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powderblueblood · 4 months

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HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc! as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER EIGHT — SEWN UP

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summary: you'd need a hacksaw to cut the tension between you and eddie, but that's not your weapon of choice this time around. a newspaper pitch, a patchwork girl and a tasteless prank all work together to make things ever more awkward between you and the boy you keep senselessly calling your friend. content warnings: MINORS DNI, THIS IS NOT SAFE FOR YOUR PURITAN EYES - reader is an ex-bitch on a journey of self-discovery through being an even more specific kind of bitch, angst in the form of an elizabeth munson mention, miscommunication, lacy engaging non-platonically with someone other than eddie, mention of lacy's surname and dad's name, REEFER RICK CAMEO, billy hargrove slander as per, violence, a humiliating prank, smut in the form of public hand stuff (f!receiving), me feeling insane about this chapter word count: 14.3k

Dear Mom,

She hasn’t got warm hands. She hasn’t got the kind of smile that draws people to her. She hasn’t got a kind word for everyone, no matter where they come from. She hasn’t got a lot of patience. She hasn’t got a fixed sense of herself–well, she does kinda. But, not totally. Not yet.

She’s not like you.

Other cheerleaders wore ponytails and they’d bounce. But when she wore a ponytail, it swung like a sword. She used to be cruel and exacting, but now she’s just exacting. She’s honest and observant to a degree that’s, like, almost psycho. She’s a cold front, but she laughs like a lightning strike. I feel like thunder, powerless to do anything but roll after her. Can’t help myself.

She knows what she wants, she thinks. Other days she doesn’t. I keep trying to tell her that’s okay, in ways where I don’t actually have to use the words. My words wouldn’t be as good as her words. Her words burn clean through me like a lit tip of a cigarette.

But she does have your book.

Y’know, I always thought it was kind of creepy the way some guys would try and look for their mom in other girls.

So this might be a good thing. Less Oedipus-y, more ea–…

Shit. I was gonna say something I’m so sure you’d smack me around the head for. But you’re not here to do that. I might be in better shape with this girl if you were.

Anyway. I miss you.

Eddie Munson stands in the midst of an incredibly awkward aftermath.

See, for two people so purportedly self-assured, he in his freakshow roguishness and you in your prim-perfect knife-edge sharpness, you’re both entirely dogshit at acknowledging… well… anything.

You both tried to snap back to normal so quickly, with Wheeler and her science experiment pregnancy scare smashing through the ice. But the water underneath that ice is still freezing cold– and you’re both pretending you’re not gasping for air, pretending like you don’t remember gasping for each other’s lips.

This is totally cool. This is totally fine.

And then Eddie comes to see you at The Bookstore, which has become just as routine as nearly never brushing his hair, and sees you fixing your seller’s tag to your pick of the week. Your face in that arresting, self-conscious smile that he wants to melt off with the blowtorch of his mouth.

It’s The Patchwork Girl of Oz by L. Frank Baum.

Now, he noticed that you would habitually drop writers’ names into conversation like they were your lit professors– Didion said this, Bukowski said that, Bronte yadda, Burroughs yadda. Always some genius-adjacent, formative-thinking, socio-politico-boffo brainwad, more often than not with a substance abuse kick that you romanticized from a safe distance.

But then you unearth this book, a green clothback cover yellowing with age and roughness, red and yellow inlaid titling blasting out a name he ought to know. It makes his visual memory brrrrrrring! like a bright red tomato shaped kitchen timer.

The Patchwork Girl of Oz was with Elizabeth Munson wherever she went. Her records were her plane tickets, her escape to another world, but you couldn’t take your records with you to the hospital. Escaping to Oz was a decent substitute. She must have read it a bajillion times; she even took to calling Wayne Unc Nunkie after the elderly munchkin who only ever had one word for anybody. And whenever Eddie would drop an egg when they were baking or come running through the house with his knees all cut up, she’d coo, “Oh, my li’l Ojo the Unlucky!”

The book lingered everywhere– on the kitchen counter of the house on Pennsylvania,on the vinyl seat of the booth at the now-shuttered Benny’s when she could afford to take Eddie for a treat, on her bedside table.

Up until the end.

It knocks the wind out of Eddie when he sees it on the display shelf. He does a bad job of hiding that.

“What, too shocked to make fun of me?” you say, perching yourself on the rickety stool behind the counter, and your voice betrays a little embarrassment. “That’s a first.”

“I–... huh?” He tears his eyes away from the book long enough to catch the specks of blush high on your cheeks.

“It’s not my usual flavor, I know, but I’m capable of whimsy too.”

“Why that one?” His limbs feel stony like Unc Nunkie’s, as much as he wants to languidly lean over the counter and bother you like he always does.

You shrug, but you tilt the opposite shoulder. A reverse, a peek behind the looking glass. He notices that about you, which goddamn shoulder is your shrugging preference.

“I think it was one of the first books I kept checking out of the library when I was little,” you say, glancing back at the display, “It’s about this poor little kid who has to find a way to reverse a spell on his uncle who’s been turned to stone, and the eponymous patchwork girl is–”

“I know the story.” It comes out a little blunter than Eddie was intending it to. So much so that it knocks you back a beat.

“Oh,” you say shortly, eyes flaring down at the counter. “No need to cut me off mid-stream about it.”

Eddie winces, knowing he’s coming across as weird and stilted but with no idea how to safely climb down. “No, just– I know the story, yeah. My mom…” That is not a safe dismount, dummy! “...she… liked it a lot.”

“Yeah?” your tone stays even, yanked back from him a little. He wants to be like, sorrysorrysorry. “She ever read it to you?”

“A bunch, actually.”

“No shit.” The corners of your mouth tick up. “Wanna hear something super dorky?”

Just the mere invitation of your little smile loosens him up a bit. Eddie twists a ring around his finger, head kicking to his shoulder as his foot kicks to the counter. “Always,” he says, squinting.

You straighten your spine up on your stool and clear your throat. Hand goes over your heart, like you’re about to recite the damn declaration. Your eyes shutter closed.

“Here’s a job for a boy of brains– a drop of oil from a live man’s veins; a six-leaved clover; three nice hairs, from a Woozy’s tail, the book declares; are needed for a magic spell, and water from a pitch-dark well– the yellow wing from a butterfly to find must Ojo also try; and if he gets them without harm, Doc Pipt will make the magic charm; but if he doesn’t get ‘em, Unc…” your crack one eye open. “...will always stand a marble chunk.”

Eddie is silent for… for a while. For a good handful of heartbeats, for a beat so long that makes you knit your brow up, your eyes needling into him. Eddie’s looking at you with rose-colored soft focus. His elbows are eagerly pitched on the counter now, chin in his hands. The last person to recite those words to him was his mom, her voice raspy and tired but still willing to read to him. She hadn’t smelled like herself. It was sad.

And now, your voice, with all its snippy chainmail thrown off, gone all soft and lyrical and dedicated.

He thinks about a littler you, one he could vaguely pick out of a lineup if he really, really tried, criss-cross applesauce and pouring over that book so often that that little spell jams itself into your brain.

The mage before she donned the mink coat.

Eddie is looking at you and can’t force his heart out of his throat.

Well, until he can.

“Ew,” he cringes.

“What?!” you exclaim, your eyes getting all incredulous and kind of mad.

“And they call me a fuckin’ nerd, what the hell was that?” Eddie’s laughing, mocking, not with his whole heart. But it’s enough to make you scoff, irritated with him again.

See, you thought you were being cute and he knows you thought you were being cute. He needs to put you back in a place where you’re marginally unlikeable enough to just be a friend.

Restore the natural order. Don’t think about how he wants to recite that same verse back to you in front of an ordained Elvis in Vegas. Because he would, in a heartbeat. If he wasn’t committed to not being stupid.

Christ, you’re pretty. Christ, he’s gonna do something stupid.

“You are… completely undateable, you know that?” he nods ferociously, eyes trailing you as you cross out from behind the counter and head for a box of books that need to be shelved. All uh-huhs and sure, Eddies. The bell on the front door jangles and a customer passes behind him.

He yells after you, voice traveling down whatever winding path you’ve taken through the stacks. “You with your black and white movies and your twat rock and your Wizard of Oz… baby, what crowd are you even playing to?”

“What crowd am I playing to? What crowd are you playing to?!” you seethe, shuffling the ten-tonne box of books down the aisle with your feet. “Fucking baggie-pushing, guitar-brutalizing, board-game-...maker-...upper!”

“Woah. Wit’s unmatched as usual, Lace.”

This fucking guy. This fucking guy. You try and do one darling little thing, you just recite a little piece of a book his dead mom used to read to him or whatever, and you get verbally bashed! God forbid, god forbid you let the fucking drawbridge down for half a second! This blows!

You’re trying to be less of a bitch, in case you idiots didn’t notice!

It’s kind of inexplicable, how sensitive you’re feeling about this. Could be that since you kissed and since you pinkie-swore with Nancy Wheeler in the bombed-out boys bathroom, you kind of felt as if you were standing on a blade’s edge with Eddie. Not knowing where to put your hands, not knowing how much or how little to joke around. Not entirely happy with your moment of madness at the Ecker trailer. Not entirely happy that it hadn’t happened again.

But you’re not about to apologize. Not to him. Don Rickles in a battle vest over there. Must he always just poke you like that?!

“You’re undateable!” You shove a bunch of books aside on the shelf. “Me, I’m cu–...”

Right through the shelf, a customer stares at you. Your voice dies in your throat because, unfortunately, he’s looking right at you in your flurry of annoyance toward Eddie. And unfortunately, this stranger, he’s a little…

“What were you gonna say?” he asks, closing Gravity’s Rainbow.

“Cute.”

Guy smiles, doesn’t break eye contact with you for a second. He’s wearing a sweater. He looks fresh out of somewhere stone walled with crawling ivy. “I’d attest to that.”

You forget about Eddie– just for a second. Gesturing to Gravity’s Rainbow, you say, “Gonna attempt to finish that?”

“What’s that mean?” His grin is infectious, or maybe you’re just starved for this kind of attention.

“Nothing,” you say, with a little more tongue than you need to, “Just, I don’t know of anyone that’s ever finished that behemoth.”

Well, you don’t know of a lot of people that read the way you do either. But, digression. He raps a knuckle against the cover of the book and for some reason, you feel it in your belly.

“I always finish,” he tells you.

“Do you now?”

That’s the longest you’ve been quiet in a hot minute, and that’s the kind of thing that gets under Eddie’s skin. Chain on his jeans jangling, he starts off into the creaking labyrinth of lined-up bookcases.

“What, did you expire back here or something…” he mutters, a little whine in his tone– play with me, play with me, even though I’m being kind of a dick to you–

He sees you, a book lying lax in your arms, your body swaying to and fro and you’re–

“--talkin’ to yourself, Lacy? Great look. Real honeytrap, if you’re lookin’ to catch some imaginary di–”

“Eddie,” you grit at him, and he spots the whole other human male you’re talking to through the stacks. Well, not just talking to. Not with that body language.

This dude tilts his chin to Eddie. “Hey, man. I remember you. Didn’t you used to sell dimebags in the woods outside school?”

Fire flares in Eddie’s gut. He vaguely recognizes this guy– class of ‘83 or ‘82, not remarkable enough to be hateable but now, he’s certainly collegiate looking enough to be… distracting to you. So, annoying to him.

“Why, man? You lookin’ to buy? Or just cruise some high schooler tail?”

“Eddie!” you hiss again and he scoffs like, really?! You turn back to this… whoever the fuck. “C’mon, I’ll check you out.”

“You’ll check him out, huh?” Eddie sneers, bearing over you as you pass him in the aisle. Body heat breezing right by, face a mask of sheer disgust. Impulse talks; it totally wants to just grab you and throw you behind him and– well, he hasn’t thought that far ahead yet. But he’s creative. Who the fuck even is this guy? Where did he come from?

“That you?” this guy says, jerking his head toward the staff display, toward The Patchwork Girl of Oz. “Lacy?”

“To my friends and co-conspirators,” you say, ringing up that godawful Pynchon book.

“Which one was that guy?” he asks, watching you jot out his receipt on the carbon copy pad because for whatever reason, Ivana’s cash register is from the fucking 1800s and she refuses to upgrade to anything with a thermal printer. “Friend? Co-conspirator? … boyfriend?”

You wrinkle your nose. And don’t exactly answer, but it’s enough confirmation for him.

“Good. Say, why don’t you jot down your number on this thing?” He pushes the receipt back to you. “I can keep you updated on my Pynchon progress. You can… see if I’m good enough to co-conspire with.”

You like this approach. In fact, you love this approach, because you hadn’t been earnestly picked up in… forever. And he has this certain je ne sais quoi about him, something that screams moved out of state for college. You stay grinning, biting your lip for a good breath or two after he leaves the store.

Then Eddie appears in your peripheral, like some terrible harbinger of embarrassment.

“Undateable, huh?” you say, fully aware that he was earwigging on that whole exchange because he’s a nosy bitch and he can’t help himself. Glutton for gossip.

“You don’t have to throw yourself at the first person who walks in the store just to prove a point, baby,” Eddie tells you, this big face of condescension. You want to smack it off him so bad your palms are itching.

You huff and backtrack to where that box of unshelved books sits. “Maybe I’m tired of waiting around.”

—

Ronnie Ecker and Robin Buckley are looking each other in the eye, wolf-whistling furtively when you elbow open the door of the gym.

“You’re flat. I’m telling you you’re flat,” Ronnie’s insisting, an adorable three inches away from Robin’s face.

“I can’t be flat! A mouth whistle cannot be flat!”

It’s marching band practice. You don’t know what the hell goes on in here and you know better than to ask.

“Would you two get a room already?” you call, heels clicking across the glossed wood of the gym. These dorks have all got their feathered hats and bibs on, a kind of half-assed dress rehearsal for some pep rally they’re having on Friday. You missed the bulletin– kind of stopped paying attention, actually. Extracurricular distraction is a hell of a drug.

“Excuse me, this is a closed–” that’s the voice of Miss Genovese, the band teacher, stomping down from the bleachers in these tragic little loafers with the pleather peeling off. She makes it about halfway toward you, then this exasperated look washes right over her. The teacher dashes for the double doors and you point after her with a freshly painted red index finger. New lease on looking good.

“And that is?”

“Like, the third time in the last hour,” Ronnie shakes her head, taking her flamboyant little hat off. “Biggest running theory is morning sickness.”

What, is pregnancy like, catching or something? you’re about to muse.

“It’s almost contagious, right?” Robin says, tugging at her clip-on collar, “I mean, first your whole thing and now–”

Ronnie doesn't even have a chance to gesture for her to ixnay! before she slams pause on herself, eyes wide and all shit, did I say that out loud?! Your eyes narrow in return. That’s suspicious.

“What whole thing? My whole what?”

Ever and eternally knowing when to call it, Ronnie holds a hand up before Robin can even start to scramble an apology and serve it to you. Panther versus a precious little puppy dog– the fight ain’t even fair.

“Nothing. Scuttlebutt bullshit, the usual,” she rolls her eyes, throws a sympathetic glance to Robin who winces and retreats. Huh.

“What’s going on with you two?” you ask, crossing your legs over the bottom rung of the bleachers.

This actually makes Ronnie’s expression soften a little– her eyes race back in Robin’s direction and you swear you catch a blush. “Also nothing! Compound nothing. Why, does it look like…”

Lips purse into a little satisfied grin. Knew it. Toldja. Point to Lacy. “Looks like whatever you want it to look like.”

Ronnie reaches forward and waves her feathered hat in your face– stop being so observant! You cough in protest– ew, I don’t know where that thing has been!

“Whatever! What brings you to geek church?”

“That’s what they’re calling it now?”

“Stick around, we’ll start speaking in tongues.”

“Satanic Panic bringing about a fun new turn for the pep rally! Put some God back into that wind instrument,” you croon. “No, I actually wanted your thoughts on something.”

Ronnie raises her eyebrows and you feel like you oughta mirror her. You’re not usually one to seek out a second opinion, but the more you’ve gotten to know Ronnie, the more you see that she’ll tell you how it is. Especially now that you’ve dispersed with the whole intimidating it-girl cloud and she’s stopped pretending to be shy.

“I know. I’m shocked too.”

“I’m honored,” she swings her shoulders in girlish delight, “Dish it up, Doevski.”

“Okay, so,” you clap, hiking forward on your creaking bleacher, “I’ve been seeing this guy–”

“--this is the bookstore guy?”

A blink and a beat. “How’d you know about that?”

A face that has Eddie told me with footnotes of and he was kind of jealous scrawled all over it stares back at you. “I ‘unno, maybe I overheard…”

“Doesn’t matter.” You slice a hand through the air, no time for this right now. “Facts are facts, I’ve been hanging out with this guy,” interesting change of phraseology, considering, “and he’s a college guy–”

“If they could see you now.” The royal court of Hawkins, obviously. Older guys are generally an accomplishment. But Ronnie’s half-jesting.

“--I know, shut up. But, he mentioned something that would absolutely rock my college applications is a really, really great–”

“--feature in the Streak?” you’d gasped out in the back of his Ford Cortina (how very European!). College guy’s mouth was on your neck and his hand was inching into your shirt, playing at a faux placket of pearl buttons. Boys can never tell a real button from a fake one, apparently, even if they go to an East Coast school. I mean, shit! You’d gleaned enough information from him over a shake at the diner; relatively well-to-do family that lived near the Wheelers on Maple and kind of underwhelming taste in lit for an English major.

But he maintained eye contact and listened to your witty little bon mots, even if he didn’t… laugh at them. One thing led to another and thus, the backseat college advisory-slash-makeout session.

“Yeah, yeah, they love that shit…” he’d said, moving to your mouth in order to swallow any forthcoming words. But his words had piqued your interest more than his fingers had.

“What about an underdog story?” you said, eyes kind of hazing over in the middle distance.

“Sure, underdog, great…” college guy grabbed ahold of your leg and tugged you into him, “We can talk more about it later, okay?”

“Okay–”

“–okay?”

Ronnie grimaces. “I didn’t need that much detail.”

“Yes, you did.” You stare at her. “I’m a storyteller.”

Ronnie chews the proposal over a little, cheeks kind of bunched up in confusion. Behind her, band geeks badly hide their hickeys and exhibit too-gangly, too-obvious body language. No inspiration to be tapped from there.

“An underdog story… on the society pages? Like, who could you possibly–”

You smile that awful, conniving smile, because you came in here armed. “Ye of little faith.”

“Oh, no,” Ronnie says, and honestly, you’re a little taken aback by that reaction, “Hellfire?”

A shrug pulls your shoulders right up, rapidly on the defense. “Why not, right?”

“Why not– Lacy, you almost guillotined Jeff that one time he asked you.”

True that you hadn’t had the inches of article to spare for Hellfire Club in not-too-ancient history, but, “That was then, this is now! World’s changing– and it’s topical!”

The whole Satanic panic thing really did tickle your funny bone; and you saw yourself having a little fun with that by turning the focus on Hellfire. Subverting Eddie’s cult-leader mythos to show that he is just a kid who might have a propensity for telling a good story, surrounded by other kids who want to get a word in. You’re not looking to turn the tide on his reputation or anything but maybe… y’know. You could do the admirable journalistic thing and scratch the surface a bit. Show what you’ve learned.

It’s a challenge. You love a challenge.

“And it’s a good excuse to get in Eddie’s face,” Ronnie’s voice breaks through.

There is a lonnng beat, one you hold like the last shoes in your size at a sample sale. Your mouth keeps going to make the words yeah, right or it’s not about him! or y’know, something to exonerate you from the notion.

“I know he isn’t…” Ronnie trails off, coming to sit next to you. “that he’s kind of being weird to you right now.”

Go ahead and feign that ignoramus, girl. Shoulders quirking and all.

“Oh. Is he?”

And then Ronnie says maybe the dumbest thing on the planet, regarding the abominable sitch between you and Eddie Munson.

“You should just talk to him.”

“Ecker, there’s fruitless efforts and then there’s barren wasteland,” you scoff, “Guess which category proposing this to Eddie falls into.”

“That’s not what I–”

J’excuse, Ronnie, but you don’t care! Because this isn’t actually about anything other than getting all of those dice-throwing dorks, including Miss Ecker herself, into your damn paper. Okay?

“We have to ambush him! Element of surprise, that’s it,” you smile primly and hop off the bleachers. “I’m just going to show up at Hellfire, photographer in hand and– he won’t have a choice, will he?”

Ronnie’s expression is a mask of reproachfulness. You don’t let it shake you. You’re a cat playing with a now-endless ball of yarn, and you’re unshakeable.

“He’s such a sucker for attention,” you say, tossing your hair, and it sounds a lot more like you’re convincing yourself than anyone else in this echoey gym, “He won’t be able to resist.”

—

Reefer Rick doesn’t call, unless it’s an emergency. All of his communication is inbound, or passed through a shoulder check and a goofy smile at Melvald’s, or a nod of the head across the pool table at The Hideout. He doesn’t frequent there so much, because Bev knows he’s a pool shark and ever since ‘Nam, his ears are a little too sensitive to all that metal racket, man! By all means, rock on, but by then I gotta go rock-a-bye myself to sleep, alright? Anyway, that’s how Eddie knows to ride over to his place, if it’s not through a call he’s placed himself.

You need me, kid, you come and find me.

So when Eddie gets a call that says, “We gotta pow-wow, ese,” his nerves are set on edge. Not that he wasn’t feeling bad enough, what with the fact that some douchebag in a Cortina had picked you up and dropped you off to school the last couple of days. What with the fact he had actively dogged the car down a little bit of the road from the trailer park with his van, resisting every temptation to just run it all the way off into a ditch. And what with the fact he didn’t know what to say to you about that without it coming out in an anti-missive of jealousy! jealousy! jealousy! so what he did say to you was… nothing.

You two can’t maintain a consistent line of communication to save your lives, he realizes. There’s too much left unsaid, and the both of you are too stubborn or too scared to say any of it. Or even think it, in his case! The amount of times he’d had to slap himself sober, his brain going into overdrive thinking, if I had just told her… It’s a ‘friendship’, if you can even call it that, based on barbs and bad behavior and doing things because you know you shouldn’t. For the thrill. Right?

Like. Whatever. It’s not like he’d made tapes of a half dozen Black Sabbath albums because you mentioned you wanted to ‘study up’ on that ‘monster music’ he’s making. It’s not like you’d given him an annotated copy of Still Life with Woodpecker because he wanted to throw some ‘nonsensical curveball shit’ into a later Hellfire campaign.

It’s not like Eddie missed you– he just… should have seen this coming, is all. He’s used to getting left in the dust while people move onto better things, or whatever.

God, Munson, your voice taunts him from somewhere in his hippocampus, need some help nailing yourself to that crucifix?

Anyway, fuck, Rick called him.

Rick had gotten out of lockup about a month ago– some truncated charge or another that Eddie didn’t bother asking too much about, mostly because… well, Rick hadn’t really been himself. Larger and brighter than the sun itself, the great and powerful lion of a man that oozed life ain’t shit if you ain’t havin’ fun energy, Rick had kind of dimmed. Lost a lot of weight while he was inside. Came back a little bit twitchy and fluent in Spanglish, for some reason.

Eddie was worried, because of all the adult figures in his life, Rick was meant to be the one with levity. He’d lost out on a fun uncle when Wayne stepped into his father-figure role. Al was nothing but a dangerous bit player. Rick, he could rely on.

Thinking back to that infamous day when he had gotten loaded at Lipton Landing, before he picked up you and Ronnie, before he… well, you know the rest but, Eddie had sensed that Rick could use the company. He kind of tried to poke it out of him, whatever was wrong. Didn’t work. They had just watched The Godfather in a tense-ish silence and doofed a lot of joints. Sorta freaked him out.

Eddie’s crushing gravel on the descent to the infamously slanted Lipton Landing for his summons. There’s a hum that seems to traverse the window panes, a fond plucking work that could only belong to Link Wray. He puts the van in park and jogs up the steps to the front door, bracing himself for the pungent plume of skunk smoke that always greets him.

“Eduardo,” Rick’s voice curls around the greeting like smoke curls out of his mouth and he yanks Eddie over the threshold. Door slams, arm tightens around his shoulders. “You’re here.”

Rick’s always a handsy sorta guy–not like that!–but this grab makes him seize a little.

“You rang,” Eddie says, voice lilting, “Everything okay?”

Rick clutches him by the shoulders and looks at him for a long, long time. Uncomfortably long. How has he managed to puff on that joint for this long without choking long.

“No.”

And Rick begins a shuffle toward the kitchen. Eddie follows in an awkward half-step, headache threatening to bloom someplace in the back of his skull because he does not know how much more of this vagueness he can take!

“Does it have anything to do with why you called me down here? Because, shit, I would love to get a straight answer out of someone for once!” A mirthless chuckle follows, trying to soften his desperation.

A flick of the refrigerator door and Rick places two beers on his kitchen counter, hands bracing against the surface. “Then let’s sit crooked and talk straight. It’s about your…”

Hss. Eddie takes a notoriously mis-timed sip.

“...neighbor girl.”

Ffflp– Eddie wishes, just one day of his goddamned life, he could act cool at the mention of you. Even the suggestion of the mention of you. But no, he’s got PBR streaming from his nose like a moron and a look on his face that says uh-oh, spaghettio!

“That’s what I was afraid of,” says Rick, taking a knowingly smooth drink from his beer.

With the heel of his hand, Eddie wipes away his spluttering mess and fumbles around for a crumb of nonchalance.

“I don’t know–”

“Eddie,” Rick levels. God, Eddie hates it when adults are adults, and Rick hates having to act the adult even more.

His shoulders drop. “What about her?”

“Well, when I was in the pen–local, I’ll have you know–I got approached by a very interesting man with a proposition I was powerless to refuse.”

With some trepidation, Eddie mumbles, “Oh, yeah?”

“Someone– well, let’s say me and this someone have a friend in common…”

“Rick–” Eddie’s attempting the leveling thing, but he’s not as good at it as Rick is. Or as you are, for that matter. And you’re who he’s attempting to imitate here, even if he won’t admit it.

“--a certain mutual business partner, if you will–”

“Rick.” Eddie tries to punch through the tension with the big man’s name. “It was Lacy’s dad. Right? You can just say it was her dad.”

Rick’s brow sinks into a wrinkle. “...Lacy? The fuck kind of a dumb name is that?”

“It’s a nickname.” Why does Eddie feel defensive.

“The fuck kind of a dumb nickname is that?”

“They call you Reefer Rick.”

“That is a calculated business decision, a calling card if you w–”

“Rick. Can we close in on the point, here?” Ooh! Seems to actually work this time, much to Eddie’s relief. “I only got so many if you wills left in me.”

“Si, pronto,” Rick nods with apologetic understanding; he’s such an empath, this guy, “Long and short of it is, her pops offered me a little bit of cash and some assistance, iffin’ I promised to keep an eye on her.”

“Assistance…?” Eddie murmured out of the side of his mouth. It’s all in the way Rick says it! “Like…” Hand a loose fist. Jerky-jerk.

“Eddie,” Rick chides, “Assistance gettin’ out. In prison, that is just called bein’ sociable. –anyway, I have this conflict of interest, with the whole surveillance thing.”

“And what is that?”

“You.” The way Rick drops it is obviously meant to cause some kinda ripple effect of realization, but Eddie’s still confused.

“So you… didn’t take the money?”

“Huh?” Now Rick’s all confused. “Of course I took the fuckin’ money! What kind of a chump do I look like, man? What I’m getting at is, I knew that rattin’ on her also meant rattin’ on you.”

“Wh– why would it…”

“I got eyes everywhere, man. Dig? I’ve seen what’s been happening.”

Eddie’s heart leaps into his larynx. Eyes everywhere. And the truth was, you two had been stupid enough to be a lot of everywhere, thinking your respective trailers were the only hot zones. The Bookstore, the Hawk, Main Street Vinyl, Family Video, the diner, you name a Hawkins establishment and it has probably seen Eddie Munson and Lacy Doevski good-naturedly bickering in its aisles.

He wonders if Rick even had eyes in the Ecker trailer. Ronnie could be a Lipton informant. That girl can hold a secret about as well as Wayne Munson can hold his liquor, which is gracefully.

“Nothing’s been happening, we’re just–”

“Eddie.” Like a bulldozer, this guy. “I know Ivana pretty well. You ain’t hangin’ around that bookstore for the good of your health.”

“So what, you’re gonna–,” Eddie can feel himself starting to scramble, starting to sweat, backed into a corner like a hunted animal, “...tell her dad that we went to the movies a couple of times? That I go to her job, that I– that we’re–”

“What are you?” The way Rick puts it to him– rock, meet hard place. Should this really feel like such a tough question to answer?

“Friends.”

Rick draws up to his full height (tall, mountain man) and looks at him like he just shoved a cream pie into his face.

“It doesn’t matter, okay!” Eddie froths over, like a snapping dog, “We’re barely hanging out– anymore– so you can… you’re not gonna tell him anything, are you?”

Rick’s hands slowly, slowly rise, urging him to calm the yapping. No need to get into such a tizzy. Which Eddie wishes he could believe.

“‘course not, man,” he shakes his head, “Ray Doevski only needs to know what Ray Doevski absolutely needs to know.” Eddie can feel a little more weight behind that sentence than he’d like. “No reason you need to figure into this story.”

“That– that’s it? You’re not gonna tell him about u– about me?”

“You’re in enough of a shitheap as it is, is how I see it.” A beat. Rick takes him in; really takes him in. Feels like an embrace, his stare. Concern uncrinkles the ever-present smile in Rick’s eyes.

“Eddie, you care about this girl?”

Eddie’s mouth attempts to form around an answer, but he’s just blinking into nothing. Does he care about you? Does he care about you? He wants, needs to say no, to pfft you off, but every molecule is screaming otherwise. And Rick can sense it, operating on the extraterrestrial level that he does.

“Then I’m real sorry.”

“For what?”

As if on cue, car wheels on gravel shuck Rick’s attention away from him. His eyeballs jitter in his head, heading for the door– Eddie close behind him. “Sorry for what, Rick–?!”

“Little bit for that, little bit for… this.”

Standing in the window of Rick’s living room, these two watch an offensively red muscle car skew into the driveway, making a mockery of Eddie’s beat up van. The driver’s door pops open and the first thing Eddie clocks is a blinding glint off some brand new aviator sunglasses.

The second is that trademark Munson smile.

—

“This is exciting!” Nancy Wheeler says, kind of flatly but with a conviction buried deep under her curled bangs.

On the table sits two piles of playing cards, one steadily growing and one steadily decreasing.

You two had taken to playing gin rummy when staring at paper layouts became a little too much. Technically, she actually had a say in layout and you were just nosy, but it’s a decent excuse to hang out. Though, both you and Nancy had this incredible tendency to hyperfocus on detail so hard that neither of you could pull the other out far enough to look at the big picture, so one day she tossed a deck of cards your way and said, “Deal!”

“I know,” you say, trying to focus on these melds of suits you’re making– that discard pile is looking poor, “Fresh turn for me, y’know? Less fluffy, more Didion.”

Nancy snorts softly, swapping out a card from her hand. “Who does that make Eddie? Charlie? Or Linda Kasabian?”

A smile dances across your lips and you shrug, reaching for a cigarette before you go for another card. Usually, smoking in the newsroom was prohibited, as it was prohibited on most of Hawkins High grounds, but whenever that deck came out, you felt it was appropriate for at least one of you to be smoking. Gave a kind of Torchy Blane feel to the whole scenario which fit you and Wheeler pret-ty keenly, if you did say so yourself.

“That’s not what I was talking about, though,” Nancy says, poking Fred Benson’s empty mug toward you to use as an ashtray.

Your eyes narrow; this could be a play to distract you from a winning hand.

“It’s not?”

“No…” she puffs out another soft scoff, meeting your eyes over her fan of cards, “I mean the college guy.”

“Why is it exciting?” and you do want to know why Nancy thinks so. She’s a mile wiser beyond her years, even precocious enough to keep in step with you most of the time. You’d like her take.

“Well, it’s what you wanted, right?” she tells you, watching you puff your cigarette and dig into the stock pile. “Somebody older, decidedly not a grabby high school boy– but someone with more experience, both with girls and with being outside of Hawkins. And the fact he goes to Vassar means–”

“He probably eats kitty like a maniac.”

Nancy lets out this full-bodied Merlot of a laugh, only a little color dashing over her cheeks. She’s gotten used to you being provocative on purpose because it gets a laugh out of her. So far grown out of the prude shoes you were sure she was still sporting. You’re proud of her.

“Not exactly what I was getting at but– more sensitive to the female perspective, sure.” But then she registers what you forgot you’d even dropped. “Hold on, probably? You mean you haven’t–...”

You shrug. It’s a little withdrawn on your part.

“Oh,” Nancy says, and seems to be leaning a degree or two towards unsurprised. That ruffles your feathers a little bit. Again, with the frigid thing. You couldn’t shake it.

“No,” you emphasize, shucking your pitiful melds back again. “It's not as if we haven't–done things. I've copped a handful. Time is of the essence, and I take, y'know, a little more time to get there.”

“So no return on investment...?”

"Not... yet."

Nancy almost tosses her cards at you, the way she jabs them through the air. “You? You, the one who’s been preaching Betty Friedman to me, you haven't been getting–”

“Yes, me! Did you not hear me about time and the essence?”

“I know, it’s just– a little surprising.”

There have been exactly three instances of almost you tying your panties to the rearview mirror of college boy’s Ford Cortina, so to speak, and you’ve come out of each one with this desperate echo of oh well! Maybe next time! careening around your skull. Like you’re trying to convince yourself that by virtue of him not being in your grade, this has been a worthwhile way to spend your time. And listen, no misunderstandings here, it has! At least, part of it. It usually starts like this– the two of you grab some shitty diner coffee or some shitty diner food and then he takes you around in his car for a turn or two, admiring that famous Hawkins scenery (see: shuttered businesses and if you’re really lucky, that one mangy fox that feasts on the overflowing trash can near the Big Buy). You talk (you mostly talk) books and movies and say something that should be a hook of conversation but usually ends up with him screwing his face up in amusement and saying something along the lines of, “God, you’re so beyond this place.”

Which, duh. You’ve been saying this. This is the raft upon which your whole identity floats.

