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missgeniality · 3 years

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Opaline Moon (m)

“The Moon can never breathe, but it can take our breath away with the beauty of its cold, arid orb.” - Munia Khan

➺ Banner: @hobiandsprite 💕

➺ Pairing: Seokjin x Female Reader

➺ Trope: Friends to Lovers, Idol!AU

➺ Genre: Angst, Smut, Fluff

➺ Rating: 18+

➺ Word Count: 11.2k

➺ Summary: You are ingrained to love Jin, right upto the blood that courses through your veins. Confessing, however, is a whole other game. So it’s a good thing you’re bad at keeping your hands to yourself, because happenstance can handle the rest.

➺ Warnings: talks about dance floor fucking, making out in the bar bathroom, fingering, pussy slapping, passing out drunk, daydreams about thigh riding, reader masturbates, they make out A LOT, neck kissing, a hickey, nipple play, some biting, cum eating (kind of, you’ll see), blowjob, protected sex!, reader and jin are corny, the hurt is real but the sex is real-er

➺ Author’s Note: My lovely, lovely moots - @taegularities, @kithtaehyung and @baepsaetan, thank you so much for betaing this and hyping it up, your comments made this fic a hundred times better! As I mentioned on the teaser, this fic took a lot out of me, but I thoroughly enjoyed writing the angst and will write more whenever the story aligns! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing, and I hope this lovable Jin reaches your heart! (ngl, in usual fashion, I will come back and edit it again, so if you see a spelling mistake, your eyes are lying to you) Do let me know what you think, your asks and comments make my day!

This is the second part of my Dress Down series, find more at it’s masterlist!

ɴᴀᴠɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ | ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

Sweltering heat. Blaring traffic. Little to no sleep. Through all things wrong, one man’s thoughts wrapped around you like a cooling breeze, a shield to protect you from the vicissitudes of reality, to draw you back into all of him. Unfortunately, your reality may never see that day come to light.

Kim Seokjin.

Kim Seokjin, the man who cooked you up a greasy break-up meal at three in the morning with not a sight of discomfort, putting your needs above all.

Kim Seokjin, whose puns make you roll your eyes heavenward, half awed at how he manages to pull one out of his collection at a moment's notice, and half irked by the untimely laugh it brings out of you.

Kim Seokjin, the man who will never be yours, and you have no one to blame but yourself.

One could argue that the miscommunication that had caused this present condition was two-way. If you had stopped him, corrected him, let him know the truth… you wouldn’t have to resort to the extreme measures you’re currently entangled in. One would also say, you are trying to redeem your mistake by trying too hard. Surely, everyone and their mothers could see through your ruse.

This is the fourth time you’re visiting Jin for his BE shoot - a shoot taking place two hours away from the city, disguised under various layers of secrecy to prevent any leakage of the album concept, or Jin in general. Of course, you had been made privy to such exclusive information, because you and Jin were ‘best friends’.

Best. Friends.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Best friends. The term you coined for (and forced upon) the bond you had. The bond that was too close to sprouting into something new, something fresh, something that was filled with glimmering allure and dragged you in like quicksand. But also, it reeked of commitment, of shadows, of newness that you hadn’t felt in the longest time, and fear of already being far too deep in without even taking the first step.

The loud thrum of some internet kid’s new hit pulses through the air of the club as bundles of couples occupy the dance floor, laughing and gyrating to a song that, in your opinion, most definitely does not suit gyrating. But with enough of the weekend happy hours intake combined with hormone-riddled minds, one could very well throw it back to a church choir.

You weave through the drunken bodies, trying not to spill the precariously held three drinks in your hands, making your way to your inner circle, the only people to blame for dragging you to this slosh-fest.

“Y/N!”

Somehow Hoseok’s voice can echo across the club, but you didn’t even need his addressal because Jin’s laughter is loud enough to navigate anyone to your table. Seeing you struggle with the glasses (and mostly the crowd, with some of them living their exhibitionist dreams), Hoseok gets up to assist you.

“I swear, if I see one more couple pretending to be dancing as they rub one off of each other’s thighs, the black market will have my eyes.”

“Oh yeah?” Jin’s breathy voice interjects your black-market dreams, still bursting in short laughs from whatever sent him rolling before your arrival. “Why don’t you go join them?”

“And whose thigh is she taking, yours?” Yeji snorts out, one hand holding her nebula blue drink, the other wrapped around Hoseok, urging him to come closer. Jin’s features scrunch into a cringe, and you’re thankful for the dim lighting because the disappointment in your features does not reach them.

“The only action these leather pants are getting is in the damned laundromat,” he points to his shiny trousers, “some jerk dropped his drink on it.”

“You could be the first person to give some chick an orgasm and a yeast infection.” Hoseok giddily adds, his fifth shot clearly making a mess of his brain cells.

Jin claps and gets up to move away from the group. “Better than a pregnancy!” he yells, before zigzagging through the crowd, possibly to the restroom. He is on his third cocktail, and you’d think cocktails are lighter drinks. But in this bar, their taps just seem to flow with tequila, and it is very evident in the way Jin is currently walking.

His absence hits you harder than you think, but it might be the alcohol talking. Jin has always been the mood-maker of the group, the one who brings everyone together. Of late though, his magnetic persona has been an irritant in your life. Any outing you two take, any chance you have to come clean about the burgeoning crush you have on him, is effectively disrupted by one of his posse. And today, Hoseok and Yeji took that trophy.

“Earth to Y/N. Has the cocktail finally broken you?”

You flutter your eyes in a manic fashion, to disperse the daydream you were indulging yourself in, and bring your attention back to the couple calling for you. Surprisingly, they have stood up, Yeji emptying the last of her neon drink.

“What happened?”

“We are going to the club nearby, they have better stuff. And that’s code for ‘they actually add water to the drink and the surround sound doesn’t shatter your ear drum’.’”

She isn’t wrong. The cocktails and music here are a 19-year-old frat party dream, not something the working class can digest. But you’re tired at this point, and don’t want to be smothered by someone else’s love life when your own is down the dumps.

“You guys carry on! I’ll tell Jin where you are and he’ll meet you there!”

You watch as Hoseok and Yeji lead each other to the exit, hands circling their partner’s waist. They giggle on and on, about nothing and everything, and it only hardens the emptiness you feel inside you.

Why can’t you gather the balls to spit your feelings out? What could possibly go wrong? Yes, you may lose one of your closest friends, but is this friendship really worth the agony? The bitterness you feel when you see any couple enjoying themselves? The anger you harbor whenever Jin tells you about his dates? The heartache, when he hugs you and tells you that you’re the best thing that’s happened to him… as a friend? Is it? Your plastered brain tells you to not make any rash decisions, so you don’t, instead choosing to get up and search for your best friend.

The corridor leading to the washrooms is dimly lit, throwing a merlot filter over your eyesight, making you squint in search of your friend. You being shitfaced does not help, and while relishing in your floating wooziness, you see Jin come out, and feelings you’ve held at bay for so long slither through your currently porous defenses.

He has always been good-looking. He himself has said so a dozen times.

But wow.

His hair lays messily atop his beautiful face, unkempt, like a breeze of beauty swept across his mighty looks and displaced every strand, causing disarray, but even the disarray only frames his superior looks and adds to its potent charm. The black, patchy sweater hanging loose off his broad shoulders makes you feel things you shouldn’t feel as a friend. That stupid gut of yours is currently screaming, yelling for all hands on deck, trying to block all the feelings from gushing in and sending you into overdrive.

By the time you can gather yourself to stop from giving in to those dangerous thoughts, Jin has crossed the distance between you, coming close, too close. Chocolate-brown eyes peer into your soul, searching for whichever fantasy you chose to lose yourself in. His eyes flit down to notice your rumpled dress that has found its way a couple of inches above its designated spot. His gaze returns to yours, but not without a newfound hardness, an almost steely glaze over the kindness that you usually find in the chocolate pools, accentuated under the garnet lighting.

“Hey, umm…” You beg for a reprieve, from your thoughts, from your filthy mind, from the way he is eyeing your cleavage, or just for the burning between your legs. You’re about to make some serious mistakes, you can feel it down to your bone.

You’re far too overdressed.

You knew it when you were in the process of getting dressed, but right now, you feel it much more - you look like a shiny disco ball orbiting amidst the plethora of loose tees, leggings and flannels. Everything screams comfort, because the amount of work they’re putting into this begs for it.

The strappy lace sundress you wear is extremely out of place, the halter-neck tie behind your neck fastened a little looser than necessary, giving your breasts the exposure they deserve, a nice valley view. Your dress skirt, adorned with pretty frills and dainty flowers, cut across your thigh to frame your petite hips. You are one floppy sun hat away from an extravagant Greek cruise - and in the moment you wish you had one to hide your face in shame.

You’re just out here, trying to escape the zone.

“Oh, would you look at the time, it’s tits out Tuesday already?”

Your eyes roll before Sanghoon even finishes his sentence, because you wouldn’t expect anything else from him. On the team of the set design, he is carrying a whole drapery worth of plush, mauve curtains, struggling with the slipping fabric. But apparently not struggling enough to stop him from getting his nose into your business, it seems.

“Literally not even a time you just mentioned. Can’t get one thing right.” You can’t stop yourself from stretching a hand out to feel the curtain fabric, the satiny sheets begging to be touched. Before you can though, Sanghoon moves away, not allowing you to shift the focus of the conversation.

“Don’t steer away from the facts. Your tits.”

“That’s the fact?”

“They’re out.” He bucks up, trying to point with the hand stuffed underneath all the cloth. “That’s the fact.”

“Ugh, can’t a girl dress up once in a while?” The pointed attention makes you uncomfortable, because everything he’s insinuating is true. With every passing staff member, you count a new shade of grey, interspersed with occasional blacks and greens, a stark contrast to your floral overtones. Amidst the thousand footsteps taken in your vicinity, only yours are pointed heels, echoing across the studio with every clack. But you’re a stubborn one, refusing to give in to his totally valid argument. “I just woke up early.”

“Girl.” Like light through frosted glass, he sees through your bullshit, but only partially. “You put an alarm to dress up? I have nightmares of the boss brandishing her whip and telling me to get into position, and even that doesn’t wake me up.”

“Have you ever considered… not announcing your kinks to everyone and their sisters?”

“Ehh,” he simply shrugs, “nothing is new when you’ve serenaded your boss drunk in a karaoke bar and still managed to keep your job. Wait. Is that highlighter?”

“Stop staring into my tits!” You can’t believe you got caught, but also, who can you blame? After testing this outfit out from the crack of dawn, you decided your cleavage needed some extra help. Three YouTube tutorials and one TikTok lady - who make it look far easier than it is - down, the contouring brought out the swell of your breasts, and against the light fabric of your dress, it does look too good to be true.

Memories of that night in the bar come in billows and waves, of how enamored Jin was with the way your boobs looked at that time. Even under the dingy lighting, in the cramped space, under heavily inebriated scrutiny, you couldn’t miss the flicker of heat in his gaze every time it passed your chest.

One thing led to another, and it was a cascade none of you could stop. The heat of attraction between you two does not help your wandering mind, and the fever drowns the knowledge that what you’re feeling is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, crossing some lines that can never be mended back again. With the proximity, his musky scent invades whatever defenses you were trying to patch, piercing through all your inhibitions and you pull him into you, claiming his lips to be yours.

With his wobbly knees and your wobbly heels, you somehow find your way to the washroom - mostly he does, you give in halfway to wrap your legs around his lean waist, his sturdy legs balancing your weight on them as your back hits the wall, and his lips tear down your walls.

“You look so fucking sexy today,” between bated breaths and indulgent sighs you confess, “just driving me nuts.” Letting your hands drag along his abdomen, feeling the ups and downs of his abs, you attempt to rid him of the sweater that’s been on your hit list all night. But to your dismay, your endeavor is blocked, when Jin gathers your wrists in his palm, turning you around to bend you over on the countertop, the smooth marble chill hitting your braless chest, perking your nipples under the cold.

“And you?” Jin bends to give your earlobe a languid lick, progressing very slow, a complete contrast to the movement of his hips as he ruts against your ass, your already short dress bunching up with every move. “You think it’s smart to have your tits torment me like this?” Grabbing a handful from behind, he tests the weight of each fleshy mound, and by now you are certain your perked nubs can pierce his palm.

His free hand, not yet torturing you, decides to get in on the action and disappears under the counter, swiftly crossing the bunched fabric of your dress, gaining easy access to your pussy. The cold touch of his pads sears against the heat of your core, finding your pleasure button and languidly fiddling with it, with no intention to cross you over the brink in sight. The only pleasure you can indulge in is the reflection of him abusing your nipples, pinching and tugging them down, whispering filthy words into your ear as he takes in your fucked out countenance.

You feel lacking, weak hands balancing your dizzy self, finding purchase to keep you upright - but you’re both drunk on alcohol and hypnotized by his beauty to do much more than stare at his mirrored counterpart. “For fuck’s sake, kiss me.”

How he understood your slurred words, you don’t know, but you are glad he did. In a moment you’ve been displaced, the hurried motion sending your neurons into a flurry. Once your back meets the hard marble, and your eyes have the privilege to see his, you pull him in closer, the force enough to hold you against the wall while your legs wrap around his lean waist.

Originally not a fan of drunken misadventures, that side of yours is strangely mute to the going current onslaught. Well, you don’t have much breath left to say anything, because Jin is efficiently stealing it all, his teeth clashing with yours as you engage in the messiest kiss ever known to mankind (or at least, to you). He changes pace often, dragging his tongue leisurely against your lower lip, conveying tacit words, just to switch it up with a sharp bite and reel you in.

One corner of your senses can feel his fingers messing around your cunt, and playing with the wetness your thong can barely contain. It makes you shudder, the damage that his fingers can cause solely circling around your hole.

“Fuck me.”

In your drunken stupor, you don’t know if the words leave you right, but you get confirmation when his long fingers finally penetrate your cunt, giving your walls something to clench on - although nothing could possibly compare to what you imagine you can get from his dick.

“God, you feel that grip,” he grunts, with two of his fingers in you, and Jin’s smile is the most sinister you’ve ever seen. “I think we should take this home,” is what his lips utter, but his fingers delve deeper, searching for the spot that crumbles you. The base of his palm grinds against your throbbing clit, and you are forced to bite down on this sweater, lest an embarrassingly loud moan escapes you and cues outsiders into your filthy doings.

“Now,” you half-hiss, half-growl as you grab the cusp of his legs to feel his half-hard erection grow under the pressure of your hand. Your palm sliters up just to go down again, this time without the blockade of his pants, but you are stopped short of success when Jin’s fingers slip out of you to give you a sharp swat.

“Stubborn, aren’t we? Can’t fucking wait,” he whispers into your ear, and as he envelops your lobe with his cushiony lips, he continues, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

No, no, no.

Your brain rejects logic, chews and spits it out before any of the rationale seeps into you. You have wanted this for far too long. The need inside you for a meaningful relationship materializes in the form of recklessness, desperately looking for surface-level relief for the moment. A night of sewing sutures to your battle-worn heart, stitches that may come off at the slightest strain - but right now, that will do.

“Please, Jin,” your tantalizing tone riles up his cock again, eagerly waiting for your next words, “can’t you feel me dripping? Come on, I can take you.”

“Fuck, hear that wetness.” He lets his palm slap against your sopping entrance, not stopping with one. With every slap, droplets of your arousal splash out, the insides of your thighs coated in the sticky sweetness, but your body is an endless reservoir producing plentiful more for Jin to play with. “Have you been sitting with this all this time?”

Two long fingers invade your channel again, leaving you with no response other than a gasp. They scissor incessantly, preparing you for what could be the railing of your lifetime. One curl inside and his fingertips hit the spot he was looking for, making you warp your body to take the pleasure coursing through your veins. His tongue seems to mimic the actions, looping around your earlobe as he sucks it inside, both ends of your body engulfed in all the attention he could provide.

Your cunt is weeping against the assault of this man’s hands, tears of your cum flowing down your legs with every pump of his arm. You are getting there, the sweet swell of release inching closer and closer.

But something doesn’t feel right.

The tightness in your belly, that is to a point caused by Jin, is harboring other sensations that are not entirely pleasant. Maybe you’re anxious about the happenings. Maybe you haven’t had a good orgasm in a while and have just forgotten how this thing works.

Or maybe, the bar should have the water tap actually give out water.

Either your eyes close, or your brain does, but suddenly all you can see is darkness.

Again, you are just trying to escape the zone.

“Step under those studio lights,” pointing at the too-bright stage lights being set up at the moment, Sanghoon continues, breaking your daydream, “I bet you could signal to aliens with the booby-reflection. Call them to Netflix and chill.”

“In about five seconds, my heel will be puncturing your eye. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

Sanghoon’s drivel was cut short, and so were your murder plans, with his entry. “Oh look, he’s on set. Gotta go!”

It’s like the lights, earlier threatening to burn away your skin, dim down in reverence of the glow of his face. The twinkle of his eyes when they meet yours. The shine of his smile when he throws you one. The vibrance of his tone when he calls out your name. Everything he does now threatens to burn you whole and it’s a wonder you’re not scalding, but the singe hurts you deep inside.

“Y/N! How do I look?” It’s a bathrobe. Like satin, or silk. Fucking hell, your brain could explode with the adjectives coming up, a whole chunk of them very much inappropriate to utter out in the current scene. Your arms want to rise, engulf him into you, and you have to physically halt the muscles from doing anything stupid. Brain, quick! Say something snarky and spicy, as best friends do!

“What’s the theme, unicorn puke?” The safest way to deflect is to attack. So you do just that. “You look like you dressed out of Hannah Montana’s closet. Which if it's true, I really need to see it. There’s a top that I’ve been eyeing for decades!”

“Don’t say decades.” Jin’s eyes crinkle in humor. “Makes me feel so old. Your dress is pretty cool too!”

Cool.

You find out how difficult life can be when you count every single minute of yours. So far, you have counted 4,310 minutes. That is two days, twenty-three hours, and fifty minutes. Ten more minutes and it will be three whole days since you and Jin spoke.

Yet again, you can’t blame him. When you came to the next day, you were in your bed, clad in the same shimmering silver bodycon that you had donned last night. The same one that had been privy to the colorful deeds you had committed in what was a dreary, colorless setting.

One ibuProfen and ginger ale, downed with some severe recollections of the previous night, and you had been ready to throw it all up again.

I don’t want to hurt you.

Words couldn’t describe what you were going through, and numbers weren’t invented to count the endless thoughts racing in your brain. You don’t know what is more upsetting. The fact that you actually had a chance to open your heart and you totally let your pussy think instead? Or that he was the one coherent enough to stop you from getting too far, and you let your desperation get the best of you? Everything about that night was wrong. And all the wrongs lie on your side.

I don’t want to hurt you.

In the moment, it was physical, he had to have meant that. But there was a tremor in his voice, you can remember clear as day, a slightly shaken side of him had emerged through the intoxication, and the words he had breathed were not shallow. There was a gravity to them, that you’d stupidly ignored in the heat of the moment.

And now, here you are. Counting up till the last minute, after which you can effectively call the friendship ruined. Stirring your tea mindlessly, you try to focus on the show on TV, the variety show comedy not striking the usual funny bones that they could 4,311 minutes ago.

The programmed ding of your phone bursts your thought bubble, a sound you have missed the past 72 hours. The ring you dedicated to Jin, that always had you running to receive because anything he sends brightens your day. But unlike those happier times, this ring has your gut fall into a pit of despair, struggling to choose between dispersing the suspense or remaining blissfully unaware of the damage you caused.

Jin: Free tmrw? We could grab coffee Jin: And talk

Talk. How? You barely remember what went down, save for fleeting moments that you recollected with great difficulty. Your fingers type back, trying to mimic the nonchalance in his text, that is very much absent in your actual demeanor.

Y/N: Sure. Paik’s at 1? Jin: Yup. See ya

Three texts, zero laughs. Of course, you’re not expecting him to land his jokes in this situation, even someone as talented as he can’t flip this tension. You’re just going to have to wait for tomorrow, when he decides whether you have a place in his life or not.

The painstakingly worn outfit, accessorizing the whole look, the straps of your heels digging into your toes, the specks of makeup dust lying stale on your collar bones, the shine faints at that word. Cool. A perfectly normal phrase for a normal friendship. You are left maimed, while he absent-mindedly tends to the rope of his robe, blissfully unaware of the cyclonic emotions churning inside you. All you can possibly do is gulp it down.

He runs his hands through his hair, beautiful locks coming out of place, and from one corner of the set, a groan of anguish emerges.

“Oppa! Don’t play with your hair and face.” A masked lady runs forward waving combs that look like artillery, “We just got done setting it!”

Some finger guns, a happy apology, and some silly jokes later, all the stylists merrily round up to undo his doing, and Jin signals to you to catch up later. And as he walks away, the strings tugging at your heart reappear, as they do every time you come to meet him.

You have a masochistic streak in you, putting yourself through this every day, when he had made it clear, that you two never stood a chance.

As if things aren’t already difficult, he looks like a dream.

Soft, snowy skin gleaming like it has personal lighting wherever it goes, you get flashes of the rarely witnessed sweat on his skin, from the ferocity of last night. He’s blowing away the foam of his cappuccino, and tiny bubbles float into the air before falling flat on the table, like an animated shine that follows him along. God has His favorites, and God makes sure all the lighting in the world is perfect for these favorites.

In no hurry, you wait at the counter to get your latte. After receiving it though, you can’t linger any longer and drag yourself to the table of doom.

“Hey.”

If the rasp in your voice is evident, he doesn’t show any recognition on his face. But you’ve learned to never trust an acting major.

“Hi. How are you doing?”

Inadvertently, a snicker escapes your lips. “Are you interviewing me for a job?” you joke, trying to disperse the heavy air, filled with unspoken words. “If so, at least know that I’m very expensive.”

The familiar windshield wiper laugh does not greet you. Dead silence does. The half-smirk he painfully gives you is heavy, and the furrowed brows haven’t an inkling of joy. It shoots daggers in your heart, to know that you are the reason for this jolly man’s despondency.

“Listen, I don’t think we should skirt around the issue too much. It happened, these things happen. You think Hoseok and Yeji didn’t have sex before making it official?”

His matter-of-fact nature isn’t new to you. Jin has always been a very practical man. Regardless of his inane sense of humor, his logical point of view has always been flawless.

But right now, at this very moment, logic isn’t what you are looking for. You are looking for answers, but as far withdrawn from logic as possible, to take the edge off of the tension-laden air that surrounds your table.

“Yeah, but even… unofficially… we aren’t a thing, right?”

Your abrupt question takes Jin unaware, almond eyes widening, like a toddler caught in an act.

“No, no! Of course not! I would never!”

His confession slips out with an ease that hurts you, digs deep to carve out the part of you that dreamt of anything more. Your eyes fall to your knees to avoid his perceptive gaze, the sting clear as the sky on a summer day.

You force a smile and continue. “Then there’s no issue. Anyway,” you gulp your coffee down, burning your throat, but it's a distraction from the burning inside, “I need to get to work. Anything else?”

He’s still searching you, for what, you can’t possibly fathom. From the looks of it, he should be happy with this homeostasis; he doesn’t even know what this means for you. To still stay suspended in limbo, not being able to move up or down, to continue having thorns digging into your beating soul as you watch him like nothing bothers your already frail feelings. Scene by scene, you can visualize the future, him distancing himself from you as he finds the one he calls his, with you left in the shadows. Your knees tremble in fear of the impending future.

Seeing you in a tizzy, he calls out, the voice too loud for the cafe and your mind’s prison cage.

“We’re still best friends, right?” If you knew better, you’d say his expression is that of sadness, of regret. But your judgment is clouded with your own bothers, and you interpret it as a look of pity. Like a lovesick puppy, kicked to the streets, with nowhere to call home.

“Yeah! Always.” You give it as much enthusiasm as you can muster.

Best friends.

Ropes wind around your heart, tugging and causing the deep ache that sets in as you walk back into your dreary building. Each string pulls you into a different dimension where you could move on, where you could be okay with the setting you had just agreed to. Where you would keep up your end of the promise and truly remain friends with him.

But no matter how strong the tug, your heart never yields, never lets go of the castle of dreams you built, staying steadfast in its own misery, choosing to hope, choosing to live the life of unrequited love.

“And that’s a wrap! Good job everyone!”

Applause and hurrays echo across the set to bring you back to the present. The shoot has officially concluded, which means it's time for your most favorite and least favorite part of the day - Jin and you doing best friend things, like grabbing lunch, gossiping about obnoxious coworkers, threatening to disembowel each other (in Mortal Kombat, of course) and other friendly activities.

Ever so respectful, Jin takes his time thanking every member of the set, regardless of whether they moved a cushion or held the reflector screen for hours. All the women gush over his beauty, reminding him of how, even amidst the glowing ornaments, his face was the brightest. His responses vary, from quiet little giggles, to complimenting the crew for making it happen, to straight up owning his charisma like a boss. That’s your man.

Well, not quite. Not one bit.

After exhausting the handshakes and hugs to be received, Jin walks to you, hands pushing his robe back to give it a cape like effect. You’re just glad that the man’s child persona still stays with him, no matter the situation. He guides you to his green room, cracking his bones on the way, (very sexily, might you add).

“Holding a pose for that long gives me cramps! You’d think dancing breaks my back, and you’d be wrong.”

You’re desperately avoiding looking at his fingers, and keep your eyes below them - shoot! His ceaseless stretching gives you a glimpse under his shirt - it is dragging your memories back to the last time you saw them, and you’d rather not. It is hurting you in more ways than one.

Eye contact is your safest bet. Looking up, you give him a lopsided grin. “Your grandfatherly days are approaching, Jinnie.”

“Hey!”

The rest of the conversation was less speaking, more yelling and chasing after each other to the green room, Jin taking mock-offence at your jab at his age, and his fingers reaching out to flick your forehead in retort. In your noisy, messy fashion, you both finally enter the room, dim gold light bulbs and shiny mirrors meeting your huffing self.

One hand on your knee, you hold on to Jin’s arm with your other, gasping for breath.

“Your grandmotherly days are already here, Y/N,” he snorts, and earns a kick on the shin, but that doesn’t stop him from bursting into snickers.

“Wow, why does one man need 4 mirrors?” You gape at his current green room, mouth wide open. It looks better than your entire apartment, with the counter carrying top-of-the-line makeup products. Only the best for this man. “So you can admire yourself from 4 different angles?”

Jin has disappeared into one of the inner rooms, but you can hear him snort at your comment. “Come on, I’m not that conceited. When the whole crew shoots together, the extra mirrors help.” The last part of that sentence is muffled, and that cues you into an important fact.

Jin is currently changing into something more comfortable.

A process that includes him getting naked.

Well maybe he doesn’t get fully naked, top on, top off, bottom on, bottom of-

Still. You’re sweating like a whore in church.

And things only get tougher when he finally comes out.

The ocean blue sweater he dons is tucked in. Who tucks in sweaters? Kim Seokjin. Why does he tuck sweaters? Oh, because he’s got an amazing waistline that he should most definitely show off, and the heat between your thighs becoming increasingly potent is a testament to that. You pretend to adjust your heels, giving the right expressions to show you’re in pain, but in actuality you are bringing your legs closer to get you some relief, just any relief.

Ripped jeans too. You get a peek of the thighs you were denied access to the night of the fuckening. Ridged and beautiful, not a speck in sight to mar his perfection. You are glad the facial expressions for pain and pleasure are not far apart, because your thighs, albeit very lacking, are helping the imagery in your head. Just Jin, seated on one of these leather chairs, and you straddling his thigh, clit aching against the strands of the rips in his denim, the fabric soaking up the wetness, with every push forwa-

“Now that you mention it, I do look dashing.”

And there goes that dream.

You pinch his cheeks in adoration, the vulgarity of your thoughts getting whitewashed by his silliness and blooming heart-shaped flowers in their stance. You feel your own pinch in you, wondering if this scene would be the same had you blurted your feelings out that day at the cafe.

It's times like these when you remind yourself why you choose to quieten that side. This dynamic cannot reincarnate in any other form. Any imbalance to this equilibrium could cause a serious case of best-friends-turn-awkward-acquaintances, and you don’t know if that’ll hurt you more than you currently do. You don’t plan on finding out.

But on God, he tests that resolution every single day.

Jin doesn’t even hint that he knows of the turmoil blasting behind your eyes. He nonchalantly fixes his hair, gives you a one-over as you are mentally undressing him, nonchalantly as well. Then he moves to grab his cologne, and two spurts disintegrates all the whitewashing and takes you back into the obscenities you were unfolding.

“So I’ll just go over the shoot photos, and then we can leave! You’re cool waiting here?”

“Hmmn, yeah!” You don’t let your mouth run any longer, fearing what might slip out.

He gives you a wide, innocent smile. “Great! See you in a bit.” Poor guy. If only he knew how debase plans you were conjuring just from the aroma of his cologne.

It is musky, like cedar or pine, perfectly suiting him. It is the same scent you remember inhaling, face stuffed in his sweater when he was fingering you to the tenth circle of hell. As he walks away, the fragrance diminishes, save for the slightest hint of lingering. You search for the source, and find the culprit strewn across the sofa.

The outfit Jin wore for the shoot held remnants of the perfume, and when you bring the shirt close and take a long, deep whiff, you transport yourself to the land of your dreams. You relish the fever smell of his cologne, mixed with his own natural scent, deciding that this is what you wish to smell like every waking morning.

Your longing for him has crossed way beyond physical boundaries. You longed for his love, longed for his attention. Longed to be the one that brings the light to his face. From morning rays to the darkness of the night, you wanted to experience it all by his side. To be his lone star, shining bright beside the moon.

Your hands are moving without your control, disrobing you of your thirst trap of a dress and putting on Jin’s shirt instead. One look at the mirror and you let out a silent groan - it fits you just right. Just enough to cover your ass cheeks, loose enough to let the air conditioning hit your heated pussy. While well-fitting shirts have never been the cornerstone of a successful relationship, your delusional mind takes whatever wins it gets.

Adding layers to your pipe dream, you don the robe that gave you a tough time throughout the shoot. When you press the tails of the robe to your cheek, the softness of the material is soothing. Soft, like Jin’s eyes, like his hugs, like his smile. Like him.

Leaning against the counter, you steady yourself, mind split in titillation. Your fingers find their own path, drawing circles on your breasts over his shirt, imagining Jin’s long fingers in place. While teasing your nipple to pointed peaks, you slip your other hand under your panties, trying very hard to mimic his digits, twiddling your clit between your fingers. Alas, the effect isn’t achievable, because Jin seems to know how to play you better than yourself.

The scent is getting stronger, without any provoking, and it is doing wonders for your immersion. You let out a loud moan when your fingers press inside, and you’re just glad no one can witness this.

“Y-Y/N?”

Fuck.

You are pulled away from your dreamland that was so impenetrable that you didn’t hear Jin step into the room. All the blood gushing to your nether regions has made a U-turn to flood your brain to think of a plausible explanation for this position. Instead it makes you giddy, and when you try to stand you wobble in your heels, to be rescued by what you think is a very scandalized Jin.

Time stands still when your eyes meet, and what you see are blown out pupils trembling, many questions fluttering between you two. Jin crosses a tenth of the distance between you, lips flutter as they try to make a decision - do they want to part and give way to the voice of question? The voice of reason? The voice that will break this hush, burst this bubble where he has the one chance to give in to his longing?

You bring your lips closer, and cause immense disquiet in his dome, the way of his heart gathering speed against rationale. Your eyes dance between matching his gaze and finding his lips, every fraction of an inch you cross sending tremors through you. You can feel the shockwaves traverse through your body, making a pitstop at your lips, tingling them awake. They move downwards, passing your heart, beating it wildly against its cage, and then to the pit of your stomach to tighten in anticipation; finally reaching the tip of your toes, where you stand right now, a nanoscopic distance between you. Each one of you is afraid to cross the bridge, unaware of the other’s desires.

Finally, Jin acqueises and meets you on your side.

Atomic explosions ring through your head, clearing out every single thought that is not about Jin’s lips on yours. The ropes that held your heart from beating to the tune of your want, they’ve loosened their knots to give you the leeway to love freely. As your lips exchange positions, his teeth lightly drag across your plush petal, and it brings back the most important part of that night that you couldn’t recollect - the one where his lips sang wordless songs of adoration against yours. Blind as a bat, you were.

