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iznsfw · 8 months

Text

Drunken

Loossemble's Son Hyeju x Male Reader Smut

19,012 words

Categories | cheating, longtimecrush!Hyeju, mutual feelings, drunk sex, daddy kink (and daddy issues), fingering, squirting, titfucking, anal, choking

Thank you for commissioning! Researched for the fic, ended up falling in love with Son Hyeju. Please give this a chance and read this for the story, too, and not only the smut. I indulged too much in this.

The relationship Hyeju and OC have is very much inspired by the one Cassy and Rob have in In the Woods by Tana French. Read it, please. Was amazing. The story was also written with someone I'm currently so in love with in mind, but we're not going to talk about that here.

And no, there's never enough daddy kink stories :P

“This is not fair,” the two of you say the very second you step into your shared dorm.

Two papers in two hands of two people that show two scores that aren’t up to par for the two’s standards. You and Hyeju were always meant to be a dynamic duo: peas in a pod in every way possible, and that includes academic success and failure. It’s like there’s a kind of telepathic force between you that sends the other down with you, too. It’s too late to try and cut the connection when you’ve known Hyeju all your life, a wish that’s beyond reality for plenty of the boys at Idalso.

The dorm is clean. Mostly. You’ve done your best to tidy up the pile of clothes at the end of Hyeju’s bunk bed and she’s done the same for the relatively empty bags of chips you haven’t stopped the habit of laying around, but there’s still the telltale signs that if Hyeju isn’t organized, you aren’t either. Printed drafts of your thesis lay crumpled on the floor. Her posters are minutes away from falling off the poorly painted walls. The air-conditioner doesn’t work as well as it did in your freshman year when your rowdiness outdoors—knocking into each other, trying to race to the door and ending up messing up the other’s clothes that were ironed in a rush—isn’t as compensating.

Today, the rowdiness is lost. It gets translated into rough groans that follow you on the way to the dorms.

That’s when you realize it.

You and Hyeju look at each other. Both of your pairs of eyes widen.

“Miss Ha failed your test?” she asks, normally bored pupils widening in disbelief.

“Miss Ha failed my test.”

“No erasure rule?”

“No erasure rule.”

“Oh my god.”

Ball up the paper and shoot it in the air. It adds to the numerous pieces of parchment on the floor. You kick the rest of them in the air while your roommate slumps on her bed and groans.

“Fuck this,” you say, hands on your head. There comes the urge to tear all your hair out and leave it at that damned professor’s door, blood and all, to make her at least feel a miniscule bit of remorse for failing you. You didn’t deserve that. You studied and studied and she still had to implement that stupid rule.

Hyeju catches a wrinkled and crumpled paper globe. Her sui generis lips release a soft sigh. “At least we have thesis confetti,” she says sullenly.

“I’m dropping out,” you declare. You’re surprised at how serious you sound. Normally you’d say it just to get a laugh out of yourself, but now you’re actually considering doing it.

“If you drop out, I’m dropping out, too,” she answers, looking at you spitefully. “And then who’s going to take care of Daniel?”

Think of Daniel. He isn’t your roommate but he’s gotten close with you and Hyeju the past few years. “His inheritance is what’s gonna take care of him. Did you forget he’s rich as shit?”

“Oh, right. How could I forget about him?”

You start picking up the papers of your drafts faster and knocking them harder into the wall. Why are you doing that? Nope, don’t have an answer to that. There’s a fiery rage inside you that Hyeju’s latest sentence is the arsonist of.

“The fuck are you doing?” she asks in amusement. There’s a hint of disgust on her face. “Calm down. What’re you, my dad or something?”

“S-sorry.” You know the whole deal she has with her dad. You have to stop—thus, drop the balls of papyrus from your hand. “It was just… I don’t know why I did that.”

Maybe you do. Can’t be about the test though it’s why you started throwing a thesis tantrum.

“Chill out, dude.” She pats your shoulder and gives you a pouty look. “If you want to play strict dad with me: no, I don’t like Daniel. If I did, I would have sat on his lap and said,” she assumes a high voice and flutters her eyelashes at you, leaning on your side, “‘Let me help you with that, darling. I’ll do the dishes, too! Or maybe you want to put a baby in me while I squeeze the soap on your di—’”

“Stoooop!”

Throw a pillow at her. She dodges it and sticks her tongue out at you. Oh yeah. How could you forget that she plays dodgeball with the friend who’s taken up the topic of your conversation?

Oh god, shouldn’t have reminded yourself that Hyeju and your other friend hang out. You’re feeling weird again.

“Earth to daddy, Earth to daddy,” she says, snapping her fingers in front of your face. “Li’l shit, what’s gotten into you?”

You’re feeling something again. It creeps into your heart and tugs at its strings, just like how your roommate loves to tie knots in yours and watch you struggle around trying to walk with them. That’s how it felt when she called you that. It’s not the first time she took on a roleplaying banter with you yet that specific title has you hot.

You need to take a walk. Take a walk to somewhere that doesn’t have you in a place where you could easily pin Son fucking Hyeju to the wall and kiss her till the heat subsides.

Walking is your only exercise. You care not for the gyms and weights—why pressure yourself with those when you could just go for a simple walk? An hour is already sufficient enough to burn the breakfast. Only downside is that you get quite hungry afterwards, and though you don’t care for counting calories either, you’re pretty sure the food you have after your strolls is more than the amount you burned.

Actually, you could think of another downside: Hyeju doesn’t join you. She’s a homebody. A couch potato. A living pillow. She prefers to lounge at the dorm and play games instead of going out. She rarely comes along, which is why you’re guaranteed a few hours of isolation.

When you take into consideration that it isn’t isolation if tentative feelings accompany you, you’re partly glad Hyeju didn’t come along.

“Hey, is that you?”

You smile. There he is. You always pass by the apartments this time, and the old man who owns it is one of the few people you’re fond of. Being friends with a landlord wasn’t on your college bingo card, but you’re glad it happened. He’s kind, has white hair that almost matches the color of the spaces he owns, and a mouth that can simultaneously be like that of a sailor’s and a doting grandfather.

“Hi, mister Kim.”

“Hi there yourself,” he chirps. His smile is bright. Can’t say the same about the flickering bulb back in your dorm. “Where’s your girlfriend?”

Red colors your cheeks. “Hyeju’s not my girlfriend.”

“Never said she was.” He winks.

The explosion of scarlet first starts at your ears. He got you. But it isn’t exactly you to blame—everyone likes to push you and your girl best friend together. The old man knows what he’s doing. He just likes to toy around with you.

“Mister Kim, don’t be like that,” you say. Scratch the back of your neck.

“I’ll be however the hell I want,” he replies, crossing his arms t in a friendly stance. “You two’re always glued to each other.”

“We’re just friends, sir.”

“Just friends my ass. Whenever that girl visits me, she’s always talking about you. It’s like you’re the only thing on her mind.”

That revelation was so out of nowhere, yet you welcome it. You like knowing that Hyeju, the girl you adore, adores you just as much. It’s the mutual feeling of fondness that keeps you breathing.

“T-that doesn’t mean anything,” you say humbly. You’re somewhat right—just because Hyeju hides the truth that she drones on about you doesn’t mean she has a crush on you. You’ve seen and met her exes, and even back then they’re miles more charming than you.

“Wanna bet?”

“I’m broke—”

“No, no. Not in that way.” He shakes his head. “If you and Hyeju actually end up together, I’m letting you live in one of my apartments for free.”

“Mister Kim—”

“Think about it for your old man, will you?”

With that, he shows you a knowing smile and turns his back. Nothing more is said.

Just so it’s clear for everyone who comes across this story of yours: you don’t love Son Hyeju.

Anyone and everyone says the opposite. They treat you and her like famed characters on a popular teen show, pairing you up with each other and tearing off all hesitancy about thinking that they might be going too far.

But now you’re here to make a stand against those falsehoods: contrary to popular belief, Son Hyeju isn’t the love of your life, and although you’ve been friends for so long people’d expect you walked into kindergarten class with your hand in hers, it’s completely platonic between the two of you.

There are no feelings. No speck of a disgusting yearning in your hearts despite the late night stroll you had to take to stop your wistful thoughts. No sir. Hyeju doesn’t love you that way, and neither do you. It’s simple.

Doesn’t seem that simple when you wake up in the dorm with what’s supposed to be a groan that folds itself back down your throat when you see her curled up in the other bed, blankets splayed and curled around her. No makeup on, except for lip balm she smears around her triangle-shaped mouth when they get chapped. No care for how she looks in the air (doesn’t matter when that’s the way you like it, the way she likes it). She lies there with slumber that could only be induced by an unmerciful college.

You’re glad you have her while you’re battered by the same cause of her sleep.

You try to be silent but her eyes open anyway. Her eyes are squinted, and she kind of looks like an emoticon as she pers around. She doesn’t know when or where she is. Grin because neither do you sometimes, but now that you hold that knowledge, you share it with her.

“Earth to Hyeju, Earth to Hyeju.” Echo her words from last night and resound them back to her.

“Earth?” she groans. “Wake me up when Idalso sends me to Mars.”

Yeah, that’s the Hyeju you know. The Hyeju you love.

(Huh? Where did that come from?)

“I’ll go with you. Could use miss Jeong not trying to kill me.”

Hyeju runs a hand through her hair groggily and smiles sweetly. “Maybe she should come along and go through with killing you if you don’t stop ‘forgetting’ to pay me that five thousand.”

“Cute. I’ll pay you later, I promise.” Rise to sling the blinds up, letting light five-thirty a.m. sun spill through the squares. “Catch some breakfast at McDonald’s before class?” you offer. She’s your usual companion in the morning—you’d split the bill (because “you’re broke, and I’m broke,” she said, “it’s only fair we try to stop being poor together”) and have a nice opening meal of egg and chicken nuggets.

“Sweetie, it’s Saturday today,” she reminds you. “Don’t you remember?” She looks up from her phone and smiles at you condescendingly, as if she knew how that friendly nickname causes your system to shut down.

You try not to show it. Try not to make it obvious that you turned your head to hide the fact that you were flustered. The fact that despite being only friends with her your chest still tightens at her casual pet names for you, like what she called you last night as well. It’s what friends do: joke with each other, call them unflattering names one second then sweet ones the next. The dorm has enough fans to keep the air circulated, and the sweat you broke last night is gone. So if that’s that, why do you feel so warm right now?

You wonder if Hyeju also feels the same heat in her stomach when you say, “Grandpa can’t remember things well anymore, darling. You’ve got to cut him some slack.”

“Wow, okay. That’s one way to put it, I guess.”

It’s lucky that it’s still dark enough for your red ears to be invisible. You hate it when you mess up your laid-back persona in front of Hyeju, the one you put up whenever you engage in these playful arguments. “Look,” you say, “do you want to get McDonald’s or not?”

“Can’t. Won’t. Shan’t. Too lazy.”

Your heart sinks. “Fine, I’ll just go to a café then. Still have that thesis to do.”

Hyeju lays back into the bed and shuts her eyes. She’s learned that when there’s a chance to sleep, she should take it. To you, it doesn’t look like she’ll let go of this one, even if rejecting it means eating together with you.

You put on a coat and some shoes, then turn away. Fine, let her be like that. What did you even expect? You can’t be her only priority in life. Sleep, of course, and rest should come first, especially if you’re a college student. You have to brush the hurt creeping in your heart and do your own thing, just like you’d let her do hers.

Don’t catch her eyes opening and lingering on you. Your back is turned and therefore doesn’t let you see it. But if only you did, you wouldn’t have been doubtful about your future concerns, all related to her.

This is a different story though. This isn’t a love story—if anything, it’s how a love story ends.

Just so it’s clear for everyone who comes across this story of yours: you don’t love Son Hyeju.

Yes, it bears repeating. Sometimes you need to say it again to convince yourself. Convince yourself that you’re not constantly in lectures wishing that it was her beside you instead of your groupmate. Convince yourself that your soul doesn’t shatter in pieces when she refuses to join you in anything.

Maybe you just need someone to talk it out with. Yes, that’s right. The whimsical yearning in your heart isn’t for Hyeju. You swear on it.

Oh, but you’ve never been very good at that.

“What’s going on? I came as quick as I could,” says Daniel. Yeah, that’s his name. It’s a common name that sounds foreign and unique, especially since he’s a transfer student who came from the U.S.. He has pale skin and brown eyes that are as kind as he is. You like him—he’s the only one you bother bearing besides Hyeju.

But this isn’t about her. You need to let go of her. What? “Let go of her”? Why do you think about her like you two were actually a thing?

“Nothing. Just… feelings.”

“Something happened?” He sits down and looks around confusedly. “Wait, where’s Hyeju?”

“That’s the thing,” you say as you smile tightly. “She’s what happened.”

Daniel’s not stupid. And even if we say that he was, he’s been your friend for two years. It’s short in comparison to your time with Hyeju, you know, but it remains impressive. You don’t have that many friends besides them. That, of course, eventually led to Hyeju and Daniel becoming friends with each other. That’s the reason for him catching your drift—he knows you like the back of his hand.

You order the third cheapest option on the list: an iced latte. Your friend opts for a croissant and some tea, something that reminds you that he isn’t actually from Korea. You often forget that when his Korean is more fluent than a native’s and he gels with other people so quickly. He’s an easy-going guy with everything flowing well for him.

“Let me guess: she did something?” he asks. Alright, close enough. His fingers drum a steady rhythm on the table while yours do so on your laptop keyboard.

“Yeah.” Shake your head immediately and contradictingly. What are you saying? “No. Yeah, probably. But I think it’s my fault.”

No, it isn’t a mere probability of it being your fault. It is your fault. Why are you placing expectations on Hyeju to show up for you? It isn’t on her that you get hurt when she doesn’t have the time or willpower to come along with you. So, why are you even bothering to talk about this? You should let this matter slide. Brush it under the carpet. Rewrite the news headlines. Whatever.

“Ah, couple’s quarrels,” Daniel says teasingly. He thanks the waiter for his croissant then takes a healthy bite into it. “Out of the honeymoon phase already?”

Should you be delighted that people think that she’s yours and you’re hers? You’re split between these two emotions—choose to be frustrated instead.

“Why does everybody think that we’re a couple?”

“Well.” Your friend twirls his teaspoon into the dainty cup. Drill your eyes on it. The café is simple and affordable to eat from, but the furniture and aesthetic make you think of it as a fancier place to eat it. “You’re always together.”

“That’s all?”

“Let me finish. When some guy has the balls to ask her out, she says she has a boyfriend. She shows him your profile and number. She goes, ‘My boyfriend wouldn’t be too happy about that.’”

The latte somehow doesn’t finish its journey through the straw. “She does?”

You’re split between two thoughts to go by again. You should be happy that your friend, a friend who’s a girl moreover (never confuse a friend who’s a girl with a girlfriend—ever), feels safe enough with you to refer to you as someone who’d protect her, whether from creeps or the aggressive dogs that patrol your college grounds. It takes real trust to call a guy who’s a friend (again, avoid the confusion) your boyfriend when the time requires it. This means she trusts you to come to her if she needs saving from an odd guy or an escape out of situations.

But at the same time, you wonder if that’s what you really are to her, what you’ll only ever be to her: a fake boyfriend. The guy friend who doesn’t mind being called a boyfriend because he knows his low place in her heart. Does Hyeju even look at you as someone who’s not just an acquaintance?

“Yeah,” Daniel says matter-of-factly. “She really likes having you around.”

You don’t need to think about it when you reply, softly: “I do, too.”

The two of you sit in silence you don’t know the source of. Daniel stops eating suddenly. Similarly, all the appetite is lost and you have to put your plastic cup of latte down before you throw it at the wall and ruin the dining experience for everyone else. No, this is your problem. You should deal with it before dragging anyone into it.

“So, why did you call me? What is it about Hyeju?”

Ah, what are you thinking? Daniel shouldn’t even be here. Why did you even call him over? You did and now you don’t know why you suddenly want to throw the contents of your plastic cup into his face. If you give in, you’d be feeding into the delusion that he’s the one standing between you and Hyeju.

That only leads to the second question of the day:

Why do you suddenly hate Daniel? Daniel is a nice guy. He doesn’t even make a move on her or disrespect her.

You don’t like these feelings. It’s causing you to think all sorts of nonsense about everybody else, not excluding Daniel, who hasn’t done anything wrong.

“I…” Sigh. This is the second time you’re finding an escape route so that you could be alone with your feelings. “I have to think about it. I need some time alone.”

“Oh, sure. Sorry about that.”

Hate how more guilt washes over your heart. See here, he doesn’t even protest or say something that might even be right, like tell you how you called him to come over in the first place or how there isn’t a good reason why he should leave. He simply wraps his croissant with a plastic he asked for at the counter and leaves, tea and all.

Great. Now you’re alone, like you usually are and always will be. Attempt to use it as a pro and work on your thesis. Type it all down on a Word document. Wait patiently, as you learned to, as your old laptop stops for the suffering you’ve caused it with the extra storage taken up by assignments. Contact your groupmates. Remind them to do their jobs.

It’s all going so well. That’s when she pulls up to the cafe you’ve been writing at with her hands perched on the wooden surface of your table, with the smirk that doesn’t ever leave without making sure it’s her certified look featured on her lips.

No need to mention names when there's only one girl who could make your world stop spinning.

You can’t stop staring, and it’s not even because she turned up out of nowhere. You’re always in a state of shock when Hyeju is around.

She never allows her hair to be restrained in a tight tail, so there she is with those luscious black locks spilling all over her shoulders. How she manages to look so cool and be the very person everyone wishes to be while having those soft cheeks only the evillest of people wouldn’t pinch you don’t know. Son Hyeju is cool and cute at the same time, somehow balancing those everyday without effort.

But you don’t love her. Just to remind everyone once again. No matter what happens, you have no feelings for her. And that’s that.

"Hey," she says, putting her weight on one arm. Then she curves down her head to peer at your screen. "Whatchu doin'?"

Immediately slam your laptop shut and look at her with annoyed eyes. Oh, why do you even try? You could never despise her. You could pray to god all night and day for you to hate Hyeju, to hate her to the ends of the Earth just to banish these strange feelings, and he wouldn't give in. Crazier and crazier her antics shall get and you'd remain loyal to her.

And that's all because she's a good friend. That's everything there is to it.

Wait. Who are you convincing again?

"Oh, come on. Smile a little, pretty boy." Hyeju places a finger on one edge of your mouth then pulls it upwards. "There you go. Suh-miiile—"

Pretty boy. She called me a pretty boy.

"You p-plan on getting off the table or what?" you say.

People are staring at you and Hyeju but that isn't what's making you blush. What's gotten into you? You can't tell yourself it's because of her simply because it isn't because of her. Hyeju has as much effect on you as a cup of coffee.

(You thrive off caffeine, by the way, but that's not the point.)

"Sure. No. Uh… probably?" She looks up at the ceiling as if she's figuring something out, then clicks her tongue when she does. "Yep, nah."

Groan.

Secretly, confessed only in the deepest corners of your mind, you like people paying attention to you and Hyeju. It’s not much about the attention itself but the way it makes them think that the two of you must be really close. Like, really really close. The kind that makes those who want Hyeju rush to her only to be met in the face with a barrier: you. They can’t have her because you do.

Not in that way, of course, but it still means something. If she has you, nobody else could, and if you have her, more so.

"Son Hyeju,” you say, fighting back the smile on your face as she ruffles your hair, “I swear to god—"

"Oh, please," says Hyeju, leaning forward with narrowed eyes and a wicked smile, "spare me, oppa. Spare me the blasphemy—"

That's enough from her, you think. Your hands dive for her waist. Pull her down onto your lap. Your thighs soften the blow and also play the role of a launch pad as one kick sends Hyeju in the air. More chances to tickle her come along with it. Okay, that bit about the lap was wholly unintentional, and you'll swear to god again for that.

What isn't unintended though is the tickling you do on Hyeju's midriff and arms. It helps that she's so sensitive—soon she's laughing boisterously, struggling in your lap with her head upturned and triangle-shaped mouth letting out unkempt guffaws. She nearly kicks the two of you out of the café seat.

"Dude, you are such a loser, stop!" she laughs, still winding around like a screw on top of you. Laughs alternate between each syllable. "P-people are looking, fffucking quit—"

When that beautiful gummy smile breaks on her face, you don't want to. People can look as much as they like and you wouldn't give a damn. Tickling is Hyeju's punishment, and you'll do it to her anywhere to teach her a lesson.

"Ha, haha, I'm sorry, okay!"

"That's my girl."

You’re not hurt anymore. For a few delicious minutes, you’ll forget you were ever pondering if you like her or not.

Stop completely because you’re easy to convince like that All she needed was that one magic word. Place her on the chair beside you and fold her hands on her lap as if she were a misbehaving child.

"Now behave yourself."

Hyeju rolls her eyes. "And if I don't?" she challenges you.

You raise your fingers in a curled position and direct them threateningly centimeters away from her ticklish spots. She gives up. She can't find a punishment worse than that.

"Why are you here anyway? I thought you didn’t want to come," you say, taking the liberty to open your laptop again. The screen directs you to your assignment tab after you type in your password. Sigh; still five thousand words to go.

"I'm here because I've got nowhere else to be," she answers. She practices her own liberty, too, and sips shamelessly at your iced beverage.

Her eyes light up at the taste. "I got bored being alone in the dorm."

You think of her alone, and your heart immediately sinks. Maybe you should have stayed there. You’re her roommate—you’re there for her to have company. Sure, the roommates were paired up randomly, but it must lead to something now that you and Hyeju have met again. It was by pure chance that she reunited with you after years of being apart. There’s a string drawing you together, and you don’t know what it means.

You do know that the reunion with your childhood best friend and seeing how she’s grown made your heart flutter. You act all mean when you’re around her, which is confusing when you’ve missed her so much.

"And I needed somewhere else to finish this thesis before miss Wong realizes it was due three weeks ago." Glare pointedly at her. Here you go again. Told you so. "Somewhere that's not occupied by a brat."

It's true. Call it what you will: an insult, a pointless accusation, but what you said rings true even in your childhood best friend's defiant mind. She could be a handful often.

"I am not a brat," she says, offended. She knows the truth and chooses to deny it. Typical. You should have seen that coming when she’s the girl who lies about the extra dishes in the sink not being her fault and her turn with the laundry.

Sigh. Act as the lawyer; you’re studying to be one anyway. It’s best to practice. "Remember when you cut up the slogan on the mayo label then taped it on me? I had 'white creamy filling; taste me!' on my back for the whole day!"

"It was a big-ass sticker for a mayonnaise, okay? I couldn't stop myself." Hyeju admits this with hands raised in defeat. "But what about that time you shoved a Toblerone in my mouth while I was sleeping then took a photo of me?"

Raise your hands, too. You realize there's no way to weigh in the blame on a single person when you and Hyeju brought the brat out of each other. It's impossible to go by a day that isn't filled by at least one prank and joking quarrels.

Still, you find it fun. Hyeju's so easy to bond with, so easy to love.

Whoa, where did that suddenly get here? Like you said, you love Hyeju, but only as a friend.

So you do love her, in a way. Huh.

That realization settles in and suddenly you're rendered frozen at the table. Your hands that ought to be finishing your schoolwork are frozen in mid-air. You're staring at the screen like you were watching a gory movie instead of trying to tick off your to-do list.

"You okay?" she asks, one-of-a-kind lips sealed around the paper straw. "You kind of, like, went to another dimension for a bit."

How do you tell her you’re considering the fact that you might actually like her? You’ve known her for years. Something’s inevitably going to bloom inside you for her, right?

"Y-yeah. I'm good." Not. “And stop drinking my coffee.”

“You wouldn’t need it if you just did the thesis early. What’s so hard about it anyway?” Hyeju stands then bends over to glance at your laptop.

You don’t realize how short her dress is. It rides up to the centers of her thighs and you don’t know how to prevent anyone from seeing something forbidden without brushing down the hem of her dress. If you went down that road, you’d have to run your hand along her back and ass—you’d look like a pervert.

Idiot. Think of something. Something that isn’t how you’d love to see more when you're just like everyone and shouldn't be allowed more eye access to her body. Only you know how many times Hyeju’s body came up in your mind when you were alone. Paired up with that attractive face that held a permanent pout, it’s impossible not to think of anything else.

“Ugh! You are so dumb, you know that, oppa?” To your horror, Hyeju sits down neatly on your lap. She has her hands quickly frisking on your keyboard. “There’s a comma missing here, and a citation over here… oh, and a—”

“Save some for the rest of us!” a man about your age and height yells jokingly, cheering you on with a raise of his mug of hot coffee.

Both you and Hyeju look at him with confusion written all over your faces. Your words of surprise almost sync and match with the other for you realize your hands are on her hips, and Hyeju’s leaning back so comfortably in you that anyone would have thought it was another case of couple’s PDA. They’d be wrong though. She’s not your girlfriend. She can’t be your girlfriend.

So why is she so comfortable on top of you, as if she’s always been there? Why did your hands naturally rest on the beautiful slopes of her hips and pull her down the moment she stooped?

The guy’s grandmother smiles adoringly. “Young love,” she says with a dreamy tinge to her aged voice. "What wouldn't I give to experience that again."

You and Hyeju meet each other’s gazes and suddenly you’re unattached to each other. She guiltily settles on her chair and you take your hands off her. That was wrong. Why were the two of you so comfortable with being so touchy? Best friends don’t do that. At least, not best friends of the opposite sex.

“I should go,” she stammers, standing up. “Call me i-if you need help, oppa.”

Just like that, she’s gone. Where did she go? Why did you lose her so fast?

Hyeju’s always called you oppa one way or another, but that moment left a particular jar in your heart. It shards the depths of the core and renders you speechless. You didn’t know that the person you’d love to hear that title the most from is your best friend. She’s supposed to call you that when she’s younger, but even if she weren’t, you’d still love to hear her call you that.

There’s a sense of fulfillment in being able to be Hyeju’s oppa. The one she always relies on. The one she sticks to through whatever happens. That’s why now that she’s told you to call her if you need help makes you ache. It’s the things that are seemingly so simple as that that send more yearning inside you.

The question is: what exactly are you yearning for? Who are you yearning for?

You think you know the answer. It’d take guts to admit it, to finally come clean. But what’s there to come clean about? You don’t love Hyeju.

A ding from your phone just now. You’re nearly finished with the thesis, and it’s lucky that way since it’s from Hyeju. God knows she has ways of distracting you. Her clean moves at the dance she led and her chill yet stern voice when she commands a rowdy classroom steer you away from what you should be doing, like get away from her. Avoid her at all costs. Never tell her what you’re feeling because it’ll only end up badly for everyone involved. You don’t want to hurt Hyeju, and still you remain hopeful to not get yourself hurt, too.

It takes several seconds for courage to tie you down and pick up the phone. It’s a series of texts from her.

HyejU_U: hey

Sooooooooo

I’m sorry for what happened earlier.

I didn’t really think and thought that you'd be fine with it

cause yknow

You pulled me down

and

We’re friends.

right?

Yeah, we’re friends, you think bitterly. And no matter how touchy you get, Son Hyeju, it’s all we’ll ever be to you.

HyejU_U: can we just move forward from it? If you want to ofc

Do you? Graduation is near and it’s still taken plenty of years of your life to get over Hyeju. Do you go forward and start on a new slate with her, or dwell in places you shouldn’t be?

Your fingers linger on the keyboard, then—

You: Sure.

Sorry, too

if i like

Made you feel uncomfortable

Wasnt my intention, i promise

HyejU_U: oh you didnt make me feel uncomfy at all.

So don’t worry <3

What a relief.

HyejU_U: i should be the one apologizing anyway

I thought it would be nice to be on you since ur arms feel good around me

Cock a brow. A giddy smile itches at the ends of your lips. Stifle it you will, though she can’t see you through her screen.

HyejU_U: sorry again

i just wanted to see if what i thought was true

Anyways.

yeah, sorry.

You: so we’re good?

HyejU_U: we have a deal, dickface

;)

See, this is the thing you’re afraid to lose with Hyeju: the carefreeness of your little friendly touches and hugs, insults that take it just far enough, everything. If you told her how you felt (keep in mind that you might not actually like her romantically; you’re just thinking that you might), you’d lose your relationship with her—the one that formed before the two of you even knew what romance was. The one that’s kept the reunion as natural as could be without the need for awkwardness.

You’re so glad to have her back. As a student you’ve nearly cried knowing you passed a semester and worked night and day to finish a difficult assignment—none of those feelings can match the one of relief you felt when Hyeju told you everything was good on both ends.

But for now, you’ve gotta try to put a dent into this thesis. You’re almost done, you swear. You’ve just been stalling—not intentionally. You swear on that, too. Your whole afternoon’s been swamped up in thoughts about her plus the thoughts about if you’re too perverted a man to be with her. There are a lot of questions left by you immediately responding to Hyeju choosing to sit on your lap. A lot of which are left unanswered.

Priorities. Sigh a little; there’s still work to be done, yet worrying about your best friend is on top of the list. You really should find a hobby when you’re already dragging your teammates behind. Plus, there’s the capstone to worry about that you haven’t prepared for even in the most miniscule bit. So there really shouldn’t be an explanation for why thinking about what she thinks of you is your number one priority. Why, you have plenty of other things to worry about.

You just can’t get her off your mind. These days it’s impossible to.

Abstain anyway, the best you can, from thinking about her and finally complete the thesis. It’s lengthy, well-edited, and has the perfect format to finally make you a lawyer. Attorney doesn’t sound too bad when it’s added to the front of your name.

You should celebrate, actually. The moment you think of it, Daniel suddenly messages you. He’s saying something about it being a Saturday, so you should go to the bar with him. You’re a social drinker, anyway. You could go there without going overboard. Addictions and vices form in these years of fresh adulthood, but you’ve never found yourself wound up in something.

So you do. They ask for your IDs and let you in after a short study of the cards. The guard gives you a lengthy lecture about not being alcoholics as young as you are, but welcomes you anyway.

If we’re talking about getting yourself wound up in someone, though…

“Dude,” Daniel says. He motions his glass to someone coming from the door. “Hyeju.”

You already know he’s rich, but what teacher did he pay to study him into mind-reading? “I wasn’t thinking about her,” you tell him defensively.

“No, I mean, she’s here.” He stares at said woman walking over to the bar with swaying hips. “How the fuck did she get here?”

Hyeju’s here? Swallow. Quick. What do you say? Where exactly in the bar is she right now? Why is she here? When did she get here? Why the fuck are you talking like a news reporter?

“Hullo, boys.” She stops your train of thought and makes sure to dedicate all of them to her with her hands set on the table and a pretty crop top attached to the curves on her perfect body. You wonder where she got that dress. If she thrifted it, it isn’t obvious—her body does good work in making it look like couture.

“Hi, Hyeju.” Daniel acknowledges her with a nod. He’s a friend of yours and hers, just to remind everyone. He wouldn’t take another step with Hyeju, but you still have yourself staring daggers into his stubbled beard that lines his face and how he takes life as he would a game. There’s a reason why you’re the least tipsy among the two of you. He likes a challenge.

“Hi,” you say meekly. Hope your voice doesn’t sound twisted when your stomach suddenly is. Oh, and it’s not because of Hyeju. It’s the alcohol, pinky promise with a finger heart after. Alcohol’s never made your stomach turn this way though.

Hyeju regards the shotglasses. “You went drinking without me?”

“What does it look like?” Daniel asks, giving her the finger. It’s just the usual friendly argument that doesn’t cross lines or anything. The ones that you and Hyeju have. Why do you feel like punching him in the face?

Luckily, she doesn’t have a fragile heart. “Cute. Keep it that way.” She rolls her eyes then turns to you. “Oh, and you. I thought you liked having me around.”

“I’m sorry.” Ask the bartender for another shot then hand it to her. “I guess we just thought you were busy with training.”

She’s training to become an idol. It’s been her dream since she was a kid, when you played in the slides and dropped from monkey bars. She’s always told you she was going to be big someday, and you never doubted that for a second. She even had a name she planned to use if she were to be a performer: Olivia Hye. You weren’t gonna lie, it had a nice ring to it. Not too bad for a name she made up after skimming through a baby name book from the bookstore.

“I dropped out,” she says simply, downing the shot like water.

“What?” you and Daniel ask together. Both of your voices sync with the shock, too. Neither of you could get why she did that. It’s been Hyeju’s dream to become an idol for so long. She couldn’t give that up just like that, but she did.

“Yep.” There’s pride in her voice. “The whole thing was a shithole. I already have Idalso to deal with. I’m not gonna put up with that, fuck no.”

Your heart aches for her dream. Idalso University really is blocking her from achieving it. She could be out there on the stage, maybe having found a better agency, singing and dancing her heart out. Instead, she has to choose one problem at the time and hence goes with college. She has her own parents to please, and because you have yours, you get it. You truly do.

As for Hyeju getting a problem off her mind, like that terrible agency, your spirits lift. You raise a glass and clink it with hers.

“To getting the hell out of this shithole,” you say; look at the girl you’ve lived for and loved with a smile, “and Son fucking Hyeju for doing it again.”

Your glasses meet. You’re somehow happy that it’s only two, yours and hers, that join. You can’t explain it for the life of you, but you like seeing Daniel become like a background character to it all. Just another extra in Hyeju’s show and yours. It’s cruel, especially when he’s been nothing but a good friend, but it is what it is.

“Tell you what,” Daniel says. “Let’s go to a noraebang tomorrow.”

She’s contemplative. “Isn’t the one near Idalso… like, expensive?”

“So what?” He shrugs. “You did it, Hyeju. You got out of that company thing. I’m done with my capstone and so is he with his thesis. I say we all have some fun. On me.”

Daniel has the privilege of not worrying about things being expensive or not. It’s the norm for him. You kind of want him to play Dorothy and put himself in your shoes, then make him go through what you did.

You know it isn’t fair and he’s just being kind. Still and all, your hatred rises.

“What now?” Daniel asks. “You guys in!”

“Of course!” Hyeju nods and claps her hands together. There’s a gummy smile on her face again. You’ve seen it on her many times, but you’ve also seen the sunset everyday—therefore, you’ll still be glad to catch a glimpse of it.

You guess since she’s in, you have to go, too. You say yes and that of course you’d love to go, and this time three glasses clink together prettily. Smiles are on each of your faces albeit yours is artificial.

"Could you act any less like a deadbeat dad?" Hyeju asks. She sits down on the stool beside you after Daniel leaves to get some air. Still feels like he's here when you feel like everyone's eyes are on you and her.

"I'm not doing anything." You say that because you aren't. You definitely aren't stirring a brew of jealousy inside you that poisons the maker, too. You're its creator yet the prophecy that was written tells that it'll turn against you, too. You’re Kronos, and it's an inevitable fate.

"Exactly. That's what deadbeat means." This matter-of-fact statement from her is followed by Hyeju stealing your shotglass out of your hand right before you drink it. "Seriously, dude. What's up with you?"

Oh, you don't know. Maybe her possibly being your crush? It's such an immature matter, but you haven't had a crush like this. The others were just sweet-faced and from afar. Those are the girls you dream of. To have a girl like Hyeju, the one you've known since forever, with a spunky personality but an opposing pretty face, the one who's been your ride-or-die—it's complicated.

What else could you say to her when the truth is something you'd rather she not hear?

"I'm fine, Hye."

"Are you? You look…" She thinks about it for a while as she studies your hair and poorly combined outfit choices. She slicks your blunt strands back and smiles teasingly. "...sleazy."

"Fuck y—"

"Shhh." She places a finger on your lips. The side of her thigh touches your lap. You're so close that any word you utter won't pass without hitting her. "It's okay. I like it."

You purse your lips. You didn't expect that. She's taken seats on your lap that were uninitiated by you and let you lift her in the air when you hug her. All that and her fingers in your hair are the most surprising.

"You're drunk," you say, although she’s only had a few shots.

Hyeju inches closer to you and holds your chin in place. "I'm sober as the next wolf, sweetie," she tells you. Her next words fail to show her hesitance. "And… and it just so happens that I really, really want to kiss you."

She's joking. She's playing around with your heart. You're not a virgin—you know what girls do. Hyeju doesn't strike you as the type to do that in spite of what’s going on, but you have to be careful. Your heart’s been bruised too many times already.

Careful isn't the word for it when you take the first step and lean in for a kiss. Maybe you're drunk yourself. Dizziness enchants your mind as Hyeju's dreamy lips perfectly pout to the shape of your mouth. Her eyes are closed. It's like she's in a restful dream.

You can’t believe you’re doing it. You’re kissing her. Passionately, too—there’s real determination in the way you hungrily lean forward to devour her lips.