The exchange dies in the air and he puts his hand on your leg and that is just… wonderful. He’s a solid B on the kissing GPA, and he’s cute and sort of funny, even if he doesn’t rally back jokes the way you’d… sort of gotten used to. Sometimes he makes a halfway-interesting observation about like, Philip Roth or somebody. But when it comes down to the minute of it, it still feels like going through the motions. Fumble bra strap, catch nail on his zipper, crank back passenger seat to climb in the back. Hey presto, you’ve distractedly jerked off a boy once again.

You are not entirely sold on the fit of his hands on your body, even if he doesn’t look at you like he’s just solved a Rubik’s cube.

In fact, he kind of looks at you like you’re precious. Virginal precious. Innocent precious. Which you’re not totally sold on either.

Nothing about him that makes you fantasize about what his mouth might feel like on you. What your fingers might feel like wound around his curls. His hair doesn’t even curl. There’s just nothing about him that calls for your full attention.

“Think there might be a reason for that?” Nancy, your annoyingly perceptive Nancy, presses. Goddamn intrepid girl reporter. She hasn’t stopped staring at you with that smug little look. You haven’t answered the question. “And it might be… living across the way from you?”

“Tch. What?” you snip. “I’m… having fun. What?”

“Nothing,” she smiles. “Just… gin.”

She lays out her dazzling melds, complete with a measly goddamned three in deadwood cards and you toss your own bullshit hand to the side. A dumb amount of spades that add up to nothing scatter across the desk. An accusatory finger jams in her direction.

“You are a fucking card shark.”

“Nope!” Nancy says, popping her ‘p’, “I just know a really great set when I see one.”

Reaching into Fred’s mug, you crush your cigarette with a little too much force. Now, how would Nancy have a read on that? you think, oblivious to your own obviousness. (Like a neon sign. Like a circus tent.)

You hadn’t even reminded her of the catastrophic events of her thirteenth birthday which led to a whole lot of this awkwardness, which, now that you thought about it, actually implicated her in the crime of you kissing Eddie Munson ‘til you were breathless in Granny Ecker’s closet.

If you hadn’t been born and had a birthday, I wouldn’t be in a spiral over some boy with a curl pattern like a fucking backwoods libertine.

“You’re not clever,” you tell her, but she’s looking at you all cleverly, “Like. You’re clever, but I need you to know that you’re not clever.”

With flicking fingernails, Nancy picks up your discarded cards and folds them neatly back in the deck.

“I’m just saying,” and the tone she takes is a little gentler now, “don’t… let yourself miss out on something just because, I don’t know, the thing you’re currently having fun with is what you think you want. What you feel you want and what you think you want are two very different–”

“This isn’t entirely about me, is it?” you realize, defenses peeling down a little bit. The Nancy and Steve of it all had been looming since your (admittedly triumphant!) visit to the war memorial that was the boy’s bathroom. Still no sign of that place getting fixed, by the by. And ever still, Nancy hadn’t told Steve about their little mission. Many a reason for that, you were led to believe. Not a lot she wanted to dissect, though.

Nancy’s face scrunches up and she stops packing the cards.

“No. But let’s pretend like it is.”

A groan escapes you as you sink back into your chair, a twinge of pain running along your shoulders.

“Nance. This is all so much more complicated than you realize.”

“Try me.”

You toss a hand through your hair, slapping your palm down on the desk.

“Fine. But if I tell you this–”

A hand rises out between the two of you– yours, pinkie extended.

“Not a word,” you press.

Nancy clamps her finger around yours in a way that enforces how super-serious she is about this. The reason your usual reserve doesn’t hold up under that x-ray stare of hers is because you can tell she actually gives a shit. She’s not looking for gossip. She cares. Which is still an entirely alien feeling to you.

So the whole thing spills out. Steve’s party, the record store, getting locked up in Eddie’s trailer and getting locked up in feelings, Roane County Quarry’s incredible acoustics, the friendship that made you fold all the neatly arranged origami parts of yourself out toward him only to realize you had no idea how to fold them back. The kiss. The subsequent awkwardness of said kiss. The college guy. The relative radio silence. The fact that…

“...I don’t feel like myself when he’s not around,” you say, lighting a fourth cigarette off your third. “Isn’t that silly? I spent all this time painting this like, fabulous eggshell of myself then this wild-eyed, smart-mouthed, catastrophic ass smashes it clean open and now–”

“All the college boys couldn’t put you together again,” Nancy nods. “You’re a very beautiful Humpty Dumpty.”

“... does Humpty Dumpty die in the end?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be teaching it to kids.”

“No. They should know. The fall comes for us all.”

There’s a suspended silence. You get this feeling like you’ve emptied your purse on the table and you still can’t find that thing you’re looking for, despite sifting through everything.

“How does that even happen?” you question, biting at the skin on your little finger. Not Humpty Dumpty, the Eddie thing. It comes out idle, but you pray that Nancy, with her feelings scalpel and surgical precision, doesn't decide to answer it.

Instead, she says, “You need a photographer for that piece.”

Thatta girl. Your dimmer switch turns up. “Fred hasn’t even okayed it yet.”

“I’ll deal with William Randolph Hearst, okay?” Nancy says derisively and tosses her eyes to heaven. She pushes her chair back. “Ask Jonathan Byers.”

“He hasn’t taken photos for us in a while,” you remark, eyes searching Nancy. She’s readying herself to leave, so totally dodging this line of questioning before you can even cast it. Clever.

“No, he has not,” she sighs, winding her scarf around her neck, “But he’d be good for this. He knows how to capture action. And his kid brother plays DnD with mine, so this’d be, like… nice for them.”

And this is just as much me making amends with Jonathan Byers as it is you, backwards as it may seem, you nearly hear her say. Or you’re making that up.

Shame Nancy is so dead set on becoming the next Nellie Bly. Under the right circumstances, she’d make a hell of a normal person.

Good thing you prefer freaks.

—

Jonathan Byers is a notoriously hard boy to get a hold of, it turns out. Nancy passed along his number (which, you actually already had but you didn’t bring that little detail up) and when you finally punched it in on the yellowing phone nailed to the wall of your trailer, it rang and rang and rang.

Which, after the fourth time, was just rude. Do the Byers have a thing about not answering the phone, or something?

“Jonathan!” you holler across the parking lot, emerging from the passenger side of Nancy’s car this time.

College guy was decidedly busy and despite the hanging tension, you’d toyed with the idea of asking Eddie for a ride. Alas, the boy in the Dio patched battle vest was nowhere to be seen. His van hadn’t been there since the weekend and he had been MIA from school the last couple of days, actually, which was itching at you.

It also made you miss when you had a goddamn set of wheels at your disposal.

Anyway, Jonathan looks at you with flaring eyes, kind of like you’ve just stuck a shotgun to his snout and there’s no hope of him making a getaway. “Um…”

Now, keep in mind that these are the first words you’ve spoken to him in a measurable high school forever, so his surprise is entirely justified. It’s just not within the beam of your patience right now.

“Hi. Can we chat?” you say, falling in step with him as you head towards the front door. You don’t bother asking for permission, and forgiveness won’t be necessary. “I was hoping you could help me out with a piece for the Streak.”

Blink, blink. Jonathan’s grasping for words– seems to be a lot of that going around lately.

You strike your hand through the air. “Let me put it to you like this– you are going to help me out with a piece for the Streak.”

“Why?” he asks, and it’s prickly.

“Becauuuse,” you draw out, “I need a photographer. And god knows whenever Nicole attempted to work a lens, those snapshots were so out-of-focus they looked like an optical illusion.”

“And, you’re not talking to Nicole right now,” Jonathan nails you, but not totally. In your mind, you revisit flashes of Nicole recounting, in gloriously erroneous detail, those photos Jonathan had taken of Nancy. You had pretended to be scandalized and rolled your eyes, thinking what’s a little peep show among losers.

“Even if I was,” you say, dogging Jonathan all the way to his locker, “I still wouldn’t ask her. This is important to me.”

That avoidant Byers reserve stands strong, with Jonathan grabbing books in hurried succession. He is trying to get away from you, but that’s not happening without an emphatic yes!

“I don’t even really–”

“Take pictures anymore?” you pfft, pointing to his messenger bag, “Twenty bucks says your camera is in there and the film’s half shot.”

“I don’t have twenty bucks.”

“Me neither,” you shrug, “Spent it on that new Echo & the Bunnymen.”

Jonathan hesitates a bit, fingers strumming against his biology textbook. A thread of something long forgotten by the listening booths of Main Street Vinyl tugs between you both, but it’s not weighed down by the prospect of will we kiss about it. He kind of smiles.

“What did you think? I haven’t gotten down to hear it yet.”

You thought it made you want a flowing dress and a place to prance. Like if the more whimsical end of Fleetwood Mac didn’t exhaust you. Those last four tracks snapped your heartstrings like suspenders, with comical aplomb.

“Grandiose! That ‘Killing Moon’ song? It’s got Jonathan Byers written all over it,” you chirp, and mean it. “I’ll make you a copy if you put that camera to work for me.”

He shrugs, but you can see you’re wearing him down. “I’m not much for shooting pep rallies.”

“Liar. Wheeler says you’re top banana in the action shots department,” you counter, “But how about players? I think I want some portraits, too. Non-corny ones.”

“What team?” Jonathan screws up his nose. The distaste for jockery runs deep, and rightfully so.

But you shake your head, face curving into an expression of near excitement.

“No team. Better, and worse, depending on what side of the cafeteria you’re sitting,” your hands splay out, and for god’s sake, you feel like Munson himself, “Hellfire Club.”

Jonathan looks like his record’s skipped. Eyeballs sort of jiggle in his skull and he mouths, oh, like the association of you between Hellfire should mean something. Suspiciously like Nancy, and just suspicious period. Your eyebrows start to inch towards one another.

“What’s that look? Does that mean you’ll do it?”

“Um,” he dillies, then dallies, “Sure. Yeah. You know, my kid brother loves DnD.”

Ah, yes. The other Byers boy, the one who’d gone missing all that time ago. You remembered. Actually, you remembered not being able to figure out how you should feel about it– how you should act, other than falling in line with the majority of people who were giving Jonathan shit at the time. You regret that now, with a chill that runs right down to your toes.

“Could be cool for him to see, no?” you try, corner of your mouth lifting, “A little niche in the midst the high school horrors. To look forward to, y’know.”

The look on Jonathan’s face is more than a little bit screaming, that’s rich, coming from you, you were the high school horror. But he shakes it off, because he’s nicer than you are, even though he doesn’t need to be.

“Yeah… whatever you say, Lacy. When do you need me?”

You tell him Friday and he agrees, much to your satisfaction. You’re just about to punch him on the shoulder like teamwork, buddy! before he saves you such a wildly out-of-character display by dodging toward his homeroom.

You sail toward your locker like the bastard that’s risen alongside the cream, only to be greeted by something… strange. Scratches, all around the maudlin gray paintwork of your combination lock. Like it’d been tampered with, or something. A blaze of paranoia burns at the base of your skull, and you instinctively try to recount where your journal is… in your bag. Phew. Fine. This could be… anything.

Fingers reach forward to twist your lock, and with the slightest touch, the door is forced open by a push from the other side. A flash of bright red, then SPLAT. Yellow, SPLAT, blue, SPLAT, SPLAT, SPLAT! You shriek a real ear-piercing shriek as at least a dozen water balloons spill out of your locker, hitting the floor with an obscene smack. Water dashes everywhere, and you’re barely able to move out of the splash zone in time.

“What the fuck!’

Within seconds, there’s a hubbub and a crowd’s gathering, trading sickening snickers with one another as you peer into the dark of your locker. You gingerly step through the puddle, suede boots irreparably spattered, and yank the door the whole way open. There, sat atop your schoolbooks and a stray water balloon that hadn’t made the fall, is a horribly familiar set of test tubes.

In one of them sits a squirt of blue liquid and that offensive strip of plastic. And scrawled across it in clumsy black marker?

IT’S A FREAK!

Realization hits you like Carol did, making your head swim among all the murmurs of oh my god… and gross! and told you–trailer trash and unconcealed cackles. A voice sparks up like a sizzling ember in a swathe of darkness.

“Where’s your baby daddy at, Lacy? Get tossed in the slammer with your old man?”

The languid tones of none other than Billy All-Balls-No-Brains Hargrove drift by you, sailing right past the back of your head as you stare a hole through the innards of your locker. Then, your stupid hippocampus gears up– Robin, mentioning ‘your whole thing’ while Genovese baby-barfed her guts up, Ronnie urging her to shut the fuck up, even Jonathan Byers was privy to this hot little piece of gossip.

This theory that you were up the spout with Munson Junior Junior.

How many people had seen you, stupid little you, coming out of that drugstore hiking that Advance box over your head like the championship cup? Seen you hopping into Eddie’s van– and out of it, and back in again on what now seemed like countless occasions?

Nobody could have suspected it was Nancy’s test, because nobody saw her. They saw you. That was the whole idea. You just didn’t consider the blowback.

“What’s going on out here?” the softly-coated concern of Ms Kelley rings out in the hallway, doing absolutely nothing to disperse the peanut gallery that’s set up around your locker.

“Lacy?” her voice points to you. Even the goddamn guidance counselor uses your beloved nickname.

You don’t react. You don’t even know what you’re doing until you come to a couple of paces down the hallway, feeling the thin, straining rubber in the palm of your hand. Your footsteps make heavy, wet, slapping noises against the linoleum as you follow the half-slouched shouldered swagger of Billy Hargrove down the hall.

Down, and down, and down towards the boy’s locker room and he doesn’t even register it, and you don’t even register that Ms Kelley is still calling your name–your full name, now–until she’s two dozen paces behind you, losing you in the throng of students making their way to class and you shove past half-dressed seniors in the locker room who guffaw at you in a way that feels like a knife in your gut and you yell, voice shaking–

“Hey Billy!”

And launch the water balloon, making square contact with his smug face.

“Cute fucking prank!”

His reaction, predictably, is way too slowww moooootion for your fucking liking, so you don’t even give him a shot to fully wipe his face off and mumble, “What the fuuuuck is yourrrr probbbblemmm, ssssllluuuutttt…”

You just go for him with the ferocity of a jumping jackal. Hands ball in his stupid sleeveless flannel (it’s winter in Indiana, you West Coast jackass!) and you shove him against the lockers with– well, with the strength only an ex-cheerleader brimming with suffocated rage would have.

Metal clatters and one empty unit even careens over like a big tin domino and you say, “Come up with that idea all by yourself, you fucking nimrod?”

Billy just smirks at you in half-speed, mullet sopping, as if this is a come-on. “I had a little help.”

It occurs to you that right here, right now, you could sell Nancy Wheeler down the river. You could be the you you once were, and you could say, well, primo observation skills, that pregnancy test wasn’t even for me!

But you don’t, because a pinky promise is a fucking pinky promise.

You let go of Billy’s shirt. Step off. “You’re pathetic,” you spit, but it feels more pathetic coming from you. All that molten blood in your veins makes you want to eviscerate him and whoever else was involved in orchestrating this stupid, stupid, stupid prank. But you come up lacking. Fuck!

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes and you start to rush out of the locker room– but you’ve given Billy a reason now, and he’s gonna follow you.

“Shit, are you crying? Those hormones must have you really messed up, huh?” he faux-croons, the thunk-thunk of his poseur motorcycle boots following you to the back entrance, by the sports equipment. Your eyes are streaming freely now, lashes frantically blinking a path to vision.

But Billy isn’t letting up. And like the Pied Piper of slimeballs, he’s drawing followers– not least of which include Tommy Hagan.

“What about that college dropout you’re banging, Lacy?” his nasally tone slices through Billy’s tarry taunting. “He know you’re knocked up yet?”

“Jesus Christ, Doevski! I’m impressed,” Billy laughs, “Just how many loads are you taking?”

An abandoned baseball bat lies on the ground, having rolled out of the sports closet; instinct behind the wheel of your personal van, you stoop to pick it up and shove through the doors. You can nearly feel the breath of Hargrove and Hagan and all of these horrific, horrific boys with nothing better to do than to torture you hot on the back of your neck.

“Not yours, that’s for fucking sure,” you manage, your voice thick. The bat, at least, feels solid in your hand.

“It’s fun not being frigid, ain’t it, Lacy?” Billy goes on, and you squint against the sunlight as you round the building. “Tell me this, Munson teach you how to suck cock yet? ‘cause if not, I got a little time on my hands.”

Forging ahead, you cross the tarmac of the parking lot. The soft frost hasn’t even totally thawed out yet, sparkling atop the paintwork of Billy’s blue Camaro.

“That a fact, Billy?” you say, tears drying in quick streaks in that brisk morning air, leaving rivets in your made-up face.

You use your momentum to launch one foot onto the hood of Billy’s car, then the other. You nearly slip against the icy exterior, but steady yourself fast. Bat dangling at your side. Stomp. Stomp. You stand on the roof, and turn to face this congregation of assholes. You do not let sense set in, despite it threatening to inch through the white hot flame of your rage.

“What the fuck are you doing,” Billy outright cackles and Hagan and company guffaw along with him.

“Billy,” you sigh, a little breathless from the speed at which you’d booked it from the locker room to the parking lot, and the sheer vigor of your shock, awe and rancor, and everything else, “What the hell am I supposed to do with your limp dick in my mouth? Chew on the fuckin’ thing?”

Billy repeats himself, a touch darker now. “What the fuck are you doing.”

“I’m serious!” you say, a little shrill, a little stomp to punctuate that last word, “One thing you can say for Eddie Munson, is at least the motherfucker can get hard!”

Motorcycle boots advance towards you, and you point the bat at him like a broadsword.

“Do not. Come any closer. Or I’m gonna start doing some serious damage to this ugly piece of overcompensation.”

“She’s bluffing,” Hagan crows, and you turn your flaming glare on him. You wish you had a mirror– you wonder if crazy becomes you. Billy takes a pointed step forward and you raise the bat above your, head bracing for action– that’s enough movement for him.

“Gimme that bat, you stupid fucking cunt–!” But Billy’s cut short by a body barrelling into the side of him, knocking him askew. A jangle of denim and leather. The bat slips a little in your grasp.

“Get the fuck off of me Munson–”

“No way to talk to a lady, Billy!” Eddie gasps, tossing Billy back and letting his limbs hang. “You kiss Karen Wheeler with that mouth?”

Billy rounds on him like a triggered animal, spittle flying.

“Some fucking lady!” he snarls, “Got downgraded to that trailer park and now her snooty ass is spreading it for half of Hawkins! Desperate! Stringin’ you along like the dumb piece of shortbus shit you a–”

Activated, you throw that bat to the fucking wayside and scramble off the fucking car– nobody talks to him like that!

But you’re not fast enough, nobody’s fast enough, nobody can compete with how huge and booming and definite Eddie’s voice sounds when he says, smile glimmering, sun breaking through the bleak midwinter…

“You know what I like about you, Hargrove?”

THKUNCK. Bone to bone, fist meet fucking flesh–

“Nothin’.”

A scuffle goes up, and Eddie can’t even feel the hits of Hargrove’s hands connecting with his face, chest, ribs, wherever– all he can feel are your arms locking in vice around his waist, putting yourself in the eye of the storm in order to yank him back.

—

You got an elbow to the crown of the head, which isn’t too bad, even if you feel like a cartoonish lump should be rising there. But look at these other guys.

Billy with a black eye that’s bulging up rapidly, Eddie with a split lip and more than a couple of scratches on his knuckles. In that fray, he hadn’t exactly considered the implications of punching a guy with all his goddamned rings on. The implications being that shit hurt like hell. There is this radiating pain in his hand, not letting him unfurl his fingers completely.

There’s also this radiating feeling of dread cloaking his entire upper half as you sit three-to-the-wall outside Higgins’ office. You had, in Eddie’s estimation, incredibly bad timing.

See, considering the events of his past week, he was slowly making peace with the fact that he should probably be avoiding you entirely, even if that meant he died a little inside. He should have been doing that from the jump– but you, unbuttoned and reckless now apparently, kept requiring interventions so you didn’t get killed, or worse.

And Eddie couldn’t help himself when it came to you. Especially not when you were standing on top of Billy Hargrove’s sick Camaro, swinging a baseball bat and getting called some shit that no one should ever be calling you.

You’re out of control. Totally unsheathed. End of your rope. Unlaced.

And he’d do just about anything to keep you safe.

Even fuck up his guitar-playing hand. Which is also his…

“I can’t believe you fucking suckerpunched me,” Hargrove mumbles from your left. “With those ugly fucking rings on.”

Eddie can’t help himself, the last shred of propriety knocked out round about the time a knee to the ribs had winded him. “Aw. Billy. Don’t be so hard on yourself–”

“Eddie…,” you start, tone warning in a way that makes him want to pinch you, kind of. He leans towards Hargrove, meaning he’s leaning over you. Hair brushing across your shoulder. You notice that it smells distinctively skunkier than usual. Camping out at Lipton Landing?

“--honestly! You’re no sucker!” he implores, eyes shining in jest, “You totally had that coming!”

You hear Billy seething from his end, Eddie snickering from his and launch a well-timed arm in front of both of them before they can snap at it again.

“Cut it out, assholes! This is becoming increasingly more pigheaded.”

“And you’re the voice of perfect reason now, huh?” Eddie sneers, not giving you much breathing room. “Where’s the bat at, Babe Ruth?”

“In the parking lot, waiting to finish you off,” you grit back, nearly nose-to-nose with him, because you don’t know how to digest the guilt of his aching fingers.

“What are you mad at me for?” Eddie hisses, a smirk threatening to break his scowl, because he doesn’t know how not to provoke you.

“Knocking her up, probably,” Billy mumbles from the side.

“Shut up, Hargrove!” you both snap, eyes never leaving one another.

Higgins’ door creaks open and a quietly livid Ms Kelley says, “Lacy.” She jerks her head, motioning for you to up and at ‘em. You do, but not without one last look at Eddie, cradling his hand. Round, bottomless irises meet yours for a moment, then dart away with an impact that thickens your throat.

His poor hand, you find yourself thinking.

“He needs an ice pack…” you find yourself mumbling, Kelley shuffling you into Higgins’ office. The principal sits behind his beat-up desk, fingers steepled. You absently wonder if he’s been campaigning for a new, shinier, possibly more oaken desk because this doesn’t paint the picture of threatening figurehead that he so clearly wants you to tremble under.

You accidentally kick the thing, crossing your legs as you sit. “Sorry.”

“You should be,” Higgins declares. Here we fucking go.

“Permission to state my case?” you attempt. This hadn’t been your first time in the principal’s office; minor classroom infractions, a saccharine we’ll do everything to help that we can after your dad’s arraignment, but this time was certainly the worst.

“Denied,” he shoots you down.

“Permission to submit a plea of temporary insanity, then,” you try, patting at the sore spot on the crown of your head. “You know this doesn’t bode with my track record. You think I climbed on top of Billy Hargrove’s car completely compos mentis? Please.”

A tense silence from Higgins’ and Kelley’s end.

“You saw what Hargrove did, didn’t you? That disgusting prank?”

Again, nada.

“I’m a honor student, for Chrissake!” you exclaim, and Kelley plucks herself from the windowsill behind Higgins’ desk.

“Were an honor student, Ms Doevski,” she corrects. “Your grades have been slipping since– the events of the last couple of months. You’ve dropped cheerleading, you’ve made really puzzling false claims about peer tutoring, you…”

“Yes! Yes, the events of the last couple of months, if by which you mean familial imprisonment, then yes, I’ve been a little distracted!”

Higgins kicks back in his seat just as you hitch forward in yours, too angry to be pleading but too desperate to defy. His turn to mutter here we fucking go.

“I can turn this around,” redirected to Ms Kelley and her ever-sympathetic expression, “I can turn this around.”

“College applications deadlines are within touching distance, Lacy.” She of little faith.

“I know that!” As if your hands aren’t itching every time college guy mentions Ithaca or… wherever the fuck it is he goes. As if that isn’t a crack in the assuredness that you were going to take flight out of this town in a spectacular fashion.

“Ladies– can we dispense with the hysteria and deal with the here and now?” Higgins insists and you and Kelley, despite your opposition, share a look.

World class, this guy. Top of his field, asshole-wise.

“Two week suspension should do it,” he says, jotting something down.

You open your mouth in protest and Kelley quells you– you’re in no position to start bargaining down.

“Technically, she didn’t do anything,” and for good measure, but pressed, “Sir.”

“She climbed on top of that boy’s car with a baseball bat!” Higgins barks; now who’s hysteric?! “She had intent to do harm!”

“It was justified.” You can’t help yourself.

Kelley stares him down, and that woman’s charm is something that should be studied in a fucking lab, because he relents right away.

“Two weeks of Saturday detention, then. Christ. Am I going soft?”

You shake your head, all the knots in your body releasing just a little bit. You try to dig out what’s left of your once-famously refined charm, while simultaneously dashing towards the door before he can change his mind.

“Au contraire. You’re a paragon of masculinity, sir. Regan could take a hint. Door open or closed?”

Higgins grimaces. “Send in Hargrove. Tell Munson he’s suspended. I don’t have time for both of those pricks today.”

Eddie’s voice travels through the crack in the door. “I heard that, sir.” A beat. “I miss you, sir.”

You bite back a deeply reluctant laugh and jerk your head toward Billy. You’re up, champ.

Then, it’s the two of you. You and Eddie, Eddie and you. Alone, save for the ever watchful jam jar eyes of Janice the secretary. Eddie is still nestling one hand in the other like it’s a baby bird with a broken wing. Shit, you really hope it isn’t broken.

“You’re suspended. They told me to tell you.” It’s a statement made to turkey-stuff the silence more than anything.

The way Eddie lolls his head back makes you want to reach out and push it in the opposite direction. You don’t know why.

“You’re a regular town crier, ain’t ya.”

“Hear ye, hear ye.”

A leaden pause. Your hearts might have thumped both in time just now.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks.

“No leaving school grounds,” Janice unhelpfully squawks.

Eddie gets up, drawing himself to his full height. Your eyelids flutter. There’s a little purple around that cut on his lip, which you bet is starting to throb something awful. You feel dwarfed beside him, and he uses his good hand to turn you by the shoulder and shuffle you past the nosy secretary’s post.

“I meant the sick bay, Janice,” Eddie pelts, giving each vowel sound a hard flick. “I’m wounded. And she’s apparently pregnant. Or didn’t you hear?”

—

The nurse’s office is tiny and cramped, smelling of bleach with a glaring fluorescent overhead. Eddie has a hard time figuring out why anyone would come here to feel better. Especially given that Nurse Lydia is barely ever present.

Eddie carpes the opportunity to slam himself down on her rolling saddle chair, gliding into your path as you try and snoop around for first aid materials.

“I don’t think you should be driving that thing,” you remark, “You could be concussed. You’re acting concussed.”

“It’s keeping me awake!”

Eddie watches you, digging through drawers and pulling out tongue depressors, your teeth making an indent into your bottom lip. Your eyes are doing that darty thing, quietly frantic in place of an apology. You don’t know how to say sorry you got wailed on by Hargrove for me. Instead, you’re acting like he’s bleeding out.

“Lace, just wait for the professional.”

The clip of your nickname makes you toss your stare over your shoulder, hardness framing your eyes like mascaraed lashes. Eddie stops rolling around at once.

“I am the goddamn professional, as far as you’re concerned.” Your little chin jerks towards the exam table that’s beat into the corner of the room. “Get on the bed.”

Whack-a-mole. Woodpecker. Other euphemisms for his cock developing a pulse. Eddie has to physically restrain his jaw from dropping.

“Yes, Nurse Ratched.”

Scoffing out a little fuck you!, you go about scrambling together supplies and Eddie obediently launches himself onto the bed, the ancient thing creaking beneath him. When you finally approach him, you seem to be holding a lot of alcohol pads.

The look before you admit to a shortcoming is one he wants framed. You always flick your eyes around like a guilty cartoon character, like Betty Boop on her way to gaining a doctorate in the pretentiousness of the English language, and pout. Lean your neck in, like you’re swearing him to secrecy.

“I actually don’t know anything about first aid. Beyond the rudimentaries.”

Eddie chuckles. “You were a cheerleader. You were getting thrown in the air a whole bunch, if I recall. Feels like you should know how to like, resuscitate.”

“Rudimentaries, I said!” and you grab his injured hand a little roughly, alcohol pad torn out and ready, “Like, I obviously know alcohol disinfects a wound, ice for a bruise… I don’t know how to, like, reset a bone. Besides…”

You inch closer to him now, wiping at his torn and tender knuckles a little too carefully. They’re just stupid cuts, Eddie thinks, his breath beginning to shallow.

“...that Cat People remake was premiering at the Hawk the day we had first aid training. Like I was going to miss that.”

He can feel heat radiating off your body, a core change for cold little you. Feel the fabric of your skirt brush the rip in his jeans. A little choked, he mumbles, “Cat People is a remake?”

“Based on the 1942 original,” you nod, flicking the tiny used pad in the nearby trash can. “I like it. But I like that David Bowie song more.”

“That song sucks.”

“You’re injured and wrong. What a shame.” Your fingers close around Eddie’s wrist and slowly, slowly press his forearm to his chest. “Keep that elevated.”

“It’s not broken,” and he’s staring at the quiet tremble in your bottom lip.

“Could be sprained,” head cast down again, tearing open another pad, and he can smell your hair, “Does it hurt?”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away, because he’s waiting for you to look back up. Because he thinks he’s going to carpe something else.

You fall for it, and your eyes sucker him in. He feels weak in the joints. You repeat yourself. “Does it hurt, Eddie?”

He just nods, boyishly. Nearly passes out when your fingertips tilt his face towards the light. Skin buzzing underneath them, you peering at his mouth like you know what you’re doing. The slit in his lip feels raw and strained.

“This’ll hurt, too,” you murmur, and he feels your breath against his jaw. A sharp prick from the alcohol against his cut doesn’t make him wince– worse. As you swipe the cotton against his bottom lip, he whimpers. Unh.

Oxygen stops short in your throat, hearing that. That noise. It sends a wave of motion through your lower body. You’re leaning awfully close to him, closer than you need to be. In fact, his knees are settled either side of your hips. How did that happen. When did that happen. How did you allow this.

How are you allowing your fingertip to trace against his lip, alcohol evaporating without a hope or a prayer. How are you allowing yourself to look at him through the fan of your lashes, his injured hand still obediently propped against his chest. His good hand pressing into your lower back.

You taste the vagueness of the disinfectant on his lips as he presses them into yours.

Jerking back, you’re not far enough away from him to create a distance that matters. All you see are Eddie’s eyes, flickering open, apologetic in themselves. About to tell you he’s sorry.

No.

Hands fly, one woven in the curls at the base of his skull as you kiss up into him, tongue an impolite peak. This is not the closet; this is arguably far more dangerous, with the nurse’s door still open a courteous gap. This is the harsh light of day. This is Eddie’s hand moving your skirt further up the curve of your ass.

He’s grabbing onto you as best a one-armed man can, and your hand travels in turn. A jagged, fevered path drawing up his thigh until, under your palm, is the hard outline of him. The pressure of your hand over the denim-bound curvature of his cock makes him groan sharply, the sound pressed against your cheek.

Face angles back for a look at him. Because this is bad, mindless, reckless, stupid. And he’s always worth a look.

You spot a tiny speck of blood on the pink of his lip from where his cut had split.

And your curious tongue flicks at it.

Eddie’s eyes flare. You, unable to unglue your stare from his, suck his lightly bleeding lip between yours. Fragile. Crushable.

He did this for you.

No one’s ever cared, or known you enough, to do something like that for you.

Desire moves you like a shockwave and your hand leaves his crotch to help you clamber onto the exam table, clamber into Eddie’s lap.

Downright idiotic.

You cast a glance to the door, Eddie’s fraught breath puffing against your neck.

Thought you were a smart girl.

You look right into his face, the poster boy for sheer distraction, pre-occupation, skin-searing annoyance, nervous charm, surprising wit, magnetism, oh my… and feel his fingers edging far past the hem of your skirt, past the binding top of the thigh-highs you’re wearing because it’s fucking laundry day and stopping at the gusset of your panties.

He can feel how wet you are.

Lips a breath away from each other, one set bleeding, one set housing a gasp. Eddie nudges his forehead against yours, the both of you blind to consequence.

“Just friends, right?” His breath is jagged and unconvinced, and your hips kick toward his hand.

You do not answer.

Unbruised fingers push the fabric covering your radiating heat aside and you have to tighten your grip around the back of his neck so as not to tumble over. Eddie is not deft, because this isn’t the moment to be deft. He plunges two fingers into the plush of your pussy and looks to you with pleading eyes. Eyes that say, is this good, eyes that say, don’t make a sound.

You nod in the affirmative to both and he drags his digits out slowly. Rhythm picks up and you’re clenching around Eddie’s hand in a matter of minutes, lower muscles seizing and het-up moans being gratefully swallowed by him. Pad of his thumb moves to create rough, clumsy friction against your clit that elicits a sharp, high, wanton ah! from you, grinding against him in an unquenchable search for more.

“Does he do this? Does anyone do this for you, Lacy?”

Eddie’s eyes keep searching you for approval and you’ve lost the ability to appease or deny him– all you know is the blind, nonsensical want that’s pouring out of you is being lapped up. Lapped up. His tongue, you want his tongue everywhere, but it’s working at your earlobe, your neck, sucking, whispering, “Just friends? Lacy?”

And when you cum, it’s fast and hard and suffocating, an achievement you’re close to angry at him for– because no one has ever been able to break you apart that fast.

Or at all.

He can never know. He’d be so insufferable about it… some bare fragment of a thought passes through your brain, synapses busy firing elsewhere.

You’re rocking against him through the crest, pressing your forehead to his with such a force that you’re frightened it’ll splinter, you’re murmuring, “Eddie… Eddie, d–hmn, fuck…”

And you can tell by the way he’s attempting to press his body against you that he wishes he hadn’t bust that stupid fucking hand of his, so he could hold you properly– and you’re right. You’re right, you’re always fucking right, but you told him to keep it elevated and he’s going to do what you say.

He’s got no choice when it comes to you.

He needs you safe. Needs you happy. No matter what.

Which is why he’s got to pull this bullshit move.