You dig your fingers into his hair, not minding your residual arousal coating his locks, and you feel his hands doing the same to you. With your eyes closed, you feel a rough edge to his cushiony soft lips, but Jin fixes that mistake - one stray strand of hair trapped in the middle of your indulgence - he pulls it away to give you all of the kiss. The hand tucked in your tresses pushes in, silently demanding more access, and you’re nothing but ready to give it.

His tongue sneaks in to play a game with yours - when you seek it, it goes into hiding, finding perfect pleasure in soft, sweet kisses, but when you stay, it comes back in, awakening your tongue to deepen again. Everything he is doing is too much and not enough in one go, and you whine into his mouth in desperation, seeking some well-earned relief after months of holding back.

Amidst the flurry of your lips, your back hits the vanity countertop, and Jin pushes away everything on top to make space for you, not caring what expensive item flies down the counter to accommodate your ass.

As if you’ve made up for the months of holding back, the softness of the kisses erodes, teeth coming into play more and more, reminiscent of the night that went by in a blur. He swallows every mewl you give in return, blissed out beyond repair, your neediness making his cock strain against the denim.

His hand snakes down, spreading his fingers to get a hold of your back to push you towards him, covering any gap that dared to intervene. Now unworried about the shoot, your hands have effectively ruined his perfectly placed locks and messed them up to resemble the craze he let you spin in.

Before he can glide his tongue back in, you break the kiss, lest you lose yourself in it to the point where you forget to breathe. With attached foreheads, you take deep drags of air, letting the oxygen flow to your brain before you make some ill-advised, unclarified decisions.

“I- I was jus-”

“Shhh. Wait,” he breathes out, wanting to take a second and fully savor the moment. You nod in return, making his head move along with yours.

After sufficient air fills his lungs, Jin starts. “Y/N, we should stop.”

Last time this had happened, you had tried to force your way through his barrier, without giving his feelings a second of consideration. So this time, you don’t repeat your mistakes. “Tell me why.”

“Because, I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I’m way deeper in this than you think.”

“Jin, I-”

“Let me finish.” He stops you before you can explain how much you reflect his emotions, possibly more. He doesn’t seem to want to listen now. “Let me finish, or else I’ll chicken out, for the millionth time.”

You’re dumbfounded. Millionth time? When was the first? Acting majors, by God.

“I love you, Y/N.”

No, now you are dumbfounded. Your hands, holding his precious locks, drop down in shock, at sheer disbelief that all this time, he has been ready and waiting to return you the favor. Jin though, misinterprets it as a look of disdain.

“I-I know I do, and I’m sorry that I do. I know you don’t feel the same way. You can hate me all you want, but this is the truth.”

“And yes,” he continues, refusing to halt for even half a second, afraid that the courage he mustered to confess would dissipate the moment he does, “I’m attracted to you, and I don’t know what went down here --” flicking his wrist to mention your (his) outfit, “--but I’m looking, okay? And I’m hard as fuck. But that’s not all there is to it.”

“I need all of you.” He takes an audible gulp, trying to stymy his emotions from overpowering him. “I want to take you out, I want to hold you hand, I want to bring you to all the places I love. I want to introduce you to people, not as my best friend, but so much more than that. It hurts me,” bringing his hand to his chest, he emphasizes the point of pain by clutching over his heart, “hurts to call you that because I’m lying through my fucking teeth.”

You break eye contact, because there are tears smarting your eyes at his heartfelt revelation. You can’t believe the idiot that you have been all this while. The man of your dreams stands in front of you, baring his soul, and you can’t even do him the decency of telling him what you felt yourself before jumping his bones.

And you love him, too. Maybe you haven’t said so, even to yourself, but you’ve known all this while.

You love him.

“If you are just looking for a fuck, or want any sort of a ‘benefits’ situation, we should stop. I can’t lie to myself anymore.”

“Jin, my God,” you half-sigh, half-laugh, feeling a burden lift off of you after months of pining.

“You don’t have to pacify me, it’s okay, I’ll be fine.” Even in this moment, he is looking out for you. His lips are curved upward to show you that he’s okay, but his pupils are shaky and restless, not in sync with his smile. You hope your next words can fix that for him.

“Pacify you? Hate you?” You shoot him an incredulous look, one you will explain to him very soon. “You are a much better person than I am, Jinnie. For months now, I’ve loved you, but even at this point, I didn’t stop to tell you.” The guilt of letting your hormones cloud your judgement for the second time lays heavily on your conscience. “I’m sorry for not making this clear earlier, but let me now. I love you, Kim Seokjin. I have for way too long. I want you, I need you. You have me, in every possible way.”

It feels unparalleled to get that off your chest. The leaden weight of your emotions immediately disappears - or the fact that it's shared, makes it much, much lighter. But then you look at Jin, and he still seems to have not put two and two together. You patiently wait for him to process all the information.

When he finally recoups, he yells, “What?!”

You let out a loud guffaw, the first one with no inhibitions in the longest time. “What?”

“Why didn’t you say anything that day at the cafe?!”

“You said you’d never date me, asshole!” You punch his chest softly, before slipping your hands behind him and pulling him closer. “I might not look like it, but I have some dignity.”

“I said that?” Jin brings one hand to pinch his nose in annoyance. “What an idiot. I think I was just inverting everything to make sure I don’t accidentally slip up.”

You lift your head to meet his eyes again, letting him see the tears you were hiding. You find a couple in his eyes, too. But the smile on your face is genuine, and that is all that matters. “I was blind too, so don’t beat yourself up about it.”

Flitting your eyes down to find the contour of his cock against his jeans, you ask him innocently, “How about we make up for lost time?”

“Fuck, yes, please.” And with that, your lips are engulfed again.

When you have all your guards down, the kiss tastes sweeter than before. Mere moments ago, while thoroughly enjoying the kiss, a sense of reticence had clouded your pleasure, holding you back from luxuriating in the headiness. A series of what-ifs had plagued your subconscious without your realization, but with all that cleared, you wholly submit to the kiss, emptying your mind until nothing but his name remains.

“Fuck, Y/N,” Jin gasps out, when you bite into his pillowy lower lip, “I thought you looked the prettiest in the dress earlier but,” after pulling away, he drinks your current attire in, “you look the most beautiful in this.”

You snicker. “Even more than World Wide Handsome?”

His eyes bore into yours, no hint of the joking lilt he always carries in them.

“So much more.”

Your hands find their place amidst his shaggy hair again, and you lodge his face into your neck - a command Jin acquiesces to with great pleasure. After a long, wet lick to your collarbone, he lays feather-soft kisses on the trail he left, starting from your shoulder and working inward, until he brushes against the back of your ear. You grasp at his sweater, because his lips feel so good. Your breaths are short, sucking in every time he allows your skin the luxury of a soft peck. Once he lays a kiss on your forehead, he brings his gaze down to one of the main reasons that causes his cock to stir.

“Fuck, look at your nipples under my shirt.”

Gazing down, you can see the two pointed peaks that caught Jin’s eyes.

“That tends to happen when I’m thinking of you.”

He twists a nipple over the shirt, hardening it further, and you throw your head back in the satisfying pain. “Yeah, I remember.”

You are unraveling every second, the ache swishing amongst the bliss his fingers are bringing in you. He’s switched over to drawing circles around your nipple, until he snaps and tugs your shirt up, finally revealing the palmfulls of flesh awaiting his hands.

“Ah that night, I didn’t get to do this. Take this off.” But then, he makes you put on his robe again. You throw him a questioning look, to which he responds with a sheepish smile, “Just so, you know… you don’t feel cold… or something.”

“Just say you like me in your clothes and move on.”

“I love you in my clothes,” he admits in a heartbeat, his expression that of anguish, “can we move on?”

“God, gladly.”

Unexpectedly, he bites the side of your boob - not hard at all, but feeling his teeth against your skin sends your head reeling backward. Your involuntary response is to wrap your legs around his waist, grinding your core against him. His teeth continue to nip you lightly across the expanse of your breasts, the trail of saliva he leaves cooling parts of your flushed body. Finally, finally, he latches onto your left nipple and gives it a long, pleasurable suck.

“Ahh, Jin - you’re too - God damn it - you’re too good at this.”

Without stopping the onslaught he is unleashing on your breasts, his fingers begin to move - but soon, they stop, hesitation rippling off of their tips. His pace falters, and his mind is fighting on the next course of action.

“Can I-”

“Finish what you started that night?” you complete for him, already prepared with your answer. “Yes, please.”

All forms of uncertainty shoot out of his touch, and he confidently trudges forward. Playing with the band of your panties, he gives you a well-intended chuckle, murmuring, “As far as I remember, I was so good you passed out.”

“Boy,” You groan, intended in jest, but his teeth slide against your jaw and it mostly comes out more wanton than jovial, “let me see you have tequila for dinner and remember much the next day.”

“Fair fair,” he gives in, shifting to buss the valley of your cleavage, feeling your heart thud against your ribs holding it in place. “Well today,” he starts without moving his face, his nimble fingers moving past the barrier of your underwear, pressing two fingertips directly on your clit, and hissing like it's him at the receiving end, “I’ll give you enough to remember.”

You pull his sweater off and chuck it away, not wanting to be reminded of any blockades that kept you apart, and your hands roam the expanse of his back remembering the touch of his skin from the night at the bar. His body isn’t new to you, but the circumstances make it feel different.

Finally, his fingers find their way inside you.

Yes, this. This was what was missing from your drunken tryst. With your heads in place, your ardor intensifies, and you move his lips back to yours needing to release your animalistic desire into his mouth. Pleasure surges through both of you as you threaten to swallow him whole.

You can feel him being more present, and considering the merciless finger-fucking you had earned that night, this is taking it to a whole other degree.

The night at the bar, his fingers did their best to ravish you, but now, Jin is paying attention, close attention to the way you respond. Every muscle movement is recorded in him as you struggle to accommodate three of his lengthy digits. Leaning close, he gives your peaked nipple the lightest feather lick - the suddenness sends shockwaves through you as he continues to tweeze the other, talented pianist hands performing his musical piece on both ends of you.

His fingers pump into you with determination, finding new depths to explore that he missed out on, and with a curl of his pointer, you blank out, screaming in the orgasm that is washing over you. Every skincell of your body feels the quiver of lust spreading, your cunt squeezing for an eternity, milking the orgasm out to the extent that you can.

When you look down, your metaphorical orgasmic flood manifestes as a deluge of your arousal leaking on the table. And when you look back up, you can see the salacious ideas making their rounds in Jin’s head as he looks at the inundation you released.

Hurried hands still convulsing from the intensity of your orgasm, you undo his belt, followed by his jeans and finally - getting the pleasure you were heartlessly denied of - his cock is out, in all its glory, twitching as the cool air hits its naked skin. Jin’s plans don’t go hand in hand with yours though.

“Are we just - holy fucking shit - just, umm, leave that to waste?” he lustfully looks down to your leaking core, and someway, through your hold on his dick, he tries to steer you into his plans.

“I don’t know about that,” you cheekily reply. You have the right idea to satisfy both of you, and get down to the task.

With the flat of your palm, you swipe across the droplets of cum you released, gathering them to transfer them onto his thick length. Jin thrusts into your hand, the wetness jolting him into attention, and he places an arm on your shoulder to steady himself.

“You’re going to taste yourself?” he asks as you continue your vacillating motion, twisting at the base of his head with the wetness you graciously provided yourself. You give him a nonchalant look, something he is trying to do to you as well.

“Who said I’m gonna suck you off?”

His look changes, and the one you get in return is cocky, arrogant, downright rude if you were honest. You expected him to play on with your banter, but one raised eyebrow and the lazy smirk he gives, to what he probably thinks is a joke - Zeus could land on earth and not be able to stop you from gobbling his meat.

Your mouth is filled with his dick even before your knees hit the ground. Jin staggers back, but your suction on his dick is funnily strong enough to pull him back before falling. You switch positions, having him balance himself against the counter, all while you refuse to leave his cock out. His giggle of endearment has you pouting, but it swells your heart and makes you want to give more, more of anything and everything. With your renewed vigor, you push yourself in until his pubes tickle your nose, and his tip tickles your throat.

“Your-”, “I-”, “uhh-”

Every new sentence Jin starts crumbles to your actions. You furrow your brows both in concentration on your blowing skills and trying to decode what he is trying to say.

Jin takes a large gulp, adamant on making this one a coherent sentence. “You know, I used to imagine this, and in my dreams I used to be very sexy and suave, talking my way throug-oof-” You run your tongue over the tip of his leaking dick, emphasizing the point he is coming to, “Now I can’t even complete sentences here.”

“You being you is super sexy in itself.” And you curve your tongue to match the arch of his cock, letting the incoming saliva pool on it before letting it run down his shaft, dripping down from his balls. Strings of his precum connect to your lips, and you swipe your tongue through them, relishing the salty goodness before going back in for more.

“Y/N, shit, did you just moan?”

How couldn’t you? The fact that he is horny for you, so much so that rivulets of precum don’t stop drizzling down your throat, has you preening. You hum your assent in response, not willing to let go even for a moment, but Jin pulls you off before you can get a chokehold on the base of his cock again.

“Never had a woman moan while sucking me off. It’s sexy as fuck,” Jin breathes into your lips as he dives in for a kiss.

Your chest is heaving, catching the breaths you lost when you were down. “Then why’d you stop me?”

“Are you kidding me? I was about to lose it right there.”

“Jinnie, come on,” you break the fragmentary kiss you were sharing, looking into his glassy eyes, “let me feel you come on my tongue.” To emphasize your conviction, you lick his lips, persuading him of the sinful deeds your tongue is capable of doing if he’d just let you.

“Oh man, stop. What’s worse than busting a nut in your mouth? Busting it while you’re kissing me. Making me feel like a teenager.” You erupt into a loud laugh, soon followed by Jin as well. It is so him to joke about this.

“And babe,” all hints of embarrassment vanishing from his tone, “I’m only going to come inside you.”

“Fuck, fuck, yes. You got a condom on you?”

“Yeah, let me grab my wallet.” The instant he moves away, you feel naked, shivering from the comfort stolen away from you. But then you hear Jin grumble, “I hope I don’t have the bacon-flavored one.” And the absurdity of it all puts you at ease again.

“Ew, stop, even you can’t make that sexy. My lady boner is dying.”

He envelops you again, and you can feel the laughter echoing in his lungs before making it out to your ears. He brings your attention to the familiar rustle of foil wrapper. “Thankfully, we got chocolate.”

“Mmmh, gotta love chocolate.”

You take the condom out of his hands, and roll it onto his stiff length, flattered that he’s holding his erection for so long.

“Okay, stick it in me!” And you smack your ass in readiness, and a very flabbergasted Jin breaks out chortling.

“Y/N, stop being my best friend for like, five minutes!” His brows are furrowed in pretense exasperation, but you can see his lips holding back a genuine smile through the grimace, just happy that your dynamics haven’t changed the slightest, even though everything else has shifted.

“Okay okay,” you try and suppress your own laughter, before continuing, “how do you want me, baby?”

“Bend over on the vanity. And keep your eyes on the mirror.” And as you move into position, his palms grab your ass and squeeze it hard, feeling your glutes push back against his grip, and he pushes you forward till you're on the tips of your toes. You watch him through the mirror, watch him admire the way your ass curves over the table edge, how your toes struggle to keep you up, and how the dimples of your back are deepened by the arch, peeking under the bunched up robe tails, just waiting for him.

“Jin.” Your hushed whisper puts him in action.

Pushing the head in is anguish and relief at the same time. His bulbous head stretches your entrance; even with your preparation, you feel it sting. The searing gets better and better with every inch slipping in, and when he finally lodges inside, you let out a heavy breath, still panting and keeping yourself from screaming bloody murder in pleasure. Jin bends forward to paint the back of your neck, sucking the flesh till the circular bruise comes to surface.

“Can you- can you-fuck, no, wait-” Your brain is at war with itself, battling between adjusting to his girth and having him pump you into adjustment.

You can feel Jin’s snicker from behind you, and he finally makes the decision for you. “I’ll wait, I have things to do here,” he says before playing around the patch of skin, spreading from the base of your hair to the expanse of your back, his teasing licks relaxing your walls and accommodating his girth. The pain is almost gone, expect for the lingering ache that only helps you.

“You can move now, babe.”

“Okay, okay.” Your words snap him out of the painter’s dream he was in, and he twitches inside you. Something about the ease at which you both have adopted nicknames for each other softens his heart and hardens his cock.

Pulling out till only the head rests inside, Jin himself struggles against the third degree grip your pussy has on him. As he is thrusting inside again, your walls tense up, making it harder and harder for him to hold back.

“Y/N, sweetie, relax. I got you.”

“Jin, I’m-” You have tears running down your eyes, the pleasure and unsurmountable happiness rolling out in fat hot drops. “Fuck me harder. I won’t last.”

“Shit. Okay, hold on then.”

To what? Is what you’re going to ask before Jin unleashes his carnality onto you. Your breasts, dripping in sweat and saliva, are plastered to the countertop, which in itself is jiggling to the beat of Jin’s thrusts. His dick is curving inside to hit you repeatedly, and you have to gather the satin fabric to wipe your eyes to keep your gaze fixed on him.

He looks majestic. Forehead embellished with beads of sweat, his hair coiffed up, lips sanguine red after your vicious kisses - you swipe your tongue along your own lips to find them battered in response. His honey chest is heaving with every push, and a particular one hits you just right.

You let out a guttural groan, and Jin takes note of it immediately.

“Up,” he commands, and loops an arm under your belly to you pull you up and closer and now every thrust hits deeper into that spot he has found in you, your back connected to his chest as the two of you move in tandem; this is the most together you’ve ever felt with anyone. This moment is to be etched in your memories forever.

You scream into your fist to muffle the sounds, the edge of the table digging into your hip bone as you feel yourself getting closer to the brink. One swipe to the clit is all you have left to bring you to your release.

And from some telepathic force, or from the clutch your pussy has on him, Jin beats you to it. His fingers come down and carefully find your swollen nub, pinching it between his fingers. If he thought you’d shown him your hardest clench, he was wrong, because right now your dam has broken, and the iron-clad grip you give his cock sends him reeling, too.

You are gushing on his dick, the rubber dripping with your wetness. Jin too releases into the condom in stuttered gasps, his thrusts becoming shorter and shallower as he comes down from his high.

Petal-like kisses fall on your back as the two of you regain your breaths. The mirror that served you two well is covered in a fog of hot breath and perspiration, blearing your vision of yourself, but somehow, it sparkles with Jin’s reflection. His nobility-esque visuals use the haze as a valance for his appearance, framing them to make him look like you’re among the clouds. And in some way, you actually are.

“Ah, let me go.” You jiggle your shoulders back to make the man above you move. “Fuck, can you check if my spine is in place? I think you dislodged it.”

“Shut up and come hug me, I’ll squeeze it back in place.”

Now this is something you could get used to.

As he ties and throws away the used condom, you flip over to face him and fall back into his embrace, broad shoulders promising to protect you, making you feel safe in his care. Jin on the other hand is simply ecstatic to feel you on him, feeling your thumping heart beat for him, after months of pining and pondering whether anything would become of the seed of your tumultuous friendship. Now, it has blossomed to a garden of prospect and promise, every petal of every flower here reading a new opportunity to tell you how much he adores you, cherishes you, treasures you. How much he loves you. An opportunity he doesn’t wait to use.

“I love you.”

The pink tinge of your cheeks either comes from the sex, or from his comment, but either way, he is glad its from him.

“I love you too, Jin. So, so very much.”

If your heart could leap out of your chest, it would do so, to find its way to his and fuse into one. But for now, your entwined bodies give you all you want.

You hear Jin stifle a laugh, and pull back in question. He points to something odd on the countertop.

“What is that?”

The cream white surface of the table, that was maligned by your ignoble deeds, now sports two glistening, wheatish semi circles that look very similar to the sizes of one person who was splayed on top of it just moments ago.

“Is that…” Jin is trying to contort his lips and halt the looming snicker, and he brings his eyes down to your chest (trying not to get hard again), “Did you have makeup on your chest?”

“Shut up.” All you can do is fall closer into his arms, hopefully masking the tint of embarrassment highlighting the apples of your cheeks. “I wanted to make them look extra good for you.”

He’s given up on holding back, the full-bellied laugh that resonated from him echoing across the room. But it dwindles down fast, coming to small chuckles of tenderness, and he slips his digits beneath your chin to have you meet his gaze.

“They always look good,” he whispers, his admittance setting your chest aflame, “trust me, I’d know.”

Taglist 💛: @little7bitchh, @afangirllikeme-blog, @h34rt1lly, @marpotterhead

Thank you so much for making it to the end! I hope you enjoyed the fic, my ask box is always open for your lovely opinions. To read more of my work, find my main masterlist here. :)

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singtotheskiies · 3 years

Text

dried blood on smooth skin // five hargreeves x reader

summary: five hargreeves really needs patching up—in more ways than one.

words: 1655

warnings: brief language, descriptions of blood, otherwise just that sweet touch-starved fluff we all crave

a/n: i’m a klaus kinda girl, but this is me working through why i find five so goddamn attractive

✖️✖️✖️

Normally, when Five Hargreeves blinks into your room, it’s because he wants to escape from the stifling presence of his father or because you’ve begged for his help with your math homework (the man has no right being so smart). He always manages to sneak out on your birthday and bring you a donut from Griddy’s and something you value even more—his companionship, even if only for a few minutes. Sometimes, you tell him he should be more careful—his father has eyes all over the house; he must suspect that something’s going on. Five always dismisses your protests, telling you not to worry about it—he’s got it under control.

He comes to you because you’re a constant for him, a sense of normalcy. Whenever he needs an escape from the constant hierarchy and trauma of his house (which is often), he can come to you and relish in your laughter and friendship and caring aura. Of course, he’s never said all of this to you outright, but you understand anyway. You know Five well enough to know that underneath all his bluster and know-it-all attitude, he appreciates you—the only person he can really call his friend.

Today is different, though. When the blue flash of light materializes in your bedroom, you jump, dropping your book to the ground. “Christ, Five, didn’t we talk about—“ You trail off as you see the state he’s in. His clothes are torn and disheveled, something he would normally never allow. The parts of his face not covered in blood are stark white, matching his knuckles as they clench up at his sides. God, there’s blood everywhere. Is it his? There’s so much—there’s no way his body could produce that much, right?—and it’s thick and clotted onto his normally pristine skin and suit, concentrated especially on a spot on his right side. You notice he’s barely moved in the several seconds you’ve been gaping at him, merely swaying side to side weakly.

“What the fuck happened?” you begin, but are cut off by his knees buckling. You catch him just in time, guiding him to your desk chair before he can ruin your carpet.

“Mission—gone wr-wrong,” he pants, barely able to get the words out.

“Why didn’t you stay with your siblings? They know how to handle this st—“

“I don’t want their help.” He cuts you off, managing to instill an incredible amount of venom in his words as they stutter past his gritted teeth. “Their fault.”

“Okay, well, why didn’t you jump to a hospital, or your mom, or someone who could actually help!? Jesus, Five, you could—“

“I—I did come to someone who can help. It would be really—nice—if you started,” he breathes, brow drawn tight in pain. Sweat and dried blood mix together in the furrows of his dusky skin, and something about that sight kicks you into action.

“Okay, I need to get this jacket off you. Can you lift your arms?” He grunts in what you take to be an affirmative response, and you manage to wrestle the piece of clothing off him without jarring him too much. You’re left with the sight of blood pouring out of him, staining the weave of his bright white dress shirt, and you tighten your jaw as realization sets in. “Uh, Five? I need to—um—take your shirt off,” you almost whisper, trying to ignore the rising flush in your cheeks. He barely summons a weak nod, and you take that as your go-ahead.

Hands shaking, you start at his neck, working your way down. With each button unfastened, more and more tanned, smooth skin becomes visible. After what seems like an eternity, you reach the last button, sliding your hands back up to his shoulders to ease his sleeves off. You take in the expanse of freckled, smooth skin now exposed to the air. You wonder how he hasn’t got more scars on missions—every inch and plane of skin you can see is soft-looking and somehow catches the light as he breathes in and out laboriously. But then your eyes land on the bullet wound spilling blood onto his side and let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. “Shit,” you curse. “I’ll be right back.”

You run into your bathroom, grabbing the first-aid kit you have for emergencies. Your breath is coming quickly—you know that every second is crucial to Five’s wellbeing. Coming back into the room, you grab gauze and disinfectant. “This is gonna sting,” you warn, and he merely rests his head back onto your desk, clenching his jaw.

There’s far too much blood to wipe off completely, so you focus on cleaning the area around the wound quickly. You can’t see the bullet, and a quick question to Five confirms that it’s not lodged inside—just scraped up against some things and went on its way. You grab a few gauze pads, placing them securely against his torso with medical tape. The softness of his skin makes your heart soar and drop simultaneously, but you push the thought out of your head. You need to get him feeling better.

Once the gauze is on, you focus on cleaning up the rest of his bloodied torso. After a few minutes, Five feels the strength to sit up and take ginger sips of the water bottle you’ve offered him. The water seems to do him some good, and you sit back from cleaning his skin for a moment, relieved at the sight of some light returning to his eyes.

“Better?” you ask, sliding his shirt back on gently. He merely nods in response, lips pursed in a half-smile. His dimple is covered in sticky dried blood, and that sets you on your next mission.

“I’m gonna clean up your face, okay? You don’t want anything getting in your eyes or mouth,” you say. Five tries to protest, but you cut him off. “If you came to me for help, then you’re going to sit there and get it,” you say sternly.

“Fine,” he concedes. “Guess I brought it upon myself.” You shoot him a look and get busy.

There’s quite a bit of blood at his hairline, and you clean up the series of cuts there. His normally perfect, shiny hair is sweaty and slightly matted in spots. Before you can stop yourself, you bring a cool hand to his forehead and sweep some of the dark strands off his forehead. He makes a soft noise in response, green eyes fluttering halfway closed in relief. Your heart clenches at the sound. You take in the weary and touch-starved boy before you, all dusky skin and stirring limbs. Bending closer, you press a feather-soft, lingering kiss to his hairline before you can think better of it. His eyes shoot back open and he regards you with a look so intense you can barely decipher what’s going on.

“Okay?” you ask in a whisper.

“Please—“ he mumbles hoarsely. “Don’t—don’t stop.” Your brows draw together in both pity and overwhelming affection, and you begin to softly clean up another cut on his cheek. After the blood is soaked up by the disinfectant, you place your lips on the small wound. You give the same treatment to a spot on his chin, then to a bruise under his eye, and then to his dimple—the dimple that’s tugged at your heart every single time he’s smiled at you in the past. As your lips leave the freckled spot, you meet his eyes again.

His lids are hooded, tired. They barely close when he blinks, his eyelashes dipping down to brush the freckled apples of his cheeks. His eyes, though, are less drowsy and more intense. They regard you with something akin to both sorrow and want. You blush under their gaze, wanting to look away from their intensity but finding yourself unable to. Your hand reaches up, your middle three fingers tracing an impossibly soft line from the shell of his ear to the corner of his lips. Your fingertips pause, hovering just over where the tip of his mouth is curving into the smallest of smiles. Five’s hand comes slowly up to meet yours, his fingers enveloping yours splayed over his cheek. He breathes in, once, and the look in his eyes breathes with him. Then, the space between you is filled and your mind is narrowed down to two things: the overlapping of your fingers and lips.

He’s soft, and so so warm—almost feverish, but it just adds to the potency of every tiny movement. His mouth is both quiet and everywhere, filling up the backs of your closed eyes. You change the angle slightly, nosing his cheek as you reconnect your mouths with gentle hunger. He smiles softly, and you pull away a fraction to kiss at his dimple as it imprints itself on his cheek. His hands come up on either side of your head, softly combing through your hair before stilling at your jaw. He rests his forehead against yours, and you can feel his eyelashes brush against your cheeks as he kisses the bridge of your nose. His lips are lingering and filled with so much love it makes you want to cry.

“Thanks for patching me up,” he whispers, voice husky due to the quiet volume.

“If that’s what’s waiting for me every time you get hurt, I’d almost tell you to get in trouble more often,” you manage.

“We’ll see about that,” he says, and you straighten his unbuttoned collar before going in again. He moans this time, soft and low, and you smirk at his exhalation.

“That good, huh?” you quip. He grimaces, indicating where you’ve accidentally pressed on the bloody gauze. Giggling an apology, you reposition yourself so that your hands are around his strong, wiry arms.

“Guess I’ll have to take another look at that,” you say.

“If you must.”

And his eyes regain their roguish light.

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dat-town · 3 years

Text

not gonna miss this chance

Characters: Han Seojun & soloist!female reader

Genre: fluff

Setting: true beauty au, set a year after the tv show’s ending timeline

Summary: Your career is on the verge of ending, hence your management puts you up to do a duet with the infamous Han Seojun. You have heard too many rumours about him to keep track of and yet, none of them could have prepared you for the feelings that came with meeting him.

Words: 4.1k

Self indulgent little snippet because he deserves happiness too.

You had heard of Han Seojun before meeting him, of course you had. Everybody who was in the industry had heard of the hot trend of a Newstagram star-turned idol and his band's shining debut from a year ago. They were told to have snatched teenage girls hearts all over Korea with their good looks and soulful music. You had heard their title track and you had to admit it was nice but nice wasn't enough in a cut-throat industry like entertainment.

Look at you, starting training at twelve, debuting at fifteen and now barely twenty-one you were on the verge of becoming a thrown away doll. Once you had been called cute and the it girl of your generation and now? People were saying you got boring just because your music had matured. Gosh, you couldn't keep singing about first love like your hit song had been for the rest of your life for god's sake. Your last album had been a flop, your company had been losing money and you were still afraid that even with a year left of your contract, they would cut you. But your manager had begged them for a chance and here it was: a collaboration with the newest love of Korea.

But the thing was, Han Seojun had quite a reputation and you didn't know who to believe. Some said he was well-mannered and hard-working. Others gossiped that he was always flirting with his makeup artists and Chen claimed he had been rude to her even when he had just been a ‘nobody’. Not that you were particularly fond of Chen either but as a fellow solo female singer you were a tad bit worried how the infamous singer would treat you.

Well, standing in front of Move Entertainment, you were just about to find out. Taking a shallow breath you followed your manager's lead, bowing to the receptionist and getting into the elevator after taking your visitor's badge. You had heard the company has gone through many changes after the executives were replaced due to the revealed Seyeon scandal but everything looked expensive, shiny and new, unlike in your small agency.

“Hey, I’m Lim Heekyung, nice to meet you. Seojun will be in a minute, too,” a woman in a pantsuit walked up to you on the right floor with a confident smile as she introduced herself. She led you to a meeting room which was apparently customized for a few people only and started preparing papers. She looked excited which was a relief and nice to see, at least someone from Move Entertainment was happy for this project apparently. You were a bit afraid they would see you like a leech, trying to cling onto their new star’s popularity.

“Shall we start? Seojun is a fan of dramatic entrances anyways,” Miss Lim laughed joyfully as if it wasn’t new to her that the idol didn’t make it on time. Ah yeah, you had heard rumours saying that he had something on the company and that was why they were so lenient with him.

You sat in silence, let your manager do the talk about the collaboration project. Seojun could play the guitar, you could play the piano, apparently it was perfect for a ballad duet, though if you used instruments yourself it added to the preparations time. But luckily, there was a songwriter named Leo at the company who had already sent in a few samples specifically for Seojun, so you didn’t have to start from zero.

“Ah, I see you started without me. What did I miss?” A tall boy opened the door wide and flipped down onto the chair across you casually. He had grown into his lanky limbs and with those wide shoulders hugged by the leather jacket, helix earrings in one ear and soft brown hair brushed to one side, it wasn’t a surprise how many female fans swooned over him. But there were a lot of handsome boys in the business, just his looks – no matter how confident he was in them based on the way he carried himself – wouldn’t make a difference.

Miss Lim patiently let Seojun know about the advances and only when she mentioned your name, did the boy glance at you. His dark brown eyes had a sharp form, just as piercing as his gaze, but the cunning smile spreading over his lips softened it a bit. He looked at you as if he wanted to see through you, to figure out how he should have approached you. You expected a snarky or arrogant comment, but in the end, he just flashed a blinding smile at you, one you could see on his posters, before turning back to Miss Lim.