The bar oohs and ahhs, then erupts into a crowd of applause. A few whistles come your way. You can feel Hyeju smile into your mouth.

Proclivities upon proclivities to keep her around you and only you couldn’t stop Monday from coming. You’ve only been to a noraebang once and that was with your family. It excites you to go to one again. However, you’d rather have only Hyeju to come, to be the exclusive member of the club that gets to hear her soft, pretty voice echo in the mic.

She’s really doing a number on you. Daniel’s your friend—sure, he might be out of touch with the local games and experiences, yet he’s still important to you. You can’t be mad at him over a girl who probably doesn’t even think the kiss at the bar was anything special. She hasn’t even talked about it with you and acts like it didn’t happen. Just another boy, just another day. That’s probably how you are to her.

Ouch. Way to go hurting yourself with your own made-up scenarios. As expected from you.

The three of you decide to cut classes. It’s not like you’re in high school anymore. Professors just don’t give a fuck, unless it’s miss Wong. She’s pretty and quiet at first. Then you have to wait to see her get angry—that’s when all hell breaks loose.

No hell on the loose today. Just three little demons from hell called Hyeju, Daniel and yourself down on the loose and down the road to the noraebang. Hyeju’s in a loose black jacket and a plain white tee. You somehow notice that more than Daniel who’s sporting a graphic shirt with swear words from every language printed on it. You don’t have much to say about your attire when it’s nothing special, not even compared to Hyeju, who’s wearing simple clothes like you.

“If a teacher sees us out here—” says Daniel nervously. He’s never rebelled before. The most he’s done is missing a class.

“No one will,” Hyeju promises him, opening the door of the place for the two of you though in your opinion it should be the other way around: you opening the door for her. What better way to show Hyeju that you could be a gentleman? Too late now. Plus, she doesn’t care much for that. That’s what keeps your excitement on a low burn. It takes more than opening a door and waiting around to impress Hyeju.

You sign your names at the front. Daniel picks a nice, wide room with a glass table perfect for chips and bottles. The bright screen already shows snippets of K-pop music videos, involving sweet-faced Korean girls waving at the camera and running along a beach. As boyish Hyeju is compared to other girls, you could definitely see her doing that for her passion of becoming an idol.

“What should we sing?” asks Hyeju, sitting down on the black plush seats comfortably. Her gummy smile is precious.

“Anything you want.” He slings an arm around her. His looped arm tugs her into a warm embrace. “Anything for the soon-to-be lawyer slash K-pop idol.”

Stiffen. Turn away and suddenly take good interest in the walls with a carved 3D effect. Much more interesting than whatever Daniel’s trying to pull on your best friend. Right, Hyeju’s your best friend. Nothing more. That kiss was a drunken mistake. You shouldn’t be getting angry. Besides, this noraebang was rented for you to have fun, not glower at Daniel doing nothing but be a good friend.

Hyeju laughs and leans into him gladly. “Stop, you’re gonna make me throw up!”

You feel out of place all of a sudden. Has she always been that affectionate with him? You thought that those touches and hugs were reserved for you only. Apparently not.

“Sing a song, Hye.” Your eyes don’t meet her gaze.

“They wanted me to debut with this song,” she says. The mic is shaky in her hand. “I—” She blushes. “I want to sing it for you.”

Sweetness infiltrates the air. It’s not of a scent or touch, but of hearing. It's Hyeju’s voice. It's smooth and soft as it passes through the empty atmosphere. No instrumental accompanies her voice, and you’re glad it’s that way. It allows you to marvel at Hyeju’s tone, quiet in spite of its sexiness.

And it takes that and several songs later, sung daringly by all of your trio, and jokes passed among friends that make you think about it. Really think about it. While Daniel and she sing their hearts out to the point of their voices cracking and laughs transforming into guffaws, you sit there and submerge yourself in thought.

You’ve seen Hyeju smile. It's pretty and sweet; her triangle-shaped mouth curls up into a half moon and it's everything you've ever wished for in life. No, fuck food. Fuck oxygen. All you need is her smile. It's cheesy as hell when you page through those types of quotes in those teenage romance books you probably shouldn't even be holding, but you swear that if Hyeju smiles for the rest of her life, it's enough for you to live. She just looks so pretty. Her resting bitch face, stone cold as the title of the expression suggests, is hot (yes, you're using that word), but when she chooses to smile—oh, you're as good as dead.

You don't like Son Hyeju though.

You’ve heard her sing in the noraebang room with her soft voice filling the vicinity. She doesn't sing much although she could. The day would come when she’d say "you know, I almost became an idol. I trained then dipped halfway,” and the pitched raspiness of her voice still would send you to heaven. It's a natural and beautiful thing, a trait she couldn't learn from the best vocal coach.

You don't like Son Hyeju though.

You’ve felt her hair when she leaned into your lap after laughing too much. "Stop, or I swear to god I will fuck your shit up," she told you, slapping your thigh after your terrible dad joke. You ran your fingers through her hair to calm her, but if anything it's an excuse to just touch her. You want to touch Hyeju, and not even in a sexual way. You just want your bodies closed up on each other with no awkwardness barriering the freedom to hold and be held.

And it’s not the kiss, but all these that make you stop your denial, and discover that you—

“—think I like Hye,” you whisper to Daniel when said girl leaves to get some beer. The flashing disco lights hanging from the ceiling can’t camouflage the red on your face.

Daniel laughs and puts down the mic. The bump on the crafted table sends a tinged pitch of feedback to your ears. “Everyone likes her. So?”

He’s right. Everyone likes Hyeju. Yeah, they like her through every name she’s taken up. She was the star of the school back in middle school when she went as Hyejoo, then the ice princess of high school as Olivia Hye, and finally… as herself now that she’s grown up with you, Son Hyeju. She’s become so many versions of herself and yet people still like the real her. You still know the real her.

“No,” is what you say, as you twiddle your fingers. You don’t know how to say this without causing an uproar. “I like Hyeju.”

He considers this for a moment, weighing in your words. “Like as in… like like?”

A nervous swallow. Is Daniel the right person to tell this ? “Like like,” you reply nevertheless.

Daniel locks his chin between his rough fingers and strokes it thoughtfully. His face is clouded with a feeling you can’t read. “Well, a lot of people do, too. And they wouldn’t blame you for it. She’s—” He looks down at his shoes then back at the noraebang screen. “She’s a pretty girl.”

The understatement of the century. Hyeju’s face was carved with such beauty—curved, pyramid lips; slanted eyes; a cold look that you, unlike people when asked about their first impression of her, weren’t scared of—and she’s just so… easy to love.

Yes, Son Hyeju is easy to love. Everyone loves her, but she can only ever reciprocate it in a different way to one man. Woman, perhaps? Anything goes, but you'd rather she gives it to you.

You're a selfish person, you admit that. More so when it comes to her.

"Let's get this party started!" she says. You don't intend to flinch yet you end up doing it anyway when she sits down next to you and hands you canned alcohol.

"There's only three of us, Hye," Daniel points out. The rounded metal springs up from the can and he gulps down a hefty amount of the spiked liquid.

"Three's a crowd. Especially when it's with you guys."

"So you're saying we're too much?" Match her sass with hidden bits of your own. You're only trying to make it seem like your heart doesn't beg to be held close to hers.

"Too much is just enough for me."

Hyeju drops both of her arms around you and your other friend and ruffles your hair. It's sweet. It should be. It’s exactly that which makes you fail to understand why your heart feels squeezed. Why is she also hugging Daniel in the same manner she hugs you?

The kiss at the bar means nothing. The kiss at the bar means nothing. You have to stop thinking that it means there's a ring on your finger already.

You rise from the sofa to purchase chips because you’re starving, but not for healthy food. You wouldn’t dream of eating a salad when there’s junk food in your general vicinity, and it just so happens that there’s a vending machine you’ve got your eye on at the counter. Soon, a rainbow of plastic bags fills your arms. What they contain would work well to repay your debt with Hyeju. Daniel can eat these without worrying about money. He’s been a good friend. He deserves chips after the evil you’ve thought about him.

"I bought chips—"

Daniel is pushing Hyeju to the end of the sofa and has his lips locked on hers. His hands are in her hair. Her eyes are shut. You can hear the sloppy sounds of kissing bouncing off the noraebang walls. The instrumental from the radio is the cherry on top of everything.

Does this kiss guarantee a ring?

"Wow," you say. Nod then laugh, as if doing it would make your situation better. “Wow.”

Hyeju turns her head and scrambles for broken dignity. It's too late. You've already seen it. Daniel doesn't even bother running after you when she bursts out of the room to chase you. You're immovable—each step is a promise to take you far away. You trust that promise to skewer you away from Son Hyeju, Son fucking Hyeju who led you on and played with your heart.

"Hey.” Her steps catch up with yours. Walk faster, but she only draws closer. You can’t escape from her now. “Hey!”

"What?" Turn to her, heavy breathing lining your shoulders. You stare into her small face and silently dare her to make an excuse.

To your surprise and her audacity, she does. "It's not what it looks like!" she says, swallowing. How could she be the one near tears when she's the one who kissed him? "Let me explain—"

"I know what I saw."

"Well, you don't see the bigger picture. He sm—"

"—smart? Funny? Rich?" Laugh and shake your head. Your laughs sound more and more genuine. You've gone a little sick in the head. "Yeah, I know. But hey, we're not supposed to be anything, right? Why am I mad? It's not like our kiss meant anything."

"Please, oppa. Listen to me."

"No, go sing together,” you say, then thrust the junk food you bought in her arms. “I’m sure you’re better off with him.”

Mean it. Turn away. Don't bother to look at her when you know she'll go crawling back to Daniel. He's totally her type. He's everything, you're nothing. He's smart, you're not. He loves her more, and you do—just not enough. Now you understand why they were so touchy and close in the room.

Anger is irrational when it was just a kiss. The two of you weren't official, either. If you weren't before, you sure as hell aren't now. It's just not meant to be.

She likes Daniel, not you. And even though you want to be, you aren't supposed to be angry at Hyeju. She was swept into a high school love triangle that happened a little later in her life, and ultimately chose the better guy. No need to drop names. The kiss was enough for you to know which man she chose.

Besides, you don't love Son Hyeju anyway. Isn't that what you've always told yourself? That's right. You don't love her.

Denial is a river flowing down your cheek.

The dorm becomes a cemetery of the living dead. You and Hyeju have not spoken to each other for three months. She stops waking you up for class, and you do the same. The place is notably cleaner after the two of you rely only on yourself to tidy up. Lost are the sarcasm, friendly touches, teasing arguments. It’s like the two of you never knew each other.

It’s through this that you discover that you have to be careful what you wish for. You always thought about Daniel putting himself in your place, and it happened. Ever since the kiss, Hyeju’s been chattier with him, and he pulls her close the way you used to, and she smiles at him like she used to at you, except that it’s wider now. They’re together. Officially together; you’ve seen their Instagram posts.

Moreover, she’s happier than ever, flourishing without you.

And you? You’re still stuck in that noraebang, replaying that fateful kiss over and over in your head. Each time you close your eyes you see Hyeju and Daniel in a passionate liplock. It’s the kiss that ruined what you had with Hyeju and has made your quality of life deteriorate. You didn’t know that Hyeju makes up almost every part of your day. Mornings are empty without your stroll with her. Post-exam nights aren’t as fun when she’s not there to bring drinks. Afternoons are lonely when she’s always out with Daniel.

You hate the fucker. He knew you liked Hyeju. You’ve told him about it right before the thing he did with her even happened, so it’s impossible that he’d forget. Besides, like he said, the two of you are always together. He surely would have picked up the signs. Unfortunately, he whisked her away just like that.

You dislike to feel like the scheming guy in coming-of-age films who doesn’t get the girl, but it’s the perfect portrayal of your emotions.

Wake up for class. She does, too. You have the decency to not gawk at how good she looks even in a casual tank top and plaid shorts, but she doesn’t even try to hide that she’s staring at you. Just not for the same reason, you assume. You’re just her boy best friend. With the way things are, you aren’t even a friend to her anymore.

You smear cheese onto a soft slice of bread. Still, her eyes are on you. From the corner of what takes up your vision, you could tell that she’s trying to figure out how to make this less awkward. You’d think that an eternity’s worth of effectively giving each other the cold shoulder would make her learn how to do it. She’s a smart girl anyway. She should have figured that out.

“You know… you can’t just keep ignoring me.”

Freeze—it’s the first time she’s spoken to you in a while. And you weren’t prepared for that. It’s like someone threw a punch in your stomach, but it’s also a breath of fresh air. How those two feelings could converge into each other you don’t know.

“So stop it, will you?” she continues. She swings her legs out of the duvet and places her hands snug on the edge of her bed. “Stop treating me like I’m a…”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m your fucking ex,” Hyeju snarls. The duvet crumples in her fist.

Scoff. Fold the bread slice tight onto the other squared end. Talk about a good morning. “Ex? We were never a thing, Hye… ju.”

Right, it isn’t like that anymore. You can’t call her Hye like the old times.

The hurt that registers on her face, still pretty in the midst of pain, comes by so fast it would take a magnifying glass to see it clearly. Now she’s the one scoffing. She recovers quickly from the stifled nickname so well that you never would have guessed you disarmed her. “That’s the thing. You’re right—we weren’t boyfriend-girlfriend. So why are you acting like I’m a ghost?”

“I wonder why,” you say. “Couldn’t be because you kissed me then decided to kiss another guy while I was away. Nope, totally out of the question.”

What happened? It seems like just yesterday the two of you were throwing insults and playfully quarreling with each other like it’s natural. This is a real disagreement here. This can’t be resolved with a smile or hug. You and Hyeju aren’t like that anymore. It’s a thing of the past.

Just like your friendship.

“If you’d just let me explain—”

“You know what? I don’t have time for this. Go with Daniel to class. Have a good life with him. Just call me if you get lost.”

Don’t even try to take a bite out of your cheese sandwich. You leave it on the table. Later, it’ll become stale and cold, similar to your friendship with Hyeju, or whatever kind of fucked up relationship you have.

You storm out of the dorm. You’re glad to get out—you’re already worried about the test later and the night class with miss Wong. Don’t need a situationship to take up your mind either.

The day passes like a car on a rocky, jagged road. It’s difficult to muster a smile to the freshmen the moment you come in to help miss Jeong teach, or work on your test when that argument with her fills your mind rather than equations you should have memorized. The whole day is torture, and you don’t dare wish it on anyone. Not even that asshole Daniel

“What’s up with you today?” people ask you. “You sure you’re alright?” “Where’s Hyeju?”

You don’t answer.

When the night comes, it’s relief for your sore mind and body. That test beat you up and the sun was too cruel to your skin. Even if night classes could last till the brink of dawn, you don’t mind. Take comfort in the fact that it’s only a discussion and nothing more.

Barely listen though. Two a.m. creeps by and you haven’t taken in a thing. Usually miss Wong would have you focused, keeping in mind that she’s strict and merciless, but you’re too tired today. Your bones ache though you didn’t do much walking. They’re only symptoms of heartbreak.

You don’t want to see a doctor. In fact, you want to get worse.

Miss Wong looks up at the clock. “Is it alright if I extend for just five minutes?” she asks. Her pencil skirt struggles to contain her strides on the platform.

A chorus of mixed responses echo in the classroom. Others, the top students in particular who participate in every club you could name, say it’s fine. Some already have excuses to make: they need to work on homework; they have other classes to go to; every excuse existing. You don’t know which side you’re on—you don’t want to come home to another angry night with Hyeju, and at the same time, you can’t be assed to stay.

Then—

Ringing. It’s all you hear. Your classmates’ voices drown out in it. It’s supposed to be soft, but it isn’t anymore when everyone shuts their mouth in alarm. Look here, look there. You don’t know where it’s coming from.

Your hint is the light in your pocket. Fish it out. It’s coming from your phone.

“I thought I told you guys to put your cellphones on mute during class,” Wong says, sighing. Her glare shoots you a warning.

Okay, you’d say sorry to her and put your phone away. Drop the call. Anything. But the first thing you do is wonder:

Why the fuck is Son Hyeju calling you?

Aside from all the tension between you, your natural instinct is to answer. Your next is to ask her, “Hye?”

“Oppa…” comes her voice from your speaker.

Before you could wonder why she’s calling, you notice that Hyeju’s voice is… lonely. Yes, lonely. That’s the word you’d use right away if you’re asked to describe it. No, it can’t be just that. It’s mixed with something else. It’s higher, a little more groggy.

Forget that you were fighting. Forget that she kissed Daniel and broke your heart. She wouldn’t call if it isn’t something even her pride can’t protect. “Hyeju? What’s wrong?”

“I’m lost.”

Those are the two words she utters before breaking into sobs. You’ve never heard or seen Hyeju cry. She likes to treat problems with anger rather than sadness, slicing away at every conflict with groans and cursing professors for low grades. If she’s crying, it must mean something’s wrong. Something’s very, very wrong.

You’re keenly aware that all eyes and ears are monitoring your moves, but you don’t care. You rise from your seat and start gathering your laptop into your bag. You forget about your notes. Fuck them. Hyeju comes first.

“Where did you go, Hye?” Walk out of the class. If miss Wong has a problem with that, she can tell you about it tomorrow.

Sniffles on her end. Her quiet, low cries break your heart. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I need you, oppa. I have… I have nobody else. Please come and get me.”

“Hyeju—”

“Please,” she whispers. Her voice lowers to a whine. “I’m alone. I’m so alone.”

Tears itch at the bottoms of your eyes. You have to come and get her. Need to forget the fight and silent treatment that ensued. All that means nothing if Hyeju’s in need of your help.

Where the fuck are your keys? Remove them from the loop of your jeans and click the button. In the driveway, your car’s headlights shine. Yep, there it is. You once regretted buying a secondhand car like that. Now that it can get you to Hyeju, you vow to take care of it for life. You’d spend thousands to repair it if it breaks down.

But right now, it’s Hyeju who’s breaking down. She’s all alone somewhere and she needs you. In a way, you need her, too. She’s the one who’s braver to admit it.

You’ve never driven faster in your entire life. All the while you stay on the line with Hyeju. Your grip on the wheel tightens whenever she lets out a hopeless little sob. She’s crying so hard that you want to roll into a ball in the corner and cry, too. You can’t do that. You have to be the stronger one, the one who comes to her like she’s done for you and tells her that everything’s going to be alright.

You make no promises.

Eventually you coax a location out of her and break several speed limits. Ignore the cops that yell at you. They can all go and fuck off. Hyeju needs you. You’re her best friend. It’s what friends do.

“Motherfucker,” you curse, upon seeing that the location she led you to was a club. It’s hidden in the corner of a creepy alley. “Hyeju, are you drunk?”

“Nooooo…” she drawls, giggling through her tears. “Your voice is so nice, oppa. It really makes me feel better. Did’ya know that?”

No time to be flattered. You burst into the club and find her in the midst of flashing lights and crowds of bodies. Your ears ring because of the music. Whose idea was it to hire this DJ? He thinks he’s doing such a good job, too.

Hyeju’s in the center of it all. Her black coat is too big for her, but so is the crowd. When it moves, it drags her along by the toes. She’s… smiling? Wasn’t she crying on the phone just minutes earlier? Maybe she drank more. This can’t be good.

“Hyeju!” Start walking faster.

She sticks her tongue out at you and starts to sprint upon seeing you get close.

You have no time for games. This isn’t even in the least bit funny. What if someone spiked her drink? What if that was the reason she’s acting funny? Worse: what if someone’s planning to take advantage of her? All these concerns bump into each other in your head as you run after her.

A couple of “excuse me”s and “sorry!”s after you quickly squeeze in between dancing people. Drinks spilled on the floor. Anger from two dolled up ladies. (A look to your right and… yep, not only from them.) Disapproval from the DJ who even calls you out. Boos from the crowd. You don’t care about them. You only care about getting Hyeju to safety. She can’t be here in her vulnerable state.

Before she could dash out from your line of vision, you grab her wrist. Seal your grip around it tightly so she can’t escape. “Son Hyeju,” you say, glaring at her. Ever since she stopped crying, she started to play around. This isn’t a game but to her it is. A fun game, to be more precise. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Oooh, you caught…” She burps. Playful giggles spill from her mouth. “... me!” Hyeju gives you a drunken smile and claps for you regardless of her right hand being held into position.

“Why are you here?”

“Why are you here? See? I can ask stupid q-questions, too!”

You whisk her away from the ongoing party and into the cold night air. You’re about to throw your jacket on her when you see that she’s wearing one, too.

People are starting to stare. Pray that no one intervenes, even if they have good intentions. After all, you’re a man with a woman under the influence. They have every right to be concerned, but you hope that just for now they know you wouldn’t dare hurt Hyeju.

The wind blows a breeze that almost knocks you to the floor. You draw Hyeju to yourself to warm her. You can’t risk her catching a cold.

”Let me go, oppa!” Hyeju’s mood goes from sad to drunkenly cheerful to pained. She forces her wrist out from your fist harshly. Your arms no longer wrap her. “You don’t like me anymore, right? And I have a boyfriend!”

Capture her hand again. She can’t escape and run away a second time. You’ve done that too much to know that it’ll send her down into a dizzying spiral. You’re cowards, the both of you—that’s why you flee whenever a problem arises. You don’t know how to deal with it.

That changes now. Get in your vehicle. Pull her in, too. “For your information,” you say, locking her seatbelt in place, “you called me. You asked me to pick you up.”

The car roars to life and speeds down the road. The night barely provides light for you to move along. It’s beautiful nevertheless. Stars peek out from the depths of black. The moon is dim yet reassuring. What fate does it have in store for you? Would you accept it if you knew? How could they all look so serene while you have your drunk crush next to you starting an argument?

“And you’d loooove not to do it, wouldn’t you?” Hyeju’s words suggest that she’s no longer that drunk but the way her words come out like jumbled words in a newspaper crossword tell you otherwise. She leans against the door and crosses her arms. “It was a mistake to call you. You, you fucking hate me.”

Does she really believe that? You may hate Daniel, but you never once hated Hyeju. You’ve only had wistful feelings for her even after she kissed him. You still checked up on her socials and watched her as she ate lunch with him. You remained loyal to her, like a dog following its owner through scoldings.

Yeah, you really are just her dog.

“I don’t hate you, Hye,” you say with conviction. You’re determined to make her believe that. It’s difficult when you’ve never been the type to be good with words.

“Yes, you do! You wouldn’t even let me explain why I kissed Daniel!”

“For fuck’s sake, I was hurt! I didn’t know what to do!”

“Then hear me out for once!”

“Alright.” Your hands slap the wheel, unintentionally bumping the horn and causing Hyeju to cringe. “Go on. Tell me what happened.”

“He was the one who kissed me, the fucking idiot! He kissed me out of the blue and wouldn’t stop!”

Wait.

What?

Daniel, your friend and Hyeju’s, initiated the kiss? Hyeju didn’t want it to happen?

If only you knew, you would have beaten up Daniel a long time ago.

You can’t even speak. You had it all wrong. You can’t believe there was an explanation for everything and you refused to hear it.

Hyeju begins to sob again. Her words circle in the air like an incantation. It’s equally because of the alcohol and her emotions. “I was… talking to him about my training, but then he kissed me.” She wipes her face and laughs humorlessly. “He started making out with me and, a-and I didn’t know how to stop it. It was like I was frozen.”

“You… you didn’t kiss him?” Your tone is broken and incredulous. “He made you do it?”

She looks almost offended. “Why? Why would I ever kiss that bastard?”

“But you’re dating him.”

“I am,” says Hyeju, hands in her hair, “Hah, okay. I'm dating him, yeah, but that’s just because I thought you didn’t like me. I only want one person in the world, and it isn’t Daniel Smith.”

“Hyeju—”

“It’s you, you clueless little shit!” She punches your shoulder and muffles her face into your car pillow. Her next scream is elongated, filled with frustration. When she lifts her face from the pillow, her eyeliner and blush are smeared and wet with teardrops. “It’s you, and I only want you!”

In vino veritas.

The confession is as out of the blue as Daniel’s kiss was. You’re in a state of shock and disbelief—too much information is coming into your brain. You want to punch Daniel in the face for shocking her with an unwanted move. You want to hug Hyeju. You want to tell her that you’re sorry for not hearing her side of the story.

Most importantly, you want to tell her that you want her, too.

It’s too late now. She’s seen you disregard her voice and choose to have a one-track mind. There’s no way she wants you anymore.

“Why the fuck would you ever want me, Hyeju?”

“Because!” She lets out a shivering little sigh. “You don’t treat me like… hlk, like I’m a trophy to show off. You’re my friend. You know how to be mean but you take care of me even if I’m too moody sometimes. Even if I don’t want to come along with you outside because I’m scared I’ll make myself look stupid in front of you. Even if… even if I love too hard but don’t show that I love you most and that sometimes you take care of me more than my dad does and I know it’s wrong to see you that way when I’m with him now but I really want you to take care of me but still kiss me too if I need it and be okay with me calling you names like ‘daddy’ and still being your best friend besides being my boyfriend… but I know it can’t happen anymore and I ruined everything—”

“Hyeju.”

More tears flow down her face. “—and I know you won’t ever love me the same again but I’ll regret forever, long after we graduate, that I never showed that I loved you, that I was a coward—”

“Hyeju,” you say, gently. Pull over at the university parking lot. You have your finger on her mouth, sealing them to stop her droning. She pauses. She doesn’t do it without breaking down. “Please. Don’t tell me you don’t know it. It’s been happening under your nose every single day.”

“What?” she murmurs, eyes glassy as they connect with yours.

“I like you, too.”

Silence. Several beats go by. They’re too lengthy to be fake. The next nuance confirms that:

Talk about relief. Talk about passion. As if she’s forgetting that a sudden kiss was what opened Pandora’s box, Hyeju grabs your face and does exactly that. Again, it has too many things to it that blocks it from being faux. The unique shape of her lips mold onto yours, as if your lips were made to kiss each other all the time. It’s back to the café again, wherein she does something and you subconsciously follow along. Your hands are on her phenomenal waist. And soon you’re unbuckling her seatbelt so she could sit safely on your lap, where she’s supposed to be. Where she belongs.

She drops her touch to your shoulders. She massages them, and you groan delightfully. Now it’s your turn to hold her face and lean in closer. Hyeju’s mouth tastes of sweetness and alcohol. You don’t know how those two tastes could mix together. Hyeju makes it work.

“Oppa, daddy,” she whimpers. She pulls away. The distance is still close to nothing. “Daddy, I love you.”

It’s a sudden nickname, still detached from when she uses it with you jokingly, yet there’s no hesitance here. You know your truth. “I love you, too, Hyeju.”

“Will you take me to bed?” She starts grinding down on your shaft needily. “Please say you will, daddy. Please say you’ll make me happy.”

“You’re drunk. I… I don’t know if I should.”

“‘m not. Maybe. But I’ve wanted it to happen for a long time,” Hyeju says. “I won’t mind, I promise.”

She couldn’t get any more sober with that. So you do what any man would do if they were called daddy by Son Hyeju: lift her out of your car, not caring to check twice if it’s locked, and bring her to bed. Take her coat off—she won’t need it if you’ll make her warm from the inside and out.

Her arms round your neck and her face is buried in your chest. Her words come out in a desperate, needy tone that you haven’t heard from her since the day you met. Who exactly were you to make her this small?

Her daddy, of course.

See, as tough as Hyeju makes herself out to be, she’s still needy. She still has her own problems that haven’t let go of her now that she’s older, like the daddy thing. You only fully understand it now when you lay her on the bed and continue kissing her. Hard. Her moans call out for you. They aren’t merely things to whine if it feels good. It’s not even a matter of want anymore; her shivers and cries indicate of her carnal need for you to do what you will with her.

“Don’t be scared,” she tells you, closing her eyes as you kiss her perfect jawline. “You wanted me for so long, right? Well, I did, too. Do what you want to me. Fuck me, daddy.”

“You talk extremely dirty for someone who’s drunk,” you chuckle.

“Not so drunk anymore. You make me sober.”

“Sweet talker. You’re all bark and no bite.”

Hyeju has no retort to make. Your lips on her gorgeous nipple render her speechless. The cute pink nub is hard, and grows harder at your loving suckles. Her breasts are the perfect size for squeezing. Relish in that fact by squeezing her left breast while dedicating more of your attention to the other, making her become sensitive with each action.

You’d say you have bite, for you do so lightly on her breast. She gasps. “Daddy!” she cries out.

“Fuck, don’t say it like that.” Your cock throbs already. It’s the same feeling you get all those times before, the times you’d get into an argument with Hyeju and she’d call you that.

“What? It’s not my fault you can’t handle me,” she says wittily.

“Don’t try me.”

“What?” She cocks a brow. “Hit too close to home?”

You have to shut her bratty self up. Tug her pants off, sliding them off her silky legs. Her pink panties are a hint to the gentle color of her pussy. Find out about them anyway—push the underwear aside and shove three fingers in her.

“Oh shit.” Hyeju’s squeeze on your digits is instant, like an impulsive reaction.

Think about if Daniel has done this to her before and pick up the pace. You’re fingering her like the walls of her soaked pussy would banish him and let you have her all to yourself. “Son Hyeju,” you growl, “shut the fuck up.”

“W-won’t—ah!”

If you don’t make her quiet, you’ll at least reduce her words to pathetic moans. You’d say you’re successful. Your rapid thrusts send Hyeju’s screams paralleling the night wind with their strength.

You’re surprised again and again at how loud she could get. She’s always so quiet except for the occasional sarcastic remark. She can make no more of those if faced with the relentless fingering you do unto her pussy. They draw out strings of dampness when they withdraw, and fill her right to the knuckles when you go back in. Her hips squirm and you have to place a hand on her thigh to continue.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy!” she screams. Her mouth is open while she sits up to look at what you’re doing to her vulnerable cunt. “It feels so fucking good, don’t stop!”

She looks beautiful. Her shirt is lifted above her breasts, making them bounce madly due to the timing and force of your thrusts. Her eyes could never be more watchful. She can’t believe she actually has you between her legs and fingering her to orgasm.

“Got any comeback for me, Hye?” you ask smugly.

Hyeju nods. Her lips are parted again. Although you haven’t had sex with her except for now, you know what that dropped jaw means: she’s close.

Her walls are impossible to part completely. She’s too damn tight that you bet she’d still be so with one finger. The grip of her slippery, wet cunt is like no other. You reach deep into it and stroke out till you find the place. That’s how Hyeju starts to shiver. She can’t manage it.

“Oh, yeah? What do you have to say now, sweet?” Wrap your lips around her nipple. It’s another one of your unfair advantages over her.

“I-I-I—I can’t!”

The recoil of Hyeju’s tits is amazing. Harshly squeeze the boob you’ve relatively neglected to make sure she can’t get a word out of those pretty lips. Take a further step and smack it, too. She moans in satisfaction. Your harsh squeezes imprint a replica of your hand on her pale skin.

Of course, you don’t forget to keep your fingers going. You change techniques now and then, switching from gentle circling to rapid fire shoving. Whether it’s one or the other, Hyeju’s fuckhole swallows you up. She doesn’t mind which or what; she needs your harshness the most. It’s what counts as a whole.

“Daddy, I’m gonna cum! Please make me cum on your fingers, make your babygirl cum… oh—oh, fuck!”

Combined with your thumb nudging her small clit and your digits absolutely destroying her tightness, Hyeju does the unthinkable: she squirts on your hand and on your bed. Liquid gushes on your shirt; it’s so consistent and clear that a new determination is founded within you. It’s to make your unbearably hot best friend cum like she never has.

For the record, it’s the first time you’ve made a girl squirt. You didn’t expect that it would be this satisfying. Seeing Hyeju’s blissful face and the shake of her beautiful legs make your efforts worth it. Watching yourself do it to your best friend and make her feisty, boyish self let out screams and pleas brings increased triumph.

“No, oh god, it’s too much!” Hyeju says this but her legs part more. Her head is tossed back and her moans don’t stop. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, I can’t—daddy!”

“Messy little brat.” Rub away at her clit. Feel the spurt of her cum hit your finger. “That’s it, cum for daddy. Keep those pretty thighs open.”

Hyeju mewls at the mixture of degradation and moans. If Daniel had said that to her, she probably would have thrown up in a bucket. When it’s you, on the other hand, everything changes. She wants you to call her every harsh name out there and accompany it with sides of praise. She’ll only feel this good when she’s with you.

Hyeju is anything but obedient. Things change here in the dorm, where her pussy is spread and prone to your touch. Her midriff, soft yet slender, rises over and over. The hose of her wet orgasms still hasn’t stopped.

“Goddammit, you’re squirting so much. Am I that good, hm, Hyeju? Is daddy that good to his pretty little girl?”

“Mmm, mmm, don't— no more, daddy, no more!” Hyeju’s core is already spent, and you haven’t even put your cock in her yet.

Stop. Not before you leave a kiss to the sensitive bundle of nerves that you abused. It’s a mark now, something invisible that subtly says to everyone that you got to fuck her. You got to fuck Son Hyeju. You made her cum like never before.

Spit on Hyeju’s center then spread it to her lips and nub. She moans. “You’re so wet, Hye.”

“Whatever.” She’s blushing. “I’ve had better.”

You have to say you’re a little provoked. You know it’s false seeing the smug look on her face and after making her squirt, but who exactly has done her better? Daniel? Definitely not him. The possibility still does well to spur you to jealousy.

“Oh,” you say, smiling tightly, “so that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?”

Hyeju gasps happily when she’s pushed to the wall and on her knees. It’s reminiscent of how Daniel did exactly that: pinning her to the wall before kissing her. Your anger brews into a fire just thinking about him.

“Yeah. What’re you gonna do about it?”

Unbuckle your belt. Your jeans join it on the floor as well as your briefs. “I’m gonna clean that dirty mouth of yours.”

“And how are you gonna do that, daddy?” Hyeju pretends not to know what’s coming.

It’s your belief that actions speak louder than words. That’s why when you place your cock in between Hyeju’s lips, it resonates inside her more than your promise to purify her mouth. Logic fails here when dirty sins can’t remove Hyeju’s dirty words. One wrong and another doesn’t make a right. Oh, who cares? This isn’t a class. This isn’t your thesis. You focus only on feeling the softness of her triangular mouth, the wetness of the back of her throat.

Holding your cock by the base, you lead its tip into rubbing every corner of Hyeju’s mouth. Her cheeks make an outline of your girth as you press your head against them. Her jaw becomes slack after you press your dick down to her tongue. You’re technically doing all the work here because you’re fucking her face, but you’d argue that Hyeju contributes just as much with her tearful eyes that are more puppy than wolf.

The shape of her wet orifice leaves ample space for you to rub against everything. Your tip draws a triangle on her lips right before slipping inside. There you keep your word and clean her dirty mouth. Push those naughty words down her throat with immediate thrusts. That way, she can only moan, nothing else. No sass can be heard from her now.

“You’re such a bad girl, Hyeju,” you say. Curl your hand ‘round her messy hair and direct it downwards. She groans, her mouth now upright for yout fuck easier into. “You shouldn’t like having your mouth used like this. You shouldn’t be on your knees for your best friend when your boyfriend’s waiting for you at home.”

Hyeju knows you’re right. She shouldn’t. She isn’t supposed to enjoy having her throat rammed and spread. She shouldn’t be cheating on the man she claims to love. It’s a mistake of hers to be here anyway, underneath another man.

Her second mistake is to like everything the way it is..

Her third is to tongue your shaft like she would a sweet treat. She wants to taste all of you, from your thick tip to the base. She’s not had much to work on with Daniel, but she knew it would be a good time when you sprung out your cock. She makes this worth it—she seals her lips at your base, her nose pressed firmly at the bottom of your tummy, then produces such a harsh suction that the grip you have in her black locks of messy hair tightens. A curse is what you let out besides precum.

“Fuck,” you say. Pull her head closer. Aggressive thrusts fire away. “Didn’t know your pouty little lips could suck dick so well. I bet it’s bulging your throat. Is daddy right about that?”

She tries to nod. Her gags stop her intended action; your thrusts have sped up and are now destroying her tight throat. No space is left for her to breathe when her mouth is stuffed with your length. Even her nostrils can’t take in much air if her nose is pressed that tightly to your stomach.

Place a hand on the wall in order for there to be no aches for her head when you thrust wildly. “You know, I changed my mind. Maybe you’re a good girl, especially with that face. Go on, touch yourself. I know you want to.”