Eddie is patient and watches you regain a little consciousness, faster than he’s sure you’d like. He extracts his hand and, sticky with you still, wipes it on the thigh of his jeans. Heart thundering in his ears, he tugs you into one more breathless kiss and wonders if you can still taste the rust sharpness of his cut in between your lips. He’s strangled himself against cumming up till this point, and this doesn’t help matters. An imperceptible spot of pre-fun lies in his lap but the thing is, the really fucked thing is–

Eddie gently shoves you away, mind silently babbling for the right thing to say. I’m sorry is something you’d see right through, get off is too harsh, oopsie is too fucking whimsical–

But you, ever-perceptive you, you realize your place. Knock yourself back into reality so fiercely that he’s afraid it’ll bruise you, lovely, awe-inspiring you that just softened into his hands like that. You clumsily clamber off the exam table in a hot flash of rejection, which– no, god, no, he doesn’t mean that…

“I–”

“No, I know,” you grit, prickly all over. Thumbing at the edge of your blurred lipstick. “I know. I certainly know.”

Eddie dares to look at you and you dare to look back at him. His lips looking worse off from you, but at the very least kissed. At the very least kissed, but you could cry with the empty feeling inside you. A cavern of a girl. You nod curtly, like this is the conclusion of a particularly charged run-in of acquaintances, not like you wanted him to swallow you whole moments ago.

Slipping out of the nurse’s office, you run right into the myth that is Nurse Lydia.

She looks tan.

“He’s,” you struggle, “He’s waiting for you.”

—

Cheating out sick from school and taking a shift at The Bookstore following the latest in a series of apparently neverending aftershocks was probably not the smartest call– but hell, you’re fresh out of smart calls.

Ivana smells a rat, and she doesn’t take to rats lightly, so she gives you your space.

The morning ticks on at a pace that feels supernatural; like you’re witnessing outside of your body, like you can’t orient yourself in the right direction. You attempt to arrange and rearrange poets from alcoholic to puritan. You sell someone a copy of The Fountainhead without giving them their free blistering evisceration of Ayn Rand.

You’re at a loss. A shameful, dangling loss that almost makes you feel pious. Like you should go to confession.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned… I let my one-time best friend, current-cloudy object of my affection get beat up for me then bring me to climax in the nurses’ office.

You retread the same sentence in your over-thumbed copy of Save Me the Waltz like a table corner you keep stubbing your toe on.

We couldn’t go on indefinitely being swept off our feet.

You said it, Alabama. Something’s got to land.

And, because someone down there wants you dead, land it does.

The bell of the store’s door clashes upon opening, and all of the energy draws toward one magnetic point. A shock of silver hair, standing on end catches the lamplight, glowing almost eerily.

You feel a zzzzip of static. The air feels charged.

He doesn’t face you right away. Kind of slinks into the place, edging along the shelves.

“Say, Lacy. Ballpark me somethin’,” his Southern drawl is barely contained within the Midwestern flatlands of his accent, bursting through the baseline like a corpse that hasn’t been buried deep enough. “How long… do you think…” His fingers tap along the worn spines of the display, creeping closer to the counter, “...it would take… to read all these books?”

The lilt of his voice is so familiar that you recognize it instantly. Even the way your name falls out of his mouth. Like a funhouse mirror, a distortion of a voice you’d come to…

Well. Let’s not get into that. Let’s get into this.

A roguish smile with a couple decades of road wear on it and a tacky Hawkins High class ring on his finger. You could’ve sworn Eddie told you he dropped out.

“How many years in the big house with nothin’ better to do?” He finally stops and pivots on his heel. The way he looks you over makes you nauseous and lightheaded, like he took a long, long sip out of you. Jammed a straw in your jugular and sucked.

Lot of blood play happening ‘round these parts.

“Hello, Al.”

“Hello, sweetheart. You filled out.”

author's notes: christ alive. i mean WELCOME BACK! i really missed you guys. happy new year, thank you for keeping me on the level with writing this chapter, it was so much FUCKING harder than i anticipated! was it too much warped angst? are the feelings complicated? does the pope shit in the woods?!!!!! you betcha. anyway, be seated for today's lesson - "less oedipus-y, more ea--..." there is an ending to that joke that i felt was too crass for the moment but if you can guess it you win a prize - the patchwork girl of oz is the seventh book in the wizard of oz series by l. frank baum! obviously. it's actually a laugh riot, you should check it out. scraps, the eponymous patchwork girl, is a full tilt lunatic who's kind of a bit of me. but theoretically, the patchwork girl made out of a thousand different scraps of everything else... bit of lacy innit - the mage in the mink coat is self referential lmao we've gotten to THAT point in the story - gravity's rainbow is a book that guys i dated used to recommend to me constantly which is like infinite jest for people who are ran through - i'm really fucking with college guy at this point, making him drive a ford cortina. because i think it is ugly - the plot of the annotated book that lacy gives eddie, still life with woodpecker by tom robbins, is... interesting eye emoji eye emoji. tom robbins also wrote even cowgirls get the blues which was adapted into a feature film starring, say it with me, robin's mom - the link wray song that soundtracked the lipton landing visit in question - "charlie? or linda kasabian?" go ahead and read the white album by joan didion for me wouldja buddyroo, just like lacy and nancy already have - fun fact, i played a two person game of gin rummy with myself to get into the mindset for this chapter. i suck at it - torchy blane is another one of my pre-code wonders-- glenda farrell plays an intrepid newspaperwoman, and this character actually went on to inspire lois lane from superman - and I KNOW some of you are going to be mad at lacy for fucking college guy, but... shit happens when you're a booksmart lovedumb eighteen year old that can't face up to her feelings! i don't wanna hear it! - fred benson i love you baby! i'm almost sorry i called you william randolph hearst, newspaper magnate and all around lunatic and the inspo behind the diss track citizen kane, but i'm not! - nancy wheeler has a photo of nellie bly in her locker where a photo of her beau should be - so echo & the bunnymen's 1984 album ocean rain is obviously most famous for the killing moon (jonathan byers you ARE my donnie darko) but may i point your attention to motherfucking seven seas - OH YOU KNOW I (EDDIE) HAD TO DO IT TO 'EM. this was shameless but i've had this in my heart for over ten years babe - for the purposes of this timeline, you know eddie is keeping higgins in pills. which is why he hasn't been kicked out of hawkins high so fast his lunchbox would combust - nurse ratched, obviously from one flew over the cuckoo's nest and that ill-fated ryan murphy series....tf was that...but also from this fucking sick tune! - save me the waltz is by zelda fitzgerald! my loves, thanks for hanging in for this chapter. i know it was a wait, but i hope you enjoyed! i also know it was a little more angsty pants than my usual fare-- but look baby. we need grist for the mill, okay? as always, reblogs, comments and likes are FIERCELY appreciated! love u all so much. my little hellcats. to die by your side etc

#e. munson by powder #published by powder #in progress #hellfire & ice #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x oc #rmr when i used to write 4k chapters.... god be with the days #anyway i love these fuckheads

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sadtonight · 1 year

Text

"Smile, my bunny, smile!"

Summary: looks like someone lost a bet and now he has to wear bunny themed clothes and pretend to be a bunny as a punishment!

Characters: Riddle, Vil, Epel, Idia, Lilia;

Warnings: none, reader is gender neutral, just a bit suggestive, implied established romantic relationships;

Side notes: easter has kind of passed but whatever. Bunnies are ALWAYS relevant if you ask me 🐰

Riddle

— it's beyond him how he could even lost that bet. What put Riddle off wasn't the sour taste of defeat, but how thrilled you were at the prospect of him being an "easter bunny". It exuded Ace's mischief, which the boy was unfortunately all too familiar with and which was a harbinger of a disaster;

— and his gut feeling was correct: from Seven-knows-where you handed over the... night wear: white plush pyjamas with middle sized bunny ears and flat tail behind. The shorts barely covered his knees, yet sleeves were so long that even when rolled up, only the tips of his middle fingers were visible. You also gave him few accessories, like a rose red bow, and considered applying make-up, but his natural pink blush that wasn't coming off his face due to his bunnyfication, making him the cutest bunny boy that you have ever layed your eyes on;

— unsurprisingly, Riddle took the whole bunny business very seriously. If he is to be a bunny, even for one day, he's set on acting like one: that's why he learned behaviour patterns and even bunny language beforehand. Poor Ace joked why if he was a rabbit, he wasn't munching on a carrot, earning an hour long lecture about "rabbits" and "making assumptions" until you dragged Riddle away by using embarrassing themed bunny pet names. "My rose I'm in the middle of something- and cease calling me "fluffy ears" already!...*sigh* Alright I'm coming. Ace, I presume you have learnt your lesson, I do hope you won't make same mistake ever again"

— the pocket clock you gave him turned out to be broken!! Initially, Riddle couldn't grasp why would any animal need a clock, broken one for that matter, but know the boy suspects that it's was just a tasteless joke on your part. No wonder he was running late everywhere all day long!

— it wasn't the worst punishment Riddle has ever experienced for losing bets, but he will definitely try his best to never be a bunny again. Being a laughing stock for his dorm wasn't pleasant, and your sudden bursts of affection and photoshoots throughout the day were embarrassing him more than usual. If someone were to ask Riddle, the bunny role was tailored for you better: you circled around him happily, just like bunnies did when they were excited. The thought warmed his heart — he couldn't help but to gently pat your head when you were sitting down on the lounge sofa, admiring the photos you took today. Hmm, you wondered, what was the red haired boy thinking about?

Vil

— ah, to think that Vil would lose such an easy challenge. He really did give it his all, however, it looked like whatever drove you to victory was strong enough to beat the queen himself. It was fair and square, so he had no choice but to face the punishment that you prepared for him;

— whatever the "easter bunny" was, the male prayed it was nothing obscene. If you think he would jump into those skimpy bunny suits and walk around like that, you are dead wrong. Upon listening to your explanation, Vil mentally signed with relief, and to your astonishment agreed to whatever you were going to throw at him;

— he claimed, but when you motioned to the big brown furred bunny's head and the body's suit of the same maner Vil suddenly felt cold breeze on his neck. "My dear potato flower, would you please mind telling me why do you have this...suit? You don't say you have spent money on that, or have you?" his words held certain notes of desperation in them;

— the suit turned out to look quite passable, Vil has seen cuter mascots than this one, but at the very least it didn't look cheap and the fur didn't make him sneeze. One positive thing about this get up was the fact that his face was concealed, so no-one could recognise him unless he spoke. Except for Rook, who threw his arms in surprise upon distinctly hearing Vil's footsteps but meeting tall brown bunny figure instead;

— if bulky head and paws could be worked around with precision and magic, the heat and stuffiness were extremely hard to deal with. At the end of the day, Vil's head was filled with lamentations and grumbling: you clearly wanted him to suffer, since if it hadn't been your intentions, you would have give him plain old bunny ears to wear and be done with it;

— male's body was finally blessed with cool air that enveloped him like a blanket when you unzipped his suit from behind. The whole undressing process was rather "heated", you would joke around, if it wasn't the sharp eyed glare that Vil had, like a dagger pressed to your neck threatening to slide if you voiced the joke out loud;

— however, the "heated" part came from the state in which the man was: hair slicked back to stop it from sticking to his sweaty face, which had pouty expression, and glistering chest rising up and down in a quickened pace. You were having your hopes up by assuming you two would be taking a shower together, yet Vil in a honeyed voice flat out refused your company, as a punishment for his punishment of course.

Epel

— huh?? No way he lost.... and the punishment.... Golly, here Epel was raking up all the manliness he could and now you were telling him to dress and act like a cute bunny. It was so unfair he actually teared up a little;

— but he wasn't going to give up! The most unmanliest thing he could do was to run away, he literally had no choice but to bite the bullet and go through with it. He would show you and everyone else that bunnies and rabbits are not to meek animals and shouldn't be messed around with!!

— shame, so much shame. Scratch everything he was saying before, when he saw what he was supposed to wear for the whole day he wanted to set it on fire. How can he strike fear in anyone while wearing frilly white nightgown and huge frilly hat with a bow and a pair of bunny ears sticking out from the top??

— "Ugh, I can imagine everyone's reaction. I'm doing this only because I've lost to you alright? Next time you will be a cute little animal, not me!". Just like the boy has expected everyone, EVERYONE was laughing and cooing. Vil and Rook gave him stupid smirks all day, his first year friends were rolling on the floor from laughter, other people would point fingers and throw words "cute" and "adorable" at him. He wanted to pick up fights so badly, however, he knew that he could use this situation to his advantage;

— and used it he did. Epel got special treatment from just about everywhere. Discounts in cafeteria and Mystery Shop? Check. People letting him get stuff first? Check. Teacher being more merciful and lax towards him? Pretty much. What Epel had to do was to play coy and move his hands like paws. The power of cuteness is a force to be reckon with. It got to the point where some people offered to carry the boy around in their arms but he had to awkwardly decline;

— currently, you were watching how eagerly lavender haired boy sprung out of the nightgown, while retelling the events that happened to him today. Epel didn't even notice you cutting fresh red apple that you took from the bunch. You brought up the the fruit to his face, surprising the boy, who took the piece from your palm, only to get hit with another wave of elation: the slice was cut just like a rabbit!! It's settled, you were the cutest one today after all!

Idia

— ?! What?? The game definitely glitched, Idia was right at the finish line, but instead the "Player 2 won" announcement popped up. He wasn't going to let that slide, the man literally started to search for any evidence that suggested that it was a glitch and not his defeat. It was his little brother Ortho who denied Idia's proclaims, proving your victory with footages;

—ughhhh, why Ortho couldn't just keep silent for his older brother's sake? Now he had to go through the stupid punishment for losing the stupid bet he-- h-huh?? "A bunny suit"?? Don't tell him you mean "those" bunny suits which beautiful girls wear in anime, manga and cosplay. Idia won't-- he can't-- that's impossible and ridiculous, literally the worst thing he had ever heard in his entire life;

— you had to shake your hands on front of him to stop the flame haired male from going any further. You assured Idia that you had no ill intentions: just the bunny ears and tail. Phew, thankfully his lifestyle made it easier to complete the challenge, else he would cringe and die on the first step out of his room from shame;

— and all of the sudden, Ortho butted in again but this time the robo-boy brought up the fact that Idia had a cosplay of a character who happened to be a bunny. Oh-uh... Great, just great, now Idia had to wear "that" outfit. Admittedly, he himself has forgotten about the impulsive purchase, so now it backfired;

— Idia whined and complained but the white dress with blue elements, a carrot tucked in a pocket, stylish fluffy bunny scarf, white bunny ears and tail, black tights, and two braids with same plastic carrots sticking out of the hair were sitting on him like a glove. You asked him who was the character, and in his usual fashion Idia went on a full blown speech, even unconsciously replicating movements and a catch phrases out of habit. After realising his mistake, the male squealed just like a small wild rabbit, his hair igniting pink;

— Idia fumbled around for a few minutes straight, yet you still couldn't recover from what you have just witnessed. God, he was so adorable yet pathetic simultaneously, you couldn't wrap your head around how a man can be so endearing. You crashed him in the tight hug, promising to take care of the poor bunny, but Idia didn't find the promise to be amusing and instead deeply signed in exhaustion;

— for the rest of the day, both of you just hung out in his room. The only difference being Idia's cosplay, the funny picture of him crouching to grab another chip from the bag on the ground that you took while he wasn't looking. Little did you know, he was going to clear your phone tonight when you would be fast asleep, just after Idia conveniently suggested you to stay for the night.

Lilia

— aww he was so close to winning. Being young certainly has it's fair share of advantages doesn't it. That said, Lilia has been wondering what kind of punishment you got for him. The old fae doubted that you would be able to humiliate or flustered him— it was impossible to faze the person who has been living for centuries already;

— though he sort of predicted that one of the punishments could be connected to dressing in a certain way, what Lilia couldn't anticipate was to be a cute bunny. How delightfully innocent! Despite him supposedly having to act cutesy, you were already as charming as a bunny. Really, the idea sounded so good that the man wanted to include his little family in the picture, but each of them refused for different reasons. What a shame....

— good thing Lilia had his little bat companions that would never refuse him, right? Right. So now it was one big bat wearing oversized black hoodie with two bunny ears sewn on the sides of the hood and round black tail in the back, black slim jeans and black fluffy boots, and a bunch on small bats floating around wearing tiny white bunny ears. Lilia has always possessed a cute appeal but now it was turned up to the maximum!

— truth to be told, the fae had met rabbit beastman and the rabbits before, but couldn't really figure how he ought to act at that moment. First thing first, he forbade himself to fly, opting to run around like the small animal does. Residents of Diasomnia dorm believed they were under some weird spell that day when they saw black flashes dart left and right;

— secondly, all the kisses were transformed into so called "bunny kisses". Whenever you whined that you needed a real kiss and tried to smash your lips together with Lilia's, Lilia would counter this by dodging your advances. "No no, I'm a bunny now remember? And bunnies don't have the same lips like we do. Don't give me that look, of course I love you very much~" he would tease;

— other pranks from Lilia included stealing all vegetables and fruit from fridge, occupying space by spreading the entirety of his body on the surface and making "bunny" noises and scaring poor unknowing Sebek into screaming and Silver, who assumed that some animal was dying somewhere in the building;

— but obviously, most of time Lilia spent with you. It was almost midnight, which meant that you soon would get your good old bat fae back and not his bunny version. So when it has struck 12 on every single clock in the dorm, you finally met Lilia's lips, which were arched in a wide smile.

#twisted wonderland headcanons #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #riddle rosehearts x reader #vil shoenheit x reader #epel felmier x reader #idia shroud x reader #lilia vanrouge x reader

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mika-no-sekai-blog · 6 months

Text

Mirror, Mirror

Word count: 3700+

Warnings: dark, unhappy ending, mentions of blood, wound, masturbation, depression (?), maybe bit of obsession - I can't think of anything else, so let me know if there is something

This was on my mind for quite some time and I was debating with myself if I should write it or let it go, but why not to write it. I admit, it's little bit too dark even for me and I really hate to torture my sweetheart Azriel, but maybe there is somebody who will like it. Hopefully next time I will get some nice, sweet idea instead, because he really doesn't deserve this

All started just by an accident. Azriel was passing a small mirror in his room when he noticed something bright out of the corner of his eye that definitely didn't belong there. He returned few steps back to look in the mirror properly this time, just to find out it wasn't some kind of a random illusion. It was really there.

He was looking into a delicately furnished bright bedroom that was nothing like his dark one. As he looked around he noticed somebody small curled up in a ball, resting on the bed. He carefully touched mirror's surface with tips of his fingers. He didn't know what exactly he expected, maybe he merely hoped for some kind of a portal to another world, but he was disappointed to find out it's just a normal, ordinary mirror.

The person moved, slowly sitting up on the bed and stretching out arms above her head. She stood up and sleepily walked to the mirror. Her beauty stoke him straight to the heart, making him forget how to breathe. She stepped to the mirror and Azriel backed further to his dark room afraid she would catch him stalking on her and freak out. But she didn't seem to see anything except of her own reflection.

He leaned back to the mirror admiring her beautiful features. But in the moment he raised his hand to touch her, caress her, the scene disappeared and instead he was staring at his own reflection. Disappointed he shut his mouth which he had to open at some point. All excitement suddenly faded away, leaving him with painfully throbbing heart. Who was she? Where was she? He wanted to know more about her, but no matter how long he gazed into the mirror, the vision wouldn't return. After few minutes he gave up and left.

Since that day every time he was passing by mirror, hope raised in his chest and he had to check it out. He became so obsessed, that everybody had noticed his strange behaviour and Cassian wouldn't stop making jokes about his 'sudden narcissism', but Shadowsinger didn't care. The beautiful girl occupied his mind 24 hours a day even though he tried to stop thinking about her. After few days he was really frustrated.

"Why did you show me that girl if you planned to never let me see her again?" Azriel punched the frame of mirror in his room so hard that it almost broke. "How am I suppose to find her now? I have no idea who she is or where she lives. I want to see her again. I have to."

Shadowsinger abruptly turned around and ran fingers through his silky dark hair, closing his eyes to calm down. He felt so silly behaving like this because of some stranger he saw only for a minute or two. Decided to put the mirror away, he turned back to it. His mouth fell open and eyes widened as soon as he spotted that bright room again.

Surprised he took the mirror to his scarred hands and sat down on the edge of the bed. Quickly he looked around that bedroom, but the girl was nowhere to be seen. He sighed in disappointment, but he decided to seize the opportunity and take better look around.

The bedroom was furnished with light coloured wood furniture with touch of white. There was a massive bookcase full of books, next to it stood beige armchair with fluffy white pillow. Sheets on the bed were also in beige and white colours.

Opposite the mirror on the left side of the bed there was a big window and curtains were open. But the sight it offered was totally unfamiliar to him. He had never seen such high and tasteless grey buildings and neon billboards. His brows furrowed in even bigger frustration. This definitely wasn't world he lived in. His hope went out like a burnt candle.

Azriel jumped up and the mirror almost fell out of his hands when the girl appeared in front of it. He didn't hear her to come, but when he thought about it he didn't hear any noises now nor before.

The girl sat down in front of the mirror and spreading some cosmetics around she started putting makeup on. He watched her with interest, examining her features closely. Her face seemed to be even more beautiful than he remembered.

“Who are you?” Azriel whispered to himself, with pain in his deep voice. “Where are you? How to get to you?” He gritted his teeth. For moment he considered to put the mirror down because what's the point of watching such beauty when he couldn't get close to her and make her his. But he couldn't take eyes off of her. This had to be some sort of spell.

He kept watching her, jumping from one mirror surface to another. He wasn't sure how it worked, but he felt so peaceful and relaxed while watching her prepare meals, go for a walk, read and paint that he didn't want to stop.

She had to be an artist just like Rhys' mate. Feyre was one of the best artists he knew, but this girl.. Her paintings were so realistic, so lively as if they were about to start breathing and moving around at any moment. He had never seen such kind of art. It was mesmerizing.

Azriel completely lost track of time and before he knew, he spent entire day watching her in the mirror. She stood up, putting paint brushes aside and he followed her as she moved to the bathroom. She began preparing the bath and while water was running, she washed off makeup and started to undress. Blushing Azriel put the mirror down. But even though the heat was consuming his cheeks he couldn't stop peeking at it. He bit down on his lower lip so hard he drew blood. Closing eyes he sighed deeply and picked up the mirror once again.

The girl was already in bathtub so far away from the mirror that he couldn't see more than her head and shoulders. However they disappeared, too, as the mirror in her bathroom fogged up. His shoulders slumped as he released the breath he didn't know he was holding.

'What a pity,' he thought ashamed. Shadowsinger forced himself to put the mirror away, placing it downwards on the nightstand and stretched on the bed. He felt excited and tired at the same time. His thoughts were still swirling around the girl until his pants began to feel too tight. He tried to resist his needs, but it only got worse. Reluctantly Azriel reached down, squeezing and fisting his cock until he found release. However it wasn't enough and he had to repeat it several times to feel completely satisfied. And only then he was able to finally fall asleep, dreaming about her.

A week passed while Azriel stayed shut in his room, holding the mirror and watching the girl day and night. He became obsessed with her. More he watched her, more he needed. He longed to touch her, to speak with her. He wanted to bring her to Velaris, show her his world while spoiling her and loving her. If she asked him to fall to his knees to the dirt and worship her, he would gladly do so. His heart ached so much, he choked, unable to breath without her properly.

A knock sounded on the doors. Azriel's shadows twisting around his arm whispered to his ear that it's Cassian. Again. He and Rhysand were trying to find to him. Cassian stopped at his door several times a day, but when no answer came from inside he eventually left. Rhys' claws were rubbing against his mental shields, at first just asking, but now demanding to let him in. Azriel didn't want to talk with them nor see them.

This time Cassian was more persistent and knocked again. Azriel ignored him, watching as the girl sat down to her lunch. Meal she prepared looked so delicious that he wanted to devour it all.

“What are you doing here?” Cassian was standing in open door, leaning against the frame with arms crossed on his chest. He looked irritated and worried at the same time. “Disappearing like this without a single world. Can you imagine how worried we all are. We were looking for you everywhere. Can you explain why you didn't answer me before? Or why you ignore Rhysand?”

“I have something important to do,” Azriel snarled back at him. “Get out, Cassian.”

“And can you tell me what is so important that you sit closed in your room and ignore our every attempt to contact you?”

“That doesn't concern you. It's my private thing. I have right to have some privacy and life out of the family. And now leave me alone.”

“Hey, bro,” Cassian sighed and tried to be nicer. “Have you even seen yourself? You look horrible. What's wrong? Something happened? Is it some girl? C'mon, talk to me.”

“There's nothing to talk about. Just leave me alone.”

Cassian gritted his teeth, his fingers curled into fists. “As you wish. You know where to find us when you decide to get out of here,” he muttered, visibly pissed off and left slamming the door behind.

Azriel exhaled, putting the mirror aside he leaned against the headboard and closed his eyes. He felt like a stranger in his own body. What's wrong with him? Why he couldn't stop thinking about the girl? Why he couldn't stop watching her? Nothing made sense to him.

That evening standing in bathroom Azriel was brushing his teeth while watching the girl getting ready for bed in the mirror above the sink. Suddenly girl raised her hands up in defense, her face a picture of dread. She backed into the corner closer to the mirror. A man with knife in hand came into view. Azriel instantly stopped everything he was doing, his nails dug into the mirror's frame.

“No,” he hissed through clenched teeth. He was immediately consumed by fury. If he could he would fly in there and kill that man right there on the spot without mercy. But he couldn't and that enraged him even more. A lump formed in his throat as the man got closer to the girl and stabbed her to her abdomen.

“No!” he bellowed, but that was the only thing he could do. The girl fell down to the floor with her back leaning against the mirror. Azriel pressed both of the hands to the mirror, desperately wanting to catch her, to get her to safety. “Please, let me in. Don't make me watch her die before my eyes. Please.. please..” he pleaded with the mirror, pushing against its cold surface.

Surprisingly the mirror gave in and Azriel's fingers dipped into something similar to cold thick liquid. So thick he had to push with all his strength to get through it. Finally his fingers touched still warm soft flesh. He gritted his teeth and pushed even more against the resistance of mirror until his arms were wrapped around girl's waist. Getting her to his side was even harder. His legs were slipping on the smooth stones of the floor, so he pressed one of them against the sink and continued pulling. Slowly, very slowly her body began to emerge from the mirror's surface. She groaned and hissed in pain.

“I'm so sorry. Just hold on a little longer,” he growled through gritted teeth. Finally her entire body got to his side and both of them collapsed to the floor. Azriel groaned in pain when she fell onto him. Without wasting more time he swiftly laid her down to check her.

The girl was unconscious and the blood rushed from her wound already creating a small pool beneath her, but she still breathed. Azriel took two towels, pressing one to the bleeding wound and using the other one to secure it in place. Carefully he quickly lifted her up in his arms and rushing to the closest balcony he flew out. As soon as he got out of the wards around the House of Wind he winnowed straight to Madja's house.

Petite female jumped up when he so suddenly appeared in the middle of her living room, but when she saw the girl in his arms with blood soaking through towels, she immediately guided him to small medical room attached to her house. Azriel laid girl down on the bed.

“She is human and already lost too much of blood,” he said breathlessly still recovering from fight with the mirror and the fall.

Madja just nodded, hands full of bandages and tinctures as she returned to the bed. She put it all down on small table next to the bed and pulled girl's shirt up. Azriel watched as she cleaned the wound and stitched girl up without asking where he found her or what happened. When she was done she poured some medicine to the glass and made the girl to drink it.

“She should be fine for now, although the wound will take some time to heal. I will give you a tea to relieve the pain and medicaments for blood supplemental and.. anti-inflammatory. She needs to take it four times a day. Because of the massive blood loss, she will feel dizzy and cold. Make sure she is warm and drinks enough,” she instructed him while she was preparing vials with medicine and pack with tea to which she attached all necessary instructions.

It took entire week until the girl woke up and became able to sit up for a while. During the whole time Azriel had never left her side. Every time she shivered with cold even though the House heated Azriel's room so much it was almost unbearable, he scooped her into a tight hug wrapping his wings around them, hoping his bodyheat would warm her up. Thankfully it really worked.

There in the dim light getting through the membrane of his wing, he told her about himself, his family, the city and this world, even about the mirror and watching her. She couldn't respond with more than a light press of her fingers to his arm, but he knew she was listening to him.

Meanwhile his shadows were lurking around, afraid to touch her with their cold fingers, bringing in whatever they needed. They also made sure there was always hot tea on the nightstand.

Azriel let his brother in and told him what happened. At first Rhysand was really angry and gave him a long speech, but together with Cassian and Feyre they made sure to stop by several times a day to check on them.

Soon enough healthy colour returned to girl's face and she became strong enough to leave bed. Every day Azriel took her on a short walk around the House. And as she grew stronger, he began to take her down to the city showing her around. She was all smiley and cheerful, looking around in amaze and Azriel loved to watch it. He loved her so much there weren't enough sufficient words to describe the depth of his feelings. Seeing her good mood he felt like smiling, too, and often he really did. He didn't mind even her touch. He craved it and sought for it.

Despite his fear that she would mind touch of his scarred hands, the girl always leaned into it, seeking him just as much as he did. She would hold his hand, fingers entangled together, lightly tugging on it when she spotted something new or interesting. He offered her to move to own room, but to his delight she decided to stay in his, snuggling to his side every night. They grew together and lived as any couple in love would, because they were the couple deeply in love.

Azriel tried to learn something about her, but no matter how many times she tried, no voice came out. Even Madja couldn't find out the cause and fix it. The girl tried to write her answers, but every time she picked up the pen, she froze on the spot, blankly gazing on the sheet of paper in front of her, unable to write a single letter down. It was too frustrating for both of them, so they stopped trying it and rather enjoyed each other.

Despite this she still could paint and she did. Her paintings were just as beautifully surreal and so alive like before and even better. They were full of light and colours, sometimes capturing scenes she saw in the city.

However most of her pictures captured Azriel in different moments. Looking at them he felt like he was looking in the mirror. Very strange mirror. He recognized himself, but at the same time it was hard to believe it's him. Azriel on the pictures looked so handsome, happy, relaxed and attractive, everything the real Azriel had never associated with his person. It was hard to look at those paintings, but even harder was to not to look. This is what she sees when she looks at you, his shadows whispered and hearing those words his heart even more swelled up with love.

Everything seemed to be like a perfect dream. Azriel was happy, too happy. It was too good to be real. For some reason he expected something to happen. And it really did.

Two weeks after she got well, she began to change. At first it was hard to notice it. She would stop for a moment, her gaze grew distant and smile disappeared. But as soon as he asked what's wrong, she returned to her usual self and shaking head she smiled.

Another week later he found her looking longingly in the mirror. It seemed she was in some kind of trance, her hand reaching up and slowly moving to its surface. Feeling a sudden anxiety Azriel ran to her and tugging her to tight embrace he turned her back to the mirror. It took few seconds until she recovered. She seemed to be disoriented, having no idea what she was doing. Since then Azriel watched her more closely. He was afraid that she would return to her world, if she touched the mirror. Just in case, he put all mirrors in his room away and asked even House to do the same with the rest.

But everything got just worse. Day after day she was becoming sadder, her healthy colour was fading away before Azriel's eyes. Eventually she lost her appetite and turned into a ghost, too weak to stand up from bed. Nobody knew what was wrong with her. Madja gave her some medication, but it didn't work at all. Azriel stayed with her day and night, pressing her to his body and telling her stories. He felt so helpless. He wanted to scream to the world and beg Mother and all gods whose names were forgotten to help them, to save her.

Once in the middle of the night Azriel sat on the bed with sleeping girl curled on his chest. Lately she mostly just slept. His fingers were shaking as he lightly caressed her along the spine, his nose pressed to the crook of her neck. Inhaling her fading sweet scent he silently cried. She was so weak. His head already knew what his heart refused to admit. These were last moments they had.

A silent knock sounded on the doors and Rhysand peeked inside. His brows furrowed when he saw them. “May I?” Azriel just nodded, his eyes still closed as another tears ran down his cheeks. Rhysand came to the bed, sat down on its edge and squeezed his brother's shoulder.

“I met with Helion.. I'm sorry.. He can't do anything for her,” Rhysand said in grave voice. Azriel just nodded. He already knew it. “Helion also shares my opinion. I'm really sorry for what I'm about to say.. it isn't easy, you know.. but we both agreed that she most likely needs to return.. back to her world..”

Azriel shook his head and more tears fell from his eyes. “I was thinking about it too.. and came to the same conclusion.. but I just can't..” he sobbed, his voice failing him. “I can't let her go.. I can't live without her.. I don't want to..”

“I know,” Rhysand squeezed his shoulder. “Nobody wants her to go.. but it's for her own good..” Azriel didn't answer, instead he held the girl tighter. Rhysand watched him for a while, trying to soothe his pain.

The dawn was coming. Girl's breath became shallow. It were her last moments. The both of them knew it.

“Do you want me to do it?” Rhysand asked gently. Azriel just silently nodded. A tall mirror appeared right next to the bed. Holding the girl Azriel stood up in front of it. He looked at her face for the last time. He kissed her with all his love, bidding his last goodbye to her.

“Please, let her return back,” he sobbed, voice full of raw pain. “Let her get well.. Let her live...”

Mirror's surface rippled in answer. Azriel took girl's hand and pressed it to the mirror. She melted away like a morning mist and Azriel remained standing there empty-handed. Scream full of pain broke through his pursed lips and he fell to his knees. Rhysand was immediately there, enclasping Azriel's shaking shoulders. With his free hand he stroked his back.

Meanwhile the girl on the other side sat up. She was pale, but instantly she felt much better and stronger. She looked around in confusion, recognizing her old bedroom. She was back in her world.

Quickly she turned to the mirror behind her and her nails dug into its frame. Instead of her reflection she could see a broken man with wings kneeling on the floor. Azriel was looking back at her, tears rolling down his cheeks while Rhysand next to him was trying to calm him down. She shook her head and tears wet her cheeks. That was the last time she could see him. The mirror rippled and all she could see after that was her own reflection.

“Goodbye, my angel,” she whispered feeling his taste mixed with salty tears on her lips and crying she curled into a ball on the floor.