“What’s the schedule?” he asked simply and you both were notified about the deadline of deciding and finalizing the song, the dates of planned recording sessions and the photoshoot. Since there would be no promotion period, it all would be done within a month and half from start to finish. You were a bit relieved hearing that and leave Move Entertainment without any confrontation.

You thought you were good at masking your wary feelings since the further meetings went well and the first recording session went okay-ish. Although both of you had been a bit scolded by the producer for not putting enough feelings into your singing. He claimed that the demo sent by Leo was much more emotional which made Seojun scoff and mumble under his nose. The PD called it for a day, making you promise to practice for next time and one by one they all left. Your manager told you that he would bring the car while you refresh yourself in the bathroom, so you really didn’t expect anyone to wait for you when you stepped out of the restroom, much less Han Seojun.

"Spit it out," he bit out barely glancing your way as he leaned against the corridor’s wall.

"What?" you spluttered as you were really taken aback by his out of blue appearance and question. The guy let out a tired sigh at your obliviousness and pushed himself away from the wall just to walk up to you, towering over your height with his.

"You look at me as if I killed your hamster or something. Which rumour about me bothers you? I fucking can't keep walking on eggshells around you, especially when it's just the two of us," he tsked and you gulped at the sudden called out. You didn’t think it bothered him, or that he was considerate enough to ‘walk on eggshells around you’, you merely thought he was so distant from everybody. It was still better than what Chen had told you.

"Oh, I… nothing. It's stupid. Sorry," you mumbled, feeling embarrassed for your your actions but Seojun apparently wasn’t satisfied without a real answer as he carried on:

"I didn't bully kids in high school but I threatened ones that deserved it, I didn't only get a pity chance from the entertainment, one of our makeup artists is actually one of my best friends, I'm not…"

"Chen told me you are rude and arrogant and have no respect for girls," you blurted out to stop him from speaking because you felt like you didn’t deserve to hear all that. He didn’t owe you any explanation for the way he was. You were just co-workers for a project after all, you had no place in his life, nor he had in yours, so he shouldn’t have been that bothered by your opinion but you understood that he felt uncomfortable due to your silent accusations.

Hearing your hasty interruption, the singer scoffed, a laugh-like sound leaving his mouth.

"Well, I have no respect for girls like Chen who harass my friends and turn their lives into hell just to go on a date with me," he said and it made you blink slowly.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. Check your facts before you go around believing such crap," Seojun stepped back with a roll of his eyes.

The whole situation made you feel made about how you acted, so you wished to apologise but it fell from your lips all too carelessly: "Sorry, I was just worried. This is my last chance, so–"

"Last chance?" the guy quirked a brow at you, curious but you quickly waved his question away.

"Nevermind, I just need this song to do well."

"Of course, it will. I'm Han Seojun, it will turn to gold under my hands," he grinned and made eccentric gestures as if he was about to do magic. You couldn't help a smile. “Or well, vocal chords.”

And turn it to gold, he did.

The rest of your recording sessions went smoother, even the previously grumpy PD complimented your for the development in your chemistry. Funny, you wouldn’t have thought that the wall pulled up between the two of you mattered that much, but at least you didn’t have a knot in your stomach, nor did you worry about every small thing you did around Han Seojun. He also acted more casual, more playful, joking around when both of you had a bit of time to take a breather. He snapped silly pictures, showed off with his height, smirked when he got too close but despite all his bravado and lowkey flirting, you believed even he wouldn’t have jeopardised his career over something like this.

Maybe that's why wrapping up the recording felt a tad bit weird: you got used to his presence, his jokes, his beautiful, deep voice that you could have fallen asleep to. Sure, sometimes he was cocky, a bit rough around the edges but he was a great singer and a fun guy. The project seemed to work out well and you loved it a lot, so you hoped the listeners would appreciate it as well.

But before all that you had one photo shoot together for the promotional pictures and the single's cover. You were grateful for the simple pastel colour background and elegant setting. The warm light latte colour and the clock in the background really fit the song's vibe. Luckily, your dress was decent and pretty as well, you didn't have to feel uncomfortable in it at least. However, you didn’t expect that happy yelp coming from one of the makeup artists stepping into the dressing room. You turned to face the girl, wondering whether she was your fan judged by her excitement.

"Oh my! I'm so happy to finally meet you! Seojun told us about you so much!" she beamed at you which obviously took you back. Well, that you didn’t expect at all. He spoke of you to others? Ah. Apparently to the makeup artist who was most probably that certain one of his best friends he had told you about?

"Don't exaggerate, Imju, I mentioned her like what… once?" Seojun walked in on cue. He rolled his eyes and cleared his throat, trying to avert the topic. "How's Suho?"

You had know idea who that said guy was but after a moment or two you could breathe properly once again while listening to their chatting.

“Just the usual. He’s excited about your duet.”

“Of course, he is,” Seojun grinned, a bit snarky but you could hear the proud undertones of it. When he looked at you, you were surprised by him leaning close though as he quieted down until only you could hear it. “Don’t worry, Jugyeong is really good and just stop her if she gets too gossip-y.”

“Are you talking about me behind my back, hah, Han Seojun?” The pretty girl called Jugyeong raised her fist as if she was about to hit the idol but he just laughed it off and left you two alone when he was hurried onto the set to start with his individual shoots.

“Have you known each other for a long time?” you couldn’t help but wonder as you were seated to get your makeup from her.

“Ah, almost 4 years, I think. We went to high school together. Plus, he’s best friends with my boyfriend. Though, they are always bickering like a married couple,” Jugyeong chuckled joyfully as she started with the cushion. You closed your eyes, listening as she kept going on about the time when Seojun had been obsessed with his motorbike, getting into trouble with his mother. It was strange hearing about a whole other side of him, mama's boy but the image tugged on your mouth, making you smile even though you weren't sure you had the right to know all that. You also learned that Seojun's sister was dating Jugyeong's brother and you felt so involved with the girl's trust albeit it was your last meeting, you were sure Seojun must have only told good things about you.

Hence, you felt shy under his knowing gaze when you walked out of the dressing room. He must have known that Jugyeong couldn't shut up for the life of her, so he looked a bit uncertain, too, stretching the back of his neck, forcing a cunning smile onto his smile when you took your place next to him.

To fit the ballad's theme, the setting was a piano decorated with flowers and you were instructed to sit beside him as if you were about to play a four hands piece. As you did what you had been told, you were very much aware of the way your arms brushed, his long fingers over the keys close to yours, his smile small but genuine.

"Great, great, guys! Someone help her onto the piano and Seojun, stand in front of her," the photographer directed the next scene but before any staff members would have rushed up to you, the singer next to you shushed them.

"I can do it," he insisted as he stood up and looked you in the eyes, silently asking for permission. You nodded while holding your breath back before Seojun put his hands on your waist above the fluffy tulle skirt part and counting on three, he lifted you onto the lid of the beautiful instrument.

You crossed your legs, watching in awe as your pink skirt fell down on waves but your breath hitched for an entirely different reason when you looked up, gaze meeting Seojun's feline eyes trained on you. You had never seen him look at you like that, lacking playfulness or suspicion or curiosity. He looked open, vulnerable, outright starstruck. Your lips parted meaning to ask something but your brain shut off when you heard the shutter of the camera go down and the director yelling compliments at you. It made you snap out of it and later, you blamed the evident blush on your cheeks on the makeup. Seojun blinked too, his guarded expression back in no time, finishing the photo shoot professionally, always lingering close to you, but never touching you. Even though you wouldn’t have minded.

"Hey," Seojun peeked into your dressing room just as you were about to leave, packing up, with a smile on his mouth and sparkles in his deep brown eyes. But unlike half an hour ago when he wore a fancy suit and looked at you like a prince would have looked at his princess, he acted just as casual as he looked in his denim jacket over dark tee. "Wanna grab something with me if you finished for today?"

His question took you back but first thing first you glanced towards your manager, eyes begging for permission which you had gotten with a sigh.

"Just be discreet and call me if you need me to pick you up," your manager shrugged, leaving you two alone with a knowing look that told you to be careful. You didn't need to be told though, you knew how much depended on the current public response to your image.

"Seems like a green light. Have you thought of anything specific?" you turned back to the boy with a subtle smile.

"Not really but I know a few less frequent, secluded places to avoid much talk about us," he said and you nodded, following his lead. Masks, caps and hoodies on, you barely talk on your way to the tent with the lovely ahjumma who welcomed Seojun (two heads taller than her) with a pinch of his cheeks and told you to get seated.

"Are you a regular here?" you inquire, carefully pulling down your mask since not many people are around.

"You could say that," the boy hummed letting you adjust to the place at your own pace, not pressuring you with extra reassessments about how safe it is there. Yet, he is so casual as if he wasn't afraid of a getting mobbed by Dispatch out of the blue. Not that it happened to you a lot of times but you heard stories and at such a crucial time in your career, you feared something like that more than anything.

"Do you want to come up to mine instead?" Seojun blurted out suddenly which made you wide eyed in a span of a moment as you splattered out a surprised yelp. "Come on, I don't mean anything by it. You just look really nervous being in the public," the singer said, his deep voice softening, soothing by the end and you needed to take a breather before answering. You didn't think it was so obvious but apparently you had never been a good liar with him.

In the end, you decided on going over to Seojun's place, so he asked the ahjumma to pack your food to go and you headed towards his flat a few blocks from the company. It was a small but cozy place, much softer and brighter than you expected, lots of pastels and photos of friends and family. While the boy busied himself in the kitchen, getting you plates, chopsticks and beer, you were encouraged to look around and you couldn't help but smile at his photos with not only his band members but high school friends, too. You had seen photos of his graduation with Jugyeong, then another one of his debut with her and another guy. He was a recurring person on a lot of pictures, so you assumed that he was the so-called Suho.

"He's Jugyeong's boyfriend," Seojun affirmed as he walked up to you which you acknowledged with a hum and smiled at his photos with his sister and mother. The makeup artist was right when she said he was only tough on the outside.

"You knew Seyeon?" you whispered as your gaze shifted of a picture of three boys smiling widely into the camera. The middle one was the talented boy you had known from the news of his committed suicide. Such a tragedy.

"Uhum. We were best friends. Him, Suho and me," Seojun nodded and without having to ask, he told you how they had gotten to know each other, what were their favourite past time activities and how they fell apart when he died. You could see he was hurting even now as he was talking about it, so you grazed your fingers against his knuckles as though to say you were there for him to listen, or whatever he needed.

Talking about his best friends and how a group of guys including someone named Chorong stuck by his side over the years warmed your heart. It was nice to know that not everyone had it as lonely as you who basically missed out on high school and memories from that time to be able to turn your dreams into reality. Your only friends were also in the industry but it made things both easier and harder.

"What about you? What did you mean by this being your last chance?" Seojun asked like a loaded gun but after everything he had just told you, you knew you could trust him with this and being in the industry for a while now, he must have understood, too.

You told him about the rising expectations, about your image and your company's ultimatum. It actually felt nice to talk about with someone other than your manager. Especially since Seojun seemed to understand exactly why you felt conflicted over the matter. You have given your youth to this dream of yours, so giving up on it would have felt like betraying yourself and everyone who believed in you but you weren't sure you could give it another 10 years of your life no matter how much you liked music. You had decent CSATs result, maybe you could have applied for a university program. Seojun even offered to arrange a meeting between you and Suho who was studying to become a proper songwriter.

You talked for hours and ate the tteokbokki even though it had gotten cold long ago and you couldn't remember when was the last time you had felt so light. You felt giddy even with just the tiny bit of alcohol in your system by the time you knew it was time for you to go.

Once you had felt relieved knowing that promoting your duet would be only one performance but recently, you started dreading the moment because that meant that you wouldn't have any more excuse to see Seojun. In the backstage, this time around you greeted Jugyeong like an old friend and teased to give Seojun a funny makeup before walking up to your own assigned staff members. Your look was full of sparkles and glow fitting the silver colour of your dress, completing the ethereal vibe off the stage you were going to do and the beautiful song you had grown to love so much you held it close to your heart. The last rehearsals went smoothly and if you noticed Seojun's gaze lingering a bit too long, you didn't comment on it.

"Are you nervous?" he asked before the final recording and you knew it would have been unreasonable to deny it, so you replied with a small smile.

"A bit."

"Don't be. You're pretty and you'll do amazing," he reassured you and the way he said those words oh so easy. As if they were natural. As if he believed in you and maybe this was all the reassurance you needed because when you walked up onto the stage, not taking your eyes off his, it felt like it was just the two of you there. All the stress about not being good enough, about being judged for who you were and what you wanted to do with your life was subsided as you focused on the moment, just to sing this one song with one while trying to fight your heart's crazy beating.

You didn't really have the luxury to have crushes. You had always been concentrated on your work, you couldn't let yourself have distractions, especially since love scandals always affected girl worse than guy. At least that was what you told yourself for always putting up a wall around you and guarding your heart all too well. But during the past few weeks, between playful or flirty remarks, between smiles and ruffling hair, Seojun took apart your wall brick by brick even if he wasn't aware.

So it might have been only a few days since you had last seen him but in that rare moment of boredom, alone in your room, you realized that you missed him. Hell, you liked him and the feeling made me want to scream into your pillow as if you were a silly teenager. As if on cue, your phone buzzed with a new message and seeing the KakaoTalk ID made you shy.

duet partner, han seo jun

so...

i've been thinking

you

sounds dangerous but ok

duet partner, han seo jun

don't get sassy with me, miss

you

what have you been thinking about?

duet partner, han seo jun

that i don't want to miss my chance

there's this girl i like

i thought of asking her out

do you think she would say yes?

you

oh. well... why wouldn't she?

i mean, you are talented, handsome, funny and reliable

duet partner, han seo jun

and what about my job? it's busy and a bit crazy

don't you think it would be unfair of me to ask?

you

I think you should let her decide that

duet partner, han seo jun

okay

are you free on friday?

you

um, sure?

duet partner, han seo jun

cool, then go on a date with me?

#han seo jun x reader #seojun x reader #han seojun #han seo joon #true beauty #stories #i just wanted to give him a happy end after ep16 #that's what this is about

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by-nina · 3 years

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Exchange

Artwork by @caesurables; do not repost.

AO3 | FFN Royai Week 2021 | Day 1 – King’s gambit/Queen’s gambit Rating: M (light drinking, sexual content) Genre: Lemon Word Count: 3,230

A/N: Happy Royai Week, everyone! Welcome to the spiciest thing I've written so far, which marks the first time I'm starting Royai Week with smut. I hope this feeds you well. Special shoutout to Mica for adding life to this with the gorgeous art! 😍

Something stirs in her; on one hand, it would be easy to call it yearning. But on the other, nothing that concerns Roy Mustang has ever been easy. Riza has always equated these things with methodical moves and calculated risks.

And so, for once, Riza pictures herself playing her game not for Roy’s sake, but for hers. She imagines that the stakes are different, the rules may be broken, and the only person she has ever wanted is both her gamble and her prize. She could have it all now—she need only play her piece.

———

Roy Mustang was made for a night like this. Handsome, stylish dress uniform, hair slicked back like a frame around his striking facial features, an air of dignity in his walk, his posture, even his gaze. He wears it all so well that he stands out from older, more distinguished company in the East City Hotel, where tonight, the Eastern Army is holding an extravagant ball in recognition of its recently promoted officers.

Riza is present as well, of course. For the occasion, she has traded her usual military attire for a blue satin gown with a flatteringly slender silhouette. A sash pinned with the insignia of her rank hangs from her shoulder to her hip. Having gone up the stage much earlier in the program for her own recognition, she has now retreated to the far end of the room, from where she’s got a full view of Roy as he waits to be called in front of the crowd.

Her promotion from Second to First Lieutenant is nowhere near as significant as his becoming Colonel, but it is no less her night than his. Selfish though the thought may be, it’s true that Roy owes this night to her, every title and every honor conferred to him. In every aspect of his life, she has made a crucial choice that allowed him to take a step in the right direction towards their goals—his goals that she has chosen to make her own.

“For the rank of Colonel, Roy Mustang…”

It was Riza’s choice to join him in the military, and it was this choice that has kept him on his path and his eyes on these goals. She has been devoted to his success just as much as to her act of atonement, but she was not subservient to either. Roy also carries with him the burden of their sins in Ishval. Her responsibility over his atonement means that she has more power than a subordinate would normally have under their superior. Anyone could be a dutiful subordinate or competent bodyguard, after all, but only she could be trusted with his life as well as his death.

“… the formidable Flame Alchemist…”

And it was her choice to reveal the secrets of flame alchemy, entrusted to her by her father, that first set him on the path towards his goals for the people and the country in the first place. Had she not trusted him, Roy would have searched further and longer for some other practice of alchemy. Had Riza chosen to die with her father’s secrets, Roy might not have come anywhere near who he is now.

“… and Hero of Ishval.”

Every choice she has made in their intertwined lives has determined the course of his, even when he should have been none of her concern. This was especially true in Ishval. She could have pulled the trigger at any time when she despised him most. She could have reversed the choice that brought him to Ishval. Riza chose instead to be an ally—a friend in a war where every other sense of humanity seemed to have been lost.

The Hero of Ishval was made through her actions; as was the Flame Alchemist; as was this shiny new Colonel Roy Mustang. As he is introduced by Lieutenant General Grumman, he takes his place at the center of the ballroom stage, and his titles and promotion seem all the more impressive due to the fact that he is the only new Colonel being recognized tonight. The crowd erupts in a reverent applause which Riza does not join in.

In different circumstances, if it weren’t for the very cards they have been dealt, tonight could have truly been happy, a cause for celebration. But their plans continue forming and unfolding; this game on which they have staked their lives does not pause. And so Riza watches him as she drinks her champagne, quietly imagining the steps they ought to take next, the moves they must plan, the sacrifices she must make in this gambit where she is both player and piece and he is the king set to take it all.

Her life is a game which she plays for Roy Mustang to win.

When his moment passes and the ceremony moves on, Roy descends from the stage, searching through the crowd for Riza. He finds her and meets her gaze across the room, and for a moment she wavers in her train of thought. She is familiar with this feeling. She has felt its pull before, but never this strongly, never with enough clarity so as to explicitly name him its object. How could she possibly feel it towards someone for whose sake she has forgotten her own needs and her own desires? How could she not be indifferent instead?

Riza leaves her champagne on a nearby table and turns in the opposite direction to walk off its effects. The party thankfully offers plenty enough distraction from the drink and from Roy. She meets a few colleagues here and there, makes small talk, and when she loses sight of Roy, she’s certain that he has been intercepted by people wishing to congratulate him or rub elbows with him for his prodigious rise through the ranks. She soon manages to extricate herself from the crowd and disappear from the ballroom.

———

“You should be celebrating tonight, Lieutenant.”

Riza knows that Roy has found her before he even speaks. She didn’t think that he would. She had wandered around the hotel until she found herself in distant, unfamiliar hallways decorated with beautiful artwork that she could admire until her intoxication had worn off enough to safely drive home. But there is no mistaking the sound of his footsteps or the scent of his perfume tinged with the liquor from the party. Part of her wants to disappear again, but his proximity in an otherwise deserted place seems to further slow down her currently unreliable reflexes.

Riza smiles dryly. “Does it matter if we received our actual promotions a week ago? We all know this is just an excuse to flatter ourselves and have a good time without spending our own money.” Roy smirks as she shakes her head. “Either way, I think I'll enjoy the party much better here, away from the crowd. But you're everyone's darling for the evening. They'll be wanting you back."

Roy sighs and rubs the side of his head, as if the very thought tires him. "I see enough of them at work. And there's going to be more of them around now, especially when we get transferred to Central. This night isn't about them."

The mention of Central causes Riza to bristle with alertness. She whips her head around to ascertain that the hallway is deserted. Behind her, she finds an intricately carved double door, and she quickly strides across the hallway to it. To her surprise, it is unlocked; the room beyond it appears to be dark and deserted. Riza shoots a glance at Roy as she enters. He swiftly follows.

Riza spots a nearby floor lamp just before she locks the door. For a moment, the room is pitch black, then Riza switches on the lamp. Its warm glow is just enough for her to make out Roy’s face and the silhouettes of the furniture in the room. They seem to have found themselves in a lavish parlour with a high-backed sofa and matching armchairs, a handsome tea table for two, a fireplace carved from white marble, and a vintage piano.

“I see you’re already making plans for proceeding to Central,” Riza begins. “We should be more careful about discussing them from now on, Colonel. Everyone has their eyes on you.”

Roy stares at her questioningly. Then, a small laugh breaks through his expression, and he shakes his head. “I’m not. I didn’t come looking for you to talk about our plans.”

She frowns. “What is it, then?”

“It’s just like I said. You should be celebrating tonight.” He draws what sounds like both a nervous breath and a laugh. “It wouldn’t have been right to enjoy the party without you. You’re the reason we’ve both come this far.” He pauses, and then his voice turns softer than before. There is no trace of a smile left in it or on his face. “I know you know that, Lieutenant.”

In the soft light, Roy’s face appears flushed, his features softer than they were when she watched him back at the ballroom. Riza doesn’t realize just how close he is until the scent of champagne on her is lost to his raspberry wine. Something stirs in her; on one hand, it would be easy to call it yearning. But on the other, nothing that concerns Roy Mustang has ever been easy. Riza has always equated these things with methodical moves and calculated risks.

But never in any of their plans or her own did she consider this a possible outcome, that Roy Mustang would be kissing her with one gentle hand on her face and another on her waist, or that the warmth of his body could be such a welcome comfort. He kisses her as if he has known for a long time just how closely he would need to lean in, how to tilt his head to the correct angle so that the curve of his lips would fit perfectly with hers. Riza senses this not because of unrestrained passion—on the contrary, Roy is perfectly still. The kiss is tender, but the rest of him is tense, as if it’s the only thing holding him together now. Or as if it’s the only thing he has held out for all this time.

Roy breaks away from her slowly, and it’s Riza whose heart is thundering in her chest. Perhaps, had the game been hers alone to play, it wouldn’t have led them so far so soon. Had it been she to approach him first, they might have only teetered over their fragile lines and not fully crossed to a point of no return. But Roy has taken her by surprise where the playing field has always seemed to be even between them. This, she cannot accept—she has never made a gamble that she did not see through. This will not change now.

She will play her game on her own terms.

Riza flings her arms over Roy’s shoulders as she kisses him, one hand running through his hair and undoing it back to the style she knows and likes best on him. It makes her want more—thank heavens that he realizes it right away. He responds so ardently that they stumble, so he steers her until she falls back against the piano and dissonant notes blare over their sighs. His hand runs down her side, over her hip and into the slit of her blue dress, where he reaches under her thigh and lifts it up against his leg.

But Riza refuses to give in so easily. She trails her hand down his front, all the way down to where he has started to turn hard. A gasp escapes him when she wraps her fingers around his erection and tugs at it. It gives her an opportunity to push back and reverse their positions so he is seated on the piano—it clangs unpleasantly again—and she is leaning over him as she makes short work of his jacket and his shirt to kiss his chest. The further down Riza drags her lips, the less familiar she is with the territory she is exploring, but she goes on until she brushes against that warm, rough outline. Riza tugs his trousers down, and when he springs free of his clothing, she takes Roy into her mouth.

He is exactly how she wants him right now, inelegant and vulnerable with his head hanging all the way back. Riza starts off slowly, but she is eager to figure out whether she can get him to unravel more quickly with her lips running back and forth along the length of him, or with her fingers massaging the base which her mouth cannot reach. His pleasure seems to build unhurriedly until she twists her tongue around, making him throb and moan quaveringly. She becomes hungry to hear more of him and picks up the pace, never mind that the effort is choking her. Roy grips her hair until it falls out of its pins, ultimately coming loose down her back. She goes, and goes, and she thinks he might be close, but then—

But then Roy pulls her up so he could kiss her, and Riza sighs in pleasure, and it isn’t enough for her just to watch him unravel anymore. She falls into him in a blissful, drunken haze, allowing him to kiss and caress her and unzip her dress. She could burst into flames at every part of her that he touches, even the scars that he had left on her back when their game was at its deadliest. He begins rubbing her between her legs, and there it hardly matters whether his touch flutters over her skin like candlelight or pushes as suddenly as lightning—the sensation just builds and builds, like a storm stirring up the sea.

How could he know so well what to do with her, how to give her just enough and yet leave her wanting more without ever having explored her this way before? The question is quickly lost in Riza’s mind as he finds other ways to arouse her. Now, he’s pulling the top of her dress down, switching positions with her again, alternating between kissing her lips and her breasts. It’s easy to follow him where he goes when he’s leading her through a dazzling trance, easier than it has ever been to follow him in any other way.

The storm slows only once as Roy’s lips brush against her ear with a stammering plea. “Do you want me to—can I keep going?”

Riza hardly recognizes the sound of her own voice when she gasps, “Please.”

Slowly, carefully, he enters her, with her dress hiked up above her hips. Despite the mild ache that comes with it at first, it feels better than anything she could have planned or imagined. Riza is shaking now. She buries her face in Roy’s neck and moans there, where only he can hear her, and she feels his excitement growing at the sound of it. He begins to thrust into her—clang, clang, clang, goes the piano—first at an even pace, which helps ease away her initial discomfort. When the tension disappears from her shoulders, she finds herself swaying against him hungrily. He varies from going exhilaratingly fast to tantalizingly slow—clang, clang, clang!—and at some point, she whimpers—

“Roy—"

It seems to awaken something feral in him. Everything he does with her is greedy now, from his kisses running clumsily from her neck to her lips and back, to his hands grabbing at every part of her that he can reach—and although she likes him like this, unhinged and at the same time in complete control, it makes her want to give him more than she is getting.

Riza pushes herself off the piano and into Roy, and he is more than willing to let her drive him down to the floor. There, she pulls at his hair as she kisses him, then shifts slightly so he can kiss her chest while she slowly sinks down and allows him back into her. Their rhythm is easier to find this time. She starts off at a pace that builds up the heat in her body just right, then later allows his hands and hips to guide her with more fervor and intent. Soon, the pleasure is just too close for her to wait any longer, and they are both overcome with an aching desperation—

“Roy”—she pleads, groans—“oh—"

“Riza—ahh—fuck—”

“Don’t stop, don’t stop—"

Roy climbs over her, snaking his arms around her to grab at her chest, and he enters her from behind without breaking their rhythm, thrusting vigorously until and throughout her release. The rush, the bliss, the high is simply unthinkable—Riza presses her forehead down and bites her own hand hard to keep herself from screaming. She sinks into an ungraceful sprawl on the floor, drenched in sweat and tremors and Roy’s weight all over her body, but also as feeling if she were made purely of her sensations, with no physical body at all.

A moment passes, or two, or an eternity before she turns to lie on her back. Roy has collapsed next to her and entangled with her, so he adjusts to make way for her. She then finds herself looking up at him; Roy is leaning over her, seeming like an entirely different person with his gentle gaze, his tousled hair, his clothes only barely clinging to his body. His clothes—a reminder of who he is, and therefore, the gravity of what they have just done.

The high subsides almost as quickly as it came over her.

The room is piercingly silent as they scramble back to their feet and several meters away from each other. They keep their backs turned as they smooth their clothes back onto themselves and comb their hair into some normal, unquestionable style. Riza’s senses settle back into rationality at last. This was not a different way to play their old game. This was a temporary escape, a rare exception to her life’s unwavering rules.

“Riza.”

It’s unsettling how he says her name as if it were what he normally calls her, so she does not respond. Surely, he understands that what has just transpired between them must remain in the past, in favor of the reality that they left outside the door. Surely, he knows as well as she does that that reality has already resumed before they have even left the room.

He calls her name again. Riza, again, refuses to acknowledge him.

“Lieutenant.”

Her resolve wavers for only a moment. Riza knows exactly what he is doing. She knows her own excuse for this lapse in judgment—she knows how to keep it from happening ever again. But she can tell by his current insistence and his earlier passion that he doesn’t consider this a mistake like she does. This is, after all, exactly how he plays the game—head on, without hesitation. Roy has broken the rules more thoroughly than she has. He would have done so without her instigation. He has made perfectly clear the gamble that he is willing to make for her.

Riza turns, brushing past Roy and out of the room without so much as looking at him—leaving him behind the door, leaving as much of her selfish desires as she can possibly let go of—because she knows she must keep him from gambling everything away.

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watermelonlipstick · 3 years

Text

The Hunter With The Dragon Tattoo

This is a request for anon, who asked:

i don’t know if your requests are open, but if they are, could you do one where the reader has tattoos that dean doesn’t know about and then he sees them when he has to stitch them up after a hunt? (maybe like season 1 or 2 dean) thank you!!!

And then wrote to me privately that they have a dragon tattoo on one shoulder.

It was a lot of fun to write; tons of opportunities to slip in some good classic rock references! I miss in the super early seasons when Sam and Dean seemed to rag on each other pretty much constantly. I hope this is what you were thinking of!

Title: The Hunter With The Dragon Tattoo

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (gender neutral)

Word Count: 2589

Summary: Dean is surprised to discover the reader has tattoos.

Warnings: canon-appropriate violence/mention of blood, swearing, fluff!!

Sam moves to the middle of the front bench to shuck off his coat as Dean is getting out of the car, and gives it to you with a long arm over the leather. “Can you hand me that blue jacket?”

You have to over-rotate to use your other hand to grab it, keeping your grip tight on your own shirt in the most bastardized version of a sling. Sam, of course, notices.

“You think it’s broken or dislocated?”

A hard chuckle blows out of your nose. “Really hope it’s just dislocated, I’ll tell you that.”

He gives you a sympathetic smile as he throws on the blue jacket and zips it all the way up to his neck. It looks like he’s covering something up and naturally, he is, thin hoodie and t shirt underneath drenched with enough werewolf blood that it’s clinging to his chest almost pornographically. But his face is untouched and he has use of both his arms which is more than can be said for you or Werewolf Shiner Winchester, making him the only reasonable choice to send for gauze and ACE bandages at the closest pharmacy.

Dean stops his grimace-covered stretching just outside the car and opens your door with an outstretched hand as Sam slides into the driver’s seat. “You coming?”

Taking his hand with your good one, you let Dean close the door behind you without any of the normal grumbling about treating you like you’re made of porcelain, in an effort to keep your face neutral around the jolts of pain through your shoulder. Sam pulls out of the motel parking lot ultra-gently like it’s his first day with a learner’s permit the way he does when he knows Dean is watching. It makes you smile to yourself as exhaust dissipates across the cracked blacktop.

Crossing the asphalt with tired strides Dean opens the motel door for you too, and you walk in before him. “Is that yours?” he asks, dropping his coat on the cheap couch and wincing through the removal of his flannel. In the light of the room you’re better able to see his black eye and realize it’s going to take weeks for that to go away, not relishing another inevitable conversation about makeup to sell a G-man cover story. It makes it so much easier for the families of victims to believe you’re legit when none of you look like you’ve been in a bar fight, but getting Dean to believe cover-up is in the name of the greater good is an uphill battle on the best of days.

“Is what mine?”

“The blood you’re covered in like nacho cheese. Dude, if that’s all over the car—”

He deserves credit for trying not to smile as you try to look over your shoulder like a puppy chasing its tail, but he does guide you over to the mirror on the wall to see. He’s right, blood has seeped all down your coat, sticky and shiny like syrup. It’s far too wet to be from near 30 minutes ago when you got in the car. “Fuck, I really like this jacket.”

“You have like 5 just like it taking up space in my trunk; you’ll live. Here, take that off, I’ll stitch you up.” Dean starts rifling through his bag for supplies, rolling some kinks out of his neck.

“It doesn’t even hurt, I just need you to pop my shoulder back in so I can take a shower.”

“I don’t give a shit what hurts, slugger. You’re going to pass out in the tub if you keep up the stuck pig act.”

You roll your eyes and reluctantly try to slide your arms out of the jacket, wincing when you jostle the dislocated arm. Dean takes the sopping coat from you and tosses it into the kitchenette sink from where he stands, the concern coloring his face when you look back at him not reassuring you at all. He puts the floss-threaded needle he’d had in his hand between his teeth and starts pulling on your collar.

“Shoulder first,” you insist, done wiggling and writhing out of clothes before your shoulder is where it belongs.

