic sputtering successfully pulled his head out of the clouds, splatters of water began to dapple your once dry bodies. But as you prepare to ease down and go inside, he lightly grabs your wrist with a sweet look, convincing you, if only for a few minutes, to stay.

"You’re crazy, Jisung." You laugh, expression breaking into the most breathtaking beam Han had ever seen. If someone were to take a picture of Jisung right now, he’s certain his irises would be heart-shaped. And in that moment he swore he’d never fallen in love harder before. Falling in love he’d write about on pages of a journal, photograph with his polaroid back home. Falling in love soaked with rain on the roof of a cabin, stargazing without clocks to tell you what time it is.

You’re drenched, he’s soaked. He wants to kiss you, you want to kiss him. Then you remember you’re still learning this entire "normal people" concept and he’s supposed to tread carefully when it comes to you, but everything fits so well and your lips sort of connect and you can’t let go.

He wishes he could stay in this moment forever.

Your hands in his hair, his cupping your face, head tilted to gain easier access while leaning against his side. Endlessly close.

Han is like spring, like daffodils blooming their hidden colors deep in a field. You might get frustrated searching, but once you find and pluck the flower from long stalks of grass, its petals will shine eternally.

Rain is pouring, pelting his already messy overalls and leaving strands of ash blond stuck to his forehead, lips pulled so high up he can’t think straight.

He smiles and you do too and things feel right, righter than they had in a long time.

Young kids sure act stupid when you leave them alone for too long.

He wouldn’t take it back for the world.

.. .

"Ready to go?" Referring to the doorway, he waited for you by the door, brown hues carrying emotion you chose not to acknowledge.

"Yeah, um, get home safe and text me sometime, whenever you’re not busy, I mean." He nods a response, stupidly happy face earning your harmless scowl in the process of helping push your luggage through the door.

Different. Remarkably different from how things were before. Two months ago you would’ve hated this, hated anything to do with him.

Different, it was different now. Better, better this way, like during stargazing.

He turned left and you turned right, opposite directions towards where your parents stood, towards the cars that would travel far from here. You’d drive, drive and drive back to Seoul carrying new feelings and new conversation, new love.

And from a peculiar standpoint, Gangwon Cabin was your start to finish with Han Jisung. Starting with a punch to the face and ending in a way you could never have imagined that one summer in high school.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

FIC TAGLIST. @ren0325 @lix-ables @babrieeee @azurez @soobnny @weird-bookworm @q1sng @telesvng @ren0325 @hello-stranger24

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munamania · 3 months

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ok um i am going to vent on something as someone with an outside perspective and people are going to be normal about that right. okay lol. im sick of hearing about taylor swift <3 as compared to a few years ago even she is like... suffocating. and i feel like we never advance this conversation because on one hand we have people who swing into full misogyny when talking about her, and on the other we have people who won't admit that she blatantly uses feminism to deflect from her problematic behaviors, or at least they won't like, do anything about it, and in this way she sort of ends up misleading a lot of young girls into like. girlboss liberal white feminism. im not saying shes a supervillain for it but you can't deny the ramifications of what she does and doesn't speak up about, just given the absolutely massive platform she has. she is the biggest pop star in the world

for the record, i don't expect taylor to be like. a normal person. she was very famous from a very young age and people aren't normal about teen/adolescent stars, especially when they're girls and women. she had her personal drama aired out in front of the world, had so much misogynistic dialogue surrounding her, from demeaning her success to interrogating her dating life (and never holding the pedos who preyed on her at a young age to any sort of standard!) and for many years people weren't very critical of that. it was normalized to be trashing this young girl's name and saying vile shit about her to like the entire nation and i dont blame her for being like, a little off after that. and yeah i also don’t think we should look to celebrities as our end all be all of activism and opinions on sociopolitical issues

but we've gone full swing into like. she is so famous and so big that her actions can be harmful and she does these things anyway because she doesn't expect her fanbase to hold her accountable, lest they be acting like the very sexists who tried to ruin her career. at least i imagine that's what the thought process is like, at least at some level, but at this point it's just like. this woman makes so much money. so much money it's ridiculous. idk how y'all fathomed paying so much for concert tickets but like i'll give props that they at least seemed to have some insane production/theatrics... so like alright. there's that.

but she is reselling the same songs. sometimes that don't sound that good. and making more money off that. yes yes to 'officially own them' and whatever. and releasing vault tracks and other versions of albums with different songs on them. but never all the same bc u need to collect them all. and the thing is some of them are like kinda bad. but you listen to them anyway because we live in a time of overconsumption/consumerism in late capitalism and it's like trendy and fun to be able to tell what song of hers is playing in the first millisecond. sorry or just your personal attachment to her. and don't say it's embarrassing to be a taylor swift fan these days she's like. so huge. and some of you equate embarrassment with having to hear criticism toward her. which might not be as common if swifties idk stepped it up and actually expected something from her?

which i guess is getting me to my main point here. can you imagine like. what would happen if taylor swift actually said anything about palestine? or anything of value in the world right now? no one's asking her to be a fucking scholar on it but genuinely sorry there’s like a genocide. several. the most documented real time genocide of our time i don’t care if it makes you upset that people expect something from her. she is time's person of the year. she has everyone from young girls to lesbians to gay men to bored football wives to dads to well fucking etc you get the point tuned in. she has dabbled in so many different spaces done so many collaborations aligned herself with so many entities who can keep up? if she, as massive as she is right now, posted something as simple as 'free palestine' or called for a ceasefire, can you imagine what would happen? i can’t help but think about it when day in and day out my feed is filled with screaming people being pulled from rubble or having their limbs amputated.

but she won't, because, quite frankly, what does she have to gain from it? she’s teaming up with the nfl right now to make some more money, she's gotta have at least like 4 new albums recorded in the last two years and at least um what three more that you're expecting? and she doesn't even have to like? write new music really? (edit: oh boy!) why the fuck would she be doing anything with her time other than poisoning the planet with jet fuel to visit her pr boyfriend?

taylor swift is never gonna be punk or what the hell ever beyond like a white liberal-at-best moderate woman. but if any of you could talk to each other and talk about, like, organizing in ways that it would be impossible for her to continue to ignore these situations, and just keep playing her tour FILM (how could i forget) in israel and etc, like if you could flood her socials or do a mass movement (and it would be massive given the sheer amount of peoples' top artists she's in) of not listening/buying/interacting with her stuff, until her agents and whatever had to make some sort of statement? like that's the only chance we've got with her

i'm not saying don’t be her fan, or listen to her music, or have an attachment, etc, but she's been around enough vile, anti-feminist, racist things this past year that y'all DO need to hold her accountable. like way more than you do. or it's going to be like really difficult to. tolerate it. haha. like you SHOULD be vocally and loudly disapproving of her actions when it causes a lot of damage overall. speaking up about her insane climate irresponsibility when we're having the hottest years on record is not the same as the people who felt the need to like pick apart her dating life on the news. but can we talk about how she's officially like. circled back and now is purposefully making news about her dating life? for her personal gain and that of the fucking nfl? lol. in a way it is funny for her to ‘take that power back’ in a way, of her image, and i think that’s how some people might view it, but like on the other hand she obviously is gaining a lot from this. you know. a lot of actual money. she is going to profit off this image of her being misunderstood etc for as long as u guys allow it and well i just think that has run its course. yk

continuing into 2024 (edit: and now with the release of a new album!) i don't want to see swifties automatically exonerating themselves from difficult conversations because like they feel like their fave has faced enough unwarranted criticism. or bc other people should also be criticized. much of it is warranted! and you guys need to grow up and be able to talk about it and stop painting taylor swift's face as like the Pinnacle of feminism. she doesn't and shouldn't have to be, and she isn't, and she should in fact be held accountable when she does really fucking shitty things on account of they're shitty! i don't care that she's a woman! it's like that meme of oh yay a woman democrat sent these missiles. oh yay a woman is massively damaging the planet and proudly dated a violent misogynistic racist, and faced minimum criticism for these things over and over because your only comeback is ‘well what about’ if a man did the same thing, etc, you refuse to just look at the situation we do have. yes we should. we should do that we should hold men accountable but you can also like not accept awful fucking behavior from your faves when you have a chance. do you think that’s helping feminism genuinely. use your voice use your power (your money) to like. do something for once. i cannot keep living in the taylor swift echo chamber.

and for the record. i like enjoyed taylor like back when i was a young girl and she had a few songs on the radio, and i honestly even had a moment where i used guys' opinions on her as a first step to navigate who i felt safe around in a very hypermasculine sexist college space. because yes. some people do need feminism 101 and some people's genuinely misogynistic rage will be demonstrated in their hatred of taylor and her success. but at some point we gotta move on from that. if some people will look at the most powerful woman in the world, who has enough money to stay away from them and an extremely massive loyal fanbase watching and supporting her every move - if some men take out their hatred on her, a powerful white woman, how do you think they view and treat women who are not white, thin, "conventionally"/eurocentrically attractive, or accessible to cis/het audiences?

anyway i hope that i can bring a conversation to the swiftieverse cause i honestly believe u guys could have comparable impact to like. bts stans. maybe. if you put your minds together for a good cause. and we don’t have to do the oppression olympics or whataboutisms or WHATEVER for forever. can we please move the conversation forward does anyone else feel insane with like where we’re at

on that note, i really do think now is the perfect moment for you to disrupt shit with your voices and demand better from her. it might not save the world, but it could make a huge difference in changing peoples' minds

okay um. thanks 👍

tldr i can’t do another year of swiftie discourse i just can’t please if there is a god out there help us

#abby talks #well here’s a draft that i guess is relevant #taylor swift #swifties #swiftie #midnights #1989 #folklore #evermore #taylor’s version #travis kelce #long post #ok swiftie mutuals u better have my back here 😇👍

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synthetictorii · 7 months

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Rumors ✧ Toshinori Yagi

Pairing: All Might/Toshinori Yagi x reader Genre: angst Summary: You've been called a lot of names, more than you can count. You've grown used to it - but your lover hasn't and it's about time it stops. Word count: 3.3k A/N: ...obligatory old and cringey fic ahead warning... + this was a wattpad rq

You always lived your life in a way that made you feel like a side character of your own story. That was just you were content, putting others on the first place while forgetting about yourself. You were constantly trying to satisfy everyone, to help in any way you could. Many people told you that you were too kind for your own good. They were absolutely right, but you only felt satisfied when you behaved that way. You were happy only when everyone around you was smiling. Your way of thinking and behaving often caused you to be easily overlooked, this was also fine with you. You avoided attention as much as possible.

Then it’s understandable why it was very surprising for you to wake up one day to find photos of yourself all over the news and in TV. Magically, overnight you became the talk of the town. Well, the only magic involved was the man standing right next to you on all of those photos. All Might. The symbol of justice and peace. The reports did a lovely job though, creating a beautiful collage tracking your yesterday’s date, your first “official” one. You turned the volume on as you curled up in your sofa. It couldn’t hurt to watch a bit, right? The show host was talking with the guests about each of them, guessing what was happening but they never got it quite right.

The first picture was taken near the subway station where he was waiting for you with a single white rose, the same flower that was currently sitting in a glass on your kitchen table. You remembered times when a whole bouquet of flowers used to be there, sighing happily. Toshinori finally listened to your pleas and settled for something simpler. You never were one to enjoy getting gifts, especially expensive ones, always feeling that the bond you shared with people was more important. Yet he wouldn’t hear of it. You smiled fondly. “White rose, because your love is just as innocent as the color.” He said yesterday while giving you the flower, a hint of pink colored your cheeks.

The second photo was taken through a window so it was slightly blurred. It showed you laughing, hand covering your mouth while he was talking sitting on a chair opposite of you in a little café, making grand gestures. It was a good one. They caught the moment when he was telling you about his students at U.A. You especially like to hear about one kid named Bakugou, he seemed to be quite a madman. You missed being their age, it was strange to feel like this when your age still sported the twenty in it but in your defense, things were easier then. You wouldn’t turn back time if you had the chance though, you were satisfied with your life the way it was now, especially with a man like Toshinori by your side.

But surely enough, something had to go wrong the moment you thought just that. “They look like a happy couple, right?” said one of the guests on the show. You nodded, smiling from ear to ear. Well, you felt a bit guilty, agreeing without Toshinori’s opinion. Well, whatever, this once you’d allow yourself to be selfish and not care about his thoughts. “They do but you know what they say, even the sun sets in paradise,” said the host and the smile froze on your lips. You frowned and raised the volume, for once actually interested what do the people on TV have to say. “I don’t wanna spread rumors,” said the lady with a fake smile, “but there are some who feel like our dear All Might is only being used. I mean, I don’t want it to be true,” she huffed with laughter, “but she’s just so young, what else could possibly be her motivation? If she truly had feelings for him, she’d tell to wait for her until she learns how to take care of herself,” both the audience and guests bursted out laughing. “Yeah, I guess you’re right, like this was what I thought when I first saw-” you turned the TV off and threw the controller away. Your hands were shaking slightly in distress. How could they say something like this? Not once did the thought about his fame or money cross your mind. It was a thing that you literally couldn’t care less about! You shuffled on your spot nervously and bit your lip. You replayed all the occasions when someone looked at you yesterday during the date. Were they all thinking like this? Were they all against your relationship? You were prepared for some hate but not for this. You expected some mean comments but not for people outright saying you weren’t enough for him.

Your pride or reputation wasn’t what mattered to you, even if it probably should, instead you were stressing about what Toshinori will think once he hears these rumors. You knew each other for over half a year but only started dating about two months ago, going out twice or thrice a week, always during late evening or night so you wouldn’t be constantly interrupted by his fans. Yesterday was a little test of sorts to see how it would go. Not well it seemed, you frowned bitterly, gently biting on the skin around your nails – a bad habit of yours when you were anxious.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He woke up well rested, actually feeling refreshed for the first time in god knows how long. His side didn’t hurt one bit and it was almost like before the incident. He whistled all the time during preparing his breakfast and coffee, his mind blissfully returning to yesterday’s events. When his ham’n’eggs was done and the bread was toasted, he set the food on the table and turned on the TV, eager to see what the media thinks about his relationship with you. Although he wouldn’t break up with you if they didn’t approve, public opinion was important to him – and also decided his pay check, so yeah. He clicked through the channels, always watching just for a while before checking elsewhere. So far so good, the reactions were mixed as expected, but mostly it seemed alright. Then he hit the jackpot of hate. His grip on the fork got so strong he split it in half. Shit. This wasn’t good. You were sure to see this, you liked to watch TV in the morning to see what’s up in the world and he couldn’t guess how you’d react but he was certain you’d start worrying.

He didn’t waste any more time, toast and a forkful of eggs laid rejected on the plate, and quickly changed into casual clothes he could were in his flexing form. He felt so frustrated and enraged by what he heard – how dared they gossip about you like that? You were the sweetest, kindest person he knew, if anything was supposed to taken apart by the news, it was how suspiciously perfect you were. He wasn’t able to count how many times he teased you for being too modest and, with relation to the rumors, how often he told to take advantage of having rich boyfriend. You wouldn’t hear of it! Yesterday was the same, he made attempt to pay for your coffee and cake but no, you paid for all the things you both ordered. Seriously, if he didn’t bring you flowers, you’d be the one in your relationship paying for everything – he was the one using you. He could only imagines the headlines if the media knew that.