#azriel shadowsinger #azriel fanfic #azriel acotar #azriel x reader #az x reader #azriel spymaster #azriel x female!reader #azriel x female #azriel #acotar fanfiction #acotar #dark fanfiction #azriel angst #acotar angst

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railingsofsorrow · 11 months

Text

Somewhere Underlined

summary: jennifer jareau would be the death of you someday, you know that and you'd probably let her. surprisingly, you weren't aware that you caused that same reaction on her, too.

pairing: jj jareau x fem!queer!reader

w.c: 4.8K

warnings/content: lots of yearning and miscommunication; angst (wouldn't be me without any angst); flirting; fear of rejection; this is not a coming out fic but it discusses the topic; description about impulsive actions & consent & acceptance; foul language at some point; murder is briefly mentioned; mentions of bad experiences regarding relationships; friendly banter; an argument; fluff; making out.

A/N: this is my entry for @the-guilty-writer pride fic challenge! I didn't chose an specific prompt. I've had this idea for a long time and when I saw this challenge I thought “oh, that's how this is going to go.” hopefully, you'll like it <3 and happy pride month!!!!

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“I think I'm in love with her.”

You don't go around revealing your life to the first person you see. That's just not you. But have you ever been through one of those moments where your mind trails back to that person and all you can see it's her eyes, her smile, the scrunch of her nose when she's concentrated and the tilt of her head when she's confused about something?

And then, it slips out. Your heart speaks for itself, you can't control it.

“Huh?” Penelope queried, drifting her attention back to you. She has been ogling some blonde dude since the moment you came into the bar. You didn't understand the appeal. He was just an average white probably tasteless man. Penelope could do so much better, but that was none of your business.

You were ogling someone else as well, so. Hypocrite.

“Wait—what?” The blonde gripped your arm, eyes widening behind her glasses as if a realization has come to her. “Who are you in love with?”

Oh, she heard that? Somehow you thought it could have been muffled by the loud music.

You know some order thing that could be muffled? JJ and her stupid flirting with that stupid guy beside you. God, if she giggled one more time you'd break your beer bottle in your head.

You wondered what would Penelope think in case she knew who you were talking about. You've received a lot of looks because of your sexual orientation over the years and it's long gone that part of you that cared so much about what people thought of you. You were a grown woman, successful in your field and you didn't depend on anyone to survive. Especially prejudiced people. But those people in the bar, they weren't just people. They have become your family. You couldn't stop thinking if they would treat you differently if they knew you weren't straight.

“Baby girl and princess!” You step out of your inner turmoil to acknowledge a very drunk Derek Morgan. Both of his arms around yours and Garcia's shoulders. He was the touchy kind of drunk. You didn't complain and you knew by your friend's wicked grin that she wouldn't either. “Now what are you doing here moping around? There's a dance floor with plenty of space over there.”

“Oh, I can see that. Are you taking us there then?”

“I'd be more than happy too.”

Before Penelope could drag you out, you clicked your tongue under the roof of your mouth.

“Sorry, not tonight. My legs are killing me.”

Derek chuckled, shaking his head in disapproval. “Because of when we jogged after the unsub?”

Grabbing a shot of tequila and promptly throwing your head back, you straighten your back while staring back at him, a scowl present in your features.

“You call that jogging? I'm not a gym rat like you, Morgan.”

“I can see that, we need to change that!”

“Uh-huh,” you push his shoulder playfully. “Convince Spencer first and we can all wake up at five a.m together to run around the Headquarters.”

Derek yelled through the music about always getting what he wanted in the end and he wouldn't give up before Garcia whisked him away to the dance floor and they disappeared from your sight.

A smile lingered on your lips until you realized the golden strands almost touching your arm and your mood went sour again. Thankfully or not, you could no longer hear the flirting, maybe the alcohol was being effective and numbing your eardrums.

“A pretty face like that cannot carry anything but a smile.”

Really, someone was about to get punched tonight and you wouldn't be responsible for your choices. What would it take for you to be alone and sad for a few minutes— “Oh,” you blinked at Emily, shoulders sagging in relief. “It's you.”

You saw her grin through the glass she was sipping on. “Don't act so excited.”

“It's not that.” You rolled your eyes. “I thought it was another asshole trying to get my number. I'm so done with men tonight.”

“Hey,” she raised her glass, mentioning your beer. As you did, you clicked them together. “Preach. We should kill all of them.”

You leaned on her arm, face splitting into a shit-eating grin. Yes, the alcohol was finally in your system. “Such a good idea I could kiss you for it.”

There was some cheering going around and when you looked back at the dance floor, Penelope was the center of attention. Hotch and Rossi looked like they were having the time of their lives watching the scene, while Blake cheered her on just as strongly as everyone else.

Sometimes, you wished you had Penelope's confidence. She'd walk into the room with colorful clothes and heels decorated by herself and she'd own it. That was your best friend. Spontaneous, strong and one of the best people you knew.

If you had half of that confidence you might have confessed your stupid feelings for the woman you were head over heels for. You had to watch her flirt with someone else right in front of you as if it didn't make your heart break because you wanted it to be you instead.

“Kiss me then.”

Spinning around to stare at Emily, you blinked confused. “Uh?”

“You said you'd kiss me,” Emily tilted her head, her dark strands slipping out from behind her ear and covering half of her face. “Do it then.” Her tone had a tinge of playfulness but even in your inebriated state, you saw the truth between the lines.

You'd never thought of Emily as more than someone you could share everything with. She's been your friend since you entered the Bureau, shy and isolated, she helped you get out of your shell and admit your true persona. She knew everything about you, even more than Penelope, your best friend. Being Queer was something that Emily had a lot to say about and it brought you two closer. To both of you, it was nice to speak without stepping on eggshells, fearing you'd be looked at differently by your friends.

You were aware she's beautiful. Of course you were, you're not blind. Emily Prentiss was powerful and she radiated grace wherever she walked. That's just something you never... thought about. You never thought that boundary could be crossed.

Until now.

“Do you really want me to?” You asked, glancing down at her shiny lips. Another thing you knew about Emily, she hates lipstick, her go-to choice would always be plain chapstick or lipgloss.

Emily brushed a strand of hair behind your shoulder, leaning forward. Your nose barely touching. “I wouldn't mention it if I didn't want it.” You smiled at that, just as you were about to close the gap between you and say fuck it for everything and everyone else that was in your head, a hand on your shoulder pulled your back, slightly startling you.

Emily blinks dazed at someone behind you, her face twitching in confusion.

But JJ says your name and you freeze, “A word, please?”

She walks away and you are conflicted on whether you should follow like a kicked puppy or stay with Emily and carry on with... Who are you kidding? This is Jennifer you're talking about. Is there any moment you've ever said no to her?

This is pathetic — you think, stumbling into people as you walked to the exit where you presumed JJ was going. She had vanished a minute ago and there were so many people you couldn't see where she went.

You're pathetic. She just interrupted your kiss with a pretty girl and you're following after her like a starved stray dog—unless. Unless something happened and she needed you.

“Jen,” you said carefully, finally outside the bar where she awaited you. You couldn't see her face because she had her back facing you. “Hey, you okay? Did something—”

“What was that?” She cut you off. As she wiped around to face you, you saw her flared cheeks. That could only mean two things: angry or drunk. She looked fine for someone drunk, different from you who was almost floating at your feet. She said your name again, this time more calculated. “You and Emily? When did that happen?”

A laugh of astonishment left your lips. Were you hearing it right? “Was that why you called me over here?” you really wanted to be sure before you blurted out something you didn't want.

JJ scoffed, folding her arms over her chest. That was one of the cutest reactions you find endearing about her, but now it just frustrated you. It frustrated you because you still found her cute despite her irrationality.

Focus!

Before you could spar anything back, someone bumped into you causing you to stumble forward, almost falling flat on the sidewalk if familiar arms hadn't held you in place. Her perfume reached you fast than two bottles of beer and five shots of tequila could ever do. The sweet smell of orange blossom made you almost melt in her arms. When you stepped back into reality, you noticed your head was on her shoulder as her whole body shook.

She was too busy yelling and gesticulating angrily at whoever had bumped into you to realize you were drunk on her perfume.

“Are you okay? The idiot was too drunk, he almost ran you over— Are you okay?” She repeated, tone softening at the end as she cupped your face and saw your unfocused gaze. “I think we should sit you down.”

“I'm fine,” you sputtered out, leaning into her touch absentmindedly. Why were her hands better than your pillow? You could sleep right there.

“Sure, you are.”

It took you five minutes for you to breathe into a new setting. One you knew too well, the discreet scent of strawberry she'd spray around. That was her car.

“JJ,” you said, rubbing your eyes tiredly. You should have drank more because you could feel yourself sobering up. “Why did you bring me here? Can't we just talk tomorrow?”

If you could avoid the inevitable, you'd do it while you could.

She stayed silent. You huffed out a breath of disbelief when you turned the side and saw her staring straight forward.

“Okay.” You spat, hand on the door handle. “I'll see you—”

“Don't leave.”

“Why not?” Your fist clenched in the handle. “You're acting like a child and I don't even know what I did.”

Letting out a long sigh, she said, “I'm sorry."

You hated the way your body reacted to her. Chest searching to cure whatever caused that tinge of sadness in her voice.

“What happened?” You inquired softly.

She shifted on the seat, raising both of her hands to pull her strands back.

“You did.”

If you hadn't sobered up before, you sure we're sober now.

“Me?” you croaked out, studying her in what you judged to be nonchalant but it was actually quite desperate. What had you done to make her upset? You barely spoke the entire night.

In fact, you were trying to take some distance from the blonde for a while. It was the healthiest option you found instead of reciprocating the casual compliments and innocent touching. Because JJ did those things but it was out of friendship. When you did them, you wanted more. You felt more. That had to stop. Once you fell, it was unstoppable. Free falling straight to the rocks. And you'd be the only one banged up in the process due to something you created in your own head.

But you already fell, didn't you? That's what you blurted out to Penelope an hour ago. You were doomed ever since she said Hi to you in the bullpen on your first roundtable meeting.

Either way, you took some space. Speaking only the necessary and exchanging point of view during cases. She didn't seem to care so you guess you didn't make a difference in her life. Did it hurt? Yes. But you wouldn't ruin what was left of your friendship.

“What did I do?” You bit your cheek, afraid she would throw at your face exactly what you were afraid of: she knew about your feelings and she didn't want to be around you anymore. She felt disgusted by you and—

“You mean what you were about to do.”

Your hand moved from the handle to your lap as you shifted your whole body to face her. “I— what?” What was she even talking about?

JJ heaved out a frustrated breath and her gaze finally met yours. It wasn't cold like when she had brought you outside, it was warm, like a volcano about to erupt in lava.

“God, you don't see it, do you?” Your face caved in confusion. “Why did it have to be Emily? And out of all the places you could do that did it have to be by my side?”

It was as if her anger had rubbed off on you instantly.

“What?” You snapped. “You're mad because Emily and I almost kissed by your side?” A humorless laugh escaped you, you didn't even care that she was bothered by what she had seen. You were mad because she interrupted you to screw with your mood. “Oh, I'm sorry, Jennifer. Did I interrupt your trashy flirting with Johnny Depp?”

Her brows reached her hairline in surprise. She isn't expected you to have any reason to be mad, but apparently, you were. Very much. You never called her Jennifer, it felt so wrong. She almost felt guilty.

No, she did feel guilty. Immediately after the words escaped her mouth. Why was she making you justify anything? You weren't her girlfriend. You weren't her anything. Just like she wasn't your anything.

“You really are a hypocrite, you know?” You carried on, jaw clenching. “You've been all over that guy and I had to watch the entire night — when I'm supposed to be having fun — and I'm just— I didn't say anything. Because I have no right to say anything. You can do whatever you want with your life and we're not—” you sucked in a breath, stopping some words from leaving your lips. “—it's not fair, JJ!”

JJ was speechless, completely taken aback by your garrulous speech. By how you ran out of breath, it looked like you had been bottling up all of that.

“And you know what? I won't apologize for what you saw. If you're bothered by the fact that I feel attracted to women—”

“Whoa, wait.” She almost got a neck twist at the insinuation, her whole armor falling. “You think I'm upset because I saw you kiss a girl?”

“You cockblocked the situation so I didn't get to kiss her—”

She completely ignored your jab. “This has nothing to do with you.” The look you gave her was enough for her to realize she has just messed up continuously. Really, she called you out here to argue about something that is entirely her issue. It might involve you — it most definitely does, you're the center of it — but it is not your fault. It's hers.

Jennifer Jareau is a hypocrite. She knows that.

“I couldn't care less about who you kiss or what your sexual orientation is,” JJ clarified. “I mean, if you ever feel comfortable talking about it— I'm all in for it. But I'm not— that doesn't bother me. That's not what I intended for it to sound like. I'm sorry.”

Your eyes skim over the features, searching for any sign of lies; the only emotion you were able to find was regret.

“I had a problem with who you were about to kiss,” she added quietly, munching on her lower lip. A couple crossed the street to reach the bar entrance, they were laughing and holding hands. Diverting her attention down to her hands, she started feeling bad about the situation. Acting like this — angry? That wasn't her. JJ wasn't impulsive nor did she go rough on expressing her feelings. She knew that alright. There's been a lot of times where she wore her heart on her sleeve but none of those times were regarding her love life. She's always been cautious, maybe because in the past, people haven't been cautious with her heart and she had to deal with it by herself. Alone.

Also, she wasn't sure about her feelings for you. Not until a week ago, when your absence started shadowing her days more and more.

JJ never fell in love with a woman before. Sure, she's had crushes and was attracted to some but. They weren't you. None of them were you. Somehow, when you came along, her life was flipped upside down. She wondered how could someone question all of their beliefs because of one person? When she met you, the question switched to how could someone not question everything because of one person?

Oh, but she fell hard. No parachute in sight and she was terrified of heights.

Between innocent touches on the shoulder, compliments and shared coffees in the morning, and the willpower to just protect you at all costs when you were in the field... something blossomed. And it couldn't have been anyone else.

That's the reason she was so mad when you and Emily almost... Yes. Not only that but how dare you ignore her for weeks and act as if you weren't doing it?

Did her absence in your life not mean anything?

“Did you and Emily fight?” You questioned, brows knitting together. “You looked fine this morning.”

JJ ran a hand through her face, “No, we didn't fight,” she let out impatiently.

“Then why—”

“Because I have feelings for you!” She blurted out. “And I wish it was me. I wish it was me who you were touching and giggling and blushing with, not her.” Okay. What was that thing about not being impulsive? In her defense, she wasn't like this before you barged into her life, so it was all on you. “I wish I was her, to be more specific and to just further bury myself under. I wish it had been me in her place.”

The softness of her voice revealed how apprehensive she was in saying that. You wanted to pluck out the lines of concern on her forehead, but at the same time, you thought you had gone crazy. You didn't hear JJ saying she wanted to kiss you, did you? Maybe you were still drunk.

“Are you going to say something?” Her voice was small and you blinked awake.

“I— I don't—”

“I'm sorry.”

Your breath halted.

“Why?”

JJ let out a shaky breath, shaking her head with a groan. “Because I just ruined everything.” Before you could protest, she carried on. “I made you think you had done something wrong and it was all me. I shouldn't have said anything, I'm just— I'm sorry—”

“Did you mean it?”

“... what?”

Your eyes traveled through her features, “What you said before.”

Swallowing hard, she avoided your eyes. “About my feelings? Yes. I wouldn't joke about that.” Something came to her mind and her back straightened slightly. “And also about not being bothered by your sexual orientation,” JJ said. “You're still you and that hasn't changed. It won't change. That would be pretty hypocrite of me, actually.” That last part fell from her lips as a whisper but you could hear it loud and clear.

You felt your throat closing up. “Really?” you asked, that kid in you that was rejected many times by her parents turned up on the doorstep of your brain. She was still scared. Still looking for acceptance.

“I love you the way you are, why would it change anything?”

Your heart stopped beating. Nothing could be heard around you, even though the windows were rolled down and there were few people on the streets, speaking loudly. The bar buzzes with loud music.

You didn't even know if you remembered how to breathe.

JJ seemed to be on the same page because she hadn't moved but her eyes were widened in shock. Taken aback by herself. She wasn't remotely drunk to blurt out stuff like that, the opposite actually.

“JJ—”

“I'm sorry, I didn't—”

“JJ,” you said shortly, making her shut up. “Stop,” you ordered even if she had already. The air was heavy, you could taste it bitter in your tongue. Your hand reached out to hers as you leaned closer as her throat bop up and down rapidly.

Jennifer's mind was juggling between multiple emotions but the moment your fingers brushed hers, it all became silent. It was impressive the way her body reacted to your touch. It slipped her mind from those days you barely exchange a good morning, she doesn't ever want to get to a point where she can't feel it.

“This isn't a joke, right?” Her gaze lifted to yours. God, had she been staring at your mouth this whole time?

“No,” she breathed out. “No, it isn't.” Her eyes dropped again, but she got it together in time. “That's not how I wanted you to find out. I'm not sure if I ever wanted you to find out...”

She watched as your lips twitched slightly and your tongue danced through them slowly. Expecting you to run to the hills as soon as she let the truth slip out, bewilderment reached her senses when that's what you didn't do. You stayed. And you were still there, staring at her, unmoving.

Until you retracted your hand from hers on the car seat to touch her cheek carefully. Your lips moved but she couldn't hear a thing.

“Uh, what?”

“It is okay if I...” She was nodding before you could finish speaking and her lips had crashed to yours in full force. Impulsiveness. That's all her. Then, she leaned back, covering her mouth, blue eyes widened when the reality of what she had done came.

You made a sound of protest because of the sudden withdrawal. When you saw her face, it was as if a bowl of cold water had dropped right above your head. She regrets it. She hates me now, she's—

“I'm sorry. I didn't even—I'm sorry, that was out of line, I didn't mean to— I'm so sorry.”

Tilting your head to the side in confusion, you questioned, “Wait, does that mean that you didn't want to kiss me or—”

JJ gave you a look of surprise, “I didn't know if you wanted it, which clearly is not the case and I'm sorry—”

Relief flushed your fear down the drain and you could finally feel the air entering back into your lungs. You started laughing uncontrollably. Feeling eyes burning in your side profile, you raised a hand in a silent request to wait until the fit reached a stop. A minute later, you were red, but you could speak.

Just as JJ started to apologize again, you shut her up by cupping her cheeks and closing the gap between your lips. Like she had done beforehand, albeit softer. Her eyelashes tinkled your cheeks and the baby hairs at the nape of her neck were being brushed by your nails, it didn't take long for her hands to start trailing down your arms. You felt her smiling into the kiss.

“You don't hate me?” she asked in between pecks.

You let out a hum, “I hate you so much—” another kiss “... that I can't stop kissing you.” JJ huffed out a laugh and you kissed down the blush in her cheeks. "I asked if I could kiss you first, silly." She mumbled something along the lines of oh, right.

“So, uh, wait, I—” She stuttered out and you leaned back. “About what I said before. I really am sorry. I was being an idiot. And of course, you can kiss whoever you want to kiss I was just—”

“Jealous?”

Her eye roll was the reply you needed.

“I don't know. Maybe.”

You pressed your lips together, “Okay.”

JJ lifted her eyes to you again, studying your features for a while. She had this unreadable expression from which you couldn't identify the meaning to.

“What?” you asked softly. She smiled, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“Nothing. You're beautiful.”

You blinked, not expecting to hear that, which only made her grin widen. “It's not exactly how I imagined our first kiss to be.”

“Oh?” You mocked, recovering from the previous compliment. “So you've been imagining it?”

“Yes. More times than I can count.” She let her back rest against the seat, eyes never drifting from you. You had missed the feeling of her gaze on you, you had missed just admiring her daily. Now that she was there, in front of you, swollen lips and flushed cheeks — because of you — you didn't know what to do. It was too good to be true.

Did she love you as she said before? Was this just a one-time thing? Would she regret it in the morning?

So many questions you wanted answers to but you didn't want to leave that moment.

She called out your name gently, thumb drawing invisible patterns on your hand. “Hey,” she cooed. “What are you thinking?”

You shook your head, waving it off. “Nothing.”

Both of you chose to dive into silent touches and soft mumbling, just enjoying each other's presence. You didn't care about partying inside and a part of you felt smug that she chose you over that man sitting beside her at the bar.

She was playing with your rings, commenting on each one until you let out a groan and she looked up at you questioningly. You stared at the console, your lips turning down in a frown.

“What it is?” She asked, suppressing a grin. You looked cute acting so annoyed.

“There's too much space between us, Jareau. I don't like this.”

“I'm afraid that that's what happens when I'm in the driver seat and you're in the passenger seat, doll.”

Your nose twitched at the endearment and your face immediately flared up.

She grinned.

“Do you want to go on a date with me?” Her grin turned into a soft smile. She kept staring at you awaiting an answer in expectation, your eyes followed the spark of anxiety in her eyes and the ways her hands had become clammy on yours. No need to be a profiler to realize she was nervous. Not that you weren't about to hyperventilate yourself, but maybe her reaction meant that she wanted something more and not just tonight.

You weren't sure of that before.

“You really want to do this?” You brought one of her hands to your cheek, leaning into her warm palm. JJ stroked the spot softly. “I mean, do you want to—”

“Be something?”

You gave her a coy smile.

“I don't want to scare you off,” she added, intertwining your hands while leaning forward. “But, if you want to—”

“I do.” You cut her off, biting your lip once you realized you did. “I'd love to go on a date with you, Jen. You know,” you paused. “I don't know if that wasn't clear enough, but I feel the same.”

Laying her forehead on yours for a minute, you saw the corner of her lips quirk up slightly. “It'll take me a while to get my head around that.”

“I've been smitten with you for like... forever.”

“That is so not true!”

You gaped at her. “Yes, it is!”

JJ rolled her eyes, “If you say so.” Before you could retort stubbornly, she pecked your lips. “I do care an enormous amount about you, you know that?” I love you, actually. But that's too soon and I can wait to say it at the right time.

Your hand curled around her wrist as if you were afraid she would leave forever. She kissed your cheek, hand nudging out of your grip to intertwine your fingers in a swift motion as if she had read your mind and this was her way of saying I'm not going anywhere.

“I care an enormous amount for you, too, Jennifer Jareau.”

#criminal minds fanfiction #reader insert #jj jareau x reader #jj jareau x queer!reader #jj jareau imagine #wlw #jennifer jereau x reader #jj x reader

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not-so-allegiant-general · 6 months

Text

Séance @huxloween

Hux knew it was a bad idea. To make such unpredictable bet with Ren. And now as he lost he had to follow the rules. He sighed standing in the hangar and quickly reading through sith ritual he had to take part in. He did read it before but treated it like terrible and tasteless joke. Now it was his reality and already he was annoyed.

"Hux. I thought you will hide and i will have to drag you form somewhere." Hux winced. He considered it on his shift but it was purposeless. Ren would find him anywhere and it would be just more humiliating than it already was.

"I am a man of my word Ren " he hissed with disdain. "Can we go already? I have to be back for my shift"

"I do not think you will be able to." Hux narrowed his eyes.

"If something happened to me they will shoot you out of the sky the minute you will be back. I made sure of that." Ren laughed.

"It's not what i meant. You will be tired. Very tired." Hux already was tired that much, that being even more tired without a doubt meant death.

"Just get over it already and Let's go" he followed Ren to his ship. "Why couldn't you took your knight surely one of them would be better companion for some sith ritual"

"Not necessarily" just another prove that Ren wants to sacrifice him or just kill him. "Look… "

"You have a sonic here?" Hux interrupted.

"Actually i have a shower. With water." Hux frowned.

"Who agreed to that?"

"I didn't ask for permission. It's my ship." Hux would have scolded him and gave him a lecture about how not economical and not practical were actual showers, but he stopped himself because Yes. Water sounded great. And shower sounded even better.

"Where?"

"It's… Attached to my quarters you would have to go there and…Hey!" Hux was already gone behind the door. Hoping that Kylo already regret taking him. Ren just laughed to himself and shook his head siting on a pilot chair.

When Hux appeared next to him again he had damp hair and his uniform was nowhere to be found. He had black pants and white tank top. Ren glanced at him and then actually stared forgetting that he is the one piloting. The ship shook and Hux flew forward leaning on the navigation consoles.

"Kriffing hell Ren! What are you doing! " Ren quickly pick up the course and stablizied ship.

"Sorry." Hux snorted fixing his shirt and quickly sat down on the other chair. "I… Never saw you without uniform." Hux raised his eyebrow.

"I know you. Wherever we are flying it's probably dirty, mudy or something else. I am not going to destroy my perfectly fine uniform." Ren nodded trying to keep his eyes ahead. He turned on autopilot giving up and looked at Hux. "What?"

"Um… Nothing. Nothing" he shook his head. Hux frowned looking at him closely and smiled under his nose. He sat a little bit off letting one of shirt straps fall of his shoulder. Kylo stood up abruptly and back off to his quarters without a word. Hux chuckled fixing his shirt. That actually maybe fun.

Ren came back with a jacket and put It on Hux shoulders.

"You will get cold." He hissed. Hux smiled.

"I am used to being cold" but he put on the jacket. It was actually nice and warm indeed. "How much time till our destination?"

"Two hours." Hux nodded and went back to reading description of the ritual" What exactly are you trying to achieve by this.?"

"It's a… Form of séance."

"So… Who are we trying to contact?"

"Anakin Skywalker."

"You mean… Vader?"

"Well yes."

"I see. Your never ending fangirl era lasts." Hux grinned.

"He was my grandfather."

"Your what? No. What?" Kylo smiled amused. "No. Ren that's delusional."

"I am not going to pull out my birth certificate Hux because i don't have one. You will have to believe in my Word"

"You. Are. Mad. If you think i will believe in that nonsense." Kylo chuckled.

"Believe in what you want. I am telling the truth"

Hux was not scared. No. It was just a little… Disturbing. The cave. The kyber. The sign that Kylo draw on his throat. Certainly looked like some kind of sacrifice. And then he felt dizzy. Floaty almost. Then everything went white. He took a deep breath and blinked looking at the young man before him. The stranger grinned in response.

"Someone fucked up a ritual i see?"

Obviously. Fucking Kylo Ren always have to fuck up something.

"Who are you?"

"Anakin Skywalker. At your service General" he laughed. Hux sighed. Actually now he was keen to believe that Kylo was in fact Darth Vader grandchild.

"Wait. If i am here then where is Ren?"

"Well. You are the only one that knows answer for this question, General."

"Shit. You need to change it back."

"Only Kylo could do that now, and he is rather… Occupied aren't he?" Anakin laughed and laughter changed very soon. It sounds familiar. Hux backed off seeing Snoke before him and screamed falling on the ground. He was electrocuted once… Or twice in his life but this was… Something entirely different. It was overwhelming his mind was screaming with pain.

He woke up on the ground with his muscles twitching, everything was spinning around him. Every inch of his skin was burning. He dragged himself up taking a shallow breath and saw blood on the ground.

"Shit." Kylo was lying next to him. Unconscious. His clothes were soaked in blood. His back looked red and raw. "Kriff… Ren ! " he tried to wake him up but Kylo was not responsive. "I hate you! It's your fault Ren!" He shook him "Shit don't die…" Kylo took a breath and his eyes opened slowly "Thanks Galaxy… " Hux swallowed and stood up "we need to get you out of here Ren. You are going to bleed out. I will kill you when we get back." He hissed dragging him up. Kylo cried out. "Stop whining! And get up already." Of course Hux had to drag him to the ship because Ren fainted again.

Ren woke up on his bed. Hux was sitting next to him covered entirely in blanket. He was smoking. Kylo shift slightly on the bed to look at him.

"Don't move. You will destroy my work."

"Hux…"

"We are in the comm distance from Finalizer. I commed Mitaka and told him we will stay here for one cycle." Kylo hummed in agreement and touched his arm.

"Leave me. "Hux hissed.

" I am sorry. I messed up. I… You… I met…"

"I am quite aware who did you met Ren. "

"Are you alright?" Hux sighed.

"Yes. Mostly fine. But being electrocuted was not in my plans for today."

"Being… Kriff… I am sorry i messed up so bad. I… " Kylo sat up and winced with pain.

"I… Guess you already paid for that." Hux mumbled not looking at him. Kylo grabbed blanket from his shoulders and slipped it off, tracing the scars on Hux's back. Hux closed his eyes taking a deep breath. Ren stopped above his hip.

"You are not wearing…" He cleared his throat and blushed awfully obvious. And Hux smiled.

"Anything. Clothes felt awful." Ren took his hand away quickly and curled on the bed showing his back to Hux. Armitage put out his cigarette, laid down pressing his chest to Ren's back his hands tightened on his hip. Kylo gasped in pain. "Dose it hurt?" Hux whispered into his ear.

"Y..Yes."

"Should i stop then?" He pressed lips to knight's neck. Kylo shivered when Hux's fingers dug harder into his wounds.

"No… Hell no. Please."

It was like a reward after particularly hard day. And Hux was going to enjoy it.

#kylux #armitage hux #kylo ren #huxloween #kylo is doomed

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thebreakfastgenie · 6 months

Note

For the Director's Cut: I'd love to hear about forever fave Campfire, if you haven't done it recently 🥲

I always love to talk about Campfire, the fic I wrote in the woods!

He reads Ball Four. He really wants to read Future Shock, but it’s easier to answer questions about baseball if someone gets nosy.

I spent forever trying to pick the books for this part. I wanted something super recognizable, you know how sometimes there's a book that's super trendy? But I couldn't find anything for that year that gave me what I wanted, so I finally just picked a couple of bestsellers.

The boy next to him is named Aaron.

This was not an intentional reference to Aaron Sorkin. I just needed nice Jewish boy names.

I kinda of feel like I could have set up the introducing themselves formula better. I don't think it's unreasonable for siblings to be part of it but it just feels a little forced to me. I don't know. This is the kind of thing that would be smoother if I had edited this more after I rushed home from the woods to write it down.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Irving says, but he doesn’t look sorry.

This is supposed to say "but he doesn't sound sorry" but I never got around to fixing the typo.

At breakfast the next morning, Josh is debating dunking his tasteless toast into his watery oatmeal, when Irving strides past his chair. He tips his head towards Josh as he goes by.

Originally Irving was going to ruffle Josh's hair, but I was afraid that was too creepy. Part of me wishes I had left it in.

My original plan was for Josh to remain a social outcast for the whole summer. The summer camp section would have been a lot more depressing and also a lot shorter. Isaac and Barry were always named Isaac and Barry, but I had the worst time picking a name for Becca. Becca was one of the first options and when I finally settled on it I wasn't sure about it but now I can't imagine her being named anything else. The mirror between Isaac, Barry and Becca and Sam, Toby, and CJ was kind of subconscious.

I think the 1998 section is a little thinner because I was in such a hurry to finish the fic, but I'm still pretty happy with it.

I'm really gratified that people like this fic because I wasn't sure how much anyone wanted to read about Josh at summer camp!

I based the location of Camp Greenfern on Camp Winnebago where I have not been but where my mom scattered my grandfather's ashes. He worked there as a sailing instructor back in the day.

It's not a coincidence that this fic was written in September, but it's based on some longstanding headcanons and I have a few early versions of the summer camp introductions bit lying around.

If I'd been willing to wait to post it would probably not be called campfire! I defaulted that because I couldn't think of a better title. It's not a bad title and I'm content with it, but in this period I had a reputation for one word titles and I kept having to explain I don't actually prefer them, I'm just not willing to use a lengthier title unless it's a good fit.

I think I'll stop here! Thank you!

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dollwritesarchive · 3 years

Note

Bend over I'm not kidding with Yelena pls 🤤🤤🤤

includes: smut (minors DNI), rimming, spanking, some very light (and playful) degradation

part of my 4k celebration / please reblog if you enjoy !!

i’m aware that plenty of fans have interpreted one panel from one comic as proof that yelena is aroace, and i am not familiar with the comics enough, nor do i care enough about discourse, to dispute that. my writing is not meant to be canon with the comics or the mcu.

for your entertainment ;

“Yel!” you call from the hall; shuffling in the all-too revealing maid lingerie. you scoff, you can hardly call it anything besides a scrap of black and white fabric resembling a skirt that sits too high on yourself waist to be so, and a half-cup bra that has to be two sizes too small by the way your breasts overflow from it. then the thong. a tasteless, black thong, straps pulled up to your hips. the flimsy ‘skirt’ did a poor job at concealing your bare ass. gloves. garter belt. thigh-high fishnets. there had been a pair of black boots, too, but she was out of her mind if she thought you’d traipse the apartment in those killers. “There’s no way I’m wearing this. It’s way too small.”

you hear a faint scoff, and you rock on your heels. “A bet’s a bet a bet’s a bet.” Yelena sneers from the living room. “Come on, I wanna see.”

clenching one fist, you point it at the wall separating the two of you and swing through the air, as if manifesting your frustration. you hesitate.

Yelena calls to you in an arrogant, sing-song tone from the living room. “I’m waiting!”

with an indignant huff, you trample the remaining feet of the hallway and careen into the living room. Yelena is on the sofa, sprawled lazily with her legs stretched out to prop upon the coffee table in front of her. she wolf whistles when you enter. “Look at you,” crooning, a victorious smirk dances upon her tiers, which have been thoroughly saturated with liquor, “room service never looked so damn sexy.”

“Ha ha.” you offer, flat, as you watch her. your skin is hot with your shyness, and the longer you feel her eyes devouring every exposed inch of your vulnerability, the harder you find it to look in her eyes. “Can I take this off, now?”

“But you just got here! Besides, I think it’s kind of messy in here, don’t you?” Yelena purrs, deviancy twinkling behind her sultry gaze. your eyes are drawn to her stark, white teeth appearing to sink into her lower lip, dragging it into her cavern and contorting the smile she wears, before the tip of her toe pushes a half-empty bottle of vodka off of the table and on to the carpet. she bats her dark lashes, offering a poorly feigned apologetic “Oops.” before her eyes darken, watching you intently. “You’d better pick that up, baby.”

“You’re kidding.” you mutter, exasperated, as you gaze upon the leaking bottle in front of her. you could see the patch of carpet darkening as the alcohol seeps in. “What are you, twelve?”

the blonde brow arches, and she grabs a rag from beside her (lucky for her, it wasn’t the first spot of booze that had been spilled this night), tossing it at you. it hits you in the face with a muffled splat, still damp and reeking of the previous alcohol that had found its way to your poor carpet. your head turns, eyes fluttering shut and you screwed up your countenance into one of slight annoyance. “Bend over and clean it up,” she counters, sitting upright now with her palms on her spread knees, “I’m not kidding.”

you glare at her, although it’s not entirely serious. you’re not truly angry, more so miffed that she enjoyed humiliating and taunting you every chance she got. although, it wasn’t her fault that you made it so damn amusing.