Permission is granted by her daddy. Hyeju gives a cry in response then leads her hand between her legs. Letting you fuck her face has made her wet beyond imagination. She doesn’t need to press directly on her pussy when there’s slick all over her thighs. She gathers them all up and places them back in her pussy. She moans as she swirls her digits inside her. Here’s how it works: she has one hand masturbating, and the other on your thigh to caress it and at the same time keep her balance.

Take note of that. “You’re a smart girl, Hyeju. Smart girls shouldn’t be letting their faces get fucked. We can’t have that happen, right?”

You say that yet your actions tell a different story. Your violent pumps into Hyeju’s mouth to use it to the limits are endless. Hyeju’s moaning. She enjoys it more than she should. Of course, you jam those moans, as pretty as they are, down her throat.

Slap your cock on her lips.

“You know what I mean.”

Slip the whole of your length out then in again. Make her brush those luscious lips against every inch.

“We really, really can’t have that happen.”

Caress her cheek. Her eyes are awaiting and obedient. Look down into them and almost feel bad for ruining her, your best friend.

“Daniel might walk in anytime. He’ll be looking for you.”

Your movements are cruel as time goes by. You shouldn’t be treating your best friend like this. You shouldn’t even be having sex with her. All of these ought to stop you in your tracks—you don’t.

“And what will he say when he sees his precious girlfriend on her knees for his best friend?”

Hyeju begins to whine. She doesn’t want him to walk in; she’s enjoying this too much. What she doesn’t want to happen even more is for you not to blow your load inside her warm throat. People can’t have what they want all the time, but she swears she won’t want anything else if you just give her what she wants. That’s for you to absolutely use her. Be cruel to her and it wouldn’t sting.

“He’ll start to think how better you are with me. You’re a bad girl, Hyeju. You know that and you still want me.”

You’re right in every way. She is better with you. You just fuck her better, treat her better, kiss her better. She can’t kiss better the wound she’ll leave in Daniel if he just so happens to walk in. Maybe she could, but she’d put salt on it when he discovers how good you make her feel. It isn’t fair to anybody. To you, the one she accidentally hurt; to Daniel, who was the one (no, make that the two with how he was her last resort and how she gave him false hope); to her, who can’t go without you.

“Let go.”

Nine.

It takes exactly nine strokes in between her folds for her to cum. Drool sheens your girth. Some even drip from her mouth. It’s like she’s in heat; she’s whining as she tries to cum and suck you off at the same time. Hyeju ends up sucking your shaft with desperation, legs quivering and threatening to give away.

“Cum with me, Hyeju,” you command her. Pull out, rather regretfully, but take comfort with how pretty she’d look covered in your cum. Your hand wraps around you and jerks you off. Although it can’t match Hyeju’s mouth or her ass, it’ll do well in shooting your load on her.

Your best friend keeps calling your name squeezed between “daddy”s as she fingers herself to orgasm. She collapses pathetically on the floor, in a pool of sweat and cum. Her shirt and the floor of your shared dorm room are stained. No need to wonder where those white stains come from; the only suspects are you and Hyeju. It’s a partnered crime for her squirt comes out at such a velocity that it rivals your cumshots.

“Take my load, Hyeju, fuck!”

If there’s anything Hyeju isn’t, it’s submissive. It somehow changes when she nods and opens her mouth. You’re introduced to a whole new side of her. Her post-orgasm face is one you hope to admire everyday. Look at the expressions she makes when her eyes are crossed and her tongue is out for you and you have difficulty choosing between the two.

You and Hyeju exchange a tired look. If you’re to be specific, a look is how everything starts. You became friends with her because she was staring at you too long a time in class. You quickly reunited with her in college when you looked to your back to see to whom the familiar voice belonged. It took one quick glance to see that Daniel had kissed her in the noraebang.

Similarly, a look is what causes you to shamelessly throw Hyeju on the bed again. By now her limbs curl into yours like this were a completely natural thing that happened between you, as if she were always being fucked and manhandled like this. Your kisses now are more aggressive, too. They aren’t nervous like earlier, when you still weren't sure if doing this was right. Hyeju responds by engaging in a battle for dominance, pushing forward and pulling the forces connecting you.

You win in the end.

Slam her back down to the mattress. Her anticipation is written clearly in her eyes. “I’m going to ruin you, Son Hyeju,” you say.

She laughs in your face. “Bet.”

Alright. You’ll show her. It’s a friendly bet you’ll take all seriousness in.

Align your dick with her waiting cunt. You shed all attempts to tease her or dive into foreplay. What she needs is your cock inside her, rearranging her insides. If that’s so, you’ll give it to her.

“Oh!” Hyeju gasps. Her pretty eyes are big above her hands covering her face. She never guessed you would feel this good inside her. “You’re so fucking big, daddy. It's, it’s better than I imagined, fffuck.”

Steer all your weight into this thrust specifically. Your tip makes contact with her G-spot and sends her legs shaking. Send her a couple inches further on the mattress. Her godly tits begin another round of bouncing. There’s no other routine you’d love to watch.

Already you've put your hands on her hips. They’re to pull her closer if she gets lost. Again. You have to make sure you won’t lose her this time. This chance was given to you for a reason. You have to keep her here, show her all the love you’ve kept bottled up all these years.

Hyeju squirms a lot. That’s what your grip is for. It’s to keep her on the bed so she can easily receive your pumps. And what a good job she does at receiving them—Hyeju’s hips shiver as they’re subjected to a force her sensitive pussy can’t handle. She’s always going into things she can’t handle. This is no different. Time with Daniel was okay, but you’re a different story. You ensure that she’s always filled to the hilt until she’s bottoming out.

Deeper and deeper you go. Your cock knocks up into her tummy. You curse; it’s hotter than it’s supposed to be. Something as simple as that shouldn’t be so arousing.

“Oh, you like that? You… you like seeing your big cock stuffing my little pussy?” asks Hyeju. Her teeth are parted to let in air she so desperately needs to formulate these words. She knows they’ll turn you on. “I know you do, daddy. Look at your meat ruining my insides. You’re going to cum so much inside me. And I’ll take it all. I’m a good girl. I’ll show you I’m a good girl.”

She leads your hand to her throat and closes your digits around it. Get the message. Squeeze there tight. Her strangled gasp is everything.

“You are, huh?” you say. Your composure is long gone. “Are you always this tight, Hyeju? Are you always this good? Or is it just for daddy?”

There’s something incredibly hot in the way Hyeju gushes and screams for you. Her nipples stand in the air, aroused by the quick penetrating done to her pussy. It seems almost impossible for her to be this wet. Each push of your hips brings forth a gush of wetness that wets the sheets and your joined crotches. Bring out your cock for a second to quickly flick its tip on her clit.

Hyeju gropes her own chest with closed eyes. “Ohhhh, fuck!”

Return to your routine of drilling her. Her whole body reacts violently to your pounding. Moreover, every part of Hyeju’s beautiful body screams to be touched. Her jiggling thighs and breasts, her midriff prone to your thrusts, her face that’s never looked this slutty… where should you start? Your touch is given multiple choices, and you choose all of them. Your hands roam her body and squeeze and feel and grope. In response, she moans. The volume of her acute voice turns up with each, almost like her body has triggers that would draw out louder sounds.

You think of it that way and now Hyeju’s screaming as you propel inside her while keeping a hand on her clit.

“Daddy, o-only you, daddy!” she proclaims in a helpless scream. “No one can make me feel as good as you do, just keep fucking me, don’t stop!”

You’ve got your answer. Smile in satisfaction and, since she’s a good girl and gave the correct response, lean it to worship her breasts. Does slapping them count as worshiping? Hyeju thinks it does—her high groans and yells are enough to be context clues. You marvel at the size of her chest, so subtle with the baggy clothes she wears but now in their full, naked glory before you. It’s impossible for them to be presented to you without a squeeze being done.

“You like my tits, daddy? I’ll let you fuck them all you want, just finish inside me. I’m safe today. Promise, p-pro—”

Bury yourself deep inside her, to the point that your cockhead pushes at her cervix. Fill her up. Hyeju moans happily. She rolls her body up and down. The stimulation seduces you into making (kind of) breeding her a job well done.

“Thank you, daddy.” she sighs. She’s still erotically grinding her hips. It’s karma for overstimulating her a little earlier when your fingers filled her.

“S-stop, Hyeju.”

“Stop? Alright, sure. I think that’s enough now. Daddy doesn’t want to fuck my tits anymore.”

Naughty little brat. She knows just the right words to tick you off and turn you on. It makes you want her to pound her into the bed again so that not even the old mattress can forget that it was the place you and Hyeju fucked.

“I’m just kidding, silly. Sit down! Yes, thank you.”

She flashes you a smile after you do as she says. It’s a rare moment in this session with her that she has the say in what happens. Somehow. It can’t be completely true, not when she’s on her knees again for you. Not when her tongue trails worshipful lines on your cock and draws tight licks on your tip. Shiver. You’re a bit sensitive yourself.

“Now see how good this feels?”

She takes her glorious breasts in her hands and wraps them around your cock. You let out a guttural moan. Hyeju’s tits rival her mouth and pussy. It’s a close competition, with the advantage of softness most of all. Oh, when she starts to move, gliding her supple skin up and down your size, you almost cum on the spot.

Her bosom is a portal to heaven, you swear. Your legs feel light. Your core is hot as your size disappears between her breasts, buried in the soft and safe haven she provides. The friction is so overwhelming that you doubt it could even be a real sensation.

She makes a show of rubbing your tip on her nipple, similar to what you did to her clit. The two of you are sensitive, so you moan in harmony as it happens. After gliding your cock on her large breasts, she goes back to titfucking you.

It’s all a matter of technique. Whenever she presses her chest together, your cock is suffocated with euphoric tenderness. On the other hand, when she simply moves up and down, you’re given the opportunity to grind down at the skin between her pale breasts. Each route leads to an inevitable fate: exploding all over her a second time.

"P-please stop, Hyeju," you say. You can't handle no more and there's so many more things you want to do to her.

"Awh." She pouts. Fat tears risk spilling from her eyes. God, she could be so cute sometimes. "What do you want, daddy? I can be good."

"Turn around."

"Ohhh, I see what you want." Hyeju turns around and spanks herself. Her ass ripples photogenically. "Of course. Of course you want it."

Hyeju can be so many things. A few minutes earlier she was a submissive babygirl for her daddy, and right before that she was a brat. Now, she transforms into a seductress. She doesn't lace or lingerie to become one. She has that fantastic body to do the work for her.

Hyeju starts to dance. Your eyes are trained on her. They never want to see anything else than her swaying her butt with a dancer's grace and charm.

"Giving me a show, huh?"

"Unless daddy wants it already."

"I do."

She squeezes her ass cheek before reaching her pussy. Then, she rubs her wetness on her pink, puckered hole. She lathers some at the inside of the rim, too. She didn't expect to fuck you today, no matter how many times she's dreamed of it, so there's no lubricant around. Hyeju has to make do.

"Oh!" she squeals when you give her a playful smack on the ass. "Impatient. Daddy's impatient. Don't worry, I'll give it to you."

“You did this before?”

“Duh.” Hyeju smiles sweetly, quickly returning to her good girl side. “You ready now, daddy?”

Apparently, it’s a rhetorical question, for Hyeju immediately guides your tip into her backside. You do your part in spreading her cheeks. Both of you moan at the first contact. It’s difficult by itself to insert just your tip through. She’s too tight.

You’re sinking into this long-chased dream. You’ve seen Hyeju walk around the dorm with no shorts on. Sometimes you're able to catch a glimpse of her bare ass when she dresses up in the dark. It’s normal when it’s with you, considering that your friendship transcends time, but she doesn’t know that yearning’s been put in your heart in those moments. You want her. You want Son Hyeju.

And now, she’s submitting herself to you. She’s given you her body, her tits, her pussy. Now she offers you an equally delicious choice: her supple ass that’s bouncy as it finally sits down completely on your lap.

“Good daddies bounce their babygirls on their knees, right? Should’ve known that, dummy. So come on, pound me. It isn’t hard.”

Well, you are. Hyeju’s ass is constricting you yet you enjoy every second of it. Her tight little asshole clings to you as you do as she says. You’d do anything for Hyeju, and that doesn’t exclude engaging in anal sex with her.

Choose a rhythm to go by to enjoy the tightness Hyeju gives you to the fullest. She leans into you and hums quietly, lower lip worried between her teeth and ass steadily rising and resting. The flexes of your thigh also stimulate her needy pussy. Your knee brushes her clit steadily while your cock penetrates her asshole better than any toy could. Better than any boy would.

“Oh, that feels so good, daddy…” Hyeju murmurs. “Keep spreading me like that, yes.”

Just when she thought you’d switch to being gentle, your thrusts become sporadic. She can’t find which timings you’re going by. The calm before the storm, so to say. Hyeju’s whimpers and whines are your thunder, and they soon live up to their name when they grow louder, filling your ears as would the violent downpour of raindrops.

“D-daddy, daddy, oh my god—” Pain partners up with pleasure in wrecking her hole. Darn you for reaching in front of her to rub her clit as well. Too many things are happening at the same time. “Daddy better make me cum, please, please—”

Your size fills the tight space of her ass so much that it’s difficult to move. The juices of her pussy that she’s used as makeshift lube can’t even do the job they’re assigned to. However, you don’t care about that. You simply fuck Hyeju’s fat, delectable ass like it’s been your long-term dream. In a way it is, but you’d be dreaming about it long after it’s already been fulfilled.

Hyeju stands up to take the lead and work her butt on you. You know she’s an excellent dancer but you never knew she could be this good at twerking either.

“Holy shit, Hyeju, your little asshole feels amazing,” you moan. Spank her, though she’s undeserving of punishment when she’s amazing at using that ass.

“And your cock is so fucking big in my ass,” she says. “I don’t want anything else, daddy. Ohh, god, keep doing that.”

Her rear end bounces and claps together as they take in your fat cock. She looks back at you lustfully, watching you ruin her supple ass. Reach for her breasts to match the velocity of her thrusts. You’re two forces colliding, each filled with fire to defeat the other with pleasure. It’s a losing game when Hyeju’s ass is just as good as her pussy, which you continue playing with to bring her to orgasm.

“Good girl, Hye, keep bouncing that fat ass on daddy,” you whisper in her ear. Love to hear her weak little moans; they show you that she likes this as much as you do. Probably more. “You want to cum, right? You want to squirt on me again?”

“Yes, daddy, please!” Hyeju is in paradise although her skin feels like it’s been set on fire. She hasn’t felt this good before. “No other cock can do me the way you do, daddy, I’m all yours! Make me cum, cum inside me, daddy!”

You’ve changed her. She’s a totally different person outside of the bedroom. She hides her approval in sarcastic comments and teases you about them. How is it that she’s completely submissive and good for you?

Your ego swells. Smack her pussy just enough to make her gasp. “Whose pussy is this?”

“Yours, daddy!”

“And this ass?”

“It’s all yours, daddy,” sobs Hyeju. “Always so fucking big inside me, so much better, you need to make me cum—”

Pull her down to your lap then thrust inside her all while not letting an inch withdraw from her snug butthole. “Cum for me,” you say.

“Ohhhh fuck!”

Hyeju begins her sexy body rolls again as a profane spray of clear liquid fires from her pussy. She’s so wet; when you rub her clit, a squelching sound is produced. She’s too turned on from the feeling of you savage pounding inside her. She slaps her own pussy to go along with your rubbing, then leads your fingers inside her cunt again. She’s still so tight.

The combined feeling of two of her holes being violated has her tired. She could be murmuring a spell and you wouldn’t know because of how jumbled and jarred her words are. The syllables make out your name and title. At least, that’s what you could understand. It would take an experienced veteran transcriber to make sense of Hyeju’s sounds.

You blast her ass with so much cum that it overflows, like water threatening to spill from the brim of a glass. Your joined cores are so wet and sticky that neither of you feel like moving. You want to stay in the narrow yet pleasurable comfort of each other’s touch forever.

It’s so pleasant that you could only hear the gratifying sound of each other’s pants and not the knocks on your door.

So safe that you don’t hear the sound of a lock being skewered with because each other’s bodies are more homely than this dorm.

So distracting that when he comes in through the door and yells in disgust, it’s the first time you feel an awakening sobriety.

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anothertimdrakestan · 1 year

Note

Hi Elle!! Hope all is well 💕💕

Can I request a headcanon or fic of where Dick and y/n have been in a serious relationship for a few years and OC has become a “mom figure” to all the other batboys. So when the batboys misunderstand Dick and OC getting into a big fight somewhere, they both come home (either to their place or to the manor) to find that the batboys have moved/thrown out all of Dick’s things because they love OC that much??

Thank youuu ☺️

Ahhh this is such a cute little idea!! Thank you so so much for the request it’s lovely to see an old friend <333

Found Family - Dick Grayson x Reader

Steph gave you a sympathetic smile as she poured the rest of the wine bottle into your now empty glass. “What’s wrong hun? Because if it’s boy troubles I will personally castrate Richard if he hurt you.” Which only made you sigh as you nodded. Her eyes widened, you and Dick never ever fought, and this foreign emotional territory was a shock to you too- hence the wine.

“Dick asked me to move in with him, but I’m not ready to leave my place! I love Gotham, and I’m not sure Bludhaven is where I’m meant to be. But I also know I could never leave him. I just told him I needed more time to think and I think he took it really personally. It’s not that I’m not ready to live with him, I’m just not ready to leave my life here even if it is just a town over.” You said, happy to put into words the emotions swirling in your chest.

“What?! You are NOT leaving Gotham anytime soon. What on earth would I do without you here?” Steph exclaimed, putting down her glass to pick up her phone, fingers typing frantically.

Less than a minute later, Tim was jogging into the Manor kitchen, “Dick’s tryna take Y/N from us? Over my dead body.” And before you could tell him otherwise, the young hero burst out the room, clearly on a type of war path.

“No! I love Dick and you guys, Bludhaven is great! I just need-”

“Taking down Richard has always been on my bucket list.” Damian’s snarky voice echoed through the manor as he stalked out the same door as Tim. You scrambled up and after him, but Steph side stepped in front of you, “don’t you dare try to fix this, we’ve got it!” Which only made you more nervous for the future of your relationship.

Before you knew it, another bottle was opened, and the colors of the Manor living room were awfully fuzzy. You were pretty sure you’d seen Jason, Tim, and Damian zipping in and out of the manor, each repeatedly promising an increasingly violent demise for your boyfriend, who’s radio silence was only making you more anxious. Steph, while physically with you, was terrifyingly glued to her phone, sending text after text- even taking the occasional call, but she was speaking quiet enough that your tipsy-mind couldn’t process the words flying out of her mouth.

You truly weren’t sure how much time had passed when Dick burst through the manor shouting “Stephanie Brown where the hell did you hide her!” And before you could shriek with excitement, Dick appeared in front of you, his eyes frantic until he saw you were okay.

“Dickie!” You cooed, outstretching your arms so he would scoop you up into a hug. And he did. He was breathing heavy, burying his head in the crook of your neck as he took a deep inhale. You were just giddy to see your handsome man, squeezing him tighter, wrapping your legs around his waist, happy to be carried as you weren’t sure you could stand in your current state.

“What on earth did they do to you sweetheart,” Dick mumbled, walking back towards the kitchen so you could place you on a counter, you leaned back to look up at his eyes. He swiped a hand over your cheek, you assumed you were still warm from the alcohol.

“She’s. Fine. Can’t say the same about you you selfish monster,” Steph slurred her speech, pointing an accusatory finger at Dick who gave you both a confused look.

Almost like a sitcom, the three other boys burst into the room, as if on cue.

“Step away from the woman Grayson!” Jason shouted as Damian lobbed the nearest manor antique he could get his hands on at Dick, who of course caught it effortlessly, setting it down next to you on the counter.

“What the hell is going on?” Dick raised his voice, but Tim was already in between the two of you, pushing Dick backwards as Damian hopped up onto the counter next to you, silently handing you a glass of water which you graciously took, enjoying the plot unfolding before you.

“No questions at this time Richard, as Y/N’s personal advisor I’m here to state the case.” Tim began, Jason and Damian nodding in agreement. Steph had her phone out, clearly filming the entire argument.

Tim continued, “it has come to our attention that you intend to take Y/N from us.”

“I asked her to move in with me?” Dick looked exasperated but intrigued by the way his brothers had turned on him in your name.

“And in doing so, you’d be removing her from Gotham, and therefore the four of us!” Tim concluded, and at the statement, Jason, Steph, and Damian mumbled angry agreements.

Dick scoffed, “I’m sorry, I thought she was my girlfriend, and you guys love coming to Bludhaven! With Y/N there it’s more reason for everyone to spend more time over there.”

Damian piped up immediately, “we hate Bludhaven Richard, Y/N is the only thing that makes it manageable.”

Jason snorted, “ever realized we only go over for dinner when Y/N is visiting you? Or that Steph only wants Sunday bagels in Bludhaven cuz Y/N spends the weekends there? Did you seriously think we just went over for you?” You cringed as the harsh tone, but Dick didn’t look offended, rather, proud?

Dick opened his mouth to retort, then closed it. Tim spoke up again, “Don’t worry Richard, I’ve already mended the problem at hand.”

Now Dick spoke up, “what the hell did you brats do now”.

“To the Zeta Tube!” Jason called, scooping you and Damian up in one arm and sprinting towards the teleporter, with Dick screeching for him to put you down following close behind. For once, Damian wasn’t squirming out of Jason’s grasp, rather he had quietly grabbed your hand, saying “I hope you love your new home” to you right before the Zeta Tube activated.

When you came through, Jason set you and Damian down happily, and you were situated in a fully furnished apartment. Furnished with your and Dick’s combined furniture. You froze for a moment, feeling like you were in a different dimension until you notice the window in the apartment. You recognized the block corner instantly.

“We refurbished an old safe house! It’s south west Gotham, so close enough to Bludhaven that Dick can’t whine too much, but only a couple minutes drive, or instant Zeta Tube to the manor!” Tim exclaimed excitedly.

Damian piped up, “we stripped Dick’s apartment to the ground to furnish it! Not like either of you will be needing it anyway!”

Dick had been silent, drinking in the new view. But he came up beside you to stare out the window, “I think they just made a compromise for us, but I do want you to love it. What I should’ve said earlier, is that I don’t need to be in Bludhaven, I need to be with you. You’re my home Y/N.” He pressed a kiss to your temple and you leaned back into his chest.

You spoke up, “I love it, and I love you, and I especially love you guys,” you turned around to face your family. Steph was grinning, Jason was nodding knowingly, Tim was off slightly adjusting furniture placements, and Damian was- wiping away a tear. Not worth pointing out, because he’d deny it anyway, but your heart was bursting knowing the little guy wanted you near just as badly as you wanted to be close to him.

“Tim! Get over here, it’s group hug time!” Dick called, throwing an arm around Jason and Steph while you scooped up Damian, who for the second time that day, wasn’t fighting back. Tim crashed into the hug and your swore you could feel your heart beating out of your chest with pride in your found family.

Tim’s phone vibrated and he shouted “Dick! You’re rich! The Bludhaven apartment just sold!” And Dick shrieked, “You put my apartment up for sale in a day!!” To which Damian shrugged, “not like there was anything in there after we were through.” Jason nodded in agreement saying: “yeah, you don’t even wanna know what plan B was if you said no to this place!” But Steph shushed him before he could divulge any more, most likely violent, secrets. You couldn’t help but grin knowing your family had your back no matter what, even if Dick was slightly concerned over his brother’s undying loyalty to you, it made staying in Gotham that much more worth it to you both.

“As your realtor I will be taking 15% of the profit! Gonna go meet the new tenants!” Tim called, beelining to the Zeta Tube before Dick could even try to tell him no. You gave Damian’s hair a ruffle, which he immediately tried to fix, as Jason and Steph nodded, knowing they could be over whenever, but you and Dick probably wanted a moment to get used to the new place.

And suddenly, it was quiet. The bustle of the Gotham streets was faint, and you walked through the apartment which was truly designed perfectly, imagining the dinner parties, late night adventures, and peaceful mornings you’d get to have in your new place.

“As much as I hate to admit it, they did good.” Dick broke the silence. You nodded in agreement, unable to wipe the heartfelt smile off your face, you gave him a peck and said, “They sure did, it feels good to be home.”

I hope you enjoyed!! Thank you again for the request!

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covetyou · 2 months

Text

no shortage of sordid

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader, Joel Miller x m!OC (unnamed) rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: very dubious consent (not from reader), oral sex (m receiving from m), voyeurism/exhibitionism, degradation, brief mention of food and allusion to hunger, unnamed m!OC, m/m, Joel is not exactly gay he's just a domineering asshole, drug reference word count: 3.1k summary: Your deal with Joel has changed into something else, something different to when you first came to his door asking for help months ago. But, when you try to take him up on your new arrangement, you're met with something you never expected.

A/N: this was originally a much shorter deleted scene from the start of the dark caress of someone else. I took it out because it was too much and after writing that chapter I told myself I would avoid writing threesomes for as long as possible, because god damn it there's too many body parts. well, me, fuck you, this is threesome adjacent and not technically a threesome at all.

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Six days. That's how long it takes for you to cave and admit you want him. It takes you another two to do anything about it.

The first time you make the trip to Joel's apartment, no pills necessary, you're faced with silence and a door that won't open.

With an hour break between your jobs the next day, you make another attempt. But, you barely make it through the market when you see him trailing behind Tess, hulking figure parting the crowd with ease. You don't stop to see where they're going, instead choosing to turn on your heel and head back the way you came. The less you know, the better. Using the cards he handed back to you nine days ago, you stop by a street food vendor on your way to your next job, eating your first hot meal not only of that day, but that week, the warm food soothing more than just the emptiness in your stomach.

It takes you much longer to convince yourself to try on the third day. Your thoughts hadn't immediately gone to Joel Miller that morning. You had toyed with going for a walk, with seeing if you could pick up more work. But soon your hands ache, bones creaking in their joints as you clench them once again, trying to stave off the want in your belly with the pinch of nails digging into your palms.

Fuck it. You're going. Whether he's there or not, the need to get out of this apartment far outweighs the desire to stay warm inside it.

So, one gray trudge across a gray Boston to a gray apartment block later, you're at his door. Again.

Only this time there's not silence on the other side.

You can hear a murmur - undoubtedly Joel by the heavy rasp of a wry laugh that follows it - and a garbled whimper.

And, of course, you could leave. You could turn your back and leave Joel up to whatever it is, whoever it is, he's doing in there, but you don't. You knock, wanting him to know that even if he's occupied, you showed up. You came to him, not for pills, but for sex. For want, for desire, for the ease of the ache between your legs and the itch in your palms that just won't quit no matter how much you make yourself come.

Even with company, he doesn't make you wait long.

So it's not that you're not expecting the shuffle of two sets of feet. Or the thud on the door, heavy and dull like something big had caught itself before falling down. You knew he wasn't alone and, after all, the only thing you could really expect when visiting Joel was that nothing would be as expected.

No, that's not what surprises you at all.

What surprises you is when the door drifts open a fraction, a disembodied hand reaching through and pulling you through the gap, dragging you inside. What surprises you is tripping over his shoes, only they're not his shoes, the feet turned the wrong way up to belong to the all too familiar man standing before you.

What surprises you is seeing a man on his knees in front of Joel Miller.

It surprises you so much, you don't even notice as the door clicks shut and the hand that dragged you inside pulls you once again to stand at his side.

From here you can get a full view. There's a man on his knees in front of Joel. Joel's pants are unbuckled and pulled low on his hips. And then, the entire scene becomes very, very clear.

There is a man on his knees in front of Joel with his cock in his mouth.

So, when Joel looks at you with a glint in his eye, you're suddenly rooted to the spot, staring between him and the man beneath him. A smirk from Joel tells you you've been looking a little too long so, embarrassed and not quite sure what to do with yourself, you spin around, turning to inspect the back of a chair as if it was the most interesting thing in the room, not the man currently bobbing his head up and down on Joel's length.

"Eyes on me, sweetheart," he drawls from behind you. "Ain't no fun for me if you ain't lookin'."

As you always do where Joel is concerned, you do as you're told, taking a deep breath as you turn back to watch the man swallow down Joel's cock. You'd seen this kind of thing before - turned down the wrong street at the wrong time more than once only to see someone on their knees for someone else, earning yourself a wink or an insult for the privilege. But you never stayed to watch. Yet, here you are, staying and watching either because it was Joel, or because he asked, you weren't too sure.

The why doesn't exactly matter, you figure, not when your cheeks were rapidly heating and the wet patch in your panties was doing nothing but grow.

"Think he likes the audience too," Joel is saying, nodding down to the guy on his knees. "Don't you?"

You can see that he does. There's a hard bulge in the front of his pants, a bulge that looks much harder than the cock currently in his mouth.

"Dick always so hard for a straight guy. Think you like being a cocksucker." Joel gives the man an awkward pat on the head and huffs out a laugh, looking away from him to look back at you.

"Likin' what you see, sweetheart?" he jokes, casting dark eyes up and down your body. He can't see much. It's still fucking freezing, which is no surprise for a February in Boston, and you're still wrapped up against the elements because of it. But you know his gaze is looking through all of it, seeing through the layers straight down to your flesh, to your hard nipples and the wetness between your legs. He raises that infuriating, knowing, eyebrow at you and you roll your eyes.

"'m serious, you gotta keep lookin' or I'm never gonna come," he says then, and you drag your eyes back in an instant. You briefly wonder why - how - he would never come from this until it hits you.

Having a man suck his dick isn't Joel Miller's idea of a good time. Whoever the man on his knees is, he owes Joel. Maybe just like you did, or maybe worse. It doesn't matter, because you're not witnessing a blow job, you're witnessing a fucking business transaction.

And so you laugh - not at Joel, or the man, not really, but at the entire fucked situation and the world that brought you to this place.

"Y'hear that?" Joel growls down at the man. "She's laughin' at you."

Pinching his eyes shut, the man groans, and you swear you can see a dark patch starting to form on the front of his pants. It almost feels wrong, looking at another mans bulge like this when Joel's cock is right there, disappearing in and out of the strangers mouth at a languid pace. You can't even ask his name - his mouth too full to get out more than a garbled moan. Maybe names don't matter either.

Joel's eyes haven't left you, and yours haven't left the thatch of hair at the base of his cock. He's harder now, softness completely gone now that you're here to witness it. Giving and watching a blow job are so much different to what you expected. There's a wet sound in the air, for one. That rhythmic, wet noise of a throat being fucked was usually masked by your own moans, made easy to ignore by the distraction filling your mouth. But here, several steps away, it is loud.

"That's it. Keep your eyes right there," Joel murmurs before pointing to your outer layer. "Unzip your coat, lemme see. Get those pretty tits out for me, sweetheart. Don't mind him. He ain't gonna look. Are you?"

The man groans again, keeping his eyes shut as his head bobs on Joel's cock, taking an impressive amount of him down his throat with each movement. There's a small shake of his head, and while you don't believe him, you find you don't care either. You don't know the man on the floor any more than he knows you, and you have a feeling he's likely to keep his mouth shut once he leaves Joel's apartment today anyway.

A fraction of a second later, you're pulling your jacket open and yanking your sweater up above your tits, baring them to Joel. He murmurs something to himself, fisting his shirt tightly as he holds it up, exposing his belly. It strikes you then how damn distracted you had been every time before now - Joel's fingers, or tongue, or cock working you in such a way that you were brainless and oblivious to the physical affects you had on him. Now, its obvious. Like a man possessed, he watches you with blown eyes, his cock in full hardness now as the man below him works him over with his mouth and tongue.

Dragging cool fingers down your exposed chest, you meet your already pebbled nipples, pinching them and holding back a soft gasp. It's as much for you as it is to get a reaction from Joel, and if he didn't know you were wet before, he does now.

"That's it, play with 'em. And keep watching, sweetheart. Want you to watch when I come down his throat."

It's a struggle to keep your eyes open, but certainly not a chore. The man has picked up his pace, sucking and moaning around Joel's length as he slurps it down. He holds back a splutter when Joel's hips buck forward just as you pinch your nipples harder again, squeezing the flesh of your tits in cold palms.

"Fuuck, that's it, keep watchin'. You like that? Bet you want a taste of this dick too, huh?"

You nod, words stuck in your throat as Joel presses the mans head further into his crotch, rocking his hips to fuck lightly into his mouth.

"You needy and dripping over there ain't you?" he growls. He doesn't wait for you to nod, he doesn't need to. "Yeah you fuckin' are. Dirty fuckin' girl, watching my dick gettin' sucked. You like watching, don't you? Say it. Wanna hear it."

"I like it. I like watching, Joel," you say, barely more than a whisper as you become more and more entranced by Joel's cock in the mans mouth.

"Shit. Keep watchin'. Gonna come. Need you to watch."

It's all you can do to hold back a moan, your panties now probably ruined by your dripping, neglected cunt. This was not what you came here for, but watching Joel mumble obscenities and growl filth to you and the man on his knees as he gets his cock sucked was something you never knew you wanted before now. Sure, you want to touch, to play with him yourself. But watching is getting you wetter and wetter without even a finger or the press of your thighs to help you along the way.

"That's it. You keep suckin'. Fuck. Gonna bet you want this load in you not in him, right?"

Nodding frantically, you move a hand to your waistband, a soft plea on your lips, ready to pull your pants down any second. "Please - "

"Fuck - shit - well too bad, sweetheart. You look at that dick gettin' sucked. Shit - gonna come. Look at me. I said look at me."

Your eyes meet his just as they flutter closed. Joel groans a curse, his balls starting to empty into the throat of the man in front of him until he's suddenly tugging the mans hair, pulling his mouth off of his cock. The man gasps, swallowing down what he can as Joel rapidly strokes his spit soaked length, jerking the remains of his spend over the mans face and mouth. His eyes immediately flick to yours, a soft moan having left your own lips the moment Joel started to come, and he groans again, a final spurt coating the mans chin, soaking his facial hair. It's filthy. Not the most filthy thing you know Joel's done, but the most filthy thing you've ever seen him do from the outside. You can't help but stare on in silence, too captivated by the spurts of milky white dripping over the mans face, his eyes still screwed tight. You're aching and desperate to stick a hand down your pants, to feel how wet you are, to touch your clit and make yourself come as you try to hold yourself upright on shaky legs.

Through syrupy blood pulsing in your ears you hear Joel growl down at the man, removing his hand from his hair like it's burned his palm. Then, he's looking to you again, deep brown eyes searching your own before falling down, down to where your hand cups your breast and your other fists the waistband of your pants in a tight grip. He knows - knows that even if you came here already wet and wanting, you were even more so now.

And it's with a smirk and a sharp snap of his fingers that he pulls you back into the room. The man's eyes are open now, avoiding yours as he wipes cum from his face with his sleeve, covertly licking his lips for any remnant taste of Joel. You can't blame him, fuck knows you'd done the same when Joel had swiped a taste of himself over your own lips, but you can't help the jealousy at wanting to taste again too.

It's then you remember your exposed chest, and you yank your sweater back down without another glance to the man on his knees. Joel shakes his head, a shit eating grin spreading across his face as he strides across the room. He goes to the cupboard where you know he keeps a small amount of his stock, rifling through for a second before coming back with a baggy and tossing it down on the floor at the mans knees. He scrambles for it immediately, climbing to his feet and grabbing the door. Joel doesn't look at him again.

"Say hello to your wife for me," Joel calls over his shoulder, and the man scurries away without a word.

Now it's just you and him, his unbuttoned pants the only remaining evidence of what just happened.

You hesitate, partly in stunned silence, partly your brain having turned to liquid between your ears, all coherent thought lost the moment Joel's cum spurted across the mans face. But there's still that unsatisfied ache between your legs, throbbing and making your hand twitch, willing you to reach for him now that he's so close.

Joel sees it, he knows, knows what you came here for and knows what you won't be getting.

"Not today, sweetheart. Couldn't even if I tried," he says gesturing to his spent already dick tucked back into his pants. "Gotta head out again too, so whatever you got goin' on in those panties, you gotta deal with it yourself." He finishes with a wink and a tap to your chin before grabbing a small gym bag from the couch. You hadn't even seen it there, brain too occupied by more interesting things happening in this room at the time.

So it's no surprise, really, when your mouth starts running before your mind can process what it's doing. There's only one thing you're thinking of. One thing, aside from the throb in your core, that you can't stop thinking about, that envy won't let you give up.

"Would you - " your mouth gapes, opening and closing like a fish while your mind stutters and stops. You shouldn't even ask. There's no answer that can satisfy that particular itch. Not as quickly as you'd want it, at least. If he said yes, he'd already said nothing could happen right now, and if he said no, well... there was something about the thought of him denying you that did something to you too. There was no winning.

"Would I what?"