Dean’s mouth tightens into a firm line but he backs up to give himself enough room to shove, an exasperated hand beckoning you. “Okay, you ready?” he says around the needle, looking like a farmer field medic with a piece of hay.

“Yeah just let me—FUCK,” you grunt when he catches you off guard without any preamble, clutching at the shoulder for a moment until you could take a deep breath. You do a test rotation and are happy at the relative lack of pain, trying not to be frustrated that Dean didn’t warn you so you wouldn’t tense up.

“Shirt off.” Dean’s tone is firm and precise, no room for discussion, as he gets out a lighter and watches intently to heat up the needle.

“Wow, you sure know how to make someone feel special,” you hum, feeling much looser without the shooting pain from your shoulder. The buttons of the flannel come undone relatively easy, but the fabric makes a sickly wet thwack as you snap it down to rest around your elbows.

From his spot at your side, you see Dean’s face contort in surprise and watch as he reflexively reaches out a thumb to rub the skin of your shoulder.

“Ow, what the hell?” you flinch.

“Has this always been here?” he asks, partly amazed but mostly incredulous as his eyes trace the inky lines of the dragons where they wind around your skin.

“I wasn’t born with them if that’s what you mean.” You can tell he’s truly shocked because he doesn’t even react to the jab, just hovers a gentle fingertip over the tattoo. “Earth to Dean? I thought you were all scared about me bleeding out.”

He gulps and clears his throat before covering with a smile that’s a combination of cheeky and shy. “Right, yeah, sorry. Just didn’t realize I was in the presence of The Tattooed Wonder.”

“Hardly, I only have a few. Now start stitching before I change my mind and wait for Sam; his are way neater than yours anyway.”

“Few? Where are the other ones? Girls on the back of your leg that hula when you walk?”

“Nice try.”

He bites his lip before shifting the strap of your tank top off and sponging the back of your shoulder with a wet towel. When he unceremoniously pours a slug of whiskey over the wound you feel it for the first time and hiss, adrenaline and distraction of the joint pain worn off.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, already dragging floss tight on a stitch with his teeth and moving on to the next as quickly as he can, half-humming that old Queen song, “gonna get me on the track, got a dragon on my back.”

You weren’t lying earlier when you’d said that Sam’s stitches were usually cleaner, but Dean is being very careful in a way he usually isn’t—Chicks dig scars, Sammy! Stopped the bleeding, didn’t it?—and you tip your head back to check his work. The extra time he’s taking is to match up the back of one of the dragons, ripped open by a werewolf claw and currently held together by the delicate pinch of Dean’s index and thumb.

It’s tough, but you manage to grab the reins on a smirk. Dean doesn’t notice, too focused on trying to keep the damage to your tattoo at a minimum. The gesture and the concentration are impossibly sweet, even though you’d long accepted that ink injury was inevitable with your lifestyle.

When he’s done, callused fingertips tugging the last knot in place, Dean grabs the whiskey again. “Hold still,” he breathes, close enough you can feel it dance across the skin of your neck, and you hope he can’t see the goosebumps trailing down your arms like ivy. “That should do it. You can grab the first shower, but it’s big enough that some gauze on top for a few days wouldn’t hurt.”

“Thanks,” you answer, startled and annoyed at your own voice when it creaks a touch. The flannel feels gross and heavy with blood, so you pull your arms out entirely and reach to drop it in the wastebasket.

“I can deal with that if you want,” he offers, ruffling the velvet-short hair at the back of his neck. “The coat too. Not the first time getting blood out of clothes.”

“Oh, okay. Uh, thanks. That would be really nice.”

Dean only meets your eyes for the most fleeting moment when he takes it before biting his lip again and nodding to himself. You get to your feet and gingerly slip the displaced straps back over your shoulder, feeling the shift in energy in the room and not knowing what to do with it. Settling for a jocular little punch to Dean’s bicep, you grin at him. “Thanks for putting me back together, doc.”

Sam comes back a couple minutes after you’ve closed the bathroom door with a translucent plastic bag full of first aid supplies. “In the shower?”

Dean looks up from where he’s sitting on the couch and hands Sam the beer he’d already gotten out of the fridge in anticipation, his leg bouncing rapidly. “Yeah. They have everything?”

His younger brother nods and accepts the bottle, taking a sip before laying out his haul on the coffee table and tossing the bag. “You okay?”

He glances up with a quirked eyebrow. “Just tired, man.”

Sam waits a silent beat, giving Dean a chance to spill whatever it is.

“Did you, ah—did you know Y/N’s all inked up like a friggin’ sailor?”

Sam chuckles and runs his tongue over his teeth. “A sailor? Y/N’s only got a few tattoos, dude.”

“You knew?”

“Of course I knew, some people like to learn things about their friends. That’s why you’re acting weird?”

Dean scowls over the glass lip of his beer before taking a long pull. “Not acting weird, sue me for being surprised we’re working with the goddamn Hunter With The Dragon Tattoo.” His voice is low and surly like a kid on the edge of a tantrum even he knows isn’t worth it.

“Y/N can do whatever they want, Dean. It doesn’t matter if you like the tattoos, you’re not their dad.” Sam’s barely keeping the giggle out of his voice, enjoying Dean’s frustration the way only a little brother could.

“No, I don’t—it’s not that I don’t like them,” Dean stammers, the end of the statement fading off as a flush starts rising in his cheeks. He knows he’s said too much and Sam jumps on it.

“Wait—you do like them, don’t you?” He crashes onto the couch, long limbs just enough in Dean’s space to be irritating. “I bet you loooooove knowing about those tattoos—I bet you’re dying to see them.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean growls, kicking Sam in the thigh with a socked foot. Sam blocks him and starts laughing hard enough it makes him rattle all over like he’s on a rickety rollercoaster. When he finally catches his breath Dean is still pouting to whatever syndicated sitcom he’d thrown on. Over the tinny TV speakers they hear the shower turn off.

“You know, if you’re feeling shy I could say something for you.” Sam’s grin is ten steps past cheeky, firmly planted in devilish, and he waggles his eyebrows suggestively over top of dimples perfectly sliced into his cheeks.

Dean’s eyes widen like a cartoon and his voice is a gravelly hiss as he grabs a tight handful of Sam’s t-shirt, now crisp with dried blood. “Sam, I fucking swear to God—” but the threat is ineffectual, sheepish panic clear as anything on his face. The glint in Sam’s eye brightens and he twists out of his brother’s grip before he can react, crossing the room in a few huge steps so he’s nearly face to face with you when you open the bathroom door, Dean leaping off of the couch to chase him and slamming into Sam’s back when he stops short.

“Whoa, Jesus—you scared the shit out of me,” you breathe, one hand on top of your fresh t-shirt to still your racing heartbeat, fistful of dirty laundry in the other.

“Just need that second shower, didn’t mean to freak you out!” Sam smiles, warm and light and genuine. “Thanks! Gauze is on the table if you want it.” he says as he slips past you with a friendly and familiar kiss on the cheek, wink that you can’t see to Dean over your shoulder as he closes the bathroom door fast enough that the mirror next to the frame barely even steams.

“Hey, could you—” you start.

“Hey, do you—” Dean says at the exact same time. You both chuckle, and you can’t tell if you’re annoyed or not that the little charge in the room didn’t dissolve while the dried blood on you had rinsed down the shower drain. Dean holds up an open palm to indicate that you should go first.

“Could you cover those stitches for me? The skin is kind of catching on my shirt.”

“Uh, yeah. Definitely.”

Shaking your hair loose and hanging the towel it was in on the back of a kitchenette chair, you sit on the edge of the bed to tug the collar of your t-shirt as far onto your shoulder as you can. Dean snatches some medical tape and a couple 4x4s from the table and sits down next to you, the heat coming off of him soothing the chill of the few remaining drops of water cooling on your skin. “I’m gonna need more slack than that,” he says, trying to be matter-of-fact but not quite covering the gooey softness around the edges that are making his voice more sultry than gruff. You try to pull harder on the collar but it’s already digging into your neck. The hand holding the gauze floats down to Dean’s lap while he rubs his jaw with the other. “Do you—could you just take it off?”

You roll your eyes at him.

“Or live with it, see if I care.” He holds your gaze, and that stubbornness you recognize.

Reluctantly, you move your arm inside the shirt and slip it out from under the bottom hem, squirming in a way that covers your chest while exposing your shoulder. When he sweeps the shirt back you reflexively jolt away from him like you’ve been shocked. “Not being fresh, just don’t want to tape it in,” he murmurs.

“I noticed you put the lines together really straight; thanks for that.”

“Only took an extra second.” He rips another piece of tape off a roll with his teeth and is being so deliberate that now you’re sure he’s stalling for another few seconds to keep touching you but you don’t care; the feeling of his fingertips on your skin is tender and delicious.

“If I knew you were going to be that careful, I would’ve been letting you do my stitches this whole time.”

“Guess I’m just a regular damn seamstress,” he smiles, finally smoothing the last tape and only surreptitiously glancing out of the corner of his eye as you tuck your arm back into its sleeve. “So seriously, what’re the other tattoos?”

“I’m sure you’ll see them soon enough,” you whisper as you stand up, committing to memory the way it makes Dean’s pupils flare as you ease under the scratchy motel sheets on the opposite bed.

Thanks again for reading! If you liked it, check out my Masterlist or send me a request!

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vnderoos · 4 years

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in the stars ✷ draco malfoy

(gif is not mine, credit to the owner) warnings / language, slytherin!reader, half blood prince setting word count / 4.6k

masterlist in bio ↴

Y/N LEANED AGAINST THE STONE wall outside of Professor McGonagall's classroom, like she always did, with her arms crossed over her chest as she waited for Draco to meet her outside. She'd come from her Potions class with Slughorn and she couldn't wait to tell him that she'd actually nailed her brew that day. It wasn't uncommon for her to feel lost in that class, finding herself much more adept when it came to Charms or Transfiguration, but that day was the first time in a while where she'd felt like she hadn't totally fudged everything.

She pushed herself off of the wall with a sense of eagerness when she saw Draco's head of striking, blonde hair sail out of the doors. A bright smile painted itself onto her face, expecting him to head right towards her so she could gush about her accomplishment and maybe, just maybe, get a huff of amusement from him as a congratulations, but he walked right past her. It was like he didn't even see her as he walked by, his blue eyes staring straight through her, and her smile faltered.

Sure, he'd been a little quieter than usual and they hadn't hung out outside of class as much as they used to, but he'd never blatantly ignored her like that.

It stung a little, honestly.

Shaking the confusion off of her face and unfurrowing her brows, Y/N took off after him. "Oi, Malfoy," she called and she shoved her way through the crowd of other students parading through the hallways, shooting off one cold glance after another at those who refused to budge right away. "What the hell was that, you git?" she confronted and he didn't even seem fazed. She knew bloody well that she was in earshot, but he was just shutting her out and she didn't know why. "Draco, please." She reached out and grabbed his wrist in one last attempt, hoping to get something out of him.

Before she could plead with him anymore and make herself seem even more pathetic, Draco whipped around to face her. "Bloody hell, Y/N, don't you understand that I don't want to deal with you right now?" he spat, the words biting into her skin like they had fangs, and he ripped his arm from her grasp. "Just piss off already."

After he delivered the final blow, Y/N's eyebrows lifted in shock and she stopped in her tracks. She watched him as he strode away, his black and green robes billowing behind him, and she stood frozen in the middle of the hallway. The students that she'd fought her way through before passed her by once more, some of their shoulders knocking against hers as they maneuvered themselves around her.

Just piss off already.

The words echoed in her head, even after she'd composed herself well enough to make her way back towards the dungeons.

—

When dinner came around, Y/N found herself picking at the food on her golden plate, separating her mixed vegetables into individual piles almost without thinking. Usually, she'd be sat across from Draco, trying to make him laugh at one of her stupid jokes, which would normally result in him throwing a pea or two at her and rolling his eyes, but he'd been distant lately. Clearly. He hadn't even shown up to the Great Hall that night, and she assumed he was probably off doing something he shouldn't be.

He had told her weeks ago, before he'd started to pull away, that he'd been chosen to help the Dark Lord with one of his plans. He'd been sneaking away a lot, to the Room of Requirement, where he'd been working tirelessly in an attempt to repair the Vanishing Cabinet, but as far as she knew, it was all still a work in progress.

She figured that all of it must've been taking a toll on him—that he must've started to feel the crushing weight of the stress—and she wished he could understand that he didn't have to dissociate from her like he was, but Draco had never been one to seek comfort in others. She learned a long time ago that he tended to deal with things alone, even if that meant pushing away the people around him. She never thought she'd become one of those people, but here she was, going through the first day since their first year where she and Draco hadn't properly spoken, and it sucked.

Y/N still had Pansy and Blaise, both of whom she loved dearly, but talking with them wasn't the same as talking with Draco. They didn't understand her like he did, nor did they listen even half as well.

Plus, she had never spoken it out loud, but she cared for Draco much differently—much more deeply—than she cared for the other two.

A sudden pain in her side brought her out of her swirling thoughts, snapping her back into the hustling and the bustling of the Great Hall, and it took no time at all for her to realize that Pansy had just elbowed her in the ribs. "Watch it, would you, Parkinson?" she grumbled, rubbing her fingers over her side even though it had hardly hurt.

Pansy scoffed and tucked a strand of her shiny, black hair behind her ear. "Wouldn't have to if you weren't in sodding space right now. I don't think I've ever seen you so distracted," she pointed out, leaning against her sweater-clad arms which happened to have been crossed over the tabletop.

Y/N rolled her eyes and she looked over at Blaise, who bore the same nosey expression. He washed the food in his mouth down with a sip of the liquid in his chalice and he nodded his head in agreement. "Pans is right. What happened today?" he pried and he set down his fork, so he could prop one of his elbows up on the table and lean his head into his hand. "You look like a kicked pup," he added.

"Bloody Malfoy is what happened," she confessed, knowing it would be no use to hide anything from the two. They'd have bugged it out of her, either way. "I waited for him to get out of McGonagall's, like usual, and the twit didn't even acknowledge me. He told me to 'piss off', can you believe that?" She asked, rolling a couple of carrots around on her plate.

Blaise shrugged his shoulders at that and Pansy sighed. As they recalled, Draco hadn't seemed all-too-thrilled to see them lately, either. "Don't take it personally, Y/N/N. That's just Draco being Draco," Pansy promised, knocking her with her elbow again, but softer and on her bicep that time.

Blaise nodded in agreement. "Yeah, he's been a bit off with us, as well," he included, backing up the statement of the raven-haired girl. "He's been short with us all day."

Y/N furrowed her eyebrows at them, glancing between the two of them. "Short with you? At least he's willingly spoken to you," she bit back, harsher than she'd intended to, and a look of discomfort crossed onto her friends' faces. She felt a pang of guilt at the severity of her tone, but she pushed it down, knowing they wouldn't hold it against her. "He barely even looked at me after class. I was practically begging for his attention," explained Y/N.

Pansy managed a tight-lipped smile. "Surely, it was just the result of a bad day. I can't imagine he's seriously upset with you," she said, trying to sound reassuring, but she came off like she was trying to sound hopeful herself.

Y/N didn't buy it, though, and she shook her head. "I can't believe he's talked to the both of you today, but he chose to blow me off. He's acting like he hates me, now, but it's fine," she vented, trying to blow off some steam but the anger began to bubble up more in the pits of her stomach. How could Draco ignore her like that when she'd done nothing but walk through the fire with him? How could he be so quick to push her away when all she wanted was to help him do what he thought was best for himself? "It's just Draco being Draco, yeah?" she snapped, reiterating what Pansy had told her earlier, and she threw her silverware down onto the table. It clattered across the wood and a few of the other Slytherins turned their heads towards her to send her a glare. She looked around at the few of them, before she pushed herself into a standing position. "If you two would excuse me, I think I'm done eating," she growled.

She hadn't meant to come off as angry at Pansy or at Blaise, because she wasn't, but as she stormed out of the room, she decided she'd apologize to them both the following morning. Right now, she was too pissed off at Draco for ignoring her, at herself for not trying harder to make sure he knew he wasn't alone, and at the fucking Dark Lord for putting this sort of pressure on him in the first place. The entire situation was mad and Y/N was done with it. She was tired after worrying about Draco all day and she much preferred a night alone in the girl's dormitory to one where she picked at her food and wallowed in her own thoughts the whole time.

Her walk back to her dorm had been quiet, due to almost all of the other students being back at dinner. As she stepped into the room she shared with Pansy and a few of the other girls, she figured she had at least an hour to mope around before they all returned and disturbed the peace and quiet.

A sigh left her lips as she shrugged her robe from her shoulders, folding it neatly and setting it on her bedside table after. She ripped off every other unnecessarily difficult part of her uniform—her green tie, her sweater vest, and her newly-polished shoes—and she untucked her button-down shirt. She dropped her shoes on top of the trunk at the end of her bed, threw everything else over her robe, and when she felt like she could breathe again, she let herself flop onto her mattress.

Y/N sunk into it upon impact, relishing in the immediate comfort that it offered her, but when she rolled over to stare up at the canopy over her bed, something crumpled beneath her. She reached beneath her back and pulled out a piece of neatly-folded parchment—or at least it had been before she laid on it. She turned the paper over in her fingers and ran her thumb over the surface.

If this was another note from Millicent Bulstrode asking her to do her Charms homework, she was going to set the girl's entire mattress on fire.

When she unfolded the piece of parchment, she was surprised that she didn't find Millicent's jumbled, blocky lettering. Instead, the handwriting was long, slanted, and familiar. Considering she'd received dozens of letters from him in the past, it didn't take but a few seconds for her to identify it as Draco's.

Meet me in our spot at midnight.

Y/N's heart fluttered in her chest as her eyes flickered over his message not once, not twice, but three times, just to make sure it was actually there. Part of her wanted to rip the paper to shreds right then and there, but the other part knew that because it was the first time he'd been the one to reach out in a while, it must've been important.

Especially if he'd placed it there after what happened that afternoon.

Deciding that she would meet him when the time came, Y/N tucked the piece of parchment beneath her pillow and laid her head on top of it.

—

Y/N's stomach churned as she walked up the steps to the Astronomy Tower, happy she traded her black shoes for her something with a rubber sole, or she would've been clacking the entire way up. She hugged her robe, which she'd snagged off of her table on her way out of the dorm, tighter against her body, hoping it'd be enough to trap her body heat since she'd left her sweater back in the dungeons.

As she stepped up the winding staircase, she half-hoped that Draco would be running late, so she wouldn't have to be the one to start the conversation, but her hopes dissipated when she saw him already leaning against the railing. His elbows were propped against the wood, his hands were clasped out in front of him, and his head was tilted towards the sky. His blonde hair looked almost silver in the night and the moonlight cast sharp shadows over his face, but he looked almost peaceful as he stared into the stars. She found herself wanting to stand there and admire him just as intently as he admired the night sky, because he was all-too-enchanting, but he was waiting for her.

Instead, she hesitantly walked up behind him. "Hello, Draco," she said softly and he hummed out in greeting, pushing himself off of the railing in order to face her. Despite the rockiness between them lately, she wasted no time in stepping closer to him, slotting her arms through his and wrapping them around his torso.

Usually, when she hugged him, Draco would give her an awkward pat on the back, mutter a 'that's long enough, y/l/n', and push her away, but to her surprise, he hugged her back. His arms closed around her tightly, with an intensity she'd never felt from him, and he pulled her in as close as he could to his chest. "It wasn't your fault—when I snapped at you this morning," he murmured. "A lot's been happening. I've been meaning to— I've..." he started to say something, but his words were lost in her hair.

Y/N only hugged him tighter. She ran her fingertips up and down his spine comfortingly, like his outburst that afternoon hadn't even happened, and she propped her chin up on his shoulder. "S'okay. I've missed you, too," she hummed, her stomach lurching as she did, almost nervous that she'd misinterpreted him, but he sighed against her. He seemed grateful that she knew what he meant without him having to force it out of his throat. After all, he'd never been one for sentiment. "Is everything alright?" She questioned and she softly pulled herself out of his embrace.

Y/N took to the railing, leaning against it, and Draco positioned himself next to her. He shrugged his shoulders and ran one of his hands upwards over his, carding his fingers backwards through his hair and leaving it all disheveled after he had. "Nothing's been alright for a while, now." Draco sounded so tired and dreary, and now that she was up close, she could see the purple curves of the dark circles under his eyes. She'd known that he'd been worried about everything for a while now, that the Dark Lord's task had been getting under his skin, but she hadn't realized how badly it'd been eating away at him. "I'm trying to mend the cabinet, but I can't seem to figure it out. Everyone else is on the outside and it's like I'm doing all of this alone, Y/N/N," he confessed and she fought the urge to scoop him back up in her arms again.

"I know it feels like that, but it doesn't have to. I would help you if you needed me to, you know I would," Y/N told him quietly and Draco did know that.

She was as tough as nails when you looked at her individually, but if you threw him into the mix, she would always be weak when it came to him and he knew that. He'd never admit it, but he'd always taken a sort of pride in being her soft spot. It was in times like this, though, that the title came with a price. She must've seen the conflict on his face, because she placed her hand over his softly in an attempt to comfort him.

It was there for all of a second before he ripped his hand away. "No," he told her.

"Draco, you just said—"

"Merlin, Y/N, I know what I said, but it wasn't a bloody cry for help, don't you get that?" He hissed and she flinched at the sudden change in his tone. "He gave this task to me. Me. I don't need your help, you aren't even in the cards."

"Oh, okay." When Draco saw the look that crossed onto her face, the glossiness in her eyes, and the way that her head fell forward in defeat, he wanted to take it back. He wanted to retract everything he'd said, but the damage had already been done. "I was just trying to make you feel better about it. I didn't mean to upset you," she explained quietly and he could hear the whisper in her voice as tears started to well up in her eyes. It wasn't that she was sad, but the fact that it was starting to seem like he'd only invited her there just to bite her head off again was beyond frustrating. "You really have some nerve, Malfoy," she muttered, turning her head away from him as a tear rolled down her cheek, because she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing it.

"Oh, don't—" he started to snap again as he pushed himself off of the railing for the second time, but he caught himself. He sighed and he held his hand out, as if to offer her comfort with a clap on the shoulder, but as he did it, he hesitated. He settled for a stiff hand on her back, instead. Her eyes were still fixated on anything but him. "Look, I know. I didn't mean it that way, alright?" He told her and his hand slid off of her when she finally looked over at him. "I meant there's no place for you in what the Dark Lord's planning. It's dangerous." He hoped she would be less angry with him after his rewording.

Draco honestly hadn't meant to make it seem like he didn't want her around, but as far as he was concerned, Y/N was pure. She might've been a Slytherin and she might've stepped on a few toes for her own benefit here and there, but she hadn't been tainted in the way that he'd been. She wasn't damaged goods. She was kind, she was intelligent, and she had goals for herself.

She used to tell him all the time how she wanted to grow up to work in the Ministry, somewhere in the third level where she could help with the regulation of magical creatures. He remembered the glint in her eyes when she used to speak of it, and he refused to be the one who took that away from her.

"So, you can put yourself at risk, but I, your best friend, can't even help you?" Y/N called him out and he turned away from her.

Draco crosses his arms over the wooden railing and stared at the dark horizon. "You deserve far better than I do, Y/L/N," he told her, but he hadn't expected her to turn around and swat him on the back of the head. He winced. "Bloody hell, do you mind?" he grumbled, reaching up to rub the spot where it stung.

She scoffed, proud of herself. "Don't speak about yourself like that, Draco," she chastised. "You're so smart and talented. Yeah, you're a prat to everyone sometimes, but I've seen the good in you. And, I know you're oblivious to it, but there's people out there that think the world of you," she told him and from the blank look on his face, she knew he wasn't buying a word that she said. She sighed and patted the railing once, to dispel the nerves that were building up in her. "I know I do."

At her confession, Draco's eyebrows lifted and he tore his eyes off of the horizon like to look at her. The sincerity on her face was so intense and she was looking at him with such ferocity glittering in her eyes. Her eyebrows were knit together, a soft crease having formed between them, and he felt a sudden urge inside of him to step forward and kiss it away, but he didn't.

He didn't, because Y/N was good. Y/N was so good and so good to him, of all people, and he never deserved an ounce of it. When it all came down to it, Draco was a traitor—a traitor to his friends and to his school. Y/N knew that and she still showed him how much faith that she had in him and who he was. Part of him wondered if she'd still believe in him like that when he completed all of the Dark Lord's wishes.

When he let the Deatheaters in.

When he killed Dumbledore.

When he betrayed her, too.

"I do enjoy it when you boost my ego, but you think too highly of me," he told her, his voice quiet.

His words were swimming with emotions—hurt, denial, and others she couldn't quite make out—and her heart ached for him. "Maybe," she admitted, but she'd never considered her opinion of Draco to be too high. In fact, she often wondered if she underestimated him. More hesitantly than she had before, she reached out to touch his hand again, and this time he let her. She smoothed her thumb over his skin. "But I've been told that the heart clouds the mind when it grows fond of someone," she whispered in another quiet confession and she could feel the way that his hand tightened on the railing.

Draco looked over at her and she was surprised to see the painful expression that had torn into his features. She could see the conflict spiraling in his eyes, his head and his heart fighting a war amongst themselves, as he shook his head softly. "What's that supposed to mean?" He questioned and it was almost like a plea, a soft begging for her to not say what they both knew that she felt.

"Well, I—" she stopped, taking his longing look in for a second longer, but she knew that this wasn't something she could keep to herself any longer. "I love you," she said and her words went off like a bomb.

"You can't love me, Y/N, don't you understand?" he all-but-shouted. "Don't you see what I've done? What I'll do?" he went on, images of the cursed necklace he'd given to Katie Bell and the bottle of poisoned mead meant for Dumbledore flashed through his mind, but Y/N seemed unfazed.

Instead of taking back what she'd said, Y/N shook her head and looked up at him. "Love is blind, Draco." She waited for a minute for him to say something, but he seemed set on just sitting in silence, letting her confession hang untended to in the air and his breathing come heavy. She waited a few moments longer, holding onto the sliver of hope that he might actually have something to say to her, but she realized after a while that she was waiting for something that'd never come. Her mood changed after that, her heart sank to her feet, and she made the sudden reconciliation that she no longer wanted to be there. She didn't want to continue to stand there, offering him everything on a silver platter, only to have him pretend like it wasn't even happening at all.

She gave his hand a soft squeeze, like a sort of farewell, and she pulled her hand off of his. She turned and began to walk away with her tail between her legs, taking a few steps towards the staircase that would descend back into the castle, but she didn't get far before Draco caught her.

"Wait," he'd called out to her so quietly that it was almost a whisper, but he practically leapt after her.

One of Draco's hands reached out to grab her by the front of her waist and spin her back around to face him, while his other hand cupped her cheek. Y/N barely had any time to register what the hell was going on before he was smashing his lips against hers, capturing them in a feverish kiss, and she hummed at the feeling of his hand slotting itself into her hair. His fingertips tangled in it and he pressed his lips harder against her own. The way he kissed her was so heavily, so needily, so desperately and his lips seemed to tell her everything that he couldn't say himself, because he wasn't good with words. He'd never been good with words. He'd always been so much better at putting his feelings into actions and she knew that.

Of course, she knew that.

She knew everything about him.

Y/N wasted no time in kissing him back in the same hungry, passionate manner, pulling him closer against her by his robes. She poured every little thought and every little feeling she'd ever ever had about Draco into the kiss and she didn't stop until both of their lips were swollen and their chests were heaving.

Draco had been the one to break the kiss, but to remain in close proximity, he leaned his forehead against her own. "I don't deserve you," he whispered when all was said and done and guilt in his voice didn't go unnoticed.

She took it upon herself to reach up with both of her hands, curving them over his cheeks, and she tilted his head down softly. "Everyone deserves to be loved by someone," she whispered and pressed the softest kiss he'd ever felt to the space between his eyebrows. "No matter what they've done." Draco crinkled his eyebrows—like he could trap the feeling of her lips against his skin there forever—and he pressed his face further into her hands.

If he was being completely honest, Draco wasn't sure what he was doing anymore. He'd already done a few questionable things and he still had a lot more to accomplish before the Dark Lord would fully accept him, but he didn't think he knew what was wrong or what was right to him anymore. He felt as though he'd lost his way, but he knew that didn't matter to Y/N. He knew that she would be there for him always, even if he took a few wrong turns along the way.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were a Hufflepuff after that," he hummed, in a half-hearted attempt at a joke, and she laughed softly as he pressed a kiss into her hair.

"Oh, shut it, Malfoy," she chided and she pulled her hands off of his face. "D'you want to look at the stars a little longer?" She asked after that, reaching up to smooth out a wrinkle on his shoulder, and he nodded.

"That'd be nice," he admitted and he walked back over to the railing, part of him hoping that Y/N would stay. He let himself sigh in content when she sidled up beside him once more—her side pressing against his—because it was in these two things that Draco seemed to find his peace: in her and in the stars.

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dindjarinsleftboot · 3 years

Text

Good morning sleepy

Part two :)

Word Count: 2.7k

Officers shouting. Blasters shooting all around you. People running, crying and grabbing their children as they all scrambled towards their only route for escape. You stood in the middle of it all. Confused and dazed. Staring at the world you had called your home your whole life being crushed before your eyes. A bright beam of light hurtling through the sky lighting up the panic and terror surrounding you. The muffled sounds around you quieten as everything seems to move in slow motion. Then a voice, soft and deep travels through the air. It sounds familiar. You feel comforted by the whispers for a second before-

You jerk upright, a thin layer of sweat covering your body, enough to make your hair cling to your neck and forehead. You blink a couple of times as your eyes adjust to your surroundings. A hand comes to cradle your face, but you smack it away- still feeling the fear and panic surging in your stomach.

“Shhh. It’s okay- I’m here. It’s me”

A sudden wave of relief sweeps over you as you realise where you are. You are safe. The familiar deep baritone voice fills your ears, and any fears you had are instantly washed away.

“You’re safe” His hands move back up to your face to comfort you, hoping you won’t swipe him away again. “It was just a dream.”

You close your eyes and turn to rest your head in his large hand. Streaks of light and the silence of hyperspace surrounding you. You take a deep breath, inhaling a comforting leathery aroma. Mando’s thumb brushes against your cheek softly- you realise he is wiping away a tear. You were crying in your sleep? wow. That’s embarrassing. You blink your eyes open, as he moves his hand away and turns again to face the controls in front of him. You look around at the swirling blues and bright whites flickering and dancing off of Mando’s reflective body.

“I- I’m sorry. I don’t know why-” You begin to explain when you realise it’s been quiet for a long time and you haven’t said anything. But Mando quicky stops you.

“It’s okay. You don’t need to explain.” Sharp and to the point. Maybe he just didn’t want you to explain because truthfully, he didn’t really care. You know by now he prefers the silence. Only speaking up when it’s necessary or when you ask questions. Or maybe it’s because he saw how hurt you were by whatever you saw in your sleep, he knew you didn’t really want to think about it again- which honestly you don’t. Either way you decided to move past it.

“Where are we go-”

“Thank you. For earlier” His sudden need to interrupt you every time you speak takes you back a bit- but not as much as what he just said. Thank you? For what?

“What did-” you think back to him holding you in his arms on Naboo in the rain and then not letting go of your hand until you were back at the crest. “What did I do?”

He stays quiet for a while wondering how to say how he is feeling without actually telling you how he is feeling.

“I guess I had just forgotten what human contact felt like. To- to hold someone.” You felt your heartstrings pull so much that you were worried that they might actually snap. You wished you could remind him of what love feels like. What it’s like to cuddle up to the one you love. To look into their eyes and tell them how much you miss them when they’re gone.

“How long has it been? Since you…” You don’t know how much you can say without stepping over any lines. The last thing you want is to be abandoned on whatever planet you’re going next. But you realise he’s the one who brought it up so- what’s the worst that can happen? He just won’t tell you. You can live with that. “Since you took off the helmet? I mean like- in front of someone else.” He turns his head to look at you. You hear a quiet sigh come through the modulator as he swivels his chair towards you. You are suddenly reminded of how large and dominant he is. His body taking up nearly the entire seat. Well… nearly-

“I was a kid.” Your mind is snapped back from whatever direction it was headed- half disappointed. “I was young when my parents were killed, and the Mandalorians’ took me in. When I came of age, I swore the creed. I haven’t shown my face since.” So, no one has seen what is being hidden away from the universe since he was a child? That made you want to know even more. Knowing you were the only one who had looked into his eyes. Ran your hands through his hair. It excited and disheartened you, both at the same time- knowing it’ll never happen.