“You’re such…” you start, sucking in a gust of oxygen, but you trail off when you see the smirk on her lips widening. it’s so pronounced, so distinct, because the second you lost your cool is the second she knows that she’s won. pursing your lips instead, you prance over to the mess, thankful to have your back to her, and kneel down between her feet to reach the bottle. setting it on the table upright, perhaps a little too hard, the remaining liquid sloshes against its glass prison.

“Good girl,” Yelena purrs, pressing the heel of her bare foot into the small of your back, “now arch your back like a pretty, little pussycat and show me a better view of that perfect ass.”

you bite down on your lower lip, feeling a rush of hot, wet arousal soak your pathetic excuse for a thong. doing as commanded, you arch your back and stick your ass as high in the air and on display for Yelena as you can, fumbling with the rag in your hand to scrub at the vodka soaked fibers.

she then makes a noise that doesn’t sound human; a bestial and hungry moan as both palms embrace your globes in a tender caress. “That’s more like it…” she moans, half to herself, before digits curl around the thin straps on your hips, and jerk the thong downward. “Very fucking nice, pussycat.”

your breath is caught in the lump in your throat, heart pounding against your rib cage when you feel her lips on the bare flesh of your ass. they’re genteel and loving at first, a trail of sugary kisses and swirls of her cool tongue, spelling her own name on your skin in saliva. marking you as hers. but she soon becomes hungry and impatient, and sinks her teeth into one portion of your cheek. you nearly come out of your skin, and her palm comes down with an equally cruel whack to the other.

“You look so delicious, pussycat,” she coos, massaging the tender area where she just spanked. her other hand replaces her mouth and does the same, manipulating the heavy globes in every direction as if you were made of playdoh. “All wrapped up in this little outfit, on all fours on the floor beneath me, you look damn good in this position. Nice and vulnerable.”

“Yelena—“ you shudder, hips pressing back in contrary to your inquiry, “do you want me to clean the vodka off the floor or do you want to eat my pussy? I’m afraid you’re going to have to pick one.”

Yelena chortles, “Oh, no I’m not.” the ball of her foot presses into the back of your head, forcing it down on to the carpet beside the wet patch; you can feel the muscles in her calf and thigh as it rests against the length of your spine. “Keep scrubbing, pussycat, and shut up so I can enjoy the taste of your ass.”

you do as you’re told.

her drunken mouth presses sloppy, open mouth kisses to your weeping folds before her tongue lazes out to glide between your nether lips, gathering your essence on her tastebuds. she gurgles in pleasure. you whimper, muffled, with your face hopelessly smushed into the carpet. “You’re so fucking wet, I think you’re having more fun than I am. I’m going to have to put my foot down more often.” her tongue then pirouettes on its journey to your puckered entrance, smearing an intoxicating cocktail of your juices and her spittle over it as the very tip of the muscle tests your willingness to allow it inside. with handfuls of your supple skin, she opens you up as much as your body will allow, and pushes past the taut barrier until your legs turn to jelly.

“Watch you shake, pussycat! You love getting your cute ass eaten, is that it?” she laughs, giving one cheek a hard slap before burying her face between them to taunt your inner canal with the length and unmatched skill of her velvety tongue.

#yelena belova #yelena x reader #yelena x you #yelena #yelena smut #yelena belova smut #yelena imagine #yelena belova imagine #marvel #marvel smut #marvel x you #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #4k drabbles

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nobodyfamousposts · 3 years

Text

My-Crack-ulous: Aku-Maid

In which I am a horrible person...

No seriously. Don’t read this.

For @mermain123, for bringing up the cursed image that started this mess in the first place.

Mermain: i said i was suffering

Mermain: i didn't want you to make the internet suffer

Me: That sounds like the internet’s problem.

Also for @bloody-writes. You know why... ; )

_________________________

Hawk Moth was a supervillain who had been terrorizing Paris for the better part of two years.

But no one could really argue that not all of his ideas have been good. Or well thought out. Or in any way sensible even.

Like the time he akumatized a baby.

Or the time he akumatized a girl to transform people into exact replicas of herself.

Or the fact he keeps akumatizing Mr. Ramier for going on 29 times at this point…

Or the other time he akumatized a baby…

Times that he destroyed Paris. Times that he nearly destroyed the world. Times that he gave people powers that were completely contradictory to the goals of getting the Miraculous he was after by erasing the heroes from existence or transforming them in ways that made the Miraculous inaccessible.

But none of his akumatizations had ever gotten him as much hate, caused as much misery, were were ultimately as pointless as this most recent incident.

Aku-maid.

It was known the instant she was akumatized. As soon as she was transformed, a wave of power enveloped the city. And within that wave, half of the people of Paris were transformed as well.

…the male half.

Her power was to transform all the men of Paris. She didn’t even have a weapon or attack that did it, it just happened almost instantaneously. All men suddenly found themselves changed.

Or rather, their outfits…

“Ah!”

“What the hell—!?”

“I can’t get it off!”

One by one, every male in Paris suddenly found themselves in a much different state of attire. What had just been a normal day full of various styles and appearances had all suddenly become very…frilly.

“WHY AM I A MAID?!”

Much as implied her namesake, the akuma’s power involved transforming whatever any man was wearing into some variation of a maid outfit.

Every man.

All over Paris.

From Andre Bourgeois, who has refused to leave his office to make an official statement…

“ANDRE!” Audrey shouted, banging on the door. “Get out here this instant!”

“But, honey, I can’t be seen like this!”

To Roger Raincomprix, who has tried to continue his normal duties despite the…change of uniform…

“Stop in the name of the law!” Roger shouted, reaching into his pockets in an automatic reaction to try to get his handcuffs. While the dress he was wearing did still have pockets, the only item they procured was a cleaning rag, which was notably less threatening as the suspect in question stared for a moment before deciding to take off.

“HEY!”

And yes, even to…

“I’m a Macrophage!” Adrien gushed happily as he lifted his lengthy skirt to give a twirl.

…even to Adrien Agreste, who was apparently the only one to find anything pleasant about the current crisis.

Nino stared.

“Dude. Seriously?”

“I’ve always wanted to cosplay!”

Nino, having been long-since exposed to his friend’s deep love for anime in its many forms, at least knew what a Macrophage was. But even so, he couldn’t help but feel there was something odd about the way Adrien took to the long pale dress and cap.

Kim rested a hand on Nino’s shoulder. “Just let the guy enjoy this.”

“At least somebody is.” Nathaniel muttered bitterly as he tried to hide as behind his sketchbook. It was a futile attempt, of course, as he at most only covered his face, leaving the red dress, white apron with pockets, and knee-high boots on full display.

“I don’t understand how he can.” Max complained. He tugged at his own skirt in vain, looking at Adrien’s ankle-length ensemble enviously. The skirt was much shorter than he would have liked—reaching a couple inches above his thigh and almost seemed to be defying gravity to stay that way despite his attempts to get it to either flatten or otherwise lower. “I question the design choices.”

“But you look just like Misaki from Maid Sama! And Nathaniel looks like Lizbeth!” Adrien insisted. “It’s totally a cosplay!”

Max just stared incredulously. He was wearing a black dress with puffy sleeves that tapered off just shy of his elbow, white apron, a cap, and thigh-high black stockings and knee-high boots, it seemed Adrien did have a point.

Max, in all fairness, didn’t particularly care in favor of the problems that came with suddenly finding himself in a short dress, heels, and a corset.

“I just can’t peg where Kim or Nino’s outfits are from.” He continued, studying the outfits in question contemplatively. “But give me a little time! It’ll come to me!”

The boys had been having an afternoon hangout session in the park. No girls. No teachers. No Gabriel Agreste or bodyguards to whisk certain teen models away. It was supposed to be a normal non-drama-filled day.

…which was naturally when it became something less than normal and certainly more than drama-filled.

“I think I get why girls complain about this sort of thing now.” Kim said, looking at his shoes. “These heels are kind of uncomfortable…”

“Are you sure it’s the heels and not the flippers?” Nino asked, annoyed.

Sure enough, Kim was wearing flipper-heels. They were black and also had black ankle straps with a little bow on each. This strange footwear did seem to go with Kim’s talent in swimming, which was also emphasized by the ruffle maid swimsuit they matched with.

“Nah, it’s definitely the heels.” Kim insisted.

So this was what their all-boys’ afternoon had come to.

Kim was wobbling on unsteady heels.

Nathaniel groaned and kept his ever reddening face covered.

Max was questioning where they could procure jackets. Long jackets.

Adrien was giggling to himself and asking if they could do a full Cells at Work group cosplay.

And Nino paled, suddenly realizing something.

"Guys. Guys, we have to hide!"

"Why?" Kim asked. "It's annoying, but this akuma doesn't seem really dangerous."

"No, you don't get it!" Nino hissed. "If Alya catches us, we will NEVER live this down!"

Nathaniel looked over the edge of his sketchbook. “Alya wouldn’t actually post pictures of us to the Ladyblog, would she?”

A long pause followed.

The boys paled.

Except for Adrien, who turned to them with a gasp of excitement. “Do you think she would? We could do a group picture!”

All the other boys paled even more, looking downright ill.

And immediately took off running.

Or at least as well as they could with heels. None of them made it very far without tripping, stumbling, or simply struggling to stay upright as they still tried to move away from the area as quickly as the heels would allow.

“But what’s wrong with—?”

“JUST RUN, ADRIEN!”

“Who thought maid outfits with high heels was a good idea?! How can anyone be expected to clean in these things?

“I will never draw high heels on a super heroine again.”

“I can’t breathe! Who created corsets?! What objective does this achieve besides crushing one’s lungs?”

Nino groaned, still running. “I hope Hawk Moth is suffering as much as we are!”

_____________________

If Nino Lahiffe had the ability to break the fourth wall and peer into the events happening outside of his immediate vicinity, he would be happy to find this was actually the case.

And he would laugh.

Oh, how he would laugh.

“Sir…?”

“Don’t.” Came the dark growl from a very unhappy supervillain. “Don’t say anything, Nathalie..."

This was an akuma that impacted every male in Paris. Every male.

…even to Hawk Moth, himself.

“Why did this happen?”

It would appear that even Hawk Moth was not immune to Aku-Maid’s power as he had been similarly transformed. And unfortunately, due to the change, he could no longer access his Miraculous. The Butterfly broach had disappeared, having been transformed along with his outfit.

And his outfit had…actually left much to be desired.

Which was truthfully just a nice way of saying it was ugly.

Really, really ugly.

Normally the picture of stoicism, Nathalie had to pretend to cough to avoid reacting.

“Can’t you order the akuma to undo it?” She eventually was able to ask.

He lowered his head and closed his eyes in concentration. “No. It’s no good. I’ve lost the link!”

His eyes widened and he clutched his chest in a panic.

“Where is the Miraculous?!” Hawk Moth demanded, trying—and failing to pull at the tasteless dress. But as others across the city had already discovered, the clothes were magic and would not be removed or displaced. Not even the frock or the cap he now wore.

“Sir, you were transformed when you changed. It looks like the Butterfly Miraculous was transformed along with you.”

He froze, eyes widening in horror. “But that’s—”

He grasped at the empty place on his chest. Where once had been his lapel and pin now only had ruffles and a leathery texture. His mask remained in place, though it was now fully black except for the openings around his eyes and mouth, which were bordered with a lighter grey color. The material and outfit overall had a shine to it that could be found on any wetsuit.

To put it nicely: he looked atrocious.

To put it bluntly: he looked like some sort of BDSM role-player with a maid kink.

So it was fortunate, perhaps, that no one else in Paris would have to be subject to the sight.

Except Nathalie. Who was probably going to have nightmares.

Or a coronary from the laughter she was trying to hold back.

It was admittedly a bit hard to tell.

But it seemed she was handling the situation a bit better than Hawk Moth, despite the fact that the man was currently unable to see himself or the full extent of the monstrosity he now wore.

…this was probably for the best. Given the man’s fashion sense, there was really no telling whether he would be horrified or inspired, and nobody would want to find out.

“I can’t contact the akuma! And I can’t call it back!”

He moaned, covering his…already covered face with his hands. “I’ll never be taken seriously again!”

Nathalie resolutely held back from pointing out he was barely being taken seriously now.

“It’s…not that bad?” She tried. Not very well, but she tried.

Hawk Moth clutched his head in horror. “Unless Ladybug and Chat Noir can stop this akuma, we’re doomed!”

“Sir, it’s just an akuma that puts men in maid outfits. It’s really not that bad.”

“DOOOOOOMED!!!”

__________________________

The akuma, for her part, was unaware of her benefactor’s misery, too busy enjoying the abject misery of everyone else around her.

Nobody knew just what had set the girl off to get her akumatized in the first place. Her comments about men being “the eye-candy now” suggested an argument. The maid outfits involved suggested what the topic of the argument had been regarding.

To be honest, nobody had actually realized she was the akuma responsible. She did appear fairly normal by akuma terms, dressed in a seemingly authentic Victorian era dress more befitting as an authentic Lady’s Maid compared the frillier, lacier varieties that the men around her had suddenly found themselves in. What would normally have gotten her a few odds looks was mostly ignored in the face of the sudden change. Few even took notice of her dark purple skin or black hair. Or the fan in her hand.

“THAT’S RIGHT! SEE HOW YOU LIKE BEING OBJECTIFIED!”

The yelling…was a bit harder to miss.

It was the first thing that drew the attention of the three girls settled at the cafe.

The second thing was the various cries of horror as several of the men around them suddenly discovered their state of dress transformed into…well…dresses. Of a variety that made the little cafe appear more like a maid cafe than anything.

The third thing was the appearance of a familiar face running down the road, holding up his long white dress to make running easier as he looked for a place to hide.

Marinette stared.

“ADRIEN?!”

Adrien Agreste was running around in a long white and pale cream Victorian-era dress and cap, looking like Cinderella running from the ball. Except a maid.

A quick glance to her companions showed that both Alya and Kagami were similarly staring in befuddlement, so this was neither her imagination or a fever dream.

“Adrien? What’s going on?” Alya asked for everyone.

“It’s an akuma!” He replied, quickly. “She’s putting everybody into cosplay!”

“…cosplay?”

“Yeah!”

“…everybody?”

He paused, glancing around. “Well…all the guys, I think?”

Marinette stared.

“…Just that?” Alya asked, thankfully taking over while Marinette’s brain started to become aware that this WAS Adrien she was talking to. “She’s not doing anything else besides putting guys into…‘cosplays’?”

He blinked in confusion. “I…think so?”

“She isn’t…I don’t know…commanding you or anything?”

“Well, she hasn’t yet. Which, really, isn’t so bad for an akuma if you think about it.” He said with a frown before he noticed the strange look on Kagami’s face. “Kagami, are you okay?”

Kagami made a strangled sound.

“Marinette?”

Marinette pretended to choke on a drink from an empty glass to avoid speaking.

“Can I add to your order?” The waiter came by, seeming unconcerned by the ruckus or the act that he was now wearing a rather cutesy maid outfit the likes of which would be seen in a maid cafe in Japan.

“You don’t seem put off by this.” Alya pointed out, noting his relatively unfazed attitude compared to the panicking of the other men around them…or the gushing from Adrien.

The waiter took it in stride.

“It’s okay.” He replied blankly. “I’m already dead inside.”

“Oh.”

He turned to Kagami. “Do you need anything else, Miss?”

Kagami was still staring at Adrien, blushing furiously.

“I think I have a problem.”

“You mean a kink?”

“A. Problem.” She spoke through gritted teeth.

“Story of my life.” The waiter replied as he refilled her glass of water, either unaware or uncaring of the specific nature of her trouble.

Alya gasped in sudden realization. “Wait! If this is happening here then…” She turned to Adrien. “Where were Nino and the boys?” He blinked, curious. “Oh, they decided to head home. Why?”

An almost sinister smirk formed on Alya’s face. One that would have anyone it was directed at cowering in fear. And strong enough to be felt from several blocks away.

Unbeknownst to them, Nino felt that smirk like a trail of cold fingers down his back, and promptly threw himself into his room and slammed the door shut behind him.

As if she sensed this, Alya slammed several bills on the table and dashed out the door.

“GOTTA GO!”

Realizing an akuma was about, Marinette was right on her heels. She found a nearby alleyway and immediately prepared to transform and face this latest threat.

“Oh my god. OH MY GOD.” She broke down, letting out the laughter she’d been trying so hard to hold in. “He’s a dork! The boy I’m crushing on is a complete DORK who is in to cosplaying! He thinks maid outfits are COSPLAY!”

…or she would be.

“And here I’ve been driving myself nuts with anxiety over just asking him out and he doesn’t even—”

Any minute now…

“Marinette!” Tikki hissed. “You need to stop the akuma!”

“Can’t I just take a picture first?”

“MARINETTE!”

“Oh fine…”

_____________________

Luka didn’t realize anything had happened. He felt a bit off balanced for a moment, and a bit colder, but attributed that to being on the Liberty. So he simply shifted his stance to be a bit more steady and continued playing. It wasn’t until the drum stopped that he realized something was actually wrong.

The look of shock from Mylene and the following shriek from Ivan cemented it.

He spun around, not sure what could have elicited such a cry from his fellow bandmate. And at first, he couldn’t really tell what had happened. Ivan was crouched behind the drum set, covering his face with his hands and trembling in what appeared to be mortification.

Then he noticed the mobcap on Ivan’s head, which he was pretty sure hadn’t been there before. And Ivan’s shirt seemed distinctly…fluffier and frillier than he remembered seeing a few minutes ago. He tried to move closer to offer help, only for his own balance to be off. And when he looked down…

Oh.

The dress was new.

As were the stockings.

And the notably thinner and sleeker heels on his boots.

He hummed to himself, considering the change.

“Akuma?” Juleka asked him.

“Most likely.” He replied.

Mylene had rushed up to their practice stage and to Ivan’s side, even as he moaned for her to not look at him. The poor guy was completely red in embarrassment. Seeing how upset he was, the other three had backed away, leaving Mylene to try to help her boyfriend.

“Luka, are you okay?” Rose asked worriedly, trying to respect Ivan’s need for space while also checking in on their other effected bandmate.

“I’m fine. It was just a surprise at first.” He replied.

It wasn’t every day that you suddenly found yourself in a maid outfit, after all. It was a simple outfit. White off the shoulder puffy sleeves with black frills. A black tube skirt. White apron. And…he reached to his neck where a weight was, feeling a choker.

Huh…

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Honestly, he could be in worse.

Rose seemed surprised at that. “Really? Even with those shoes?”

He looked down at the shoes in question. The boots were his style—surprisingly, given it was an akuma. The higher heels were definitely different from his norm, and clearly what Rose was referring to. In any other circumstances, she would be right.

But...

Luka smiled, shifting his stance and resting a hand on his hip. “Well, someone had to teach Jules to walk in heels. And I couldn’t show her if I didn’t know how myself.

Juleka huffed. “Don’t say that like you didn’t enjoy playing dress up.”

Luka merely curtsied, not only showing off more of his slightly ripped and punk-looking fishnet stockings, but almost proudly displaying his ability to move fluently in heels.

Rose appropriately “oo-ed” and “aah-ed” at his display. Juleka merely shook her head and smiled. Ivan was still recovering from his panic attack and had resolutely refused to come out from behind the drums, despite Mylene’s reassurances.

“So it has to be an akuma, right?” Rose asked.

“If it is, I want a picture or two, at least.” Juleka muttered as she admired Luka’s outfit, mumbling about commissioning Marinette to recreate it in her size. She hadn’t known maids could come in this style.

Mylene nodded from her place at Ivan’s side. “Though it seems rather fortunate if this is all the akuma is doing.”

“We don’t know if that is it, though.” Luka warned. “For all we know, there could be some other ability she has if she catches us. It would probably be safer if we hid out inside until this is over.”

The others agreed. And Anarka, bless her soul, actually came up with a large blanket for Ivan to wrap himself in to preserve his dignity. Then she and Mylene helped the taller teen to safely relocate to inside. Much like Luka, Ivan’s shoes had changed, but he was substantially less able to maneuver in them. And no amount of effort or force on his part could seem to separate the heels from his feet.

Once he and the others were inside, Luka moved to follow. He hesitated, however, at the sound of something landing behind him.

“Viperion? We’ll need your help.”

He turned to see Ladybug standing tall. And was that perhaps a hint of blush on her face?

Oh.

A shame.

It looked like Juleka wouldn’t be getting her pictures, after all...

_____________________

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

He shuddered, backing away from the door as far as possible.

“Ninoooooo…”

It was a fight for survival.

“C’mon, Nino. Just open the door.”

The survival of his dignity, but still!

He’d lost track of the others and immediately rushed home and to the safety of his room. His room, which he could lock and hide away in until this all blew over.

“I have a key!” Came Chris’s voice. “Somewhere…”

“Give it and I won’t take any pictures of you.”

“Deal!”

His room, which his traitorous little brother was willing to allow the enemy entry into.

Under any normal circumstances, he wouldn’t be this desperate. But if Alya caught him like this…

Black dress. Puffy at the shoulder, sleeves that extended to his wrists and were bound by white cuffs. A white smock tied back with a white ribbon. White bow at the neck and white frills along the bottom of the dress?

Oh yeah…Alya would never let this go…

He knew he shouldn’t have gotten into all those anime Adrien pushed him into! So what if the maids were cute? And sure, he’d admit he's had a thought or two of Alya in such attire...

But how was he supposed to know Alya had such thoughts as well? And in the complete opposite direction! Clearly this was the akuma’s magic punishing him!

Nino looked to his window.

It would be a long fall, but it was his only escape.

But would the broken legs be worth it when Alya would soon figure out what he did and be able to catch up to him easily?

Maybe he could try to climb up instead…but in these heels? It was suicide!

“Fufufu!”

…screw it.

He opened up his window, only to meet a new pair of eyes.

Ladybug stared in surprise from her place at his windowsill, a certain box in hand.

“…hi?”

“Oh thank god!” He exclaimed. He took her by her shoulders, half leaning out and half pulling her in. “Alya’s insisting on taking pictures! Please tell me you have my Miraculous with you!”

“Actually, about that—”

“I don’t care! I’ll do anything! Just please—SAVE ME!”

Ladybug looked back behind her to a distant rooftop and the other allies she’d left behind.

The sound of a key jingling could be heard and Nino stared up at her, pleadingly.

Well, she could never resist the eyes…

By the time they’d gotten the door open, the room was empty.

Nino was gone.

_____________________

Six heroes stood assembled.

Ladybug.

Chat Noir.

Carapace.

Viperion.

King Monkey.

Pegasus.

Six heroes.

Five of whom were male.

And…still wearing some semblance of feminine maid-like outfits.

Ladybug wasn’t sure if she should be impressed or worried.

“What the hell?! I thought the Miraculous were supposed to change us into our hero suits?” Nino groused.

Contrary to his hopes and expectations, using the Miraculous had not transformed him into his normal Carapace look, but had rather simply given him a different outfit. The dress itself was green and had a turtle shell pattern, while the apron and waist belts were a brown color. The bowknot around his neck was a dark green and a brown to match the apron. He wore stockings. And to his very limited relief, his shoes were flats instead of heels.

“Well, at least this skirt is longer.” Pegasus said, now wearing a dark brown blouse and bicycle skirt. The skirt went to just above his ankles, for which he was grateful. But this seemed to be countered by the increase of height to his heels.

Plus no corset. The outfit was still fit tightly and not very comfortable, but at least he could breathe now.

“Though I believe we’re getting away from maid-wear now.” Chat said, conversationally.

Pegasus gave him a flat look. “I’m not complaining.”

If Chat had witnessed his earlier ensemble, surely he would understand.

King Monkey, for his part, seemed somewhat appeased with his Miraculous suit. It was a notably more Eastern style of dress, appearing more like robes worn by palace servants. He wore a light brown waistcoat with wide sleeves over a blouse and a wrap-around skirt. It looked heavy, but Kim seemed to have no trouble with it. Maybe it was made of a lighter material…?

And Viperion’s dress was different in style as well. Whereas his maid outfit as Luka had been more punk, this was more sleek. Wearing a green sleeveless dress and white smock, as well as what appeared to be a green corset. The dress had a slit at the sides, giving more maneuverability for his legs…as well as more show, given the appearance of a garter belt and stockings. His shoes were high heeled but including a beautiful snake design that wrapped around his ankles. To finish it off, rather than remain bare, his arms were covered in what appeared to be loose green sleeves that started at his elbows and extended to his wrists.

…maybe a picture or two wouldn’t hurt? Or three? Because the amount of details on these outfits were amazing and she was just brimming with ideas now…

Ladybug broke out of her musings when someone tugged on her shoulder to get her attention.

It was Chat. Chat who, much like the other heroes, as dressed in a fantastical outfit. Though a maid outfit, it was definitely more cat-themed with a giant paw-like gloves covering his hands, a paw print on his apron, and bow and bell on his tail which rang as he shifted.

What material was that made of, anyway? She kind of wanted to give it a feel and see if she could find something to compare it to. Maybe a quick sketch?

Oh. Right.

Akuma.

Maybe if she was lucky, they could finish this quickly so she could rush back home and take notes while she still had the ideas bouncing in her brain.

…maybe someone would have gotten pictures by then…?

“Ladybug?” Chat whispered, snapping her back to reality.

“Yes?”

Chat frowned in concern. “Is the Guardian okay with this?”

Ladybug froze.

“PSST! Ladybug!” Came a voice from a nearby rooftop, drawing her attention.

“Master Fu?”

“Ladybug! Here’s the Miracle Box. Take as many allies as you can and resolve this as soon as possible!”

“Master? Are…you hiding in a box?”

“No questions! Just go!”

“…he’s fine.”

Chat seemed uncertain, but decided not to pry.

“Let’s just split up and find the akuma.” Ladybug said. “But don’t engage until we’re all together!”

With that, the six split into three groups, with Chat and Carapace going one way and King Monkey and Pegasus going another, leaving Ladybug and Viperion searching together with the former trying not to get caught stealing peeks at the latter.

“Is something wrong?” He asked with a smile.

…trying. The key word was trying not to get caught.

“No! Nothing!” She replied quickly. “I’m just…surprised that you can still move so quickly in those heels.”

“I’ve had practice.” He explained, still smiling. He even lifted one leg behind him, managing to stand perfectly balanced even on one leg in heels.

“I…see.”

Part of her wanted very much to laugh. It was the same part that had found this entire day ridiculous. The other part of her was her inner artist at work and really wanted to make a few sketches inspired from the presented outfits. Like Viperion’s sleeves…and those shoes with a snake coil wrapping around the ankle…

“Ladybug!”

Gaah! Focus!

She turned towards the shout to find King Monkey and Pegasus stumbling towards her.

Her fingers twitched. She ignored it.

“We found the akuma.” King Monkey reported. “She doesn’t seem to be doing anything. Just…kind or roaming around.”

“And laughing.” Pegasus added bitterly. “She appears to be doing a lot of that.”

“How’s THAT for ‘doll them up’?” Came a shout from street level. “HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT, HUH?!”

As if on cue…

Ladybug and the others peeked over the edge of the roof.

“Has she displayed any other powers?” She asked.

“No.” Pegasus replied. “From what we could see, her power has already been activated to…obvious effect.” He hesitated, resolutely avoiding mentioning his new outfit or the indignity he’d already suffered. “She has only been laughing. And tripping the occasional person while searching for someone in particular—possibly the one responsible for her ire.”

Ladybug nodded. “At least she’s distracted and doesn’t know we’re here. We just need a plan of attack before we try to fight her.”

“No problem!” King Monkey said with a grin as he reached for his weapon. “We can just do a head on attack with our weapons and—”

They stared.

In place of his staff was a broom. A normal cleaning broom.

They sent cautious glances to each other before they checked their own inventory.

Said inventory consisted of a broom, a bucket, and a feather duster.

“I believe that constitutes as a problem.” Pegasus stated worriedly.

“That’s no fair!” King Monkey exclaimed. “Adrien was able to summon a machete!”

Ladybug blanched at that. “A what?!”

Pegasus pushed up his glasses. “I believe it’s a component of his…‘cosplay’?”

“Pfft!” Ladybug covered her mouth with her hand.

“Ladybug?”

“I-it’s nothing!” She replied hurriedly.

Viperion raised his eyebrow at her but didn’t comment.

King Monkey at least seemed to take it in stride.

“Now we just need a plan for attack!”

“With what?!” Pegasus questioned, waving the feather duster in frustration. “Our weapons don’t work!”

“More like our weapons aren’t actually weapons.” Viperion said, considering his bucket.

“I could smack her.” King Monkey offered, holding up his broom. “Maybe your feather duster has dust on it and could make her sneeze?”

Pegasus gave him a flat look.

“I think the broom is the best weapon we have right now.”

“Don’t knock a bucket!” King Monkey commanded, resolutely. “I got one stick on my head one time and it took hours to get it off! Buckets are evil, man!”

Pegasus sighed and rubbed his head. “It concerns me that you’re the second person I know whom that has happened to.”

Ladybug coughed, discretely trying to draw attention off that particular subject lest identities be at risk. “Anyway, I think I have a plan...”

______________________

To be honest, it wasn’t that difficult of an akuma. Especially not with six of them teaming up against it.

Akumaid truly see to have no ability other than the initial one of transforming what any male in Paris was wearing into something embarrassing...unless you were Adrien, apparently. Aside from that, she showed no other power—neither over the clothes themselves or the people wearing them. Well, she wasn’t controlling any of the victims or shrinking the clothing to choke them at any rate...which if you think about it, was rather lame for an akuma in the power department.

The only real disadvantage in battle came in the difficulty the boys had moving freely in their current outfits. And the afore noted lack of proper weaponry.

Their advantage of surprising was ruined by Chat’s bell ringing before they could ambush her, and both Carapace and Pegasus losing balance with their heels and falling over. King Monkey’s outfit, while longer, also meant more fabric to flap about and resist his movements regardless of how light it may have been, so he wasn’t able to get a hit in fast enough before the akuma turned on him and knocked him away.

Chat was able to get a hit in though.

With his…Kitty Wand…

“THIS IS MAGICAL PUNISHMENT!” He shouted as he smacked the akuma over the head.

“Chat. Chat no. Chat why?”

And Ladybug had hopelessly lost her composure by this point and was laughing. Just laughing. Laughing so hard she was crying actual tears as she smacked her own thigh in her struggle to breathe. Viperion was trying to help her stay standing, keeping an arm around her to support her as she half leaned and half chuckled tears into his chest.

“What’s going on? Does the akuma have some power over Ladybug, too?” King Monkey asked.

…

Viperion sighed.

“Sure. Something to that effect.”

Ladybug wheezed.

“LADYBUG!”

“Lu-haha-lucky haha-charm!”

It said something when her own Lucky Charm magicked up a paper bag. With Ladybug still victim to her fit of giggles, Viperion simply put the bag over her face and had her try to breathe.

“A paper bag doesn’t help with out of control laughing.” Pegasus noted as he forced himself to his feet.

“Do you want to try to figure out the Lucky Charm?” Viperion bit out in annoyance, Ladybug still shaking in his arms.

Pegasus coughed and backed away. “No, thank you.”

Ladybug let out another giggle.

“All right, enough! I’ll stop her!” Carapace shouted, reaching for his back. “With my…serving plate.”

His shield.

His precious shield was gone.

“…Carapace?” Ladybug asked.

The newly rendered Turtle Maid sighed and simply threw the plate as he had his shield, not expecting much.

…the plate slice flew through the air at a surprising speed, but missed the akuma entirely. Instead, it sailed past her, hitting a light post.

Ladybug had expected it to bounce, but instead there was a sound of shredding metal as the serving plate actually tore through the lamp post and into the concrete itself.

The lamp post, now detached, tilted and fell over—conveniently on top of the akuma before she had the time to realize what was happening and move out of the way.

SLAM!

It fell on top of her and she hit the ground.

“Huzzah?” Kim asked.

“Well…that’s one way to defeat an akuma.” Pegasus marveled.

“Great. Now can we fix this already?” Carapace asked impatiently. If they took too much longer, someone was bound to catch them.

That someone would probably be Alya.

And that was the last thing he wanted at this point.

“But I kind of wanted to make a sketch at least…” Ladybug muttered to herself, holding the paper bag Charm to her chest.

“LADYBUG!”

She waved her hands insistently. “I’m on it!”

But she could dream…

“MIRACULOUS LADYBUG!”

It was with some disappointment that the Miraculous Cure wiped away the outfits of the other heroes, returning them to their original costumes.

“OH THANK GOD!”

“That was…horrible…”

“Corsets were invented as a torture method, I swear…”

“Shieldy!” Carapace exclaimed, hugging the shield in relief. “Never leave me again!”

“You okay now, Ladybug?” Chat asked her in worry.

“I’m fine.” She said, even though she wasn’t really. She felt like she’d missed a chance, even if it was for the greater good. But it would have been an abuse of her power to be taking pictures of the guys in that state and she already felt bad enough for breaking down laughing in the middle of the fight.

In that moment, however, the loveliness of ladybugs that made up the Cure returned from their task of restoring Paris to flow over Ladybug herself before vanishing, leaving her holding an envelope in their wake. Curious, she opened the envelope…

She gasped.

Inside were a multitude of photos of the other heroes. From different angles. In different positions. All of them in their new outfits.

Ladybug bit the inside of her cheek to keep from responding and drawing attention to herself.

…Thank you, Tikki.

Best. Kwami. Ever. “Ladybug…” Carapace said in growing wariness. “What is that?”

“Nothing!”

“Ladybug. That better not be what I think it is…”

She shoved the photos back in the envelope.

“It’s nothing at all!”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

Noticing the stand off, the others approached as well.

“It was just something I was missing, yeah.”

“Then let us see it.”

“Can’t.” She replied, clutching the envelope to her chest. “It’s…Ladybug stuff.”

“Hand it over. Right now!”

"NOOO! THESE ARE FOR THE FUTURE OF FASHIOOOON!”

“GIVE US THE PHOTOS!”

“Wait—did she get any of all of us in a group cosplay pic?”

“NOT NOW, CHAT!”

Unfortunately, that small distraction was all she needed to get away.

Viperion, the only one having been pretty nonchalant this whole time, simply watched her leave and the others shout after her.