Of course, Joel had already heard. Even as he potters about the apartment, dumping stuff into the bag from places you've not been paying attention to. He stops, prompting you to go on.

"Would you... Would you come in my mouth like that? One time?"

He stares at you with his mouth open in disbelief. "You want me to come in your mouth?"

You nod, your mouth suddenly so fucking dry you can't speak anymore. You'd been salivating, able to practically taste the phantom flavor of Joel's cum on your tongue just a moment ago. Now, it was like you'd been chewing on bricks, tongue sticky and dry and your teeth feeling like an awkward jumble in your mouth.

"Well, shit. Call the press. Respectable good girl wants to be my little cocksucker -"

"Fine, if you're going to make fun, I don't -"

"Woah, hold on, I'm fuckin' with you. I ain't gonna turn down shutting that pretty mouth up with my dick. Gotta do it more than one time though, sweetheart. You around tomorrow?"

Between jobs and your dad having a day off, it would be a few days before you could come back. Shaking your head, you offer up Thursday instead. It's only three days away. You can make it three more days. Right?

"Thursday works for me. Come by in the afternoon. I'll come in that mouth, and then I'll play with that pussy while I get worked up again," he says before adding, with a cock of his head, "Then I'll come in that too."

And you're dumbstruck - the fantasy you concocted in your own head far surpassed by Joel's own, seemingly thought up right on the spot as he maneuvers you out into the hallway.

"See you then, sweetheart."

He pushes you out of the door, fingers electrified where they touch your shoulder. You expect the door to snap shut behind you, like it has so many times before, but he follows you out into the hallway, locking the door behind him. With a wink, he stalks off down the corridor, legs carrying him out of the apartment block too quick for you to keep up.

Later that night, alone in bed and wondering how the hell you're going to last two more days like this, you rub yourself stupid to thoughts of Joel's cock in a mouth that isn't yours.

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#joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #pedro pascal characters #joel miller/reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #Joel Miller x m!OC #fic: SWAT #coveted fics

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eddiernunson · 1 month

Text

Really Drives Me Mad | Older!Eddie x Fem!Reader | 18+

Prev Part l Master List |

Word Count: 10k

A SPECIAL HAPPY BIRTHDAY POST. (I’m 28 y’all)

Chapter contains: brief pregnant!reader, babies/kids…this is like a lil collection of blurbs. I have some head canons about each OC I can post if you’d like xoxo

I had ideas about their kids for ages, lol. This crazy lil family is chaotic

Still thank you to @forget-you-morelike-fuck-you and @bebe07011 for without you two this fic wouldn’t nearly be this good

Third trimester is a bitch. I barely have the bandwidth to write lately. I hope you enjoy

Two pink little lines stare back at you as Eddie turns the shower on, completely oblivious to the manic state you’re in.

He offers you to join him, a temptation you decline with an intense amount of reluctance. You just claim you need your own bed, which was true.

Eddie missed four weeks of work while you were on your luxe honeymoon, which means he now has several fires to put out. It keeps him busy for the week, making the doctor’s appointments and blood work you do that much easier when he passes right out on his couch at the end of his long days.

The following week, knowing you're pregnant but not being able to tell him is pure torture. It doesn't help that for some odd reason Eddie seems more lovey, more affectionate. Your first instinct is to chalk it up to your newlywed status, but his affection feels different, the way his arms wrap around you each morning to wake you up, his gentle voice low in your ear. It's driving you up a wall not being able to share your secret with him.

He seems to consistently have a hard time letting you go to leave for work (not that you’re complaining.) Though eventually you have to practically push him out the door.

The ultrasound is nearly dull, the implantation in question is only a bundle of cells, but once you get a photo from the tech at the end of the appointment, it’s the very thing you needed to tell Eddie.

After another early night of falling asleep you empty the face of the fridge, yanking every magnet off as you place the sonogram on the silver surface with a pink heart magnet right at his eye level.

Eddie wakes in the middle of the night, a sudden urge to rise hitting him out of nowhere. His arm tightens around your waist, admiring your pretty face as he kisses your cheek. Your face falters only the littlest bit, twitching your muscles to shake off the tickle of his stubble.

He finds himself starving, craving something only a feral racoon would also be satisfied with. He rubs his eyes as he walks down the steps. Sometimes he thinks he’s going to see you back in the kitchen chair in the dress and bathing suit, Dylan searching manically for a parking pass as if Eddie has imagined this whole dream scenario. Your love is just too good not to think he’d made it all up at times. He smiles to himself as he turns on the stove light, turning to the fridge for a snack.

He feels frozen by the blank fridge at first, wondering where all the magnets got to. The black and white image staring him dead in the face suddenly registers, the heart shaped magnet falling to the floor as he rushes to pick it up to make sure his tired eyes aren’t fucking with him. They bulge out of his head when the significance of the photo occurs to him, and the hunger that woke him up seems to vanish.

His long legs take the stairs two and three at a time as he rushes back to you, hurling himself beneath the covers.

The cold of his arms startles you, a gasp leaving your lips from the shock as you abruptly awoke. “Hmm?”

“Are you fucking pregnant, sweetheart?” His eyes are unbearably soft, melted pools of milk chocolate staring intently at you.

A burst of sleepy giggles leaves your mouth, turning your body so you don't have to crane your neck. “You got up early.” You comment, weaving your fingers into his curls.

“Skip the pleasantries, love.” He dismisses, scooping his arms beneath your back. “Are you fucking pregnant?”

You pull him in for a kiss, your legs wrapping around his hips to pull him down against you. “What’s the sonogram tell you?”

He chuckles against your lips, his thumbs swaying against your smiling cheeks. “You’re a little shit, you know that?” You nod, absentmindedly playing with his curls. “Fuck, I’m so excited right now, baby.”

“Really?” You ask him, grinning.

“I just found out my wife is having my baby. Are you fucking kidding me?” he asks, rutting his hips against yours desperately. “I’m rock hard, sweets.”

Lucky for you and him, you opted for a pair of tiny panties and a t-shirt to bed, feeling his hardened cock against the thin lace fabric of your panties. Your fingers fumble to his boxers, hurriedly pushing them down his hips. “Then fuck me.”

Eddie gently pulls the fabric aside, exposing it as his head perfectly brushes against your entrance. “God, my girl is soaked for me, ain’t she?”

Your thighs tighten around his hips, jaw dropping as he teases you. “Want you, please, Ed.” Your eyes squeeze shut, relishing in the feeling of him pressed against you

He pushes in, arms wrapping themselves around your torso. “Oh my god you’re having my fucking baby,” Eddie mumbles, face curling into your neck. “Gonna see your stomach all big when you’re carrying my baby, sweets, and you’ll be even hotter than you are now. Which I thought was impossible.”

No words come to mind, mouth open and gasping at the way he moves in you. The cotton of your shirt is too hot, your hands shakily grabbing at the fabric to take it off. Eddie admires the sight he sees as your piqued nipples fall out of his faded black t-shirt, his eyes glazed over as he stares down at them. A moth drawn to the light, he dives into one, curling his tongue around the nipple with the perfect mix of teeth, pulling little mewls from you.

“Fuck, we’re gonna be the happiest little family,” he chokes, kissing from your breast up to your neck, his voice filled with emotion.

“Love you,” you sigh, gasping into his open mouth as his hips hit you harder.

Eddie smiles, a wicked little grin as his hand curves over the swell of your tummy, thumb petting it gently.

“Hold on to me, sweetheart. Hold on to your baby daddy,” you grin the line, wonderfully cheesy, but Eddie feels the way you tighten around him. Your arms curl around his back, pulling his body against yours.

“Eddie, make me cum, please.”

“Hold on, baby, I’m almost there, hold on,” he stutters, his deep voice starting to falter. His lips bend down to your ear, gasping desperately, bordering on whining. “Fuck– cum with me.”

His lips wrap around yours, delicately connecting his tongue with yours as his hips stutter a final time, the little moans vibrating against your lips as he fills you up. As you collapse on the bed, sweaty bodies intertwined, he spends the twenty minutes until he falls asleep cooing, whispering in your ear how excited he is.

You wake up the same way, with rounds two and three before he begrudgingly trudges off to work.

The sun accounts as a natural alarm clock as Dylan stretches his limbs wide, turning to face his girlfriend. His arm falls over Maya’s form, pulling her in as he starts to wake up. “Morning, Dylan,” she whispers, her pink lips spreading into a smile.

He pulls her back against his stomach, hiking his legs under hers. “Mornin’.”

She hums as he kisses the back of her neck, giggling as he takes a deep inhale of her shampoo. “You work today?”

“No,” Dylan answers, caressing the strip of her exposed skin with his thumb. “I am seeing my dad today.”

She smirks, turning to face him. “And your stepmom?” Dylan grits his teeth, tickling her stomach until she begs him to stop, hunching over the arm around her. “Okay, I’m sorry!”

“Mmhm. I’m telling them, did you want to join me?”

Maya squishes her face, seemingly debating on pros and cons. “I’m gonna pass on that, respectfully.” She can feel the questioning look Dylan gives her. “I have a long shift today, and I am exhausted.”

“Next time, I’m dragging you with me,” Dylan insists, squeezing with his arms wrapped around her.

“I’m counting on it.”

As soon as Dylan opens the door, he listens in, waiting for a sound that never comes. Good, he waited long enough to come. He wanders into the kitchen, meeting his dad drinking orange juice straight from the carton. “Dad?”

His dad freezes, removing the spout from his mouth, and wipes his face hurriedly. “Hey bud.”

Dylan raises his eyebrow at him, pointedly glancing to the carton and back to him.

“Don’t tell my wife.”

Dylan smirks, rolling his eyes. “Speaking of the devil, where is she?”

“Upstairs.”

As if your ears are burning, the two men’s ears pick up the particular sound of someone coming down the stairs. Eddie prays you come downstairs with some clothes on. Your face lights up when you see Dylan, welcoming him into your arms without a second thought. “Dylan!” The familiarity you two share is still new, but wrapping him in a hug is like second nature at this point. “What brings you into this part of the world?”

You leave the embrace, backing straight into Eddie’s arm. “Actually, I have some news I wanna share with you guys.”

Eddie’s hand tightens around your arm, he’s mentioned Dylan talking about proposing last month, and this news felt right around the corner. He feigns ignorance, innocently asking, “Oh, what news would that be?”

Dylan’s cheeks bloom in red, glancing down to his feet sheepishly. You just hoped you wouldn’t have to travel to a destination wedding while largely pregnant. “Uh, we–or, Maya,” he clears his throat, a laugh stuttering through it, “Maya’s pregnant.”

The first thing you do is glance at your husband, both sporting wide eyes and slacked jaws. To say you’re surprised is a grand understatement.

“Not the news you were expecting?” Dylan asks, watching the two of you share a silent conversation.

In sync, the two of you switch back to him, twin smiles on your faces. Dylan had no idea what either of the faces in front of him could possibly mean, and there’s a part of him that wonders if this is happy news for either of you.

“Um, no, actually,” Eddie barely holds back the sound of laughter in his voice. “That’s, that’s fantastic news, Dyl.” Truly, fantastic news. Eddie has been looking forward to being a biker grandfather since Dylan showed interest in being a father.

You smirk, leaning into his shoulder. “How far along is she?”

“Uh, 8 weeks, or so,” Dylan answers, squishing up his face comically.

“Oh wow, so a week behind me, then,” you say nonchalantly, nodding at Eddie.

“Wait, what?” Dylan asks, making sure he understood that correctly.

You giggle, nodding as you sit your head in Eddie’s neck. “Yeah, I’m pregnant too, ironically enough.”

Eddie leans into your ear, “So you’re gonna be a mom and a grandma in the same year…”

Your eyes widen. “To think, I was just getting used to the idea of being a mom.” You lean back, meeting your husband’s pretty brown eyes. “Are we sure the kid’s gonna call me grandma?”

Dylan picks up the conversation right away. “I mean, unless we’re gonna be completely honest with them, it doesn't make sense otherwise. You’re grandpa’s wife, therefore grandma.”

Am I mom, then, too? You think to yourself, knowing you’ll point it out later. Your stomach rumbles, turning around to the counter to start making a breakfast of sorts. Your eyes hit the open orange juice jug and the lack of cup. “Did you drink straight out of the carton, again, mister?”

Eddie avoids your eyes, looking at his son. “Hey, I didn’t say anything,” he surrenders, having a seat at the island.

“How’s Maya been handling the pregnancy so far?” you ask, grabbing a pan from under the cupboards. “Because morning sickness is no joke.” You pause, leaning on the counter. “Not just in the morning, either.”

“I think it’s some nausea, a bit of acid reflux, but to my knowledge she hasn’t been sick,” Dylan says, taking out his phone to text Maya about the news.

“Bitch,” you mutter, the tone in your voice clear you’re joking. “We can’t all be so lucky. Eggs?”

Dylan nods, grinning at the text Maya shoots back. “So dad, you’re gonna have a kid and a grandkid the same age as each other?”

Eddie shrugs, taking another large sip from the carton. “Since my girl showed up, my life hasn’t been normal, and this just means it will never be normal again.”

“You’re welcome,” Dylan laughs, rolling his eyes at the exasperated look you shoot at him.

Dylan’s phone buzzes, glancing at the unknown number as Maya fades in the middle of her sentence. “One minute, babe, I’m expecting a call from the interview I just did last week. Dylan Munson, speaking.”

“Oh, Dyl-pickle, you sound so big!” Only one person has ever called Dylan that. He gulps, the sound of her voice bringing up old, sore emotions.

“Brooke. W-why are you calling me?”

“Brooke? C’mon, I’m your mom, sweetheart,” she whines, her voice the sound of nails on a chalkboard.

“Really, are you?” Dylan asks, getting up from the bed and starting to pace the hallway, his anger already building. “Ok, what college did I go to?” Silence. “What did I major in? What year did I graduate high school? When did I have my first kiss? Who’s my current girlfriend? What’s my best friend’s name? What sort of vehicle do I drive?”

She doesn’t answer a single question, instead giving stuttered empty answers. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to answer any of that… We haven’t exactly been talking for the last fifteen years.” She says, somewhat accusatory.

Dylan sighs, rubbing his face frustratedly. “What, your phone didn’t work all those years?”

“As far as I’m concerned, I’m not the only one who had a phone,” she protests, sounding incredibly defensive.

“Yeah, well, you also weren’t a child for 8 of those years who begged his dad for his mom to come to one thing that was important to him,” Dylan retaliated, angry at her gaslighting. “My dad had your number, always left voicemails inviting you to my soccer games, to award ceremonies, to my birthdays, and you never answered a single call, let alone showed up.”

“I’m sorry, Dylan, I am, but I was young then, you can’t blame me for wanting a fresh start.”

“Actually, I can,” Dylan answers, now done with this conversation. “You had eight years to be a mom before I finally gave up on you. You don’t get to pick and choose when to be my mom, now.”

“I’m sorry that hurt your feelings, Dyl. But I have two boys, and they really want to meet their older brother. Would you come down for lunch one day?”

He nods, knowing that this sudden need to be a mom again wasn’t going to come for free. “No. I have no interest in being your life. Not since the day I turned 18.”

“C’mon, Dyl–”

“No, mom–Brooke. No. Don’t call me again, please. I need to go now.”

She starts another sentence, but Dylan hangs up on her before he hears it. When he walks into the bedroom he shares with his girlfriend, he crawls into the bed next to her, feeling like the ten year old whose life got torn apart.

It looks like Brooke still has that uncanny talent for making everything about her.

Eddie sits in his office, a small room decorated with frames filled with the faces of those he loves and papers strewn around the desk. He’s going over the receipts and payments, and silently regrets not having hired an accountant by now, but he’s far too stubborn to admit it.

There’s a knock on the door and Eddie looks up in relief. Please, let there be a disgruntled customer to save him from the numbers. “Come on in!”

Connor, one of the new apprentices he hired only a few months ago comes in, looking timid. The first few months he has a new hire they’re usually shy, and when their self confidence in their ability to do their job kicks in, Eddie truly starts to miss it. “Uh, hey, boss, there’s a client out there who wants to speak to you.”

Eddie chuckles, leaning back in his chair as he rests his feet on his desk. “Don’t, don’t call me boss. What do they want?”

Connor screws up his face. “Uh, I forgot to ask.”

“Always ask, man. Tell them I’ll be right out.”

“Alright, I’ll tell her.” Eddie sighs in relief, women tend to be more understanding.

“Hey, send in Joe, will ya?”

“On it!”

Joe, a man who’s worked for Eddie for 20 years, older by ten years, walks into the office just a moment later. “What’s up, Ed?”

“Give the lady a talk, will ya?” Eddie asks, scratching the itch on his right forearm. “Ask her what she wants.” Joe, tall, dark, and quiet, nods and shuts the door.

He’s back in the office in seconds. The door’s loose knob has barely clicked shut before it’s abruptly opened again. “That fast?”

Joe shakes his head, his eyes wide with a grimace on his face. “Uh, no, it’s…it’s Brooke.”

Eddie scrunches his face up. “Brooke, like…Brooke?”

“Yeah. You want me to–”

“No it’s okay, I got it,” Eddie insists, a pit forming in the depths of his stomach. He rubs his face tiredly, fully unprepared to deal with this.

“Dude, you sure?” He asks, having been with Eddie through the divorce.

“Seriously, I got it. Thanks, man.”

Eddie gets up from his desk, catching the eyes of his long-time employees on his way to the entrance of the garage. He’s fine. He’ll be fine.

There she stands, looking around the garage holding her purse with two hands. She’s dressed like one of those Instagram moms, high waisted jeans with a loose blouse tucked in under a long coat. Her eyes land on him, her face lighting up as she exclaims, “Wow, the garage looks great!”

“Thanks,” Eddie mumbles, sighing. “Is there a particular reason for…”

Brooke smiles, and Eddie could almost see a genuine human behind the mask. “Um, do you mind if we go into your office?”

Eddie raises his brows, perplexed. “I really don’t see the necessity for it.”

“It’s not really a conversation to have in front of the guys, Eds,” Brooke comments, shuffling her feet as she crosses her arms.

Eddie winces at the nickname she calls him. She really doesn’t know him well enough to call him such anymore. The audacity of it astounds him. “I’m not Eds to you…and my office holds things that are precious to me, that I honestly want to keep out of this conversation.”

“Like I haven’t already seen pictures of your little wife,” Brooke grimaces, her tone switching from sweet to condescending in a split second, her eyes rolling. “Congrats on that, or whatever.”

Eddie blinks, too exhausted to argue. “Alright, come on.”

It's not like Brooke hasn’t been in his office before, Eddie thinks, they were happily married, after all. She looks around at the changes, her eyes seemingly fixated on where photos of Dylan’s previous achievements are proudly displayed. “Wow, he looks just like you,” Brooke mutters, a look on her face that Eddie can’t quite place.

Eddie assessed the bulletin, Dylan’s graduation, first school dance, the Munsons spending a weekend at the Harrington’s, it certainly spelled out to her what she missed out on.

He clears his throat, quietly asking for her to continue. “Right, um, I was wondering if you could talk to our son.”

“Our son?” Eddie asks, barely holding back his laughter. “Last time I checked you said he was my son.”

Brooke ignores it, faltering in her seat. “I tried calling him last week, but he shut me down.”

“What do you need me to talk to him about exactly?” Eddie leans against his desk, his hands gripping the edge.

Brooke blinks, tilting her head. “When did you cut your hair?”

“Irrelevant. What do you need me to talk to him about?” Eddie enunciates, already feeling the exhaustion of her mere soul sucking presence.

“My sons are asking questions about him, and they would like to meet him.” She inhales, as if preparing herself for what she was about to say, “I would love to reconnect with both of you, honestly.”

Like an anvil, Eddie feels his stomach pull him all the way down into the floor. The silence she’s given him and Dylan for the last fifteen years has been stable, reliable even. The most reliable thing about her. This is turning off the road into a ditch with nothing to instigate it. “What did he say?”

“Uh, he had no interest in it,” Brooke shrugs, leaning back in her seat.

Eddie nods, having expected it. “Brooke, those pictures on the wall? My son spent so much time begging me to call and get you to at least one event, one time just to show that you still cared about him.” He pauses, watching her avoid his eyes. “I left dozens of voicemails in your inbox, and I know it was your inbox, because I remember the day it went from Munson to Prescott. I begged you to show up. Just once. The last time I did was for his graduation, but by then I had stopped telling him.”

“He told our lawyers and the judge he wanted nothing to do with me. Forgive me if I thought he was telling the truth,” Brooke huffs, her voice sounding defensive.

“He was a child, Brooke!” Eddie deadpans, narrowing his eyes. “A child hurt by his mother’s actions tearing apart his happy family. Staying with the stable parent was probably the more appealing option.” He scratches at the stubble on his face, glancing over to the sonogram sitting on his desk. He’d hoped Brooke hadn’t caught wind of that news, yet. “At first, he was really hurt, but after a while, he just wanted his mom. Who never showed up.”

“Well, I might be a little late, but doesn’t it count for something that I’m trying, now?” She asks, folding her arms across her chest.

“I think it counts more that he’s about to be a father and he has no interest in including you in his kid’s life.”

Her eyes bug right out of her head. “Wait, what?”

“Mmhm. Seems he’d rather give what was supposed to be your title to someone he’s known for less than a year.” Eddie flickers to the photo of you he has framed, a portrait of you surrounded by the sunset in your wedding dress. “You had eight years, Brooke. Eight. You don’t get to decide to be a parent when it’s convenient for you. I never had that luxury. I had to pick myself and my son up and find a way to get through it emotionally without falling apart at the seams.”

She seems to start talking, but Eddie is on a roll. “I finally feel like I’m living my life, and not just surviving. If you reached out five years ago, I probably would’ve said yes. I even had a low enough self-esteem to hope it would mean something more…but now I have this woman, this beautiful person who showed me how much she believes I’m worth, showed me how much I am worth. Brooke, no offense, but when I look back on it, especially comparing the two, you treated me like shit.”

“Uh, okay,” Brooke mutters, holding her hand out. “I did not treat you like shit.”

“You never stuck up for me with your parents, forced me to do things I was uncomfortable with all the time, gave ‘our’ son’s teachers hell all the time, and, oh yeah, left me for the person you told me not to worry about. So, no I will not be talking to my son. If he comes to the conclusion to reconnect with you, then fine. But I will not be participating.”

“Wow, you’re being harsh.” Brooke complains, grimacing. “Eddie, I was young. I made a few stupid decisions.”

“You know, my wife is a bit young. Somehow, she already knows not to act like a stone cold cunt.” Brooke stutters through an empty response, completely rendered speechless. “I think we’re done here.”

“I’m not done!”

“Well, I suggest you be by the time my pregnant wife gets here, because she’s not your biggest fan.” It gives him the utmost satisfaction to start looking through the papers. He glances back up to her expectant expression. “Safe travels back to Boston, hmm?”

Eddie swears the smile on your face in the photo of you grows, glad the backbone he needed seems to have finally grown. “You’re not going to even–”

“No. I’m not. I’m done here, Brooke. Give Kevin my condolences, yeah?”

Brooke nods, reluctantly understanding she wasn’t going to get what she wanted. Eddie had indeed grown the self-confidence she never saw when she was with him. “Condolences?”

“Yeah, for still being stuck with you. Close the door on your way out.”

Brooke’s nostrils flare, her jaw locking. She turns around without another word, the slam of the door echoing through the garage as she storms out, every click of her heel enunciated.

Moments later, Joe pops through the door. “Everything, ok, Ed?”

Eddie looks up, his dimples pronounced on his face. “Oh just, peachy, Joe. Mind if I take off for the rest of the day?”

“I would be concerned if you didn’t, man.”

The ringing of your phone stirs you from your slumber, having passed out on the couch mid snack. An app you downloaded on your phone for the pregnancy said the first trimester would have you feeling quite sleepy, and you didn’t believe it until you find yourself constantly falling asleep during your off days, and exhausted at work when you really shouldn’t be.

Your sister’s name lights up the screen, and the quick assessment of the movie tells you you’ve been asleep for at least forty-five minutes. “Hey, Viti.”

“Hey, sis,” she greets, an airy tone in her voice. “Sounds like you just woke up.”

You haven’t broken the news to your family, yet, waiting to present the information in the form of a present next time you and Eddie make your way over to your parents’ house. “Had an afternoon siesta,” you sigh, watching the movie you’re tempted to restart. The twist of Carlisle’s death just isn’t the same if you don’t build up to it. “What’s up?”

She sighs, a habit you’re all too familiar with. “Spit it out.”

“Okay,” she starts, gaining her courage. “Me and Arlo got together the night of your wedding.”

If you were attempting to get rid of any sense of sleep, it disappeared within a second. The information takes a second to register, eyes darting around the living room filled with wrappers you have yet to throw out. “Harrington?”

She laughs, probably expecting a much worse answer. “Do you know any other Arlos?”

“Guess not.” You pet the bangs in your eyes away from your face, trying to remind yourself of the look on your baby sister’s face when she was slow dancing with him. “Ok. How did it happen?”

“You’re okay with this?” She asks, your heart melting at how little her voice sounds.

“It was never my choice, Vi,” you answer, using the remote to restart the movie. “If you like him and trust him, then, yeah, I’m okay with it. So how did it happen? Tell me all about it. But if you’ve slept with him, then maybe not all about it,” You chuckle. Viti sighs exasperatedly and you can practically hear her eyes roll through the phone.

“Um, so we were kind of flirting a lot after the family dinner. I thought he was just being nice, but I was willing to be his friend. It got a bit more intense at the wedding, and he asked me to dance…”

“I saw,” you admit, granted you only saw because Eddie pointed it out to you. “What happened after that?”

You can hear the smile on her face. “He led me to a hallway, and then we went to the hotel room I was staying in…” She trails off sheepishly. Oh, that's all you need to know.

“Damn, girl!” you laugh, opting to push away the mental image and simply be your sister's friend right now.

“We went to dinner last week,” she says, a giggle laced through her sentence. “I really, really like him.”

It had to be Arlo Harrington. “Then I’m really, really happy for you. Have you told everyone else yet?”

“You’re the last to know, to be honest. I think Eddie even knows at this point.” You roll your eyes, because of course that’s why he was so peculiar this morning.

“Just because I don’t necessarily approve of the choice of boy doesn’t mean I won’t be happy for you. Plus, I could get used to him, after all, Steve isn’t so bad.” That’s a damn lie, Steve Harrington has become one of your favorite people. ��Tell me you got out of the hotel room before mom and dad discovered you.”

“We heard them coming down the hall…” she says, giggling. “We were dressed as they were about to come in the door. Luckily, they were both pretty drunk, so they didn’t really catch on to what was happening. Well, until the next morning at brunch, I guess.”

Note, send a text to your mom asking about what her perspective was, because there’s a chance she knew more than she let on. You think to yourself.

“Anyway, four weeks in Cancun. Spare me the dirty details but tell me all about it,” she giggles, moving the phone away from her face, “shut up, stop, shut up!’

“Let me guess. Arlo?”

A burst of giggles runs through her body and you can hear the smile on her face. “Maybe,”

“You couldn’t wait until you were alone?”

“She’s not really alone all that much these days,” Arlo’s voice rings out. You can picture the smug smirk on his face.

“Arlo!” She chides him, and yeah, this might not be so bad, you decide.

“I’m gonna let you two go,” you offer, dismissing any protests she let out. “Also, without the dirty details there’s not much of the honeymoon to tell. Well, except one thing.”

“What?”

“You'll have someone new to meet in seven months!”

“No way!”

If there’s one thing you know, it’s Christina Perri’s A Thousand Years is the song for the last credit scene of the Twilight Series. As each character is shown with the corresponding credit, it gets closer and closer to the main cast.

It might just be the hormones, but this round of credits just seems to hit differently, tears spilling down your cheeks as it gets to the Cullen family. The front door to the house slams shut, announcing the arrival of your husband. Odd, he’s about three hours early.

The weight of the cushion next to you sinks down with a comforting arm wrapping around your shoulders. Your head falls easily into his embrace, curling into his lap as you sniffle. It’s ridiculous, the irrational reaction that takes over you, but damn do the editors know how to elicit a reaction out of the audience.

His hand pets your shoulder, kissing your forehead. “You crying at Twilight?”

You nod, furrowing your eyebrows. “Lose the smug attitude, mister. This is your doing.”

He laughs under his breath, petting your hair. “Hmm, that’s not how I remember our honeymoon.”

You tilt your head back to look at his face, fretting at the curls that are starting to resemble closer to a mullet. “Just because I begged for your babies does not mean you had to listen to me.”

He rolls his eyes, leaning in to place a kiss on your lips that takes the breath out from your lungs. As he backs away, he hums with a peculiar look on his face. “What’s on your mind?” You ask, your brows knitting together.

Eddie sighs, petting the bare skin exposed on your hip. “Minor Brooke update, today.”

Your brows instinctively rise, feeling every little muscle in your face tense up. “Oh?”

“Yup. Are you interested?”

You close your eyes, asking any entity out there listening for a lick of patience. “You piqued my interest. Lay it on me.”

Eddie can’t beat around the bush, or he would never say it. “She came into my work today.” He pauses, allowing you to absorb the information before continuing. “Requesting that I convince Dylan to…let her back into his life, so to say.” You squint, remembering the few times that Dylan had confessed about his mom to you, always finishing by claiming he wants nothing to do with her and never will.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” you comment, watching his eyes flicker back and forth between yours.

“She reached out to him last week and when he refused, I guess the next most logical step was to drive the six hours from Boston and corner me at work.” Your teeth grit, angry at the fucking gall that fills Brooke whatever-the-fuck her last name is. God forbid Steve or Eddie ever accidentally tell you what it is, because the day it comes her inbox will be flooded with just a little piece of your mind, and she'll be lucky if profanities are the worst things you say.

“What are you thinking?” He asks, having watched your face move through the storm of emotions.

“I was thinking that I fucking hate your ex-wife and if she has no haters then I’m dead,” you answer, dead panning.

“I love you,” he sighs, tugging you in against his chest. “Are you hungry?”

You look at the wrappers decorating the mahogany coffee table, “Surprisingly yes.”

“Lets get a real meal in you, shall we?”

Eddie is present at every doctor's appointment, every ultrasound, birthing class, and even at 20 weeks, when you were inexplicably spotting, stayed with you throughout the 7 hour wait at the ER. He certainly helped you hide from the embarrassment of the doctor explaining the bleeding seemed to be brought on by intercourse and to start being a bit more careful.

Only one time does a health care worker mistake Eddie for being your father, a mistake quickly fixed at the death glare he gives her. You don’t know how, as you look nothing alike and he has been doting on you too affectionately to be a dad, but you can’t help teasing him by calling him daddy as soon as she leaves the room.

Well, that’s a lie.

There is one other time he’s mistaken for your father, running into the maternity ward and anxiously stating your name to the front desk of labor nurses. The head nurse, a woman bearing silver streaks in her hair, calmly tells him to relax and sit down, only the baby’s father is allowed in the room with patients.

“Well you better take me to my wife, then,” he deadpans, his eyes harsh enough to shoot daggers if it were physically possible.

She stutters through her response. “Oh, you-you’re her husband? I’m so sorry I assumed–my mistake, she’s in the third door on the left.”

He rushes to the door, ignoring her last pleas for forgiveness. He was far too busy focusing on how he knew he shouldn’t have gone into work when he knew you were due to go into labor any day now. He knew he should've told them to ask Joe for the solution, as he was basically acting owner while he was away.

When he bursts through the door, you’re sat on the bed in the room with Bethany petting your face as you push through a particularly hard contraction.

He waits and watches anxiously for you to get through it before announcing his arrival. As soon as your eyes land on him he sees your face crumple in relief and your hands reach out for him. “Baby,” you whine, seeking the comfort of his shampoo and cologne.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes, planting a big kiss on the hand that was reached out. “Thank you so much, Bethany, for taking her.”

She shrugs, dismissing his over exaggerated gratitude. “She’s been a champ. Let me know if you two need anything.”

Eddie pets your hair, leaning in to plant a gentle kiss on your lips. “How’ve you been, baby?”

“Only been an hour, and I am so over labor,” you whine, smiling pathetically. “Thanks for coming so fast.”

Eddie was surprised he didn’t get pulled over, going 90 down the freeway. He turned a 20 minute drive into 8. “Made any progress?”

“I’m only one centimeter dilated. We could be here for a while.”

“I’m here every minute,” he says, grabbing a chair to sit by your bed. “I believe in you. We’ll listen to Taylor, listen to a smutty audio book, watch a true crime series, whatever you want, baby.”

True to his word, he allowed you to blast your Faves Spotify playlist, watched a few episodes of 48 Hours with you, and even sat with you as he let you play with the makeup you had packed in your hospital bag on his face.

You made him look like a Captain Jack Sparrow, giggling as he animatedly talks in a pirate voice. The best thing about Eddie being there is that he wards off your parents and others who wish to visit you in your labor and acts as your advocate when the nurse is too rough with you and requests a new nurse immediately. Well, and his presence alone puts you at ease, of course.

It feels like forever, but you’re eight centimeters dilated when a familiar face walks down the hall, passing his father as he carries the millionth cup of ice chips you requested. “Bud! Did someone text you about–”

“She told me when Bethany was driving her to the hospital, but that’s actually not why we’re here,” Dylan sheepishly admits, his shoulders shrugging up to his ears as a pink blooms across his cheeks.

“We?” Eddie catches on, blinking. “Is Maya also..?”

“Yeah, we got here about three hours ago,” he squinted one eye comically, crossing his arms. “She’s about halfway there, now I think.”

“Wow she’s progressing a lot faster than we did,” Eddie comments, it taking you far more than three hours to get to five centimeters.

“It would be ironic wouldn’t it, if they had the same birthday?”

“Irony is one word for it,” Dylan chuckles. “My girlfriend asked for ice chips about eight minutes ago, and she is not patient, so I’m going to get back to it.”

“Let us know any updates, won’t you?”

“I bet my kid will be born before yours,” Dylan answers, only somewhat joking.

“Oh, you’re on, dude.”

As nurses and the doctor rushes around you, frantically assessing the baby while helping you with the afterbirth, birthing the placenta and ridding the bodily fluids that came out with the infant. Eddie cut the cord, watching carefully as the nurses quickly washed his newborn son off.

He’s simultaneously whispering sweet nothings against your cheek, how proud he is of you, describing your son’s dark hair, his little mouth opening as the nurse's hand gently washes it. “Did so good, baby, so good, I’m so fucking proud of you.”

“Is he okay?” You whisper, eyes half open as you stare up at your husband’s brown ones. “J-Josh, is he okay?”

Eddie knows exactly what you’re asking, making sure his limbs are working, that he looks healthy, that the nurses don’t look too concerned about their results. He can’t help but answer, “He’s perfect.”

Your favorite nurse, the one who got assigned after Eddie demanded it, brings him over swaddled in a hospital blanket and tucks him into your arms. The hormones and adrenaline overwhelm you as you stare at his face, selfishly grateful he looks just like his father, happily staring at the little button nose.

“I love you,” when you stare up at your husband, you’re expecting his eyes to also be planted on the newest member of the little family. Instead they’re shiny and planted on you, his expression drenched in pure love.

“I love you,” you sigh, leaning in for a sweet kiss. “He’s so perfect.”

“I fucking love you so much.”

The love fest eventually dies down, all the medical aides surrounding you finishing up and leaving the room as they steal one last glance at the happy little family.

You’re lost in your own little world when Dylan runs in, seeing the little addition sat on your chest. Eddie looks up to face Dylan dressed in a hospital gown and a hairnet. His face is lit up with the same joy as the room is filled with. “You wanna meet your grandson?”

Eddie nods, quickly stopped by his wife still lying on the bed sitting in the afterglow. “Go,” you insist, petting at the soft hair on your son. “Say hi for me.”

He smiles, placing a gentle kiss on your knotted hair, followed by his newborn. “Be right back.”

On the way over to the emergency surgery room Dylan explains that the umbilical cord ended up twisted around his son’s neck and they took Maya straight into an emergency C-Section. He sat with his girlfriend as they emptied the contents of her abdomen to allow the newest Munson to come into the world.

Eddie asked several times to make sure it was okay if her father in law, her boyfriend’s father, to go into a room where she is this vulnerable. Dylan insisted that she said it was fine and since Eddie was here for the birth of his son it would be cool for him to meet his grandson, too, within the same half hour.

Miraculously, after getting in his own scrubs, Eddie wanders in with Dylan as Maya is finished with her stitches. She’s still loopy from the general anesthesia, holding her newborn on her partially covered chest.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Eddie asked, knowing how against visitors you were.