He rushed out of his apartment and jumped from roof to roof to reach your place sooner while attracting as little attention as possible. It didn’t take him long to arrive as you didn’t live too far away. He waited for a while until the street got empty and then he jumped on the fire escape staircase right next to your living room window. He saw you marching from one end of the room to another, freezing on the spot when he landed with a loud crack. It was a wonder the staircase withstood his little stunt. You turned around and he waved at you. He saw your features relax and gentle smile formed on your lips. You walked to the window and opened it for him to climb inside. “I have arrived, [y/n]! Now let me assure you that everything is alright!” He grinned widely and spread his arms for you. Your smile faded a bit as you gratefully hugged him, he pulled you close tightly, stroking your hair. “You were afraid, right?” He asked, his voice calm and patient. He knew that your feelings weren’t based on distrust towards him but rather your habit of underestimating yourself and he decided to be as supportive as he could in your fight with these feelings. You nodded into his chest, squeezing him harder. “You know, I think saying lies like that on public TV earned them enough of the villain status, want me to beat them up?” He gave you mischievous smile. You laughed and smacked his shoulder lightly. “You know how I feel about violence,” you chuckled and sighed. “I… I really don’t date you just for your money and fame, I swear,” you said, looking somewhat apologetically into his eyes. “I figured that much,” he huffed, almost pouting. He knew it never failed to make you all mushy seeing him act cute. Your giggling rang through the room as you reached up and raised the corners of his mouth with your fingers. “But it’s so nice to spoil you!” You said happily. He took your hands into his and kissed each of your knuckles before laying them on his chest, again holding your waist. “I want to pamper you too, young lady!” He protested while looking into your eyes. “It’s a man’s job to take care of his girl, isn’t it? So, let me take you out for brunch, my treat this time,” he shushed you before you managed to say anything. “I’ll wait here, unless you want me to help you change?” He flirted and you quirked a brow at him. “Is that what you want in exchange for the brunch?” You teased but laughed at the sight of his flushed cheeks and flustered gesticulation. “I’ll be right back,” you reassured him with a smile and gave a small kiss to his nose.

He watched you run off and fondly sighed. How in the world did he deserve such ethereal creature like you? You were the perfect combination of cute and smart with a hint of flirt mixed in and he fell for you more each day. He stared longingly at the doors leading to your bedroom as if he could speed up the process of you getting ready. He tried hard not to imagine you in your underwear but boy, was it hard. Instead he sat on the sofa and turned on the TV with intention of getting more information about how the situation progresses. The conclusion was simple: not very nicely. Some other channels inspired themselves with the one he saw in the morning, throwing hate your way. It took every ounce of his self-control not to destroy the controller. “Are you sure you want to go out?” He turned to see you sheepishly playing with the hem of your hoodie, looking everywhere but at him. You were adorable beyond words. Your nicely shaped body was hidden under oversized [f/c] hoodie but your legs clad only in thin black leggings made up for it and hinted at your figure. He switched the TV off and made his way to you, stroking your arms. “The day I will say no will be my last,” he smiled and kissed the top of your head. “Then I hope you’ll live a long life,” you snuggled closer to him, enjoying the safety of his solid body whereas he appreciated your affection and nice words. It didn’t matter what happened, you always found the exact thing to say that he needed to hear or guessed what would help to make him feel better. It always left him amazed. Neither of you wanted to let go, however when your stomach let out quite a loud growl. “We should get going,” he suggested and this time you didn’t oppose him.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The walk was nice, the skies were blue without a hint of cloud and only a light breeze was blowing. You talked about everything and nothing, cracking jokes and laughing all the time. You clinged to his arm happily and momentarily forgot about your worries. This was the effect he had on you. Somehow with him by your side you could let go of everything that weighted down your mind and live in the moment. That’s the symbol of peace for you.

However the peace was not supposed to last for long. Soon you were walking through busier streets than the ones near your home and people were staring. You remembered the words of the morning show’s host. She’s so young. All your insecurities hit you like a punch to the gut. You felt eyes of every single person around on you, burning holes into your soul.

“This can’t be true she’s not enough for him!” “Yeah, All Might deserves the hottest girls only!”

“What a joke, she’s still a child! Learn you place, girl!”

“Poor All Might, how can she be so cheap - using him without shame!”

“In my days it were boys digging gold!”

“Go back to high school he’s got more important job than to baby sit you!”

You clenched your jaw, trying to ignore the ubiquitous whispering. You held onto Toshinori’s arm more tightly, afraid that someone will actually try to tear you away from him. He noticed your distress immediately. You knew from the way his muscles were tenser than usually, his features somehow looked sharper, his teeth gritted to the point of breaking as he tried to maintain his trademark smile. “Please, it’s alright, don’t... don’t make a scene,” you pleaded, voice barely above whisper. You were afraid it would only add oil to the fire and you didn’t exactly wish for more attention. You saw him nod and then his hand was suddenly no longer in your grasp but around your waist, pulling you closer. You smiled, thankful. “Not a word of that is true,” he reminded you with a stroke of his thumb over your side. “I know,” you sighed and closed your eyes for a moment, trying to blot out everyone staring at you from your mind and just focus on the positives. One, you were with Toshinori and he wasn’t fazed at all by the rumors. Two, he was as mad about the whole deal as you, meaning he cared about you just as much as you cared about him. Three, the man you loved with your whole heart was proudly showing you off to the world.

“There's no such thing as bad publicity, huh?”

“I don’t mind people with age difference between them dating, but isn’t she too young?”

“I hope he’ll dump her soon.”

“Be careful All Might, she’s no good!”

“Daddy kink alert!”

The voices didn’t stop coming though and your boyfriend was getting visibly more and more upset. You bit your lip and laid a hand on his stomach, trying to bring him out of his thoughts. However your plan crashed as someone from the small crowd watching you two yelled, “Get your dirty hands off him, you sugar baby!” That was the last straw and all it took for Toshinori to snap. He stopped dead in his track. “Listen up everyone!” He shouted in his rich voice so loud that not even Present Mic would be ashamed of it. He gently pulled you in front of him and rested his hands on your shoulders. You backed down only to be met with his firm chest. Okay, this could do. He cleared his throat and scowled at everyone present at the moment. You noticed some cameras filming the whole scene from the corner of your eye too.

“This is [y/n], and we’ve been dating for months now,” his voiced was calm, although he was not. Hearing your name come from his lips in the public, introducing you to his fans, made you blush a deep shade of red. He noticed and chuckled fondly, quiet enough for only you to hear. “I, All Might, am thrilled to share my life with this amazing woman and I would appreciate if you all could be more supportive of our relationship,” his hands gently squeezed your shoulders in attempt to ease your nervousness. He couldn’t imagine how difficult it must be for you to face all these unknown people, but he hoped he provided at least a little support. “[y/n] is the sweetest person I’ve ever met, angels aren’t as kind or gentle as this young lady standing in front of you. You don’t have to worry, I will continue in my fight against evil, but please understand, even a hero needs a home and I found mine in her arms.” You casted your eyes down on the ground as you felt them overflowing with wetness. His tender words filled your soul with warmth and made you wonder for thousandth time just today how did you deserved a man like him. He often joked around but never when it came to serious matters, relationship definitely being one. He was honest, confessing his love for you to the whole world. “Shall we go, honey?” He asked you, voice soft, turning you slowly to face him. You smiled brightly at your new nickname. “Yeah,” you whispered breathily and before you knew it, he carried you bridal style while you soared through the air. You let out a weak squeak, tears flying around as the wind rushed against your face. Soon you landed on a roof of high building near the city center. “I’m sorry they cornered us in the end,” he apologized, setting you down. “It’s alright,” you gave him a reassuring smile. Your knees were still shaky from your touched state. “Thank you… for what you said back then,” you avoided his intense gaze, roses blooming on your cheeks. You wished your thoughts were more coherent so you could actually respond with a confession of your own, but as luck would have it, you were speechless blushing mess. “[y/n], I meant every word I said and you better be ready to hear more,” he took your hands into his, rubbing little circles over your knuckles. “And now that our relationship is official, you can’t run that easily from me,” he smirked playfully, invading your personal space. “As if I wanted to run, you dummy,” you jumped at him in excitement when the full weight of his words finally hit you. Yet you were still in denial over your luck. He caught you chuckling with his deep voice and leaned in to rest his forehead against yours. His proximity made the color in your cheeks more prominent. You stared into his fierce blue eyes and cherished the sudden tranquillity, a fond smile on your lips. “All Might, I think I’m utterly in love with you,” your teeth showed as your lips spread widely in a grin. His expression mimicked your and he shook his head in silent laughter. “You dork,” he closed the distance between you, kissing you deeply but gently. His lips were delightfully moist and soft against your own. Kissing him always felt so out of this world you briefly wondered if this was what heaven was like. It was everything. Only when your lungs screamed for oxygen did you break the kiss but still lingered close, your lips still touching. “I love you too, [y/n],” he said so sweetly you almost thought that suffocating during kissing wouldn’t be such a bad way to go.

#bnha x reader #bnha fanfiction #toshinori x reader #all might x reader #toshinori angst #all might angst

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misc-obeyme · 1 year

Note

Which one of the brother are more likely to order your food when you ask them to?

(I’m really shy about ordering food and I have to ask one of friends to order for me)

((Order from most likely to least likely

Hey there, anon!

This was such a cute request! I really liked putting them out of order, too, since I normally do the brothers in order of their age/power. Thank you for the request!

GN!MC asks the brothers to order their food for them

Warnings: None aside from talking about food a lot. :)

Beelzebub

Can't imagine being too shy to order food, we all know that nothing would stop him. However, he wants you to be able to enjoy eating with him, so if you're too shy to order yourself, he'll happily do it for you. Doesn't question it, just agrees immediately.

Beel is certainly food motivated, but he's also protective of you. He cares about your comfort and wants you to feel safe in his presence. Honestly, he's just happy you're here with him, MC. He'll order for you any time.

Really he’s probably gonna order the whole menu anyway, so you could just have some of whatever he gets. But if you want your own serving, let him know and he’ll gladly order two of them.

After the first time you ask, he might order extra food just for you, especially if there's something specific on the menu he wants you to try together. If he's not sure what you want, though, he'll ask you first.

Mammon

Don’t worry about it, MC! The Great Mammon will order your food for ya! He's trying really hard not to expose himself. He thinks it's really cute that you asked him and he feels good that you feel comfortable enough to.

Will forever take it upon himself to order for you from now on. If you don’t tell him what you want, he’ll order you whatever he thinks you’ll like. This can be hit or miss, but he gets it right more often than not.

He might say something about how much you need him, but he's just trying to hide the fact that he's really happy you asked him. We all know he's the needy one, but he likes being able to take care of you, too.

If you tell him you're going out to eat with one of his brothers, he will corner them to tell them they have to order for you. Makes it clear that it's normally his job, but he's gonna let them do it this one time.

Asmodeus

Oh, MC, you are just so cute! Just leave everything to him! The first time you ask, he's not going to question you, he's too overwhelmed by how adorable you are.

He will order what you want, but be prepared for several extra things he’s ordering for you because it will look good on Devilgram. Don't worry if you can't eat it all, you guys can just pack it up for Beel.

Asmo is such a social butterfly, it might be hard for him to understand why you would be shy about this. After he's thought about it for a minute, he might suggest helping you gain enough confidence to order on your own. If you accept, he’ll have you practice on him. If you decline, though, he’ll accept that too. Simply takes care of it for you from then on.

Absolutely takes the opportunity to order you drinks or snacks if you’re at a party or event. If you don't drink alcohol (assuming they have real liquor and not just Demonus), he'll still order it for you so he can drink whatever you don't want. If you do drink alcohol, he's going to order each of you something different and then make you switch with him halfway through the drink.

Lucifer

He’s a little taken aback by your request at first, but this man likes to be in control so he recovers quickly and takes charge. Asks you what you want and how you want it, then delivers the order for both of you.

After the first time, he's not as surprised, but you do have to actually ask him every time. He's not going to just assume you want him to order for you. Ask him, though, and Lucifer will indulge you every time.

Much less likely to take over ordering duties than some of his other brothers. He likely knows your preferences, but he won't just guess at what you want. You have to tell him.

Might scold you gently. Honestly, MC, do you really think you can just ask him to do anything and he’ll do it? You both know that you can and he will, but saying stuff like that makes him feel better about it.

Satan

He’s a little confused at first because having someone order for him would make him crazy. You might have to explain yourself so that he understands why you’re asking.

Agrees reluctantly - MC, are you sure you don’t want to do it yourself? He's still having a hard time wrapping his head around it. Reassure him that this is what you want, though, and he will give in.

He's gonna ask you a million questions. What side do you want? What kind of dressing? Do you want your sauce on the side? What do you want to drink? Ice or no ice… etc, etc, etc. Satan likes to get things right.

Absolutely will not order for you unless you ask. Will not assume he knows what you want, either. Give him precise instructions about what you want and he'll do it, but expect to get into the details every time.

Belphegor

MC. Please. Don’t make him do things. Just let Beel order for you. That’s what he does. Pester him enough, though, and Belphie will give in. If the two of you are alone without Beel, he'll take over more readily. He'll probably complain, but he's going to do it for you.

Despite being the laziest of demons, he's still kind of glad you asked him. He understands that it means you trust him.

He will not remember what you like. He might remember your favorites, but not your general preferences. You're going to have to tell him exactly what you want. He will not just order whatever, only what you ask for.

Definitely won't order unless you ask him to. He probably won't forget that you prefer to have someone else order for you and he gets used to it enough that he doesn't mind doing it. But you're going to need to prod him into it most of the time.

Leviathan

A-are you crazy, MC?! He can barely order food for himself! He’s always worrying about being judged as a gross otaku and this extends to his food orders.

He might be convinced to do it if you can give him some kind of script. But most likely he’s going to get one of his brothers to do it instead. If it’s just the two of you, he will force himself to do it because he wants you to enjoy yourself as much as possible.

Tell him he did a good job. You’re going to have to praise him and maybe even comfort him if he’s really stressed out. If he's having a hard time recovering, you can distract him by comparing the food you receive to food you've seen in anime you've watched together. The aesthetics of anime food is something Levi can talk about for hours.

He won't ever order for you unless you ask and even then, he'll pass it off to one of his brothers if he can. However, he does know your preferences, so if he does pass off the task to a brother, he'll be sure to tell them what you like.

masterlist | part 2 with the side characters | Thank you for reading!