“…isn’t she going to take our Miraculous back?”

_________________________

Angela sighed, already dreading what was to come.

It was a humiliating end to an already humiliating week as the former akuma victim had been forced to return to her job to go over the updates for the new Ladybug game with the rest of her team.

Said updates were apparently to include maid outfits for the female heroes thanks to one particular coworker who had decided to work on maid outfits for the female heroes instead of the level he was assigned. It had been part of the reason she had been angry enough to be akumatized.

The fact that he was insistent on shoving his maid fetish into the game for no good reason other than having them be eye candy was the other part.

The images in question that he insisted on bringing featured the three female super heroes of the city: Ladybug, Rena Rouge, and Queen Bee.

But not as anyone had ever seen them.

Instead of their usual hero suits, the three girls were portrayed in sultry, even provocative poses. And most notably, all three were wearing some mockery of a French Maid outfit…as what would be believed by Americans, no less.

They might as well have been the initial sketches of pinup posters.

“You can’t still be serious!”

“Hey, I’m not the one who got akumatized just because I was jealous that someone else had a good idea.” He said bitingly and giving her a pointed look, perhaps still a bit bitter of the aforementioned experience that her akumatization had caused.

“It’s not a good idea, John.” Angela countered. “There was no reason to have the girls be running in maid outfits.”

He shrugged. “We could just say an akuma did it. After all, we did just get an akuma who did exactly that.” He said, giving her another look.

She clenched her fists and was about to retort when their team lead entered the room.

The meeting commenced and she’d been forced to bite her tongue. Each of the team members went over their progress and updates for their contribution to the game. Level design. Enemies. Testing.

And then came his grand achievement. Instead of the level he was assigned, he gave scantily clad designs for three of the eight known heroes.

What effort.

“I was thinking we really need to include something to make our game stand out, so I made some extra skins for the heroes.” He bragged, sending her a smug look. “The appeal would sell plenty of copies.”

“Or the controversy.” Angela muttered back before turning to the team lead and hoping that the man leading their group had more empathy…or sense.

The team lead looked over the designs with an analyzing gaze. Tiffeny, despite the initial impression his name would give, was a rather buff man who took no shit. But was also a guy. Who liked guy things. But did those things include young women in maid costumes?

After a moment, Tiffeny dropped the pictures on the table and looked at John incredulously. “You know, if you were going to base skins off recent events, you could at least have been authentic.”

John stared. “What?”

“It was the guys who were affected by Akumaid. Not the girls. If we’re going to do maids, we need to keep it true to life, just like the rest of the designs we’ve included. We talked about this when we started this project.”

“But it’s what the audience wants!” John argued.

“Do you know who comprises the majority of our audience?” Tiffeny asked. “Girls. Girls, gay guys, and those who are exploring their interests. Guys in the outfits would sell leagues more than the girls.” He started ticking his fingers “It’s different. It’s original. And it’s based in actual events. People would love it.”

“But…they’ll love this!”

“Man, if people wanted to see sexy girls in skimpy clothing, they’d play literally any other game! Or watch porn.” Tiffeny explained. “But what game do you know of has had guys in maid outfits?”

“Well...”

“Exactly. We want to stand out. And we even have recent events as justification. So if you’re going to be wasting time you should be spending on level-making to put people in maid skins, then get those male heroes some maid costumes.”

“But that’s not fair!” John exclaimed.

Tiffeny paused at that. “Hmm…you’re right.”

With that, he turned to her. “You’re good at designing. Make some butler outfits for the girls. Something dashing to serve as a counter for the guys.”

Angela blinked in surprise for a moment before smiling.

“Sure thing!”

“You know…” one of the other workers noted. “While we’re on the subject, I WAS thinking of some medieval armor designs for the girls and princess dresses for the guys.”

“Hey yeah! Like a light green for Viperion!”

“Maybe teal might be better?”

“Ooo! How about…”

Soon enough, everyone seemed to be invested in the new plan.

Everyone that is, except John.

“Lovely!” Tiffeny said cheerfully. “Plan it out and bring the concepts to me later.”

With a new task in hand and John’s pouting to forever be a memory to hold onto, it seemed her day was looking up…

_________________________

“That was some akuma battle.” Marinette said as she slid into her seat next to Alya.

The reporter, however, only looked annoyed. “Ladybug had apparently called all the male heroes and I completely missed it!” She groaned and leaned back in her seat, bemoaning the lost opportunity.

If she’d hadn’t been so focused on tracking Nino for the purpose of collecting blackmail ensuring his safety, she would have been able to catch all of the male heroes in their maid outfits.

Marinette smiled. “You know…I may have a connection…”

Alya gasped.

“No.”

Marinette giggled and slid over her phone with a picture showing.

“NO WAY!” She cried out before staring up at Marinette in shock. “Girl, you have to send me these!”

“Wait—you have what now?” Nino had arrived, initially hopeful that he had avoided the worst of that day only to have those hopes immediately dashed upon arriving to see the two girls sharing what could only have been one thing…

“I have pictures of the heroes in their new outfits.” Marinette replied cheerfully as she swiped through her phone. “Oh look, Nino! You’re in here, too!”

“WHAT?! NO!” He shouted, rushing forward.

Marinette quickly grabbed back her phone and hid it in her pocket with an overly sweet and not at all innocent grin.

“Mari, come on, no! Don’t do this to me!” He begged.

“Don’t do this to ME!” Alya cut in. “You can’t just show me that and take it away! That’s just not fair!”

“Don’t worry.” Marinette assured them. “It’s going where all my blackmail material goes.”

“Wait what?”

“Since when do you have blackmail material?”

“Since somebody started a game of ‘let’s take pictures of Marinette while she’s asleep and post them online’.” Marinette replied dryly.

Nino groaned. “Come on! I said I was sorry!”

“And now I can be just as sorry.” She replied blithely.

Which was to say: not sorry at all.

“Come on! Alya made me do it!”

“It was just in fun! Marinette! Please!”

“Do you want me to beg? Cry? I’ll cry.”

“I’ll pay you! Pretty please! At least the heroes if nothing else!”

“Oh no you don’t!”

“My blog NEEDS this!”

Marinette smiled at the minor chaos she had caused as the normally happy couple bickered with each other.

Sweet sweet music.

“Hey, Marinette!”

And speaking of sweet…

She turned to look up at a certain blond-haired model as he arrived at his own desk. Though he seemed to be a bit distracted by the arguing couple.

“Hey, Adrien!” She greeted, for once with no stutter to speak of.

“Hey, um…are they okay?” He asked, gesturing to the two.

“Oh, they’re fine.” She said, waving them off. “Just…a bit excited over the recent akuma.”

At that, Adrien brightened. “Wasn’t it awesome?”

She nodded, trying to keep her laughter inside.

“You…ah…enjoyed yourself then?”

Adrien shrugged, looking a bit sheepish. “Well, it’s not often I get to dress up in a way that’s ‘silly’. Or in anything that isn’t promoting Father’s brand. And I’ve never gotten to cosplay. So it was…really fun.”

Oh. Ouch. Okay, that one kind of hurt. The poor Sunshine Child…

“You know…” Marinette said, leaning over her desk and smiling at him. “I’ve seen a bit of that one anime you mentioned.”

“Cells at Work?” He asked, brightening up.

She nodded. “Mmhmm. I could make you a jacket based off the lead Red Blood Cell. And if you like, I can keep it so you can wear it whenever we hang out.”

He gasped. “Really?”

“Sure! Maybe you can come over sometime so we can try a fitting. We could even play Mecha Strike.”

Adrien beamed. “That sounds great! Thanks, Marinette!”

She waved him off and went back to full sitting in her seat.

Alya and Nino both became distracted from their arguing by the miracle they had just witnessed.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng had just spoken to Adrien Agreste…and not a stutter to be heard!

“What the heck, girl?” Alya whispered, sliding into her seat beside her friend. “Since when could you do THAT and why haven’t you done it sooner? I could swear I saw hearts in his eyes!”

Marinette shrugged, grinning sheepishly. “After seeing Adrien Agreste in a maid dress, I kind of wondered why I was so scared of talking to him to begin with.”

Alya laughed. “Well, at least something good came out of this, then.”

“You know...more good WOULD come out of this if I had pics of those heroes..."

“Really, Alya?”

“You’re pretty much the only one who managed to get any shots of the male heroes!” Alya exclaimed. “Seriously, how?!”

Marinette giggled.

“Just lucky, I guess.”

________________________

OMAKE 1:

Knock! Knock!

“Felix?” His mother called on the other side of the locked and barricaded door. “Will you be coming out?”

“That depends. Do you have a camera?”

A pause. Which was all the answer he needed.

“Then no.”

OMAKE 2:

Fortunately, in the midst of their searching, the team had managed to find the akuma and her primary target, getting between the two.

“So what happened?” Ladybug asked him.

John gripped his skirt, nervously. “She’s my coworker in developing a new video game and she didn’t like my input.”

“What set her off?”

The guy rolled his eyes. “She’s one of those types who wants to take the fun out of video games.”

“What?” Ladybug blinked.

“Okay, so I wanted to put some maid costumes in the game! It was just for fun! Besides, it would have added a bit of pizazz! Something for the players to enjoy!”

“You could just try making a good game.” Pegasus pointed out. “If you have to rely on a cheap gimmick to get buyers, it may not be a good product.”

"I'm sorry, really! I mean, sure, I'm still going to put it in the game, because who wouldn't want hot maids, but still! That doesn't mean I deserve this!"

The akuma raised her fist and shouted at him. “THEY ARE HEROES, DAMMIT! THEY DESERVE BETTER THAN MAID SKINS JUST BECAUSE THEY’RE GIRLS!”

Ladybug blanched. “Wait…is the game about me?”

Pegasus coughed and looked away. “There have been…rumors, yes.”

Viperion tilted his head. “That seems like a double standard though…since we’re the ones in maid outfits...”

“Not the point, Viperion!”

Ladybug frowned.

“I don’t think I want to help now.”

“Ladybug!”

553 notes · View notes

blue-rose-soul · 3 years

Text

After sealing up the dark fountain in the library, Susie and Kris have a nice relaxing chat by the riverside. Okay, not that relaxing.

Aka, the soul tells Susie the truth except not really, and Susie gives them an idea.

“What would you do if you woke up tomorrow as someone else?”

The words are out of their lips before they can think better of them. Susie stares, cheek bulging with the massive handful of chocolates she shoved in there and a little drool trickling down the corner of her mouth. She chews slowly, and Soul can’t help worrying she’ll choke as she swallows it down.

“What-” Her voice sounds a little raw. Susie wipes the corner of her mouth on the back of her sleeve. “-the hell are you talking about?”

The two of them are in the park, sitting in the dirt by the river. The chocolates they’re sharing were meant for someone else entirely and maybe it was kind of mean to take them. But it seemed like a very Kris-like thing to do. It feels like that’s the metric by which they measure all of their actions; Kris-like or un-Kris-like.

Soul averts their eyes and pops a piece of chocolate in their mouth.

Kris’s mouth.

It tastes like nothing. Like everything else they’ve eaten. Like the moss and the dark burger and the crumbs of butterscotch pie caked around their mouth when they climbed out of bed this morning.

“Like... If you woke up in a bed that wasn’t yours, in a room didn’t recognize. And a grown up you didn’t know came in and called you a different name and told you to get ready to school like everything was normal. And when you got out of bed and looked in the mirror you saw a different face and when you spoke your voice sounded different... What would you do?”

“Uh... Freak out and call the police probably?”

Okay, yeah, that would be the normal response, Soul supposes. They roll the tasteless candy around on their tongue, then swallow without chewing.

“Except, when it happens you don’t feel freaked out and everyone around you acts like they know you already?”

“Uh... Then I’d just... go along with it- Kris, what the fuck is this about? Are you still messed up from that creepy robo-puppet fight? Dude, that thing was beyond messed up. Just wonky code, like Ralsei said. You can’t take anything it said seriously.”

“Yeah, no, I know. It’s just...”

As certain as they were this morning that last night’s events were, well, real, the more time passed the less real it seemed. By the time they’d woken up in Alphys’s classroom earlier that afternoon, Soul was half-convinced it really was a dream after all.

And then a funny little man jumped out of a dumpster.

“Some of the stuff he said reminded me of a, uh, a weird dream I had the other night, and...”

Aaaaaaand why did they have to go and say anything? Dark Worlds and talking toys are weird enough already. If they come out and admit they aren’t really Kris...

WHAT ARE THESE STRINGS!? WHY AM I NOT [BIG] ENOUGH!? It's still DARK... SO DARK!

They feel their sins crawling on their back.

“I got this idea for a story. Based on the dream.”

“Oh.” Susie scoops up another fistful of chocolate. “I didn’t know you wrote stories.”

“I don’t, usually,” Soul says. “I mostly just have ideas that I daydream about and never get around to actually writing down. But I wanna try. Writing this one, I mean.”

There’s only a couple of chocolates left. Soul plucks one between their thumb and forefinger.

“So what’d’ya dream about?”

They pop the chocolate in their mouth to buy themself a few seconds. As they replay last night in their head they feel Kris’s throat begin to constrict, Kris’s stomach churning uncomfortably. The chocolate felt like a stone going down.

“I was in my room,” they begin. “And my body started moving on its own. At first I thought I was sleepwalking. My body just kinda... rolled off the bed and moved all jerky and zombie-like to the center of the room-”

Just a few moments. Just a few moments of terror, complete helplessness. Is that how Kris feels all the time? Is that how Kris feels right now?

“-and then the hand raised and just kind of... dug into my chest.” Susie’s eyes are wide, and she cracks a little smile. “And it didn’t hurt, exactly, but it seemed like it should have. Then my hand ripped out my... my heart, except instead of the actual organ it was like one of those little valentine hearts, you know? And there wasn’t any blood or a wound or anything. Then my body threw the heart across a room into this birdcage and I could... see myself standing across the room, like I was the heart watching myself pull out a knife and grin and it was really really-”

“Creepy,” Susie finishes for them through her mouthful of chocolates. Soul nods. “That sounds like a pretty fucked up nightmare.”

Soul considers reaching for the last piece of candy. But they may as well leave it for someone who can actually taste it.

“So the story’s kinda about a mysterious being that takes control of this kid’s body, and then loses their memory so they don’t remember why they did it in the first place, or how to leave.”

“Why do they wanna leave?” Susie asks. Soul’s gaze snaps from the water to their friend.

Is she really their friend?

“Well... because they want to give the kid their freedom back.”

“Then why did they take over the kid’s body in the first place?”

“I... haven’t figured that part out yet.” Soul raises their hand, touches their fingers to their chest. A part of them wonders if, if they pressed hard enough, could they reach through skin and bone and rip themself out of this body. They’re scared to try. “That’s the part I’m stuck on, why the mysterious being did what they did."

Susie hums thoughtfully. Then she points to the heart-shaped box.

“You gonna eat that?” She doesn’t wait for Soul’s answer before reaching for the last candy, but they shake their head anyway. As she chews on the candy she hums again. “Maybe the mysterious being was escaping from something real bad.”

Huh?

“Escaping?”

“Yeah, like...” She swallows the chocolate down. “Maybe they’re like... an interdimensional refugee from someplace real fucked up, and they only way they could come to our world was by hopping into someone else’s body.”

‘Our world.’ Soul muses over that phrase. They’d taken it for granted that they were from this same world as Susie, and Kris, and Toriel and the rest. But what if they really did come from someplace else? A Dark World or... Or what if there were others? What would another world even look like?

“Oh! Oh! Oh! What if- What if-!” Susie grins at them, sharp teeth beaming proudly. “They’re, like, an outlaw on the run jumping from world to world running from the interdimensional police!?”

She sounds so enthusiastic and Soul can’t help but snort but then the full weight of her words really hits them.

What if they were...

‘Was I somebody else before I became Kris?’

What if they really were some horrible person before? They don’t know that they weren’t. They... don’t know who they are. All day they based their decisions on what was ‘Kris-like’ and what was ‘un-Kris-like.’ Until they came here, to the river, where it is quiet and peaceful and they can sit and share a box of chocolates with their new friend and for just one moment they felt bold enough to speak for themself.

They feel Susie’s eyes on them as their expression falls.

“Hey, if you don’t like my idea, you don’t have to use it,” Susie says with a gentleness that oddly doesn’t sound out of place coming from her. “It was just a suggestion.”

“No, it’s a good idea,” Soul is quick to assure her. “I just started thinking... that I feel sorry for the kid. Like if the mysterious being gets their memories back and goes back to being a bad guy, but they’re using the kid’s body to do it...”

“I mean, it’s your story,” Susie says as they trail off. “You can make it so they ‘learned the error of their ways’ or whatever while living with the kid. Or, hell, if they felt bad about taking the kid’s body from the get go maybe they were never that bad in the first place.”

There’s a smalls well of warmth in their chest as she says that. It fades quickly.

“So do the being and the kid go on a quest to find them a new body or something?”

“Uh, something like that. They can’t just go and control someone else though.”

“Not even an actual bad guy?”

“The mysterious being doesn’t want to steal someone else’s body,” Soul says. “They want one of their own.”

“Then they should make a robot body. All covered in spikes and- and-” Susie holds out her fist. “With detachable rocket hands!”

Soul chuckles.

“With laser eyes,” they add.

“That can fly!” Susie continues.

“And has the whole internet in their head- Okay, no, that’d be scary.”

Susie snorts at that.

A robot body... It sounds ridiculous, or at least it would have a few days ago. But now they actually know some living robots, don’t they? Maybe they can talk to Queen, ask her if something like that is actually possible for her to make.

Then again, if she made them a new body it’d probably explode.

The next to come to mind are Sweet Cap’n Cakes. Those three goofballs may be, well, goofballs, but they certainly know how to build a mech. Surely a human or monster-sized body would be much easier?

Soul’s pulse begins to race a little. They could really have one. Their own body. Maybe it would seem like a downgrade to some, but it’s not like they’d be losing much. They already can’t taste anything or smell anything or feel anything (that isn’t pain), so they wouldn’t be losing those senses. Between odd dreams and Kris separating them they’re hardly getting any sleep anyway.

They could speak with their own voice, walk on their own two feet.

They could have their own name.

They could talk to Susie and Ralsei and... maybe they’d still like them even if... even if they weren’t Kris.

Maybe...

“Uh... Kris?”

Realizing they’ve zoned out again, Soul turns to Susie. She’s got a nervous smile on her face and a hand planted over her stomach.

“Where... did you say you got those chocolates again?”

Before they can think to answer, it hits them. Like a bit of shrapnel falling into the pit of their stomach. It’s sharp and it burns like when an enemy attack hits their SOUL in combat. And poor Susie, who’s devoured most of the chocolate herself, rolls over with a pained groan as her stomach cramps.

“We-” Brruuuuurp. “-probably shouldn’t have eaten that.”

“YA THINK!?”

It takes a few minutes for them to recover from their stomach cramps, which turns into a joke after the fact. Now they don’t feel so guilty for keeping Alphys’s chocolates. Only for accidentally poisoning Susie. And Kris. But mostly Susie, even though she assures them it’s far from the most dangerous thing she’s ever eaten and they know she’s probably telling the truth. She still agrees to walk the rest of the way home with them.

They walk in relative silence, aside from making a few comments about the people they pass. Soul is trying to be more Kris-like, which means less talkative. That gives them more time to think. About their plan, about Susie’s words, about the little pink and yellow glasses rolled up with various other bits and bobs at the bottom of their pocket.

They wonder if Kris couldn’t have just... pulled Soul out of their chest in the basement of Queen’s castle. Handed them over to Spamton without a fight. It probably would have been easier. And it wouldn’t be so different from what Soul is planning to do now.

Except that Spamton wasn’t - isn’t? - an empty shell.

For the funny little salesman it probably would have been just trading one set of strings for another. Maybe that’s why Kris didn’t do it. Or maybe they just didn’t want to do it with Susie and Ralsei right there...

There’s a fragile, flimsy hope that Kris did it for their sake. That they wouldn’t give Soul up. Soul doesn’t dare hold onto that hope. As much as they have faith - choose to have faith - in Kris’s inherent goodness, they can’t imagine any scenario where Kris doesn’t resent them.

“Uh, that question you asked earlier...” Susie’s voice, uncharacteristically nervous, snaps them from their thoughts. “If I woke up tomorrow as someone else? Well, couple a days ago my answer woulda been ‘live it up and cause some carnage.’“

When Soul turns to her, Susie is pointedly looking straight ahead. And as she continues to speak, she turns her head away.

“Now though? I guess I’d... try to figure out how to put things back. Since... y’know. I don’t think I’d wanna live a life where we aren’t... friends.”

Soul stares at her. Then cracks a grin.

“Sap.”

“Who’re you calling a sap you little dork!?” Susie growls but there’s a giant grin on her face as she punches them in the arm. “You want me to bite your face off punk? Huh? Do ya?”

That only has Soul laughing harder, which causes Susie to pull them into a loose chokehold and mess up their hair. They continue to laugh and roughhouse all the way back to the Dreemur residence.

#Deltarune #stuff I wrote #fanfiction #The Player #Susie Deltarune #Kris Dreemur

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kkusuka · 3 years

Note

Peep this crack idea of mine! Okay so being a pro-hero/hero in training they gotta go through many places for eavesdropping or escaping. So Y/N is with a hero/classmate and the pair see a hole that looks like it’ll fit her. So her partner/classmate’s like “Y/N, you should go through.” And Y/N gives him a blank face and says: Now is not the time for jokes. Does my fatass look like it’ll fit through there?” She’s not wrong, sis is double cheeked up on a Thursday afternoon (even smacks her own ass to further her point). I wanna request head cannons of Hawks, Aizawa, Bakugo, and Shinsou reacting to their crush saying that to them (since theyr’re partners for the mission/task) cuz I think it’ll be hilarious 😂

this took way to long-

Hawks

I feel like you guys really would make jokes about this stuff all the time

But for the most part, you guys keep it out of your jobs

This time you just couldn't help it!

You’re hero suit just go re-done and you look SO hot in it

He knew it

You knew it

Hell even the villains knew it

Both of you were mostly rescue heroes you were put in charge of getting all the entrapped people out of the rubble

That means getting into all the cracks and crannies of the fallen buildings

And more than often you were the one getting through them, not without a few comments and a look of betrayal

Anyway, you were ready for it this time

You didn't know how many people were in the building, Hawks’ feathers were a bit worn out, so you were almost going in blind

“Alright y/n, do your thing!”

“Ok ok, I know, but do you think my ass will fit through?”

As you said it you gave him a nice view of your butt and the curve of your back

He wanted to say something you could tell, he was practically sweating

Before either of you knew it, a hand was on your ass- it was oh god

It was his hand- uh oh gotta play it off

“Um, yeah it-it should be just big enough, yeah, nice and um squishy-!”

Oh thank god, you were laughing, that could have gone way way worse

Now, he just had to buck up enough courage to ask you out and he’ll be set

Aizawa Shouta

You didn't realize how nice your ass looked, but he sure did

As much as he pretended to be, he wasn't immune to your stupid jokes

Being on rescue was not Shouta’s favorite job to do, but with you, it seemed less dreadful

Getting to the epicenter of the damage, it was almost all covered by debris and huge chunks of the building

There was no way he was getting in there without some help, but you?

“Go.”

There simple all good, not

You just turned to look at him, “look ‘Zawa this is important but. Do you think my ass will fit through that?”

Uncalled for!

No, don't make him look

He isn't looking, nope, no, no

He was looking

He was totally looking, unashamed he stared at your ass

It was like you know what to say to get him completely off track.

“y/n! This is hardly the time for tasteless jokes!”

Tasteless jokes? You knew he wasn't talking about your perfectly crafted amazingly hilarious jokes

“I’m serious! I think my ass is too out of this world to get through! Look!”

Oh, he was already looking, trust him.

“Yes yes, you have a very nice ass, go in the whole and help whoever is in there”

There he said it, now leave him alone.

“Ok but I don't really believe you so when this is over you may have to take a closer look”

You were going to be the death of him.

Bakugou Katsuki

Whether it was the way your costume skirt revealed the back of your thighs just perfectly

Or, it was the way you kept bending over near him

Fuck his luck, of course, you were paired up for this stupid rescue exercise

This was stupid, he won't need this literally ever, they should just let them spar, damn he wants to grope your ass until his hands are imprinted on it, he has to work on his quirk so he can be 100x better than that loser Deku

“Sukiii~-” not the stupid nickname “c’mon were up!”

No one should be that enthusiastic about something this stupid

You grabbing his arm and tugging him off wasn't helping

The task was simple enough, get into the building a rescue te stupid dummy without the building collapsing

This kind of task was not made for him, it was in his nature to be extremely destructive

You guys got in no problem, but within seconds you had been met with a blockade of fallen walls

The only hole in the debris was only big enough for you

“Extra! Go through and make a path for me!”

That came out ever so slightly wrong

“Baki! This isn't the time but do you think my ass will fit? You should know you've been looking at it all day!”

………..what…………..

He was NOT looking at your perfectly shaped soft-looking perky- shit he was looking

“What did yoU JUST SAY TO ME??!!!!!”

“Haha, Bakugou! I thought you were smarter than that, come ‘ere, feel”

His hands- and you- laughing at him- his hands- it was soft

“Stupid woman, get through the hole, we’ll talk later.”

Shinsou Hitoshi

Nope, mayday mayday

This was it

In the end, no more, Hitoshi Shinsou was no more

Who even let you get a costume like that?

And what god hated him so much he had to look at you all-day

The exercise for today was to unarm a group of villains from the top of an office building

Yeah it was easy and all but-

He had to walk up 14 flights of stairs, BEHIND you (you dig)

Maintaining his three-step distance was not the best idea considering it was right in his face, and he wasn't even paying attention to anything else but how your hips swayed while you walked

Aaaaaaaaaand you stopped- you stopped?!!!!!!!!

He didn’t have time to react and by the time he realized it, face to ass

Of god face to ass

“Oh god- I’m-” “i-it’s fine shin, there's a blockade of sorts, it looks like we have to try and get through it”

Yeah ok, that made sense.

“You should try to get through it, it seems all clear on the other side, but when you get over there you have to try and open it up for me a bit.”

That sounds like he wasn’t thinking about how good your legs look.

“Toshi, I don't mean to bring this up now but, do you think my ass will fit through that hole?”

Yup, he could respectfully pass away now, there was no need

“I’ll answer that later, just go”

He set himself up.

#hawks #hawks x reader #keigo takami #keigo tamaki x reader #shouta aizawa #aizawa x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo #bnha shinsou #shinsou hitoshi #shinsou x reader

605 notes · View notes

jincherie · 4 years

Text

kiss it better | jjk

~ COMMISSION FOR @cinnaminsvga ~

✩ — pairing: jungkook x reader ✩ — genre: college/uni au, smut, cheerleader!jk, pining, borderline crack ✩ — words: 11.7k ✩ — rating: 18+ ✩ — warnings: koo takes a tumble, explicit sexual content; clothed sex, unprotected sex (not recommended), creampie, handjobs,light subby!jk, hand-holding during sex (potent), whining, thigh-riding, vaginal sex, minor hair pulling, public sex (sort of), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, light dirty talk ✩ — notes: out later than intended and a bit longer than intended !! whoops!!! i won’t/don’t charge if i go over the commissioned amount becayse that’s my bad!! but yeah. its been a hot second since i last wrote smut!! also none of my friends were awake to proofread this so….. apologies if it’s shit and has typos! its 2am! pls enjoy and lmk whast u think!!

When one goes to Kim Seokjin for advice, it’s almost guaranteed to never end well. This is something Jungkook learns quickly when he mistakenly follows treasured advice to ‘be smart’ and ‘use his assets’. He just did what he was told! Of course, the execution was a bit poor… and embarrassing. But hey, if rocking up to cheer practice in a skirt doesn’t woo your crush, what will?

masterlist | — posted; 01.03.2020

TUESDAY, SEMESTER 2 WEEK FOUR

It’s a beautiful day, the sun has just come to peak out from behind the clouds that had earlier obscured its climb from the horizon, and the grass of the Biological Sciences Library courtyard glistens with raindrops left over from the brief shower that prefaced the sun’s belated appearance. Students are finally beginning to emerge from the safety of the undercover walkways and overhangs, venturing boldly to shortcut over the grass. University life resumes, and everything falls back into its place, all as usual.

“Yah, is that Jungkook? Wait what is he—”

Well, everything except for one thing.

A red and black-clad figure slams to a stop right where two students are sitting and minding their own business outside the café attached to the back of the library—there’s no time to say hello. The table rocks dangerously on its beaten, metal leg, the impact of Jungkook’s beeline almost sending it straight to the ground if the two others weren’t already seated there to catch it.

“OW!” Jimin is never one to be quiet in his complaints, all too happy to holler his outrage at the top of his lungs. As his oldest hyung would say, no attention is bad attention. “Hey you almost jammed my fingers!”

Startled as Taehyung might have been, his focus is quickly shifted to other things. His wide eyes scan Jungkook’s panting form, taking in the clothes clinging to him like a second skin and the beet red colour of his face and ears. It’s not hard to put two and two together, but what comes out of his mouth isn’t exactly the most pressing thing he wants to ask, “Jungkook, why are you wearing the female cheer leading uniform I gave you?”

There’s a somewhat crazed look that makes itself known in the youngest’s eyes. “AHA!” he throws a finger in Taehyungs face, accusing. “So you ADMIT it’s a female uniform! Taehyung, you ass, how could you!”

Taehyung’s face is a question mark and Jimin squints, confused and still huffy about nearly losing his fingers and his triple-shot iced caramel latte that he may or may not have charmed the barista into gifting him for free. He wants to know what is going on and he wants to know NOW, damn it!

“What are you on about?” he asks, wrinkling his nose as he takes his drink into hand to prevent any future risk of spillage. “Why do you look like that time you ran the half-marathon on a dare?”

Jungkook glares at him, but it’s about as effective as it would be coming from a puppy. “Be quiet and sip your drink,” he says boldly, still attempting to get his breathing under control. Jimin considers throwing a retort back but ultimately decides against, it, shrugging and doing just that. He doesn’t want it getting warm, after all.

“Uh, yeah,” Taehyung says, sounding like he is a split second away from tacking on ‘duh’ at the end. “You asked me for a cheerleading uniform? I thought you knew some chick that needed a spare, I didn’t know you wanted one to wear.”

At Jungkook’s dumbfounded expression, Taehyung takes the liberty of continuing. “I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with it? You look surprisingly hot in a skirt, your ass looks fine as hell. But you seem kind of angry so IN MY DEFENSE, how was I supposed to know? That you wanted a male uniform? You never specified so—”

While each word that came out of Taehyung’s mouth just seemed to rile him up more, a different look passes over Jungkook’s features at that comment. “Wait, my ass looks good?” He straightens, attempting to peer over his own shoulder to catch a glimpse. “I wonder if she… No!”

He shakes his head suddenly to clear those thoughts and get back on track, whipping that same accusing finger in Taehyung’s face once more and levelling him with a renewed glare.

“Because of you, I just had the most humiliating experience of my life, and it was all in front of you-know-who!” His voice starts strong, but as he continues it shrinks to more of an angry whisper, his brows scrunched in a clear display of his displeasure. “I literally am about to commit seppuku.”

“Weeb,” Jimin utters at the same time as Taehyung asks, “y/n?” Jimin’s head whips up at the keyword.

Jungkook’s fight has all but left him at this point, and he pulls out one of the metal chairs to slump in it, defeatedly. His ears are turning crimson again as he recalls the events that had traumatised him so, and he slams his head to the table with a groan, muttering to himself in a voice that sounds dangerously like a sob.

“—stupid, was so stupid of me. I never should have asked Seokjin-hyung for advice. For actually listening I deserve nothing short of death. I’m so embarrassed I’m gonna throw myself into the lake.”

“Don’t throw yourself in there, think of the fishes—” Taehyung says at the same time as Jimin squawks, “WHAT?! You got advice from Seokjin?! He knows who your crush is? Oh my god, you’re more stupid than I thought…”

It’s all Jungkook can do to simply rest his head on the grubby-feeling table, eyes unfocused as he stares into the distance and regrets almost every single decision he has made in his waking life.

FOUR DAYS EARLIER

“My roommate,” Seokjin says, in between gratuitous sips of his monstrously sugary drink. “I think I’m almost about to get him to crack.”

“I feel bad for him,” you say, not looking up from your laptop despite the urge to gorge on your own drink. You made a goal not to look like a goblin when you woke up this morning and sipping your drink at a reasonable pace is a good start. “Being stuck in close quarters with you all the time. No doubt he needs therapy by now.”

As expected, Seokjin ignores you. You wonder if this is how he has managed not to get usurped as leader of the Contemporary Poetry Performance Club.

(To condense a very long story— he didn’t take being kicked out of the Drama Club very well. That’s on him though, he probably shouldn’t have called the Club Leader a tasteless fool for ordering a salad with his Happy Meal instead of nuggets. But, you digress.)

“I think I’m getting close these days,” the male muses, not-so-subtly making a reach for the McDonalds apple pie you have resting on the table next to your laptop. You smack his hand away without so much as a blink, more than used to having to defend any and all food from his wandering hands by this point. He continues, unaffected by the rebuttal, “Like, really close. It’s not long before my unrelenting bastardous antics wear him down and he finally breaks, spilling all his deepest secrets and confessing his long-time crush on me, thus allowing me to bring this act of friends-to-lovers pining to a close and get to the steamy stuff. “

At his spiel, you finally look at him, sporting a concerned and confused expression, if not somewhat intrigued. “… Are you talking about Jungkook?”

Seokjin chokes on the long sip he’d begun to drag up the straw, indignance making his voice rise. “NO, dumbass, I’m talking about Namjoon! Although…” He pauses only to bring a finger to stroke his chin, like a villain straight from an episode of Lazy Town, “You know, I never thought I’d be one for that harem shit, but now I think about it…”

“Gross,” you groan, wrinkling your nose. Seokjin releases a villainous cackle and you have no choice but to raise your fist in promise. He gets the message and quietens down immediately.

“No, but speaking of that little twerp,” Seokjin quickly starts up again, placing his drink down on the table. You feel an ounce of regret, knowing that means he’s about to talk for a longer time than you’re ready for. “I’m close to breaking him too.”

“He told you who his crush is?” you ask, brows raising in shock. Seokjin lets out a great sigh like the weight of the world is on his shoulders, making you snort.