“Just come say hi to your grandson, Eddie,” Maya chuckles, passing up the newborn. “Meet Jace Edward Munson.”

“Edward?” Eddie laughs, barely holding the mist that comes to his eyes. “What?”

Dylan scrunches his nose, tilting his head to face the newborn now in his father’s arms. “You stepped up when she left. You were everything to me. You may have stolen a girlfriend, but that is small beans in the grand scheme of things, you know?”

“Jace and Josh,” Eddie muses, laughter bubbling up his throat. “God, they even sound like twins.”

Kayla smooths over the dress she wears, nervously looking around the classroom. Are there enough learning centers set up? Will the children like the home center she put together? Will there be any difficult teachers during her first year?

For the first time, she’s on her own, placed in the very class she had spent so long working toward, kindergarten.

Her little classmates with their parents, usually mothers, wander in with wide eyes, nervously holding onto their sleeves and looking around anxiously. She talks to each little one at a time, welcoming them and offering them many activities to distract them from wanting to stay with their parents.

One little boy doesn’t need much, or any, peeling off his father as he runs in, his shaggy brown hair rustling in as he bolts straight to the building blocks. His dad walks in right after, carrying his bag dressed in a leather jacket and acid wash jeans.

“Hi,” he sighs, sounding tired. “That’s Dylan.”

“M or H?” Kayla asks.

“M.”

“Dylan, can you grab your bag from your dad and put it in the cubby?” Dylan runs to grab his bag from his dad, shouting in slight frustration as he’s pulled in for a hug. “Yours will have an M next to your name!”

He listens, but doesn’t look back as he runs back to the blocks.

“I’m Eddie,” the father says, holding his hand out. “His mom, Brooke, will pick him up after school, uh, she’s a bit of a hardass, so just beware.”

Oh, goody. She gives him a strained smile, insisting she’ll be able to handle it.

Eddie and Dylan end up being one of his favorite pairings for the year. But when Brooke walked in, she knew it became a big deal for something as small as Dylan putting his book in the wrong pocket in his bag.

Kayla got along great with Eddie, as they turned out to be the same age. They saw one another around the school as Dylan got older, even became someone Dylan could rely on for a maternal figure when his parents ended up divorcing in fifth grade.

About twenty one years after initially teaching Dylan, she’s a veteran teacher in her own right, having a monopoly over classroom #3 as she continues to be the answer for dozens of individuals when asked their favorite teacher.

She sits in her lumbar chair that her coworkers raised the money for the previous Christmas as she finally is able to look over her newest class list. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until she came across 9th and 8th from the last name, two boys with J initials and the last name Munson. She’d been wondering if she would ever have the pleasure of teaching Dylan’s boys, or if he decided to skip town like most of his classmates.

Their birthday right next to their attendance names indicated they had the same birthdate, so she was safe to assume she would have another set of twins. If they were anything like Dylan, they would be a fun sort of challenge for her, that she was sure of.

On the first day the following fall, she keeps an eye out for her former student, keeping in mind it could very well be the mother that decides to drop them off.

As she’s helping a particularly shy child settle into her classroom, she notices a parent helping their kid out of the wind breaker they’re wearing. As soon as the little girl is settled she goes to them welcoming them. She immediately recognizes the parent. “Dylan!”

“Oh, Miss. Thompson! I didn’t realize you were still teaching!” He sheepishly admits, looking at the plaque now containing her married name.

“I am just married, now,” she answers, answering him the same way she would a student out of habit. “Now, who do we have here?”

“I’m Jace,” the little boy answers shyly, brown hair of this father but stark green eyes.

“Well, Jace, would you mind finding your name at one of the cubbies for me? I think you’re put right next to someone named Josh,” she tells him, watching for any recognition of the other name she thought was his twin.

“Oh, sweet!” Jace exclaims, running with his Pokémon bag.

She gets up from her squatting position, her knees far too achy for doing it continually like she still is. “So, there’s another Munson on the class list, would you know anything about that?”

Dylan chuckles, sighing. “Well, about that–” Dylan is interrupted by a little boy with dark hair hugging him, exclaiming his name. “Hey, Josh, we were just talking about you!”

Josh laughs, tugging on Dylan’s arm. “Is Jace here?”

“Yeah, he’s playing with the dinosaurs, if I know him.”

“Cool!” Josh runs straight off, meeting his supposed relative at the play carpet.

Kayla turns around in confusion, questioning what just happened.

As if answering her, in comes another familiar face, holding a bag that looks comically small compared to his tall stature. “Ah, Kayla. I was wondering if you were still here.”

“Eddie!” She greets him, giving a very frank hug. “I have to admit, I am very confused.”

“That’s okay, you wouldn’t be the first,” Eddie comments, crossing his arms. “Me and my wife had Josh at the same time Dylan had Jace. They’re assholes, they like to gang up on adults, but don’t let them intimidate you, they can’t with their adults anymore, so they try it on teachers.”

“Takes a lot more than that to intimidate me,” Kayla answers, looking back at the boys who gained ownership over the carpet with dinosaurs and cars. “I appreciate the warning, though.” She looks back to her old friend, seeing the smile lines on his face, still carrying his son’s things. “I’m happy you found someone, though.”

“Thanks. His mom will pick him up after school,” Eddie tells her, going to the cubby with his kid’s name on it. “She’s not as bad as Brooke, so there’s no worries, there.”

“Alright, can’t wait to meet her.”

Eddie and Dylan share a look, one that Kayla misses as she starts to welcome in a few new classmates.

The bell rings for lunch for the rest of the elementary school and end of day for the kindergarteners. Mrs. Franklin, or Miss. Thompson, as Dylan knows her, helps all her students with their backpacks and jackets. It’s one thing to manage five-year-olds, it’s another to get them to stop wrestling and help them simultaneously.

The Munson boys are certainly no help, Josh trying to stick his finger up Jace’s nose, pinning him down on the dirty floor as Jace wiggles underneath him. Kayla wished Josh would stop telling Jace he’s his uncle and he has to listen to him, that way she wouldn’t have to hold back her laughter so hard.

“Okay, Mr. and Mr. Munson, break it up, your parents will be here any minute now. Get up.” They both switch their glances up to her, eyebrows raised over wide eyes. “Get up.”

They roll their eyes, Josh reluctantly getting off Jace slowly and helping him up. Slowly but surely, parents start to pick their kids up, both Munsons waiting for their parents anxiously. You wonder in with your youngest, a little three year old by the name of Stevie. She holds onto your pointer and middle finger anxiously, eyes darting around at the unfamiliar noises and faces.

Your son is seemingly nowhere to be seen, usually seen with his counterpart but you can’t see him around the crowd of parents kneeling with their kids and asking how their day was. The teacher, someone both Dylan and Eddie insisted is the best in the school, approaches you kindly to ask which kid is yours.

Before you can even answer Josh runs into you, happily glancing up at you as he wraps his arms around your legs. “Hi, baby,” you greet him, kneeling down as you pet his sweet face.

You miss the peculiar look Mrs. Franklin, or Kayla as Eddie referred to her as, gives you. Surprised to say the least that the Mrs. Munson she has yet to meet is so young. Her brows furrow even further when Jace notices you, yelling, “Grandma!” as he also runs for a hug.

“Were you boys nice to Mrs. Franklin today?”

“Of course!” Josh smiles, and you squint through his bullshit.

“Well we’re gonna make sure to be nicer or we’re gonna have to lose our tablet privileges, won’t we?”

You get back up, smiling at their grumbly faces. They never listen to new adults, it was a field day at their first day of preschool. One glance to their teacher’s observant face told you all you needed to know. “Eddie didn’t warn you, he?”

“No, but they did have a peculiar look on their faces when I mentioned meeting you. Should’ve known better, with those two,” you tilt your head, curious at what she meant. “Seriously, your husband needs to tell you more. I taught Dylan when he was in kindergarten.”

“Oh!” you exclaim, somewhat surprised. “That’s really cool! Were you surprised to see Eddie wi–”

“With another kid,” she interrupts, laughing, “yes, I was. I’m happy to see that he found someone else, Brooke, was, well, she was not a nice person.”

Your eyebrows raise at the mention of your husband’s ex-wife, this being the first person she meets outside Eddie’s inner circle to having even mentioned Brooke. “So, I’ve heard.”

“Hey mom,” you hear behind you, you shove the owner before you even see him, rolling your eyes.

It’s very recently become a silly habit of Dylan’s to call you mom, due to your son asking why his brother calls his mom by her real name and not mom like he does. After the best attempt at explaining Dylan has a different mom who is no longer around, Josh is still confused and insists that you still act like his mom, so therefore, are Dylan’s mom.

It was awkward at first, but now it’s a little inside joke. If you were told when you first got together with Eddie that Dylan would be referring to you as a maternal figure, you probably would’ve hit them on the head for fucking with you.

“Hey, kiddo,” you tease back, mocking his twisted face expression. “They were apparently giving her a hard time today.”

“Of course they were. You know we can ask one of you to switch classes, right?” Dylan asks, an aura of authority in his voice.

Their eyes go wide, even though it was a threat in their preschool room, they have yet to consider this. You didn’t want to resort to threats but with their shenanigans, it's literally one of the only things that will work.

“C’mon, your dad is making your favorite for dinner,” your shoulder cascades around Josh’s shoulder, telling him to say bye to his nephew and that he’ll see him tomorrow.

Two years later, Stevie shows up with her dark curls down to her shoulders after her father, giggling as she says hi to the teacher.

That was the last time Kayla taught one of Eddie Munson’s kids. Or, so she assumed.

The double doors to the high school flew open, big black boots echoing as the large leather jacket trails behind a slim torso. He takes the immediate left into the office, his presence large, with grey streaks leaking into his roots and an angry look on his face.

The kind administration lady looks up to his expectant face, the curiosity quickly melting into confounded terror. “Can I help you?”

“Apparently Stevie Munson is in the office right now?” Better be a damn good reason for peeling me away from one of the only moments I have left alone with my wife, he thinks, eyes observing around the office.

“Yes, she is, uh, are you her–”

“Her father, are you going to let me in the office or do I have to let myself in?”

The surprise that fills her features would be charming if Eddie wasn’t so fucking annoyed. He’s used to the assumption by now, but for the moment he just doesn’t have any patience in his body.

“You can go right ahead, Mr. Munson,” she peeps out, gesturing to the door marked Principal. Eddie’s not sure why he even asked, or how he had the foresight to ask, first. He’s surprised, honestly.

The door opens to face the school principal, his daughter and a boy sitting two seats away from her nursing his face with an ice pack. “Mr. Munson, welcome in! Have a seat.”

“No thanks,” Eddie answers, polite, but curt. He looks at his daughter, “What happened?”

She opens her mouth to answer but is interrupted by the bald principal, “I didn’t ask you, I asked her. What happened?” He directs his attention back to his daughter.

She smiles at him, the same sweet smile his wife bares. “This guy touched my ass under my skirt, so I punched him in the face.”

Eddie’s brows raised, teeth gritted as he sends a daggers at the boy he is now aware assaulted his daughter. “I’m sorry?” He asks, now directed to the principal.

“So she says,” the principal says, eyes widening at how Eddie manages to look murderous. “Granted, even if Mr. Jackson did do that, it’s not a good enough reason to assault him. She will be suspended for two days.”

Eddie laughs, loudly, shaking his head at the gall, the fucking nerve. This principal is extremely lucky it was him who answered his phone and not you. “Really? My daughter got sexually assaulted and your reaction to her defending herself is suspending her? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Mr. Munson, if you could please calm down and have a seat,” he starts, gesturing to the chair, yet again.

“Oh, I am calm. You don’t want to see me angry,” Eddie answers, the Hulk flashing through his mind. “You deciding to punish her tells me exactly why this little shit felt confident enough to lay his hands on her, to begin with. I just think about all the other girls he’s done this to, too afraid to speak up, I wonder how many times he’s done this with no consequence to feel confident enough to touch under a skirt. What the fuck is this place? No-tolerance bullying policy? Utter bullshit.”

“Mr. Munson, calm down before I call security–”

“Don’t make me laugh. Seriously. Don’t.” Eddie sighs, pinching his nose. “If you do suspend her, I will press charges against him and I will sue this fucking school. If you punish him, like you’re supposed to, take him off his team for the season, put him in detention for a month, I don’t care, something with fucking consequences, I won’t. You decide.”

He looks down at the little shit, whimpering as he still nurses the barely there bruise. “You better hope I don’t hear you doing this shit to any other girl in this school, or you won’t get into any college in the country.” He pauses, opening the office door to an audience. Maybe he was louder than he thought he was. “C’mon Stevie, let’s go get some fucking ice cream.”

When you heard about how your husband stuck up for your daughter like that, you got on your knees for him in the bathroom. That might’ve cheered him up a bit.

The sounds are familiar yet foreign when you wake up to the blindingly white room, the chatter in the hallway and some heart monitor beeping. Two people immediately come into focus, Josh, sitting at the end of the bed on his phone, Stevie sitting concerned by your head.

You moan, sitting up in your bed annoyed at the stark contrast of the back of your eyelids. “What the hell?”

“Mom!” Josh shouts, getting up and standing on the other side of his sister.

“Mom,” Stevie runs out of the room, calling for a doctor.

You look to your son, brows furrowed. “What happened?”

“You passed out at the grocery store. You fainted and you didn’t wake up until just now.”

Your brows raise, because you haven’t felt off even the slightest. The dizziness hit you out of nowhere, going from fine to woozy in two seconds and falling flat on your face. “How long ago did that happen?”

“Like twenty minutes? The ambulance got there pretty quickly,” he admits, turning his head to his sister and the nurse coming in the door.

“Mrs. Munson! So glad to see you awake. I’ll let the doctor know and he should be able to give your results,” she says, sweet smile as she turns away.

Stevie’s bottom lip is stuck out, quivering as she grabs the hand containing an IV line. You thought that was a bit much. “Stevie, I’m okay.”

“Are you sure, because I heard the nurses saying it’s not normal to stay out that long after fainting. What if you’re sick?”

“I’m okay,” you insist, watching both their worried faces. “Fuck, you called your dad, didn’t you?”

“Uh, yes! He would’ve killed us if we didn’t!” Josh laughs, leaning back in his chair.

As if summoned, your husband pokes his head in, his eyes wide as he walks in the room, hands out to you as his long legs take him to the head of the bed. “Fucking Christ.”

“Hi, baby,” you greet him, leaning into the forehead kiss that he gives you. “I’m okay.”

“Fainting in the fucking grocery store, fucking hell. My god, baby.” He looks over to his kids, “What tests have they done, so far?”

“Just a blood test, I think,” Stevie shrugs.

“They might do an MRI but that could take weeks of waiting.” Josh offers no comfort to his dad despite his best efforts.

“I’m okay, really.” You insist to all their worried faces. “You didn’t call anyone else, did you?”

“Uh, we called Dylan,” Josh says, wincing at your annoyed face. “And Jace.”

“Fuck,” you mutter, intertwining your hand with Eddie’s rough one.

The doctor doesn’t come as quickly as the nurse promised, but he comes within two hours. “Oh, hello, you have quite the visitors, don’t you?”

You shrug, rubbing his thumb as it anxiously rubs your hand.

“We have the results, inconclusively.” The air is tense, every one of the family seemingly expecting terrible news. “Congrats! You’re pregnant.”

You knew nothing was wrong, but this was not what you were expecting. You’re forty-two, Eddie is nearly seventy. You weren’t even sure he could still get you pregnant. You meet your husband’s eyes, sharing a bewildered smile.

In the meantime, shouts of disgust from your teenage kids fill the room, standing up with tense shoulders.

“Gross!”

“Ew! I didn’t even know you guys still did it! Oh my god! Ew!!!!”

You bite your lip, shrugging. “Are you wanting to be a father to a newborn at almost 70?”

Eddie smirks, leaning in for a kiss that makes your kids jeer again. “Bring it on, baby.”

Steve calls an hour later, concerned for the text his name sake sent him. When Eddie informs him, you’re pregnant, twenty years of karma hits tenfold.

When Steve and Jocelyn said they were pregnant with Eliza fifteen years after having Dustin, Eddie spent the pregnancy making fun of their oopsie baby. Asking if they knew what protection was, joking how they still had sex, telling them to keep it in their pants, the works.

Now, Steve was more than happy to return the favor. “A baby at 70, you old bastard? What was that you told me twenty years ago? God, I’m surprised you two still do it, considering how low Eddie’s ball sack must be hanging.”

“You wish you could see my ball sack, you asshole,” Eddie teases, laughing with you as you sigh. “You’re just jealous I can still keep it up, you geriatric bastard.”

Five years later, when Eddie and Kayla are older, he wanders into classroom #3 for the last time, holding his third son who ends up being notoriously clingy towards his older father.

It’s ironic to the both of them how Eddie has a son for both Kayla’s first and last year of teaching, keeping tabs on one another for the duration of forty years.

Eddie doesn’t say anything, letting Tommy down and dismissing her questioning look. Don’t wanna talk about it.

By the time Tommy is 18, Eddie is too old to give a shit, wondering constantly what Wayne’s opinion will be when he ends up knocking on heaven’s door.

When you got into your sixties, Eddie was full of gratitude, thankful that you will no longer be confused for one of his kids despite his actual kids all calling you mom. He makes fun of your vision, stealing his reading glasses constantly despite his constant insisting that you get your own pair.

Despite the smile lines by his lips and his eyes, the sunspots decorating his skin, you still stare up at him like you did when he was forty-seven.

Your lives were forever intertwined from the moment you saw him, from the moment he saw you. He lies down in your bed next to you for the millionth time, his hand caressing your side, pressing kisses on whiskered lips, it doesn’t occur to you to ever be anything less than woefully in love with him.

———————-

Thanks so much for reading remember that reblogging and replies are the best way to support your fic writers

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#eddie munson #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x reader smut #older eddie munson x you #older eddie munson x reader #older eddie munson #older!eddie x reader #older!eddie munson #older!eddie

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cas-kingdom · 2 months

Text

The Night Shift

A/N: First NCIS fic! Decided to keep my OC's name instead of reader as I'm pretty attached to her.

If you're alone on V Day, here's some Gibbs. <3

Title: The Night Shift

Summary: What's worse than a sick Gibbs? A sick mini Gibbs.

Words: 2568

It was two am, and Emmie Gibbs was tired.

She wrinkled her nose as something tickled at it and sat up to reach for the packet of tissues sitting dutifully by the pillow.

It was two am, and Emmie Gibbs was sick and tired.

Tony, the shit-stirrer that he was, leaned precariously back in his swivel chair to stare at her. If it weren’t for the squeak of the chair itself, she still would have noticed his sudden attention by the feeling of his eyes boring into her for perhaps the tenth time since they’d set up camp in the NCIS building about five hours ago. He was relentless.

Emmie paused. Tissue wedged in her nose, sinuses burning, she looked up and stared at him. Tony rose an eyebrow. Emmie hardened her stare. Tony, because he was Tony, purposefully leaned further back so she could see the exact moment he dramatically cupped a hand to his stupid little mouth and—

“Giiibbs!”

Emmie’s jaw tensed. Tony grinned in superfluous victory.

Another squeak, a more familiar one this time, and Gibbs’s swivel chair glided along the carpeted floor around the divider between the cubicles until he could see Emmie. She was still sitting up, looking quite the sight with a tissue halfway up her right nostril and her hair sticking at all angles. On any other day she would have responded to Tony’s pure gall by glaring him straight into the ground. But today was not that day. Today was a bad day. Today, her week-long, just-about-bearable cold had decided to manifest into sinusitis, and she’d woken with a face that felt as though tiny little men were mining for gold in her skull. Ducky had liked that metaphor.

Partly because she was absolutely awful at caring for herself when she was ill, and partly—mostly—because he knew he wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on work if she was left to fend for herself at home, Gibbs had dragged Emmie into the office with him. She’d made her rounds all day—curled up on Abby’s little couch at first, then bundled off to an empty room when Abby found working in silence too impossible. At lunchtime, a meeting had been scheduled in the room, and she’d been forced to accompany Gibbs and Tony in the car to a naval base connected to the case they were working on, sniffling and groaning in the back seat like a Victorian child on her death bed.

And here she was now, at two a bloody m, lying on an ungodly amount of blankets, wrapped in Gibbs’s jacket and Tony’s hoodie, on the floor, feeling like her body was readying to explode. Life couldn’t get worse.

Unless you were acquainted with Tony DiNozzo. In which case, life could, and most certainly would, get worse.

Gibbs dipped his head and rose an eyebrow at Emmie. Emmie couldn’t do much in her defence but sniff. Hard. A slight protest only she had the guts to attempt. It was when he pointed a finger at her and motioned with it for her to lie down again that Emmie tossed her arms up.

“Do you know—” Another sniff—“Do you even know how hard it is to lie down and feel your sinuses drain into your throat?” Her voice was so nasally she couldn’t sound stern, even if she put every ounce of effort into it.

Tony, naturally, did not try hard to cover his amusement at that. He snorted and crossed his arms over his chest, spinning from side to side absently in his chair with the tip of his tongue held between his smirking lips when Emmie turned narrowed eyes on him.

“I was getting a tissue, FYI,” she said to him and only him. “So, you can stop being a kiss ass, Anthony.”

“Emmie.” Gibbs disappeared behind the divider again. “Back to sleep.”

Tony, meanwhile, gaped. “Kiss ass who?”

Emmie ignored him and shuffled back down again. She shut her eyes and swallowed. Already the disgusting stuff had decided the place it wanted to be right now was her stomach, and was meandering slowly down her throat towards it.

“You were being a bit of a kiss ass,” she heard Gibbs agree.

“Oh, come on. You said you wanted her to sleep!”

“Yeah, and I do.”

“But you’re gonna call me a kiss ass when I tell you she’s not sleeping? Kiss my ass.”

“What was that?”

“Sorry, Boss.”

In all honesty, there was nothing more that Emmie wanted least right now than to sleep. True, she was exhausted, but the part of her brain not currently still enshrouded in said exhaustion wanted to be up and active again, helping Gibbs with the case like her internship allowed.

And yet, the man still believed she needed her head on a pillow.

The team had been working on a case all day, one she didn’t know the specifics of. It wasn’t exactly often that they stayed in the office well into the night to continue their current case, but it appeared Gibbs had a weird feeling about this one. From the snippets of conversation that she’d picked up and actually retained in her decrepit brain, a potential witness was lying unconscious in a hospital bed somewhere, and Gibbs wanted to speak to him the moment he woke up, which, according to the doctors, could be at any time. That apparently required the entire team to stay behind which, considering the fact Emmie was currently holed up on the floor of Ziva’s empty cubicle, not everyone had complied with.

The moment Tony got out of his chair to help Gibbs with something and disappeared from her line of sight, Emmie eased herself into a sitting position once more. She reached for the tissues again, rubbing at her leaking nose with the sleeve of Gibbs’s jacket and not possessing the brain power to regret that decision. She blew into a tissue, paused to catch her breath, then—

“Gibbs.”

Emmie deflated completely. Wow. The world truly hated her today.

She looked up to see McGee walking in with a bag of takeout. He barely glanced at her as he passed, choosing to instead spend that energy alerting Gibbs to the fact she was, again, not lying down.

Before either Tony or Gibbs could come into view once more, Emmie sighed, stuck two bits of tissue in both nostrils, and scooted backwards to sit against the wall.

“Can’t breathe lying down,” she said before anyone could say a single word. “And I’m tired of being tired. I don’t want to sleep anymore. Leave me alone. Don’t talk to me. Shush.”

Tony’s head appeared around the corner, and he snorted again. Then the squeak of Gibbs’s chair as he got up. A rustling. A moment later he appeared with a takeout box in his hand, walking towards her. He lifted it so she could see, and she groaned, shaking her head. A corner of Gibbs’s mouth lifted but he wasn’t about to back down on this fight. He never did.

He knelt in front of her, close enough to see the pallidness of her face and the slight sickly tremble of her small frame. Emmie visibly relaxed when he reached out a hand to press against her forehead, the coolness of his skin momentarily dowsing the heat of hers.

Gibbs checked the watch at his wrist. “Another couple hours and you can dose up again.”

“Thanks.”

“Yep. ‘Till then…” He went to withdraw his hand, but Emmie’s own hand shot up and pinned his to her forehead.

“No,” she said simply.

“No to my hand leaving, or food?”

“No.”

“You gotta eat. You know the drill. Eat or sleep.” She grumbled something and Gibbs reached with his free hand to lift the lid on the box. The smell of warm chicken soup filled the space between them, and Emmie wrinkled her nose. “Come on, kiddo. It’s only soup.”

“I feel too sick to eat.”

“Sleep it is, then.”

“Dad—”

“Hey. The cure for alll Emmie-related illness is sleep. Always has been, always will be.” It was true. Gibbs knew his daughter better than she knew herself, after all. Everyone was different, but Emmie’s medicine was sleep until she could look him in the eye and confidently tell him she felt a bit better. If years of being a single parent had taught him anything, it was that.

With a bit of reluctance, he pulled his hand from her head and leant forward on his toes. “You don’t have to lie down to sleep,” he told her. “Here—” Emmie wasn’t quite sure what he was doing with the pillows and blankets behind her, but when he sat back and she turned as much as her aching neck would allow, there was a nice little DIY upright-bed against the wall. Gibbs, seemingly proud of his work, was met with a look of absolute discontent on his daughter’s face.

He puffed his cheeks out and glanced at the soup. “Aeroplane?”

“Seriously?” Emmie deadpanned.

He reached for the spoon, a teasing smile pulling at his lips. “Worked when you were a kid.”

“There’re a few keywords in that sentence, Dad. Are you trying to give Tony more fuel to embarrass me?”

Gibbs glanced over his shoulder. Tony had returned to his desk, leaning dangerously back in his chair to gain the best vantage point. The man had absolutely zero shame.

Gibbs jerked his head. “Check with the hospital about Lupin, would you, DiNozzo?”

Tony visibly deflated. Emmie sent him a smug look and he stuck his tongue out. Reluctantly, he wheeled back to his desk and picked up the phone. “Do this, DiNozzo, do that, DiNozzo,” he grumbled to himself. “Oh, while you’re at it, why don’t you polish my boots and write a thesis on my intellectual prowess, DiNozzo? Sure, I’ll get right on it, Boss!” He dialled the number and put the phone to his ear. “Should I get your laundry and your coffee too, Boss? Should I do—hi, there! Anthony DiNozzo, NCIS, calling for an update on a patient? Ryan Lupin. Yeah, I’ll hold. Thanks.”

“Dad.” Such an exasperated voice could only belong to the resident invalid, and after only a second’s hesitation, Tony—slowly—wheeled himself back, as far as the cord to the phone still held against his ear would allow. Emmie and Gibbs were still on the floor, the former looking most disgruntled at the spoon in the latter’s hand.

“I’m being serious,” she said then.

“So am I,” Gibbs said, “very serious. I’m being very serious right now. Soup?”

Emmie rolled her eyes, but a smile was pulling at her lips all the same. She shook her head. “Go back to your desk, old man.”

Tony’s brows shot up and he grinned. “Oohoohoo!” He was close to rubbing his hands together in sheer glee. “You gonna let her get away with that, Boss?”

“Lupin, DiNozzo.”

“I’m on hold!” The fact that Gibbs made no sign that he was going to pick his daughter up on her insult, when Tony knew that if he’d been the one to call his boss elderly he’d be getting a bit more than a slap to the back of the head, hit a sore spot. “Wait,” he said, looking hilariously appalled, “you’re actually gonna let her get away with it?”

Gibbs, defeated in this part only, dropped the spoon back in the box and put it on the desk. “I’ve been called worse,” he called back, “believe me.”

“Grandpa,” Emmie said.

“Thank you, Em, that’s very helpful.”

“Ninnyhammer, pillock, douche canoe, old man—”

“You already said that one.” Gibbs chuckled. “Douche canoe?”

Emmie shrugged. “Dunderhead.”

“Alright.”

“Ugly…nut.”

“Jemima.”

McGee, who’d since been silently working and eating at his desk, paused. Mouth open, forkful of noodles on its way, he turned confused eyes to the ground.

“Her name’s Jemima?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “How long you been here McGee?”

As soon as Emmie looked the slightest bit like she was about to resume her name-calling, Gibbs put his palm over her mouth. He rose a brow in warning. She blinked. Blinked again. Then—

“Aw, come on!” Gibbs’s face contorted into one of absolute disgust as a rush of air and wet stuff flew at his hand. He withdrew it immediately, holding it away from him, while Emmie sniffed and nonchalantly used the jacket sleeve again.

“You little crapbag.” It was the best he could come up with.

“What? You think I plan my sneezes?”

Tony, up until now quite enjoying the performance, rolled quickly back to the desk with the phone at his ear. “Hi, yeah, I’m still here.”

Gibbs stood and walked briskly to his desk so he could grab the stack of napkins the takeout had come with. “I don’t doubt anything when it comes to you.”

“Thank you.” Emmie rubbed at her red eyes with her hand and slumped against the back of the wall. Gibbs, coating his hands with sanitizer, watched with a knowing eye. He shook his hands and walked back around to Ziva’s cubicle, perching on the desk to look down at her.

“You’re sick,” he said.

“I know. And?”

“And, sick people eat soup, and they sleep. Okay? They don’t stay up at all hours of the night—nooo, no, no. I’m talking now, kiddo. I know you’ve been sleeping all day, I know you wanna get up and back to work, but that’s not happening until your fever’s gone. No point in fighting that, and you know full well. Clear?”

Any other day. Any. Other. Day. The protests were practically clawing at her throat. But a sudden wave of nausea rushed over her and she backed down immediately. Still, the thought of lying down again was awful, and the tired eyes she turned on her dad somehow translated that.

Gibbs sighed. “What’s it gonna take, huh?” Emmie didn’t need to think about her answer to that. She wasn’t even sure her expression had changed at all when Gibbs shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “No,” he said, “come on, now. I gotta work.”

This time, she did change her expression, putting it on in the way she knew worked best. Gibbs, naturally, relented.

“Fine,” he said, motioning with his hands for her to move over. She did, though admittedly it was a bit of a pitiful move with her aching body. He breathed a short laugh but came to sit in the miniscule space she’d made beside her anyway.

“Thanks, douche canoe,” Emmie whispered.

Tony put the phone down. “Still knocked out, Boss,” he said, pushing his chair backwards. When he saw Gibbs on the floor, arm wrapped around his daughter, who had her head on his shoulder, he crossed his arms over his chest and positively pouted.

“Hey, why do you get to sleep?”

Gibbs chuckled and shut his eyes. “When you’ve got a sick kid, I’ll let you sleep on the office floor with her. Wake me before Lupin does, would you?”

“How am I—Boss? Boss?” Tony threw his arms up in the air and shook his head, grabbing a notebook from his desk to doodle in. “Kiss my ass.”

“Heard that.”

“I wanted you to.”

Well, one thing was for certain. Gibbs may have won this fight, but so had Emmie.

NCIS Masterpost

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redredcherries · 3 months

Text

Bickering with Rafe Cameron

words: 0.5k

characters: kook!oc x bestfriend’sbro!rafe cameron

⋆ ˚｡⋆ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆ ˚｡⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆ .

Sleepovers with Sarah were frequent, given the fact that Aurora's parents worked abroad most of the time, leaving her alone in an empty mansion, with only a housekeeper as her only companion. The Camerons were used to Aurora’s presence in their home, taking good care of her as if she is one of them, often preparing an extra dinner portion for Aurora and leaving her usual spot on the couch empty during movie nights.

Plaiting her long hair with ribbons, Aurora furrowed her brows in concentration as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Golden rays of sunlight seeped through the large curtained windows, lighting up Sarah's bedroom with a warm glow, casting an ethereal halo around Aurora's delicate features.

As Aurora deftly intertwined the ribbons, she smiled at Sarah’s reflection, still soundly asleep in her bed, soft snores escaping her parted lips. Laughing heartily, Aurora slipped out of Sarah’s bedroom slowly, taking a glimpse of her neatly plaited hair and Chanel matching set as she passed by the mirrors adorning Sarah’s closet, then descended the stairs happily in search of breakfast.

Skipping into the kitchen in the early morning, Aurora hummed along to her favorite song as she searched for strawberry milk in the fridge for her breakfast cereal, not noticing the smirking figure of Rafe Cameron leaning against the kitchen counter, chugging the milk directly from the carton.

“Looking for this, beautiful ?” Dangling the empty carton in the air, Aurora jumped at the sound of his voice, as Rafe looked at Aurora with amusement in his eyes.

“For God’s sake, Rafe ! ,” Aurora replied, clutching her chest as she walked over to him, her heels clicking against the marble floor, “ You’ve finished my carton of milk in one gulp, you owe it to me now. Help me get another one from the store, yeah?” Glancing up at Rafe with a victorious smile on her face, she flicked her long hair behind her back, turning around to wash up some berries for her smoothie.

“ No way in hell I’m doing that.” Shaking his head in defiance as he toyed with the loose strand of her ribbon, “You may look cute but I’m tired as shit, Rora.”

Turning off the tap abruptly, Aurora turned around to face Rafe, staring at him face to face with an unreadable look on her face. She observed him features closely, noticing the intensity of dark circles beneath his ocean blue eyes, her brows knitting together in concern.

“ I hear you sneaking in through the back door every night at 4am since the start of July,” Aurora said softly, her eyes meeting his for a second “Where were you ? Sarah has been worried sick since…”

“ You stayed up just to wait for me?” Rafe interrupted, with an amused grin plastered across his face, brushing a strand of loose hair from her blushing cheeks.

“ I-I’m a light sleeper… and don’t you dare change the subject !” Aurora interjected, her face turning a deep shade of red as Rafe chuckled, flicking his car keys out of his pocket and waving goodbye to her sarcastically, exiting through the front door.

“Where are you -“

“ Suddenly I recall owing a pretty girl her precious strawberry milk !”

💋: my first fic ! hope u enjoyed x

-redredcherries

#obx #rafe cameron #drew starkey #drew starkey x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #outer banks #jj maybank #sarah cameron

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the-bottom-of-the-abyss · 1 year

Text

siren song

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

This used to be an OC but I'm changing it to a reader insert; Other characters will still talk about "you" in the third person. While a reader insert, the MC will still be American and have a fleshed out backstory.

They called you Siren They called him Ghost

----

"Siren," Price told Laswell, "Sniper, expert in infilitration and undercover ops. American Special Forces."

Kate stared at the picture for a moment before asking, "Siren? As in the sea creature?"

Price shot her a half-smile. "Yes, the same. She seems to be the weakness of every man and she knows it. She's damn good with a rifle but her best weapon is herself."

next chapter: chapter 1

Notes: This is my first Ghost story! I have played the campaign and I just couldn't help myself! This is just the prologue but they will meet next chapter. Oh, and this fic will 1000% have smut. This takes place before and during the first mission, "Strike"

This used to be an OC but I'm changing it to a reader insert; Other characters will still talk about "you" in the third person.

Prologue

"Who's your crew?"

John Price sat opposite of Kate Laswell, taking in the cozy atmosphere of the cafe, but still somehow feeling on edge from recent events.

"Sergaent Garrick," Price replied.

"Kyle?"

"They call him 'Gaz'." the Captain continued, "He never said anything."

He handed Kate the folder for Gaz and continued reading. "John MacTavish, SAS. Sniper - demolitions. Goes by 'Soap'."

"Why?" Kate questioned as he handed her Soap's dossier.

"That's classified."

Kate gave him a dubious look, eliciting a chuckle before he moved on.

"There he is..." Price said, handing Kate the folder. "Simon Riley."

Laswell's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "There's no picture."

Price's reply was quick. "Never."

He handed her a final file, one with a picture of a woman with hair the color of fresh espresso and with a face like an angel. But it was the eyes that set you apart, a piercing hue that seemed a little too empty, void of emotion in comparison to your smile. At first glance you seemed harmless, but the longer one looked, the more unnerving your portrait grew.

"Siren," Price told her, "Sniper, expert in infilitration and undercover ops. American Special Forces."

Kate stared at the picture for a moment before asking, "Siren? As in the sea creature?"

Price shot her a half-smile. "Yes, the same. She seems to be the weakness of every man and she knows it. She's damn good with a rifle but her best weapon is herself."

"Now the rest," he continued, leaning forward across the table, "That's need to know. Unless we got a deal."

"What are you calling this task force?" Laswell asked.

"1-4-1."