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me nightbringer #obey me heacanons #obey me brothers #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #request #misc writes

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egoistars · 1 year

Text

TALKING TO MY GHOST AT NIGHT reo

theres a ghost in the blue lock facility, reo and bachira are sure of it. they also aren't the most reliable sources out there but it was funny, nagi can humor them for a little longer if it means reo will finally get a partner and set him free ( wc : 2.1k+ )

warnings : crack, angst if u blink slowly, reader is a slut for money and so am i, reo is into some weird shit but it's ok they're into each other i promise

“Yo! Yo! Sei-shi-ro!” Bachira called out, once again with glittering stars in his eyes as Reo’s face pales every passing second. “You will never guess what Reo and I found!”

“Nagi, there’s a ghost,” Bachira’s accomplice muttered. “We saw them when we went to eat dinner.”

“You guys are delusional,” the white-haired boy sweatdropped, were they getting enough sleep? Probably not. Ego was absolutely insane and for the first few days Nagi was in the Blue Lock facility, he swore he was losing his five senses ( he was better when he got his phone back but that’s not important ^ _ – ). “Are you guys sure it wasn’t a janitor or cook?”

“We swear!” The dumbass duo retaliated, each one taking hold of one of Nagi’s arms. “They looked like they were our age and they even had the same really ugly dark circles and eyebags as you! There’s no other explanation.”

Nagi was too tired for this shit he just wanted to lie in bed and play mobile games like an elementary school kid. “Well, leave me out of this you guys can get haunted for all I care.”

“What the fuck, Nagi?! Even after all we’ve been through? I’m like the second coming of Jesus to you! I introduced you to the art of playing with balls!” Maybe he could have worded that better but Reo was too deep in the blistering sorrow of betrayal to care about his relationship with the Japanese language.

“Yeah! Listen to Reo! You’re one of us and plus, you and the ghost look equally exhausted so that means you should be the one to talk to them!” Bachira innocently giggled as if he didn’t just set Nagi up for a demonic ritual or whatever the fuck they were planning.

“Can we at least wait until tomorrow?” Nagi whined, his eyelids felt heavy and there was too much stupidity in the room for his brain to handle in a day. His brain was swelling and any more that came out of Bachira or Reo’s mouth would cause it to explode and somehow, his batshit insane rivals teammates will find a way to bring him back to life ( maybe even with the ghost ) and beat the shit out of him for abandoning them ( Reo ).

—

It was getting late and most of the Egoists had gone to their rooms to do whatever was on their schedule next. The reasonable ones went to rest, the weird ones went to train, and then there was the demon named Rin Itoshi who went to follow his yoga routine. Ew, that name sent shivers down Nagi’s spine. He wants to see that guy trip and fall on his ass sometime, that’d be pretty funny, he thinks. It would be even better if his brother did the same. But for Nagi, instead of playing his first-person shooters like how he would like to, the boy was being shushed by Meguru Bachira who was accompanied by an oddly serious looking Reo Mikage.

“Ghost… ghost…” Reo began making different “oOOOoO” noises to mimic ghost sounds from a badly produced Halloween movie. “We come in peace. We don’t plan to hurt you.”

“Yeah! We’re totally cool, you should hang out with us! Look! We even have some random dude who’s like the same breed of human as you! Er… as you were.”

“Bachira I didn’t agree on being a human sacrifice,” Nagi tried saying, but was quickly cut off.

“Shhh! You’re gonna scare it away! No one cares~!”

“Are you mentally well?”

Bachira and Reo let out loud ear-shattering screams, each going straight into Nagi’s head and giving him the most painful migraine he’s ever experienced, so painful that he almost did not realize it was an unfamiliar voice talking to Bachira instead of one of their own. Looking up at whoever it was, it happened to be another teenager who looked relatively normal with no seemingly ghostly features at all.

“Aren’t you guys soccer players? What the fuck are you doing out here ghost hunting?”

“Wait so you aren’t a ghost?” Bachira tilted his head and asked, his eyes blank in confusion while Reo looked like he was short-circuiting.

“No…?” You replied, pinching your skin. “I’m like ninety-nine percent sure I’m alive and well. You guys are hallucinating or something if you think I’m a ghost.”

“T-then why are you here?!” Reo pointed at you and demanded, suddenly thinking you were some intruder or hitman that was hired by one of his family’s rival companies, out to kill him while he happens to be away from home.

“‘Cause I’m that freak Jinpachi’s cousin. I need volunteer hours to graduate so I came here and honestly, I regret it. Nepotism sucks—well, at least this kind. I should’ve been born as some major actor’s kid.”

“Woah! So you aren’t here to kill me, that’s great!” Reo beamed, suddenly very giddy that a cute intern the same age as him would not be an absolute danger to his well-being. It had been years since he felt this electricity in his chest, the last time being when he met Nagi, who had been stuck with him ever since that day on. The purple-haired boy was unsure of whether the pleasure he felt from meeting you was due to a new challenge, or the fact he was genuinely interested in you. After all, he thought you were a ghost the first time he saw you.

“What—huh?! Why would I kill you? What kind of unresolved trauma do you have? Was this Jinpachi’s fault? That man is fucked in the head but he has money so don’t tell anyone about it until he dies and I get all his inheritance, ‘kay?”

Nagi did not know if you morbid words went one of Reo’s ears and out the other or if Reo was weirdly into whatever fantasies you had. Rich people. Bachira, though, was giggling like a devious troll, making squelching kissy noises in Reo’s ear as you went on and on about your plan to save yourself from the world of middle-class living and kick your cousin out of the economic elites so that you could replace him, knowing damn well that Ego could hear you.

And, he did.

A large television screen mounted to the front wall of the Blue Lock Facility cafeteria turned on almost immediately after you stopped talking, displaying a far from happy Jinpachi Ego in all of his bowl-cut glory. The man’s permanent frown was even more of a frown than what Nagi thought was humanly possible, another ew in his book. Man, his coach was depressingly ugly.

Jinpachi Ego was a tired man whose tiredness plummeted into exhaustion every time he had to interact with his hellspawn of a cousin, you. “[name], cut it out and get to cleaning. You aren’t going to get any credits or paychecks if you continue standing there wasting all our time telling people your empty plans of ‘plotting my downfall’,” Ego spoke with his monotone voice, making faux quotes with his hands.

“Oh, shut up old man. You’re literally decaying compared to me. Get to bed, grandpa,” You restored, visibly pissed off but immediately switching your facial expression to a cheery one like a lightswitch as you bid goodbye to the three teenage boys before you and running off to “beat that bowl-cut’s ass”, as you put it.

“Dude, you look like you just met an angel and fell in love!” Bachira laughed in Reo’s face, doubling over and rolling on the floor.

“I think… that’s because I just did,” Reo mumbled, awe still on his face as he blankly stared at the television screen Ego was just on.

—

Once again, Nagi just wanted to go to bed but had his plans interrupted by a very desperate Reo Mikage.

“Come on! Nagi, you just don’t get it. They’re my soulmate, I’m sure of it!”

“Why can't you go alone? Why do you have to drag me into you trying to ask them out? Aren't I just gonna be in the way?”

“Nagi,” Reo whined, pathetically dragging out his name. “I need you there for moral support. I'll piss myself otherwise, you know that.”

“Yeah, and I’ll be sure to laugh at you too when they reject you.”

“I'm gonna punch you.”

“Whatever, just this once, you hear me?”

“Aye, aye, captain!” Reo saluted his closest friend, skipping to the cafeteria to find you. To be honest, he was unsure of whether or not you’d be there but considering the fact you’ve been cleaning the cafeteria at the same times for two days in a row, Reo thought he had a pretty good chance. But of course, luck wouldn't always be on the side of the rich and famous.

Nagi and Reo walked into the large, open room only to find the lights completely out, without a single sound echoing throughout the cold. An eerie feeling took over the previous excitement that Reo felt that evening, accompanying it with a chill down both of their spines.

“They aren't here, let's go back,” Nagi urged. He would never admit it to anyone's face, but the cafeteria was starting to give him the creeps. “Bring Bachira with you next time, he’d be over the moon to help you.”

“No! Wait! This place is creepy as fuck but we haven't even looked yet! Let me just turn on the lights—”

“See? You should be more like your friend here. Why are you in such a hurry to leave? I don't bite!” A voice popped out from right behind Nagi, causing him to physically jump into the air and trip over and onto his knees before violently whipping around, coming face to face with you manically cackling at his reaction. “Man, you're easy to scare!”

“Hi! You're er— [name], right? That's what Ego called you last night,” Reo greeted, “I'm Reo Mikage.”

“Yeah,” Nagi chimed in from on the floor. “He's Reo Mikage.” Reo really wished he followed through with punching Nagi in the face. “He's the heir of the Mikage Corp.”

“Mikage… Mikage… Mikage…” You muttered, trying to remember why that name sounded so oddly familiar to you. Is it the name of a restaurant you went to? No, he said ‘Corp’, that wouldn't make any sense.

“That means he's super rich by the way,” Nagi added one last time before ditching his awestruck friend in the otherwise empty cafeteria that he doubted anyone would go to anytime soon; it was almost nine in the evening.

“Oh my God, you're rich?” You gushed, suddenly very interested in what Reo had to say for himself—well, even more interested. It was like a dream for you; some really pretty dude coming in looking for you specifically, ignoring the part where he thought you were a ghost, of course. But having this same pretty boy turn out to be a super mega rich heir and also be super mega athletic? Jackpot. You won in life. It's God’s apology for making you be related to that bastard Jinpachi Ego. This is your main character moment and you will make sure that boy will be yours before any other trashy gold digger other than you picks him up and takes him away. “That's like, the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“That's not the only thing you're after, right?” Reo cautiously asked. It slightly hurt knowing that you might not actually be interested in him, but only after his wallet instead. It wouldn't be the first time that's happened, but it would be the first time it's happened with someone he was genuinely interested in.

“No, no! Of course not! You're pretty funny and well uh, really cute so even if you were broke I’d shoot my shot.”

If you spoke any more, Reo thought that his cheeks would fucking burst from how hot they felt and he was more than sure his face was a burning crimson red. It was suddenly as hot as a midsummer's day with the sun shining right above his brushed, violet hair, causing his entire body to sweat. “Holy shit I could marry you right now.”

“Hell yeah, let's get married, Reo!” You exclaimed with the same ecstatic eagerness as the boy whose hands you were grabbing onto while jumping up and down.

“[name], get to cleaning. You are not getting married anytime soon.” Before you could start making up your vows on the spot, a shart voice cut through the moment with the click of a button as the television in the cafeteria turned on once again, displaying a displeased, disturbed, and beyond annoyed Jinpachi Ego who was most definitely not pissed off because he can't get himself a partner like how his cousin can.

#reo x reader #reo mikage x reader #mikage reo x reader #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #blue lock reo #bllk reo #blue lock #reo mikage #mikage reo #bllk #bllk manga #bllk bachira #bllk nagi

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giddlygoat · 8 months

Text

whatever. i keep thinking about dt17 LP and drake.

launchpad has been all over the world and made tons of friends and connections, but can’t seem to connect with anyone on a more meaningful level. i think it’s safe to say watching darkwing duck was his only constant in the time he spent traveling and he looked up to the character as a guiding light amongst all the uncertainty. iirc he was kicked out at a young age by his parents [in the classic shows at least] and honestly at this point that is cemented as part of his character for me. the majority of my LP hcs are total speculation bc we don’t have much to go off of but. i think the people who mattered to him most probably told him to get his head out of the clouds or get out of the house and the next thing he knows he’s up in them for good. isolation is launchpad’s nightmare.

drake’s autistic ass got bullied big time as a kid and darkwing imprinted on him heavily because he identified with the character and latched onto the idea that he would stand up against injustice and prevail because that’s the only option he has. he couldn’t even consider staying down after being beaten so many times, it just doesn’t register as a possibility for him. he would just get back up. he doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who had much support at all growing up, but he still chooses kindness. you can’t separate drake from his natural inclination towards compassion. and yet ….. ! he absolutely FEEDS off attention. he’s starving for it. he just needs someone to notice him and look at him and listen to him or he will wither. he needs love and validation and respect or he becomes a shell. been there, buddy

do you think when he got the role as DW in the movie he even thought of it as a job at all. i think drake didn’t have to act. i think drake knows the character so well and embodies all he stands for to such an extreme that playing darkwing was like breathing. it’s not hard for me to imagine that drake had moments where the line between him and the character faded, and he would stand at the top of some high tower in the lonely shoes of his hero and look down at all the broken teeth and singed feathers waiting for him and it would not be this profound or unfamiliar thing. i think drake recognizes himself better in the mask.

or you know, maybe he’s a totally normal well adjusted person with no self image issues whatsoever, but somehow i doubt it.

launchpad, meanwhile. hewboy. what if your worth is inseparable from the services you provide for others? what if you give everything you have every chance you get and never ask for anything back? what if the pain and the loneliness that follows the headfirst run into the emotional divide feels more like home than any one place ever did. what if every night you watched a cartoon about a flawed and flamboyant hero who protects a whole city and never takes his mask off for anyone - except maybe a very close friend - because this silly and attractive man can provide the ultimate service on an extreme scale and still be deeply flawed and still be loved.

i think LP naturally needs to follow someone. he’s not a leader, and he doesn’t want to be one. he takes charge when he’s needed, he’s dependable and kind, he cares so much it hurts. but i think following a lead makes him feel secure. he needs to see everyone else rise into their best selves and become self sufficient and content in their lives, but he doesn’t know how to do any of that without someone to build up in turn. launchpad needs validation, especially from the ones he admires, but he’s so programmed to give that he doesn’t know how to ask for anything. i’m guessing half the time he doesn’t even know that he needs help.

launchpad has put himself apart from everyone else, not on a pedestal, but down in the well that never runs dry. he’s forgotten that being happy to help isn’t the same as never needing it.

when him and drake met i think something amazing happened. i think there were a lot of emotions but the strongest had to be relief. drake let launchpad praise and encourage him and launchpad had someone to support and take care of, with the same hyperfixation, no less. two people who had made themselves unreachable suddenly couldn’t separate from each other, and they both know what it’s like to need to look out for everyone else. i think letting their guard down with each other came naturally and vulnerability put itself on the table. they’re both experiencing an easy and strong connection for the first time and it’s beautiful!

i hope these characterizations aren’t too far off, but i wouldn’t be surprised if it seems askew. it’s very difficult for me to keep my thoughts in order but i hope it’s coherent enough. this post is long enough already so i’m going to end it before i talk myself out of sharing it lawl

#darkwing duck #ducktales #dt17 #launchpad mcquack #drake mallard #drakepad #i write everything with drakepad in mind so i think it counts even though i didn’t elaborate much on their relationship here #man. a little voice in my heads says this is ridiculous and delusional chicken scratch. that’s unfortunate #long post

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aveegrex · 2 years

Text

A SANDWICH?

Or why exactly winning a bet against Nanami feels like he still has an upper hand.

genre: smut prompt pairing: Nanami x gn!reader word count: 0,9k cw: filmed masturbation (m!), confessions, food play

author’s note: I am NOT responsible for this. I wrote it half-asleep and @diaphanoso okayed it so now y’all have it. Whatever :/

You and Nanami have been working together for so long that your relationship progressed past the boundary of an office one.

You not only share lunches, but also dinners sometimes - well, two foodies finding one another in lifeless walls of a lifeless financial firm, what a modern day romance.