“You haven’t shown your face to anyone since you were a kid?” you stare up at him knowing you’re looking directly into his eyes through the visor.

“This is the way” you nod up at him and smile- knowing what he just shared with you is personal and something probably not many people know. He turns again and presses a few buttons above his head, before reaching his hand over to the lever and pulling it back- throwing you out of hyper space.

“We’re going to Tatooine.” In front of you, a large sandy looking planet covered in dusty orange tones, looking lifeless and dry grew closer. The name sounded familiar, but you had never been. You hadn’t really been to many planets at all before meeting Mando and accompanying him on his bounties to babysit his adopted green baby.

You sat on the edge of Mando’s bed swinging your legs back and forth as he prepared himself for his mission. You sat on your hands- providing more padding than the bed you were sitting on. He offered it to you when you first joined him but after a week, you decided never again. Not only was is like sleeping on a hard metal pole with bricks as a mattress, but you also felt incredibly bad that every night while you slept in his bed with the kid snoring above you in his little makeshift hammock, Mando either didn’t sleep at all or would fall asleep occasionally in the pilot’s seat in front of the bright lights of hyperspace. Now whenever you put the kid to rest you go back up to the cockpit and fall asleep in the seat behind him. The chair was way more comfortable than the poor excuse for a bed and you also had the company of Mando with you too, so it was perfect. You watched the pointy eared baby waddle around the crest floor, chasing his favourite shiny ball as it rolled towards you. You kicked it back to him as he stared at you with the huge black eyes that would let him get away with anything. You had grown so soft for him over the past few weeks that he almost felt like your little responsibility as well as Mando’s. The first couple of times Mando left you with him it was hell though. He hated not going with his dad and would use all kinds of powers to get you to follow him. But after a while he got used to it- you’d try your best to distract him. You would find the best songs on the radio while you danced with him in your arms, singing loudly over the top of the music. Either that or play ‘roll the metal ball around the floor for hours’ that was his favourite- but admittedly not yours. After Mando had finished attaching all sorts of guns and weapons to himself, he crouched down to scoop the little terror up in his arms. He stood in front of you- looking large and intimidating while holding the cutest little baby in the galaxy, staring innocently at his little shiny sphere.

“How long will you be gone?” The one question you hated asking but the one you always had to.

“Not long.” He acknowledged while still looking down at the kid. “I should be back before sunset” he passed him over to you, you looked down and pressed your finger on his little wrinkled nose as he beamed up at you. Stars- you’d do anything for this kid. You glance back up at Mando who is focused on you. He reaches out and takes your free hand. With his other hand he puts a comm link into it and closes your fingers tight around it.

“If I’m not- you can talk to me through here. Only use it if there is an emergency or I’m not back by dark.” You glance from the comm back to his visor which seems incredibly close to you right now. “Okay” you become very aware of your pounding heart as he stares down at you and you try to calm you heaving chest. “What counts as an emergency? Jawas? Murderers? Monsters?” clearly not finding your sarcasm funny, Mando turns to open the ramp. “Keep this shut while I’m gone- we are in a quiet area, but you never know.” He exclaims- the same monotone voice as usual.

“Will do” you realise he doesn’t have a bag with him, just weapons. “Mando, you have food right?” he didn’t eat yesterday- you know because you were with him all day. “Please take some- we don’t need all of this” You start to go through the food you have left, taking out enough for you and the kid and leaving some in the bag to go with him. You hold it out in front of him. “Take it.” He takes if off you and swings the bag over his shoulder.

“Thank you” he hesitated for a moment “You should get some sleep.” And with that he was turning and walking back down the ramp into the warm dusty air. You looked out behind him, sandy hills stretched for miles, two suns beaming down high in the cloudless sky. Everything looked so dry and uninhabited- until it was all shut away from you and you were back in the darkness of the hull.

For such a small helpless creature he had enough energy to last an eternity. You have been trying to tire him out for a few hours and you’re exhausted. You’ve slept probably as much as Mando- which isn’t nearly enough. Your eyes feel heavy and whenever you close them just to rest them for a bit, three little fingers jab at you- reminding you that he is still there and waiting for you to flick the metal ball across the floor for him to chase for the 1000th time today. You’re sitting cross legged just under the ladder up to the cockpit. The light coming from above is slowly fading into a warm orange- signalling sunset. He should be back soon. It’s all you can think about. You keep glancing over to the commlink he gave you before he left. Sitting on the floor near your knee in silence. A few times you’ve felt temped to just check in and see if he’s on his way back to you. But then his voice rings in your ears “only use it if there’s an emergency” You should have added ‘if I can’t get the kid to sleep’ to your list of possible emergencies. You shift to lay on your stomach resting your head in the crook of your elbows in front of you. The cold metal floor beneath you giving you goosebumps along your arms. The kid comes to sit beside you and you wrap one of your arms around him and pull him close. Half for warmth and comfort and half to keep him trapped there and let you rest for a bit.

The ramp to the crest opens. He slowly walks up it- the bounty swung lifeless over his shoulders. He sees her laying there sound asleep with his kid sleeping next to her. His heart fills with warmth and the unfamiliar feeling of pure love. He quickly but quietly freezes the bounty in carbonite and navigates the crest off of Tatooine and into the silence and darkness of hyperspace. He knows what he wants to do, and without thinking, just does it.

You feel your body start to wake up. Your legs stretch out long sending shivers and waves of relief up your spine- you haven’t been able to stretch out like this in what seems like a lifetime. You go to shift over onto your back but there is something blocking you. As your senses start to pick up after being in a deep sleep for maker knows how long, you realise you’re not alone. A warm bodied human his laying behind you with his arm wrapped over your torso. Your heart stops beating for a split second when you weigh up the situation. Could it be a stranger that wondered onto the ship and decided you looked pretty comfy and would join you on the floor? You feel something draped over your shoulders. A blanket. Where is the kid? He was right here? You finally open your eyes to figure out where you are but it’s like you hadn’t opened your eyes at all. You blink a few times and try to adjust to the light, but it is pitch black. Possibly even darker than when you do have your eyes shut. Then a familiar noise catches your attention. Silence. You’re in hyper space. Which means the large person behind you is- but he doesn’t have any armour on. You can feel his warm gloveless palm pressed on your waist. You’re about to speak up when you feel a hand move your hair away from your neck. Then suddenly his lips are there. You feel his soft lips against your skin- facial hair tickles your neck slightly. Maker this is not what you expected to wake up to.

He takes his lips away to murmur a soft “Good morning sleepy” against your skin. Its only when you hear his soft unfiltered voice that reality kicks you hard in the stomach. He hasn’t got his helmet on. He is lying with his face in the crook of your neck in the pitch-black darkness of the hull. That’s teasing you. You scoot around to face him, pressing your hand lightly on his face. If you can’t see him, you at least want to feel him. Your hands brush against his cheeks and your fingers tangle in his hair. You press your forehead against his, just wanting him to feel loved and the warmth of your skin against his. Knowing you’re the only one who has given him this comfort, reminder of what human contact feel like and a place to just relax and be himself. Not Mando. Not a ruthless intimidating bounty hunter who goes from sector to sector capturing and killing criminals with heavy beskar weighing him down. Just a man. A human, who deserves to feel tenderness and love rather than denying himself of it his whole life. Keeping his humanity locked away from everyone else.

You press your lips gently against his and your eyes droop closed, feeling how his body presses and sinks into yours as if you were made for one another. His hands glide up your back as yours find their way into his locks, combing his hair through your fingers and gently massaging his head. A small hum comes from deep in his throat at the sensation and its almost enough to tip you over the edge. You want to know everything about him, but what he is giving you right now is more than you’d ever dreamt of.

“What is your name?” you whisper against his lips. Not expecting a response but really hoping for one. He pauses for a moment, considering his next words.

“Din” he whispers back, soft and deep against your skin. “Din Djarin.” You can’t control the smile that creeps onto your face. Din. Just one syllable. Short and to the point. Perfect for him. “Din” you softly repeat back to him. “hmm- I like it” and with that you rest your head against his shoulder and fall back to sleep, cradled like a baby in his big arms. You wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now.

#the mandalorian #din djarin #mando #mandalorian #grogu #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #fanfic #fandom #mando x reader #mando fluff #the mandolorian x reader #baby yoda #pedro pascal

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ukai-simp-services · 3 years

Text

because i love you

prompt: tainted hues: “if you loved them, why did you break their heart?”

@tooruluv | #tooruluv2kparty

oikawa x fem!reader

warnings: heavy angst, poor mental health, depression, heartbreak, small panic attack, alcoholism.

a/n: why am i so sad after writing this,, i think this is my first time writing angst with no fluff T^T

somewhere in argentina, there is a large penthouse with tall windows and cornered with perfectly trimmed green hedges. the interior of the penthouse is simple, there are no memories cluttering the walls, there are no fairy lights adorning the windows, there are no bento boxes in the fridge, and there are no sweet scented candles in every room of the house.

there is only dull colored furniture, only overflowing laundry baskets, only a kitchen sink filled to the brim with dirty dishes, and only empty liquor bottles littering the dining table.

a home without you, is hardly a home.

in this penthouse, a young man, barely 25 years old, sits at the kitchen table with a glass of fernet in his hand. one large window is opened, letting the warm evening breeze rustle the thin kitchen curtains and brush over his exposed skin.

oikawa still couldn’t stop thinking about what iwaizumi had asked him two years ago.

no amount of mind numbing liquor could ever make him forget that interaction -inevitably, the last face-to-face interaction he ever had with his best friend.

“oikawa, if you loved her, then why would you break her heart?”

oikawa gasps to himself, suddenly feeling chills run up his back, as if the memory happened just yesterday.

he remembers vividly how furious iwaizumi’s voice was and the tired look in his best friend’s eyes - a look that all but told oikawa that he was exhausted picking up the shattered pieces that he always left behind.

he downs the glass of fernet.

he pours himself another.

he remembers that, that was the first time he had nothing to say - the first time that tōru oikawa was at a loss for words. because men like oikawa, men with quick rebuttals and prepared excuses, always knew exactly what to say in every situation.

that day, iwaizumi had walked away from oikawa with sadness in his eyes, no trace of hostility to be found anymore. there was no slap to the back of oikawa’s head, no ear piercing screaming of a lecture, and no insults thrown at him. there was nothing.

but oikawa would’ve preferred a slap to the head or some sort of beating.

a gentle ache presents itself in oikawa’s throat, threatening a small cry to stumble out.

oikawa washes it away with a swig to his drink.

iwaizumi is a faint presence in oikawa’s life now, he calls and texts - the occasional check up - but he had stopped being his best friend a long time ago.

losing a brother pains him; it burns from the depths of his core, but losing you practically kills him; it steals every bit of oxygen from his lungs.

because, ultimately, you were his reason for living - for breathing; your warmth, your comfort, your presence is what kept oikawa going every day. without you, his days are meaningless, he inevitably lives his life without purpose.

but, now he finds it ironic; he chose volleyball over you, his life.

everyday, from 9am to 7pm, he mindlessly serves, sets, and passes a volleyball. for hours on end, he feels his muscles contract and relax as he tosses the ball up high, just for him to smack it down against a cold and shiny gym floor, he watches at it ricochets back into the air just to fall back down onto the ground again. bounce bounce bounce, till the sound ceases and the ball rests in its place.

oikawa now wonders when a blinding passion - a heart pounding desire to play this sport, turned into just a distraction. he finds that now when the very familiar surface of the volleyball brushes up against his palm, he no longer feels his adrenaline pumping with excitement; he feels resent.

because trying to dissipate his memories of you by overworking his body everyday no longer worked anymore, if anything it only made things worse.

every game, every screech of his name from the crowd, every praising cheer after he makes an award winning serve, it all reminds him that you aren’t in the stands cheering him on. faces upon faces, all different colors and all different shapes, none of them are yours.

oikawa hisses as he feels a dull ache in his knee, the same knee you would spend hours massaging after practice every day.

the lump in his throat has become more apparent now, he drowns it out with the bitter liquid in his cup - trying to suppress the feelings that will always be there.

he is only 25, yet he can feel his body beginning to give up on him. his muscles are weaker than they were two years ago, his bones throb under his weight with every step he takes, and his mind is continuously drifting off into oblivion.

he wonders who he is living for at this point. he can’t lie to himself and say that volleyball is his reason, because then who is he playing it for?

this country; even with its busy streets and loud music - he still can’t help but feel alone.

his favorite memory of you plays in his mind like a film, it’s grainy and colored with a brown, faded hue. your hair whipping in the wind, your dress flowing over your hips, your feet sinking into the sand, your hand intertwined with his, and your mouth open with that melody of a laugh spilling out of it.

he remembers your skin felt soft, flawless against his calloused palm. shimmering silver earrings decorated your ears, a gift he had gotten you for your birthday. the air around you was warm, despite the unforgiving ocean winds that was tussling through your hair and clothes.

as the memory plays, your laugh begins to fade away in the wind, the already loud noise getting increasingly louder and louder. his ears are ringing now, he can’t hear your laugh anymore. the sky is no longer a heavenly blue, it is now an unsettling gray. your body, your hand holding his, the scenery of the beach, is being ripped from his mind and transforming into a different memory, one he would kill to forget.

there you were, eyes big and brimming with tears, standing in front of him. the beach background has now turned into your shared apartment in japan, both of you in the living room. you open your mouth, but oikawa can’t hear your voice - he remembers your words vividly, but his mind refuses to play them.

tears spilling down your cheeks, your hands balled into fists; oikawa watches as he breaks down the one person who he deemed to be unbreakable. everything he had built - everything you had built, he watches fall apart for the hundredth time.

a sharp pain shoots through his chest, snapping him back to reality.

he clutches at the fabric of his t-shirt, heaving breaths fall from his lips as he tries to compose himself.

the cup full of fernet falls to the floor, pieces of his heart are scattered on the floor alongside the broken glass.

oikawa lost meaning in his life the second he walked out the door that shameful day; he lost his motivation, his strive.

everyday, his body aches with loss. the sounds of cars racing down the busy streets, the loud music playing from his favorite coffee shop, the smacking of countless volleyballs being slammed down onto gym floors, and the lively chattering coming from some rom-com that he left playing on his flat screen tv, all sound like background noise to him - numbly playing in his ears as background music to the memories he constantly has playing in his mind.

oikawa never knew about loss or pain until you, never imagined that this is what it would feel like.

but, loss has made him wiser; he knows now what will lie ahead for the both of you. he knows that as years come and go, the pain will begin to diminish a little, bit by bit - but he also knows that there’s no way that it’ll ever fully leave his heart.

because, as he gets older, he’ll only get more tired. his skin will begin to wrinkle, hair will start to gray, his bones will ache from weight of the world, his lungs will begin collapsing from the pressure constantly on his chest, and his heart will eventually cease to beat, from the death grip you still have on it.

he will age unforgivingly, eyes devoid of any color - they have already lost the once charming glint they used to hold.

unlike him, he knows you’ll only burn brighter as the upcoming years pass you by.

you’ll get back on your feet, your skin will glow again, your muscles will strengthen and your heart will beat with a newfound passion to love yourself - that’s something he’s always admired about you, the passion you held for all things involving love.

you’ll age with an unstoppable beauty; you’ll laugh and smile so much that permanent crinkles will form next to your eyes, you’ll dance so much that your muscles grow tired, you’ll fall in love again and have all those kids you wanted - kids that will fill every single gap in your heart that oikawa left behind.

despite pure science and human biology, your youth will never leave you. you’re one of the few people oikawa has met that have the ability to live young forever. your soul is unbreakable. sure, oikawa may have put a mere scratch on it, but he never came close to cracking it.

and that’s the difference between you and him; he will die miserable and alone, heart poorly stitched together and the inside of his body bruised and weak. you will pass away surrounded by people who also - like him - became allured by your kind spirit and your lively energy. his body will fall weak from exhaustion, but yours will fall weak from years of dancing and laughing and singing. his heart will die battered with pain, your heart will die full of love and forgiveness.

it’s painful to think about, but oikawa knows this is the truth, and simply just how life works. he won’t sugarcoat it for himself, he knows his ending is exactly what he deserves.

so he begins writing a note. the bottle of fernet he was previously so dependent on, is now long forgotten. he holds a shiny black pen in his hand and a white slip of paper in his other. he clicks the pen and holds the tip above the blank page for a few beats; hesitating, before he’s letting the words flow out.

it starts, with an answer to a question.

“i broke her heart, because i love her.”

#laughs nervously #tooruluv2kparty #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #hq angst #oikawa tooru #hq #oikawa toru #oikawa toru headcanons #oikawa x reader #oikawa tooru x reader #tooru oikawa #oikawa toru x reader #oikawa x fem!reader #oikawa angst #tooru oikawa angst #haikyuu smau #haikyuu angst

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keyboardink · 3 years

Text

“crushed”

Sam and Deena are completely oblivious that their feelings are mutual, especially when Sam thinks Deena and Kate are together and Peter enters the picture.

pairing: samantha “sam” fraser x deena johnson / media: fear street trilogy

genre: friends to lovers, angst with hurt/comfort & fluff / word count: 2.6k / rating: pg-13 / warnings: bullying, a bit of swearing

a/n: so this is an au where deena and sam aren’t exes so sam never left shadyside (& kate isn’t all “screw ur ex” ya know). also kate is bi and no one dies. this is based mainly off 1994 (since 1666 hasn’t come out yet haha). please lmk if you like this & want more fear street fics from me. enjoy! :)

"I still can't believe you're dating a Sunnyvaler," Kate said, popping a potato chip into her mouth.

"Doesn't that totally go against the rules of this town?" Simon chimed in, stealing a tater tot from Sam's lunch tray.

"Oh, please," Sam scoffed, swatting Simon's hand away as he reached for a second piece. "He's actually a nice guy if you got to know him."

"Since when has the star quarterback ever been a nice guy?" Kate replied, earning a raised eyebrow from Simon. "Look, just because I cheer for them doesn't mean I like them."

The stiff wooden table rattled as Deena dropped into a seat across from Sam and next to Kate. She tried to pull her bomber jacket around herself quickly--

"New shirt?" Kate asked.

--but she wasn't quick enough.

"No," Deena sighed, letting the jacket hang open to expose a black, skin-tight tank top underneath. It used to be her favorite, previously baggy in all the right places, but it returned from her last laundry day one-size-too-small. "It just shrunk in the wash and I was running late." She kept her eyes down, focused on the unappetizing cafeteria food in front of her.

Kate eyed her for a moment, then looked over at Sam, who was practically drooling over this new shirt that provided a perfect V-shaped view from where she was sitting.

"I know you're not a fan of tight clothes," Kate countered, "but it looks nice on you. Makes your boobs look amazing."

Deena playfully elbowed Kate's arm, a small smile brightening her downcast expression.

Sam watched the two girls as it unfolded - the low-cut shirt, the raised eyebrows from Kate as she scanned Deena's body, the laughter following her joking shove. Had she imagined the flickers of lighthearted tension between them? She averted her gaze, envy bubbling up in her throat. She pulled her tucked hair out from behind her ears to cover the burning, red blush she felt building there.

"So, what were you guys talking about?" Deena asked, insecurity still swimming in her mind despite Kate's compliment. She looked up at Sam, who appeared to be too interested in her tater tots to hear the shirt dilemma. Although she was somewhat relieved, she felt a pang of disappointment at Sam's disinterest; she was the only person Deena had hoped would look at her.

"Sam's got a new boyfriend," Simon answered, his voice half-muffled by a mouthful of dull-brown burger, oblivious to the sideways glances being thrown around the table.

"And he's from Sunnyvale," Kate added, spitting out the town name as though it tasted worse than the school lunch.

"What? Isn't that, like, against town law or something?"

"That's what I'm saying!" Simon accidentally spewed small chunks of meat on his tray in the midst of his excitement.

"What's his name?" Deena covered herself with her jacket again.

"Peter."

"Peter? Oh, come on, you could've at least picked a guy who didn't have a basic name," Simon rolled his eyes, as if 'Simon' was the most unique name on the planet.

"Honestly, yeah, kinda sounds a little too basic," Deena said, her eyebrows furrowed. She felt a heat tightening within her chest. She was angry at herself, at Sam, at the world.

"I'm not making him up, if that's what you're suggesting." Sam cast a glare across the table, but it didn't stop them.

"Which Peter? I mean, there's Peter Williams, Peter Anderson, Peter Moore..." Simon counted along on his fingers.

"Oh, no," Deena interrupted, a smirk pulling her lips. "He goes to another school. You wouldn't know him."

The two threw their heads back and laughed. Deena felt the fury in her chest loosen slightly, a bit of relief found in the pain she caused others. It was her defense mechanism: when the world turns to shit, you act even worse - that's how you survive.

Sam was on her feet, her eyes full of tears and frustration. "His name's Peter Brody, and he's number 29 on the Sunnyvale football team, and he's actually a good fucking guy, unlike you." Her eyes narrowed, focusing on Deena, who suddenly didn't find the whole thing all that funny anymore.

And with that, Sam picked up her lunch tray, turned on her heel, and walked out of the cafeteria.

***

Monday dragged on, every class seeming longer than usual for both Sam and Deena as they sat in separate silences. Though apart, they each felt the same waves of guilt, anger, and sadness wash over them in cycles as clocks ticked their way to the end of the school day.

Deena was walking out of band practice, which had only extended her already-exhausting day, when she spotted a familiar head of blonde leaning against the cinder-block wall across the hallway.

"Hey," Sam said, reaching her hand out slightly. Her hair was tied back, adorned with an azure bow, and she wore her cheerleading uniform to match.

Deena stopped as guilt flooded her lungs once again. "Hey," she replied in a whisper muffled by her emotions.

"I just got out of practice. Want to walk together?"

Deena could tell Sam was lying. Kate normally waited with her, and they would both be shiny with sweat. The water bottle in Sam's hand was almost empty, meaning she had likely been waiting for quite a while.

Deena nodded, and they started to make their way towards the exit that led to the student lot.

"I just wanted to say sorry," Sam began, "for earlier. It was pretty shitty of me to say that."

"Yeah, but I was being shitty, too." Deena pushed open the heavy, navy-blue door. Sunlight blinded both of them. "I just can't believe you'd get a boyfriend and not tell me."

Sam stayed silent, unable to come up with a reply. Deena had been the first person she wanted to tell, but Kate saw Peter grab her ass after last weekend's game, and suddenly her boyfriend was all anyone could talk about. Sam didn't even know why she had agreed to go out with him in the first place. Everyone had said it must've been a prank, because why else would a Sunnyvaler date a Shadysider? Something about the whole relationship gave Sam a twinge of nausea if she thought about it too much, so she just tried not to think about it.

But she had wanted to tell Deena. She had wanted to see if she would be even a little jealous at the idea of her having a boyfriend. It just hadn't played out that way.

"See you tomorrow?" Sam said, stopping at the curb.

"Is your dad picking you up?" Deena looked around for the familiar, beat-up Ford that Sam's father drove, but to no avail.

"He should be here soon."

Deena knew he had a tendency to flake on his daughter, despite being the one who got custody in their divorce battle. Although Deena hated him for his neglect, she was silently, selfishly grateful that Sam didn't move to Sunnyvale with her mom. Regardless, if her dad wasn't here now, the sun would probably set before he'd remember to show up.

"Come on," Deena said. "I'll drive you home."

The drive was almost-silent. A disc played Pixies at a volume low enough to just barely understand over the sound of rumbling tires on uneven gravel. Sam's house was a bit out of the way for Deena, but as she was slowly realizing, she'd do almost anything for her.

"Thanks for the ride," Sam smiled sheepishly, pulling her backpack up from the floor. She started to open the car door, then hesitated. "Actually, wait, can I ask you something?"

Deena's heart leapt into her throat. "Shoot."

"Are you and Kate, um... like, together, at all?"

"What? No, no no no." A chuckle slipped past Deena's lips at the idea.

Sam must've thought Deena was laughing at her, because she felt her ears grow warm in embarrassment. "Oh, sorry, I just thought... I saw how you two were at lunch today and it just, I don't know. I thought you weren't telling me something." Sam looked at her sneakers, almost pristine white with the exception of faded grass stains on the toes.

"No, we're just friends, I promise. We've been best friends forever. I mean, she was there when I first got boobs, so, I mean, that's just how we are." Deena immediately cringed at that sentence. Way to make it better, dumbass, she thought.

"Oh. Okay. She just talks about you all the time to me, whenever we're at practice, you know? She'll say things like 'Damn, didn't Deena look really good today?' to me, like, all the time."

Deena let herself laugh at that. "Oh, really? Wooow. Good to know."

"I mean, from that I just kind of assumed that you guys had a thing. How could I not, right?"

Deena nodded, understanding that Kate's comments were her attempts at being a good wingman and not confessions of underlying feelings. "Kate and I both like girls, yeah, but not each other, not like that." Deena's gaze flickered over Sam's face, taking in her eyes, her ears, her lips. "Definitely not like that," she added in a soft whisper.

Sam looked up and smiled sweetly, her stare lingering for a moment too long before she returned to the moment. "Well, thanks again for the ride. See you tomorrow." She gave an adorable little wave as she stepped out of Deena's car.

"See ya," Deena replied, her stomach fluttery.

***

The days passed, and the friend group of four had returned to almost-normal. The only thing out of place happened on Friday night, after the second football game of the season. Normally, they would all grab pizza and watch a movie after the game, but this time was different.

"Peter invited me to a Sunnyvale party," Sam explained when they met in the middle of the field as the crowd started to file out. "Maybe next week?"

So Deena, Kate, and Simon ate their pizza without Sam, feeling a tangible emptiness where she would normally be.

Kate's house was on the so-called "good side" of town, where the roads had less potholes and the houses had more structure. It was the most Sunnyvale-esque part of Shadyside. Her living room was homey, with family portraits on the walls and a couch that was lived-in but not worn-out. They had rented Candyman from the town's Blockbuster, which played on Kate's boxy TV.

"I don't like this," Simon said, chewing a pepperoni slice.

Kate responded without looking at him. "The pizza or the movie?"

"Actually, I like both of those things," Simon replied with conviction. "I was talking about Sam. It feels... I don't know, lonely?"

"What are we, chopped liver?" Deena joked.

"I mean, some days you can come close to it," he teased back.

They all returned their attention to the movie, red and white light bouncing across their faces. As if on cue, there was a knock on the door at the exact moment a jump-scare flashed on-screen, causing the trio to startle.

"I'll get it," Deena offered, jumping up from her seat.

She opened the front door to reveal Sam, tears rolling down her cheeks. Her hair was slick and her blue uniform looked damp. Her arms were wrapped around herself as she shivered in the cool October air.

"What the fuck happened?" Deena stepped out of the way to let Sam in.

Simon and Kate scrambled to join them when they realized who had arrived.

"Oh my God, what happened?" Kate plucked her school cardigan off the coatrack and wrapped it around Sam's shoulders.

"Did Petey break up with you?" Simon asked. "I mean, you guys were only dating a week. It couldn't've been that serious, right?"

Kate elbowed Simon in the stomach at his insensitive comment, eliciting a pained groan from him.

Sam hugged the cardigan around herself, but moved her arms enough to reveal "IT" scribbled in black Sharpie under her cheerleading uniform's "SH".

"What the fuck?" Deena repeated, this time more to herself than Sam.

"God, those assholes really have no idea how much uniforms cost," Kate muttered.

"And they... they p-poured ice water on m-me," Sam stuttered just as Simon returned from the living room with a throw blanket. She gave him a grateful smile as she enveloped herself in it.

"C'mon, let's sit down, alright?" Kate suggested. "You want a hot cocoa?"

Sam nodded and followed Deena and Simon to the couch, while Kate split off to the kitchen.

"They poured ice water on you?" Deena asked as she sat next to Sam, a hand around her shoulders.

"Th-they got someone to hold my arms back so they c-could write 'shit' on me, and then someone came outside with a bucket, and-" A small sob came out of Sam's throat, and another tear rolled down her cheek.

Deena didn't stop herself before reaching up and wiping it away. She let her fingers stay there for a moment, unable to think clearly.

Simon stood up quietly, making a hushed excuse about helping Kate with the hot chocolate before disappearing into the kitchen.

"He's such a douchebag," Deena muttered, furious that someone would hurt such a sweet creature like Sam. "I'm so sorry. I'll kick his ass for you."

Sam chuckled at her offer. "Can I watch?"

Deena laughed softly at her response, then realized that her hand was still pressed against Sam's cheek and pulled it away. She let it fall onto her leg, but Sam reached over and rested her own hand on Deena's.

After a minute of silence, Sam had almost stopped sniffling when she spoke again. "I don't even know why I agreed to go out with him. Like, damn, he's not even that hot. I could've at least gotten played by a hot guy." Sam half-giggled at herself then sighed. "I should've seen it coming."

"Hey, it's not your fault," Deena said, placing her other hand on top of Sam's. Her hand was cold and delicate between hers, and she hoped that holding it would provide some warmth to her.

"If I'm being honest," Sam continued, "I think I only really went out with him to forget about this other crush."

"Hold up, you never told me about that. Who is it?"

Deena's obliviousness faded away as Sam looked up at her with wide eyes. The jealousy, the talk in her car, the longing that filled the space between them now - at this moment, it all clicked into place.

"Oh," Deena whispered.

"Deena," Sam spoke, hushed as she leaned forward. "Can I...?"

"Please," Deena breathed as their lips touched, soft and scared and new all at once. The thought of crossing a line beyond the point of return flashed through their minds, but it seemed as though they both wanted to push the boundaries. Sam's free hand cupped Deena's cheek shyly, as Deena squeezed her other hand between hers. They treated each other carefully, as though kissing too hard might break the other, which would be a crime worse than death.

"YES!" Kate shouted, giving Simon a high-five. Some hot chocolate spilled out of the mug in her other hand and onto the floor, but they were both too enthusiastic to care.

"Finally, you guys!" Simon ran over to them, wrapping them both in a wide hug from behind the couch as a giant grin spread on his face.

"You guys were watching?!" Deena asked. She felt her cheeks flush as she pulled away.

"Duh!" Simon answered. "We've been waiting for this!"

"Took you guys for-fucking-ever," Kate said with a smile, handing Sam her cup.

Sam held the cup up to her newly-warmed lips, courtesy of Deena, and took a sip, looking over the edge at her. Deena saw her blue eyes crinkle into a smile, and her mouth returned the sweet sentiment.

#inkwrites #deena johnson x sam fraser #fear street #fear street 1994 #sam fraser #samantha fraser #deena johnson #deena johnson x samantha fraser #samantha fraser x deena johnson #sam fraser x deena johnson #fear street fic #wlw #sam fraser fic #samantha fraser fic #deena johnson fic #fluff #angst #friends to lovers #fear street au

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thatslikely · 3 years

Text

Seeker - D.M.

Seeker- Draco Malfoy x fem!reader (unspecified house but not slytherin)

Warnings: none! just lots of fluff

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: This is my first ever fic! I hope I potray Draco accurately! Feel free to D.M. me for any requests or anything like that. I’d also really love feedback, positive or negative. Special thanks to my friend Ocean, who is an amazing author and editor <3

Just a reminder: Y/N is Your Name - Y/L/N is Your Last Name - Y/H is Your House

----

Draco Malfoy.

Anyone who has ever graced the steps of Hogwarts during his reign is bound to have heard the name. The poor first years hear about the hexing of their friends after so much as glancing at his striking blond hair. The second year Quidditch players hear about his skill and precision on a broom. Even the O.W.L.s-stressed fifth years hear of his (almost) unparalleled smarts.

You, of course, heard all these things too. You’d seen firsthand his occasional ruthlessness. There was no doubt in your mind he was a force to be reckoned with. You never let his daunting image intrude your thoughts, however. He would never have a reason to bother you; so why should you care what he did?

That all seemed true until Quidditch results came back for your house. Your eyes scanned over names on the list until you saw your name next to the title of Seeker. You were thrilled to be on the team. You worked so hard over the summer, waking up at dawn to fly laps around the lush forests by your home.