“No,” he grumbles, before brightening straight after. “But! I’m getting close. He came to me for advice this morning.”

At his words, you’ve now completely abandoned whatever you were doing on your laptop and are looking at him in disbelief. “You’re lying.”

“Am not!” Seokjin denies, huffy. “He did! He wanted help making his crush fall in love with him, and so of course he came to me, Kim Seokjin, master of the heart and modern-day cupid.”

You pin him with a deadpan look. “Namjoon was out, wasn’t he.”

Seokjin’s glare is all the answer you need. He continues like you hadn’t even spoken in the first place.

“And since he so wisely came to me, of all people, and put his love life in my wise, gentle hands, I gave him the best advice anyone could possibly get.” The way his chest has swelled with pride and he’s looking all-too-pleased with himself doesn’t fill you with a good feeling. “I told him to play it smart, and use his assets.”

At first, you’re confused. “What, like… his cuteness? His endearing personality?”

“NO, dumbass, his assets! His ass! His thighs! His itty-bitty waist!” You think you hear him muttering something like ‘that lucky bitch’ under his breath, but can’t be sure. “Also, don’t think I missed you calling him cute, y/n. I’m filing that shit away for later.”

“I’ll kill you,” you inform him, but the threat has long since lost its impact. He rolls his eyes.

“Shut up, we both already know exactly how 'peggable’ you think he is.” He takes a haughty sip of his drink like he knows he’s right, and you hate that he is. “It’s not the most incriminating thing I have on you.”

You make the strategic decision not to say anything and dig your hole deeper, and Seokjin seems pleased at your silent admit of defeat.

“Anyway,” he says again, smacking the cream on top of his drink down into the liquid with a spoon. There is some fallout, but that’s never stopped him before. “Kid’s dumb as shit but pure of heart. I’m interested to see whether he will actually take my advice.”

“He won’t for sure,” you scoff, returning to your laptop at last. “Anyone who takes your advice is guaranteed to have an empty head and quarter of a brain cell to their name. Jungkook is smarter than that.”

As expected, Seokjin squawks in outrage, and it harmonises with the ambience of dead silence in your corner of the library. He doesn’t let the topic rest for the remainder of the day.

WEDNESDAY, WEEK FIVE

You think that the day Jungkook first rocked up to cheer practice at the gym a week ago at the same time you were coaching the women’s basketball team, is one firmly burned into your memory for the rest of your life. And, honest to god, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Because the boy, in all his slim-waisted, sculpted-ass-and-thighs glory, had rocked up in a cheerleading crop top and skirt.

You have absolutely no idea why he decided to wear that to his first session after joining, but you do know that while the sight of him usually makes you drool, the sight of him in that made your brain cease all higher functioning and you, in essence, became a dog. You almost barked when you saw him, for real.

Even from across the room though, you’d quickly been able to gather that he hadn’t worn it on purpose (somehow), as his face flushed bright crimson and he quickly began to look like he wanted to neck himself in the middle of the gym. Yoongi, another bastard friend of yours who through a series of unfortunate events and regrettable decisions (for him) had become the cheer captain, had been insulted that Jungkook had shown up like that and “hadn’t taken cheer seriously”, and so had given him a punishment. Yoongi said that if he wanted to rock up in a skirt so badly, then for every coming practice he had to wear a skirt again.

Had you not been busy drooling you probably would have felt bad for Jungkook, as you did later when Yoongi filled you in. As it were, in the moment you’d nearly copped a basketball to the face for being so distracted. Regrettably, you’d had to turn away from Jungkook and back to your actual duties: coaching.

Although with Yoongi being out for your blood, you have had plenty of opportunities in the past week to ogle to your heart’s desire. A real shameful amount, if you’re being honest with yourself.

“Bora!” you call, watching the girl in question halt across the gym. “Fix your footwork or I’m gonna smack you!”

The girl rolls her eyes and turns away, flicking a ponytail of dark hair over her shoulder as she does so, but listens to what you say. The familiar squeak of rubber on gym flooring fills the air as she starts the drill anew. She has a tendency to get lazy and sloppy in her movements if you don’t ride her ass, and she knows it as much as you do.

“How did you even managed to get the coaching position?” Seulgi asks from next to you, her response almost cut off by a loud racket from the cheer side of the gym. It takes all of your willpower not to fall into the trap and look over. “I feel like people like you shouldn’t be in positions of power.”

You don’t even bother arguing with her since she’s technically right and you agree. “Sheer dumb luck,” you tell her, risking a glance to the side if only to give Yoongi the stink eye. “Actually, if you really wanna know, I only went for it because Yoongi wanted it and he did something that really soured my yoghurt and pissed me off. So I applied out of spite. I probably shouldn’t have gotten the job though.”

“Huh,” Seulgi voices, eyes unfocused. “Well you’re not too bad for a fake. The team has actually been improving since you took over.”

“That’s probably because you guys went through coaches so fast for a while that for like, six months you didn’t really have one.”

“Touché.”

The only reason the girl is on the sidelines in the first place is because she’d looked over at the wrong time and caught it just as Jungkook started one of the tumbling routines, getting it almost perfect on the first go and in the process flashing his pert ass to the air and any sorry beholders. He might have been wearing bike shorts under the punishment skirt he was modelling, and he might have traded the crop top for a singlet of reasonable length, but it was still a dangerous, nay lethal sight. You’d looked over at the same time so you knew why and how Seulgi managed to tumble and trip so terribly mid-drill. She rolled her ankle so bad that as she sits next to you right now with ice on it, it looks like there’s an entire boiled egg beneath the surface of her skin. It’s kind of gross but also kind of hard to look away from.

Back to the topic at hand, there is just something about the sheer athleticism and heaven-blessed ease with which Jungkook backflips and cartwheels across the mat that turns you into a brainless slab of goo. You’re unsurprised that Seulgi got distracted and ended up hurting herself as a result of it.

The afternoon flies by and before you know it, it’s dark outside, and you’ve finished riding the collective women’s basketball team’s ass for the day. As they disperse and leave the gym at a leisurely pace, you collect Seulgi and help her towards the gym locker room to get some fresh ice for her ankle before she journeys to visit the university nurse.

The cheer squad has just about finished up their own practice, and one by one they begin to filter out of the gym. Yoongi waddles over to where you stand by the door, eyeing Seulgi with a knowing look.

“Got distracted at the wrong time, huh?” He asks, very much already knowing the answer. You give him a dirty look while Seulgi goes bright pink.

Yoongi adjusts the collar of his university sports jacket, puffing his chest out. “That’s our golden boy for ya,” he brags, sounding very much like one of the aunties and old women you find gossiping on the street near the markets. “He was born for cheer. It’s like he’s been tumbling since the day he was born. Probably even came out doing a backflip.”

You want to tell him to stop pulling shit out of his ass, but you can’t bring yourself to say anything when you agree so wholeheartedly. You’re saved from having to summon a response when in the next second, Yoongi gets the urge to turn and catches Jungkook red-handed on his way out of the gym. He seems in a hurry, moving almost like he’s trying to sneak out unnoticed, but halts at the unmistakable sound of Yoongi’s holler when it breaches the air.

“Ah there he is— Jungkook-ah!” Even while calling out, Yoongi somehow still has an indolent, lazy drawl. “Good job today! Also, proud of you for committing to your punishment. Keep it up!”

The poor raven-haired boy had already looked somewhat mortified at being singled out amongst the students exiting the gym, but now as Yoongi finishes speaking and his big doe eyes flick to the side and take in you and Seulgi listening in, his face very suddenly and violently erupts into a blush.

“Th-thanks,” he squeaks, nodding, the tips of his ears darkening to match his face. His eyes are flicking from you to Yoongi in such a way he almost reminds you of a scared rodent. When it becomes clear he has nothing more to say, he turns on his heel and flees in the direction of the locker room. For his sake, you don’t ogle him as he goes. There’s a time and a place, and he seems so embarrassed that you’d feel bad for checking him out right now.

“… He’s so cute,” Yoongi remarks a few seconds after Jungkook disappears out the door, gaze still trained in the direction he’d left. “No wonder I always look over and see you drooling, y/n.”

You agree with the first part, but honestly… you could have done without that second comment. You give him the stink eye to let him know just that, before tapping Seulgi and readjusting your grip in preparation to walk once more.

“If you’re immune, Min, you’re not human,” Seulgi says, cheeky glint in her eye. Your heart warms—you can always count on her to defend you in the face of life’s meanies.

SATURDAY, WEEK 5

It’s not often you find yourself making the long, arduous trek down the street to the apartment building where Seokjin et al. live, but it does happen on the occasion. If possible, you like to make the journey in the morning or the afternoon, because there is little to no cover on the path that takes you there and the only thing you like less than being in the sun when you don’t have to is sweating.

Still, you make the trek today, even though it’s technically past the point in the morning where you would refuse. The heat starts to come anywhere from 8 to 9 o’clock, even earlier on the stinkier days. Call you lazy, but you stick by your own rules because they work and reduce your suffering considerably.

Namjoon is one of your project partners in a random elective the two of you chose, and he was meant to give you a part of the assignment he’d been working on yesterday but, of course, forgot it. And then again today, when he was meant to drop it off on his way to work, he forgot it once more. So here you are, walking to his stupid apartment and preparing to break in because it’s due next week and you need his part to finish yours, damn it.

Thankfully, air conditioning greets you the second you step inside the building and cools down whatever heat has managed to cling to your form from outside. Luck is on your side—no sweat today, babey! In a slightly better mood now that you’re out of the sun, you follow the path your legs have committed to memory to Namjoon’s apartment.

Normally you’d rely on someone being home to let you in so you can ransack Namjoon’s room, but in his apologetic text he’d informed you that everyone is out and so with a great, big sigh you’d resigned yourself and dug the lockpicking set you received one Christmas out from under your bed. It’s heavy in your back pocket now as you walk down the hallway of the floor their apartment is on, already feeling like you’ve committed a crime. Before you can even throw yourself into thoughts of which tool would work best on their front door, you catch sight of something you most definitely weren’t expecting.

There’s someone else in front of the apartment door, jiggling the doorknob and attempting to work it. You don’t know if they realise its locked and are trying their luck anyway, or whether they’ve yet to figure it out, but while their back is turned to you they have provided you with an excellent view.

Broad shoulders with tan skin peaking out from below a muscle singlet and glistening with sweat where their body catches the light. Dark curls are plastered to the back of their neck, arms out and a tattoo sleeve on one leading your gaze down its length. He’s very athletic, you gather of the stranger immediately, and you’re almost drooling at the way his bicep shifts and tenses as he tries the doorknob once more. Your gaze finally frees itself and scans over the rest of him; defined back, tiny waist, nice butt, thick thighs—

Wait. You know that waist. The sight of it bared by a skimpy cheerleading outfit is one you’ve committed to memory.

“Jungkook?” you say, feeling your stomach dip in excitement. Does it always do that when you see him? You can’t remember.

At the sound of your voice and how close it is, the male jumps in fright and lets out a noise eerily close to a squeak. He spins, slamming his back against the door and smacking a hand over his heart.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, eyes closing and head falling back against the door with a thud. The sight is borderline sinful when combined with his damp hair and sweaty form, and your thoughts threaten to take a dangerous route before you reign them in. You smack your libido back in place— down, girl! “y/n, you scared the living shit out of me.”

A moment passes before his eyes snap open and the breath leaves him in a whoosh, and he’s looking at you like a cornered rabbit, cheeks already warming in his fluster. “W-wait, y/n? What… What are you doing here?”

Cute. If you could, you think you’d pack him up and put him in your pocket.

You ignore his question only for the sake of asking him your own—much less incriminating as a choice. “Are you trying to break into your own apartment, Mister Jungkook?”

Instantly, as you’d almost come to expect at this point, his cheeks flush cutely.

“Wh- I, uh…” he swallows and clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “No! Kind of? I went for a jog earlier and Namjoon-hyung kind of… uh… he locked me out.”

As he speaks, you’re reminded of how much you actually like his voice. It’s smooth, melodious; even when its shaking slightly from nerves. Why is he nervous? The longer you stand in his presence the more curious you become. You kind of want to tease him a little.

You hum, a smile curling the corners of your lips and one of your brows raising. “Ah, so he’s scorned both of us, I see. But fear not, little gumdrop!”

He’s staring at you in something akin to flustered bewilderment as you reach behind you and pull out your lockpicking kit, brandishing it like a trophy. “I have the solution!”

“…” He’s stunned into silence, it seems, but you don’t mind. The look on his face right now is super cute—you kind of want to pinch his cheeks. Okay, damn it, you can’t help it—you pinch his cheek and make a short cooing noise as you step past, preparing to help him break into his apartment. At least this way it feels less like a crime and more like a service.

(You sneak a sly look back at Jungkook as you pass him, and your heart squeezes at the sight of his cheeks flushing pink from your teasing action, eyes wide as they follow your form. This boy is gonna kill you one day.)

Usually you have a bit of trouble picking locks (you don’t do it often) but you crack this one surprisingly fast, and before you know it the door is swinging open and you’re letting out a noise of glee.

“Excellent!” you announce, before darting right in to search for what you came for. Namjoon left it conveniently on the dining table, so you dash over and grab the folder and USB before turning around to be on your merry way.

When you return to the door, Jungkook is still standing there, tattooed hand pressed to the cheek you’d pinched – which are bright red, by the way— and his eyes somewhat dazed.

“See you at practice later, Jungkook!” you say, waving the folder to accentuate the farewell. “Don’t forget the punishment skirt! You look too good in it, it would be a crime to forget it.”

Once you’re done speaking, you turn back the way you’re walking, missing the facial expression that accompanies his flustered sputtering of a goodbye. Your stomach still flips in excitement as you retreat, a skip in your step, and you can’t help but think it wouldn’t be a bad thing if you ended up seeing more of Jungkook outside of practice.

WEDNESDAY, WEEK 6

You’re sitting in the campus sushi place, escaping the midday heat and grabbing something to eat, minding your own business. It is, though, a nice day and you don’t mind sitting back and just admiring it. This changes when a figure suddenly comes bolting towards you from a distance and nearly bowls you and the contents of your sushi container over.

“SEOKJIN!” you exclaim, barely having saved your food from a sudden and unfortunate meet & greet with the floor. You give him a glare strong enough to kill. “What the hell! My karaage chicken!!! Dude you KNOW they only make a certain amount of these per day, you almost made me drop it and I hadn’t even taken a bit yet! Honestly! You—”

“Shut! Shut up!” Seokjin grips you by the shoulders, giving you a shake; it makes your eyes lock-on to his flushed face, his breath coming in pants from his exertion. “Shut up I have something to say and it’s important!”

“Stop shaking me!” you cry, wriggling out of his grip and leaning as far back into your chair as you can to get away from this nutcase. “And what?! You finally slipped up and Namjoon found all the secret letters you write for him when you’re horny?!”

“No, better!” Seokjin makes like he’s going to grab your shoulders again and you smack his hands away. He continues, eyes alight with something akin to glee that makes him look just a little bit crazy. “I finally did it! I found out who that twerp’s crush is! You won’t beli—”

“What?!” you sputter, your gut churning for some reason. Is the sushi you ate off? “He told you? No way he would be stupid enough to tell you—”

“Hey!” the male cries, indignant. “I resent that! Also no, he didn’t technically tell me, but I have people on the inside…”

It takes a moment for you to scan through people in your head before it clicks. You gasp. “You bullied it out of his friends?! Seokjin! Taehyung and Jimin don’t deserve that!”

“I didn’t bully them! They told me of their own accord!” He points a finger at you in retribution. “Albeit, it was by accident, but I digress.”

You’re shaking your head, returning to your sushi and ignoring the odd sensations in your gut. “This is blood information, man. I don’t know if I can sit and be accomplice to—”

“It’s you!” Seokjin blurts, sticking his pink-haired head right in your face. “The twerp has a crush on you! Finally, at least one of my shipping dreams is coming true!”

You’re so shocked by the information literally thrown in your face that you honest to god almost drop your sushi, again. You stare at the male, mouth open, as you flounder to get some order back in your thoughts.

The first thing you think to say is—“What? No way. Your info is dodgy, man.”

“Look, I know you’re sensitive so I try not to say this often, but are you dumb, y/n?” Seokjin stands back now, hand on his hip. The look he’s giving you isn’t impressed. “It makes so much sense! Why else would he sign up to cheerleading in a skirt to use his assets if it wasn’t on at the same time as whatever his crush does? Honestly, I should have seen it sooner—the way he goes bright pink every time he sees you and his eyes sparkle like an anime girl every time we mention you. I just thought he was scared of girls or had pinkeye or somethin’.”

You kind of want to smack him, but the rest of you is busy attempting to process all the information unloaded on you. Your stomach gives a giddy flip, and you decide it can only mean one thing in the wake of finding out that Jungkook’s mysterious crush is you.

Maybe, just maybe, you like him too.

…

You’re gonna pursue him.

THURSDAY, WEEK 7

It seems that Jungkook has heard that his crush on you has been leaked, because you’ve been trying to track him down and confirm it ever since last week and he’s been avoiding you like the plague. You think you see him kicking up dust as he retreats as fast as his legs will take him around hallway corners when he sees you at the other end, you catch glimpses of him across courtyards as he spins and flees in the opposite directions. A part of you wonders whether its because he does indeed have a crush on you and is embarrassed that you know, of whether it’s because he doesn’t have a crush on you and is embarrassed that you might think he does.

Well, you can’t know until you talk to him and it seems like you won’t be able to talk to him unless you ambush him in the men’s toilets or something. Which, by the way, isn’t something you’re going to do because even though your friends might be crazy, you’re most definitely not.

It was even to the point that Jungkook missed the first two practices after you found out, and you have no doubt that he would have avoided you by missing even more had Yoongi not threatened him with adding a crop top to his punishment attire should he miss another practice. He’d showed up for the next one but every time he came within five metres of you he blushed and kept his eyes to the ground, fleeing as soon as he can.

It’s a little bit frustrating, and he’s still cute when he acts all shy, but you really wish you could track him down just so you know whether its true or not.

Perhaps, with time, he’ll grow a little less skittish and let you get close enough to start a conversation. You just have to hold out hope that a moment will come that will allow you to start bridging things back together with the two of you.

FRIDAY, WEEK 7

That moment comes sooner than you expect when, just the next day, you round a corner alongside Seulgi, having just come from the women’s locker rooms, and walk straight into someone. It’s like walking into a brick wall and kind of hurts. You stumble and let out a sound in pained surprise, but manage to stay on your feet for the most part— the joy at that moment of success passes quickly when you become aware of the cool feeling seeping down your thigh and stomach.

Before even looking to see who you walked into, your gaze is directed down to see what was spilt on you— it’s light pink, and the sugary sweet scent that brushes your nose and sticky sensation that begins to make itself known on your skin are something you recognise instantly.

Strawberry milk.

You look up in something akin to horror, but the expression all but falls from your face when you see who the culprit is.

Jungkook stands there looking very much like a deer caught in headlights, drink carton crumpled and empty in his hand now that its contents are all over your front. As you gaze at him you watch the tip of his ears turn bright red, eyes wide and so unguarded you swear you can see the thoughts whipping through his mind beyond them. You also see the instant regret and mortification that washes over his boyish features as he realises what has just happened and who he has spilt his drink on.

“y-y/n—” he stutters, voice caught in his throat. Whatever he was planning on saying is quickly overpowered by an obnoxious voice from his side.

You hadn’t even noticed Yoongi was walking alongside Jungkook until you hear him speak, “Wow, you know what you were coming around that corner so hard and fast that this is on you, y/n.”

When Yoongi first started talking, Jungkook had seemed relieved, but now a sense of panic has taken over his features.

“N-no! I am so sorry! This was my fault, I shouldn’t have had it open when I couldn’t even drink it yet. I just really like strawberry milk, and…” He’s so endearingly remorseful as he speaks, big puppy eyes looking apologetically into your own like he’s searching for any hint of forgiveness there to spare.

For a moment you’re absolutely blindsided by the way he just made your heart squeeze in your chest with how damn cute he is, but you recover just in time to catch it as the shocked expression on Yoongi’s face melds into something devious and fitting for his bastardly title.

“Right, he’s right, totally our bad,” Yoongi says, doing a complete 180 and bewildering both you and Seulgi beside you. “Wow, look at your pants, totally soaked through man. Here, come with me— it’s only fair we help grab you something to change into.”

“What—” you don’t get to finish before the cat-faced bastard grabs you by the arm and begins dragging you down the hall in the direction you came from. Seulgi and Jungkook remain in place, stunned by the turn in events.

“Jungkook, head to practice and get them started! I want some pyramid practice, and then some tumbling from you and the others. Chop chop!” — is all Yoongi throws over his shoulder in dismissal, dragging you where you now realise is one of the other locker rooms. You gape at him as he walks straight up to the one that has been locked for months and opens it with a key.

Catching your expression, he shrugs. “Sometimes you just need a place of your own to hoard things.”

You don’t understand what he’s talking about until you step in and see a table in the corner near the doorway piled high with first aid supplies, twiggy sticks and energy drinks. Your bewildered subsequent scan of the room for more treasured objects is cut short when a lump of clothing smacks you in the face.

You just barely manage to fumble it into your grasp, unable to swallow your groan when you see what it is from the pattern alone.

“It’s the only thing spare,” Yoongi says, radiating true goblin energy. You don’t trust him as far as you can throw him right now but you don’t know where to look to disprove him. “Try not to get my cheerleaders too worked up.”

You have an inkling as to why he’s done this from his words, but can’t confirm it right now. You huff, moving off to one of the stalls.

“If people get flashed, that’s on you.”

Ten minutes later sees you back in the open gymnasium with cool air brushing your legs that usually only get to see the light of day through rips in your jeans. You set your team to their tasks and drills already, so now you’re left alone with your thoughts. You know for sure now why Yoongi made you change into the cheerleading skirt.

Because ever since you walked out in it and nearly made him fall flat on his face in shock, Jungkook hasn’t been able to keep the blush off his cheeks or his eyes away from you for more than a few minutes at a time. You feel slightly empowered, contrary to how you thought the dangerously short piece of clothing was going to make you feel.

You have a nice body, you’re comfortable admitting it, and the way that your unplanned flaunting of it seems to be affecting Jungkook… well it’s a nice stroke of the ego, you won’t lie, but it also makes your stomach flip giddily. God, you want him. You’ve always thought he was cute but ever since he joined cheer and rocked up in that skirt like a sweet, hot fool, it was over for you. He’s so… ugh.

Trucking through the practice of your team is, for once, a struggle. It’s so hard not to look over every few seconds to catch Jungkook when you can feel his gaze on you, and you know that once you give in you won’t be able to help being distracted afterwards. It’s a miracle you get through to the end of it while remaining sane.

As your practice wraps up for the day, you allow yourself a glimpse to the side at last. What you see is a sweaty, panting Jungkook, the muscles of his arms straining as he holds up a brunette you vaguely recall as Tzuyu above his head. Wow, you’re actually a little startled at how much arousal just washed through you— is this normal? Maybe you’re more whipped than you thought. You don’t know.

What you do know, however, is that you want that boy, and right now especially you want to mess with him. Call it a con of being around such bastardous friends all the time, but you’re really feeling the urge. You barely manage to hold yourself back, marvelling at the animal he seems to reduce you to with just a flex of his bicep.

The practice for your basketball team finishes before cheerleading; Yoongi is a ruthless coach and relentless when it comes to formations and perfecting routines. More often than not their practices end long after yours. As your girls begin to filter out of the gymnasium, the cheer squad are still going. You make to follow after, but your name is called from the other side of the gym by a voice you recognise but know instantly shouldn’t be here.

“y/n! Come here! Don’t ignore me!” Seokjin is the fiend in question, hollering at such an unmistakable frequency that you couldn’t ignore it if you tried. It’s like he’s followed in the footsteps of cats and has pinpointed the exact frequency that a baby’s cry is at, and is now using it to his advantage. You turn, wary, and see him waving like a dumbass. “Come here! Don’t make me pspspsps!”

Now annoyed, you stomp over if only so you can get within beating range. As soon as you reach a few feet away he ducks behind Yoongi though, so you don’t get to follow through on your caveman instincts to beat him over the head with a rock.

“What?” you ask, giving him a stinky look. “Are you like, stalking me or something? Why are you so obsessed with me?”

You can tell he wants to laugh, but his instinct to rile you up overpowers the humour of what you said. “You think you’re worth stalking? I don’t need to stalk you to know that your day consists almost entirely of eating, shitting, and staring at a certain ass.”

Well, he has you there. You shrug, “I’m a simple girl.”

Seokjin is momentarily bewildered that you didn’t rise to his bait and Yoongi chokes on his laughter beside you, the sound coming out squeaky. You’re glad someone is laughing, it makes your dick hard when people find you funny. Again, you’re a simple girl.

“Nice outfit, by the way,” Seokjin says. Apparently it doesn’t take him long to recover, and he’s already shifted topics.

Yoongi, who had broken away to guide his team for a moment, chimes back in at the taller male’s comment. “It’s all apart of the keikaku, man. Everything is going perfectly. My golden boy is almost too fun to torment. I’ve tasted power and now I don’t know how to stop.”

“Who?” Seokjin asks, more out of habit than anything, before looking over to Yoongi’s minions and letting out a sound of realisation. “Ahh… Mister Jungkook.”

You swear you see the male in question, who is waiting his turn to begin the tumbling routine Yoongi has changed them onto, stiffen. You’re not sure whether it is a trick of the light or not, though, because in the next second he’s shuffling forward to second in line, juggling his weight from foot to foot with restless energy. His eyes are trained on his teammates flipping across the matts.

“So you know too? y/n, you big-mouthed whore!” Seokjin exclaims, pinning you with an exaggerated look of scandal. Jungkook trips slightly in his step as he moves to the front of the line, barely a few metres away.

You don’t bother defending yourself, since Yoongi speaks before you can anyway. “That y/n likes Jungkook and has wanted to peg his cute ass since forever? Yeah, I know.”

The timing of Yoongi’s response is truly unfortunate. As he started speaking, Jungkook began his run up— and it seems that whatever snippet he heard as he started were enough to throw him off completely. He goes into the front flip kind of wonky, and you have a feeling of dread creep up as you watch him.

He doesn’t do the mid-air turns he is meant to, and instead goes to land after just one flip— the timing is off, though, and your breath hisses through your teeth and you physically cringe as you watch his ankle roll upon landing.

“Ah SHIT!” he yelps, quickly dropping to the mat and removing pressure from his foot. You feel frozen as you watch, a large number of his teammates running over and asking him if he’s okay.

“Oh feck,” Yoongi says, checking his watch as he mutters to himself. “Shit. Okay we need to practice and only have the gym for another forty-five minutes, but he needs that looked at asap. Who…”

Barely a split-second passes before he’s looking right at you imploringly, with an inappropriately devious glint in the back of his eyes.

“y/n, you’re free and you have first aid training right? Can you take him to get that wrapped and iced up?” He’s not even done asking you before he’s pushing you in the direction of the male currently curled on the floor. “That room should still be open— I forgot to lock it earlier.”

“Wait, I actually have—” you’re about to let him know about the mountain of schoolwork you have to catch up on, but of course he’s not having any of it. He’s already barking at his squad.

“Okay, everyone, back off and back to tumbling! y/n here will take care of our golden boy, we have the gym for the next forty-five minutes and we’re gonna make the most of it, damn it!”

Yoongi abandons you at Jungkook’s side, and at his command the rest of the cheerleader begrudgingly disperse— you think you catch a few of the female ones giving you the stink eye at their lost opportunity, and you know it shouldn’t stroke your ego but still it does.

“I guess this is how the Kookie crumbled, huh,” you say, embarrassed that he could have heard all of what Yoongi said and attempting to cope using the classic— humour.

Jungkook, who had turned his wide eyes and red face to you the second you started talking, now seems to be blushing harder. Evidently, for a number of reasons, he is mortified. It’s like he’s trying to hide behind the long curls that have fallen into his face. Needless to say, it’s not successful, and now both of you are embarrassed. One of you needs to take the lead.

But right now neither of you are wearing the pants.

“Alright, let’s get that looked at,” you say, wincing as you look at his ankle already beginning to swell. “Arms up.”

He obeys instantly and without question, and you’re torn between the primal powers within you wanting to both cuddle him and to drop your panties then and there.

Getting Jungkook to a standing position while he can only use one leg is harder than you could have imagined, but you know that there’s no way you would have been able to lift him had he not helped you carry his weight. Once he’s upright and his arm is around your shoulder (still panting slightly and glistening with sweat, as you’re trying not to think about) you begin the arduous journey to the locker room Yoongi showed you earlier.

Jungkook doesn’t really say anything during the trip there, and neither do you— except he has an excuse, considering he’s probably in a fair bit of pain right now. You don’t have an excuse, except that you’re trying desperately not to think about how you can feel each hard line of his body against you right now. It’s a whole-brain engaging kind of activity.

Thankfully, the room is unlocked as Yoongi said, and you grab a towel to lay across one of the cleaner looking benches on the far side of the room— just because its cleaner than the others doesn’t mean it’s clean, per se. You smile when you see Jungkook’s thankful expression.

“Right,” you say, staying in front of where he’s sitting for a moment as you shake your arms out; the boy really is just all muscle, honestly. “Pop your ankle up on the bench, and I’ll grab some ice and stuff to wrap it.”

Jungkook nods, obeying wordlessly. His cheeks still are tainted the slightest pink, and he’s making a point to avoid meeting your gaze. Fighting a smile, you move to Yoongi’s stash and grab what you need, spotting some high-end painkillers and immediately adding them to the pile in your arms.

When you return to his side, you seat yourself on the bench beside his leg— thankfully, they’re wide enough that neither your butt nor Jungkook’s leg has to be sacrificed for the fit. You go through the motions with him, poking and prodding and bending to assess the damage; it’s just a bad sprain, but damn if each watery look he gets at the pain doesn’t make you want to coddle him to death.

Surprisingly, he’s still silent as you go about icing and wrapping his ankle. You contemplated filling the silence but you’re not good at chit chat or small talk, so refrain and settle for humming softly instead. Considering the rollercoaster of feelings he’s spun you through today, you’re almost disappointed that a wrap on his ankle is all that’s going to come of this.

Which is stupid, of course. You know. You digress.

You’re still somewhat disappointed as you finish up, popping the excess bandage back in its container. “Okay! You’ll need to…”

You make the mistake of meeting his gaze, and for once he doesn’t shy away from it— there’s something about them, the endless chocolate depths and the doe-eyed look, that completely disarms you for a moment. Blinking, it takes all your might to stop yourself from studying as you continue. “Ahem, uh… you’ll need to keep it elevated, when possible. Compressing it is ideal. Also, for swelling, ice it for 20-30 minutes every 2-3 hours for the first day or so…”

He blinks up at you, and you smile. “Any questions?”

Something intriguing crosses his gaze and he bites his lip, flushing slightly. Oh, he is doing a number on your willpower. You need to get out of here.

“Yeah, uh…” He clears his throat, continuing straight away. You watch even more colour rush to his cheeks, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “About earlier… when I stacked it… Was what Yoongi said true?”

Well. You were not… expecting that. For a moment you’re stunned into silence, self control hanging by a thread. “What… Yoongi said?”

Jungkook gives you a look like he can’t believe you’re making him say it. “That you, um…”

Humiliated but deciding to face it head on, you ask him with your own cheeks heating, “Are you asking about the pegging or the, uh… the liking you part?”

To your surprise, Jungkook chokes and stiffens in place, eyes shooting wide and face and ears going beet red. “I, um… I only heard the liking part…”

OH. Well. You kind of want to die, but… at least now he knows?

…You’re gonna throw yourself off a bridge.

He must mistake the cause of your silence for something else, because he seems to panic. “B-because, um, I know you know how I feel, and it’s okay if you don’t um— I was just wondering—”

In the midst of his spiel, you take a seat on the bench, closer to him than you were last time. It only makes him grow more flustered before you press a finger to his lips to shush him. He gets the message and falls silent instantly, making your heart skip a beat at his ready obedience. God, are you an animal?! Really?!

“I was trying to track you down to confirm it, you know,” you say, shoving your embarrassment into a box in the far reaches of your mind. Time to swallow your pride. “But you kept avoiding me.”

Jungkook’s eyes are still wide. “Oh… sorry.”

You smile at his soft, uttered apology. Testingly, tentatively, you shift your hand and rest it on his hip. His whole body stiffens once more, but its more in surprise than discomfort. “What would you do if it was true, hm?”

Like a deer caught in headlights, he’s momentarily speechless. When your thumb rubs against the hard line of his hip bone, drawing a shudder, he jerks back into motion.

“Oh my god, you—” he’s dazed before he narrows his eyes at you, voice dropping to a whisper that’s somewhat tinged with hurt. “Are you teasing me?”

You manage to hold back the laugh but can’t help the smile that rises at his words. “I always get the urge to tease you, Jungkook, but it’s not to be cruel.” You lean forward, holding his gaze. “I probably never grew out of that kindergarten stage.”

It takes a second for what you said to sink in. The way that hope enters his eyes is so cute that you’re humiliated at the urge to squeal that rises. “So, you…”

It’s embarrassing to say the words out loud, especially considering the filth running through your mind right now, and you can’t quite bring yourself to. Teasingly, you bring your other hand to his thigh, brushing the edge of the skirt with your thumb and enjoying the way he shivers. “It’s embarrassing to say out loud, so if you want to hear it, you’re gonna have to work for it.”

The soft, excited gasp he lets out emboldens you to carry out your next action— you move the hand on his hip, brushing your fingertips up the side of his slim waist before bringing them back down to rest over his crotch.

To your complete and utter surprise, there is already some firmness there that greets you. At your curious gaze, he flushes pink.

“It’s the skirt,” he confesses, averting his gaze to your lap for the briefest second. “You look really good in it…”

Not that your ego needs more stroking, but you’re happy to let it happen anyway. You hum, beginning to move your hand— he stifles a gasp.

“I know,” you say, grinning. It’s ridiculous how your stomach flips, arousal beginning to trickle into your abdomen and ache in the apex of your thighs. “I could feel you looking at me. I caught you a few times, too.”

He’s embarrassed, you can tell, but the current situation doesn’t leave much room for dignity as it is anyway. Still, you can’t help but tease him some more, voice soft as you rub over his growing bulge and lean closer. “Do you always look at me, Jungkook?”