So, there’s this little game you two have. A challenge. Every day each of you tries to outdo the other cooking-wise. Every day you and Nanami head to either your or his place and while one is working their magic, another has to wait patiently for said magic to bless their tastebuds.

One day, you surprise him though.

“Bet I can make you hell of a sandwich” you say, munching on his homemade vegan lasagna.

His brows fly up. “A sandwich?”

You swallow, a playful hum indicating your satisfaction with the meal of the day. “Yeah, a sandwich. But-“ you chug lukewarm tea and Nanami winces, still annoyed at your barbaric afterwork habits. “I bet I can make it just like your favorite one, from the bakery. You won’t tell the difference”

He scoffs at that, wiping his hands with a cotton napkin. “You do realise they put some chemicals there to postpone the due date, right? You won’t find it on a shelf in some sto-“

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. You’re up?”

He shrugs, tongue gliding over his teeth behind the tomato-stained lips. “I guess. What’s the catch?”

You grin, a chuckle rumbling through your chest. “You’ll owe me one wish. Any wish. However weird or crazy. And vice versa, sure”

“Okay” he grins back, certain of his victory.

Days pass, and a couple of dozens of shared dinners later, when he’s effectively forgotten about the bet, you present him with a package.

“Open up” you smile, devious glimmer blatant in your squinted eyes.

Nanami cocks his brow, turning from the keyboard to face you. He weighs the package in his hands, familiar pleasant heaviness and softness hinting at exactly what’s inside.

Wrapper gone, he ogles at the perfect piece of handiwork, indistinguishable from his guilty pleasure.

“Eat up already, come ooon” you whine, foot tapping at the hardwood in anticipation.

He nods, teeth digging into the crunchy bread nonchalantly, and stills. The taste is exact, just absolutely the same taste he’s had this morning. Identical.

Bemused, he raises his blown wide eyes to you, and you snicker at the silliest face of Nanami Kento the “please keep the noise down” coworker.

“How?” he’s wondering, impartial to the fact that he’s speaking with his mouth full.

“No, no, it’s only magic if you don’t know!”

“But-“ you lean closer to his ear, careful to never let the pre-pension age accountant in the corner hear you. “Now you owe me, Ken”

He nods, intent.

“Now, you owe me a set of nudes because I was dying to know what’s under the shirt of a man so hot I’d fuck his goddamn lunch”

He stills again, mouth slightly ajar to welcome another bite in. Putting the delicacy aside, he simply nods, not finding it in himself to word out anything to such a lewd confession.

After that encounter, you and Nanami stagnated. Too professional nods shared in the hallways, an order for one - for once, - in the nearby cafe, you pondered if you’ve ruined everything you two had going on, a sweet friendship that you threw away to honour your annoying horny.

The chat with him was unusually quiet all weekend, and you were head deep into your notes app, failing to formulate a makeshift apology for your inappropriate request. Words never stuck together right, and you were about to give up for the night, when a loud ping breeched the silence of your room.

Nanami Ken👨‍🦳: a video attachment.

Hands shaky, you open the dialogue too fast for your own good, finger tapping at the video the second it downloaded.

And you gasp. There, in a dim light of what you recognise to be Nanami’s kitchen, stands Nanami himself. Or so you guess, since his face is only there up to the nose.

Also, Nanami is naked.

Your silent room fills with small huffs and tiniest squelching sounds and your eyes blow wide. He’s stroking himself, perfect body flushed and glistening with sheen, his right hand moving characteristically for the deed. There are only glimpses of his dick, but what you manage to catch is impressive to say the least. Appetising.

He’s letting out the shallow moans, lips pressed tight, and you fail to hold your thighs from squeezing, barely restrained sounds of his pleasure exciting your own.

He’s close, and you anticipate to see his lips opening up to wash you over with what you believe will be the best moan of your life, but...

It’s so much fucking more.

Seconds away from climax, he yanks something from out of the frame and blood rushes to your core: a fucking sandwich sits atop of the table. Nanami shifts the camera with a shaky hand and you can see everything now: the full length, his contorted face, and how cum spurts lusciously out of his angry tip, covering up the bread and planting onto the lens in few drops.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

“Bon appetit, bun”

Cut.

MDNI, reblogs and comments are welcome, eat well

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen prompt #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jjk smut #jjk brainrot #jjk nanami kento #jjk nanami #nanami kento #kento nanami #nanami kento x reader #nanami x reader #nanami x gn!reader #nanami x you #nanami x y/n #nanami smut #nanami kento smut #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x y/n

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anxresi · 10 months

Text

Brace yourselves, folks… We’re about to enter the dark, dreary and sometimes disturbing world which is Thomas Astruc on Twitter. 😧

Those possessed of a weak disposition, prone to nausea or an complete intolerance to utter bullshit may want to turn back now. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. (but still leave me a ‘like’, if you’re feeling generous 🙏)

Anyway, what ‘delights’ has this stand-up guy, this pioneer of mediocre cartooning, this dude on the cusp of arguing with little kids on Twitter been sharing with us, the great unwashed, at this present time? Let’s run through a brief checklist of the ‘highlights’, shall we?

*Telling people the upcoming Miraculous movie is what the fans ‘want’ but the show is what we ‘need’ (whatever THAT means, typically modest reaction from the epitome of humbleness himself).

*Saying that anyone who DARES criticise the show should ‘keep it to themselves’ or they’ll be ‘blocked for spreading negativity about the artists’ (dude thinks he can police Twitter… good luck with that!)

*Informing fanfiction writers that their work is ‘pointless’ and the only people who know what they’re doing are him and his team (If you mean ‘How To Destroy A Franchise In Five Easy Seasons… I guess he’s right)

But his favorite topic (seriously, check out his replies… we’re talking more than 50% here) concerns a fictional teenage girl he constantly decries but can’t seem to get enough of moaning about. It is of course… oh let’s face it. You know the answer to that one already. ROLL THE TWEETS!!

Yep, you guessed it. Apart from the OP being uncommonly accurate in their opinion, now apparently ‘Chloe’ has become The Not-So-Great Bearded One’s new insult of choice for anyone who dislikes what’s been done to the show. Poor ‘Karen’ never stood a chance… 😢

What a mature, grown-up type chap he is! I have no idea why he’s no longer referred to as ‘Hawk Daddy’ in polite circles, and instead called ‘Man Baby’. Just look at him, REALLY giving it a bunch of teens on Twitter who DARE imply his show is nothing but da best! You go, Thomas! Go change your dirty diaper, that is. 🤢

So, abandoning all her subtleties and nuance , reducing her to a shrieking monster and choosing to actively give characters who have arguably done FAR WORSE throughout the series much better endings means they ‘wrote it well’? Gosh, maybe getting an F in English stands for ‘Fabulous’ after all!

Guess in Thomas’s somewhat warped worldview, everyone who doesn’t like 💯 of his show from top to bottom should be placed on a plane with their main abuser to be forcibly deported and probably tortured for the rest of their sorry lives. That’ll teach them!

And who cares about stupid stuff like ‘build-up’ or ‘character-development’ if they genuinely were preparing Chloe for… what was that thing he described it as again… a ‘damnation’ arc? Let’s just flip a switch at the end of S3 to turn her into a pathetic caricature of her worst excesses without explanation, then introduce a ‘perfect’ sister out of nowhere to throw all those undesirable traits into sharp relief! And that’s not even getting into that detestable retconning flashback episode… What an absolutely fantastic idea to make everyone hate her as much as Thomas does!

No-one will notice the sudden incongruity here… after all, the average age of their audience is 5-8 so if they just throw excrement like crazed baboons about Chloe at the young audience time and time again caveman-style CHLOE: BAD. EVERYONE ELSE: GOOD the kids will chow it up like cheap chocolate ice cream! The older ones that do kick up a fuss? Who gives a ****. They don’t buy the merchandise, and where would all those hard-working producers if it wasn’t for all that cheap plastic crap?

With considerably less cars, swimming pools and exotic holidays to hard-to-pronounce destinations, that’s where! Let’s keep that bandwagon of shit a-rollin’… 🤑

Ah, now I believe this is that classic tactic otherwise known as ‘gaslighting’. When you say something as a fact over and over again, when the opposite is clearly true. Those of lesser willpower may start to accept it as reality while others (mostly those with functioning eyes, ears and brains)… won’t.

You know who was also good at that gaslighting thing, don’t you? A few clues… A Former (thank God) President? Very orange? Initials DT? Yep, that guy.

…And coincidentally, someone Thomas has been known to compare Chloe (14 year old girl, let’s not forget) to regularly. I mean, with THAT kind of accolade hanging over her head from the guy who created her, how could she ever fail?

See? What a great influence he is on the young too! Now he’s got his own handpicked gang of sycophants out of the street labelling anyone with the slightest complaint from a)pointing out the animation was slightly better last season or b)saying they miss the old transformation sequences as a ‘Chloe’. I think we’ve found his new favorite insult, and it’s the worst word he can possibly think of. Figures.

I bet he’s putting together a petition as we speak, for an official entry into the dictionary. Fortunately, there’s already one for ‘Thomas’, as in ‘Doubting Thomas’… someone who talks so much nonsense you should disbelieve anything they say. Or Thomas The Tank Engine, because whenever you mention a certain Blonde’s name in his presence, he tends to blow steam, look very heated and… you get the picture. 😆

On top of everything else, now he’s issuing threats. I have to hand it to him though… that’s a pretty good one. NO PLEASE TAKE MY MONEY MY LIFE I’LL EVEN GIVE YOU A FOOT RUB A BACK RUB AND LEARN TO LOVE ZOE ANYTHING BUT THAT NNNNNNOOOOOO….

Seriously guys, we need an immediate intervention. THIS CANNOT BE ALLOWED TO HAPPEN. I’m about to book an emergency flight to France, to barricade him in his office until he promises to never again even entertain the notion of… this. Who’s with me?

(And incidentally while I’m there, does anyone want me to pick them a souvenir? A beret? Frog legs soup? One of those miniature replicas of the Eiffel Tower? Let me know by tomorrow at the latest, and I’ll see what I can do) 😊🇫🇷

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous #ladybug #chloe bourgeois #ml salt #disney #ml #zag #ml leaks #thomas astruc #aah that felt good

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absolutebl · 1 year

Text

This Week in BL - A New Entry My Top 10 BLs of All Time

March 2023 Wk 4

Being a highly subjective assessment of one tiny corner of the interwebs. Organized by which ones (in each category) I’m enjoying most.

Ongoing Series - Thai

Bed Friend (Sat YT, GaGa & iQIYI uncut) ep 7 of 10 - the plot remains much the same and I am getting very concerned they extended this one as it’s starting to flag. Might have been my first high heat 10/10 candidate if they had kept it at 8 eps. Bummer. I mean it’s still good and I’m still enjoying it, but... character development is a thing.

Future (Thai Sun YouTube & Gaga) ep 2 of 5 - Drunken gathering is such a hallmark of this franchise. Tiny bit of James flirting! (He’s my fav character ever since Love Mechanics original and the punch). Fuse is right to be worried about getting drunk bc he wants to be able to take care of Ana. I love the actor who plays Top (the ex). I’ve said it before (Remember Me) I really want him to get his own series. Also adventures in translation, Top did not say “I can’t believe you’re dating this man”, he said “I can’t believe you’re dating this kid/child”. These two are the ULTIMATE over dramatic college gays. Their relationship has NO drama but they will make it anyway.

Pastsenger (Thai Weds Gaga) 4 of 12 eps - I like it more and more each new ep. The leads are developing a fun playful relationship. It’s a bit slapstick for me but it’s not offensive or boring.

A Boss and a Babe (Fri YouTube) ep 5 of 12 - I don’t know. I’m just finding this one kind of boring now. Although, it looks like we are getting cute boyfriends next week so that might be nice.

Tin Tam Jai (Tues Gaga & iQIYI) ep 6 of 12 - Side couple advanced into lap sitting and tongue kisses out of nowhere. Good tongue kissing, even if surprising. Higher heat! Yay! They’re a great pair, but would it kill Thailand to give us character development with our high heat?

Chains of Heart (Sat iQIYI) ep 7 of 10 - the confusing whateverness of waisted chemistry continues to confuse.

The Promise (Thai Weds YT) ep 5 of 10 - I don’t know what’s going on with this show. That’s it? He just fell in love with bestie and then punished bestie for his own feelings? Seriously? WTF. ON HIATUS UNTIL APRIL 19.

Ongoing Series - Not Thai

Our Dating Sim (Korea Thurs Viki) eps 7-8fin - Absolutely wonderful. There is a time laps but it’s the good kind - NO SEPARATION. Couple of moments when I doubted they could pull it off. But CONGRATZ! We have a new entry into the very rare 10/10 club. I have go change all my best of lists but this was worth it. Final thoughts below.

Unintentional Love Story (Korea Thurs iQIYI) 5-6 of 10 - (here’s how I’m getting it) KBL rarely gives quality sides dishes but these two are legend. Poor tattooed player hottie is always getting punched. Don’t get me wrong the leads are great too. It’s fun to watch two sets of bisexual identity crisis being handled entirely differently because of good characterization. I say “ouch” a lot while watching this show. Also “awwwww.” I do worry their cafe has no customers tho.

The Eighth Sense (Korea Weds Viki) eps 1-2 of 10 - With 10 episodes of about 40 minutes each this has got to be one of the longest BLs Korea has ever given us. However from tone, filming style, opening credits, and trailer I am guessing this could be sad. If its KBL doing JBL style then we are in His the series territory, but it could be more in the Blueming vein. I’d give it 50/50 odds. There’s always a chance it wants to be “taken seriously” which is the death knell of BL. Also if a lead smokes it means that one or both will cheat. (I don’t make the rules, the Japanese yaoi gods do.) OK, but do I like it? Yes, actually, it’s... interesting. It’s got a bit of an age gap, country boy/city boy, the acting is great, characters complex, good chemistry and tension. It’s a bit chewy and sticky and less perfect than most KBL (do I detect a touch of Taiwan?). This one is deploying BL tropes (messy eater, shoulder sleep, protective seme, there’s even some hyung-slinging) but it isn’t in the KBL bubble, there’s sharp edges, we may get a coming out sequence or even a bashing. It certainly will stay interesting. But proceed with caution.

A Shoulder to Cry On (Korea Tues Viki & Gaga) eps 5-7fin - What both these kids need is a little affection and a lot of therapy, not romance. The punishment for flirting in class thing was funny. They are such boyfriends by ep 5 - Sitting together, sharing a glass etc…Terrible awful grueling confession rejection. 2 year time gap. Much needed in this case. Then another 2 before the epilogue. Honestly, the most unlikely thing about this show (after the casting) was the prospect of an out gay Korean cop. No kisses for us. Narrative indicated that there should have been at least a fish kiss, but not happening with them in the same Kpop group. I’m starting to think I really just prefer KBLs where they use actors and not idols (Semantic Error excepted, of course). I’m assuming the next 2 eps are bts. Final thoughts below.

It’s Airing But ...