---------

Months later

13 July 2022

2200, Upscale hotel somewhere in Europe

The bar was crowded but you weren't focused on all the other people. Those who were drinking away their sorrows, the ones meeting mistresses, and suits on a business trip. No, you was focused on the group of ten Russian Ground Forces operatives in the corner, sporting casual clothes instead of a uniform. Your eyes jumped from man to man, silently matching them up in your head with some of the pictures in the brief General Shepard gave you. Of course, this was only a portion of them, there were about fifty in total staying in the hotel. All of them were waiting on a flight to Al Mazrah and transporting a boat load of weapons, and it was your job to figure out exactly where they were headed.

You leaned back against, resting your elbows on the bar as you sat on a barstool, softly jutting out your chest and letting your hair perfectly frame your face. You knew you were beautiful, and you knew what men would do, what men would say, for a beautiful woman; all the secrets they would reveal, just to touch. A strapless navy dress stuck to your body like a second skin, accentuating every curve on your body, save for a slit in the leg that went up to your mid-thigh.

Your targets were already glancing your way. Oogling, more like.

Too easy, you thought. You intentionally locked eyes with one of them and batted your eyelashes innocently before looking away, appearing embarrassed to the untrained eye. For extra affect, you crossed one leg over another, causing the slit to reveal more of your smooth skin.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw some of his buddies nudging him and pointing in your direction, all of your plans falling neatly into place. You brought your eyes back to the man now coming towards you and made a show of looking at him up and down, pointing your gaze in between his legs for a second longer and giving a sultry look. You could see his throat working to gulp down his nerves.

He squeezed himself in the opening beside you and you turned to fully face him. He was average looking, nothing too special. It was what was in his pants you were interested in.

His phone.

"Hello, beautiful," his accent was thick, but the English seemed fluent.

"Hello there," you cooed, letting your voice become sickeningly sweet.

"You are not from here?" He questioned, noticing your accent sticking out among the natives around you.

"No," you replied, "I'm from America but I'm on a work trip. What brings you here?" As you talked, you ran your finger over the hand he had placed on the bar and traced nonsensical patterns.

"A-Also business," he said, obviously getting distracted by the physical contact. You kicked it up a notch, going as far as to rub your high-heeled foot along the side of his calf. You leaned forward and was pleased to note he seemed already intoxicated, speeding up your plan by being able to avoid spending needless time ordering drinks.

You placed your hand on the man's chest and ran it slowly upwards before traveling down one of his arms. He seemed young and nervous but also attempted to exude confidence while you carressed him.

"I'm only here for tonight but..." you purposefully trailed off, looking at him with doe-eyes and gently biting you lip. "I've been looking for a real man to help me." You were laying it on a little thick, but time was of the essence, and he didn't seem all that concerned. You had him right there and decided to go in for the kill.

You leaned in real close and whispered in his ear, "I need a man to fuck me."

He audibly groaned, prompting you to bite his earlobe softly before pulling his hand off the bar and setting it on your waist. "Can you be that man for me?"

He nodded comically fast and pulled you to stand up, not bothering to wait for any privacy before sliding his hand down over your ass. A long time ago, you would have been repulsed. You would have showered for days, trying to scrub off any evidence. Now, you didn't feel it at all, didn't pay attention to anything except your next goal: getting him away from his phone. He led you out of the crowded bar, leaving his friends to cheer him on. You boarded the empty elevator and he pushed you against the wall after pressing his floor, smashing his lips against yours. It was sloppy and anything but a turn on but you willingly let him explore your mouth and grope your body and reciprocated with responding movements, all while you were plotting on how to steal the information from him.

A hand made its way to your covered breast. I bet the information is in his email.

Another grabbed your thigh and hiked it over his hip. These lower guys never bother to encrypt anything, a blessing, really.

A hardness grinded into the apex of your thighs and you let out a manufactured moan. Luckily they are on a tight schedule, they likely won't look for a body tomorrow when he doesn't show.

The ding of the elevator caused him to break away and grab your hand before rushing to a hotel room. As he fumbled with the keycard you kissed and bit his neck, all while sliding your fingertips below his belt. He finally got the door open and pulled you inside. He attacked you with his lips again and shoved his tongue in your mouth, pawing at your ass and grinding into your hip.

Pathetic. You thought to yourself while you faked a whimpering noise and a gasp when he moved on from your lips to bite the top of your left breast. While he was occupied, you reached for the small, curved knife, a minuture karambit, that sat holstered in a sewn in slot inside your dress, just under your armpit. One of his hands creeped up the inside of your thigh, touching the edge of your lace lingerie.

However, he never made it to his destination on account of the knife sticking in his neck.

A quick kill, although a little bloody. His body fell limp on the ground in front of you, blood continuing to pool out. You dislodged your knife and searched his pockets, finally pulling out his phone.

"Jackpot."

You used his finger to open up the phone before stepping over his body and sitting on the bed, all of your attention now focused on scanning for any information about tomorrow's final destination for the selling the weapons. A certain message caught your eye; it detailed the schedule for tomorrow and the directions to the base they were meeting at in Al Mazrah for the arms deal. A sense of satisfaction filled you at acquiring this information. You did not feel guilty about killing the man. You have killed many men, and the part of you that felt guilt for the role you played died a long time ago.

You wiped off the blood that got on your chest and walked out of the room, phone in hand. You were not worried about cameras, you knew the CIA counter-terrorism team would take care of it. You took the elevator back up to your own room and immedaitely went for your computer once inside. You pulled up the video call option for General Shepard and sat in the chair, not caring about your mused hair or slightly smeared lipstick or the bruise forming on your upper breast.

He answered immediately and with him was Kate Laswell, the CIA Station Chief. "Siren, tell me you have intel," the general said in lieu of a greeting.

"Of course, sir," you replied. "I have the location, I'm sending you the coordinates now. They are located in Al Mazarah. It says they will be meeting with General Ghorbani."

Both Laswell and Shepard sported a confused look at that. "Why would they be meeting with Ghorbani?" Laswell questioned out loud.

"We will find out tomorrow," Shepard said. "For now, Siren, continue."

"Any hiccups?" Laswell questioned.

"Just the usual," you said. "I will need someone to remove a body and dispose of security footage but other than that, everything was smooth."

"Great work, Sergeant. Your next assignment will begin immediately. You have been apart of the 141 Task Force for some time, but now you will begin your work with a team. Your flight leaves tonight."

---

15 July 2022

1600, Al Mazrah, U.R.A

"Watcher-1 to Bravo 0-7, you in position?"

Ghost walked through the rocky terrain, stepping back into the sunlight.

"Nearly there," he replied, continuing moving, climbing towards a vantage point on the sands below. He heard the helicopter before he saw it, flying straight overhead and towards the target point. "Got a heli incoming."

"That's General Ghorbani." Laswell replied.

"He's punctual, I'll give him that," General Shepard chimed in. "Now get up there and see what he's up to in the middle o' nowhere."

Ghost climbed up a few more rocks, finally reaching the opening and peering down at the base. "I'm eyes on."

"What do you see?" Laswell questioned. He brought out his Spotter Scope and peered down at all the equipment and people milling about.

"Armed personnel, armor and hardware," he replied. "All Russian."

"Our intel was right about them meeting," Shepard said. "But it still doesn't explain why the Russians would be meeting with Ghorbani."

"Supplying Iran," Kate replied, "it's an arms deal." Ghost sat silently as they talked, observing the scene below.

"You copying this Shadow-1?" Shepard asked Graves.

"Affirmative, two birds, one stone..."

"We need positive ID on Ghorbani before we kick this off boys."

"Ghost, can you identify the General?"

Ghost scanned the area, zooming in to look at specific people, checking to see if they were Ghorbani. He found a bunch of soldiers in one spot and said as much. "Armed escorts around one VIP. Russians are very happy to see him."

"It'll be the last time they do..." General Shepard said in response.

"Visual on General Ghorbani."

"Copy. All stations target confirmed."

"Shadow-1," Shepard started, "you are cleared hot for launch."

"Roger that, Actual," Phillip Graves replied. "Ghost, you are danger close to the zone. This arrow's gonna pack a punch."

"Copy. Approved," Ghost replied. "Send it."

"All stations, Shadow-1. Missle is ready for immediate delivery, stand by for launch. Coordinates. Target designated. Two... One... Shot out."

Soon enough the missle hit the target and the force of it made Ghost step back a bit. "Bloody fuckin' hell. Direct. Target destroyed."

#simon ghost riley #ghost #cod mw22 #ghost fanfiction #ghost smut #simon riley x reader #simon riley #ghost x reader #this is now a reader insert #simon ghost riley x you

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myteavsricochet · 4 months

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Favorite firstprince fanfics, an incomplete list:

One shots:

All the Stars We Steal From the Night Sky :

Alex is quiet, and something is wrong.

Or, Alex struggles with emotions and Henry is there to help.

(Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Basically Just Them Being Soft, Alex is struggling, Henry helps)

In His Wildest Dreams

Set in and around the Henry bonus chapter, this is a story about Henry and Alex’s hectic schedules, family appearances etc. Pulling them apart, and about what starts to happen between them, in the quiet of night: their sleeping bodies turning to each other, finding their sweet spots and opening up. And Alex and Henry learning a lot about each other in the process.

(Please, look at the tags carefully, this fic is very soft, very hot and very consensual but may not be for everyone: Consensual somnophilia, Kink exploration, Porn with feelings, Smut)

5 times Alex called Henry baby ‘casually’ and 1 time it was (definitely) because of love

How did “baby” become a thing in the film universe? When did it become a thing in the film universe? Fine, I’ll answer these questions myself.

(Additional Tags: Overuse of the word "baby", Pet Names, Fluff, Angst, 5+1 Things, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sex, Mild Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort)

Who could ever leave me darling, but who could stay?

Alex has always been too much. Objectively, he knows this. He talks too much, his volume is too much, and the fire under his ass is too much. So, when he’d met Henry, when he hadn’t cared about Henry’s opinion and had been his real, authentic, annoying self, and Henry had liked him anyway? It was something Alex struggled to wrap his head around. It started in kindergarten.

Or: A look at Alex's childhood and how hard it is always being the too-much person in any given room.

(Additional Tags: Pre-Canon, Post-Canon, Childhood, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, So much comfort)

Déjame Ver Cómo Es Que Floreces

Oscar gets in close and bluntly asks, “Earlier. In the bathroom. Did you do it?”

Alex scoffs, “No. Don't be a perv. Why would you wanna know that anyway?”

Oscar rolls his eyes. “Mind out of the gutter, chamaco. Did you propose?”

Ah.

Henry is introduced to the extended Diaz side of the family at their matriarch's birthday. Shenanigans (and romance and feelings) ensue.

(This fic is absolutely amazing ❤️

Additional Tags: Humor, Fluff, Family Fluff, Pre-Engagement, Mexican-American Culture, Mexican OC's galore, Drinking, Family Bonding, Karaoke, Post-Canon, Canon Compliant, Alex Claremont-Diaz Speaks Spanish)

Forty-Four Days

"God, I haven't seen you in forty-four days," Alex suddenly spits, and Henry feels the pain of his words in his own chest, like ice replacing the blood in his veins. Because that's it, isn't it? Forty-four days of separation. Forty-four days of waking up to an empty bed, of making coffee along with his tea only to realize that Alex isn't there to drink it, of long meetings without any of Alex's witty jokes, of cold hands on chilly autumn walks because Alex isn't there to warm them up.

Maybe it's the simple fact of hearing for the first time, or maybe it's the tipping point of the taxing day, but Henry feels something inside of him snap, and —

And all he knows is that he needs to see Alex now.

(Additional Tags: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Separations, Separation Anxiety, Late Night Conversations, Minor Character Death, but it's nothing to worry about I PROMISE, Reunions, Kissing, Literal Sleeping Together, Mild Sexual Content, they love and miss each other, that's the plot, Post-Canon, Canon Compliant)

A Mind That Never Sleeps

Five times Alex stays awake with Henry, and the one time he coaxes him back to sleep.

(Additional Tags: 5+1 Things, Insomnia, Sleepless nights, Piano, Weddings, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, that's really all this is, Post-Canon, Canon Compliant)

talk too much

Alex has his wisdom teeth removed and Henry takes care of him, fluff ensues

(Additional Tags: wisdom teeth removal, not bloody or graphic, just fluff, pure fluff, No Angst, Henry Pov, firstprince, living in the brownstone, FLUFF I TELL YOU, Henry taking care of Alex, and Alex taking care of Henry too hehe, You’ll see)

silk and steel

Thanks to a welcome day off, Henry and Alex spend a lazy morning in bed. Soft, mid-morning cuddles escalate into semi-soft, mid-morning sex.

(Addictional tags: Morning cuddles, Morning sex, Body worship, Light dom/sub, Praise kink, Established relationship, Top Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Bottom Alex Claremont Diaz)

I don't wanna dance, if I'm not dancing with you

"You want me at a ball?"

"I want you with me as often as possible," Henry says, immediately, as if it's obvious. Maybe it is. "But yes, it would be nice to have you there. I'm not necessarily actively trying to anger my grandmother, which you being there might, but... Well, she hasn't exactly extended an invitation but I have just as much right as anyone to bring a date and--"

"Baby." Henry's rambling stops short on what nearly sounds like a gasp, and Alex grins to himself. Sometimes, his boyfriend is too easy. "Do you want me there?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll be there."

----

or, Henry wants Alex at a ball and Alex is anxious about it.

(Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Post-Canon, Ballroom Dancing, Alex Claremont-Diaz Has ADHD, Hurt/Comfort)

If You Hold Me Without Hurting Me, You’ll Be the First Who Ever Did

Henry feels himself aching for Alex—this Alex, the one who’s at home in Texas, the one who’s vulnerable and free—and he sees the ache reflected in Alex’s eyes.

The first night they spend at the lake house, before Alex wakes up with Henry's swimsuit tangled around his elbow.

(Additional Tags: Emotions, Anal Sex, Bottom Henry, alex calling henry baby, henry calling alex love, Boys In Love, Porn with Feelings, Henry Pov, so it's a wee bit angsty)

love dares you, to change our way of caring about ourselves

Henry has read it all: fairy-tales of princes and their courters, unsung histories of kings and their secret lovers, and he has read all their happy endings. But he is not a prince in a fairy-tale, and he has always thought his own secret love story was likelier to end in tragedy.

Perhaps it’s time that changed.

(Or, Henry’s POV the morning after The Great Claremont-Diaz Ambush at Kensington Palace)

Let Me Hold Your Head in My Hands

Alex has a migraine.

Henry takes care of him.

(Additional Tags: Sickfic, Sick Character, Boys In Love, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Caretaking, Idiots in Love, Headaches & Migraines, Tooth-Rotting Fluff,Domestic Fluff, Bathtubs)

you would not believe your eyes (if ten million fireflies)

Alex and Henry are staying at Alex’s house in Texas. Henry has never seen fireflies before, and Alex can’t let him get away without the experience of catching one.

Or,

Alex is helplessly in love with Henry.

(Additional Tags: Fluff, Alex Claremont-Diaz Loves Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor Loves Alex Claremont-Diaz, Summer, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, firefly catching, Fireflies, Lightning bugs, Texas)

Promises, Promises.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes again.

The corner of Henry’s mouth does the thing it does. His walls are back up.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” he mutters, before turning on his heel and marching down the hall.

——

Alex has never felt so horrible. And 3 days is a long time.

(Additional Tags: Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Misunderstandings, Arguing, Fights, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor Loves Alex Claremont-Diaz, Alex Claremont-Diaz Loves Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Stressed Alex Claremont-Diaz, Alex Claremont-Diaz Needs a Hug, Panic Attacks, Vomiting, Anxiety, Alex Claremont-Diaz Has Abandonment Issues, Abandonment Issues, Leaving Home)

The Red Side Goes Up

Henry brings home a little something new to try in the bedroom. Or: The One Where Alex Gets Jealous of a Butt Plug.

(Additional Tags: Smut, Rimming, Sex Toys, Anal Sex, Butt Plugs, Post-Canon)

(all of me changed like) midnight rain

“They’re fighting again,” he whispers instead. Henry’s eyes are sad.

“I know, love.”

Or, 5 times Alex believes his relationship with Henry won't last, and 1 time he knows it will.

Or, 5 times Alex doesn't believe in love because of his parents and 1 time Henry proves him wrong.

(Additional Tags: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Established Relationship, Breaking Up & Making Up, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Divorce, Canonical Divorce, Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Song: Midnight Rain (Taylor Swift), Depression, References to Depression)

We'll Get Together Then

5+1 times Oscar was a good dad to Henry (ft. Abuelo Oscar)

(Additional Tags: Henry and Oscar bonding, 5+1 Things, I have Feelings about their relationship, Arthur's death is mentioned)

The Bet

Looking back at it, it's all Nora's fault.

Or, the time Henry and Alex bet on who can last the longest without sex.

(Additional Tags: Bets & Wagers, No sex bet, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but it gets resolved eventually, Wet Dream, Eventual Smut, Eventual Sex, Porn With Plot, like it kind of has a plot, Mostly just porn though, Kissing, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Riding, Overstimulation, Multiple Orgasms, Switching, Post-Canon, Canon Compliant)

What Kind of Day Has It Been

Even after thirty-odd years of being together (twenty-five of those married) Henry still has to drag Alex away from his desk and up to bed. Even just a few days after routine surgery Alex can't help himself.

(Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Future Fic, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Boys In Love, Kissing, Married Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor)

take a bite, babe

And, well, Henry can no longer lie to himself. He couldn’t be more in love with Alex if he tried.

Or: five moments Henry notices Alex’s eyelashes (and falls a little more in love).

I miss you, i'm sorry

"I—I’m killing myself trying to make this work, trying to make both you and my family happy, living on planes, and it’s still not enough for you? I don’t know what else to do.”

“Well, I’m sorry it’s so hard for you to be with me,” Alex says bitterly, wiping furiously at his eyes and refusing to meet Henry’s.

"Alex—"

“No,” Alex interrupts angrily, “get it off your chest! I can’t wait to hear all about how much work I am to be with. You know what, if you’re just gonna leave me again then you might as well go ahead and do it now. Save us both the hurt.”

Or: the fight.

(Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Post-Canon, Canon Compliant, Fighting, Healthy Relationships, Alex Claremont-Diaz Has Abandonment Issues, Comfort, Healthy Conflict Resolution, Conflict Resolution)

Too Much

Okay, so maybe Alex talked too much for them. It was fine. He could still sit with them at lunch, he just had to make sure not to talk so much. Just listen to them. He could do that.

The next day, and the day after, Alex sat with the same group of kids. Only, he no longer went on rants about movies or books or what he saw on the news that morning or what his parents talked/argued over at dinner.

Alex stayed silent, desperate to not be too much.

***

OR 5 times the people in Alex's life thought that he was too much + one time Henry assured him that he wasn't.

(Additional Tags: 5+1 Things, Hurt/Comfort, Alex Claremont-Diaz Needs a Hug, Alex Claremont-Diaz Has ADHD, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Author Projecting, author's first fic)

the common tongue of you loving me

Where did kissing come from? Henry has always wondered. Why kisses? At the beginning of history, which long forgotten person, which ancestor of all mankind, was the first to press their lips to another’s in a declaration of their love?

Was it a lover, perhaps, so consumed with devotion that they sought to use lips as well as fingertips? All followed the base urge of their bodies — the innate knowledge that the pressing of lips was the highest form of touch. But no one knows why.

Except when Alex quirks his cupid’s bow, licks into Henry’s mouth and lets his bottom lip rest on Henry’s, and oh. Henry knows.

(Additional Tags: Kissing, henry has so many feelings about kissing, Explicit Sexual Content, Grinding, Frottage)

All Your Closets Of Backlogged Dreams

It’s not that the loss of the President’s oldest child is a secret. It’s just that nobody talks much about the death of Catalina June Claremont-Diaz.

It takes Alex years before he talks to Henry about her.

(The painful story no one asked for that ties June into the movie.)

(Additional Tags: Past Character Death, Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Alex Claremont-Diaz Needs a Hug, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor Loves Alex Claremont-Diaz, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Alex Claremont-Diaz Has ADHD)

i'm so in love (i might stop breathing)

He looks so fucking gorgeous like this, eyes half-lidded as he looks at Alex. He rests his head on Alex's chest, tightening his arms. Alex can see the tips of his ears turning pink.

"It's ! H G E J F M W C D 2 4 !" he mumbles in embarrassment, hiding his face in the crook of Alex's neck again. A beat of silence.

Then, almost shouting in joy, Alex yells, "Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor- Claremont-Diaz! That's your fucking password?"

"Shut up!" Henry hisses and Alex feels so many butterflies in his stomach that he's going to throw himself off of a cliff. Really, teenage girls with celebrity crushes have nothing on him at this moment.

or,

Henry is drunk and Alex is so in love he could die.

(being with you) makes the flame burn good

“Ah, would you look at that,” Alex says hoarsely, breaking the kiss, “Looks like you got a bit of batter on your neck.”

He lowers his head and licks a stripe up Henry's neck until his tongue reaches the spot below his ear and Henry shudders slightly in his arms.

“Tastes so good, baby,” Alex teases and fits his thigh between Henry's legs, feeling how hard he is and how immediately he grinds against Alex's body, searching for any form of relief.

“Oh, piss off,” Henry breathes and tangles his hands in Alex's curls, fisting his hand lightly and moving his hips a little faster.

(Additional Tags: Married Alex Claremont-Diaz and Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Kitchen Sex, Dom/sub, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Laughter During Sex, Body Worship, Sort Of, Hickeys, Begging, Praise Kink, Nipple Play, surprisingly there's NO food play in this, Dom Alex, Sub Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor)

we thought we ruled the world

Alex stares down at his latest text from Henry. A link to an article he’s seen about ten versions of so far. He’s managed to resist clicking on any of them, but now Henry is sending it, so he supposes he should at least give it a skim.

How Prince Henry’s Relationship With FSOTUS Lost Ellen Claremont The Election

............

Or, what would have happened if Ellen lost.

(Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, mostly happy at least)

pictures of you

Henry has seen photos of Alex before, of Alex’s easy grin and disarming smirk, wild curls awry and lean muscles on casually stretched biceps. He’s seen countless photos of him before.

But.

Alex has never sent him a photo before. Not like this.

---

Five times Alex sends Henry a selfie from bed (+ one time Henry sends him one)

the dresden dilemma

The Crown had expectations when it sent a member of the royal family abroad but after a handful of years navigating said expectations, Alex and Henry had become adept at circumventing them when possible. Like tonight: They were supposed to be in Berlin for the weekend, but after a bit of needling and a lot of promises to behave, Alex had convinced Shaan to arrange for them to spend at least one night outside of the city.

Dresden, Alex had argued, was close enough to Berlin that they weren't really disobeying the Crown and besides, what harm could a single night in Dresden do?

(Additional Tags: Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor Loves Alex Claremont-Diaz, Established Relationship, Alex Claremont-Diaz has Trauma, cause he's an american kid and who doesn't, or at least he thought, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Fireworks, School Shootings, implied/referenced anyway, Guns)

the clementine thing

And, really, it doesn’t matter whether or not Alex explains it to Liam and the rest of his friends. They’ve never really discussed it between themselves through the years. Slowly, Alex had gone from asking Would you please peel this for me? to Please? to silently extending the citrus without any comment at all, just a soft smile. It’s one of the things that make them Alex-and-Henry; the silent conversations and the contentment in each other’s company.

Now, as Alex starts to flourish through his position on the lacrosse team, his slew of AP classes, and his role in student government, getting him to slow down at all is a feat. The only way that Henry can do it, guaranteed, is by one of those innocuous little fruits. There’s nothing Alex can’t do—surely, he could peel a fucking orange if he felt so inclined—but Henry delights in being able to do this for him.

Five times Henry shares a clementine with Alex, and one time Alex returns the favor

(This is one of my favorites, please read this ❤️)

In the Low Lamp Light, I Was Free

“You wanna go again?” Alex asks, pressing the back of his head into the pillows, offering his throat more fully to Henry’s hungry mouth, and when Henry laughs and retrieves another condom and the little bottle of lube from his toiletry bag, he adds, “I had a thought, though. I thought, maybe… you could be inside me this time.”

(Movieverse; there were two condom wrappers on the floor in Paris.)

he is exactly the poem i wanted to write

There is no Turkey in Alex's room this year, but there is a prince.

AKA, Henry spends thanksgiving with Alex after the election and reflects on all of his dreams coming true.

(Additional Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Oral Sex, Anal Fingering, so fluffy it borders on worshippy, Porn with Feelings)

we might fall

A little ficlet of Alex and Henry in the hammock. Metaphors about falling.

lifeline of mine

Henry hates hospitals, has hated them since he watched his father wither away in one that smelled just like this one, that had the same unsettling chill in the air. And every time he walked into a hospital after losing Arthur, he would see his father’s ashen face, would feel the ghost of his cold skin prickling his own, would hear the slowing beep of his heart monitor. And now, it’s Henry in a hospital bed, not knowing what’s wrong with his body. And he’s scared, and he’s thinking about Arthur and…

“I saw him,” Henry whispers.

(Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Major Character Injury, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hallucinations, Hospitals, Hospitalization, Hurt Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Worried Alex Claremont-Diaz, Sick Character, Sick Fic, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor Needs a Hug, Forehead Kisses, Fever, Angst with a Happy Ending)

please don't ever become a stranger (whose laugh i could recognize anywhere)

Alex’s love language is physical touch.

Henry knows this—has known it from the first moment he’s met Alex, all wild curls and bright eyes and a smile that could breathe life into Henry’s little, fragile hife. He’d stuck out a hand at that first meeting, dejected when Henry didn’t even take it. Found a way to poke and prod Henry every single time they’d met after, sharp jabs hitting his shoulder and rough hits shoving him around.

Now, Alex’s fingers are gentle as they lace around his. His arms hold him tight to his chest. His hair tickles the nape of Henry’s neck, and the couch is entirely too small for the two of them but Henry doesn’t have the heart to kick him out.

Or, 5 times Alex clings tight to Henry and 1 time Henry finds out why.

Bear with me

The first time it happened, Henry was not having it.

“For the last time, I’m not helping you shave your arse.”

—

In which Alex is very hairy, and Henry sort of has a thing for it. Not that he'd admit it, though.

(Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Post-Canon, Canon - Book, But can fit the movie verse too, tzp is a walking thirst trap, this was supposed to be crack but became quite serious real quick, Domestic Fluff, Mentions of Sex, No Smut, Body Hair Appreciation, Healthy Relationships)

i ask you how you’re doing (and i let you lie)

The first time Henry sees it happen, he knows instantly that it is not the first time it has ever happened. They’re sitting in the living room of the brownstone, the two of them surrounded by their favorite people in the world, a night of board games long abandoned in favor of mocking the eighth season of Game of Thrones.

“God, don’t you have an off switch?” June groans, laughing as she chucks a piece of popcorn in Alex’s direction while he rambles passionately about the international legal implications of the Red Wedding. Nora cackles. “Whatever you do to thank Henry for putting up with you, it’s not nearly enough. Jesus, I can’t believe he put a ring on your loud mouth.”

Or: Alex is fine. Really, he’s fine — he just wants Henry to stay, even if Alex is too much. Henry just wants his husband back.

but i'd put you first a million times over

Henry first noticed it shortly after the Waterloo incident. Apparently, it hadn’t been enough to thrust all their private thoughts and emails into the public eye; they had to be thrust into the limelight as well.

Or the 5 times Henry asked the Crown for better security, plus one time he no longer had to.

(Additional Tags: Protective Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Paparazzi, Hurt/Comfort, 5+1 Things, Hurt Alex Claremont-Diaz, Post-Canon)

in every scenario

Henry can practically hear Alex thinking. They’re curled up in bed, Alex’s head resting on his chest, and his mind is so loud. He can hear it in the rustling of the sheets, in Alex’s hand skating up his ribcage; the anxious curl of his toes against Henry’s ankles. He’s nearly vibrating with thought.

Henry’s hand tucks into the base of Alex’s spine. “Love,” he murmurs, ducking his chin to look down at his boyfriend. “What on earth are you thinking about?”

Or, Alex has something important on his mind.

Long fics:

all that glitters (is not gold)

Alex Claremont-Diaz has it all. His mom won the election, he’s got the perfect boyfriend. He gets to love Henry out loud. Everything is great. Perfect.

Except for the itch under his skin every time he goes outside, and the tightness in his chest when he goes online, and the fact that he can’t fucking sleep.

But it's fine. He's fine. Really.

—-

Or: after the emails, Alex Claremont-Diaz isn’t fine.

(The masterpiece. The firstprince sequel. The canon sequel.)

But I love him, whether or no.

Henry moves to New York City to help Pez with the opening of his new bar in the East Village. The location—fortunately for business, but unfortunately for Henry’s sanity—is directly across the street from a fire station. The sound of sirens is bad, Alex the gorgeous firefighter is worse. But when Alex helps Henry avoid a near catastrophe the night of the bar’s opening, the two form a tentative friendship that starts to develop into something more.

(Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Firefighters, Firefighter!Alex, Canon typical mental health issues for Henry, Canon typical struggles with grief for Henry, Canon typical child of divorce issues for Alex, Canon typical struggles with sexuality for Alex, Firefighter injuries, Hospitalization, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Angst with a Happy Ending)

the poem you make of me

After being discovered on Instagram as a teenager, Alex Diaz is thriving as a social media influencer and model who just landed a high profile, high fashion contract with Calvin Klein. Alex can get any girl he wants, and he’s loving it. Meanwhile, British poet Henry Fox has just arrived in L.A. to kick off a North American tour promoting his new, steamy book of gay erotic poetry, and he’s attracting a lot of attention.

Bad blood is immediately sparked between them when Henry blows Alex off at their first meeting. Several tabloid rumors and an Instagram tantrum later, Alex and Henry are reluctantly thrust together to make nice, resulting in a grudging friendship and a magnetism between them that Alex can't explain. Why is Henry's poetry making Alex feel like this? And just what is it about Henry Fox that gets to him so much?

God Save the Blessed American President Mom

["June stopped by at lunch; she showed me a delightful channel called Hallmark, which repeats the same story every hour after they swap one round of white, straight, small-town conventionally beautiful actors for another. It was entertaining.”

“June and I used to play a drinking game with those. Take a shot every time someone goes ice skating, sledding, or leaves the big city for their tiny hometown.”

“Good lord, you must’ve been sloshed in the first ten minutes.”]

***

On December 4, 2021, an attempt is made on President Ellen Claremont's life.

Alex gets shot instead.

How wonderful life is (while you're in the world)

The corner of Henry’s mouth. It’s disappeared now, covered by the oxygen mask fixed securely around his head, but if Alex concentrates hard enough, he can see it sprawled out in front of him. Every ridge, every bend and edge and turn of it.

He knows Henry’s heart. And that’ll be enough.

(or: the one where henry gets shot and alex is a goddamn mess.)

#it's been 84 years #but i did it #this is the longest post I've ever made #please don't ignore it #rwrb #red white and royal blue #firstprince fanfic #firstprince fic #rwrb fic #firstprince #alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor

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jwirecs · 7 months

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RECOMMENDED BTS FICS OF SEPTEMBER 2023💖

hello, hello! here are my bts recs of september! hopefully these beautiful stories get more recognition as well as the writers 💝

** anything in parentheses and bolded are my thoughts that can be disregarded if needed **

🔞smut || 💔angst || 💕fluff || ✅completed || 🔄ongoing || 💯favorite

Head Over Skates || @mercurygguk🔞💔🔄

↳ in which jeon jungkook is the captain of the hockey team and one of the biggest fuckboys on campus. you hate his guts and he knows it – that's why he's more than determined to make the most of three weeks of project work. you're convinced it's going to be the end of you.

My Heart Did || @aseaofyoongi🔞💔✅

↳ as soon as senior years comes to an end a lot of teens shed who we were and strive to be flourish into a more polished version of themselves. although, broken hearts aren’t so quick to heal what happens when thoughts reveal all we need to know?

Bad Idea || @back2bluesidex🔞💕✅

↳ Accepting Jungkook's invitation to watch him train topless was such a bad idea.

Don't Tell Me That... You Forgot || @sweetiestokkie💕✅

↳ (short summary that i have come up with since there wasnt one, but oc plans a secret birthday for jk. so we have a lil ol angy jjk.)

Just The Tip? || @joon4eva🔞💕✅

↳ you and namjoon are left alone together for a little too long. or: in your childhood home, you learn just how much is really "just the tip" with namjoon.

My Flower || @i-am-baechu💕✅💯

↳ Men don’t get enough flowers. That’s why whenever it’s Namjoon’s birthday, Y/N always sends flowers (someone please get me a boo so that i can give them flowers.)

Socks || @hisunshiine💕✅

↳ (theres no summary but if we talking about socks, his god dam toe socks lives in my mind rent free and i need it to start paying rent.)

Take Care Of You || @kookslastbutton🔞💕💔✅💯💯

↳ To keep your fiance from burning out you suggest a weekend getaway to Gapyeong, a charming town about an hour outside Seoul. You've specifically asked him to leave his work equipment at home but like a deep rooted habit, he still brings it with him. You're left with no choice but to find a way to get his attention back.

When I Say Forever || @kookslastbutton🔞💕✅💯

↳ Today’s your wedding day and the slightly shy yet handsome, doe-eyed stranger who chased after you when you dropped your wallet on the street three years ago just happens to be the man standing before you today.

7 Hybrids Moved In With Me || @lillsisamarshmallow💕💔🔄

↳ When the dog hybrid who visits her bakery starts taking extra food Y/N follows it through the alleys to find out why, but what happens when she stumbles upon an empty alley only to find 6 more hybrids and some very familiar pastries?

Entangled || @caelesjjk🔞✅💯

↳ Jeon Jungkook is Spider-Man.

Hold Me Together || @casuallyimagining💕🔄💯

↳ a collection of drabbles and headcanons featuring seokjin, yoongi, and namjoon and their significant others.... all of whom have chronic illnesses. each piece can be read on its own or as part of a series.

Leaked || @btsficsandsuch💕💔✅

↳ Req by OP's Followers: Hi ,I love your writing so much . Can I request a ot7 × platonic fem reader where they became friends accidentally and she is also their fan but something happens like a misunderstanding of sorts and she is blamed or something then when the truth comes out they ask for her forgiveness but don't make her forgive them easily also include an accident in between story if you can. Sorry if it's too confusing .have a good day

Stars Around My Scars || @vanteggukie💕💔🔄

↳ people are not always what they seem. you learned that the hard way, when you caught your boyfriend cheating, the night that was supposed to be one of the best ones you ever experienced. but on the same night you also learned that in everything bad, there’s always a little bit of good.

Rainy Days || @rklve🔞💕💔✅💯💯

↳ your life choices left not only yours, but jungkook's heart broken in peaces. now you're back in town, and just like pluto, even if it's cold and dark, he tends to orbit around his sun forever.

Taste Of His Own Medicine || @btsficsandsuch💔✅💯

↳ You suddenly have to leave to go back to your home country for a few months. Yoongi decides to ignore you so you decide to show him how it feels when he realizes you’re gone.

The Back Up Plan || @btsgotjams27💕✅💯

↳ one drunken night leads to an agreement that if you and jungkook are still single by 30, you'd marry each other. the only thing is jungkook has been doing everything he can to keep you single.

Aphrodite In War || @jungblue🔞💕💔��

↳ Everyone knew about the war that had been brewing on the edge of campus for the past two years. Sorority versus Fraternity; a showdown for the ages. However, when the escalating antics between them yields the consequence of possible suspensions for both chapters, the presidents of each house must come together to try and figure out how to end this battle… Which is kind of hard, considering they were the ones responsible for it in the first place.

Basic Needs || @gggukniverse🔞✅💯

↳ missing sex while being stuck in your apartment with your two roommates during quarantine is being the worst nightmare you could've imagined. fortunately, you're not the only one who's touch starved.

Safety Net || @pradaksj🔞💕💔✅

↳ on new year’s eve, you and jungkook reflect on each other’s entire year together.

Heart-On || @junghelioseok🔞✅💯💯

↳ your one-night stand definitely isn’t relationship material, but maybe—just maybe—your manager’s son is. (this is part of their serendipity series, make note that its not connected. do check out their jjk fic thats part of this series!!)

Territorial || @bonny-kookoo🔞💕🔄

↳ Who would've known that the big bad wolf isn't actually all that bad?

Do check out all of the other BTS Fics that i have reblogged as well!!

** if there is any fics that you guys would like to recommend, please do! i am slowly running out of fics to read **

#bts scenarios #bts fluff #bts angst #bts smut #bts strangers to lovers au #bts hybrid au #bts friends to lovers au #bts roommates au #bts enemies to lovers au #bts established relationship au #bts fic recs #bts recs

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suddencolds · 5 days

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Atypical Occurrence [1/?]