After everyone in the common room was informed of your new title, they all congratulated you for what seemed like hours. They all chanted “Y/N!” at the top of their lungs or gave you encouraging pats on the back. After a while of sober celebration, someone finally managed to sneak in a few bottles of Firewhiskey. You eagerly downed a shot or two before your head started to feel fuzzy. The music and chatter of the party seemed to make your head pound, and you decided you needed some fresh air to clear your head.

The moment you stepped out of the bustling common room, you felt way better. Your whole body calmed, releasing the tension you didn’t know you had. While you could still very well feel the effects of the Firewhiskey, you felt clear enough to walk all the way to the Owlery.

The Owlery had always been a place of comfort for you. You had never owned an owl for yourself, instead opting for an adorable black cat, but something about the flying creatures comforted you. Maybe it was their piercing yellow eyes or their fluffy feathers that seemed to stick out in any direction, or maybe just because they remind you of whenever your mother’s owl brings sweet letters at breakfast every month.

The air tonight was chilly, but you were simply grateful that it was too early in the year for snow because whenever Hogwarts was covered in soft white blankets, the steps up to the Owlery were dangerously icy. Thankfully, the only things on the steps were your boots and the occasional fluttering orange leaf.

Once you reached the top, you breathed a sigh of relief. The thoughts of you becoming the new Seeker came back to you and you were able to celebrate a little bit again. Before you could fully imagine yourself flying around the Quidditch pitch in search of the shiny Golden Snitch, you were interrupted suddenly by none other than Draco Malfoy’s taunting words.

“Well, well, well. Who do we have here? Y/L/N?”

You froze. In all the times you had been to the Owlery at night, this was the first time you had company. And his company at that. His voice seemed strong and almost amused. Before you could give him a response, he kept going.

“You’re the new Y/H Seeker, aren’t you? Maybe this year I’ll have some actual competition, though I doubt it.”

You felt your face heat up in rage, a feeling you rarely expressed. The Firewhiskey must’ve brought it out of me, you thought with a sigh. You knew you wouldn’t want to say something you’d regret, especially to your new Slytherin rival.

“I think you might be pleasantly surprised, Malfoy. I’ve been training all summer.”

Draco didn’t deserve to know that you had been practicing all summer, and the summer before that, but you inexplicably felt the need to prove yourself to him. He always seemed to be one step ahead of you, though.

“And I’ve been training for Quidditch since I could walk, Y/N. You’re not special.”

His comment stung a little. But you knew you deserved to be Seeker, and you could prove that to him next match.

“What brings you up here so late anyways?”

“That, Y/L/N, is none of your concern. I could, however, ask you the same thing.”

“Just getting away from the crowd is all. The Common Room’s loud as all hell.” Why did you tell him that? He didn’t need to know anything about you or your common room.

Draco pulled up the sleeve of his black blazer, presumably looking at his watch. You didn’t notice how Draco’s platinum blond hair shined so handsomely in the moonlight until he pushed himself off of the wall he was so casually leaning on to walk towards you.

“It’s past curfew, Y/N. I could so easily tell my Slytherin prefects that I found you out so late at night, especially after a loud night in the Common Room…” The smirk on his face as he looked up into your eyes was so charming but mischievous.

“You wouldn’t da-” you muttered, before quickly getting cut off.

“I won’t tell them, though, only because I plan on crushing you next game. The look on your face as I hold the Snitch will be priceless.”

You desperately tried to find some way to rebut what he said, but his words it seemed, took the air from your lungs. You watched him, stunned, as he casually handed a black envelope to what you assumed was his owl. As the owl flew out of the window and into the pitch-black sky, he walked towards the doorway, which you happened to still be standing in.

He purposely brushed your shoulder as he walked past you and down the stairs. Without even looking back, he simply said, “I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

You stood there, almost breathless. That had quite possibly been the strangest and most unexpected interaction you’ve ever had. You’d always seen Draco as some stereotypical bully, but you never realized how truly witty and quick-on-his-feet he was. He would be a tough opponent, both on the field and off.

----

Quidditch practice these past few weeks has been very tiring but helpful. Every time you mounted your broom it made you feel that much more confident, which was good because you needed as much of that as you could get if you wanted to even stand a chance against Draco. By the time the first match came around, you felt as though you could easily beat the green-jerseyed players.

The practice room pep-talk before the game was finally the moment your confidence was cemented. As your captain stood on the bench, yelling and inspiring, you were on top of the world. You could see Malfoy zooming on his broom far behind you as you reached for the Snitch, its shiny metal now covered up with your worn leather gloves. You could hear the crowd cheering your name as Draco sat in awe of you.

That daydream was short-lived however when everyone got up from the benches to grab their brooms and fly into the stadium. As you proudly mounted your broom, a sudden spike of anxiety hit your chest. Of all the times nerves had to hit, did it have to be two seconds before the match began?

The stadium was filled to the brim with students from each of the four houses. The large pillars of red, yellow, blue, and green emitted cheers as your team glided on the field, doing a fun formation along with it. Not long after, the green and silver-clad team swooped onto the field. They flew around the oval-shaped pitch in the shape of a very coordinated V. It was more intimidating than you’d like to admit.

As the Slytherins settled down and hovered in the air, ready for the match to start, you saw Malfoy send you an intimidating glare. You rolled your eyes in return before the referee shouted a loud, “brooms up!”

With those simple two words, you darted off towards the top of the pitch. You gripped the broom as if your life depended on it, which it might. Your eyes scanned the field for any signs of the snitch before you saw a flash of blonde next to you.

“Scared, Y/L/N?” Draco spat, clearly trying to tease you.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You smirked, your gaze reaching his enticing silver eyes. He cocked his eyebrow at you, playfully, before you sped off, the air from the tail of your broom blowing his pale locks over his eyes.

The Golden Snitch had caught your eye while you hovered up with Malfoy, and now you surely had the advantage. You were mere feet away from the golden snitch, with the blonde Seeker trailing behind you. The crowd sat captivated, wondering who would reach the snitch first. Just as your fingers brushed the golden sphere, it shot straight up, out of your grasp. You both wasted no time shooting upwards on your brooms. He was now at your side, both your arms reached up to the sky.

Suddenly, you felt the metal of the snitch in the palm of your gloves. But you also felt something else, and you almost fell off your broom at the sight of Draco’s fingers intertwined with yours, both of your palms wrapped around the snitch.

Without hesitation, you both recoiled from each other, your interwoven hands breaking apart, which sent the snitch flying. Your face got red and hot with embarrassment, and by the expression and color of Draco’s face, he felt the same. He managed to mime himself gagging before he swooped in the opposite direction in search of the snitch once again.

----

As you stepped through the painting guarding your common room, you could already hear the screams and cheers. Some people chanted your name, some people talked about the highlights from the match, and there was loud music blaring in the background. Your close victory that afternoon definitely produced some happy house-mates.

You weren’t in much of partying mood tonight though. The match had worn you out, and you were ready to lay down. You did have a lot to think about, after all. The way you and Draco’s hands fit together perfectly around the snitch, or the way his face contorted into a frown when the Slytherins accepted defeat. Or even the way, when your team picked you up in celebration,, a smile pricked at the sides of his mouth, barely noticeable.

You didn’t know why you couldn’t get Draco out of your mind. You guys were rivals, but the way his image played back in your mind, you didn’t feel hatred. You didn’t feel a big success by proving what he said in the Owlery wrong.

You finally came to the conclusion that maybe it was because you thought he was handsome. Just a little bit, of course. The way his blonde hair blew in the wind was attractive, sure, but you didn’t like him or anything. You’d never even talked to him before the night at the Owlery. He was just the Slytherin Seeker, as you were just the Y/H Seeker to him. Simple.

Except, you didn’t know that he also thought the same about you. The way you smiled in victory after his (very close) loss made it sting just a little bit less. The disapproving stares from his fellow green-wearing peers didn't hurt his pride as much when he remembered you two’s hands together around the snitch.

It’s only because she’s my rival, he thought to himself, but he couldn’t even fool himself with that lie. All he really knew was, he had to talk to you tomorrow.

----

“Congrats on the win yesterday, Y/N. But don’t think next time I won’t hesitate to push you off that cheap broom of yours.” Draco spat. He never really had a way with words, especially with people he took interest in. He really did try to make it as nice as he could.

You merely smirked at his comment as you sat down at your table in the Great Hall. “It’s okay, Draco. I know you just can't accept that you got beat.” He huffed a bit at your comment, but his expression quickly changed to that of a sarcastic smile.

He reached across the table and grabbed a goblet of pumpkin juice, much to your surprise. Just as quickly, he sat down next to you. You finally got a good look, and smell, of him for the first time. His silver eyes and blonde hair looked as alluring as ever, and he smelled really good, like green apples and cologne.

Just as you were about to ask why he decided to sit with you, of all people, he stated, “It’s rude to stare, you know?”

“Sorry, it’s just weird seeing someone in those green robes of yours sitting at our table.” You replied sheepishly, snapping out of your trance.

He only let out a small chuckle before grabbing a green apple from the middle of the table. He gave it a small toss before looking back at you. You glanced into his eyes, which apparently you like to get lost in, but you couldn’t read what emotion ran through them.

“Why did you decide to sit here, by the way? Don’t you have some first years to hex?” You asked, partially defensive and partially curious.

Your friends, and some other fellow house-mates, all watched in anticipation for his response, but instead he said, “If my prescence bothers you that much, I can just go back to my table. My ego won’t be too hurt.” He gave his signature smirk at the end of the sentence, clearly not taking it seriously.

“I didn’t mean it like that, okay? I don’t mind the Slytherin prince sitting at our table for one day. Two may be pushing it.” He didn’t answer your question though, about why he wanted to sit here. It did seem a little odd, but you weren’t complaining.

“Very funny. Well, I’m afraid I can’t stay much longer. I have more pressing matters, like preparing to absolutely crush you next Quidditch match.”

He left just as fast as he had come, still grasping the green apple in his hand. Once he was back to his throne at the Slytherin table, you glanced down to where he was previously sitting, only to find a shiny black envelope resting on the bench. It had your initials written down in silver ink, the same shade as his eyes. You quickly shoved it beneath your robes, so your friends wouldn’t see.

Once you were safely out of the field of vision of the Great Hall, you broke the emerald green seal of the envelope. You pulled out a crisp, white piece of parchment. Your eyes read the inked black text, which read:

That’s strange, you thought, he’s top of the class for potions. Why would he need my notes? You quickly brushed it off as you just overthinking. Clearly, he only sat at our table and wrote me this letter because of stupid Potions class. Right?

I need your Potions notes from last class. Meet me at the astronomy tower at 11.

D.M.

Eleven o’clock came around faster than you expected, and you were rushing out of your dorm in order to make it. Luckily all your dormmates were still up, gossiping the night away. Much to your surprise, they didn’t question where you were going, besides knowing that you had to give a friend some homework. You didn’t blame them, it did seem like a lame way to spend your after-curfew hours.

By the time you had finally gotten to the top, Draco stood with his back to you, his chisled hands holding onto the cold railing. You walked up to him quietly, your Potions homework fluttering in the wind. His eyes weren’t focused on you or your notes though; instead they were pointed at the crystal-clear sky. The moonlight bounced magnificently off of his platinum blonde hair once again, just like it did at the Owlery.

The air was colder than it was last time you had seen him against the inky-black sky, and you started to shiver. All you wanted was to be back within the walls of your cozy dorm. You let a signaling cough emerge from your throat as you leaned against the rail.

Instead of asking about the Potions notes, he asked, “Aren’t you cold? Why didn’t you bring a jacket?”

His eyes still seemed glued to the shining stars, but you did notice his hand sliding down the rail, closer to you. Your eyebrows furrowed as you grumbled, “Yes. I’m freezing!”

He let out a small chuckle as a response before his eyes finally moved to you. “I’ll only be a minute… unless you want to stay longer.”

Despite the uncomfortably cold temperature outside, you felt your cheeks get warmer. You kept telling yourself it was only because he did seem a bit good-looking tonight, dressed in his signature black turtleneck, with a matching long black peacoat on top. Suddenly, the cold didn’t feel so bad.

“Likely, Malfoy. Here’s the Potions notes you asked for.” You slowly handed over the ruffled papers. For a second you thought you saw a look of confusion flash onto his face, but a small grateful smile covered it up almost instantly.

You continued to shiver, and your nose started turning pink. Draco almost felt bad for dragging you up here, for the Potions notes of course, so he sent an enticing offer your way.

“You look absolutely miserable, Y/N. I think if we can sneak into the kitchens, I could make you some tea. Though I do expect a favor from you in return, of course.”

Your eyes lit up at the idea of a warm cup of tea, especially made by none other than Draco Malfoy, who was supposed to be your Quidditch rival. Even you couldn’t come up with an excuse about enjoying his company this time.

----

Draco stood one of the many kitchen counters, swirling an ornate sliver spoon in your warm tea. Once it was stirred to his satisfaction, he handed the steaming cup to you with a warm and genuine smile, one rarely seen by anyone. You smiled back thankfully, before taking a large sip. The tea tasted nearly perfect, which surprised you. Someone who was raised with house elves doing everything for them had made a delicious tea.

“I must say, I’m impressed, Draco. I never pegged you to be a tea expert.”

“What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.” His sarcastic and slightly cocky attitude was back once again, though you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy it.

After the evidence of your late-night tea making had been erased, he leaned against the counter, a content smile on the corners of his lips. Your shivering was long gone, replaced by a cozy warmth from the tea.

Comfortable silence filled the room for many minutes before he simply said, “You know, Y/N, I’d like to get to know you better. I don’t think we have to be Quidditch rivals, off the field at least.”

“I feel the same. Though don’t get your feelings hurt when I absolutely beat you again.”

“I bet I could get the snitch years before you, with my eyes closed!”

“Like you did the other day, right?” He put up a sarcasticly angry face on, but you could see the fire of determination in his eyes. He really would try to get you next match. But you would never let him.

After a night full of talking with the dashing Slytherin, you soon grew too tired to continue. The tea must’ve made you extra sleepy because soon enough you could barely think straight. You held onto poor Draco for dear life as he carefully walked you back to your common room.

He put on his classic face of annoyance, but underneath you saw that his mind was filled with nothing but admiration. As you finally reached the painting, you withdrew your hand from his shoulder. Since you were so sleepy, he thought you wouldnt notice the loving look on his face as you walked through the doorway. You waved him goodnight.

“Night, love. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he smiled.

And that was the start of something wonderful.

You can read Part 2 here!

#draco fanfiction #dating draco malfoy #draco #draco fluff #draco malfoy #draco malfoy fanfic #draco fuckingmalfoy #draco lucius malfoy #draco imagine #draco malfoy x reader #draco x reader #draco x y/n #draco x you #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy fluff #hogwarts #harry potter fanfiction

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rokutouxei · 3 years

Text

hiding hunger

ikemen vampire | E | 6198 le comte de saint-germain / OC

Seiya has always kept her feelings for Comte under wraps, but what happens when something lets it slip? Will it finally awaken what has been hiding in Comte's heart for the longest time?

When Seiya realizes that her most treasured bound leather notebook is in Arthur’s hands, her instinct is to lunge at him. What she doesn’t expect is that he would drop it.

Her heart falls to the ground as quickly as her notebook does; the loose sheets of paper littered extensively with little notes about and drawings of no one else but him, of course, Le Comte de Saint-Germain, fly out into the air.

To fall like paper snow onto the waiting garden, where said Comte is taking his afternoon tea.

“Arthur!” is the most of a reprimand she manages to shriek out before she’s running off to the stairs to pick up what’s left of her dignity scattered on the garden grounds.

By the time she gets there, Sebastian has picked up a considerable amount of her loose drawings, both to her relief and embarrassment. She scrambles to gather what else is there, her face heating up with every page she lifts. Comte, reading in the study. Comte, addressing the residents at a dinner party. Comte, in the more formal clothes he wears for events. Comte, Comte, Comte.

All her wandering thoughts about him, strewn across the grass like confetti.

Arthur arrives soon after, to reach out an arm to help. She frowns at him deeply, the corners of her eyes shiny with tears.

“Now, now, no need to be so up—”

“This is your fault,” Seiya whispers lowly, trying her best so that Comte does not hear her. The tone in her voice makes Arthur stand back up, hand scratching the back of his neck.

She doesn’t know what to do. Her little crush on le Comte wasn’t exactly a secret—but it sort of was. To Comte, at least. Her closest friends had an inkling, but Vincent and Isaac weren’t exactly the type that pried. She’s sure Sebastian knows just because he’s Sebastian. And the more observant ones like Arthur and Theo definitely would have known too.

And Maybe Comte, too, but—there’s nothing like confirming a rumor, confessing a crime, with a gallery’s worth of art stumbling out of a window, right?

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to say it: keeping it a secret was just the least she could do to quiet her heart.

Leonardo is one of her closest companions. He has also been with Saint-Germain longer than anyone else in the mansion. So when Leonardo told her not to keep her hopes up about Comte, she said, “okay.”

And at this point, she’s mastered the art of keeping her feelings bottled tightly in her heart. She pours it out only in the scribbles of her pen.

And now it was here, laid bare in front of Saint-Germain’s eyes.

She holds back the sniffle as she gets up from her knees. Sebastian approaches her while she’s dusting her skirt, a sheaf of her drawings in hand. Her heart rises to her throat once she notices that the Comte is, in fact, watching her.

She has only the briefest of moments to speak before her voice goes away altogether. With a nod to Sebastian in thanks, she says, “Sorry for interrupting your tea time, Comte,” bowing lowly in regret before turning away again, heading off to the mansion sadly, Arthur following close behind.

Comte watches her without a word as she makes her escape back to the mansion. He had wanted to help, rising from his chair to pick up some of the illustrations, but he was sent back down by Sebastian. The butler said he should leave the menial task to him. That was rather true, by etiquette, but in consideration of the contents of the drawings, Comte knew better.

He knows Seiya is an artist. She spends a lot of her free time drawing quietly in nooks and crannies she finds comfortable to work in. Sometimes she joins Vincent out when he paints. Sometimes she accompanies Napoleon and Isaac when they go to teach the kids, so she can sketch and draw out in the city with company. She had even shown him some of her illustrations in the past—but only with a little nagging from Leonardo.

…Ah, yes, Leonardo.

Seiya and Leonardo have a peculiar relationship, one that Comte has always thought was akin to lovers. When she first arrived at the mansion, Comte had asked his old friend if he could leave Seiya in his care. There were complaints—as he expected—but Leonardo took up the favor in time. It has been months since then, and she and Leonardo are rather intimately close to one another; it’s easy to find them snuggled against each other in random sofas in the mansion sleeping. There are also mornings when they both emerge out of Leonardo’s room in the morning for breakfast.

It was hard not to imagine that they were lovers.

But were they?

Comte had never given it much thought because while the hunger resides in him, a wolf sleeping in the cave, he isn’t the type to go after something, someone, that his friend already holds. He has no interest in coveting something that isn’t available to him, to begin with. In hindsight, he recalls that Leonardo hadn’t spoken to him about anything regarding his relationship with Seiya either, so perhaps—

“More tea, sir?”

He takes a deep breath. Thinks of Seiya with her lavender hair and her light blue eyes, glassy when she looked at him earlier, sheets of paper with his face on it in her hands.

The heart is a troublesome thing, he thinks, as he hands his teacup quietly to Sebastian.

Saint-Germain had intended to just let it unravel.

For the mystery to go on its own pace. For him to wait until Seiya is ready to tell her feelings for him to his face.

Unfortunately for the poor Comte, his heart is a stubborn one.

It happens before he even notices—how his eyes begin to wander. Up and down the mansion when he is unoccupied, hoping for a glimpse of her in the hallway. When he sees her and she is busy, he watches. Eyes grazing the curves of her body, the long lines of her legs, and the roundness of her breasts arching against the seams of her corset.

Seiya is a quiet girl, and for that, she does most of her talking through the rest of her body; the way she tugs at her sleeves when she is nervous, the little tug of the corner of her mouth when she is pleased, the crinkle of her nose when she is embarrassed, the way her eyebrows shoot up when she is surprised. Comte had noticed these in the past, and perhaps have teased her a little about it as well, but—until now, he hadn’t really thought much about it.

It’s different now.

Now, when he gets the opportunity to talk to her, he notices all the little things: the flush on her cheeks, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the way she curls forward toward him when he speaks. It even gets to the point where he gets embarrassed with how lost he is in the conversation, marveling at all the little details he is only now noticing. How much had he been missing all this time, and how long had he been blind?

This goes on for days, then weeks. Comte is astonished at himself for every little thing he notices. He and Seiya do not bring up what had happened with the drawings. Perhaps they do not need to. Eventually they return to their friendly conversations as if nothing had happened at all, as if it was just another mishap tucked away into the past.

He never sees the notebook again—as if she is much more careful with where it is now, away from his sight.

But there are other things Comte notices.

About himself. The way something in his heart stills whenever he sees her cuddled against Leonardo in the library while reading a book. The way a smile rises golden in his face whenever she comes up to him, to tell him about a new painting or a new musical piece or a new chapter of Sherlock Holmes. The way his heart pounds when it’s late at night and he remembers her, a fleeting thought that casts glitters all over his mind, thoughts he will try to brush away but still find there, hiding in its corners, an eternity from now.

The way he becomes more watchful of how Leonardo takes care of her—has she eaten? Where did she fall asleep, where are you carrying her to?—like he is trying to take on the role, see if he can fit a spot next to her in between the two of them, even if he isn’t so sure she is his for the taking.

Le Comte de Saint-Germain is a greedy man.

Leonardo knows this. And Leonardo notices.

Comte does not.

And just like that, the sleeping wolf begins to wake.

Leonardo doesn’t often go out on trips. In his long history of staying with Saint-Germain, Leonardo’s trips were often of the “I don’t know if I’ll come back” nature—the kind with the hanging goodbyes only those who have the rest of eternities to live can truly become accustomed to.

He goes to the city, sure, beloved as he is to the other citizens downtown, but to go out on long trips outside of Paris isn’t something that occurred a lot, except if he was running away. So when Leonardo announces that he would be out for “a couple of weeks to the countryside”, Comte knows that there is something up.

And true enough, there is something up, because when asked why he was leaving, Leonardo’s answer is the most deadpan “I’m getting tired of seeing you make that face.”

Comte understands without elaboration.

In a few days, Leonardo is gone.

The weeks leading up to Leonardo’s departure meant that Seiya hung around him like a baby koala a lot. Once he’d left, she is left drifting about, wandering the halls as if looking for anchor—spending time with Isaac, watching Vincent paint.

But it’s the nights that are ruthless.

Sleeping in her room with a too-big bed in a too-quiet mansion that smells too clean without the constant assault of tobacco—Seiya somehow cannot sleep properly without Leonardo around. Her sleep becomes so erratic she has become a sort of Leonardo herself, being found by the residents sleeping in the middle of the day in the most unexpected of places—on a stool in the kitchen, leaning against the countertop; in the gazebo at the garden, Vic and King at her side; on the sofa in the library, curled up uncomfortably.

Comte finds himself walking down the hallways of the mansion looking for her at odd hours of the day, a blanket in tow, to make sure she is comfortable, to make sure she is warm. He knows that to her he is not Leonardo, but he can try to be a suitable substitute.

In truth, she sleeps because when she is awake, the sound of Leonardo’s parting words with her echoes in her brain like an alarm. “There’s only so much time I can buy for you, cara mia,” he had said, ruffling her hair before he left. Seiya understands but at the same time she doesn’t. The deep-gold silhouette of Saint-Germain watching over them at the staircase burns itself at the back of her eyelids.

Leonardo is so cruel, telling her to not keep her hopes up but then opening the door. Shining the light. Leading her down the hall.

He’s just the same as his old friend.

A week into Leonardo’s trip, the dark circles under Seiya’s eyes have grown to a worrisome shade, the kind that Comte just can’t let pass. So on one afternoon, in-between sharing tea with her, even when he knows it would spell the death of him, he offers: “You could sleep with me, if you like.”

She nearly chokes on the jasmine tea she’s just taken a sip of. “Pardon?”

“You haven’t had good sleep the past week, have you not? If you want company, I can be a warm body.”

Seiya…hesitates. She could say yes, of course, as it ultimately means more time spent with him—and it wasn’t like she was admitting to anything by agreeing to it. Just friendly, platonic naps, the kind she also took with Leonardo. But at the same time she feared her will would break, at the touch of his arms around her, the thrum of his pulse underneath his clothes—he might just ruin her and make her surrender.

But when she looks up to make sure Comte is really offering her this, the honey gold of his eyes only gets her to say “Yes… please?”

It starts… slow. It’s a dynamic they’ve never tried before, as someone Comte has always felt one step higher than her, a distance she could never find the courage to cross. Being with Leonardo is easy, because he treats her like a younger sibling, the comfort, familiarity, and tease of an older brother to a sister he wants to protect. But with Comte? The race of her heart in her chest would only serve to get her caught.

But then it gets easy.

She first starts with accompanying Comte in his room as he’s working. As she readjusts her sleeping schedule, she sneaks in naps in his bed or on armchairs and sofas, the scribble of his pen on paper lulling her to rest. Later on, she begins to work around him as well—sometimes she reads, sometimes she draws; he spots the notebook she’d been hiding from him as she resumes making sketches of him. They have tea together in the afternoon. When he has something to do at town, she accompanies him. When she wants alone time but would still like him around, he stays in his room and she lays at the lounge chair in the balcony, the one overlooking the Paris horizon.

Leonardo has been gone for three weeks.

And at this point, it feels… just fine. Seiya misses him, for sure, but having Comte as company is an experience she appreciates having had. The incident at the garden is now long behind them. It’s as if they’ve found a suitable rhythm for the two of them, one they can live by.

But it isn’t enough.

Not yet.

And Leonardo is coming home soon, because there is only so long the Renaissance man can buy for Comte, and Saint-Germain knows this. The longer Comte spends with Seiya the more he learns how much her company means to him. Sure, he has driven the thought at the back of his mind for the longest time, and maybe he’s not taken care of the feeling properly. But it’s still there, growing roots in his mind, enclosing his heart, drawing nourishment out of it.

Making him thirsty.

Making him want.

The wolf quietly sitting in the bushes, waiting for the perfect moment to chase and pounce.

He can deny his heart but not the lunge of his pulse, not the pain of fangs growing sharper the more the scent of her lingers in his room, her shampoo on the bedsheets, her perfume in the air. His heart is patient but his hands are not.

And time and fate wait for no one.

Comte takes two bottles of rouge per day; one in the morning, and one in the evening. His thirst has placated through the years; it only flows calmly inside of him.

But not as of late. Sebastian’s brought him his fourth bottle late in the afternoon. The butler looks at him curiously, and offers to take the sleeping Seiya—out in the veranda—back to her room to sleep.

“No,” is Comte’s quick answer, a little too quick that Sebastian wavers, and with a deep breath Comte composes himself and adds, “it’s alright.”

(It isn’t quite so.)

He downs the bottle of rouge slowly, feeling the blood going down his throat. Making sure it’s there, as if telling his instincts: this is your share. Stop longing for something else. But his fangs still hang painfully in his mouth, searching for flesh.

Maybe if he covers her scent with a sheet, he’ll relax.

He stands up, picks up one of the folded blankets on the bed, and heads out to the veranda for Seiya. The southern-facing veranda lets the sun leave an angled golden glow on the balcony; Comte traces it with his gaze from the city, back to the lounge where the one he loves sits.

She’s lying on the sofa with her leg raised up, perhaps after having been used as a table for her sketching; the open notebook on her lap reveals a sketch of the city. The other sketchbook next to her is folded closed, but a couple of pages peek out from in between, revealing little sketches of Saint-Germain—the same kind he’d seen that afternoon in the garden.

Not that Comte is paying attention to the sketches when she’s right there, with the milky line of her long legs underneath her stockings; the plush flesh of her thighs where her skirt has ridden up; the curves of the top of her breasts under her blouse; the small, pink o of her mouth slightly open as she sleeps; the brush of her bangs light on her forehead; the flush on her cheeks a healthy, vibrant glow.

He’s about to drape the blanket he’s brought with him when her even breathing is interrupted by a sighed syllable. He holds the blanket in his arms as he waits for her to finish the word.

“…main…”

Hm?

“Ss…ger…”

Her breath hitches and she curls a little tighter, the notebook on her lap falling quietly on the floor. Her foot curls against her other ankle; her thighs rub against each other.

“Comte… Saint-Germain…”

And then she moans.

That’s it.

Something howls and sings inside of him and he listens to it. The blanket drops to the ground as Comte falls to his knees next to her like a devotee. He encloses her mouth with his; restraint snapping like a frail string. She makes a half-asleep moan at the feeling of it and it goes straight down his cock, lighting him on fire. When she reaches out for him on instinct, he envelops her with her arms right back.

She opens her eyes slowly, as if she’s still asleep. “Am I… dreaming?”

Comte brushes the stray hairs off her face and says, “Even better.”

It doesn’t register immediately. Seiya reaches out to press the palm of her hand against Comte’s cheek as if making sure he’s real. Comte slides a hand on her calf, feeling the warmth of her flesh through the stockings.

And then it hits.

Seiya jolts backward on instinct, knees bending in front of her as she lets go of Comte like he’s hot. “I’m—Comte, I—”

“Seiya,” he says, the syllables of her name rolling out of his mouth like something sacred, “Tell me. Tell me and I’ll show you.”

“Le Comte…”

His voice sounds strained. “Tell me, let me, and I’ll show you what you do to me.”

Seiya takes a moment.

Lets it linger; the gleaming glow of the afternoon sun over the both of them; the hunger in his eyes; the fear that was thrumming underneath her skin;

The need.

She brushes his bangs off his forehead so she sees him clearly, and then says, “I love you.”

And it’s like something snaps.

Saint-Germain kisses her like she’s the sun and he’s been underground for months. One of his hands cradles her head, tangling in between the lavender strands of her hair. The other holds her cheek, to prove that she’s there, as if convincing himself that he’s not just at wits’ end clinging into hallucinations.

He gives her a moment to breathe; holds her heart in his hands when he brushes off with his thumb the pooled saliva at the corner of her mouth and says: “I can’t believe you’ve gone on for so long without knowing how much I’ve wanted you.” And when she moves her lips as if to retaliate or to deny, Comte gets up and pushes her further onto the sofa, “Talk later” coming out harsh from his mouth.

His hands are quick as he undoes her garments, but the ease is nowhere near coolheaded. Something burns underneath his skin and only touching her can cool it. He starts with the ribbons and hooks of her skirt and then inward; tugs off her blouse in between leaving bruising kisses on her mouth—he still can’t get enough of her—and loosens the lacings of her undergarments with precision.

But by this time he’s run out of his patience, so he sinks his fingers into her stockings and rips them apart.

The gasp is half of surprise and half of pleasure. Comte does not stop until the stockings are nothing but tattered cloth pooling on the floor. Seiya does not feel fully bare until this moment. The thrum of blood in her ears makes her dizzy; she thinks of the scar she’s always had to hide on her leg, and in a panic, she suddenly whispers, “Wait—out here? We should go—”

Comte does not need to shush her; the words go back down her throat when his hands touch her bare calf. Time stills; his fingers, earlier all brute force and tearing apart, are gentle as they trace up her leg; he runs his fingers down the discolored flesh like a reverent worshipper. He raises her leg up toward him and presses a trail of kisses downward.

She sighs at the sensation and it makes Comte look up at her.

The full force of his gaze into hers leaves her unsteady—will she ever get used to him being this way?

For a moment, the instinct is to hide. The instinct of prey in the face of a predator, Seiya tries to jerk her leg back toward her but Comte does not budge. She decides to attempt to close them instead, to push him away, but his hands are on her knees, holding her thighs apart.

When Seiya catches Comte graze his tongue underneath his fang, like nursing it, she knows she is a goner.

Comte positions her knees over his shoulders and then proceeds to have a taste of her. The heat and scent of her sex against his face nearly drives him to the point of insanity. But this is a meal he would like to relish. He presses small kisses down her slit before urging the folds open with his fingers, Seiya panting above him; his nose nudges her clit and her hands fly to his hair.

“Comte…” she cries out, her voice hoarse, tears escaping the corners of her eyes. When Comte looks up at her, a shudder runs down her spine.

“‘Abel,’” he says, gently, pressing a kiss on her inner thigh. “That’s my name. Call me that.”