Love Syndrome (Thai Sat WeTV) stopped at ep 2 of 12 - I’m just not into any aspect of it (except Lee Long Shi and I can watch him in Tin Tem Jai - see above pic, awesome side dish action) - saving to binge if the end is solid.

Venus in the Sky (Sat YouTube) pilot/tester?) 0 of 10 - not entirely sure what’s up with this one distribution-wise, but the pilot was cute, classic university-set pulp. I hope it happens because the leads are cute with good chemsitry and I thought it was fun. However, it totally holds together as it’s own little short story too.

Cafe In Love (Thai ???) 10 eps on Ch3+ - Thai pulp, about trying to save a coffee shop. FairyGodBLer came through for me, but I’m collecting to binge just in case. It’s my new policy with the grey stuff.

Destiny Seeker (Tues WeTV Thailand) 10 eps - it’s not on any WeTV I can get ahold of. Bad Buddy the pulp rebirth meets Japanese handsome host club action. Same as above.

Make a Wish (Thai Weds ?) from WaGa Creative staring Fluke Natouch (OhmFluke UWMA etc...) & Judo (The Miracle Of Teddy Bear) in a medical-fantasy. It seems to be a light-hearted romance with a comedic flair. About a doctor who sees ghosts and a deity who resides in a Bodhi tree that earns merits whenever he fulfills a wish based on a y-novel by Sammon (Manner of Death, Triage). Too hard to find.

Finished this week

Our Dating Sim (Korea Viki) I enjoyed every aspect from the casting to the very simple premise to the quietly smooth execution. Sure it’s very low stakes, but that makes it high domesticity and extremely warm and gentle. This is a fuzzy blanket of a story. Do we call this cozy BL? Why not? This one is going to live in my rewatch pile, I can tell already, and you know what’s best about it? Every single episode is in that pile. There’s no skipping with this one, it might be good natured and calmly sweet but it’s tight and the pacing is excellent. It perfectly suited KBL’s short-length tendencies. Full review. 10/10 I CANNOT RECOMMEND THIS SHOW HIGHLY ENOUGH

A Shoulder to Cry On (Korea Viki & Gaga) - Adaptation of a manwha, high school set bully romance, staring Jaehan & Yechan BOTH from Kpop group OMEGA X, so no kissing. All in all this was a painfully awkward watch for me, and while beautiful and decently acted, the story and characters rendered it ultimately disappointing. I think we shouldn’t let Korea do bully romance. 4/10 FATALLY FLAWED

Jack O’Frost It was fine. I never really cared about the characters or their relationship. Not to slag off the acting (which was superb) but the narrative bored me. 5/10 WATCH ONLY IF YOU HAVE NOTHING BETTER TO DO

In Case You Missed it

Ai Long Nhai got a special ep on iQIYI.

Eternal Yesterday is getting a movie version with additional content if you want extra suffering.

A few things have been announced but mostly Thai, Japanese, and 2 (yes, 2) Chinese Omegaverse (Desire and Couple or Not). It’s doubtful these will pass censorship, so I’m not gonna bother tracking until they actually get international distribution. For Thailand, I’m excited about Waterboyy 3, which NOT a remake (hally-fucking-luya) but a new installment, and stars KaownahTurbo (Love Stage!!! et al). Although why the fuck they don’t put Est Supha (swim champ) into one of these is a mystery to me. For Japan, they’ll start airing sooner rather than later, so expect me to start tracking those.

Next Week Looks Like This:

04.06 Our Dining Table AKA Bokura no Shokutaku (Japan Gaga) - I AM SO EXCITED I LOVE THE MANGA

04.07 My Beautiful Man Eternal (Japan ????) - 3rd installment, movie which means it’ll be a pain to get hold of.

No proper post for April but remaining releases are:

04.14 Naked Dinner AKA Zenra Meshi (Japan Gaga) - not really my thing but yes I’ll watch it

04.15 My Story (Pinoy YouTube) - not my fandom but I will give it a go

04.18 Step By Step (Thai WeTV) - office age gap, I am all in! Even though it’s WeTV. Sigh.

April is looking a bit slender so I might start watching Destiny Seeker or Cafe in Love, or both.

2023 forthcoming BL master post (see comments, some are inaccurate, NOT KEPT UPDATED)

Adventures in Captions

Ai Long Nhai special both reviewing its own plot and having fun with English.

THIS WEEK’S BEST MOMENTS

The danger in dating an older boy. (Future)

Love triangle in one photo! (Promise)

(last week)

Current Kpop earworm? Nada, the comebacks have been disappointing recently.

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majorblinks · 2 years

Text

for all the right reasons, part 2 ((g)i-dle miyeon)

(smut, former teacher/student, cockwarming, breeding kink, facial, teacher/student roleplay [kind of], age gap, fluff, part 1 here, 11k words)

See, there's something about her: you get a girl like that, and she inspires all this reckless abandon, all the raunchy, risky sex, the danger and the biting and the begging - you're not that kind of guy, historically. You've just never been the type.

"Oh," Miyeon says, delighted, when you tell her this. "Oh, now I get it - I'm the one corrupting you."

Yeah, she might be - but there's also something about her that you'd do anything for, and that has nothing to do with the sex. It's everything before, everything after: the talking, the laughing, the sincerity, the honesty. You've told her things you've never told anyone. You look at her and you think she knows it.

"Maybe you are," you say to her, fondly, and you can't bring yourself to mind one bit. There's a story here - one day you'll finish it.

Miyeon's got her wide, irresistible eyes, and a smile sharp enough to kill. "Well," she purrs, and her tone's a blade, cutting right to the bone. You'd stand there, you'd let her: it's her, and it'd be a perfect way to die. "I guess I'll take it."

“Uh,” says Minnie, a week later, when she sees Miyeon attached to you, as you're both informing her that Miyeon’s going to be completely unreachable that weekend and not to call the cops. “Great. Thanks. Thanks for letting me know you’re going to be having mind-blowing sex all weekend and I’m not invited.”

“Call Yuqi,” says Miyeon cheerfully.

“Fuck off,” says Minnie. “I hate you both. Go fuck and be in love or whatever. I don’t even care.”

“It’s okay, Minnie,” you tell her. You and Miyeon sort of enjoy giving her a hard time - it’s routine, at this point. “You’ll find someone you connect with one day, probably.”

“If they can look past your personality,” adds Miyeon, smiling prettily; she and Minnie adore each other - every moment Miyeon’s not with you, she’s with her - but you’d absolutely never know it by the way they talk to each other. “The ego… the fake eyes… the overwhelming sluttiness…”

“My sluttiness is a very positive quality of mine,” says Minnie - she’ll give just as good as she gets. “Also, I hope you two get hit by a bus. You can keep being soulmates in hell.”

“Satan would probably love us,” agrees Miyeon, blinking in her deceptively innocent, comically Bambi-eyed way, and you laugh so hard that Minnie gives up and leaves the room.

“Soulmates,” Miyeon ponders, in the car.

“It’s Minnie,” you point out. “She’s full of shit.”

Miyeon raises her eyebrows at you when you stop at a red light, a mischievous smile tilting the corners of her mouth. “Oh,” she says. “You think so?” Before you can say anything, she’s already going in for the kill. “No, no, I guess you’re right. It’d be pretty fucked up for my soulmate to be my teacher who’s, like, twice my age. That’d be gross, on the universe’s behalf.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you say, and she bursts out laughing. “Seven years, Miyeon. And I haven’t been your teacher in so long.”

“Huh,” she says, and her dark eyes are glittering. “Well, when you put it like that…”

“Yeah?”

Miyeon’s got her knees tucked up to her chest, and a grin like she knows everything you aren’t telling her. “Maybe she’s not that far off.”

You’ve got your laptop turned on, and you’re busying yourself by writing your story - the words come so easy like this, you realize, straight from some deep-set daydream and right onto the page - there’s that same girl in your sentences, a pretty blonde with a grip around some unquantifiable power, there’s a plot but it’s meandering, there’s a romance but it’s all in the background-

“Sir,” mumbles Miyeon from your lap.

It’s a little distracting, with how her pussy clamps down around your cock, but - facets of having a particularly compelling muse. You’ll work through it.

You brush her hair to the side, press your lips to the side of her neck, and jerk your hips slightly just to hear her squeal. She’s light enough that the motion bounces her, disrupts her from her comfortable spot wrapped tight around your dick.

“Princess,” you say, retaliating, and squeeze her hip.

It’s only mid-day, and Miyeon still shudders each time you move her even slightly. She’s sniffling a little into your collarbone, and she’d worn makeup to your house just to smudge it, just so she’d let you clean it up, just to do it all over again - you’re wearing a black t-shirt, sweats. She’s naked, her pale, silk-soft skin all over you, one of her small hands scrabbling weakly at the nape of your neck every time you jostle her. Your dick’s inside her and you haven’t cum yet, but she has. She’s soaking your sweatpants. It’s all a very big ordeal.

“Sir,” says Miyeon, again, and pulls back to look at you. She’s giving you those eyes, watery, irresistible - her bottom lip is trembling a little. You’ve had her like this for hours and you haven’t given her what she really wants. It’s dramatics, or maybe it’s not; her eyebrows are drawn together, as if in actual, physical pain.

“Yes?” you ask, fight back a grunt as her cunt clenches around you. You slide your fingers into her hair, gentle - with your other hand, you delete a period, add a comma, copy and paste a sentence onto the end of a different paragraph. Multitasking: you learned it on the job. Oh, it’s high time you put it in practice. “Is there something you wanna ask me, Miyeon?”

Her bottom lip wobbles more. Tears rush into her gorgeous eyes - it’s all the overstimulation, it’s how you’ve been making her cum over and over like it’s nothing. She’s so easy to please, but you’ll give her whole-hearted efforts, anyway. She’s your girl. It’s what she deserves.

You thumb Miyeon’s pretty cheeks, swipe away splotches of mascara. “Use your words,” you tell her, stern enough that the way she rocks her hips doesn’t come as a surprise. She likes it when you get bossy with her, colder, firmer. You’ve got your own power over her - you exert it, and she soaks your cock.

“You said,” begins Miyeon, in this thin, tiny voice, and there’s already a plea in it. “In the bathroom. That you’d…”

“Uh-huh.” You rub the curve of her back, encouragingly. It’s a bit unbelievable how shy she’ll still get even while she’s wonderfully, shamelessly naked on top of you, your dick fully buried inside of her. Well, it’s her own part to play. No one’ll ever catch you complaining about that.

“You said you’d cum inside of me.” Your eyes lock on Miyeon’s, and she’s blinking at you, hands suddenly fisted in the front of your shirt. “But you haven’t. You said you’d breed me, sir, and you haven’t.”

A smile tugs at your mouth. “Someone’s needy.”

Miyeon nods her head, a little wildly. “You don’t understand,” she pushes on: “I need it. I really need you to cum inside of me.” There’s that look on her face, again: the one she gets when she’s so far gone, stunning and slightly tortured, after you’ve made her cum over and over again, merciless - when her porcelain-doll exterior’s cracking, fractured at the edges. It’s art incarnate, it’s an angel corrupted, it’s something you’d love to photograph, frame, but - you’re a writer. Your words are the best you’ve got, here. “I’ve been really good for you, sir, I know I have - I’ve been on your cock for hours, I’m your good little cockwarmer, I came so many times just because you wanted me to-”

It’s like you can pinpoint the exact moment she decides to switch her approach; her dark eyes get bigger, sadder - she inhales like she’s choking on her own tears. “Is my pussy not good enough?” Her walls suddenly tighten around you - you groan, clutching onto her waist. See, it’s taken a lot of self-control to have Miyeon on your cock like this without truly railing her, slamming her up and down on your cock until she’s crying; she’s pushing on your patience like the way her fingers dig into your bicep, a threat in the contact, a teasing. “All I do is try to be good for you, sir - I’m so sorry if it’s…”

Miyeon trails off when she spots your expression, mouth half-open, lips wet. She tilts her head, waiting: either she’s caught or she’s won.

“Guilt-tripping,” you say, dryly, and it’s not a question. “That’s a new one.”

One of Miyeon’s fair, fine eyebrows twitches upwards - so, she’s certainly not as far gone as she’s pretending to be. She’s still lucid enough to fuck with you, and you kind of love her like this, conniving even while she’s begging, even with your cock in her. “Is it working?”

(It’s Cho Miyeon, and everything about her’s working - it’s her, and it’s you, and it’s hopeless - but you keep that to yourself.)

“It’s cute,” you tell her, “that you’ll say anything just to get me to cum inside you. Desperate and slutty,” you amend, just to see her squirm, chastised, “but cute.”

It’s something about how you haven’t actually properly fucked her yet - you haven’t wrecked her like you told her earlier, haven’t pounded her pussy until she’s openly screaming and sobbing. Miyeon’s still got that bite to her, even with the sweat-slick curve of her neck, how her clit must be sore and swollen from how you’ve been toying with her, making her cum. You haven’t ruined her like you said you would.

Well, turns out she’s getting the best of both worlds: she’s caught and she’s won.

Your hand snakes over Miyeon’s taut stomach and up towards her tits, your fingers pinching at her right nipple - it gets a whimper from her, a ducked head, her hair falling into her face. “Is that really what you want, princess?” you murmur. “To be fucked and bred? To be used as my little cumdump and nothing else?”

“Yours,” gasps Miyeon, jerks from an exceptionally rough tug on her nipple. “Just yours. Do whatever you want with me - you own me, you know that, use my pussy for whatever you want - cum in me until I get fucking pregnant - I need it.” She’s begging again, giving up all her games; for her, she’ll always take it to her basics, her fallbacks. There’s a whine in her voice, tears building in her Bambi eyes - what she wants is exactly the same thing as what you want, so there’s no point in dragging her through this.

Maybe it’s cruelty, maybe it’s curiosity: testing how far she’ll go for you. You already know but it’s another thing entirely, hearing Miyeon say it out loud.

“You need me,” you conclude, all the consonants with their sharp edges, scraping your blunt nails down her waist. The faint red lines you leave: they’re a point made and proven.

“You.” She says it like it’s something religious, holy - a chant, a prayer. “You, it’s only you. I belong to you, sir. I don’t care how many times you make me say it - it’s always going to be you.”

There’s this way Miyeon looks at you when she says it, when her features skip past their usual faux-innocent routine, and instead she’s watching you with this striking, clear intensity, so fierce it steals your breath for a beat, for two.

“Miyeon,” you mutter, gripping her tight to you. It’s possessive, it’s instinct. Your story’s forgotten on your laptop, or it’s writing itself, composing sentences in the delicate line of her jaw, her intoxicating mouth, her blown pupils - there’s prose in the hardening points of her nipples, lyricism in the defined cut of muscle at her midriff - and she’s looking at you like she means everything she says as more than sex, more than your cock buried inside her cunt, how her hips are bucking again. There’s layers to it, but they’re all unraveled now; she’s bare, she’s not hiding a damn thing.

Miyeon leans in close and presses her lips to yours, feather-light, too sweet for the moment. There’s a memory here, informing all the buildup - oh, there are multiple.