Happy birthday to my dear friend, @caughtintherain!! I wanted to give you some Vincent suffering to chew on for the occasion, so please take this fic (or, first part of a fic) as a gift <3

this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I’ve written for these two! chronologically, this fic takes place a month or so after the last installment leaves off :)

Summary: Vincent shows up late to a meeting. It just goes downhill from there. (ft. fake dating, the flu, a house visit)

—

Vincent is late.

Yves tries not to stare at the empty seat across from him. The meeting—their first meeting of the day—started five minutes ago. If there’s anything Yves knows, it’s that Vincent always comes in early.

In stumbles Cara, handling a morning coffee with probably more espresso shots than anyone should have at 8am. Then Laurent, briefcase in one hand, paging through a folder of files in his other. Then Angelie, Isaac, Garrett, Ray, Sienna. Then they get started, and Yves turns his attention towards the graphs projected onscreen at the front of the room, and tries very hard not to think about Vincent.

It’s five minutes later that the door swings open, near-silent.

Sienna—who’s presenting—stops, for a moment, to look back at Vincent from where he’s standing in the doorway, which means that of course, everyone looks.

Cara turns around in her seat, raising an eyebrow. Angelie frowns at him.

“Sorry I’m late,” Vincent says, quietly. “It won’t happen again.”

Isaac shrugs. Angelie looks a little concerned, but she turns back to her work, anyways. Sienna resumes her presentation. All in all, it’s nothing—or it should be nothing. Probably traffic, on the way here; a particularly unlucky commute. An unlikely occurrence, but—to anyone else—not anything worth dwelling over.

It might be a sufficient explanation, if Yves didn’t know better.

Vincent takes care to close the door quietly behind him, then heads over to the only open seat, across from Yves. He unzips his briefcase, quietly, unobtrusively, and takes out his laptop. Yves tries to focus on what Sienna is saying—she’s giving a review of a client’s current investment strategies; he’d reviewed her work on this just a couple days ago.

Vincent asks good questions throughout—he always has a good sense of what areas still lack clarity, Yves has found. Today is no exception. He takes part in the meeting with such calculated precision that Yves almost misses it.

Almost misses: the slight stiffness to his shoulders, as if it’s taking more than the usual amount of effort to keep himself upright. The way in which he clears his throat before speaking, like it might actually hurt. The way he rests his head on one hand, halfway into the meeting—as if even now, barely forty minutes into the workday, he’s already exhausted.

It’s subtle enough to go unnoticed, subtle enough that Yves wonders if he’s just reading too much into it—if, perhaps, Vincent is fine, after all.

—

He doesn’t see Vincent again until lunch.

Or, more accurately, he doesn’t see Vincent again until he’s headed down for lunch with Cara and Laurent. Vincent is already on his way out of the cafeteria, a takeout container in hand.

“You’re not going to eat here?” Yves asks.

Vincent doesn’t look at him. “I have some work to get done at my desk,” he says. He clears his throat again, like it’s irritating him.

“Okay,” Yves says. Vincent turns to leave, and Yves thinks of a hundred ways in which he could possibly prolong this conversation, and then decides against it. Vincent is already so busy.

“You look tired,” he settles on, instead.

He expects Vincent to dismiss this, to reassure him that it isn’t true. But Vincent looks up at him at last, blinking, as if he’s surprised that Yves noticed at all. His eyes are a little dark-rimmed underneath his glasses.

He doesn’t deny it, which is as much of a confirmation as Yves needs.

“The sooner I can get this work done, the sooner I can go home,” he says. Yves supposes he can’t argue with that.

“I guess I’ll see you around, then,” Yves says, even though he wants to say more, even though he feels like there’s more that he should be saying. “Don’t work too hard.”

Vincent nods, at this, and resumes walking.

—

Yves is probably overthinking it. There isn’t anything concrete, really, to justify his concern.

Vincent’s lateness to the meeting could just as easily be the consequence of an alarm he’d forgotten to set, his exhaustion just as easily a side effect—of recent late nights in the office, of arbitrary changes to the projects he’s on, of last-minute demands from clients.

The next time he sees Vincent is at the end of the work day. Yves always takes the elevators on the north end of the building—they’re ones that lead directly out into the parking garage. When he gets out to the hallway, Vincent is already standing there, waiting for the elevator.

Yves watches Vincent stiffen, slightly. Watches him raise one hand up to his face to shudder into it with a harsh, “HHihH’iKKTSh-hUH!”

A thin tremor runs through the line of his shoulders, as if he’s too cold, even though the office air conditioning is no colder than usual. His hand, cupped to his face, remains there for a moment more before he lowers it.

He sniffles, then, rummaging through his pocket for—something. When he doesn’t find it, he just frowns a little, sniffling again.

“Bless you,” Yves says.

“Yves,” Vincent says, his shoulders stiffening a little. He clears his throat, turning around so that he can address Yves properly.

It’s only a few seconds later that he’s turning sharply away, tenting both hands over his nose and mouth for—

“Hh-! hHiH—HIHh’DZSSschh-uhh! snf-!”

“Bless you again.”

Vincent sighs. “Don’t bother.” He really looks exhausted, Yves realizes. During their brief interaction at lunch, he’d already sensed as much, but the harsh white glare of the bright corporate lighting only makes it more evident.

Vincent looks a little paler than usual, if only slightly, and there’s a slight flush that spreads itself over his cheekbones. He looks—well, nearly as put together as always, distilled only by the slight crookedness of his tie, as if it’s been on too tight; the near-invisible sheen of sweat over his forehead. The slight redness to the bridge of his nose, the slight shiver to his hand as he reaches up to adjust his collar.

Yves frowns, taking this all in. “You look kind of…”

“Terrible?” Vincent finishes for him.

Yves winces. “...Well, terrible is a strong word. I was going to say, you look like you could use some sleep.”

“I’m… feeling a little off,” Vincent says, staring straight ahead, as if it’s not an admission at all. But Yves suspects, from the way he avoids eye contact, that perhaps it was something he was intending on keeping private. “You should keep your distance.”

The elevator dings. The sliding doors part, and he steps inside.

“First floor?” Yves asks, hesitating next to the panel of buttons.

“Yes,” Vincent says. Then, quietly: “Thanks.”

“You know, now that busy season is over, the world is not going to end if you take a sick day,” Yves tells him. “Even if you do like, twice the amount of work as everyone else on the team, if you needed to call out, I’m sure something could be arranged.”

Vincent smiles at him, a little wryly. “I must look pretty bad if you’re saying this to me.”

“Yes, I was lying,” Yves says. “Clearly, you look terrible.”

It isn’t true at all—even here, even like this, Vincent doesn’t look terrible, not even in the least. But Vincent still smiles, at this—a tired smile.

The elevator doors slide open.

“Text me if you need anything,” Yves says, impulsively. “Seriously. Tissues, soup, medicine—whatever. It’s not far of a drive.”

“That’s very considerate of you,” Vincent says. “I will see you tomorrow.” And then he steps out of the elevator, and Yves is left with an inexplicable sinking feeling in his stomach. As far as he knows, it has no place there. Obviously, Vincent can take care of himself. Obviously, Vincent can handle a cold. Yves has nothing to be concerned about.

—

The next day is rainy—a constant, torrential downpour, which makes his commute to work take almost twice as long as it usually does. It wouldn’t be spring here, Yves supposes, without dreary weather like this.

Back in uni, when he rowed crew, they’d practice out for hours out in the rain. Now that he spends the majority of his day inside, he supposes he can’t complain. The shelter of the office building is a reprieve.

Vincent doesn’t show up.

“I think he’s out sick,” Cara says, when Yves asks. “You know, it’s funny. I don’t think I’ve actually seen him take a sick day before.”

“For how hard he works, he definitely deserves one,” Garrett says.

“He seemed fine yesterday, when I saw him,” Cara says, with a shrug. “Probably came on quickly.” Yves nods.

But that isn’t quite right, is it? Vincent hadn’t seemed fine, had he? Yves thinks back to the things he’d noticed—Vincent, uncharacteristically exhausted during the meeting, though it was clear he’d been just as engaged as usual. Vincent, shivering in the elevator, telling Yves to keep his distance. How poorly had he been feeling already, yesterday? How poorly does he have to be feeling today to have called off of work for it?

He finds some time just before lunch to text.

Y: how are you holding up? Y: yesterday’s offer stands if you need me to bring you anything!

He doesn’t get a response from Vincent, which is a little concerning. He checks his phone halfway through lunch, and then twice more, in between his afternoon meetings, just in case he’s missed a notification.

“Are you expecting a text from someone?” Cara says, looking a little curious.

“Just a friend,” Yves says, which is and isn’t true.

To make a point—to Cara, and possibly to himself—he shuts his phone off. He very pointedly does not look at it again for the remainder of the hour.

It’s not until mid-afternoon that he finally gets a response.

V: Sorry to get back to you so late.

Yves sits upright, fumbling with his phone to get it unlocked. The text bubble pops up again, somewhat intermittently, to show that Vincent is typing.

V: If it’s not too much trouble, there’s a blue folder on my desk labeled 2-A.

Yves blinks at this, a little disbelieving.

Y: you’re asking me to bring you work files? Y: arent you supposed to be resting 🤨 Y: paid sick leave, remember? as in, leave your work at work??

V: I meant to pack them yesterday.

Y: that’s like a genie grants you 3 wishes and you ask for an extra day of assignments Y: terrible waste of a wish if you ask me

V: As a genie, you’re quite judgmental

Y: ok ok Y: as your loyal lamp dweller i’ll be over around 8pm with folder 2-A Y: you need anything else?

V: Nothing else V: You can just leave them outside my door

A beat. Then Vincent sends:

V: Sorry to trouble you

Yves thinks of twenty responses he wants to send to that text. Then, thinking better of himself, he shuts his phone off and gets back to work.

—

It’s a little past seven when he finally checks out of the office.

Outside, the rain hasn’t even begun to let up—it falls, straight and heavy, in large, globular droplets. The streets gleam with water. Yves leaves his umbrella in the trunk, tunes out everything but the static of the rainfall, and drives.

Yves has only ever been to Vincent’s apartment once—to pick him up for the New Years’ party Margot hosted—and even then, Vincent had met him at the door. But he recognizes the unit, nonetheless.

For a moment, he considers leaving the folder of files outside of Vincent’s door and taking his leave.

But it’s windy, and he’s afraid the papers might fly away, torn up by the biting wind, and get lost face down in a puddle somewhere, which would defeat the purpose of him coming here in the first place, and would probably also breach some employee confidentiality policy. So instead, he knocks.

It’s silent for a moment. Rain beats down on the slanted rooftops, a constant thrum.

Yves is about to reach out to knock again, when the door swings open.

There stands Vincent, in a pale blue hoodie and loose-fitting pajama pants, with neat rectangular cuffs.

He looks tired. It’s the first thing Yves registers—the unusual fatigue to his expression, which he can’t quite seem to blink away; the flush high on his cheekbones. The way he holds himself, his shoulders stiff, carefully, defensively; as if despite his exhaustion, there’s a part of him which wishes to appear presentable still.

It’s only a moment later that he’s taking a halting step back, ducking into a hoodie sleeve. Yves catches the shiver of his expression, his eyebrows pulling together, before it crumples, and his head jerks forward with a harsh—

“hHihh’GKkTT—! Hh-!! iHH-’DZZSCHh-uuUh!”

The second sneeze sounds louder and harsher than usual, even muffled into the fabric of his sleeve. It betrays his congestion all at once.

“Bless you,” Yves says.

Vincent emerges, sniffling a little. When he speaks, he sounds a little hoarser than he did yesterday. “I thought I said you - snf-! - could leave them on the front step.”

“You did,” Yves says, glancing down at the folder in his hands. “But it’s windy, and it’s raining. I figured you’d prefer to have your files intact. How are you feeling?”

Vincent blinks at him. He’s leaning heavily against the doorframe, Yves realizes, one hand gripped tightly around the frame, his knuckles white from the pressure, as if it would take him too much effort to stay upright otherwise.

“Alright,” he answers. “Thanks for making the trip here. I… it must’ve taken longer, in the rain.” He squeezes his eyes shut, as if his head hurts, as if the light coming from outside is exacerbating his headache. “If you ever need me to pick something up for you, I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Yves says. Despite himself, he reaches up to press his hand against Vincent’s forehead.

The heat under his fingertips is alarming, to say the least. Yves blinks, lowering his hand, and tries to keep the worry out of his voice. “Have you taken your temperature?”

Vincent shakes his head. “I don’t think I have a thermometer.”

“Have you eaten, then?”

Vincent averts his glance, looking sheepish. “I… was planning to stop for groceries, yesterday,” he says. Planning to.

Yves thinks back to the elevator ride yesterday. Vincent had probably already been feeling very unwell, then. And yet, he’d talked with Yves as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I’m feeling a little off, he’d said, as if anything about his current affliction could possibly be characterized as “little.” I will see you tomorrow—as if he had really, genuinely been intending on showing up at work.

“So I take it that there’s nothing in the fridge, either,” Yves says.

“If it’s any consolation, you’ll be pleased to know that I slept,” Vincent says, in lieu of answering.

Then he shivers—the sort of concerning, full-body shiver that is a little concerning, coming from someone who is usually unaffected by the cold—and Yves is immediately reminded that the door they’re speaking through is open.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

“You probably shouldn’t,” Vincent says, before his expression scrunches up, and he’s ducking away with a— “hh—! hHih-II—TSSCHHh-UH! snf-!”, smothered hurriedly into the palm of his hand. He sniffles, emerging with a slight wince. “This came on pretty quickly. It might be the flu.”

“It’s fine,” Yves says. “I got my flu shot in the winter. And anyways, I’ll be careful.”

Vincent is quiet, for a moment. Then, frowning, he says, “I’d feel terrible if you caught this.”

That’s the least of Yves’s worries—he doubts he’s going to catch this. Even if he does, it will just mean a few days off of work. Not the end of the world, by any means. Nothing to warrant the expression on Vincent’s face—Vincent looks upset, as if he’ll really can’t think of anything worse than Yves catching this. Like even the thought of it is worth being upset over.

Yves shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, seriously.” He pushes past Vincent to step inside and shuts the door behind him. “Here, I’ll set these down on your desk. Where is it?”

“Down the hallway, to the left,” Vincent says.

Yves takes the folder, leaves his shoes at the door, and heads inside.

Vincent’s bedroom is small and organized—it’s the kind of bedroom that’s tastefully minimal, in the sort of unified manner that implies that everything in it has been carefully arranged. There’s a small white desk in the corner, a stack of files arranged neatly next to Vincent’s laptop, its lid halfway to shut. There’s a bookshelf, leaned up against the wall far; the bottom shelf looks to be filled with textbooks; the top shelf lined with books, both in Korean and in English. The walls are painted slate gray, the carpets lining the floorboards picked out to match, and there are pale blue curtains hanging from the windows, pulled tightly shut.

There are signs here, too, of his illness, but they are subtle. A tissue box, nestled between his pillow and the headboard, half empty. A waste bin at the foot of the bed, conveniently in reach. A small bottle of aspirin on the bedside counter; an empty packet of cough drops sitting at the edge of his nightstand.

Yves sets the folder at the end of Vincent’s desk, next to the rest of his files, and turns to face him.

“You’re not going to work on these until you’re feeling better, right?” he asks.

“Only if I can’t sleep,” Vincent says, which Yves supposes is a satisfactory answer. Then he twists away, his eyebrows furrowing, lifting a loosely clenched fist to his face to cough, and cough.

The cough is harsh and grating—his entire frame shudders with the force of it, his breaths shallow and raspy. He really sounds awful. This must have come on quickly, Yves thinks.

If it’s upsetting, seeing Vincent like this, it’s even worse to be standing here, in his room, doing nothing. So—if only to make himself useful, if only to convince himself that there’s something he can do—Yves ducks out into the kitchen.

The pantry is meticulously organized—glasses lined up in neat rows; stacks of bowls sorted by size. He fills a glass with water, shuts the cabinets, and takes it back to the bedroom.

By the time he gets back, Vincent is sitting at the edge of his bed. His glasses are folded neatly, left at the very edge of the countertop.

“Here,” Yves says, crossing the room, holding out the glass for him to take.

“Thanks,” Vincent says, taking it gingerly from him. He takes a small, tentative sip, and then another—his hands are a little shaky, Yves notices. “You - snf-! - should really go.”

“I’m not entirely convinced you’ll be fine on your own,” Yves says.

“Of course I will be,” Vincent says, with all of his usual certainty. He lays down, pulling the covers over his body. “I have been fine on my own for years.”

It’s meant to be reassuring, Yves supposes. But he doesn’t feel reassured in the least.

“Thank you again for bringing me the files,” Vincent says, at last, shutting his eyes.

“You could’ve asked me to get you groceries,” Yves says. “There’s a supermarket not far from here, right? And you’re out of cough drops.” He takes a few steps over, towards the desk in the corner of the room. “These—” He examines the bottle of ibuprofen on the table. “—are expired.”

“Just because you’ve extended this kindness to me,” Vincent tells him, “doesn’t mean I should take advantage of it.”

Yves blinks, a little taken aback. “It’s only groceries. I wouldn’t have minded, really.”

“See,” Vincent says, with a note of—something in his voice. It sounds a bit like resignation. “That’s just the kind of person you are.”

Yves doesn’t know what to say, to that.

Before he can think up a fitting response, Vincent’s breathing evens out. Yves lets himself listen to the shallow, steady cadence of it. Lets himself acknowledge the heavy, painful feeling in his chest for just a moment. Then he shuts the lights off and heads back out into the hallway.

#snz fic #sneeze fic #sneeze kink #snz kink #snz #i wanted to end somewhere more conclusive but i was falling asleep at my keyboard trying to end this so #please take this for now 🙏#my fic #it is very late rn so i am scheduling this for the middle of my work day tomorrow... now i need to run to sleep T.T #i will finish off the latter half of the house visit in the not too distant future!#yvverse #ps caughtintherain if you are reading this ily and i am so grateful to you for letting me consult you abt these two 😭😭 and i hope it's #okay for me to post this as a gift jafkhjfslk ANYWAYS pls read this at your leisure and happy birthday again!!!

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kenjakusbrainstem · 6 months

Text

Defenseless (Mahito x Reader)

Contains: Rape, body horror, multiple limbs, Mahito's hand cock (as mentioned in my other fics).

Hello! Day 15 of Kinktober: Noncon. For the amount of Mahito dub/noncon that I do write, this was kinda difficult. I tried to make sure it was different than the other Mahito stuff I've done, don't want things to seem too samey. I wanted to try something new, which is why I took a scene with my oc and changed it. Hopefully it still reads well despite being plucked out of that plot. Crossposted to Ao3 under the same name and shared to twt at kenjakusbrain. Comment or rb if you have any thoughts or want to hear more about my AU, perhaps I'll post some of it after kinktober.

The school was supposed to be a safe place, one where there were plenty of people around to keep students safe. Especially at a Goodwill Event, when the teachers from multiple schools were there on the same campus. This year's Goodwill Event had been a disaster thus far. You’d gotten separated from your classmates and decided to simply search for low level cursed spirits to exorcise when the strange veil lowered.

Despite the supposed safety, you knew something was wrong when you attempted to reach out to your classmates via cellphone but were unable. With Yuuta overseas you normally paired up with Inumaki, your technique’s meshing fairly well. It was helpful to nearly any sorcerer to be paired with you though, as your ability was to use reversed cursed technique on others. Your weapon proficiency didn’t usually matter, but since this was supposed to be a friendly battle, you only had your wits and two daggers you weren’t fully comfortable with to protect yourself.

While you were confident in your ability to exorcise some low level curses, the uncertainty of what was going on had you on edge.

Slowly you crept toward a part of the campus people rarely went to, you neared the path to the Tomb of the Star Corridor, assuming that there would be some form of guard there. As you made it to the edge of the wooded area near the stairs, you were shocked to find the end of the barrier. It seemed whatever was going on had nothing to do with Tengen.

It made sense to you that whatever the strange barrier was, that is where the trouble had to be. It wouldn’t hurt to hide or at least find someone of authority to alert.

You met surprisingly little resistance as you burst through the veil, heading over toward the only building you could see. If you remembered correctly, it was a warehouse that the school used to store cursed objects. Looking around, you didn’t see any guards, so you slowly approached the building before slipping in through the door quietly.

Inside wasn’t what you expected to see, two horribly transfigured humans laid on the floor of the storage room. You froze, hands immediately flying to your daggers as you looked around. It seemed like it was just you and the transfigured humans. Remembering the work of the Patchwork curse, you were on edge.

Kneeling next to one of the bodies, you attempted to use your technique to assist them in some way. Focusing all of your energy into the palms of your hands, you attempted to restore the assistant that was still moving. Unexpectedly, right before your eyes you watched as the assistant slowly morphed back, his skin returning to a normal shade. You checked the pulse and to your surprise it was faint.

This changed things, unfortunately you felt drained, not expecting to exert that much energy. You weren’t sure if you’d be able to get the assistant back to your teachers soon.

“Oh what do we have here? Did you do this?” A playful voice filled the room. You looked up, shocked to hear another person when you could have swore the room was empty moments ago.

There was no doubt in your mind who it was when he stepped closer, stitches visible on his face, barely obscured by his long blue hair. The curse had an excited look on his face, like he’d just discovered a new toy to play with. As you both looked at the man that used to be transfigured in front of you, you thought to yourself that this was the only time you would have rather been too late to save someone.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, standing upright. Your hands gripped your daggers but with the energy you just used, you couldn’t help but feel exhausted. Still you weren’t going to back down, that wasn’t what a sorcerer would do.

The curse laughed, taking a step toward you. You couldn’t help but step back, but you miscalculated, tripping over the other transfigured human on the ground and stumbling onto your back. The move was a grave mistake, you felt yourself getting dizzy as your head cracked against the floor.

“You managed to change one of my toys back! That’s so strange, if you came with me I wouldn’t have to worry about them breaking so easily. Say, doesn’t that sound fun?” The curse sounded much more excitable than you expected. You hadn’t expected him to speak with the enthusiasm of a child.

The dizziness in your head made it hard to fully comprehend what he was talking about. When he said toys did he mean the assistants? Confusion mixed with fear in your mind to create panic, though your hands gripped your weapons tightly even on the ground, you were somehow less confident than normal in your ability to protect yourself.

You didn’t have the chance to find your voice, because he was on top of you in a flash. The curse was much faster than you had expected. He didn’t touch you immediately, instead choosing to cage you in. For some reason this scared you more, knowing enough about him to know that his abilities functioned through touch. What could he have planned if not killing you right away.

“I’m not allowed to kill any students, but if I hit you hard enough you should forget most of this,” His words didn’t match the tone he was using. The curse sounded like he was discussing a fun pass time he was unable to partake in, not murder. Even though he hadn’t said much, you didn’t want to listen any longer. The pain in your head was already making your head throb, something about trying to understand the curse just made it throb worse.

You held up your weapons, ready to strike if he moved any closer. Or you thought you were. Before you knew it your hands were empty, daggers ripped from them by a limb protruding from his back that you somehow hadn’t noticed until it was too late.

“Now since you can negate my abilities on others, I wonder what you can do to yourself,” The curse thought aloud, hands reaching for your face. You quickly moved your arms up to protect yourself, not that you could do much.

As you felt his hands grasp your forearms, you knew you needed to act quickly. Your skin felt like it was boiling hot where his hands touched, as if the skin could slough off onto the ground or be reshaped like playdoh. Though you were exhausted, you pushed all of your remaining energy into your arms. Even with your best attempt at keeping yourself safe, you could feel his power was much stronger than yours.

“Fascinating! No one’s ever been able to resist Idle Transfiguration before! I wish I could take you back with me, you’re exactly what he’s looking for in a sorcerer,” He rambled as he spoke, a look of amazement in his eyes. He was clearly excited, but you had no idea who or what he was talking about.

It was hard for you to focus, though you’d stopped his attack it felt like something was seriously wrong with your arms. In the dim light of the warehouse it was so hard to tell though.

Opening your mouth to speak, you were stopped by a pair of unexpected lips on yours. The kiss, if you could call it that, full of tongue and teeth. His tongue slipped into your mouth even though you tried to close it. Everything about him was so overwhelming and strange, you’d never felt a kiss so terrifying before.

You tried to lift your arms in an attempt to push him away, but you could barely move them an inch without pain shooting up your body. You had put all of your remaining energy into trying to block his attack, and it hadn’t even been able to stop it. Groaning at the pain in your arms, you wanted nothing more than for him to leave or knock you out. Pulling away from the kiss, he giggled at what you were sure must have been a horrified look on your face.

“You’re getting me so excited just thinking about it. Say will you stay quiet for me so I can try something? I really think you’d be perfect for one of his experiments,” His words made your blood run cold. They sounded so threatening, and who exactly was he talking about? As far as you knew, this curse operated alone, so to have him actively referencing a partner of sorts was alarming.

Without warning the curse flipped your skirt up, exposing your panties to him. You tried to wiggle away, but it was no use, you were on the floor nearly pushed up completely against the wall. The only way out was through him and that wasn’t happening without help.

You watched in fear as the hand in front of you changed shape and size, taking the form of an erect cock. How hard did you hit your head, exactly? You didn’t remember anyone saying that he could manipulate his body into different shapes, but you also just might not have been paying attention. Now wasn’t the time to worry about that, you attempted to close your legs, but you felt two hands wrap around your ankles.

“Even at a time like this you’re trying to fight back? What a good little sorcerer you are,” The mocking tone in his voice made you angry. You felt the blunt head of the cock rubbing against your pussy through your panties, as if he were teasing you instead of torturing. You lifted your hips to try and get away from him, but the hands around your ankles pulled you closer.

The sudden jerking movement made you hit your head on the ground again, vision blacking out for a moment. Through the haze of fighting to stay conscious, you felt a hot, stretching pain as he entered you. Forcing your eyes open, you were met with the mischievous patchwork grin staring at you, he looked like he had just played a harmless prank on you. Like he wasn’t violating you.

The curse’s movement inside you was slow at first, filling you up carefully as if he were measuring your insides. You could feel the head of his cock pressing up against your cervix, a shiver running down your spine at being filled completely. No human would be able to do this, the strange image of just how large the cock inside you was filling your mind.

You watched his smile grow wider as he slowly pulled out of you. It almost felt pleasurable, the way the thick cock felt inside of you. That is until you felt the stretch of the head against your entrance. The curse paused, not pulling all the way out of you yet. For a moment you thought he was finished, but that thought was only able to linger in your mind for a few seconds before he slammed his cock back into you.

The curse’s thrusts had gone from soft exploration to a violent attack, each one coming right after the other. You choked, having trouble even breathing as you felt the head of his cock slamming up against your cervix. The pain of being fucked so hard by something far too big made you feel sick, but the way his cock rubbed up against your walls felt good. If each thrust didn’t make you want to cry, you could have at least pretended to enjoy it.

His pace increased, the speed he was fucking into you made it impossible to try and get away. You didn’t even have time to think between thrusts. Trying to make it bearable, you attempted to focus on the drag of his cock inside you, it did feel good, the way you could feel the veins against your walls. It wasn’t enough though, you couldn’t take your mind off of the pain.

As quickly as it started though, he froze inside of you. Something had caused him to stop and you had no idea what it was. Was someone here to save you? Had you been found? Part of you didn’t want to be found like this, no one needed to see just how weak you had been.

The curse rammed his cock into your cervix again, pressing in and not moving away.

“It seems I’ve gotta go now, the veil is gone, you’re so much fun though I hate to leave you like this. Next time I catch you, I’ll finish this. Don’t miss me too much, cutie!” As soon as he was finished speaking, he ripped his cock from you. You felt something inside you tear with the violent motion. His hands left your ankles, though you wanted to get up and fight him, you were unable to do nothing more than curl in on yourself.

You watched through teary eyes as he picked something up. Had he been carrying something when you first encountered him? Your brain was too scrambled to remember any details.

“Oh right, you’ve seen me! Don’t want you remembering too much,” He giggled to himself, again his speech making you think of a child.

He stepped over you, his shoes right in front of your face. You didn’t have time to register the sharp kick to your temple as you felt consciousness leave you.

#mahito #mahito smut #jjk x reader #mahito x reader #mahito jjk #kinktober #kinktober 2023

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dotieeee · 3 months

Text

The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 2

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 2 Warnings:

Light Sejanus x Reader (we all know how this goes down 🥺), canon-compliant major character death, angst, SNOW and his obsessive thoughts are obsessive af, chapter longer than anticipated

Replay Level 1

Ready? Level 2 Start:

It’s just like you had predicted: Coriolanus Snow is declared victor at the tenth Hunger Games.

But despite the success, and the prestige and this Plinth Prize that had come with it, his win had already been dampened by the chaos that ensued even before the Games had begun.

Arachne had been fatally attacked by her tribute for taunting him with a sandwich. Although her behaviour towards her tribute had been childish and uncalled for, nobody deserved to die the way she did. On the day of the funeral, the corpse of the tribute who killed her was placed on a hook like livestock and was displayed for everyone to see, and the Capitol took pride in marching the tributes along in a sickening parade. ‘Monster,’ they had called her. But Brandy, the said tribute, was a byproduct of an upbringing that taught her to ‘kill or be killed,’ born into monstrous circumstances that the Capitol had helped create. City Circle had a good look at all of them: merely children, gaunt, starving, and poorly clothed: a stark difference to the luxuries the city liked to indulge itself in.

Coriolanus had sung the Gem of Panem at the funeral for some reason, which was nice of him to do, nonetheless.

Then came the bombing at the Arena where the Games were to be held.

The mentors and the tributes had been on a tour inside when the bombs had gone off. The twins from your class, Apollo and Diana, had died in an instant. Coriolanus and a few others had to be hospitalised.

You and some of your classmates had a chance to visit him at the hospital two days after the attack. Not wanting to come empty-handed, you brought a box of brownies you baked, placed a note and left it on the nightstand beside his bed when no one was looking, not wanting to draw attention.

You suspected that your uncle hadn’t had a wink of sleep since the bombing. He was rarely home. When he was, it was only to retrieve papers or hard drives and disks he had in his home office or to sneak a few bites of food from the kitchen. Everybody in the Citadel working on the Games is stressed, he had said, working tirelessly and in shifts to avoid further mishaps. Dr. Gaul, the Head Gamemaker and your uncle’s boss at the Citadel, sounded generally unsatisfied with the way the Games are running.

Good, you had thought to yourself. Maybe this could spell the end of them. Perhaps not as good for the tributes or the mentors, though.

One night, however, you received an unusual phone call from Ma Plinth, Sejanus’s mom. She had said her son was missing and that she was going to the Snows to check up on him.

You ran to the Snow residence. Conveniently, they lived in the Main Corso building just right in front of yours, Corso III. You found Ma Plinth talking to Coriolanus at the door, practically begging him to find out where Sejanus was.

Coriolanus’s acquiesced and beckoned you inside, too.

But you never had a chance to talk, because Ma Plinth had then begun exclaiming that she just saw Sejanus on TV inside the arena.

Inside the fucking Arena.

What had possessed him to do such a thing became obvious to everyone watching: he just sprinkled breadcrumbs on his tribute’s body. It was a traditional send-off to the afterlife in District 2, you remember him telling you before.

You shared an alarmed look with Coriolanus as the phone rang. He was quick to pick it up. The rather short conversation was enough to render him even paler than usual.

He took you aside, out of earshot from Ma Plinth and Tigris, and whispered urgently:

“Gaul has told me to get him out there.”

“What? That’s insane,” you whispered back. “You’re both insane! You can’t seriously be thinking of going alone.”

Coriolanus looked worried. You’ve never seen him that worried before, but his determined tone said he wasn’t going to change his mind.

“I have to,” he said and pulled you towards the door. You understood his meaning then: go home.

“I’m coming with you, it’s not safe,” you had tried insisting.

“Exactly why you need to go home, Nellie. You’re going to need to forget this happened and stay home. I’ll bring Sejanus back.”

He didn’t even wait for your response and just took off.

You had spent the rest of the night with little sleep after, debating whether to call Coriolanus or Sejanus to check if they’d both gotten home in one piece.

Thankfully, Coriolanus had given you the call in the morning after, and Sejanus had dropped by your home that afternoon, to confirm they were safe. You had asked Sejanus then if he wanted to talk about what happened, but he just shook his head and said he simply wanted to watch you do ‘whatever it is you do on that damn computer.’ You had warned him it might bore him to death, but he said he didn’t care.

Except an hour into your coding practice, he groaned and said “At least tell me what the hell it is I’m seeing.”

And you just laughed the kind of laugh only he got to hear.

You had been at home when your uncle called and gave you the news. It was over, and Coriolanus had won everything: the Games, and the Plinth Prize money, and against all odds he succeeded in keeping the girl Lucy Gray alive. He then said there was going to be a victory party but that it had been cancelled.

Coriolanus had been cheating in the games and he was going to be sent to the Districts to become a peacekeeper to atone for this misdemeanour.

By the time you had visited his home, Tigris said he had already packed and left to await his assignment.

You wondered then whether he might have fallen genuinely for his District 12 tribute enough to put himself and everything else on the line like that, and whether he intended to follow her. Good for him, discovering his humanity amidst all the corruption and the violence and the chaos, but you couldn’t help but think the dangers and the horrors he’ll face there as a peacekeeper might be more than enough to extinguish that.

Also, you had not heard from Sejanus at all – it’s like he’s snapped and he’s shutting everyone out, and when you dropped by his house, Ma Plinth said she hadn’t seen him all day.

This is why you nearly jump and drop the box of cookies you’re about to take with you to your room when the phone rings in the living room.

You dive to take the call and nearly blow up when you hear a familiar voice.

“Nellie, I’m coming over,” Sejanus says in a hurried tone.

He’s been avoiding you for days, and now he wants to just pop in and visit? “The fuck you are. Where have you been?”

Completely ignoring your question, he repeats with a little more force, “I’m coming over,” and hangs up.

The nerve of this guy.

So you wait for him. You think of everything you’re going to tell him, keeping you away like that. You’re aware he had been through a rough patch with the Games and the pressure from his father, but he’s supposed to let you help him get through this. That’s what you’re there for, as a friend to him. So when the bell rings on your apartment door, you pull it open forcefully, hoping to give him a piece of your mind.

Anything you had planned on saying dies down in your throat the moment you see his face.

It’s like he hasn’t slept or eaten in days, by the looks of him. His normally neat curls are in disarray, and his eyes are puffy and dull and distraught.

Once you let him in and he crosses the threshold, he says:

“I’m being drafted as a peacekeeper.”

First, Coriolanus; now him?

“What is going on, Janus?” you asked in a hushed, concerned voice.

He runs a hand through his hair and rubs his face. Your eyes dart from his face to the notebook he’s holding with his other hand.

He plops down on your couch and lays his head on the backrest. He stares at the ceiling for a moment, before explaining everything.

“I’m under suspicion for treasonous...acts, I guess. They were going to expel me. Dad, he pulled a few strings to get me and Coriolanus to graduate and get high-honour diplomas. In exchange for that, I have to be sent away. They’re watching me, Nellie.”

You take the empty seat beside him as you frown. “So, they’re basically drafting you to peacekeeping for entering the Arena and performing funeral rites on your tribute?”

“Yes, among other things.”

A blanket of silence passes between the two of you.

“When?” you ask finally. It comes out coarse and full of dread.

“Later today.”

You let in a sharp intake of breath. They’re taking him away for his flagrant displays of basic human decency.

You swallow that lump in your throat and ask, “Do you know where you’d be assigned to?”

“12. I wasn’t assigned to it. I’m going to ask to be sent there. After all, somebody’s got to keep an eye out for Pretty-boy Coryo. He’s not going to last long there without me,” he says with false bravado.

The smirk on your face is half-hearted. “When...” When will I see you again? “When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know.”

Your heart sinks to your stomach. You must’ve looked so upset because he holds your hand and squeezes. It’ll be a long time before you get to feel that hand-squeeze again.

“Nellie, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t come here just to say goodbye,” Sejanus says with those reassuring brown eyes. He shows you the small notebook he brought with him. “I spent days working on that. I didn’t sleep at all last night to get it finished. I’m sorry I couldn’t see you for the past few days, I didn’t want to come to you empty-handed.”

You quell that foreboding feeling in your heart and take the notebook with curiosity.

Sejanus says proudly, “Between the two of us, you were always the one with the solutions. This time, I got mine.”

You flip the notebook filled with his neat handwriting. On the first page are the words, ‘just in case.’