Seiya nods; slides her fingers from the flaxen mop of his hair to his cheek, and croons out: “Abel.”

God, he thinks, just how much can this woman drive me insane?

Much to Seiya’s delight (and embarrassment), Comte has a sharp learning curve that points him in the right direction in no time. His tongue teases her sensitive bundle of nerves, circling and teasing until all she can do is sob out his name. Her fingers leave crescent-moon marks against his scalp but it only urges him on; lathers two fingers with the slick coming out of her before slipping them inside her wet heat.

The world is spinning. Has it been an eternity or only a moment? Comte is not giving her what she wants, just dangling her over the edge, giving her the sweet taste of it but not enough to satisfy. Tongue making delicate work of her pussy, fingers of one hand curling inside of her, another squeezing her breast like seeking comfort—she lifts her fist to her mouth and bites into it as Comte toys with her a little bit longer, long fingers finding something electric, grazing it, molding it, and then—

She falls. The orgasm is unlike anything else—not when it means everything at the same time: that maybe Comte does return her feelings, that Comte wants to do this with her, that Comte is thinking of her—she shivers and her heels dig against his back as she spasms against him; and he lets her, continues to eat her out for the entirety of it, wringing her dry and overstimulated.

“Abel!” she cries out, hands flying to his face to get him to look up at her and to pause lest she loses all that’s left of her sanity. His face is slick with her juices and it sends a new wave of warmth through her but she’s had enough. “Take me, please. Have me.”

“If you so wish,” Comte says, running the back of his hand against his lips before kissing her again; he doesn’t let go even as he readjusts their position into a comfortable one. Her legs curl around his waist as if on instinct. Comte quickly undresses, his coat and vest landing on the floor and his bottoms kicked somewhere else; his shirt unbuttoned all the way. When her wandering touch strays onto the sharp curls of trailing yellow hair upward his stomach, he guides her hand toward his cock, relishing in her face’s darkening shade of red. She can barely wrap her hands around his girth; for a moment she worries about it being too big. “Guide me,” he says—an order and not a request—and it makes her breath stop in her throat.

But her need is stronger than her shyness, and so she guides his hardness against her dripping cunt, sighing as she rocks it between her folds before slotting it into her. Comte lifts her hips up once he’s in, supporting her as he slides inch by inch to fill her. He brushes her hair to the back of the sofa, out of the way; her hands cling onto her biceps as she begins to feel the weight of him inside of her.

She spots Comte looking at something beyond her but she doesn’t get to ask before he roughly jolts forward, causing her to cry out.

Seiya has always thought that Comte had a monster hiding inside of him; below his coolly composed demeanor, there was a hungry beast in him that he had long learned to tame. Now, here, fucking on the sofa at his room’s veranda, in the full view of whoever dared look up, the sun sinking into twilight, Seiya comes face to face with the wolf that Comte had shackled inside of him for so long.

His thrusts are frantic and rushed; there is only rhythm and speed, no patience or art. Seiya’s had her share; now, Comte is using her for his pleasure, sweat dripping down his brow, his grip harsh on her hips—there will be bruises tomorrow. He presses her face against the valley in between her breasts and moans. Her name falls from his mouth, “Seiya, Seiya,” in between syllables of “Fuck” and “So good,” the brusqueness of the words so unbecoming of Comte it makes her even more sensitive to them.

She curls forward, toward him, trying to meet his thrusts even when her legs have long turned into mush. When Comte realizes what she is trying to do, a new sort of enthusiasm fills him; it’s as if he has woken up from a trance. “Seiya,” he calls out, “mouth,” is all he can say, and she obeys; he slips two fingers into her waiting mouth and she suckles on them as if it were his cock. He hisses at the feeling and pulls them out as soon as he is satisfied; replacing his fingers with his tongue as he returns to making out with her; his now-slick fingers finding a spot in between the both of them to rub her still-sensitive clit, urging her now: come, Seiya, come for me.

Seiya is obedient. It doesn’t take long.

Comte cannot say he hasn’t dreamt of claiming Seiya for his own in the past. But none of his wildest dreams would have been close to what this is like: the feeling of her pulsing and squeezing around him, because of him, he brought this pleasure for her, the sound of her voice as she gasps for air, the broken syllables of his name and sputterings of thanks and disbelief as the white-hot pleasure brands her, her fingers curled around his arms for dear life. It takes all of his self-control to not just surrender at that moment, to pull her by her waist and just fuck into her until he is spent.

And then the door to the veranda clicks open.

By this time, the sun has already long disappeared under the horizon; while the shroud of darkness has comforted her in hiding her rendezvous with the man of the house, the brightness of the inside of Comte’s room with the lights turned up sends her reeling when it illuminates Leonardo’s form. Seiya’s eyes are wide as dinnerplates as she scrambles for something to cover herself—her hair—but Leonardo looks unbothered, only throwing a knowing kind of expression at his friend, half a smile on his face.

And then Comte speaks.

“I was wondering when you would come in.”

Seiya’s neck snaps with how fast she turns to face him.

“Well, I didn’t want to interrupt, and it finally seemed like a good time.”

“Haha, how polite of you,” Comte says, genuine amusement in his tone. He returns his gaze back to Seiya, who is looking up at him with such a panicked expression; her legs tense around him. “It’s alright, ma bien-aimée. He will not stay unless you want him to.”

Which meant: he will stay if you want him to.

She turns, one more time, to look at Leonardo. Leonardo, the one that has been with her for every tumultuous rise and fall of her emotions toward Comte. How similar and different he was to his friend. Their gentle, golden eyes like twin fires. But then, the fall of his brown hair against the sides of his face. The kind of half-smirk he always seems to wear. The familiar tobacco smell he brought with him wherever he go; the one she’d longed for the entire time he was absent. Just looking at him, she remembers the feeling of his body underneath hers, memorized after months of cuddled-up sleep.

Seiya isn’t sure.

She doesn’t know what she feels about Leonardo yet.

But she knows one thing.

“Want you to stay,” she says, softly, hand still curled around Comte’s arm. “Please, Leonardo. Stay?”

And the man smiles like he’s won the world. “Just for you, cara mia.”

Comte slides out of her comforting warmth so he can lift her into his arms; the motion makes her sigh lowly, causing the two men to tense for the briefest of moments. Leonardo holds the door open as the two lovers make their way to the room’s large bed. When they get there she is understandably nervous; Comte takes his time kissing every tense muscle. Seiya watches Leonardo move across the room; from shutting the door to pulling one of the plush armchairs so that it faces the bed.

“Don’t mind me,” he says when he spots her staring, but how can Seiya not, when he’s pulled down his trousers just enough to reveal his cock, still at half-mast but very obviously will be as impressive as Comte’s once it’s fully hard.

Seiya’s got the first syllable of Leonardo’s name on her mouth when Comte steals it away with a kiss, light at first but then deep, his tongue prodding her lips open as she relaxes, her hands making their way around him again.

In a moment of tenderness, Comte presses a kiss on her forehead, on her nose, and then on her lips before saying: “Let’s show Leonardo how beautiful you are.”

Comte guides her slowly into position; turning her so that she’s on her hands and knees, facing Leonardo. Her cheeks turn even redder once she catches Leonardo stroking himself quietly, a smirk on his face as he watches Comte maneuver her around for his pleasure. Comte presses a kiss on the dip of her lower back before he guides his still-hard cock to her, coating himself with her essence before slipping into the warmth of her pussy.

Something about being watched by Leonardo sends her brain haywire. Comte is fucking her against the pillow, but his one hand has tangled itself into her hair, pulling her backward and up, allowing her to come eye-to-eye with Leonardo’s careful gaze. She can’t deny the heat that sinks through every inch of her skin, through every bit his eyes land at, tracing the mounds at her chest, the fucked out look she’s wearing on her face—“Leonardo,” she croons, once the pre-cum begins to build around the head of his cock.

Comte’s arm suddenly comes underneath her, pulling her up from the underside of her breasts, forcing her against him. “Remember who is in you,” he growls, before sending her back down. She hears Leonardo’s soft “tsk tsk” before she lands on her elbows; it’s about all she can do to brace herself and stay upright as Comte properly pistons into her, filling the room with the sound of flesh meeting flesh. She can’t look up at Leonardo knowing it would be her ruin, but she can hear the sound of him jerking himself off; at the same time, the sound of Comte’s moans and groans go straight to her core, making her squeeze and contract and pulling Comte deeper into senseless ecstasy.

“I love you,” Comte suddenly says, out of nowhere, causing her to buckle forward onto her cheek. His tone is filled with love and possession and hunger. “I love you, Seiya.” He slides a free hand to the space between her legs, quickly finding the sensitive bud.

“Abel, I—” she cries out as Comte begins to play with her clit and her nipple; he pushes her back up, making sure he’s got her, pressing his face at the junction of her neck and shoulder to fill him with her scent, sweet and intoxicating. “I—I love you, I’ve loved you—” she nearly falls forward with the sudden jolt of pleasure when his cock brushes somewhere electric. “I’m gonna… cum—”

“Cum,” Comte urges, angling himself so he hits that spot that made her spasm over and over again. “Show me how beautiful you are. Show Leonardo.”

And then it was over.

She leans her entire weight against Comte’s arms when the most powerful orgasm she’s had today hits her, knocking the wind out of her. Like an avalanche that only gets stronger and stronger the longer it rolls through her. Comte fucks her throughout the entirety of it, dragging it out for as long as he can until it’s too much even for him, her scent, her warmth, the wetness, her voice—he presses his fangs against her jugular only to sate him but not to break skin, as he pours his cum, white and warm, deep inside of her.

They fall over each other sticky with sweat. Comte rolls off of her, careful to give her space to breathe. When she comes to, she turns toward him and presses a kiss—chaste but filled with love—onto Comte’s lips.

“Was wondering how long it would take the both of you.”

The two new-lovers turn toward Leonardo as if they had just remembered his existence. He’s still sprawled on the armchair, although this time, with his hands out on his sides, leaving his still-hard cock free-standing in front of him. Seiya tries her best not to stare.

“You arrived just in time, actually,” Comte says, as he helps Seiya sit up.

Leonardo shakes his head. “Your patience for the oddest things never made sense to me.”

Seiya considers, for a moment, what this is. Comte who held her heart in his hands for the longest time—Comte who didn’t know how to express it until it was all that consumed him. And across them, Leonardo, sitting there having watched them press their loves onto their bodies, smiling as Comte holds her in his arms. Leonardo who has always been there for her, from every up and down of her feelings with Comte—who, she realizes, probably left knowing this would happen.

Two of the people she loves the most in this mansion. Her heart sings for them.

In what way, they don’t know yet. But for now, the fucking, the loving, the adoration sends confidence fluttering in her heart.

Turning toward Leonardo, she licks her lips.

“Need some help?”

----

written last year (!) for the lovely @beni-draw-ikemen-please for their OC and their beloved, Comte! please check them out, they make amazing art!

#ikemen vampire #comte de saint germain #rated:e #hiding hunger

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villainsandvictimsalliance · 3 years

Note

You know that thing with the edgy bad boy who has a cigarette sticking out of his mouth, only it's been censored into a lollipop because geez Japan has entirely different opinions on children's TV to the West?

What if it was a beansprout. Like. You think Mister Edgyman is smoking but no, it's a literal beansprout because he's been bullied into eating healthily but that doesn't mean he can't be dark and edgy while he runs to his nearest objective wHAT DO YOU MEAN IT LOOKS CUTE? WHAT POKEMON? I KNOW IT HAS A LEAF ON IT BUT THAT DOESN'T MAKE ME LOOK LIKE A PANDA-

Or, alternatively, there was no bullying and they're just Like That. Munch munch. Wait, is that a whole bag sticking out of your pocket-

THIS SCREAMS FARMER DABI EVERYWHERE. SO HEAR ME OUT:

Bored Dabi pouting with his beansprout while resting his back on a tree, the leaves casting tiny shadows and points of light on his body. Him wearing a dark overall and a straw hat.

He peacefully rides on a horse in the late afternoon until someone tries to steal from him and no no, what the fuck those bitches think they're doing.

He swears like his life depends on it.

He doesn't suffer from movement sickness when his riding his horse by some weird miracle. Apparently he only gets sick if it's man-made and big enough to be a mortal trap made of metal.

He shoots fire from his finger guns but his aim is shitty, so what he does is try to mark the idiots. And then he calls his friends.

If stupid thieves are not troubling him, he likes to take naps beside the river, talk with his cows and chickens and go visit the man on the center of the town that repairs electronics.

Dabi is good at repairing normal stuff but he's at total lost when it comes to TVs, radios, fridges and that stuff. So Jin Bubaigawara is almost every week on his house repairing old stuff.

JIN LIKES TO IMITATE DABI AND HIS BEANSPROUT BUT DABI GETS ANGRY AKDHBDKD.

Jin also thinks the new boy in town, the Shigaraki Tomura kid that's from the city, is totally in love with that ridiculous beansprout.

Dabi calls it bullshit.

Jin says Dabi is almost blind anyway, so what would he know.

And that's how Jin leaves on his pick-up truck laughing while Dabi goes to talk with his cows.

There's this girl that lives down the road, Toga Himiko, that helps him with the vegetables and fruits. They go to sell those together on the market every Sunday. An old pal of both, a man called Giran, gave them those houses to live in and the money to start their farms, in exchange of a feed every month.

Toga lives with a man that's around Jin's age, Sako Atsuhiro. He likes to parent both Toga and Dabi and they let him because he's more of a peaceful uncle, doing the legal parts of their lives and leaving them to the rural work.

There's the lady that manages the tractor around, called miss Magne, and the local man who runs errands but wants to go to college on the city, Iguchi Shuichi aka Spinner.

And of course there's Shigaraki, that Dabi knows because the boy has delicate skin and it's always taking meds for his allergies. Dabi knows from his weeks of observing him from afar that Shigaraki is the stubborn type. He graduated from college and came to the fields to prove his father or whatever that he could live on his own.

Nah... It's not working.

So you can see Dabi smirking with the beansprout on his lips every time he gets close and rises his eyebrows to offer his help.

Shigaraki tells him to have some manners and eat the beansprout already. Dabi does so and then takes another from his pocket. Shigaraki gets annoyed and they start bickering and bantering like a married couple.

Oh boy but whenever Shigaraki tries to imitate Dabi with his beansprout, the ends up blushing a little. Dabi once caught Shigaraki doing that and felt like he was falling of his horse. Two blushing messes across the festival trying to avoid each other.

Some time after Dabi is watching the stars late at night with Tomura on the barn. He's feeling brave, so he takes one beansprout from his pocket and puts it on Tomura's hand. His hearth is beating from the touch of fingers with fingers and then Tomura, without even looking at him, takes the beansprout to his lips.

Dabi feels like Toga looks when she dreams out loud of secret balls and dancing in golden fields to the rhythm of flutes and violins.

One day, some dudes were picking a fight with Jin. Apparently they were the assholes who wanted to buy the town and build a city complex over there.

They were taller and bulkier, but Dabi did his best to fight them with Jin. One of the guys punched him in the face enough to almost broke down his teeth. He blacked out and woke up on a car. He searched for a beansprout but only found blood. He fainted again.

Later, on the hospital, he was told Tomura and Iguchi were the ones who found them in time to watch Dabi hit the ground, the bloody beansprout beside him.

Apparently Tomura told Iguchi to take Dabi and Jin to the hospital and he stayed behind. No one knows what Tomura did, but the guys disappeared from the town. Tomura got a broken leg and arm, but people rumored he walked down the main road with a sadistic expression afterwards.

Dabi got out the next day. Tomura went to pick him. He got Dabi's hat and the beansprout on his lips, smirking. When Dabi got close enough, he gave him the hat.

But it was Dabi who reach for the beansprout on Tomura's lip, took it and put it on his own lips, fixing his hat over his eyes because the sun was too shiny.

“To this day I don't know which movie you watch that gave you that ridiculous idea”

Dabi slept all the way back home and when he arrived, he invited Tomura in to help him with the meds and all of that.

Dabi cooked, Tomura fixed his fridge.

“It was not a movie.”

“Uh.”

What a situation. He had never watched Tomura sweating so much. His black shirt sticks to his chest and stomach and his jeans were dusty, faded, full of grease. Somehow, the past month Tomura has gotten bigger, with more muscle, his hair growing in length and going cotton white.

“It was not a movie. I have a delicate stomach, this helps me with it.”

Tomura, having finished the fridge, closes the door to find Dabi looking at him with a beer on his hand, blue eyes big and crystal, black hair sticking to his forehead. It's hot and humid on that house, and Dabi's shirt, cut short and transparent, doesn't help. Neither does the jeans he's wearing, but Tomura finds easy to breath and focus when he thinks about the bandages all over that body.

“That's a stupid reason.”

That's the only thing he can say. They laugh, Tomura drinks from his own beer, Dabi guides him to the bathroom for them to clean the cuts and replace the bandages.

It's silent between them, but the world outside comes alive with the sounds of bugs and animals and the wind over the trees and the grass.

At some point, Dabi falls asleep while Tomura is still working, so he needs to carry him to his bed.

And somehow, because Tomura is also tired and Dabi looks soft and his mind screams him to lay down, they end up cuddling 'til the early morning.

And if this was a fanfic, I would title it “The Secret of the Beansprout ”

The end.

...

OKAY SORRY FOR FALLING FOR THE SHIGADABI AGENDA BUT I GOT CARRIED WAY. BYE.

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tv-fanfic-archive · 3 years

Text

Meet Cute

Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Reader | Masterlist | Ao3

Reader meets a man in a bar, takes him back to her hotel room, sex ensures, and then love?? Maybe. Fem Reader, no y/n, no body descriptions

Word Count: 3105

Rating: Explicit

Tags/Warnings: ABO, omegaverse, smut, feral Bucky (for a bit), creampie, aftercare, alpha bucky, omega reader, scent blockers, soulmates, AFAB reader

The smokey interior of the bar was cloying your mind with the mulled scent of old wood and booze. It was dark, the only light in the room came from dim yellow light bulbs in dingy fixtures along the paneled walls. You sat at the bar, nursing a whiskey and eyeing the options of the bar. At 11 PM everyone who was gonna be here was here already. You resigned yourself to the greasy guy shooting looks over to you every couple minutes when a cold draft blew in from the door. A newcomer was tromping over to the bar. His shoulders were hunched and he had the hood of a grey denim jacket pulled up to hide his face. Your well-trained eye saw right through that jacket; he was jacked, you knew it from the way he walked. Your attention instantly dropped away from the greasy guy and laser-focused on this newcomer (his scent was all straight alcohol anyways, disgusting). As he sidled up to the bar you turned your seat away to show off the side of your legs, crossing one leg over the other, letting your dress slip up a bit to expose the top of your stockings. He glazed over at your movement but turned back to the bartender. He pulled off his hood and ordered.

“Johnny Walker Black, neat.” His voice was reedy, low, and utterly perfect. He took a seat two stools over from you and rested his elbows on the bartop. Before he had a chance to get his drink and leave, you hopped over the two stools separating you and set your own glass down with a clink on the bar next to him.

“Hey there, handsome.” the drinks you’d been nursing since 9 were flowing steadily through you, instilling you with false confidence. His eyes slid up your body until they reached your eyes, a bored look firmly in place there. He looked away. Hard to get? You could almost purr at the challenge he presented.

Now that you were closer to him you could see his face better. Good lord, he was beautiful, but in a tired sort of way where you knew he’d fought with life and barely came through kicking. His eyes were the blue of an ocean after a storm and just as deep. Short brown hair in messy tufts from the hood. He brushed a hand over it to smooth it down and you noticed that his left hand was made of shiny metal. Your eyes followed it back down, then dragged your eyes up his body. He had to be strong under all those layers. Dark jeans and his thick denim jacket were attempting to hide his muscles but the way the fabric of his jeans stretched against his thighs let you know all you needed to. With the proximity, you also caught a whiff of his scent, leather, coffee, and something unfamiliar, gunpowder maybe, but you couldn’t quite tell, but his scent was entirely too muted. It was hard to get a good read on him through smell; you couldn't even tell his designation. Maybe he was playing the same game as you, you thought. A new product marketed to hide designations just hit the stores recently and you’d be practically bathing in the stuff every night you went out to avoid overzealous alphas trying to get you home without a fight just cause you were an omega.

“Let me buy your drink.” Putting your arms up to rest on the bartop, leaning over a bit, giving the bartender, and hopefully your prey, a better look at your breasts. The bartender set his glass next to yours. You looked up to him through your eyelashes and told him to put it on your tab then return your full attention to your prey. He picked up the glass and slid his gaze to you once more.

“Thank you,” he grunted

“So what brings you here?” You slipped your finger around the lip of your glass, keeping eye contact.

“Drinks.” One word kinda guy you guessed

“Nothing else?” Your pointed look was met with a quirked eyebrow and a chuckle

“Not originally, but things can change.” He sipped his whiskey, maintaining eye contact the whole time.

“Why don't we up the chances, huh?” With that, you knocked back the dregs of your own whiskey and motioned to the barman.

“Two zombies, please.” Then you said to the man “So what’s your name?”

“Call me Bucky.” He knocked back his own drink. You told him your name. The bartender sets two novelty skull-shaped cups in front of you. The tangy smell of pineapple and rum hits your nose as you bury your face in the cup. You were gunning for a fast buzz and you got it with this drink.

Soon Bucky was leaning closer to you as you chatted to him. Another round and his hand was on your thigh, squeezing on and off as you continued talking. Your two swivel stools had you facing each other now. Your legs were tucked between his, his hand moved to your knee and your faces were close as if he couldn't hear you. You made a motion for another round but the bartender cut you off and asked for payment for your tab.

“I guess that's the sign to get out of here, huh?” You slid your card over the bar and leaned heavily into Bucky. He got off the stool and you followed with only a small stumble. He caught your waist and kept his arm around you as you pocketed your card. The two of you left the bar only to be confronted by an icy wind. You shivered in your thinner dress. When you’d left the hotel room today it was warm; you hadn't expected this. It seems Bucky had, however, as he shed his denim jacket and draped it over your shoulders. His muted scent hit you at almost the normal strength. Your cloudy mind wondered at that for a moment before moving on.

“Such a gentleman,” You laughed

“Guilty as charged.” he smiled and put out his arm for you to take “Where we going, sweetheart?”

“My hotel room.” Leaning heavily into his arm, you led him down the street to your hotel.

----

At the door to your room, you fumbled with the keys in your cold hands. Bucky was pressed up against your back, mouthing over your neck, not helping your fight with the keys in the slightest. His lips dragged across the side of your neck, just barely grazing your gland, making you whine and close your eyes.

“I can't get the door open if you keep doing that, Bucky.” But there was no fight in your voice, with lips like those you’d let him do anything he wanted right now. But he left your neck and you were able to slide the key into the lock and open the door. Soon as the door shut behind you, Bucky pressed you up against it. Your mouths locked together in a down and dirty open mouth kiss. His metal hand was splayed out on your stomach while his other forearm pressed against the wood next to your head. You leaned back opening your mouth more to let his tongue stroke along your own. Separating for a moment, you panted, chest heaving. You dropped the jacket off your shoulders and pushed Bucky back. The room was so small that he stumbled back a few paced and hit the back of his knees on the bed, falling to sit on it. You walked up to him and turned around with your back facing him.

“Unzip me?” You felt his hands, one cold, one warm, on the skin of your back as he eased the zipper down to the small of your back. You shrugged off the dress and kicked it away, leaving you in your stockings and bra-panty set. Turning back around you straddled his thighs and ran your hands up into his hair, mussing it and pressing your mouth back to his. Your hands traveled down to his shoulders then scratched down his chest. He hissed at the tickle of your nails through his shirt. You grasped the bottom of his shirt and undershirt together and dragged them up, tossing both behind you. Oh yeah, your guess was dead on, he was jacked. Again you raked your nails over his chest, leaving red lines from his pecs to his defined v-line. You smashed your mouth back on his and pushed him down flat on your bed. He let out a huff as he bounced a bit before your arms caged his head in and he was locked back on your mouth. He brought his hands to your ass and pressed you down onto him. You moaned into his mouth and ground down to meet him, leaving a wet patch on the bulge of his black jeans. Slick was coating your thighs in response to all the action. In a moment of separation, Bucky scented the air and growled deep in his chest. You could feel it rumble against your chest, pressed so close against him as you were. Suddenly he rolled the two of you over so he was on top. He pushed you up the bed to hit your back against the pillows. His face met your stomach and he nuzzled up into your breasts. Quickly you fumbled at your bra strap, trying to get it off as quickly as possible. You shucked the bra and grabbed Bucky’s hair. He moved a hand up to cup one of your tits., rolling the flesh around in his hand and squeezing.

“God, you’re beautiful.” He groaned, his Brooklyn twang strong in those few words before his mouth was busied nipping at the flesh of your breasts, leaving little dark marks littered across your skin. Your head fell back and you whined. Your hands scratched at Bucky’s scalp, giving you his own hum of enjoyment at the feeling. Soon his mouth trailed down the valley of your breasts to the top of your panties. His metal hand picked at the elastic band and let it snap against your skin causing you to jolt at the sting.

“Can I get these off you, doll?

“Yes, please, just do it.” You breathed, your voice quiet and rough. He slid your panties down and off and buried his nose between your lips. Your eyes rolled back in your head at the feeling of his tongue slipping down to tease your hole. After circling for a moment, he zeroed in on your clit and sucked, leaving a little nip on it. Your hands shot down to grip white-knuckled at the roots of his hair. Bucky lifted his head from your center enough to speak, “You smell so good,” then dived back down, doubling his efforts and making your insides twist into knots. You could hardly feel your stomach at this point, it was a mess of taught, burning muscles that only one thing could defuse. Bucky’s metal arm came up around your thigh to part your lips, opening them up to an unfiltered onslaught by Bucky’s tongue. The metal was cold on your leg and you shivered. You brought a hand up to bite, desperately trying to ground yourself to something tangible while Bucky was blowing you out of this world. A few more seconds and the white-hot feeling in your stomach burst and your entire body went limp, a long whine escaped your throat and you shuddered uncontrollably. Your other hand pressed Bucky’s face to your pussy and you felt him run his tongue around your hole. Your grip released his head and he pushed himself up over your exhausted body. He caught your lips in his again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. When he pulled back you found yourself leaning forward, almost trying to follow his lips as he sat back on on the bed.

“Are you okay?” He asked.

“Of course I am.” you panted, still not having caught your breath from the back-to-back orgasm and heart-stopping kiss. “Are you okay?” your eyes wandered down to where he strained his jeans.

“Course I am” He lied down next to you. When you caught your breath and you moved to get on top of him again. The skin of your thighs was sensitive against denim. You reached up and raked a hand through his hair, connecting your lips together once again, reaching down with the other hand, you popped the button on his jeans. He sighed against your lips. #Working his jeans down off his thick thighs, he lifted his hips to help. Now just in his boxer briefs, you could clearly see the main prize of the night. Making quick work of his underwear, you freed his member. He kicked off both garments and raised his hands to grip your hips, canting them towards the head of his dick. You dropped your hips in turn and rolled them, slipping the shaft between your lips. He groaned, falling back out of your reach. His abs clenched. Finally, torturously slowly you dropped down, impaling yourself on Bucky’s thick dick. At the same time both, you hissed at the stretch and another low growl resonated from Bucky’s chest. He shot up from his back as he bottomed out, cradling your back and holding you down. He snarled, nosing at your neck and thrusting sharply up at a nearly frantic pace. With the breath knocked out of you, your hands scrambled for purchase on his back. Nails dug in in long lines leaving welts up the length of his toned back.

“Buckyyy” You whined “I can’t-” Before you could finish he pushed you down onto your back and hoisted a leg high over his hip,

“You can.” He growled, steadying himself on his knees before driving into you with short, quick thrusts designed to reach the finish line as fast as possible. With every thrust, you felt the spark being reignited, but from Bucky’s every movement you could tell he’d reach it before you did until he reached his metal arm down to the wet mess of your front, rubbing decisively up and down. You threw your arms up around his neck, yanking him down to your face and smothering him in a furious kiss. Your tongue slipped into his mouth, tasting all the rum you’d shared before.

Bucky’s thrusts got slower, but deeper, harder, shaking your body in his arms and striking up against your deepest parts. A dull ache rose to mingle with the tightness of your pelvis. He released your mouth and buried his face in your neck, licking and nipping at your skin. His hand on your clit quickened, the tightness reaching breaking point as he took one last deep thrust into you before stilling, releasing his cum as deep as he could within you. A sharp bite on your shoulder sent you spiraling into your own release. Soft kisses over the bite mark brought you down slowly from your high. The feeling of him pulling out brought you sharply back to reality. It felt like what you imagined a bottle of honey felt like when drizzled over a nice stack of pancakes. Bucky sat back on his heels to watch his cum ooze out of you. You just lied back, catching your breath and watching him watch you.

After a bit, the afterglow was fading and leaving you feeling sticky and decidedly ready for at least a washcloth if not a full bath. You rose from the bed and, with Bucky trailing behind you, started up the hot water in the shower.

From either the drinks or the sex, the two of you were too tired to do anything more than rinse off the sweat and any other fluids accumulated before collapsing into bed and falling asleep.

#break

Sometime before the sun rose, you woke up. As you came to, you tried to extract yourself from Bucky’s arms that had wrapped you up in their tight embrace sometime while you slept. Still, in a haze of exhaustion, you decided waking him up wouldn't be worth the trouble; he’d roll over eventually and you get up and leave to catch your flight. But just as you’d vowed to stay awake, Bucky’s warm chest pressed up against your back rising and falling with his slow breaths lulled you back to sleep.

When you awoke again it was with your face pressed against Bucky’s chest. His arms were around your back now and his hands were rubbing smoothly against your skin. He was awake. Fuck. You’d meant to sneak out before he woke up so you wouldn't have to deal with the morning after talk. But as soon as you really shook the fog of sleep from your mind and took a good breath you realized, his scent blockers had faded to nothing. A flood of his scent washed over you. Still strongly coffee and leather based, but without the blockers you could pick out the more subtle notes of it, vanilla and a splash of some flower you couldn't place, but the most damming and important facet of it all was the unmistakable scent of Alpha, but not just any alpha, no there was something different there you’d never smelled before, something you’d heard of. It was intoxicating and indescribable. You took a deep breath, pressing your nose hard against his neck on instinct. Mate. That had to be it, nothing else could be as captivating, as perfect. You withdrew from his neck and cast your eyes up to his, a shaft of light from the window falling perfectly over his face, lighting up his eyes from within.

“D’you smell it?” he all but whispered, pushing you up his body to bring you to eye level.

“We’re…” You trailed off

“Yeah.”

“I was supposed to go to Japan this morning.” His face fell, eyebrows furrowing. His arms lifted off your back and he moved away from you until you pressed your lips hard against the spot right at the junction of his neck and shoulder, where a mating mark would go. A groan ripped from his throat and his hands returned to clutch at your hips.

“I’m gonna have to cancel it. D’you have a place in the city we can go?” You nipped at the spot

“Course. Got a place downtown. You can stay as long as you want, princess…”

“Mmm that sounds perfect” One last kiss to his gland and you pulled off. “We better get going then.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #the winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier fanfiction #omegaverse

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mysticalgalaxysalad · 3 years

Text

An Old Love Doesn’t Rust

Ship: Paz Vizsla x Din Djarin

Fandom: The Mandalorian/Star Wars

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: yearning, two idiots in love trope, feelings, detailed smut (18+), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, folks), oral sex, porn with feelings, fluff, romance, set after Chapter 16

Summary: Din accepts his fate with the Darksaber on the Mandalore. While preparing a ball for Mandalorians, he unexpectedly meets an old friend from the past and feelings come on the surface.

Words: 3.2k (what the fuuuck, i have never written this much for a oneshot, holy shit, i impressed myself at this point)

It was difficult to settle without him.

After Din let Grogu leave with Luke, he felt empty. He knew that he’ll miss his son. And that Grogu will miss him too. But there was something, that he needed to do. Din looked at the Darksaber and sighed. He wasn’t ready for this, but this was the Way.