(You think of this one, a week and a half ago, after fucking her in a public bathroom and then walking her out of the store, trying to keep her from stumbling in her platform shoes. She’d attracted stares - she always does, but especially like that: gorgeous, exhausted, fucked out like she might be on the verge of total collapse.

You’d kissed the top of her head, let her work through the aftershocks. It’d have been an old routine - but then she started talking.

I like other people knowing I’m yours, Miyeon said, dreamily, woozily - it was like you’d branded her, the hickeys rapidly darkening across her neck, the tops of her tits; the fingerprint-bruises on her silky thighs, the cum dripping down her leg. Everybody knows how good you fuck me. Everybody knows you own me. Everybody knows that I’m a whore for your cock and you made me that way.)

“Yours,” she begs, now, and all the words are blurring together, every version of her alluring, hungry mouth forming the same sentiments: I need you, I’m yours, you own me. You’re mine, somewhere hidden in there. You belong to me, too. “Please. Please. I need your cum.”

You slot your hands under her thighs, press your thumbs into the pale, satiny skin. She’s unblemished, currently, unbruised and unbitten - you’ll fix all that. You’ve got a long weekend ahead of you. You’ve got all the time in the world to mark her body up like it’s your God-given right.

“Alright, princess.” Well, if you’re being real, there are no gods in this room - Miyeon’s your one religion and you’ll act like it. There’s really nothing else you’d want to believe in. “Since you’re being such a good girl for me.”

In one quick move, you’re lifting her - her legs wrap tight around your waist, a broken, moaning gasp falling from that pretty mouth as your cock jolts deeper inside of her. “Thank you,” she pants, and you’ve barely done anything yet, but you will - you turn and push her onto the sheets, press her tiny frame underneath yours - it’s this power, it’s like a drug; she’ll let you manipulate every limb, push her into any position. She’s so small, so helpless, drooling and pleading: “Thank you, sir,” Miyeon’s choking out, again, and there are fresh tears in those stunning eyes. “Thank you - fuck, your cock - thank you, thank you.”

It’s her own way of showing all that divine gratitude, her devotion, her faith - you’ve been buried in her cunt for hours, but now you’re really using it, you’re taking what you want, exactly what she’s giving - now she’s sobbing like she won’t survive it, like she’s in the midst of rapture itself.

“Please,” Miyeon cries out, and it’s like she’s praying, again; you’re pushing her knees to her chest, you’re quickening your pace, roughing up that perfect pussy. “Please. Your cum - I need your cum, breed me, sir, fill me up - I’m your cumdump, I’m your good little fucktoy-”

It’s a seal snapped, a barrier broken: it’s the first load of many. Miyeon’s back arches, and she’s right there with you - she’s blubbering gratefully, she’s trembling on your bed, she’s praise and worship at work. There’s not a deity alive or dead that compares, but you know this, and she does too, or she must-

“Good girl,” you murmur after, head spinning, tracing her slack mouth with your fingertip. “My good girl.”

Her eyes are shut, and her lips pull upwards, expression faintly loopy. “Always,” she tells you, soft and secret like she’s at confession. “I’m always going to be yours.”

Confession, sure - but she’s not repenting for a damn thing. It’s one hell of a skill to make a sin feel this close to heaven, but, inexplicably, Cho Miyeon’s managing it anyway.

Miyeon’s right about your handle on the logistics: there are breaks, to eat and stay hydrated, to use the bathroom - you’re nothing if not practical, and despite everything you do to her during sex (that’s the rough shit, the bruising, the biting; the weekend’s already taking its visible toll by early evening, and Miyeon’s preening every time she spots the damage in the mirror) you’d actually sooner die than really, truly hurt her, so you stick to plans, rules, safewords. See, you care, so you’re careful. You call her princess for a reason.

(Well, sort of - you’re not sure how many esteemed royals are out here begging for cum like they can’t function without it, are on Miyeon’s level of utter insatiability, so brazen, so desperate - you aren’t trying to put a number on it. You’re also not sure how many people would define being careful as using a girl as pretty and delicate as Miyeon as a living fuckdoll, shoving your cock from her pussy to her mouth, making her gag, making her bawl and beg-)

“I love it,” Miyeon sobs, and she’ll redefine it all, she’ll rewrite whatever rules she needs to. “I love it, I need it - use me, sir, that’s why I’m here, that’s what I’m made for - for you, it’s all for you.”

You break her, you rip her apart, you leave her a sloppy, slutty, cum-filled mess - that’s how you love her, really. There’s not much more to it than that.

It’s a Sunday, and so it’s delightfully on-brand for you and Miyeon - the sun’s streaming through the window, and it’s a perfect morning, and it’s the Lord’s day, you know that - but you jolt awake with a gasp to find Miyeon’s wet little mouth wrapped around your cock, reformulating religion.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you groan, and she looks up at you through her lashes, cheeks hollowing, concave.

You can never have your dick down her throat without fully fucking it, and Miyeon knows it - your hands tangle into all that hair, and she’s still a fucking mess; you’ll clean her up later, you’ll save it for the after-credits scene - and suddenly she’s relinquishing control entirely, letting her hands fall to your thighs, letting you slam your cockhead straight into her gag reflex - and she’s still looking at you with those eyes, wide and glassy and entirely submissive, subservient. You’ve got all the power, all the control, tight in your fists like your grip on her blonde waves, tight like the way her hot mouth’s choking your cock-

(She’s yours, and you’re cumming - she’s yours, and you have no problem proving it.)

There’s this way the pale column of Miyeon’s throat works as she gulps down your load, tears sparkling in her irises and spilling - it’s the kind of face you see in fantasies, the kind of debauchery men like you only dream of witnessing - your orgasm rips through you, spots your vision, gets you saying, “Baby, baby-”

It’s violent, how you force her head down your cock, how she tugs herself back; Miyeon’s gasping, drooling, but her mouth’s tripping up at the edges, delirious, amused. You’ve just fucked the life out of her throat, but you always do; she’s addicted to it, like she always is. It’s your routines, your habits. You treat her like she’s your property and then she presses herself to your chest, into your arms, and you hold her like you’ve never had anything more precious in your life: see, there are those layers, those juxtapositions. You’ll never be able to let this go.

“Quite the wake-up call,” you tell her, breathless, lips to her hair.

Miyeon giggles, self-satisfied, and one of her dainty hands drops to your chest, slides lower. “I knew you’d love it.”

“You were sucking my cock,” you point out, always ready to debate technicalities. “There’s not a man on this planet who wouldn’t die for that, Miyeon.”

“You think so?” Miyeon’s smile flickers on like a light, and all of yesterday’s makeup is still smeared on her delicate features - you’re desecrating a Louvre-worthy work of art, you’re seconds from being locked up and fined. “Then it’s a good thing yours is the only cock I want.”

“Romantic,” you deadpan, charmed despite the vulgarity.

Miyeon allows her smile to sharpen, to twist to a smirk - it’s an edge that lasts for two seconds, because then she’s sliding your cock inside her cunt in this smooth, slick motion. It’s clearly meant to catch you off-guard, but it’s too perfect a fit. She doesn’t roll her hips, doesn’t fuck herself on your dick, doesn’t ask you for anything more than to fill her; she hums, happily, and just tucks her face into the crook of your neck.

“Oh,” Miyeon sighs, and she’s half out of her head, or she must be, voice raw and sweet and revelatory. It’s clear she has no plans to leave your arms any time soon. “It’s you and me, baby.”

“Whatever you want, princess,” you murmur, sated, and kiss the crown of her head.

It’s the Lord’s day, and Miyeon’s heaven-sent, she’s everything. You’ll take fines, sacrifices, the wrath of some far-off celestial being - it doesn’t matter. She’s in your bed, she’s found herself a place to call her own between veins, heart valves, slipping right into your bloodstream. You’ll take all the time in the world.

(It’s clear she has no plans to leave, ever.)

Here’s where it has to end, because it always does - here’s the fade-to-black, here’s the credits rolling - and Miyeon’s curled in a ball on top of your sheets, face tipped into your pillowcase, staining it with spit and makeup, and you’ve just spilled your last load inside of her. Miyeon shuffles when you skim your hand down her middle, bumping your fingertips across ribs, bitten bruises.

“I’ll run a bath,” you say, skirting a vicious hickey at her hip.

Miyeon makes an indecipherable noise in response.

See, you just spent the last forty-eight hours - give a few, take a few - fucking her brains out, using her flawless body like a toy, like she’s got your name stamped into her skin - but that’s all over, that’s all done. You fill up your tub for her, get all the necessities: you’re not sure when it happened, but your bathroom is stocked with her shampoo, her conditioner, her body wash - it’d probably been a split-second decision, a move for logic, reason; oh, she’s over at your place all the time, she showers here constantly, she needs the essentials - you’ll make your excuses. You know exactly why she’s carved out her own space in your home, by now.

When you come back, Miyeon’s tilted further on her side, eyes stubbornly shut, limp and half-asleep. You’d swear she’s an angel, all that golden hair, the silky skin - you grin at the way her bottom lip juts out unevenly, a pout without the conviction.

“Can you move?” you ask, endeared, hand sliding into her hair. “Or do you need to be carried?”

“You’re the one who calls me princess,” mumbles Miyeon, words slurring at the edges. “Carry me or you’re going to the guillotine, bitch.”

You crack up in laughter - oh, this girl. “Watch that mouth.”

“You love my mouth.”

She’s entirely correct, but when it comes to you two, that’s old news. You sweep her body up in your arms, cradle her lolling neck, press your lips to her forehead - there’s a shift to the moment, feelings sudden and saturating the room - and Miyeon’s eyes stay shut. There’s something about the way she surrenders to you, so completely: you’ve sort of put her body through the ringer over the past two days, but you’d never truly harm her, and she lets you hold her like she knows it.

(Well, maybe it isn’t sudden at all. She stills like she knows she’s safe with you - and maybe you’re just seeing something that’s been there the whole time.)

It’s nights like this, you think. There’s finally nothing for either of you to hide.

Miyeon slips into the warm, soapy water like it’s an invitation, lets you clean her up like she’s exactly the kind of royalty she presents as - monarchy, but without the haughtiness, the demands. She’s sleepy, exhausted, sentences blurring together as she talks, as she tells you every thought like she’s never had a reason to fear honesty.

(Maybe she has - maybe just not with you. Maybe you’re giving her all the right reasons to trust you, instead.)

You’re wiping at her face with a washcloth, and she’s telling you the full story of her and Minnie, the one you always knew had to be coming eventually - they’ve been best friends for years, they have a past, a history: they used to hook up, Miyeon tells you, but feelings got involved, and it got complicated, and they had to break it off or she knew it’d destroy them.

“I just couldn’t give her what she wanted, I guess,” says Miyeon, softly, as you brush her damp hair away from her face. She’s naked, but you’ve had her naked in front of you so many times - it’s different like this, like she’s peeled off her armor, her defense mechanisms; there’s her skin, there’s her soul. “So, if… if you’ve ever thought she seemed especially antagonistic about you and I - that’s why. I know you probably noticed it, at first. It’s different, after these past few months, but…”

You listen, and Miyeon looks at you closely, carefully, like you’re a decision she’s making.

“I swear she likes you now,” she says. “She’s a lot more comfortable with you. I can tell by how she talks to you. It’s just - I think it was weird for her, at first. But she knows how much you mean to me.” Her nose crinkles prettily, and she leans into your palm on her cheek, your thumb stroking the high line of her cheekbone. “She knows that you make me happy.”

She says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world, and maybe it is.

“Well,” you say, and you’re forgoing filth for once in your life - you’ll give her the truth, no matter how soft it’ll come out. You trust her, too. You’ll show it. “That’s all I want, baby. For you to be happy.”

Miyeon blinks up at you, her eyes a little wide and wondrous - and then she smiles.

“I know that,” she says, brilliant, radiant: there aren’t angels on Earth, you’ve heard, but you’ve got one in your hands anyway. “I know.”

So - maybe there’s a lot more to loving her than just wrecking her. You break her to put her back together; you hold her, and listen, and make her laugh. Maybe you can’t get one side without the other: you love her, and there’s the ruination, and then there’s this.

(Maybe you wouldn’t have it any other way.)

Minnie’s jaw actually drops when she sees you two - that’s the first thing.

“Why are you even awake?” Miyeon asks her, too content for her usual bite with Minnie, their banter. It’s early - you’re dropping her off on your way to work, but you had to walk her inside: it’s common courtesy, or whatever. You might have kept Miyeon as your personal cockwarmer at your apartment for forty-eight hours straight, but - hey, chivalry’s never dead.

“God damn,” Minnie says - it’s a reaction to how Miyeon looks, or maybe you, or the two of you together; it’s a toss-up - and ignores the question entirely. “Please tell me you fed her something over the weekend besides just your cum.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say; you’re used to the lack of boundaries. You get it, now, this open obscenity, the teasing: it’s Minnie approving of you, in her own weird way. “Took a lot of convincing, though. She was like-”

“Oh, here we go,” says Miyeon, rolling her eyes mildly, and already entirely tuned in to whatever performance you’re gearing up for. She’ll play her parts and play them poorly - she’s holding your hand tight, and there are really no believable façades, after that.

You’ll let her off the hook in that regard, and no other. “She’s like - no, no, you don’t even have to feed me, your bodily fluids literally work fine-”

“This is disgusting,” says Miyeon, clearly loving it. “And slanderous. I don’t even sound like that.”

“But obviously I’m like, well, I think I’m gonna have to veto that on account of not wanting your body to shut down from malnutrition, sweetheart-”

“Responsible,” notes Minnie, lips pursed to keep from laughing.

“Right?” agrees Miyeon, grinning openly, giving up all her pretense.

Here’s the second thing, or at least how it starts: Miyeon can barely walk, and is so shaky on her feet that you kiss her temple, then pass her into Minnie’s arms, endeared as Miyeon laughs at herself, tries to keep her balance.

“Thanks for bringing her back in one piece,” Minnie says to you, taking Miyeon’s arm.

There’s something about the strange, sleepy calm of the morning, the sun still rising - it’s softening the moment, turning it to something with presence, with intention. Minnie skips past the usual ribbing, maneuvers around the back-and-forth. She’s serious when she says it, and it’s maybe the first time you’ve ever seen her like this.

“Of course,” you say. “I’d never let anything happen to her.”

Minnie’s expression slants, shifts like it’s cracking open, and there’s an abrupt, blinding vulnerability there that throws you for a loop.

“Yeah,” she says, quietly - she’s not wearing makeup, not any of her usual careful, curated adornments - but her eyes, richly dark for once, are every bit as intense as they always are. She pats Miyeon’s shoulder once as she passes through the doorway, accepting rather than possessive. “I know.”

I love her, you think of saying, but you don’t. You see it in the look on Minnie’s face: this, too, is something she already knows.

There are turning points, winding streets and landmarks. Miyeon stays a few nights, stays more. Look, you know this road, know exactly where it leads - you could hook all the rights and lefts with your eyes closed. You both know exactly where you’re going.