“Janus, what is this?”

He excitedly leans closer to you and says, “Code. We’re going to write each other in code. Here.” He fishes out another book from inside his jacket: an old, dog-eared book of condensed romantic novels.

It’s so odd a display you could not help commenting as you take the book. “Is this a one-of-a-kind deluxe collectable from the Plinth Family library?”

Sejanus laughs softly, the warm glow in his eyes slowly returning. Happy to see it again, you laugh with him. The smile on your face stays on for a few moments. How could it not when he’s there with you?

“So, we’re using this system to write to each other,” you conclude with a more serious tone. “You suspect they’ll be monitoring our letters.”

Sejanus lets out a weary sigh. “Yeah. I know you worry a lot, so I’d like to be able to exchange updates with you without putting you in trouble. Anything I write you that’s in the tone of subversion, which to them is the only language I know now, is going to raise suspicion. And I can’t risk that of you.”

You nod in understanding. You’re going to do your best to give him that – he’s going to need news of home when he’s there, it’s the least you could do to help. And in turn, you’ll have some form of assurance knowing that he’s doing okay.

“So, I wrote down references on the notebook for common things like, say, somebody threw a party or some shit. But anything serious, like, really serious that I haven’t thought of, that’s what that one-of-a-kind deluxe collectable is for.” He points at the book for emphasis. “You’re going to need to read that. Cover to cover.”

It isn’t your go-to genre, but you can easily manage that.

“You have another copy of this book?”

“Nah, I’ve read it many times. I remember every word.” This makes you raise a derisive eyebrow, to which he adds in mock defence, “Hey, sorry I wasn’t reading differential calculus. I was a kid, and it stuck, okay?”

Still giggling, you nodded in understanding. You hold the books close to your heart and give him a thankful look.

“We’re also going to need to burn the letters as soon as we read them. We can’t take any chances.” Sejanus gazes at you with a wistful smile. “I need you to be safe here, Nellie.”

This time, he takes both of your hands in his. The thought of not seeing your friend for a long time stirs up this cold emptiness inside you that threatens to grow even before he’s left. A treacherous tear runs down your cheek, followed by another, but he cups your face to wipe it away.

“Hey, I’ll be back in no time.”

“Okay,” you breathe. “Take care of your boyfriend, yes?” He chortles at this. “Take care of yourself, Janus. Know how to choose your battles, and when.”

He bobs his head as he lets you go. The absence of his warmth on your skin is immediate. He leans further but seems to hesitate. Instead, he gets to his feet.

It’s time.

You walk him to the door. You don’t exchange goodbyes anymore, maybe because you both believe you just did or maybe because there’s no need to.

You watch as he disappears into the hall towards the elevator. You don’t know why you linger, but before you close the door, a shout of your name keeps you in place. All that enters your line of vision are dishevelled brown curls before you feel a pair of lips latch onto yours.

Such warmth. And greedily, selfishly, you lean into that warmth, you take as much as you can get, for as long as you can.

You both pull away at the same time, your faces flush and beaming with a mixture of thrill and disbelief. Sejanus brings your foreheads close.

“Wait for me,” he whispers breathlessly.

You find yourself nodding fervently even before he finishes his request.

He plants a tender, lingering kiss on your forehead. With those soft brown orbs, he stares at you for a few seconds, still blushing, as he slowly backs away. And then he bolts, for good, taking all of that warmth with him. Your fingers travel subconsciously to your lips. Already, there’s a chill in you without him there, but you’ll endure. No matter how cold it gets.

For him.

The first letter from Sejanus arrived three weeks after your conversation. Nothing too drastic or fancy, if your decoding was accurate. Just mentions of the daily grind of a peacekeeper’s life. Drab, it may be, but you were glad to hear they were being fed well and weren’t getting into trouble. He hinted at Coriolanus being depressed at still having not found Lucy Gray. You remember being highly entertained by this development. You had guessed right, yet again: the elitist Snow, lovesick and pining over a girl from the districts who represents everything he stands against. What you would’ve given to have seen it for yourself.

These letters quickly become the highlight of your week when they arrive. You recall with disdain the women from those cheaply produced serialised dramas depicting them looking out the window in anticipation of news from their lovers at war. And here you were, acting like one, getting disgustingly giddy at the thought of a letter from your friend. The universe can be so vindictive, you thought to yourself with a laugh.

It was all lighthearted and fun until it wasn’t.

The tone in his letters shifted abruptly, indicating that the events in District 12 had become more tense and he had found questionable company.

You’re with your uncle at his private computer lab in the University, getting as much leg up as you can for your incoming classes. He had reminded you how high the expectations were of you to perform leagues beyond your peers because of your family name, so you took this to heart and started going with him whenever he went to teach summer classes. He’s at the other side of a long table piled to the ceiling with computer equipment, poring over the motherboard of an old computer he had taken apart. You’re going over a line of code you had entered on an unfamiliar programming language he was showing you the ropes on when a rap on the lab door is heard. The heavy carved door opens by a tiny fraction and a mailman’s head pokes in.

“Ah, wonderful, it’s here,” Uncle Cas mutters to himself as he gets to his feet to receive what appears to be a package with the Innis Tech logo stamped with the District 3 seal.

“From your aunt,” he clarifies, noticing your curious look.

His ex-wife: a strict, sharp-tongued woman he separated from before moving to the Capitol, with whom he left the task of managing the company-owned factories in District 3. You’re not that close to her, but you still call her Aunt Marcelline. You’ve stayed in her estate during your school break trips to District 3 while she busied herself with company matters.

“I designed a set of experimental microprocessors and sent her the blueprints. She mailed me the prototypes.”

Quietly, he slides a familiar envelope towards you. It’s always your uncle who hands you Sejanus’s letters. Weird that it looks like it came with his package, but you file that information away. With your code work abandoned, you all but tear the envelope open. The last one was three weeks ago, and you had been growing more anxious as the recurrence between them went further than the last. You glance at your uncle to ensure he isn’t watching, but he’s already had his back turned to you, presumably to assemble the microprocessors. You take out your references for the code and decipher the letter at once, hoping it isn’t as nowhere as alarming as his previous one. He had, after all, hinted at meeting a known rebel and had sympathised with his plight.

What you discover has you cursing under your breath and fearful for your friend’s life.

From across the table, your uncle mutters absently, “Nothing bad, I hope.” You deliberately ignore him.

Ammunition. Sejanus is supplying the rebels with money for ammunition.

What the actual fuck, Janus?

He ends the letter with a vow to return to you so you can make a difference together, just like he does every time. Only this time, this doesn’t comfort you at all.

In the letter you send back, you advise him against making another move and ask him – beg him – to put this all to an end. Understanding their plight and saying a change is much needed? That’s fine. Supplying the rebel forces with weapons? Downright madness. And where is Coriolanus in this? Is he in it, too? Why would he let his own best friend get involved in something he could be labelled a traitor for?

His next letter after that wasn’t much better.

Nothing about acts of rebellion, or of acquiring ammunition. Instead, the entire letter is Sejanus asking if you would come with him and live in the mountains if he asked you to. If you would meet him and run away with him if he told you where and when. The worst part of it was the underlying despair in the tone as if this was a last resort. If perhaps you were normal teenagers in normal circumstances it would’ve sent butterflies flying in your stomach and you’d be a wreck muffling your squeals of excitement with a pillow – except none of this was normal, and the friend you’re writing to is in District 12, has either committed treason or on the verge of committing treason and you’re stuck in the Capitol, unable to do a damn thing to keep any of it from happening.

It takes you a while to respond to his bizarre letter of his.

If I could be there in a heartbeat, I would. If you tell me where, I’ll follow. If you tell me when, I’ll leave right at that second. But please, please, Janus, be very careful, don’t do anything else that could get you in trouble. Please, come back, and we’ll talk about this then when you do. Be safe for us.

***

You stay distracted and jittery for the next nineteen days, and by the end of the twentieth day of no word from Sejanus, you had not eaten a single bite of food in your distress. You lay on the couch and turn the TV to a late-night drama called ‘Young Hearts,’ something about a peacekeeper trying to find the lover he left behind after his twenty-year draft. Nothing young about that, you mutter yourself miserably and close your eyes, trying to think of any clue you could’ve missed in your friend’s letters.

The next thing you know, you’re being gently shaken awake by Uncle Cas calmly calling your name out with mildly drawn together in worry.

He hands you over a glass of water, which you gratefully accept. You’re extremely parched and your throat is sore.

“Nellie. You were having nightmares again.”

That figures. Rarely do you remember these nightmares, but your uncle has woken you up in this manner too many times to count for you to know you had been screaming yourself hoarse, calling out for your parents in the dead of night.

Your uncle releases an audible sigh. “What is it this time?”

You peer at his worried, exhausted eyes, feeling your own starting to sting.

“Is this about a boy? Do I have to break an eighteen-year-old’s leg?”

You burst into a laughing-crying fit, at which your uncle’s mouth upturns.

“I’m sure you know this, by now, but stressing yourself out like this...you have not had nightmares in a long time, Nellie. This isn’t good,” he admonishes softly.

You begin confessing, “It’s Sejanus –“

“– Aaaand it’s about a boy. Got it. I’ll break his arms instead when he comes back, I’ll deal with Strabo Plinth after.”

You wipe your tears with your palm as you stifle your laughter. “Uncle, please, be serious,” you let out a couple of sniffs, letting the sobs fade. “He hasn’t written in almost three weeks. What if something happened to him?”

Your uncle puts an arm around your head and tucks you under his chin. “Plumcake, communication between –“

“– the Districts take a long time to get delivered, I know. I can’t help it. But why do I feel like...like something’s wrong this time? I mean, I feel like that all the time –“

“– because you tend to overthink, plumcake,” he finishes. “Add to that missing meals, sleeping irregularly? You’re not going to help Sejanus by worrying yourself to death.”

Of course, he’s right. He’s right. You can’t both be falling apart at the same time.

You nod lightly on his shoulder, feeling a light kiss on your hair. He lets go of you, and takes out a chocolate bar from his pyjama’s front pocket, urging you to eat something. You take it with trembling hands.

“How long has this been inside your pocket?” you mumble as you chew mechanically.

Uncle Cas just snorts and scoffs, “I don’t sleep with candy on me if that’s what you’re implying.”

A comforting silence passes between you two before your uncle leans forward and peers at you with a contemplative look.

“You love this boy.”

It isn’t a question, you notice. This kind of talk with your uncle is unchartered territory, because, as he’s quoted before, you’ve never given him any kind of ‘boy trouble,’ to which he’s thankful. But this is different. Sejanus isn’t just some boy; he’s a dear friend who needs help and you’d do just about anything to get to him at that very moment.

“I...I don’t know.”

Oh, but you know. You always know.

“But you would run away with him if he asked you to?”

You turn to look at him sharply in surprise. How did he know?

As if he read your mind, he says with a dry smile, “I pulled quite a lot of strings to make sure those letters get to the only hands that are meant to handle them.”

Of course. This is Acacius Innis you’re dealing with, Panem’s most prolific computer scientist and mathematical genius. Your code was probably just another crossword puzzle for him to solve while he was casually sipping his morning coffee. He’s been protecting you all this time. How he’s doing it, you feel like you wouldn’t like the answer to, but your heart just seems to find a way to love him even more. What would you do without him, you have no idea. Tears threaten to spill once more from your eyes, so all you can manage is a wet, grateful smile.

“I was young once, too, plumcake,” He reaches to ruffle your hair, flashing you a knowing smile. “Your aunt Marcelline and I, oh boy...did I ever tell you about that time we –”

Here we go. An Acacius Innis diversionary tactic special: overwhelm his niece with tales about him and his bossy ex-wife sneaking off to abandoned warehouses to make out on top of electrical equipment. He’s used those at parties to great effect.

“You know what, maybe I will run away with Sejanus.”

“Do that and I’ll break his arms, plus his legs, when he comes back.”

The phone rings in the living room as you pack some of your clothes. Your uncle presumably picks the phone up since it quiets down, leaving you to organise your suitcase in peace.

Your uncle had advised you this morning to take a break at your Aunt Marcelline’s estate in District 3. He said you needed the change of scenery to clear your head in time for your college freshman year. You had argued with him about staying for any news of your oddly quiet friend, but he didn’t want to hear any of it.

Something is wrong and you can’t shake it off, no matter how hard you try to rationalise.

With your five days' worth of clothes packed and ready to go, you trudge to the living room to call your uncle and get the trip over with. It doesn’t feel right to leave when you have a friend from whom you have not heard a single peep.

“Uncle Cas? I’m done packing,” you call out to the living room.

You find him sitting on the sofa, leaning forward with an arm rested on his knee, his hand covering half of his face. He looks at you sombrely, rubs his face and heaves a deep sigh.

“Trip’s cancelled,” he says in a hushed tone. “Come and sit with me, Nellie.”

Something’s wrong.

But that thought, you ignore, along with that racing heartbeat echoing in your ears.

You sit on the space your uncle gestured, wiping your palms on your lap. Your uncle turns to you with an expression you’ve only ever seen him once. The same look he wore the day he picked you up at the hospital after your Mom and Dad died.

Dread pools in your gut, making you feel lightheaded and sick.

“Nellie, Sejanus is gone. He’s been executed for treason.”

A shaky breath escapes your lips as your mind races to the rational. It can’t be. He can’t be. He just wrote to you three weeks ago. He just asked you if you’d run away with him. He hasn’t even replied to the last letter you sent. You essentially said yes.

Vaguely, you feel hands cup your face, and you hear your uncle call your name, but you choose to listen to the words that replay in your head:

“Wait for me.”

You’ll never hear that voice again.

“But he promised,” you whisper, unable to see clearly. Your eyes are stinging. “He said I should wait for him. He promised.”

“Plumcake, I’m sorry.”

Your uncle encases you in a hug. It should be warm, right?

You feel nothing.

You’ll never feel his warmth again.

And just like the day your uncle came for you at the hospital, you let your grief out on his shirt, wailing for another loved one lost you were too helpless to save.

“You’ve been watching an awful lot of that drama.”

Your uncle enters the living room with a pint of chocolate chip mint ice cream and plops down the sofa before handing you a spoon. You shake your head quietly, your eyes glued to the TV.

“Alright, more for me,” your uncle mutters to himself.

The former peacekeeper had just missed the love of his life in the town square, and he was now running around the shops trying to spot the familiar face.

If only he had caught sight of her just as she turned the corner...

You adjust the thick woollen quilt around your form huddled to your knees at the corner, your mind blank for the first time in a long while of barely doing anything.

Your uncle seems to understand your need to mourn and has since respected your space, only coaxing you to eat or go out for ice cream, all of which you refuse.

But to your annoyance, no matter how much you try to adjust the quilt, it’s still pretty fucking cold.

Your uncle wordlessly wraps another blanket on you. You thank him mechanically, even if the blanket doesn’t help with anything.

How hard is it to get fucking warm in this damn house...

“Nellie, I could turn up the thermostat but we’d basically be close to steaming,” your uncle comments gently.

You flash him a weak smile and turn your attention back to the TV, where the former peacekeeper chases a woman he thinks is the girl. He catches up to her, but she struggles. They both fall on the ground just before the guy realises it isn’t his girl. It gets messy, as the girl screams for help and the guy despairs while he’s dragged away by the peacekeepers on duty.

What a load of bullshit, you think.

The phone in your uncle’s office rings, making him get up from the couch and leave the tub of ice cream on the coffee table. Your stomach rumbles – a rather bleak reminder of the last time you had eaten anything. Dragging the blankets along with you, you make tea in the kitchen as you spot your uncle out of his pyjamas and dressed in his usual wool coat.

“They need me at the lab, the driver’s waiting downstairs,” he says, poking his head in the kitchen. “You’ll be alright here, plumcake?”

“At this time?” your voice comes out hoarse from unuse.

“Yeah, what can I say? They love me there at the Citadel, they’re practically begging to get in my pants,” he shrugs. His tone is meant to be lighthearted but it lacks its usual bite. You notice the lines on his face, the bags underneath his eyes, those brows knitting slightly together in his worry. A pang of guilt hits you.

“I’ll be fine, Uncle Cas. Go do your thing. Make them love you even more, or whatever.”

He opens his mouth to say something but seems to decide against it. He ends up saying in his usual teasing tone, “Yeah, that’s the easy part. Eat something and then go to bed, will you? You’re starting to look like a fucking ghost.”

You just flash him a flat smile. He’s gone in a moment, the front door closing behind him.

You inhale the steam from the tea deeply, your hands feeling wonderful around the steaming mug of tea. The mug cools down, after a few minutes, leaving you craving for more warmth. The kettle on the stove was still warm. You abandon your half-filled mug and place your hands around that too, until the steel starts biting your fingers with the cold.

This won’t do.

Maybe a warm bath ought to.

You shed the heavy layers of blankets wrapped around you. You don’t bother taking your hoodie off or your pyjamas as you walk into the scalding bath.

You just need to be warm, after all. Then you’ll be okay. Deeply drawing in a breath, you lean against the tub and hug your knees.

Sejanus’s hug was almost this warm. So were his hands. And his lips.

It takes only a fraction of a second for you to burst into agonizing sobs.

You miss him. Terribly.

“You said you’d come back. You told me to wait for you. I’m still fucking waiting.”

But the bathroom walls only mildly echo your voice.

***

You wake up to your uncle close to screaming your name.

What’s wrong? You’re warm now, so warm. Shivers wrack your body as your Uncle Cas sets you down on the plush bathroom carpet. You’re perfectly, contentedly warm now, so the shaking should subside, right?

“Nellie, what the fuck, how long have you been in here?” your uncle chastises. He grabs as many towels as he can from the overhead cabinet and wraps them all around you. “Next time you want to kill yourself, there are more efficient methods.”

You try to choke back your tears, but they still spill. You’re warm now, but every limb and every muscle hurts.

With you wrapped in a cocoon of towels, your uncle crouches on the floor to take you in his arms. You drench his coat and his shirt, but he doesn’t care.

“I’m sorry, plumcake, I did not mean to say that,” he coos into the hair clinging to your head.

You tremble as you cling to the towels. Why does it hurt?

“What on earth were you trying to do?”

Unable to hold it in any longer, you confess. Everything you’ve been bottling up since five days ago on the day you lost your best friend.

“I’m s-orry,” you say through your sobs and chattering teeth. “Wa-want to be wa-warm. J-janus was s-so warm, and now I’ll be c-c-cold. I just w-want him to hold my hand again like he d-did when I told him...mom and d-ad...”

You feel your uncle rest his chin on your head. “I’m sorry, little plumcake. There was nothing you could’ve done.”

“I feel b-better now,” you whisper. The door to the bathroom is ajar. You see a figure with brown curls peeking inside. “Better...Janus...he’ll co-come for me...he came b-b-ack, see?” you try to point at the door, but you can’t move your arm. But he’s there and he’s waiting.

“Nellie, plumcake, there’s no one there, you’re ice cold. We need a doctor...”

Your uncle releases you as he scrambles out the bathroom. You vaguely hear him phoning his driver to bring the car around. The figure with brown curls slowly makes its way to you. The last thing you remember is him carting you off the bathroom floor and dashing out the apartment door before blackness takes over your vision.

Hypothermia, the doctor had said when you woke up. Your uncle had rushed you to the hospital around dawn, which meant you had been soaking in that tub for a few hours before he found you. You don’t remember anything after you had gotten in the tub. It wasn’t severe, thankfully, so you were discharged the next day.

You came home to an invitation in the mail from none other than Coriolanus Snow. So, he had returned from his exile in District 12, and according to the card, he will be hosting what would be Sejanus’s nineteenth birthday.

“You’re not going?” Your uncle had inquired with a surprised look.

“No. I think I’ll be busy that day, Uncle.”

“What for?”

You just gave him a small, determined smile.

“I’m getting rid of evidence.”

By the look of recognition your uncle flashes, he understood what you meant, and asked no more questions.

So, on the night of your best friend’s birthday, instead of being at the Plinth house, you’re on the rooftop, lighting a fire inside a large metal tin. You’re crouching on the gravel, vaguely wondering how the party was going.

You feel bad about not calling or visiting Ma Plinth. She had always been nice to you whenever you visited Janus, usually plying both of you so much of her delicious cooking and even making you take home leftovers. It must be extremely painful, losing the only son whom she doted and loved more than anything in the world. But you worry that when she starts talking, she’ll touch on feelings you’re actively trying to suppress. Maybe you could call her one time once you’re ready for such a conversation.

Coriolanus is probably hosting the party out of grief – in the letters, Janus hinted at growing closer to him during their stint in District 12. You watch as the flames in the tin grow and cast a comforting warmth around your form, wondering in amusement whether it was Snow Sejanus really had a crush on. You hope in your heart that Coriolanus had considered him a true friend right at the very end. That way, it’d be more comforting, knowing your dear friend had spent his final moments on earth with a person he trusted with his life.

You had kept all the letters inside a locked wooden box. You didn’t have the heart to burn them immediately after, but Sejanus had written incriminating messages in them. If anyone else were to discover them, you’d be considered a co-conspirator. You’re not worried about yourself, but your uncle...he can’t have you giving him any more trouble as you already have.

You take the letters, one by one, planting a kiss goodbye on each, before tossing them ceremoniously into the makeshift firepit. You watch with a heavy heart as they burst into flames, the smoke rising into the cold night air. You reach the bottom of the box where the tiny notebook lies. You rip each page apart, and those too, are placed on the fire. You continue, until all that’s left of the correspondence between you and Sejanus – the brave, pure soul of a man you could proudly now declare you had fallen in love with – is reduced to a pile of ash. You gather the ash and scatter it on the nearby herb box.

At least you still have that rugged condensed romance novel book, you thought to yourself with a wry chuckle.

Now done with destroying the evidence, you get to your feet with a vow to begin anew.

For him.

Another death devastated the Capitol in the following days. Casca Highbottom, Academy Dean and author of The Hunger Games. Your uncle thought he may have drunk tainted morphling, which he could’ve gotten anywhere. The authorities said it’s too broad of a scope to consider foul play, seeing as he was known as an avid user, he said.

You could’ve gone to the funeral, seeing as the man allowed you to graduate despite your albeit intentional fuckup, but you also knew everyone else would be there: everyone whose faces would remind you of your friend. You’re not sure you’re ready to face them just yet.

Uncle Cas had started preparing for his upcoming classes at Uni, so you volunteered to help exactly seven days before your classes started. The entire day was spent photocopying syllabi for student distribution, getting the computers at the public computer lab ready for use, and organising the private lab. The last one wasn’t an easy feat, what with the room piled to the walls with all the computers he has taken apart, all the drives he has accumulated, and all the books and papers he refuses to get rid of. What your uncle calls organised chaos, you simply call messy hoarding tendencies.

You’re bored out of your mind sorting through last academic year’s essays and test papers when your uncle calls you to his office at the far end of the lab.

You’ve only been inside a handful of times for short periods; otherwise, no one else is allowed. You find him playfully swivelling in his chair and playing with a stress ball, tossing it in the air and catching it.

“How’d you like to be my apprentice?”

He ceases with the chair swivel and throws the stress ball at you, which you move to catch at once. You openly gape at him, unsure if you heard correctly.

Apprenticeships for Uni deans are a big deal in the Capitol’s book.

“Since you’re here all the time being my little helper, no?” He says casually. He turns to the computer behind him and pulls up a program.

“Alright, I’ll sweeten the deal,” he continues. “Be my gamemaker apprentice. That’s better than a dean’s apprentice. You get paid and get exclusive perks, all that jazz.”

You bristle at this. He has never involved you in anything he does at the Citadel, and you’d prefer that it stays that way. Why is he bringing you in now?

Ignoring your perplexed expression, he goes on. “The best perk, in my opinion, is a membership to the White Knights Club. It’s an exclusive members-only restaurant on 3rd Street. The jazz band is okay, but they have the best angel food cake in the city.”

“Why?” you blurt out.

“They put orange extract instead of vani –“

“Not the cake, Uncle, the gamemaker apprenticeship thing,” you interrupt. “Why would you ask me that?”

Your Uncle Cas just beckons you to his computer and points at the currently running program.

On the app seems to be your Uncle’s name, his photo, and his –

“Wait, are those your...”

“Vitals? Yes,” he says proudly.

“...and hormone levels...to gauge emotion...” Your jaw drops open. “This is live?”

“Made possible by wearing this chip –“ he points at the back of his neck – “Which transmits everything in real-time, or at least it’s supposed to.”

“What do you mean?” you ask as you curiously peek at the back of his neck. True enough, there’s a chip about two inches in diameter attached to his skin. “Wait, did you put on this implant yourself? It looks like it hurts...”

“It hurts like a bitch, yes. But you get used to it quickly and it’s removable.”

He fishes a similar chip out of his drawer. He points at the two needle-like protrusions on each side of the square. “These are fitted onto the skin. And this,” he says, pointing at what looks like a microscopic piece of glass, “That’s the transmitter. I’m working on reducing the size of this chip at the moment.”

“Holy shit, Uncle Cas. They’re going to make the tributes wear these?”

He nods.

Your uncle built this entire thing? From a technical standpoint, you’re more than blown away. The program’s function on the other hand...

Before you could even explore more for yourself, he shuts down the program and locks his computer.

“What did you do that for?” you protest. “Moreover, why are you showing me this?”

“Because I haven’t finished it yet. And I need you to help me with the code.”

Oddly enough, you aren’t insulted or angry he would offer you a place among people you don’t ever want to associate with. There is no judgment between you and your Uncle Cas. You’re merely puzzled to your core.

“You’ve never talked about work at the Citadel before, Uncle. Why now?”

“Because you’re an Innis. My blood. The only person alive I can trust with my work.”

You’re touched and filled with pride that your Uncle would entrust you with something he built entirely from the ground up. But you remain unconvinced. This is, after all, an accessory to a vile creation you’d rather see disappear. You keep your eyes on your lap as you think.

“Why did you make this?”

“Because this is what’s within my control, Nellie.”

This makes you glance up at him in surprise.

“I can’t make the Games go away. Just like I can’t leave my work at the Citadel. What I can do, however, is build a tool that can help the mentors keep their tributes alive for as long as they can.”

Your uncle grins at the look of recognition on your face.

“That’s what the vitals are for...and the hormone levels...” you whisper.

“Make them see that there’s a living, breathing human being on the other side of that screen. Be more compelled to protect a person instead of putting on a show. At least that’s the hope.”

So that’s why your uncle wants only you to work on the program. Because in the hands of people like Volumnia Gaul, the program, when modified, promises something deadlier, more inhumane. You shudder inwardly at the possibilities.

“And you have my word I’m not going to make you work at Citadel.”

You inhale slowly, now understanding the responsibility he’s placing on you.

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

His shoulders sagging imperceptibly in relief, he walks over to you and ruffles your hair.

“You’re a good kid, plumcake. Thank you.”

For the next six days until the start of the classes, you dangle this over Acacius Innis’ head in exchange for ice cream, much to his tolerant amusement.

And the program? You quietly vow to help put into completion and protect with your life, hoping it will one day protect someone else’s.

***

College then begins. Every class, every book, every face – they’re all new and fresh, save a few former Academy classmates you’d thankfully spot right on time and easily dodge. There was no need to make friends or alliances anymore. For the first time in a long while, you’re having fun learning new concepts and ideas, taking in every bit of knowledge you can get your hands on. Aside from school keeping you busy and distracted, you have your apprenticeship underway, working tirelessly on your uncle’s beloved creation.

Before you know it, it’s the middle of the semester, and save for a few of your uncle’s interns and student assistants, you hardly know anyone even remotely close to your age.

And you don’t know whether to be happy about it or be scared that you’re getting increasingly apathetic to the situation.

Coriolanus Snow is here, instead of at the University attending a lecture he mildly looked forward to, only for appearances’ sake, he assures himself. Go out there, Gaul had told him, make it look like he’s slowly reintegrating into society.

“Date. Party. Indulge. You have a bright future, a good life ahead of you. Make sure they all see it.”

The Capitol loves a good comeback story, and this was his, she had claimed.

In his short lifetime thus far, he’s conned, manipulated, lied, betrayed, and murdered – he’s committed more crimes than most men of his age had ever done, and here he is, waiting for Livia Cardew at a restaurant in this farce of a date he wishes would already end even before it had started.

He might get something out of this whole dating scene in general, he supposes. After all, like any ambitious, upstanding man of the Capitol, he’d have to eventually take a wife. Procreate. Leave behind a legacy the next generation could one day look up to. Ensure the cycle goes on. A marriage projects a desire for stability and fabricates this image of a dutiful and dedicated husband, which could be useful down the line when, not if, he rises to power.

Marriages, however, complicate matters, especially those with emotional attachments involved. Those whose judgement is clouded by emotion are easily manipulated and taken advantage of.

He knows this through first-hand experience. He had not been thinking clearly with his past involvement with Lucy Gray. She became a weakness for him, a blind spot. Lucy Gray used this emotional tie of his in an attempt to throw him off balance. There is no room for that with his objectives in mind.

The maître ‘d approaches his table and relays a message from the woman he’s waiting for: that she will be a little late because her stylist ordered the wrong size dress she initially wanted to wear, but that he has nothing to worry about as it’s all handled and she’s on her way. Coriolanus’s lips curl in displeasure when the maître ‘d walks away.

If he’s going to take a wife, it has to be someone he hates and would never willingly associate with in normal circumstances. That way, this hypothetical wife wouldn’t be used as leverage against him and could never spin his emotions around and use it to bring him down. Someone like Livia Cardew, a woman whose time management skills are non-existent, you can give her today and she’d be early tomorrow.

Late because of a dress. Coriolanus would pinch his eyebrows in annoyance if he wasn’t out in public. She could practically embed her skin with diamonds and rubies and he’d still find someone else with more class by throwing a dart on a map with his eyes closed.

Just the thought of having dinner with her now leaves a bitter taste in his tongue.

Someone less revolting, then, perhaps? Someone less grating and off-putting, someone whose voice and presence he could tolerate? Someone he’s actually come to respect? Someone who made a name for herself, not because of her family name alone nor of her penchant for superficiality and promiscuity, but because of her exceptional intellect and displays of inner backbone?

Reluctant as he is to admit it, there is only one woman in all of Panem who fits that criteria.

You.

You’d certainly take a lot of work, he muses as he stirs his tea, watching as the minuscule sugar granules melt into the amber liquid. He lightly squeezes a lemon wedge into the cup, thinking how he’d have to clamp down on your rebellious tendencies and make you improve your questionable social skills. But, like any high-quality, artisanal tea with many complex flavours, there is balance in you – qualities he can appreciate that make up your multifaceted psyche: your smarts, your impeccable manners, your impressive sense of self-discipline, and that air of refinement about you that most women your age could only hope to achieve. He had felt your wariness around him when you were still classmates back at the Academy, but that didn’t stop you then from being kind to him by often offering your classroom notes and leaving him food with those thoughtful little scribbles.

But perhaps the best one out of all of them? You have had no previous lovers he could contend with (Sejanus didn’t count, he made sure of it). He knows, too, that you wouldn’t care to look for one – not so soon after your friend’s death, not with your preoccupation with your studies, and simply because he knows you wouldn’t. With your chosen field of study, he could make you work for him, perhaps as a Gamemaker, so he could make use of your abilities, and most importantly, so he could keep a close watch on you at all times. Your potential is quickly starting to appeal to him.

He’d mould you into the perfect wife: his future first lady, the perfect embodiment of the Panem woman, completely and utterly his.

Well, close to perfect, given your district roots, but he could make a compromise. After all, there was absolutely nothing in you that screamed district. He supposes he has your Capitol upbringing to thank for that. Maybe your line isn’t even district at all. Maybe the districts can produce the odd one or two capable minds, but an entire clan of geniuses?

He thinks of children. Heirs to the Snow empire. If he were to take you as his wife, the chances of his line producing a superior legacy – children who are competent and are actually worthy of inheriting the name – increase significantly, compared to him taking someone else of less calibre. The genius of the Innises, combined with the ferocity and the resilience of the Snows – he will have children who’ll grow up to be admired and feared and respected in their own right. A fitting continuation of his line, indeed.

He gets to his feet with practised grace, his decision finally made. He abandons his now-tepid tea, leaves a check with a sizeable tip and orders the maitre ‘d to give a message to his late date: something about leaving for a more urgent appointment with someone else more important somewhere else in the city. He doesn’t bother elaborating, nor does he waste any more time waiting for her. He knows there is no point.

While he looks out his car’s window to observe the Capitol’s rapidly changing infrastructure, he vaguely wonders why he’s never considered you a candidate for marriage until now. Maybe because, like everyone in class, he knew even then that you were off-limits. Everyone else thought you were Sejanus’s girl from the start and it was only a matter of time when you both acted on it. The district boy and girl, sharing the same origin story, the same values, and the same hatred for the Games, the two of you against the world. By any standards, you’re considered physically attractive – there were talks among Academy boys about how you were one of the prettiest girls in your year, and many of them would’ve pursued you had you been Capitol-born, if or you didn’t have Sejanus as your shadow, or if you had been more sociable and outgoing. Whatever. At least it’s less work for him, less jilted lovers he would’ve gladly poisoned.

He has to play this smartly, though. With you, he knows there still is a possibility of getting emotionally involved – he does care about you to some extent, after all. If he ever ends up getting more attached than that, all he has to do is use some kind of leverage against you to make you stay in line.

Perhaps he could rope in Strabo Plinth to request an audience with your uncle and cut a deal with him in exchange for your hand. But Acacius Innis? Coriolanus has interacted with him only a handful of times in the Citadel. Apart from his genius, he’s polite and easygoing, with a bit of a sarcastic streak and a huge sweet tooth (the latter two you both seem to share). All of this, a facade for a man with an unyielding set of principles and a hint of ruthlessness. There’s something else in there, too, but even he can admit your Uncle Cas is tough to read. Perhaps he can explore that when he’s found out more.

Your absence at Highbottom’s funeral had been noticeable, and you had left an even gaping hole on the night of Sejanus’ 19th birthday party. You had all but ignored the invitation he sent. He guesses you’re trying to avoid anyone and everyone that reminded you of Sejanus. You could be devastated, perhaps even regretful, that you had not pursued your budding attachments with your friend before he died. Coriolanus had tried to ignore Sejanus’ attempts to be friends then, but even he couldn’t do the same for the former Plinth heir’s soft spot for you. He was always wanting to be around you, worrying about you, stealing fleeting glances in your direction. That’s why he had seen Sejanus’s eventual confession to him of his crush on you coming from a mile away.

And there you were, oblivious to all of it. For someone with razor-sharp intuition, you insist so much on trapping yourself in your imaginary protective little bubble you had failed to see how your friend had his eye on you for a long time. He had to admit: it was amusing in its own right to watch.

And therein lies a lapse in your judgment. It means when it comes to matters involving your little sweetheart – he nearly rolls his eyes at the concept – you’re easily emotionally blindsided. You may not even realise it, but Sejanus is a tiny crack in your normally smooth, perceptive surface. A weakness, dare he say. If that blind spot still exists, he will find a way to exploit it.

In a way, maybe Sejanus deserved you. He was, after all, inherently good (so good he died from it). Sejanus Plinth: born into a life of abundance, handed every privilege his bumbling idiot of a father could afford, never knowing pain, hunger, and suffering until the last moments of his admittedly short life – and somehow, he still would’ve gotten you if he had lived. Life is really fucking unfair that way.

He didn’t care then. Nor did he care then when Sejanus basically gloated to him that he had finally mustered the courage to kiss you right before he left for District 12. But now? The thought of that innocent, stupid little kiss plagues him. Was it quick? A mere peck? Did he catch you by surprise? Did you kiss him back? It doesn’t matter now if you did, he surmises. Coriolanus could give you more of that – so much more – if that’s what it takes to make you get over this affliction. Pretty soon, you’d forget about that kiss, and Sejanus would be nothing more to you than a dead friend, tucked away and reduced to one of many memories of mere teenage naivety and pointless idealism. Just like he is to him.

But – he laughs to himself bitterly and resents himself for even thinking about it – what kind of cruel twist of irony would it be if he had to contend with the ghost of his dead best friend for his future wife’s affections?

Enter Level 3

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated!!!

l'll work on putting this on Ao3 when I get the chance. Also, sorry about the missing separators, I'm only allowed to put 10 on a post and this fic is suuuuper long but it didn't feel right if I separate it into 2 chapters 😅😅😅

#dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #young!coriolanus snow #young!coriolanus snow x reader #named!reader #or #x OC2ndPOV #18+ only #dark!coriolanus snow fic #dark!coriolanus #dark!coriolanus fic #dark!fic

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