Few months later…

„..and these flowers will be there…“

Din was already exhausted. As the Mand’alor, he was throwing a ball for his fellow Mandalorians. And it was pretty big event. His assistants were talking too much and at some point Din caught himself to be dived deep into his memories. Especially in his memories for certain bigger boy in dark blue Beskar armor…

Paz Vizsla. The name of a man Din thought of very often. Of his best friend. Oh, how much Din wanted to see that big blue di’kut again! In those rare moments, when Din dared to be vulnerable with himself, completely honest, he missed Paz in ways he would have never thought he would. He missed his deep voice, when Paz was talking about practically anything he had on his mind, his wholehearted laughter, when he and Din had gotten away with some mischief, his like dark night sky blue, shiny armor, his touch, when Paz patted Din on the back, when Din was choking on a piece of juicy fruit…

Din was so caught up in his thoughts and feelings about Paz, that he didn’t notice his right hand Mandalorian in purple Beskar saying him something. He remembered himself only after Mandalorian patting him on his shoulder.

„What’s going on?“

„Sir, I think it’s time to prepare for the event,“ Mandalorian nervously stepped.

„Oh yes, that ball,“ Din sighed and got up. „Thank you for noticing me,“ he nodded at Mando and left to prepare for the night.

Later that evening…

„Ladies and gentleman and others, welcome to the ball,“ Din, dressed in his silver Beskar armor, which was shinier and overall looking better than usually, started his first speach as the Mand’alor. All Mandalorians, also dressed in their shiny armors, listened to him very attentively. Djarin didn’t speak for too long, although he seemed to be very calm and confident, his heart was nervously pounding in his armored chest. He spoke about what he thought was important and from his heart.

„And now, let’s the fun begin. This is the Way,“ Din finished his speech with Mandalorian creed, and everyone could feel the smile in his voice.

„This is the Way,“ Mandalorians chanted cheerfully. Some of them even chanted Din’s name. Din blushed a little and smiled under his helmet. As he was watching his fellow vods having fun, he caught sight of very familiar blue color. And he felt suddenly his heart to stop.

That familiar blue color could originate from the only one source. In that moment, Din knew, who it was. It felt like Maker had heard his most secret hopes and dreams. Maybe…maybe he could be happy again.

Stunned Din watched his long lost friend Paz talking to Bo-Katan. Suddenly, he felt a lump forming in his throat, his mouth dry like Tatooine sands. Will Paz still remember his friend from childhood? And how did he leave Nevarro? Where had he gone after that shooting? Din’s head was full of questions he hoped he’d get answers to soon.

„…and then we saved Grogu and I lost the Darksaber,“ Bo-Katan grumpily rambled about their adventures to her new object of complaining, Paz, who really tried to listen to her, but he kept daydreaming, just as Din.

„So, who’s the new Mand’alor?“ Paz interrupted Bo-Katan’s venting, much to her annoyance.

„Look for yourself, big blue boy,“ she smirked.

Paz groaned. Something about the way she said „big blue boy“, irked him. He was about to say something ironic to her, when he noticed she left. Good, at least I’ll get some peace now, he thought. But not for long. When he turned to see the famous Mand’alor, he froze.

Paz would not have been much happier for his helmet than in the very moment he saw Din on the Mand’alor throne. His dark, sparkling eyes went comically wide, plump, soft lips, which had never kissed yet, slighty parted. It felt like all his thoughts, words were thrown out of Paz‘ head. He couldn’t even tell, what exactly he felt at that moment. Relief, happiness, doubt, that Din would not remember him, or something, that made his lower parts tingle? Probably all at once, if Paz would be absolutely honest with himself. And maybe something more. There was always something more with Din.

As the ball continues, Din felt himself very tired. But since he saw Paz, he could say, that something in the air changed. He also knew, that he wouldn’t be able to sleep without talking to Vizsla, but it seemed Din couldn’t get to him. Every few minutes someone wanted to talk with him.

While politely conversating with another Mando, he caught Paz‘ visor staring at him and suddenly the world stopped existing. It was like each other of them could see each other’s sould and it was intense and burning. Din’s breath hitched and his blood changed into something similar to molten lava.

He politely excused himself from discussion and nodded at Paz to follow him. He headed to a small part of garden, protected by a bunch of bushes with beautiful, soft looking bloody red flowers with thin petals and honey-sweet smell. Mand’alor didn’t turn his back to see, if Paz was really following him. Paz was.

When they got into that secret garden spot, Din slowly turned to Paz. His whole body lightly buzzed with nerves and sweet anticipation. For a few minutes, there was a silence, filled with a tension and something else. Promise.

They stared at each other for a while. Then Din moved and Paz moved too and they hugged like their lives depended on it. Mand’alor sighed happily. Paz‘ strong, big hug provided him security and comfort Din never knew he needed. Untill now. And when he got a taste, he could never get enough.

„Djarin, so you’ve made it to the Mand’alor,“ Din could feel the grin and proud in Paz‘ raspy voice. He, after all, was grinning like a fool himself under his Beskar bucket. „I see you’ve made it pretty good too, Vizsla,“ Din said, then he whispered softer. „I thought you’d died.“ His black visor met Paz‘ one.

„Y-yeah, i was succesful with leaving Nevarro, but I had to stay low since then,“ Paz explained, his voice sounded little bit choked. „Otherwise I would get in touch with you, but I thought it would bring you unwanted attention from those kriffing Imps and I - I didn’t want to endanger you, Din,“ Paz‘ voice got softer and softer with every word spoken. And I was afraid you wouldn’t remember me, Paz thought of.

Din was awestruck from what he just heard. After a minute or two, when he regained his composure, he spoke again, voice filled with an emotion he couldn’t quite entitle. „You could never endanger me, ner vod,“ and before he could stop himself, Din’s hands grasped Paz‘ helmet carefully and he stepped on his toes to clink his silver bucket against Paz‘. Din didn’t think about it twice. It somehow felt…so right.

To say Paz was overwhelmed, was a big understatement. He knew since he had seen Din for the first time after such long time, there had been something between them. He could feel it with his whole body, mind, soul. It was syrupy thick and sweet and hot and so intense, it consumed him. It brought emotions in Paz, which he wouldn’t even dare to call it.

So, he just stood there, absolutely dumbstruck, and gulped dry. His heart was pounding in his chest. Before he could do anything, Din let go of him. Paz was still quietly processing, that his best friend just kissed him in Mandalorian way, when Din did another thing, which took Paz Vizsla’s breath away. Din Djarin, the new Mand’alor, took off his helmet.

Paz knew he should scold Din for what he had just done. Broken Creed atc. However, he couldn’t bring himself to do so. All he could do right now, was to think about how Din looked so beautiful in the moonlight. His dark brown eyes, deep as the galaxy surronding them, reflected the light of stars above them. His helmet hair were wet with sweat and full of soft curls. And the pink, plump lips…Stars, Din was a sight for gods. Paz slightly shuddered. His mind was flooded with very tempting pictures of Mand’alor himself, writhing beneath big blue Beskar Mandalorian, his mouth creating perfect ‚O‘ shape, as Paz hit that heavenly spot inside Din, which made Din see not stars, but whole galaxies…His body reacted to these images very precisely and he was thankful for his codpiece, as he was already hot and throbbing in his pants.

Din noticed Paz‘ quietness and his tremble. He had no idea, why it happened, but he slowly started to be afraid, that Paz was disgusted by what he had done. Oh, if he only knew…

There was a flesh of insecurity in Din’s eyes and Mand’alor took a step back. This alarmed Paz, who got into his protector mode. „What’s wrong, cyare? Did I hurt you? Oh, kriffing hell, I didn’t-“ Paz would probably continue in his rambling, if he didn’t see Din’s surprised look with a hint of hope. And Paz realized, what he said. But there was no way in hell for him to take it back. Paz simply couldn’t hold himself anymore.

„Yes, Din, cyare,“ and now was time for Din to be in shock, because Paz copied his gesture with taking off the helmet. Din gasped, when Paz came closer and slowly, as if Din was made from a fragile materiál, caressed his blushed cheeks. His whole body throbbed with need. „So beautiful,“ Paz whispered and lowered himself to Din’s face. „You-you’re very pretty yourself, Paz,“ Din answered and looked at him with silent plea. Paz obeyed. His lips touched Din’s and it was burning like a wild fire. Slow, gentle kisses quickly turned into more needy, hot sensual ones. Both men after a while groaned into each other’s mouth, and that just spurred them more. It was sinful and passionate and just everything they wanted.

„We should také this somewhere private, Djarin,“ Paz panted into Din’s ear, when he licked his earlobe and sucked it. „Ye-yeah, we should- oh, kriffing stars,“ Din groaned, when he felt Paz‘ lips on his neck, sucking a mark on his tender spot. Under Vizsla’s touches, Din quickly changed into needy, trembling mess, he was so touch-starved.

Finally, Paz reluctantly let go of Din, picking his helmet. When Din got his helmet too, he nodded at the man with blue Beskar to follow him. They quickly walked through garden, too eager to feel each other’s body. After few minutes, which felt like eternity, they got into Din’s private quarters, and the moment the door closed behind them, they were on each other again.

They eagerly stripped of Beskar, it was laid randomly on the floor. Neither of them cared. Paz sucked another mark into Din’s neck and tugged on his T-shirt to pull it off of Din. When Din was half bare before Paz, Paz also took his shirt off. „Mmm, so beautiful,“ whispered, as he was kissing every inch of Din’s tender skin. By the time Paz got to his nipples, Din was a panting mess, back arching into Paz. „Shhh, Din, I know, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, ner cyare, let me take care of you.“ With those words, Paz sucked one of Din’s erect nipples, licking and carefully biting it slowly, while kneading the other one. Din let out a loud whimper, his hand went straight into Paz‘ soft, fluffy hair. His body shook and Din thought he could cum just from his nipples being sucked.

Paz paid the same attention to the other nipple as well and Din’s groans of pleasure got louder. When Paz felt Din’s nipples gor enough attention, he slowly kissed, licked and bit Din’s torso to his stomach and lower abdomen. „O-oh, it feels s-so g-good, Paz,“ Din panted, while Paz sucked few more hickeys into his skin. „And it will be better, love,“ Paz purred and tugged on Din’s pants. Din lifted his hips, so Paz could get rid of it. It was also tossed on the floor and Paz turned to Din’s rock hard cock, leaking precum all over.

„Holy shit,“ Paz whispered to himself, as his mouth watered at the sight. He couldn’t resist to lick Din’s length and taste him like the best lollipop. The sinful groan he let out, went straight to Din’s cock and Din thrusted his hips instinctively. „S-sorry,“ he exhaled. „Don’t have to be, love,“ Paz winked and let Din slide into his warm and wet mouth. Din’s mouth shaped perfect ‚O‘, as Paz‘ mischievous tongue licked along Din’s velvety dick. He never felt anything like this. Everything, what Paz did to him, made his blood change into wild lava and reduce him into whimpering puddle. And after one particularly good suck Din found himself teetering right on the edge. „P-Paz, I-I think I’m gonna-“ That was when Paz let him slide of his mouth with loud ‚pop‘.

Din pushed himself up on his elbows and with loud disappointed grunt looked at his lover. Paz shushed him again. „I will také care of you, my sweet boy, do not worry,“ he also undressed and bared himself to Din. And at the sight of naked Paz, Din lost his ability to speak. Paz was big and thick and beautiful. And very aroused. Paz pumped himself few times, smearing his precum all over his cock. „Do you have lube?“ „In a nightstand,“ Din nodded, his voice raspy from moaning. Paz found a small bottle and squirted a good amount of gel on his fingers. „Will you let me take care of you, Din?“ Din nodded again, opened his legs slowly and leaned back on the bed, trying to relax for Paz. Paz smiled and kissed him.

„That’s my good boy,“ he purred and at first he just touched Din’s hole with his wet fingers. He looked at Din’s face for any sign of discomfort, but when he didn’t find any, he carefully pushed one finger in. Din closed his eyes and grunted. It was slightly uncomfortable, but eventually he got used to Paz‘ fingers sliding in and out of him. It also helped that Paz used a lot of lube too. All this time Paz was praising him. „My sweet boy, take my fingers so good. Oh, you’re so beautiful, my love.“

Din felt absolutely wonderful. Paz‘ fingers always hit that one spot inside him, that made him keen and lean into Paz‘ touch. „A-ah, Vizsla, yes, yes,“ Din moaned and grabbed the sheets beneath him, as if to anchor himself. After earlier edging, he was worked up and felt on the edge of heavenly pleasure once again. But Paz had apparently other plans and stopped stimulating Din.

„Paaaz-“ Din pouted and looked at him with almost teary dovey eyes. Although he quickly shut himself, when he felt Paz nudging at his entrance. Paz took the lube again and squirted a lot of it all over his cock. „I-I’ve got you, Din, my love,“ Paz whispered and slowly entered Din. He groaned deeply and when Paz was fully seated inside of Mand’alor, he leaned to kiss him passionately. This allowed him also také a breath, because of how tight and warm Din felt around him, Paz felt like he might combust right and there.

After a short while, Paz set slow, sensual pace. If Din thought this couldn’t get better, he was painfully wrong. And also painfully hard. But Paz proved his earlier words, when he grasped Din’s beautiful weeping cock and started to pump him. Din’s moans and grunts got two octaves higher, and under normal conditions, he’d be embarassed for it. Now he couldn’t care less. Not when Paz was looking at him, as if Din hung all the stars on the sky himself. Not when Paz‘ sight was full of passion and so much love for him. That was moment Din knew he was done for.

„I-I love you, Paz,“ Din panted and his one hand caressed lovingly Paz‘ scruffed cheek, while the other one hugged around his strong, broad shoulders. „Y-you do?“ Paz‘ hips slowed for a second and he leaned his forehead against Din’s in Keldabe kiss. „Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum, Din,“ he growled, his pace quickened again, his hands pumping Din matching the pace of his hips. At this point Din was almost screaming from intense pleasure, and Paz was very happy about it. „Now, be a good boy for me once again and cum, Din, let me feel you, ner cyare,“ bigger man mumbled into Din’s ear and slightly sucked it.

That praise sent Din over the edge and oh, did he cum. With a loud groan of Paz‘ name and curses in Mando’a, he climaxed all over Paz‘ hand, his stomach and some of his cum even made it to his neck and chin. The sight of climaxing Din and the feeling of him clamping hard around Paz, triggered Paz’s own orgasm and he climaxed inside Din, panting Din’s name, before he collapsed on blissed out Mand’alor beneath him.

They both laid like that for a short amount of time, listened to each other’s heart. Then Paz slided out of Din, and smaller man whimpered weakly at the loss of him. Paz chuckled. „I’ll be right back, mesh’la,“ he stated and in a while he came back with warm cloth to clean Din. But he had to admit to himself, it was pretty hot to watch his load leaking out of Din. After Din was cleaned, Paz cuddled to him and tucked them both under soft blanket. Din happily sighed, soft smile on his face. He never felt as relaxed as now, laying on Paz‘ chest.

„You did so well for me, Din, I’m proud of you, my love,“ Paz whispered lovingly into Din’s hair, peppering him with kisses and caresses, where he could reach. Din’s smile got bigger and it tugged on Paz‘ heart. He always wanted to see that gorgeous smile. Then Din spoke quietly.

„Did-did you mean it, Paz? Do you love me?“

„Yes, I do, Din. I’m never leaving you ever again, my love, I promise,“ Paz kissed Din’s forehead, nose, both cheeks and finally his lips and it was so soft and full of love.

„Stay with me, please,“ Din asked, kissing Paz‘ handsome face. Paz smiled, and it was biggest, happiest smile, which made him look so much younger and light-hearted.

„With my biggest pleasure, ner Mand’alor.“

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anyone who wants to be tagged in this, just let me know and i’ll add you :D i just forgot who else wanted to be tagged in my fic, i’m sorry for it :(

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lilbabycee · 4 years

Text

envy // steve rogers 🍏

↳ summary: at one of tony's parties, the reader and her green-eyed monster show some concern over steve's relationship with a certain shield agent.

↳ relationship: steve rogers x reader

↳ word count: 3.4k

↳ warnings: angst with some fluff, misunderstandings, an overused trope, sensitive reader, best friend!bucky and surrogate dad!tony

↳ author’s note: i’m back with some more steve fluff because i’m a sucker for this man - enjoy! x

You hate to admit it, but you’re jealous.

That slimy green-eyed monster is rearing its ugly head over your shoulder, teeth glinting in the low lights of one of Tony’s parties. It sidles up right next to you, breathing all sorts of lies and falsehoods in your ear, urging you to act or become enraged. Currently, you’re doing an okay job of ignoring it but the longer that it stays perched on your shoulder, its long claws digging into your flesh, the more frustrated you get. Its green eyes are beady and burn holes into the side of your face; you grimace, promptly choosing to ignore its piercing glare.

Your grip on the stem of your champagne glass tightens enough that your fingers start to become sore, and the sudden urge to swallow the contents of your glass becomes unbearable. She lays her hand on his shoulder as she laughs - cackles, you think bitterly - and he places a hand on her waist in response. You can’t seem to help the roll of your eyes and your shiny black red bottoms start to make themselves over to where Tony and Wanda are sat.

Wanda looks up as you approach, offering you a bright smile. Your face automatically reciprocates the sentiment, her happiness infectious. Since the death of Pietro, you know how much Wanda has been struggling to find her place within the team. She reminds you an awful lot of yourself, so you’ve taken it upon yourself to help her integrate into the group.

“Hi, Y/N,” she greets you, shifting on the sofa and patting the space next to her invitingly. You sink into the couch and Wanda winds an arm around your neck, kissing your cheek dramatically when Tony looks up from where he’s been swirling a glass of whisky contemplatively and smirks at you.

“Hey there, sweet cheeks,” he calls you affectionately, eyes softening at your presence. As Tony’s ‘apprentice’ - “...you know I’m your mentor, kid… no, I’m not gonna be modest because I pretty much made you, honey… I might as well have given birth to you too...” - you’ve been working alongside the Avengers for years. You’re the person behind the desk - the information that they get before missions, during missions, and after missions all comes from you. As their main source of communication, there is little time to rest but you do consider every member of the team a close friend by now. Tony… God, Tony is like your dad. In fact, you call him ‘dad’ upon his insistence - sometimes in jest, sometimes seriously. Your family became distant after learning that you were working with the ‘Earth’s mightiest heroes’ they must not have seen Thor drunk before because some of the Avenger's work doesn’t ‘align with their personal beliefs’ - bullshit - and you hadn’t spoken to them in years. So when Tony took you under his wing when you were but a mere teenager after originally hiring you as his personal assistant’s assistant, you were nothing but grateful to the genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.

“Hi, Wanda, hey, Tones,” you address them both, heaving a tired sigh while your eyes subconsciously drift back to where your favorite Avenger is standing with your favorite SHIELD agent. Tony opens his mouth to start teasing you about the length of your spaghetti-strapped sparkly red dress - planning to make some teasing comment like Y/N, who let you leave the house showing that much skin? Go back and change this instant! - but he sees where your attention has been redirected. Wanda stares at the side of your head intently for a few seconds before a secret little smile appears on her face.

“How’s Steve, Y/N?” she questions in an innocent tone, watching you jump and snap your head back around so fast that you get a little bit of whiplash.

“Uh, S-Steve?” you stutter. “W-why - uh - why would I know about Steve?”

Tony rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his drink before placing it back down on the table in front of him. He smacks his lips together loudly and licks them afterwards, seemingly exasperated. You raise a challenging eyebrow at him in response and he stares back at you flatly.

“I think I can speak for the whole team when I say that I’m tired of you and Capsicle dancing around each other,” he looks nonchalantly over his right shoulder before turning back to you with that same look in his eyes. “Not that he can really dance anyway - that awkward motherfucker - but if you had the balls to go up to him, sweetie, then maybe you could teach him.”

Your surrogate father’s brown eyes bear into yours and you twist your mouth to the side in embarrassment, quickly avoiding his gaze. “Dad-”

“Listen, Y/N, if you don’t go talk to him about all of your gross teenage-like feelings then I will,” he threatens with all of the indifference in the world.

Wanda nods her head in agreement, looking at you sympathetically but with a glint of mischief in her eyes. You narrow your own at her in suspicion but she only smiles at you.

“There’s no harm in trying,” she gently coaxes you and you bury your face in your newly well-manicured hands. The coolness of the flashy golden rings adorning your fingers - all gifts from Tony - seeps into your skin, overheating from the stress of the situation and the heat from all of the bodies packed into the spacious area. Quickly, you realize that Wanda’s right and that the worst that could happen is rejection - oh God - so you abruptly stand up, hearing Wanda do a little whoop! behind you.

The click of your heels on the expensive flooring of the lounge empowers you to put a little extra sway in your hips and straighten out your posture. A smile grows on your deep-red, glossed lips as you get closer to the bar. Natasha and Bruce are having a conversation right next to where Steve and Shannon - no, Stella … Sharon are speaking. Natasha assesses your demeanor and smirks knowingly, shooting you a quick wink. A quick panic seizes you, almost stopping your strut - I need a drink. So on your way to Steve and Sharon, you grab the champagne glass from in front of Nat and she puckers her lips at you, blowing you a kiss. You blow one back in the same fashion, finally stopping in front of Steve and Sharon.

Admittedly, she looks great. Her blonde hair is down in loose waves - it frames her face really nicely. Her makeup is subtle but really accentuates her best features. Her dress sweeps the floor and is a simple light grey silk. You fight the urge to scoff - to her credit, she’s beautiful and you’re even more jealous than before. Great.

Steve’s head turns when he sees you out of the corner of his eye, and your breath catches in your throat. He’s wearing grey slacks that really hug his thighs and ass - yum - and the white shirt that he’s chosen to wear instead of his regular blue plaid ones makes your mouth literally water. It’s not that you don’t appreciate the blue shirts because if there’s anyone who appreciates anything and everything that Steve does, it’s you. But the white … it’s crisp and clean and reminds you of when you used to run through the white flags of your mother’s laundry hung in your backyard, lush green grass staining the soles of your small feet. The soft cotton of the simple shirt somehow brings out the color of his eyes, and they’re looking more like blueberries than the ocean tonight. He’s clean-shaven with his hair neatly styled and the sleeves of his collared shirt are rolled up his forearms casually. His shirt isn’t buttoned all the way up to the top - thank God for Sam - and one of those strong capable hands is nursing a glass with barely any liquor inside. You quickly realize that it’s Asgardian liquor because Steve actually wants to enjoy himself tonight (?).

Those full lips spread around his perfect teeth in a grin and his hand falls from Sharon’s waist, a small sense of victory flowing through you. But then you reign yourself back in, knowing that you haven’t won the battle… yet.

“Good evening, Captain,” you address Steve with what you hope is a sultry smirk on your face. You nod towards Sharon as something of an afterthought, making sure that you’re being polite and smile sweetly at her: “Agent Carter.”

You don’t wanna be a total bitch and be super rude to her, because, really, what does that ever accomplish? You decide that you’re going to be civil, despite the fact that that green-eyed bastard is growling in your ear to rip her throat out.

Steve beams and assesses your appearance quickly before looking right back at your eyes. What a gentleman. “Hey, doll. You look great.”

Your cheeks hurt from how much you’re smiling and flirtily, you bat your eyelashes at him. “Thanks, Steve. You look great too. I like this look… a lot.”

He chuckles, those baby blues still boring into you. You almost feel like shrinking underneath his heavy gaze but instead, you hold your head up high and continue beaming at him, taking a sip of champagne. You watch his eyes follow your lips as you lick them free of the drink, and his cheeks flush red when he sees that you’ve caught him.

“So how are you enjoying the party, Y/N?” Sharon asks amicably, seemingly unaware of the moment that’s just transpired.

You decide to humor her: “I think it’s so nice that Tony wants to do these things for us… it’s super generous of him to host these parties. I’m loving it. But Sam left almost an hour ago, so I’ve been missing a dance partner for a little while now…”

You put your glass down and a cursory glance up at Steve has him springing into action, just like you hoped it would. “Come on, doll. I’ll dance with you.”

He grabs your hand swiftly and walks you to the dancefloor, not even sparing Sharon a glance. You feel slightly guilty - she hasn’t really done anything wrong - and shoot her a sympathetic look over your shoulder as well as a small wave. She smiles genially back, waving you off and turning to face another group of SHIELD agents.

Once you and Steve reach the dancefloor, it’s obvious that Tony has watched the whole situation go down; he’s changed the music to something slower and a little more jazzy. Steve, almost on instinct, pulls you into his arms, pressing you close to his body. The scent that hits you has you instinctively leaning into him. It’s crisp and woodsy and smells like pine but also like clean linen and him. His hands frame your waist and your arms loosely wind around his neck, and the both of you sway to the smooth swing of the music.

“You’re quite light on your feet, Captain,” you wink at him, far more comfortable because it’s just the two of you. You feel the laugh that passes through him and you admire the little lines around his eyes when he’s like this.

“What can I say? I’ve had a lot of practice,” he grins cheekily. You raise an eyebrow and the grin spreads wider.

“Got a line of people at your door, Mr. America?” You tease, smirking slightly but also somehow scared of the answer.

He laughs again, twirling the both of you before stopping to look you square in the eye. You’re taken aback by the intensity of his gaze and your heart stutters.

“Perhaps,” he shrugs. “But I’m never there to notice… I’m too busy knockin’ at someone else’s door.”

You can feel it - the acute pain in your chest and the exact moment that your heart sinks. The little tickle in your nose warns you of impending tears and you sniff to try and rid yourself of the feeling. Your logical brain is telling you not to be dumb and jump to conclusions, but the monster’s green eyes are full of rage. It whispers that all he really wants is Sharon and he’s just being polite, dancing here with you.

“Oh,” you reply, trying your best to appear jovial when you can feel your heart breaking. “That’s cool. I’m sure she’s great.”

It’s a marvel that your voice doesn’t break.

He gets a dreamy look on his face and replies, “Yeah, she’s really something. Smart, hilarious, pretty… God, so goddamn beautiful. The way that I feel about her... I haven’t felt like that since Peggy.”

He looks directly at your face but you can’t tell because you’ve averted your face to the side, too busy trying to control a rapid onslaught of tears. Damn Tony, feeding you all these fanciful ideas.

“Well, she’s a lucky girl.”

That’s all you manage to get out before withdrawing from his arms and quickly striding towards the exit.

---

In the elevator, you try your best not to break down - because that’s not classy - and press the button to your floor. Taking deep breaths with closed eyes, you fail to notice when the elevator stops and Bucky gets on.

“Doll.”

Your eyes shoot open and your head whips over to look at him. He wasn’t really all that keen to party and it shows. You can tell that he’s been training.He’s sweaty - his hair is slick with it - and he’s only wearing black basketball shorts and trainers, his metal arm on full display. You’re relieved that he’s the one that’s caught you like this. You and Bucky forged an unlikely friendship upon his arrival to the compound. Steve was overjoyed that his best friend had somebody else to talk to, as he was scared that he wouldn’t be able to relate to anyone else. You can easily consider him one of your closest friends, meaning that he also knows about the Steve situation.

“Hey, Buck,” you manage to breathe out, trying for a small smile.

“What happened? You’ve been crying.”

You scoff, trying for indifference, “No, I haven’t-”

Bucky pins you with a look and you shut your mouth, looking slightly guilty. “Was it Stevie?”

Your silence seems to be enough of an answer for him and he sighs, moving closer to you to encircle an arm around your shoulders. You turn into his side, shoving your face into his neck and throwing your arms around his neck. Slightly caught off guard, he stumbles back, but quickly reciprocates the hug.

By this time, you’ve reached your floor so you move to pull back from him but his grip on your waist only tightens. Without any strain, he sweeps you off of your feet and lifts you right out of the elevator. You squeal in surprise, sniffing while Bucky walks you to your room.

“FRIDAY…” Bucky begins to ask, but it seems as if the A.I. already knows what to do as she unlocks your door. He walks you over to the bedroom, placing you down on your bed gently and taking your shoes off. Without a word, he disappears and comes back with makeup wipes, tissues, a glass of wine, and a bagel.

This makes you cry harder.

He hesitates in the doorway, looking at you with panic-flooded eyes. “Y/N, if you don’t want the bagel…”

You choke out a laugh and beckon him closer, shaking your head. He places the plate and Kleenex on your bed and hands you the glass of wine, grabbing a wipe to start taking off your makeup.

“Now, let me take care of you while you tell me what that punk did,” he begins slowly, starting to rub at your jaw.

You recount the story while sipping your wine, sniffing and choking at certain parts of the story. He shushes you quietly whenever he feels you struggling to speak and encourages you to take your time, all while continuing his work carefully. Once his job is done, he coaxes you to eat the bagel and sits next to you, rubbing your back gently.

“Look, Y/N,” he says. “Steve’s been incessant about how much he’s sweet on ya for the past couple months. I know he’s got a funny way of showing it, but I don’t think you shoulda run away from ‘im like that.”

You open your mouth to reply but are stopped by a voice in the doorway, “I second that.”

Tony’s leaning on the wall, that signature glint in his eyes full of mischief.

“Dad,” you almost whimper, voice raw from crying, and his face softens considerably. “Don’t bully me.”

“Hey, hey, baby cakes,” he comes to squat in front of you and Bucky. “Don’t get all teary-eyed on me. You know my little heart can’t take it. What are you so emotional for? Rogers has been looking for you since you left.”

Your mood perks up at that. “Really?”

He gives you a lopsided smile, “Of course he has. I know it’s not easy. You were doin’ a good thing out there, all confident and sexy and whatever. I was like wow, look at my girl go.” That makes you laugh. “But then you did that dumb little thing you do - you freaked out, honey. Got all impatient and confused and wouldn’t let him finish his cheesy ass speech.”

“He’s right, doll,” Bucky nods his agreement. “As much as he shoulda made it clearer to you what he was talkin’ about, you could’ve stayed just a little longer.”

You hide your face in Bucky’s chest in embarrassment as Tony grips your hand between his.

“Now, can I invite our favorite Capsicle in or are you gonna cry again?” the brown-eyed man in front of you teases.

“He’s outside?” the panic in you spikes again. Tony rolls his eyes and squeezes your hand reassuringly.

“Of course he is… loser,” he snorts derisively. You glare at him but he grins at you, telling FRIDAY to invite Steve in.

You can hear the soles of his shoes on the wooden floors of your apartment and you inhale deeply, straightening your back and pushing your chin up one more time.

He looks through with concern in his eyes and a sheepish look on his face. But he sees Bucky’s bare arm around your shoulders and something in his eyes changes for a split second; there’s an intensity there that you haven’t seen before.

Tony slaps his hands on his thighs before standing up abruptly, patting Bucky on the shoulder. “Alright, Manchurian Candidate. Let’s leave these two to it.”

Both men press a quick kiss to your forehead before heading out, closing the door softly behind them. As soon as they do, Steve stops his lingering at the door and rushes towards you, squatting in front of you like Tony was and framing your face in his hands. You blink rapidly, trying to process the close contact. Before you can think about anything else, his lips are on yours, completely catching you off guard.

They’re softer than they look and you melt into his embrace, his hands moving from your face to wrap his arms around your waist. He squeezes you gently and your hands cautiously come up to cup his face. It’s a soft kiss, despite the desperation in his movements, and you revel in the unspoken words shared between the two of you, communicated through feeling.

When it’s over, your lips are still tingling and he presses his forehead to yours, pecking your lips one more time.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he speaks quietly, almost as if he’s scared to interrupt the beauty and sanctity of the moment. “You know how I am. I get all tongue-tied talkin’ to dames already, but with you… God, it’s so much worse. I completely get why you thought I was talking about Sharon. She’s a great friend - she’s really been there for me - but she’s not you, baby.”

Your only response is a kiss pressed to his cheek and your fingers running through his hair. You sit like that for a little while, the silence stretching for several more minutes before you are composed enough to speak.

“I’m an idiot, Stevie,” you laugh, kissing his forehead this time. “I overreacted so bad… I’m so embarrassed by it. I should’ve just let you finish.”

He rubs your back comfortingly, “That’s alright, Y/N. You’re in touch with your emotions - that’s not a bad thing. But you’re my best girl - I don’t wanna see any more tears.”

He wipes away the remaining tears on your face and you smile cheekily at him.

“Your best girl?”

“Always, doll.”

tagged: @literaturefeen @donutloverxo

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers blurb #steve rogers blurbs #steve rogers headcanon #steve rogers headcanons #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers imagines #marvel fanfiction #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers angst #marvel cinematic universe

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