It’s a Friday and Miyeon’s leaning on your bathroom counter, dazzling eyes squinted as she applies mascara in the mirror, runs a fingernail under her lash line, blinks once, twice. She’s in this tiny red top, light-wash jeans ripped at the knee, blonde hair loose and wavy down her back. There’s this meticulous way she inspects her own reflection, lips curling - she knows what she looks like, how people perceive her - knows she’s got the kind of face men would walk through hell for.

(Well, those men will just have to get in fucking line.)

“Anyway, Yuqi’s band - Minnie’s supposed to be the keyboardist,” Miyeon’s saying, “but she flakes out on, like, every other gig. I took piano lessons for a while when I was younger, so I’m the next best option, or something - I fill in whenever she bails.”

There’s a show next week - apparently it’s this recurring theme, the band drama, except no one can ever stay mad at Minnie despite her being notoriously unreliable. Somehow, she’s still in the band, and no one has the heart to kick her out. You won’t pretend to know the politics of musical performance.

“I’m coming,” you say, and it’s one thing that’s not up for debate.

Miyeon meets your gaze in the mirror, eyebrows raising. “Well,” she says, mirth threading her tone, like it’d been obvious, unspoken: like she’d prefer you to be in all parts of her life, out there cheering her on. Like she’ll always do the same for you - it isn’t even a question. “I’d hope so. Okay, it’s at Club Cosmic-”

“The strip club?”

“Hey.” Miyeon’s mouth flicks up at the corners. “Burlesque club. Show them some respect.”

“Classy joint, then?” You’ve never been; you wouldn’t know.

“Oh, totally.”

She tips into your arms, won’t let you smudge her lipstick - you settle for your hand at the nape of her neck, instead, thumb tangling in a curl. She looks at you, and you’re both so far gone, so far ahead: you’ll make your jumps sooner rather than later. You’re always here for me, her gorgeous eyes say, like some reckoning - let me do something for you. Let me even the score.

“So,” you say. “There’s actually - so, I’ve been writing this story.”

“I’m aware,” says Miyeon, bemused.

“Right,” you say - this is your push, your leap - you’re falling, and Miyeon’s smiling at you like there’s never been a risk to it, never a single threat. You’re so far from where you started. You’re so close to so much more.

“Well, then,” you say, and that’s the thing about trust: when it goes both ways, it’s everything. “Do you want to read it?”

(She’s smiling at you, and it’s like you already have all the answers.)

See, there’s a practicality to the choice: that’s one part of it. Miyeon’s almost obsessively well-versed in literature - she’ll pore over thick novels just as easily as she’ll run through screenplays, dozens on articles on films she loves - and she reads just as much as you do, so you trust her judgment implicitly. In any other situation, she’d still be a perfect first reader; she’d be fair, she’d be great.

“It’s rough,” you warn her, beforehand. “It’s finished, but - it’s messy.”

Miyeon laughs, and you think of your story, how every line is punctuated with a feeling, an emotion, a passion - you think of the way she says I’m yours like it’s this immutable fact, this law of the universe. It’s all there. If she reads it, it’s all out there - and it should make you want to run, but it doesn’t.

“Don’t worry,” she says, and her fingers tangle in yours. “That doesn’t scare me.”

(The other part is that - ah, there’s nuance, there’s subtext. You trust her to pick up on all of that, too.)

You’re on all the right roads, rocketing down highways, but here’s one last detour: you tell her that weekend that you have to go into work to pick up some papers you left behind, and Miyeon offers to join you.

“I haven’t seen the school since I graduated,” she says, lips puckering. “I mean, it’d be so cool to see it again.”

“Uh-huh,” you say. There’s an angle here that you’ll choose to ignore - she’s plotting, and you’ll let her. “Well, it’s a weekend, so no one’ll be there - I can bring you if you really want to go.”

“Oh,” says Miyeon, and there’s that mind of hers: pretty, fucked up, taking fate by the throat and throttling it, making it hers and hers alone. You and she should’ve never happened, by any metric, any measure of morality or common sense - but you’re happening anyway, and she’s already miles ahead. “Isn’t that convenient?”

(It’s a detour, but you two already know where you’re going. It’s a moot point. You think everyone else must already know, too.)

You’ll take it to instincts: call it an accident, call it a fluke, call it bullshit. You’ll think of the first time you saw her in that bar, saw all the enticing lines of her body and knew you should never, ever cross them - there’s the glint of her smile like caution tape, the stunning eyes like stoplights - but you ignored all the warnings, so you’re here. Sure - actions, consequences. It’s her, and you’re paying every price.

“Wow.” Miyeon’s leaning against the corner of your desk, surveying the empty classroom. Even having her here again - and everything’s different, she’s blonde and she’s not your student and you’ve fucked her into oblivion a hundred times - is still getting you tense, riled. “It looks exactly the same.”

She’s in a big sweatshirt, one of yours. Her hair’s down, her shoes black and shiny. You’re entirely aware that this is dangerous territory, but you’re never gonna be able to pull yourself away.

“Stop,” you say, at your desk chair.

Miyeon glances over at you, all feigned innocence. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Your tone, princess.” You’re opening up one of your desk drawers, trying not to look at her too closely. “You’re forgetting how well I know you.”

You’re right on the edge of it; you’re calling her princess in the exact place the nickname was born, you’re shutting your drawer to stare at her mouth, her thighs. Eternal damnation’s calling your name, Satan’s right over your shoulder - or she’s perched on your desk, ready to eat you alive, fangs bared and raring to bite.

“And you’re forgetting how well I know you.” Miyeon steps around your desk, tilts her head - here’s Eve with the snake, here’s the definition of temptation. “You don’t want me to stop.” Her eyes are dark, devilish: you’ve got all this power over her, but sometimes you misjudge how goddamn mutual it can be until she’s in front of you, her slender legs like satin, finger tracing the zipper of her sweatshirt. “You brought me here. You knew what you were doing.”

You did, but you’ll die before you admit it. That’s the thing about a power play: when you and Miyeon are on opposite sides, there’s no backing down for either of you.

“You’re the one who wanted to come,” you say, and the tension’s unbearable, intoxicating; it’ll blow the roof off, it’ll shatter the windows.

“Huh,” she contemplates, like it’s just dawned on her. The suspense is a bomb in the room, ticking: you wait any longer and it’ll turn you both to dust. “You know - I guess you’re right.”

And then she tugs her zipper down, and it’s every single abominable sin wrapped up into one.

There aren’t even words for it, how she looks: she’s in this profanely fitted white polo, cap-sleeved and with too many buttons undone - and it’s so thin, it’s not hiding a damn thing - and there’s a tie, too, black and loose around the collar - and the skirt, pleated and plaid and so short the hem of her hoodie had covered it, so you hadn’t known, so you can’t even speak-

It’s this bastardization of a school uniform, defiling the very fucking concept of it.

“Miyeon,” you get out - and then there’s nothing else.

(Oh - it’s a lost cause, and you can’t say you weren’t expecting exactly what she’s giving you. There she is, that’s your girl: that’s your one-way ticket to hell, ready to throw herself right into your arms.)

“This is really fucked up,” you manage, finally, voice hoarse, guttural.

“Sure,” allows Miyeon, slipping out of the sweatshirt, tossing it to the desk. “But you love it.”

She even moves like sin itself, slow and deliberate as she stands in front of you, between your legs - she rests her fingers at your shoulders, thumb scraping down the side of your neck as if she’s seconds from ripping out your jugular. It’s the outfit - the classroom - the knowing way she’s looking at you, like she can sense how close you are to losing your shit, to tearing her apart.

“Come on, sir.” You’re right on the road to death’s door and she’s taking you there, she’s got her finger on the pulse, she knows all the right buttons to push - she’s so tiny and there’s all that fucking power, in her eyes, her blown pupils, her hand sliding downwards to grip your cock through your pants. “See - oh, you’re so hard.”

Miyeon squeezes, and she’s all smooth, all seduction, but what really gets you is the way the muscles at her throat constrict on a swallow, a needy desperation that she’s trying her hardest to hide - and the only reason you spot it is because you know her. You know every inch of that body, every minute reaction: she wants to be fucked so bad, she’s barely keeping it together.

“So hard for me,” she murmurs, and her tongue darts out, sweeps her full bottom lip. “It’s turning you on to think about fucking your favorite student, yeah?” There’s the rapid rise and fall of her chest: the things she can’t hide, the dead giveaways. “Thinking about filling up my tight little cunt with your cock?” There’s the corner of her mouth, tugged upwards, but the point’s not sharp enough for a smirk. “You’re gonna go insane if you can’t have me.”

It’s the taunt in it, it’s the way she says favorite student - it’s so fucked, and she needs you, and you know it-

In a quick, vicious motion, you’re reaching out and trapping her delicate wrist in your hand. Miyeon inhales so sharply that she almost chokes, cheeks suddenly, violently flushed, eyelids fluttering; she’s so close to breaking, and you haven’t even done anything yet.

“Actually,” you say - oh, you’re giving in, you’re absolutely going to hell - and you’re sure everyone saw this coming. It’s Cho Miyeon, and it’s you, and you can’t resist her - you’ll repeat history; you’ll make moves and you’ll never, ever learn from them. “I think you’re the one who’s gonna go insane if you can’t have me.” You tighten your grip - the whimper she makes is like a melody, the way she trembles in place like some obscene piece of cinema. “Look at you - you’re barely even breathing. That’s how bad you need to get fucked, princess.”

Miyeon tries to hold your gaze, tries to breathe in, out: it takes so much visible effort for her not to just collapse on the spot, to start begging and pleading for your cock, your cum - she’s still pretending like she’s got the upper hand.

You’ll show her that she’s never been more wrong. “You need to be taught a lesson, huh?”

“Maybe I do,” bites out Miyeon, and it’s taking all her energy to even manage words. “You’re my teacher, aren’t you? Isn’t that your fucking job?”

The tension fills the room, suffocating both of you, cloying like smoke in your lungs - you stare, can’t believe her god damn nerve - it fills, and it’s asphyxiating, and then all at once it snaps.

In no time flat you’re out of your seat, you’ve got Miyeon bent over your desk and her panties down her thighs, both her wrists wrapped tight in one of her fists - you’re never exactly gentle with her while you’re fucking her within an inch of her life, but there’s something different about this, feral, animalistic - she never pushes you like this. It’s the plaid skirt, it’s the environment; shit, it’s not like it matters: you’ll fuck the attitude right out of her.

It’s only seconds and then you’ve got your cock out, you’re bottoming out inside her cunt - “In case you forgot who the fuck you belong to,” you snarl, low at her neck, emphasize it with a thrust: “I’m the one who makes the rules, princess. I’m the one who owns this pussy.” You bring your other hand down hard on her ass, and she squeals, she’s already bordering tears - you’re gonna leave bruises on her wrists with how hard you’re gripping them. “Are you proud of yourself? You goaded me into fucking you in my classroom, in your slutty little uniform - does that make you feel good?”

Even if Miyeon wanted to respond, she can’t - her cheek is pressed to the wood grain of your desk, and she’s whining, sobbing, moaning - and you’re laying your claim to her, you’re destroying her cunt - that’s what this feeling is: it’s so destructive. You were her teacher years ago and you’re right back where you started. She’s in uniform, you’re railing her wet, leaking pussy, she’s been your student and now she’s acting like it: it’s sick, it’s hot, it’ll cave in the walls and leave the doors to purgatory yawning wide open, waiting for the both of you-

“Sir,” Miyeon’s blubbering, as if it’s the only thing she remembers how to say. “Sir, sir, sir-”

(Well, at least you’ll be together. At least you’ll know there’s nowhere else that'll suit you and Miyeon quite so perfectly.)

“Cum-” Miyeon’s choking out, like her own words are strangling her. “Cum - sir, please, please, I need - cum inside me, please-”

Time slips away when you’re with her, inside her - you’re too enamored with the devil in the details, in her black tie by her mouth and spit-soaked, in her tears ruining her mascara for the millionth time - and it still all gives you this novel rush of satisfaction, of pride. You’re fucking her and you’re fucking her up. You know exactly how you got here and you still can’t fathom how it happened so fast. You’re gonna cum so soon - but for once in your life, you're not gonna give Miyeon what she wants.

“Not a fucking chance,” you say, venomous, right at her ear. “Only good girls get to be bred.”

Now it’s your turn to switch gears, to shock her: you pull out of her and her limp body collapses to the floor, her legs askew underneath her. Miyeon cries out, and doesn’t even have time to plead, to repent: she’s sprawled on the linoleum beneath you, her pussy dripping and her plaid skirt hiked up around her hips, and then she’s looking up at you, baleful, doe-eyed, staring at how you’re jerking your cock in your fist-

Your cum splatters all over her face.

For a few heavy seconds - there’s been so much sex in the air, the slick sounds and noises, and now it’s wall-to-wall with this unearthly quiet, and you’re not even sure you’re still breathing - there’s this slackness to Miyeon’s elegant features, debased with sticky, creamy white: her mouth is open, the picture of sudden surprise, and there’s globs of your cum on her bottom lip, on her cheeks, on her right eyelid from where both eyes have fluttered shut. She’s frozen, some absolutely filthy marble statue, some pinnacle of degenerate artwork - you’ve glazed her gorgeous face in your cum, and she doesn’t move an inch. She’s so still that you aren’t sure if she’s breathing, either.

Her mouth closes.

You hold your breath while you watch her, mesmerized-

And then Miyeon’s lips tilt to this dreamy, satisfied little smile.

“God,” she exhales, and skims a thumb across her eyelid, blinks her Bambi eyes open a beat later - and then she’s just staring at the cum on her finger. It doesn’t take long - an instant and she’s got her tongue lapping at her thumb, and she’s grinning around it, still, beaming dumbly as she slurps your cum off of her own hand.

“Miyeon,” you mumble, and each syllable is shot.

“Sir,” she says, and she sounds just as wrecked as you do.

Slowly - you’d swear she’s on display, it’s performance art, she’s behind glass and showing off for all the prying eyes - she drags her slender fingers through the cum on her cheekbones, across the sloping bridge of her nose. It goes right in her eager mouth, and you’d think she’d been starving; it’s all hungry, kittenish licks as she cleans your semen off of her skin, tidying up her face meticulously, indulgently.

There’s a pause. There’s still cum on one of her eyebrows, on her chin, under a heavy-lidded, sated eye.

Miyeon asks, quietly, “Is it in my hair?”

There’s no dancing around it: it’s all over her - it’s all the build-up, it’s how you’re sure you’ve never cum faster, how you’ve lost all sense of time - in her blonde hair, sticking to the soft line of her jaw, soaking into the fabric of that sheer white polo-

“Sir,” Miyeon asks, again, in that same tremulous voice. “Did you cum in my hair?”

“Yeah,” you say, almost croaking - you can barely get it out. “It’s - yeah. Yeah.”

There’s that otherworldly quiet, again - she could be furious, but you know her, know the silence is born from something else entirely - and then one of her hands is on top of your desk, searching.

“Please,” Miyeon says, almost shuddering with the effort, the desire, and her knees slide up to her chest; you don’t realize what she’s looking for until her palm slaps your phone screen. “Can you - I want to see, can you-”

It’s like you’re on autopilot. You take your phone from the desk, and when you turn back Miyeon’s fingers have slipped between her thighs - there’s all these wet, vulgar sounds as she sinks one finger inside herself, then two, her cheeks pink, drool collecting at the corner of her mouth - she’s all desperation, complete carnal need.

(You don’t ask what she wants, because you already know.)

It’s all in front of you, the perfect, shameless snapshot. It’s so flawless a scene it might as well be scripted, practiced: her knees are parted, her hair covered in ropes of your cum - you open the camera on your phone, you point it right at her - her tie off-kilter, her fingers sloppy and soaked as they pump in and out of her pussy-

She’s filthy; she's yours, and no one else's. You aim your camera at her, and that’s all it really takes: you’re getting all the proof you need of exactly who Miyeon belongs to.

You flip your phone around, show her the photo - and her reaction is fucking unholy.

It’s this visceral, full-body trembling that passes through her - and you know what she’s seeing: her in this depravedly slutty uniform, her dripping with your semen, her greedily finger-fucking her cunt, her tear-filled eyes and her wet, pretty mouth - and all at once she’s gasping, panting, like something in her can’t reconcile how shattered she actually looks when she’s like this, how she’s textbook corruption, taking purity and polluting every meaning of the word-

“You like seeing yourself like that, princess?” You can’t believe this girl - can’t believe she’s even real. “Covered in my cum?”

Miyeon’s nodding wildly, strands of her blonde hair sticking to her face, tripping over her own pace as she fucks herself. Her eyes flick shut, open, keep landing on that photo of her: you don’t think she’ll ever get over it.

“Come on, baby.” You’re standing, and there’s that dynamic - she’s crumpled on the floor beneath you, not an ounce of composure, losing her mind as she drips all over her own hand. You’re not even touching her, and yet she’s looking from that picture to you, fast, manic, waiting for permission, a green light, an open door. You won’t mind giving it to her. “Make yourself cum for me."

It’s an order in your mouth, and her fingers in her cunt, and she can’t do anything but obey.

When Miyeon cums, the way she looks is fucking pornographic - and it’s the sex, the setting, the photo on your phone as it slips from your hand and clatters to the ground - all of it: it decimates her. There’s something so dirty about you above her, watching her: small and spent on the classroom floor, limbs all limp and useless, doing exactly what you tell her and nothing else.

“I-” she tries to say, wrought with the aftermath, and it’s garbled, it’s nonsense. This is the sweetest part - how any orgasm leads straight to incoherency. “I - Jesus fuck, I…”

Miyeon looks at you, and she’s still a disaster, helpless. She holds both her arms out to you, bottom lip wobbling: it’s an offering, a request for salvation. Oh, she's the most provocative angel you've ever seen, you'll give her that - you refused her once and you'll never manage it again.

“Alright, baby,” you say, and you’re laughing. She’s so cute - and suddenly, the indecency fogging up the room begins to filter out just from the look in her eyes. “Come here.”

You lean down to pull her up by her elbows, settle you both back into your chair. Miyeon curls into your lap, catlike, inexplicably, immediately comfortable. Your phone’s still on the ground: that incriminating picture dims before the screen goes dark from disuse; that’s another step. You’re sitting in hell, flames licking up the walls, consuming - you’ll let them take you. You’re holding her and there’s no place you’d rather be.

Miyeon’s nose bumps your neck, and she’s covered in cum, tears, sweat: there’s nothing right about this moment, not to any higher power. Neither of you are ever seeing heaven, but she’s all yours - no afterlife could give you anything better.

You’re not sure how long it takes before she speaks again, but then she does.

“It’s you.” It’s only a murmur, halting, like Miyeon’s right on the edge of some epiphany, and you’re not sure she’ll even remember saying it later. “I think - for me - I think it was always going to be you.”

(It’s probably morally reprehensible, or whatever - but you’ve got her here with you. There’s nothing that’ll ever matter more than that.)

“So, listen,” Miyeon says, once she’s at least partially recovered. “There were some implications going on there.”

“Uh,” you say, unsure where this is going. “I’d say that’s sort of an understatement.”

“I seem to recall you alluding to me being a bad girl around ten minutes ago, give or take.” Ah, here’s her angle. She’s listing her sources - she’d bring out footnotes, citations; she’d take it to visual aids, if need be. Okay, maybe she’s not completely out of character. “For example-”

“Jesus Christ,” you say, one arm around her waist, thoroughly entertained.

“I’m gonna quote you on this - ‘only good girls get to be bred’. Right? You said that? So - because you didn’t end up cumming inside me, I think making the inference that you were calling me a bad girl in that moment is, like - it’s pretty logical, pretty reasonable-”

“Okay - good God, Miyeon, you can tone it down.”

“No, I’m not even playing into the student thing right now, babe. I’m dead serious.”

“You’re obnoxious.”

“You’re fucking obsessed with me,” points out Miyeon, smiling sweetly, and she’s so right, she’s never once been wrong. “Are you gonna let me make my case now?”

“You don’t have a case,” you point out, and you’re even more right than she is: that’s the two of you in a nutshell, always raising the stakes, always the devil’s advocate - going up to bat for hell and winning. “You just want me to call you my good girl again.”

Miyeon shrugs, caught and unabashed - she’s got nothing to hide from you and she knows it. “Possibly,” she says, tries for coy and veers entirely off-course; she’s grinning too wide, her gorgeous eyes crinkled up, the faint dimple in her cheek winking at you. She’ll debate for the fun of it. She never seems to mind losing to you.

“Possibly?” you echo, endeared, hand in her still-ruined hair.

The mess, the sweat: you’ll handle it all. You’ll take her home, you’ll clean her up. See, you already both know what’s next - sex isn’t where it ends so much as it’s a gateway: it’s an open door, it’s the beginning of everything. You fucked her until she sobbed, and now she’s making you laugh, and you’re gonna take her back to your place and hold her until you both fall asleep: there’s a story in that too, you think. There are hundreds.

“Can you really blame me?” Miyeon’s got her hand at your jaw, got her heart in her eyes, adoration with nothing to do but fill the room. There’s the dirtiest things you could do to her, and then there’s the way she looks at you: talk about underlying themes, context clues. She’s in your lap and there’s a bigger narrative tucked away in the wings, just aching to reveal itself - there's a time and a place; it'll get its turn.

It’s just like you said: there’s the ruination - the sex, the obscenity, the rough shit, the old tricks and nicknames and games - and then there’s this, hiding under it all. Everything’s so clear when you’re seeing it in the light.

“I’m yours,” Miyeon says, and she’s grinning like it’s the only true thing either of you have ever known. “I like hearing you say it out loud.”

(It’s not like it is in all the novels. It’s not a fairytale, and you’re not sure anyone here to witness it would categorize it as anything close to romance - but you have her, so you understand what they don’t: something doesn’t have to be romantic for you to know it’s love.)

It’s your own detour to wind your way out of, but you’re not doubling back on any of it - there’s that road, stretching out in front of you. There’s only one thing both of you want, and by some wholly sacrilegious miracle, you already have it.

Miyeon’s in the passenger seat of your car, again, just like all those times before - the sun’s streaming through the windshield, turning her dark eyes warm, honeyed: you'll think of hearths, you'll think of home. She's with you, and you're already there.

“You are mine, you know,” you tell her.

There's something different about it, saying it here: during sex, it's all possession, all power - it's getting your hand in her hair and tugging, it's using her like you've got your name branded to her body - but now you're not, and you're driving her back to your place, and she's wrapped in your sweatshirt, her face tipped towards the setting sun like something out of a movie scene. It feels gentler: care, connection, hope. It feels like you should kiss her at stop signs and red lights, let her laugh into each one - oh, they're clichés, you know that; it's a film you've seen before. Well, you know what they say about fiction: there's nothing sweeter. You'll emulate it. You'll say exactly what you mean.

“I’m yours, too,” you add, tilt it, attempt to go for humor, attempt to make it lighter. “In case I don’t say it enough.”

“Oh, that,” says Miyeon, vague and fond, and her eyes have fallen shut - she doesn’t even have to look at you to confirm it. It’s then, that it hits you, a tidal wave crashing overhead: there’s not a single thing she’s more sure of than the way that you feel about her.

“It’s okay,” she tells you, and she’s smiling. There’s the glittering sunset - the sea, evening itself out, finally reaching the shore. “I think I’ve known that forever.”

She spends the night at your place, falls asleep in your arms. She’s made a home out of your apartment, your bed, your heart. She’s the kind of girl people wax poetic about like they’re getting paid for it; you aren’t, and you will, anyway.

Miyeon’s in between your sheets, her body pressed against you, and for once there’s no suggestion, no innuendo. It’s you, and it’s her, and it’s the kind of love that has paragraphs flickering in bedside lamps, covering the ceiling, sewing itself on the forefront of your mind - it’s the kind of love that inspires invention, creation. There’s nothing closer to heaven than that.

The writing’s on the wall, really. There’s only one way this can end.

“Hey,” says Miyeon, the morning after. “I need to talk to you about something.”

If it were anyone else - any other relationship, any other guy facing down a pretty girl proposing a serious discussion - those words would've set off wailing sirens, sent men running; you get it, you do. It's just that it's not the same, and it never is, with you and her: Miyeon's on the edge of your bed, legs tucked underneath her, tiny and soft in one of your faded t-shirts, looking at you like you hung the moon just for her. There's no threat: you're so far past that.

“Sure,” you say, sit up - she scoots towards you, knees pressing to your calves. "What's up?"

“So.” Miyeon's smile tilts a bit lopsided, a bit too tender for her usual flawlessness. Her pale neck's littered with purpling hickeys, her blonde hair a little messy; there's early light coming through your cracked blinds, turning her to a goddess, bathing her in gold. “I finished reading your story.”

It should be a killing blow - a bid for anxiety, kickstarting your heart into high gear - but it lands so, so softly. It’s her. You’re not afraid of a damn thing.

“And what’d you think?” you ask, hooking your thumb into the hem of her shirt - your shirt - tugging her close. You barely need to ask; she’s radiant, her sparkling eyes putting the sunrise to shame. You know the look. You know how long it’s been there.

“Well,” Miyeon says. “I think that you’re in love with me.”

(See, here it is, a moment straight out of cinema: let it all fall back on clichés, on swelling violins, on a laugh and a kiss and a happily ever after - oh, you'll give up talks of hell and heaven; maybe this is what you both deserve. Maybe you'll take it - just grab her hand and run.)

"Look at you," you say - you're so breathless, you're playing it off so badly - you skim her waist, and watch as she goes soft at your touch. "Noticing all the subtext."

Sure, there’s that thing you said about her being the best student you’ve ever had, about loving literature, about being able to read between the lines - but there's this, too, the real truth: no one understands you like she does. It wouldn't matter what you wrote - she's reading it, and she knows your mind like she knows her own, and there's nothing left that you'd ever want to hide.

“Yeah.” Miyeon goes for a sigh, a valiant attempt at nonchalance. It'd probably be more effective if she wasn't beaming the way she is, stealing sunlight just to keep it in her smile. "Which would probably be, like, super fucking awkward, but - I'm in love with you too, so I guess you get a pass."

There's something about it, something that knocks the air clean out of your lungs - and you've known it this whole time, but it's so different when she says it out loud - and there's something in the glimmer of her irises, love threatening to pour out of her and never stop, contained only by some grace of some god and nothing less - you don't know how the room's intact, how the sky hasn't fallen, how time hasn't stopped just to watch her: she's everything, you want to say, and you will, you swear - something about this moment, about everything slipping right into place-

“You love me,” you say, stunned, struck dumb.

“Obviously.”

“I love you,” you tell her, because you can’t help yourself.

“Believe it or not, that’s actually even more obvious.”

There's that haphazard front of hers: Miyeon's trying to keep it snarky, sarcastic, but her arms are looped around your neck, and it's a battle she's already lost. She’s seconds from letting it all go, pressing your mouth to yours, saying I love you, saying you’re mine, saying there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you and I mean it.

It’s in those eyes: you see it. She’s so close.

“Princess,” you say, smiling like you'll never stop, and that’s all she needs to break.

Her blush is instant - so is the way she's kissing you. "Shut up," she exhales into your mouth, and she's giggling - your hands are in her hair, and she's almost in your lap - and her fingers trap your cheeks, claim you as her own. She's so vibrant she puts every other pretty thing to static, background noise; the world mutes itself, paints her as the focal point. "Shut up. You knew how I felt this whole time, didn't you?"

There's always space to take a joke as far as she'll let you. “Well, sure. It was the sex that tipped me off, you know: way too intense to be casual. I realized somewhere down the line that you had to love me at least a little bit.”

“Oh, really?” Miyeon's catching your tone, calling your bluff. Every single front's crumbling, worthless with what they're up against. "That's what it was, then?"

“No,” you admit, giving it up - you always will. “It’s because it’s you. I don’t know anyone better than I know you.”

You've been a writer for what feels like forever; you've penned every feeling to death and then some, dreamt up every figure of speech, every possible convoluted phrase. It's just that you've never felt anything like this before - call it fate and it's not enough, call it love and it is, but it's more. You'll never be able to put it into words - you'll spend the rest of your life trying.

(You'll be just fine if you don't find it. You feel it, and it's all you need. You'll be alright.)

You don't know when it happened, but there's a sheen in Miyeon's eyes - she's got your face in her hands, she's got your heart and made it her home - and you don't think there's ever been anyone so breathtaking, so happy, so alive.

"I love you," she says - oh, there's a declaration, a confession fit for the classics. You stroke Miyeon's jaw, and her tears don't fall, and her voice is thick, and she's smiling so wide. "I really love you. Like-" Miyeon's laughter breaks her sentence, and the sound's like music - you swear the universe goes silent just to listen in. "Fuck. This is really - this is kind of fucking crazy. What are we supposed to say when people ask how we met? I mean - god, people are gonna think we're insane-"

“I don’t care,” you say, blunt, and the laugh you earn from her is irresistible - even if you spend the rest of your life hearing it, you don't think it'd be enough. “I love you. What else matters?”

There's no need to say it out loud: you already both know the answer. Miyeon leans in, touches her forehead to yours, eyelids slipping shut. "Say it again."

“I love you." You kiss her, because you have to - she's right there, and she's beautiful, and she's yours. “We don’t need anything more than that.”

There's a pause here for a final score, an epilogue, a closing scene - it's there, but it never comes. Maybe the only way this can end is for it not to end at all.

"You and me," muses Miyeon, and it's an echo from nights ago, a line of poetry she'd left hanging - she'll wrap up every loose thread, write it all just for you. You'll have more. You've got all that road ahead of you, and her by your side: there's not a single conclusion in sight. "We're gonna be really good together, huh?"

"Baby," you tell her, grinning, and it's only just the beginning. "I think we already are."

thank you all for 600+ notes on the first part... hope you enjoyed <3

#kpop smut #kpop fanfic #idol x male reader #idol x reader #gidle smut #male reader #reader insert #miyeon smut

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