He squirms, a gasp slipping out before he attempts to send you a glare. “This is embarrassing,” he whines. You raise a brow, increasing the pressure of your hand, and he is quick to amend his response in a whisper, “…Yes.”

“And what do you imagine, when you look at me?” you ask, unable to deny the thrill running through your veins and lighting heat in your abdomen. You pause your ministrations only to move your hand to the top of his skirt and slip beneath the material. This time a moan slips out before he can stop it. “Is it things like this?”

He lets his head fall back against the wall, looking at you through hazy, lidded eyes. “Yes,” he admits, and for how readily he supplied the answer you reward him by slipping your hand beneath the rest of the layers over his hips and wrapping your fingers around his hardening length.

He whines— actually whines— and rolls his hips into your hand, thick thigh tensing beneath the grip of your other hand. The resulting wash of arousal that floods over you is so sudden it almost makes you dizzy.

“Oh, you’re a good boy,” you mutter it without much thought, but surprise filters through you when you feel his length twitch and flush with heat in your hold at the words. Ah— he likes a bit of praise, does he? You slide your free hand up his thigh, working the waistband of his skirt and bike shorts down until they rest just past the beginning of his thighs. It’s like you’re looking at a work of art, you marvel slightly— the curls that begin to trail down a little below his belly button, the sculpted line of his hip bones and the hints of his abs that show as his body tenses. You’re just one woman.

“Does it feel as good as you imagined, Jungkook?” you aimed to speak louder but it comes out sort of breathy. You trail your fingers down the tan skin of his abdomen before gripping the material of his bottoms and using the moment to free his length.

If you didn’t have such a firm grip on it, you know it would have sprung back against his stomach— you try not to let your surprise show, either, because you could feel that he was packing, but seeing it is another thing and your stomach flips in giddy anticipation. Jungkook’s chest heaves as his breath quickens, eyes boring into you and hands bunching in the material of the punishment skirt. You stroke your hand along his length, pressing your thumb along the underside and relishing in the shudder it elicits.

“y/n,” he whines softly, face flushing as his cock twitches in your hold. Whether he’s forgotten you even asked a question or simply is too overwhelmed to answer right now, you don’t know.

As for how you’re doing— you’re so turned on right now that in all honesty you don’t know what to do with yourself. A solution comes to mind quickly and you don’t have the usual self control you do to stop yourself.

Mindful of his injured leg, you rise, keeping your grip on him as you do so. His lidded gaze follows you, soft gasps escaping him all the while.

“Give me your leg,” you instruct, relishing how quickly he listens. Presented with his thigh, you swing one of your legs over the other side of the bench and rest on it so that as little weight as possible is on his bad leg, your knees brushing his hips. As soon as you’re lowered, you can’t help but gasp and roll your hips— the only thing separating you and the smooth skin and hard muscle of his thigh is the thin layer of your damp panties, and the stimulation on your clit makes your entire core throb in arousal.

Apparently this is also one of the things he’s imagined, because Jungkook lets out a low, gasping moan and rolls his hips up into your hand— which, of course, makes his thigh muscles tense and shift, rubbing oh so nicely against your clit. You almost fall off from the jolt of pleasure that shoots up your spine, free hand shooting to grab his bicep, “Ah, Jungkook!”

He apparently has the sense of mind to support you by using the arm in your hold to reach and grip your hip. Generous amounts of precum have started to bead at his tip, and you drag your hand up his girth, collecting it on your thumb and smearing it down his length for lubrication. It elicits a whine, another roll of his hips, and like that you settle into a rhythm of sorts.

“y/n.” Each gasp and moan he lets out have to be specially designed to ruin you, you decide. He seeks your gaze with hazy, lust-ridden eyes. “Please kiss me.”

It’s a brazen request coming from him of all people, and you’re all too happy to oblige. You lean forward, the rock of your hips making you shudder, and connect his lips with your own— he’d sought your kiss as you did so, craning his neck forward and awaiting your lips. It’s a heated kiss from the beginning, given the situation— you don’t fight for dominance so much as assume it from the start. Each press of your tongue, graze of your teeth, has a new sound tumbling from his throat and into your mouth. It makes your heart race even harder than it already was.

It doesn’t take long for tension to begin to build in your abdomen, and you know if you’re already feeling it then he must be even closer. Not wanting this to end just yet, you force yourself to slow your hand down, breaking the kiss and shifting to press your mouth to his neck.

“Wh-what—” he gasps, shuddering as your thumb plays with his slit, rhythm slowed to a stop. Both of you are panting, almost, and you suckle a mark into the junction of his neck before pulling back with a grin.

“Surely that isn’t all you’ve imagined, Jungkook.” You lean forward, pressing a brief kiss to his mouth before pulling back— the way he chases your lips makes your heart squeeze. “What now? Be a good boy, tell me.”

Far from being embarrassed at this point and all but a slave to the haze of lust in the air, Jungkook’s breath hitches and he responds, somewhat tentative if anything, “… ride me.”

“Good boy,” you breathe, offering him a proud smile. He preens beneath your fond look.

You shift, and you think that he must have expected you to stand up fully and remove your clothes, or at least your bottoms, but to his surprise you simply shuffle up and reach beneath your skirt, slipping your panties aside and aligning his member with your entrance. You’re so turned on that you’ve soaked through your underwear, and you know you’ve smeared enough precum along his length that lubrication will be no problem. So you simply lower yourself down until his head parts your lips and begins to sink into you.

At the sheer size of him even as just the tip enters your cunt, you have to halt, gasping, “Fuck!”

If he wanted to respond, you don’t really give him time to; as soon as you get your bearings you continue sinking down onto him. There is a slight burn, of course, but you’re so turned on that it fades quicker than you can register. The sensation of him, the throb, his girth and the way he splits your walls, stretching you more and more as you seat yourself on him— it’s indescribable, and all you can offer is that it feels so good you swear tears are gonna prick at your eyes. From the look on his face, brows scrunched and mouth parted as a long, low groan slips out, you know it must feel just as good for him.

When the back of your thighs press against the top of his his and he’s fully sheathed in you, you feel like you’re about to lose your mind— this position has him so deep in your pussy that with each miniscule shift the tip of his cock presses against a spot that sends delicious jolts of pleasure up your spine. Honestly, if you weren’t so intent on seeing this through, you think you could cum from that sensation alone.

Even as you’re in a mess of pleasure and a haze of desire, you can’t help but tease him some more. You clench your insides, rolling your hips— the sharp, lilting moan he lets out makes your stomach flip. “What now, baby boy?”

You hold his hips down with your hand, feeling them twitch with the urge to rock up into you. A long, drawn groan escapes him. “Do you want to see me? More of me? Or do you want to feel me?”

You take his hand into your hold and guide it up to your chest, slipping it beneath your shirt and bra to cup your breast. His breath hitches, lashes fluttering against his cheekbones as he blinks and attempts to clear the haze from his vision. You relish in the control you have over him until his thumb brushes your nipple and he pinches it, tweaking it instinctively. A moan tears from you, the shock of pleasure that results making you clench around him again; his free hand scrambles for purchase against your thigh, fingers digging in as pleasure washes over him in turn.

Your breath is coming a little faster now. Leaving his hand at your chest, you move it to drag up his neck before threading your fingers in the damp curls at the back of his neck. Finding a firm grip, you tug his head back ever so lightly— it elicits a new moan that you haven’t heard yet, and you really begin to think this boy will be your undoing.

“What do you want?” you ask again, rolling your hips once more. It isn’t fair of you, you know, since you can hardly think yourself from the sensations. “You want me to move, baby boy?”

He nods, attempting to speak through the moan caught in his throat. “Please… fuck me, y/n.”

Well, who are you to say no to that?

Happy to oblige, you engage your thighs and begin to rise— the sensation of him dragging against your walls makes both of you gasp, and you almost falter in your movements from the feeling alone. Gathering your wits as best as you can, you continue your movements, successfully rising and then seating yourself once more. Unable to withhold much longer, you roll your hips and begin to set the two of you into a rhythm.

You stopped paying heed to the noises escaping you a while ago, but you don’t doubt that the sinful sounds tumbling from Jungkook’s mouth as you ride him are a large contributor to the way the tension in your abdomen quickly begins to knot and bundle once more.

Even with as heavenly as it feels, it’s hard to keep up momentum when your thighs begin to burn. Thankfully, Jungkook has more than enough stamina in his thigh muscles for the both of you, and when he senses your fatigue, he brings his grip to your hips to hold them in place before rocking his own up and beginning to fuck up into you.

Needless to say, the pace he sets is much faster and much harder than the one you had. Swears tumble softly from your mouth at the change in intensity of pleasure as it shoots through you, orgasm already approaching much faster than anticipated. Your hands come to grip his on your hips with a cry of his name, knees turning to jelly.

Movement against your hand surprises you, but not as much as the sensation of Jungkook’s hand shifting to thread his fingers with yours. You honestly feel your heart burst, and as he fucks up into you that bit harder you can’t help the way you clutch his hand like a lifeline, the sweet moment quick to pass but most definitely not forgotten.

“G-gonna cum,” you gasp, eyes closing and allowing the slap of skin and Jungkook’s gasping moans to overtake your senses. You don’t forget to indulge him in some praise. “Such a g-good boy, making me feel so g-good.”

He whines at your words, and right as your pleasure approaches its peak you feel his hips stutter and slam up into yours harder than all the times before. The stimulation of that spot deep inside of you is all that’s needed to push you into the throes of your orgasm, and it washes over you more intensely than you’ve ever felt before as you clench and tense with a cry of his name.

Distantly, you feel his own grip on you tighten, and his hips still as they’re pressed against yours. Warmth floods your core, cock throbbing as he empties inside you, and you swear you hear the softest of confessions uttered to the air as he joins you in your high.

He comes down before you do, although you’re not far behind him, and for a moment you sit in place, panting and attempting to come back to your senses. He’s softened inside you slightly, but when you shift and clench on instinct as you do so, feeling cum slide down your thighs, he twitches and throbs inside you.

Taken aback, your gaze whips to him and now that his shame has returned to him, he has the decency to blush. Well, apparently Jeon Jungkook’s stamina really is no joke. Maybe he really was born to be an athlete.

“Greedy. You want more?” There’s a teasing lilt to your voice, and a thrilling mix of fear and excitement dances in his eyes.

“y/n—” he rasps, desperate. You slide off of him, making both of you groan, but return to your previous position on his thigh. He moans as he feels his own cum leak out of you and onto his skin. When your hand comes to wrap around his slick member, he jolts and whines.

“You wanna tell me what you said just before?” you ask, beginning to twist your wrist and stroke his cock ever so slowly. He shakes his head, whether at your question or the overstimulation, you’re not sure— you know it’s probably a bit of both though, considering he twitches in your hold.

“‘S embarrassing,” he murmurs, back arching as you increase your pace just a little. “Ah, y/n!”

“I see. You know, I think I can get you to cum again,” you say, changing tactics.

Jungkook shakes his head, strands of his raven hair plastered to his forehead in sweat. “I can’t—”

“You should tell me,” you say, teasing lilt to your tone. He whines, rocking his hips into and then away from the sensations.

When he shakes his head again, letting it fall back against the wall and baring the column of his throat to you, you jump on his acceptance of the situation. You pick up speed, rolling your wrist and moving in tune with the shifting of his body. It doesn’t take very long before his oversensitivity throws him into another orgasm, stronger than the last but dryer. The few beads of cum that escape seem ever so tantalising as they roll down his length, drawing your gaze.

“You gonna tell me now?” you ask, already knowing the answer. Jungkook slumps against the wall, breathing heavy and sweat glistening on his golden skin. He looks at you through heavily lidded eyes.

“It’s still embarrassing,” he whines, breathy in his exertion.

Right, well. You know what he said, but you want to hear him say it with his own mouth once more and you’ll stay here all night to make that happen if you need to.

Of course, it’s not until a while and another heated moment or two later that Jungkook realises this and gives in.

His confession is so much sweeter on your ears the second time, and of course, as promised, you reward him with your own. It’s worth it for the way it makes his eyes shine, you think.

Jeon Jungkook really has you well and truly whipped.

a/n: thank u for reading and i hope u liked it! im super excited to have completed my first commission and would really appreciate it if u let me know what u think by sending me an ask and liking & rbing this with ur thoughts!! i read & appreciate everything!! thank u !! love u !! peace out !! :D

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sardonicallys · 3 years

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𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸, 𝗻𝗼 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆 | 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝘄𝗼

mobile masterlist | web masterlist

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: Jaebeom + Female!Reader

𝗚𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: Corporate AU, Mature, Smut, Angst, Enemies to Lovers

𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: Cursing, sexual content, mentions of trauma

𝗦𝘆𝗽𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀: You don't like to think of the word "workaholic" as an insult, but rather as a title of prestige. Everything you have accomplished in your career has been reflected as a glimmering treasure in your trophy case that doted on your work ethic and undying tenacity to put your best effort in everything you have involved yourself in. When you're transferred to what feels just a step away from a demotion, rewritten as an opportunity to "help" the new CEO, you find yourself in a predicament when you realize he's an unbearable nuisance.

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗖𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 10,072

𝗔𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲: This chapter took forever to write, for literally no reason at all.

[ chapter one ]

The coffee tastes like water.

What you noticed about pondering is that it somehow took all the energy from everything else and redistributed it for its own selfish purposes, in this case you were left wandering your snapshots of last night while your tongue savored liquid that was mute. You wouldn’t necessarily call your behavior appropriate but it was concocted not from pleasure, rather delivered from revenge. It was resentment that fueled your desire — sexual gratification could not fulfill this hunger — it was about power. It was about control. It was seizing back every ounce of pride you let your good for nothing chief of executive operations put out like a lousy cigarette on the ground after you had offered humility. These murky thoughts were the reason you felt no regret for your actions, but you were still subjected to the over seasoned yet tasteless rice balls and the coffee that emulated muddy rain water on your tongue. You felt like shit, essentially, but in the complexity of things you had won. Grinding the ball of your foot into the pavement as rock scraps rolled beneath your sole, you slouched into the backing of the bench while listening to the sprinklers douse the grass, quietly piecing together what you were going to do.

What were you going to do?

Now without a job from a company you bent backwards and jumped through flaming hoops for, your mind raced with the anxious reminder that you were going to have to build your way back up. Convincing yourself it wasn’t so bad because you had attempted, and succeeded, was becoming a struggle every passing second. The flood of contemplation had you wondering if you should have accepted the offers that were given to you while you were being scouted by other companies who wanted to poach you from the market. Had you known you’d be assisting a living piece of shit, you may have resisted less.

Honestly you always wanted to live simply, at least amongst the standards of society. A small one bedroom apartment in the city but not on prime real estate, a middle manager job at a branch of a main company with opportunities, a stray black kitten turned cat, and you, the whole of these extensions. You always did your best and prided your perception off these little views into the whole reflection of you, regardless of what the outcome was because in reality, you expected only this much. This was simple and humble living, and this is all you wanted. You worked hard and you minded your own business, so what kind of karma did this entail exactly?

Pushing yourself off the bench, finally grappling with the sore result of your body, you felt the weight sink to your ankles as they balanced between carrying you and keeping poised on your heels. The walk of shame carried a different meaning to you, and it was that you were unemployed for the first time since university started. Discarding the remnants of your tasteless excuse for a breakfast, you brisked through the park and back towards your neighborhood where you could finally wash yesterday down the drain and start over, perhaps through job hunting. Just a block away from your building, you practically planted into the ground at the sound of your mobile phone as it erupted in your purse. Fishing it out, you squinted at the unknown number and somehow between the second you saw it and the second you answered, you hoped it was a pleasant coincidence that maybe someone you knew was looking to hire. Or perhaps a friend of yours recommended you and someone was reaching out to see if you were interested in a new career path? Better yet, that friend opened a company and needed you on the team for a start-up. Anything, desperation chimed, anything.

Anything but the sound of Mr. Im’s voice that oozed with impatience, instead, surfaced into the canal of your ear, “Why aren’t you in office?”

To say you were shocked was an understatement, completely in disillusion to the point where you pulled the phone away from you just to check if you were starting to hear things all on your own. After a brief pause, you curtly responded, “…Because I was terminated?”

There’s silence before a sarcastic laugh sparked from the receiver, “I don’t have any official documentation of that, you need to work until we find a replacement.”

A long pause, “Or did you not know that.”

The last comment was made to be a complete fucking asshole, you knew he was provoking you. Inhaling deeply, assuring not to allow the noise of frustration earn the exact reaction he was seeking, Mr. Im spoke once more, “I’ll see you in fifteen.”

And the line cut off.

Sometimes, you had a habit of taking too shallow breaths and you spoke to a few doctors to which they deliberated that you may have had some form of anxiety that lie dormant between the physiology of your being. Mostly because during these questionnaires, you had a bit of trouble answering honestly and it wasn't that you weren't aware of what you were doing, but you couldn't bring yourself to say the words that were on your mind. Instead you vaguely referred to them, like a directory more than an explanation. You assume the psychiatrist you met with saw through this, but knew how to communicate without causing a catalyst to exacerbate the symptoms. Besides, it wasn't abundant enough for medication but it wasn't quiet enough for you to go through your day to day without feeling a stammering worry that plagued every atom of your body. You remembered reading some time ago that there was a man who had some disease — common or not — and he committed to these breathing exercises that extended his life expectancy tenfold. That was what you wanted, right now in this moment, just to breathe enough to survive this because you were not going to crumble here, not when you were going to prove a point.

Turning on your heel, you started charging back towards the main street only to halt to a stop. But why should you return? It was already decided, just moments ago, to start anew. Right? You had made your resolution the second you slipped your clothes back on and disappeared from the room you shared with Mr. Im that you were going to rebuild this but better. There was no reason to go back to that fucking office to suffer the berating existence that it was to be a secretary of someone who had very little respect for you. There just wasn't. You barely realized how tensed your shoulders were until you exhaled deeply, feeling your muscles release your bones.

I'm going home.

But you can't seem to move because somewhere in the depths of your overthinking, riddled with holes and passages that descended down to nowhere, labyrinths of darkness that encased your every motive you wondered, what if he screws your entire career? What if, being a heavy hand in your industry, he crushes every possible pathway for you and you're left with nothing? Because he knew how much this whole thing meant to you, if it wasn't enough that you were willing to miserably put up with his shit the day before, then at least your work record could prove that much. The worry filled your being, as if someone was pouring water and it was already at your knees. Before you know it, you feel the water climb up your throat and now you're sprinting through the subway as you bite back your tears of frustration because you had never, not once felt that you lacked this much control in your entire life.

Entering the building, the embarrassment crashed into you like a flood, your head hung as you balled your fists up, creating crescents of your nails into your palms, wearing the same navy chiffon dress that adorned you the day before. The several years of pride that you built on your appearance, work ethic, and upstanding quality were crashing down onto you in just a matter of days and you could barely bring yourself to take the elevator up to your floor, the brief glances of your peers and coworkers feeling as if you were scrutinized — regardless if they had noticed your disheveled appearance or not. You're absolutely disgusted as you dropped your things at your desk, no time to even peer at yourself in a mirror, and threw Mr. Im's door open, not bothering to knock.

"Great, you're on time," he doesn't even bother to look up, but you're not surprised. Parting your lips to speak, he finally lifted his head and you could feel his revolting gaze scan over your appearance, causing you to feel nauseated and hold your speech which allowed him to interject first, "You didn't even bother to change?"

There were no words that you could find, or at least, no single formed sentence to use that could have described the frustration that coursed through every vein in your body. Your breathing turned shallow again, reflecting on how your superior had cleaned up — hair slicked back and a freshly dry cleaned suit, the collar of his shirt starched and ironed perfectly to press against his neck. The piercing and judgmental gaze gripped your lungs, forcing you to keep your composure, "...I didn't have time this morning. I had assumed—"

"Your affairs outside of the office aren't my business," sneering your name, you could see half a smirk appear on his lips as he continued, "but it seems you must have had a long night if you were irresponsible enough to show up...Like this."

Leaning back in his chair, you have to program your nerves not to let your jaw drop from his comment. The back of your neck warmed instantly, creating a trail to a migraine as you repeated to yourself breathe breathe breathe because you could feel your throat closing up quicker now.

"My apologies," through gritted teeth, you managed to surface a cruel smile, "I promise it won't happen again."

Rather than wait for his direction, you turned and slammed the door behind you before striding towards your desk, dropping your weight into your chair while quietly gasping for air. I shouldn't have come back, head tilted back as you attempted to ease into steady breathing. As childish as it was, you wanted to blame the whole of this on Jaebeom, every last fucking bit of it. But you can't and perhaps that's what created even more friction, because you knew that this wasn't his fault, at least not entirely. You created this situation yourself, and had you not selfishly decided to seek revenge for something as egotistic as pride, perhaps you could have walked away with your hands clean. This worked in tandem with the arrogance of your boss, of course, but he didn't do anything that was outside of your expectations. You earned this and so you attempted to recenter yourself by focusing entirely on work. There would be no time for your wandering thoughts and regrets, so long as you did what you did best and that was to work. Surprisingly, this is successful, and you managed through most of the day without feeling the combustion of frustration you had that morning, even avoiding Mr. Im as he had several clients to see to that day — all of which did not line up with your schedule, to your relief.

Just as the last two hours of your work day were resolving, greeting you every hour closer to your escape, you suddenly saw one of the sales associates frantically dart towards your desk with a heavy binder in her hands. It's a long explanation you can barely fathom through her shaky sobs, but you managed to piece together that a backorder she had placed had an exponential amount of quantity in contrast to the original form and she wasn't sure where to redistribute it. Apparently she heard you were a savior for these sort of situations at the branch, and now you were her only hope. Perhaps you pitied her tear stained face, and how could you possibly let her be fed to Mr. Im after he put you through the wringer this morning? Assuring her you would fix the mistake, you sent her home and began revising her work. Overtime wasn't new to you, but you hadn't thought this would to be a commitment as someone who was only an assistant. In some ways, you were relieved you were still seen as helpful, and that was honestly the ego boost you needed.

The office was empty, Mr. Im long gone due to some client meeting, the only sounds were your nails clacking away on the keyboard and the hum of the air conditioner every so often to keep the printing room cool. Occasionally, you'd hear the ice maker in the break room, but otherwise you were savoring the paradise of peace you were draped in while you began sorting the order. The work wasn't difficult but tedious, as you sent several notices to the global order management team, making them aware of certain changes you needed to override and why it was so sudden. The familiarity of work offered a sense of comfort to you, so much so, you didn't realize the figure hovering near your desk, "You're still here?"

The recognizable tone rekindled nausea as you focused on your screen, not bothering to look at the owner of the voice, "Yes, why are you here?"

"A meeting got moved and I thought I'd work on something..." the tone is flat and suddenly your vision blurs, fingers cold and unmoving, wondering why he's still looming before he suddenly grabbed the bottom mount of one of your monitors, turning it towards him. The silence indicated to you that he's probably reading, and you prepared yourself to hear him blast you with his uninvited criticism.

"...You know for someone who was at your managerial level, but unable to delegate, it's no wonder why you're a secretary now huh?"

"Excuse me?" Turning your head to look at him for the first time, you felt your blood pressure spike, "You do know you're in charge of overseeing the sales associates right?"

"It's not my job to clean up someone else's blatant mistakes, and it isn't yours either," turning the monitor back, he spoke his words firmly, "But someone who can't create a boundary on what their job title is..."

Sucking in a breath between his teeth, he folded his arms across his chest, "Certainly will do the work for them, huh?"

"Maybe, if you knew how to do your job better, they could follow," folding your fingers together, you leaned across the table, offering a sickeningly saccharine grin, "That way there wouldn't be any mistakes to clean up, don't you think, Mr. Im? You are only as strong as your weakest link."

"That's why you have to learn to strengthen those links, not baby them and do their damn work for them," leering at you, head tipped down, you have no other comments to make and there isn't time for it, because Mr. Im took his leave almost immediately after. It takes everything in you not to throw the monitors out the window behind you, use the computer itself to break through Mr. Im's door to trash his office, light the chairs and shelves lining the walls as a starter for a fire that would burn the building to a crisp. It takes everything in you not to boil over and cry every tear you had been holding in all fucking day. You pace back up to speed while continuing your work, still struggling to breathe.

A mug is delivered onto your desk by the devil's spawn, and you can't help but offer only disgust as he sips his own coffee. You dream a hundred different ways to splash the hot beverage at him as he lies in waiting, you assume, for you to take a sip, "Please tell me you put poison in it."

"You really think too highly of me."

"Trust me, I don't," rolling your eyes, you scanned through the worksheet, scrolling down towards a row in question.

"Drink it."

"No."

"Drink it and don't show up looking like you did again this morning."

Glaring at him, you begrudgingly took a sip before slamming the mug back down on the desk, holding your eye contact. If he was anyone else, you wouldn't have been so aggressive, stubborn. You would have certainly expressed your gratitude, but because he wasn't anyone else, you would never let him hear a single thank you for the rest of your life. It's close to midnight when you finish, and you depart without saying anything, letting the blur of catching the last train and of how you get home consume you through the sticky night air. You can't even recall a hint of how you washed up and got into bed, so drained you don't even notice when you fall asleep.

Water is the most pure and present representation of neutrality, a concoction that occurs only as a reaction. Though many physicists would argue otherwise, its state is a result more than a stable initiator. The temperature of water is adjusted due to exposure of heat, an outside conductor, its movements are recorded through the tectonic plates that grapple against one another hidden beneath the earth’s surface, another outside conductor. With the ability to control small increments in the human hand, it can also be a significant abundance and in mass amounts, water could flood whole cities, countries. Water brought life just as easily as it swept it away and as you float in an endless sea that had no horizon, blended to reflect the ash sky above, you wonder just how much of this is a reaction to you.

Though you were never particularly good at swimming, you could at least float. Fingers parted while exploring the viscous space, head bobbing just above the surface, the water that filled your ears and kept you recording your breathing in silence, soft licks of waves creeping beneath your inhales. Your body must have acclimated to the temperature since there was no particular differentiation when it came to heat and chill. Dipping down as you closed your eyes, you held your breath but soon realized while being under just slightly and seemingly too long, there was no reason to be doing so. Soft dancing bubbles escaped your nostrils as you looked up to see the dim light cadence against the reflective surface, glimmering for your return.

Instead, the urge to sink into the dark abyss intrigued you while you curled up and felt your weightlessness create some form of mass that drifted your being down. Lulling your eyes closed, the shadow depths began to creep over your skin as the gentle shifts in the water turned and rocked you at its will. Each breath you drank let no salt touch your tongue as you listlessly floated through limbo, no particular attention towards anything yet all things, all at once. Opening your eyes once more just to observe how far you fell, now in utter darkness. A deeper smudge of obsidian seemed to cloak your vision the deeper you descended, something stained the water, and what was once faulty oxygen in your lungs surged as you observed the surface growing closer before you broke through the ceiling. Gasping suddenly as the flesh of a palm cradled you in its confines, you were horrified to watch as the fingerprints began to unravel, skin coiling and peeling back. The nails decayed in slivers and crumbled into the water, ribbons of the epidermis effortlessly withering away as the imagery instilled panic — not because you would revert to sinking once it had completely peeled apart but the rotting flesh itself was enough. Ready to abandon ship, you felt your ankles locked in place as the vibrant crimson began crackling in desperation, forming vertices through the bone structure before dying the boards of a small paddle boat to carry you in. It happened so rapidly, vividly, your unease became a beacon of confusion once more as the vessel gently turned in a counter clockwise motion.

Suddenly, you're shivering. You weren't the least bit cold earlier, but between then and now, there's a draft. Craning your head back to peer up at the sky for clues, you notice not even a change in the cloud's structure has budged. It's as if air had no presidence here, not a requirement for you and certainly not present. Left without an oar, you clenched your teeth and leaned over the edge of the boat before scooping water towards the direction the head of the boat was pointed in an effort to escape. Hands cupping the frigid liquid, as if freshly melted ice had made its home in your hands, you continued to part your way before seeing a dark object in the distance. It swayed heavily and must have had some weight to it, creating its own ripples that licked at the bottom of your boat. Flicking the water off your hands as best you could, you squinted while shielding your fingers around your eyes as the vessel drifted closer. It's sinking now, whatever was peeking at the surface began bobbing lower and lower, circumscribed by the buoyant surface of the sea as it swallowed up the mass. When it finally broke the pendulum swing, it sunk and the fibers of protein that warped as the clear reflection finally imprinted on your gaze had you fully forming the inference.

It was Jaebeom, and he was sinking.

Humans like to think — in a hopeful sense — that we could independently peruse this lifetime without a need for others. It's the selfish and human thing to do. But in reality, we all pour from our cup, to another's cup, to another's cup, and to another's cup. We pour a little of our responsibility, our support, the love we share, our sanctity, and humanity all in different people's cups whether we like to acknowledge that or not. In a way, no matter how selfish an individual is, there is somehow a rift created from them that inherently has helped someone else, and that's the beginning and ending of it all. Because of this human response to how we accept the traumas that we experience through others, it really is no surprise that you didn't hesitate for a moment as you stood at the edge of the boat and screamed his name.

Im Jaebeom.

There's no sound. Gently reaching your frozen fingers around your neck, you amplified with what you could, kicking your diaphragm up as you felt your throat quiver in desperation. Still no sound. Panicked, you plunge into the water on a whim, swimming with what clumsy form you could remember — what your body could remember — as your fingers grasped through the intangible material with haste. Every time you reached to propel yourself forward, you realized that the image of Jaebeom would crystalize and somehow turn into fragments before resorting into one whole piece. At first, you assumed it was the water that was claiming your vision, but it wasn't, it was as if his entire existence was shifting before you. With each paddle, his physical being was disintegrating. As you grew closer, seeing the unconscious body drift lower and faster, you reached forward in an attempt to grab him as your mouth opened and struggled to claim any kind of volume you possibly could.

But somehow every time your fingertips drew forward, he was reeled backwards just as far. Kicking your feet faster, harder, aggressively attempting to bring yourself closer, you continued to desperately shout into the abyss, no water and certainly no sound departing or returning. A shadow from above began to cloak over as you watched the onyx shade creep up from behind the descending form in front of you, screaming even more frantically now.

Wake up! Wake up!

Every nerve in your body jolted forward as you sprung from your mattress, awoken by the perilous screeching of your own voice before desperately gasping for air. It was just a dream, but that doesn't comfort you as you felt an overwhelming chill bite at your skin while your alarm ripped through your bedroom walls.

Were you appreciative that you were still employed? Sure. Were you desperately looking for a way out? Absolutely. Wanting nothing more than to escape this reality you had little to no control of, you decided on your commute that you would create a deadline for yourself that would shape the rest of your time as Mr. Im’s assistant. That is, if he didn’t throw some fit and cut your contract short. Though confident in your work and abilities, on the off chance you could not make your way out, you would leave when the allotted time was up. It was a way for you to look forward to something, anything. Settling in your chair as your rolled it towards your desk, one of the sales managers strutted towards you, her elated but professional grin painted on her lips. Though you couldn't recall her name, how could you forget the most gorgeous employee at the main office? A stunning beauty, you were half surprised when you were introduced and told that she was responsible for many of the large trades and shipments that were from overseas; she looked more like an actress or movie star than another one of the pencil pushers here, like yourself. Residing with the top numbers for countless months, she was easily one of the top sales managers after her training period.

Resounding your title and last name formally, she gently placed a hand on your desk as your gaze followed her beautifully glazed nails up her neatly ironed dress, engaging in her glance finally as she spoke, "Is Mr. Im free today? I would like to discuss something with him."

Typically, you recited — like some kind of voicemail message — that he would be unable to take any appointments and you'd have him take a look at whatever was the subject of said request when he was free and return the documents or inquiries after the fact. This was, of course, full of shit and he really just didn't want to meet with anyone and especially not a woman one on one. After what happened the other day, you couldn't really blame him. But you could blame him for the past few hellish days where you listened to his condescending tone beat into your skull and insult any sort of work you did that didn't follow his organization — which you realized was a lot more picky than you initially suspected. With a saccharine grin, you beamed at her, "I am sure I can find some time for you. What did you want to discuss and when would you like me to pen you in?"

The expression that plagued her every feature was priceless, absolutely appalled that it was that simple because in the past, you were sure whoever was the makeshift scheduler refused to have anyone meet the CEO without obstacle and challenge. Leaning into your desk, a patient and friendly smile masquerading your expression, you tilted your head as she stuttered through her words, something you never imagine you'd witness, "...It's just some numbers with a new brand we're working with, just to double check."

The end of her sentence faded into the air similarly to how her tone wafted away, an almost sheepish grin now forming on her lips. It was made clear that she may have had a crush on your boss, how funny. This would make for an interesting meeting, you began jotting down buzzwords that held seemingly more importance than what she was spouting about. Nodding vaguely while she spoke, you peered up at her, "He's free in an hour, if you're available, I can have you meet with him then?"

With that, she fervently thanked you before departing back to her desk. What could you say? You told Mr. Im you were good at you job, which included but wasn't limited to, helping him grow and supporting him. If that meant you were going to help him through his phobia — or condition? Whatever it was — why wouldn't that be considered growth and support? Chuckling to yourself, you mentally began the countdown to your most exciting encounter of the day.

Or so you thought.

Somehow — and you had a feeling that the sales manager must have let that elation loosen her lips — you had a ton of inquiries from every female identifying human in the building to see Mr. Im. What a surprise. You let them come in and deliver him tea, host meetings with him in person and not over e-mail or some poorly streamed video, bring his mail to him personally, and even do their presentations in his office. The rest of his week was fully booked with more or less, mundane and useless appointments with the women of the office who wanted to court him. The current quarter was always notoriously slow, so it's not like you were sabotaging anything of importance. Rather, you filled his time with your very own unpaid therapy and for that, he should be thankful.

By the end of the week, you could tell he was on his last leg, his expression depleted of energy and yet somehow it roused with rage and frustration you knew was targeted at you. Feigning innocence, you went by each day carefully avoiding him in spaces where he could scold your behavior, even going as far as having your lunch out in the courtyard. You were as close to paradise in hell as you possibly could have experienced, as if you had begrudgingly crawled through a desert — famished and dehydrated — and somehow the mirage in the distance had fabricated into a tangible scenery, why hadn't you decided to floor him earlier? Forget fucking him, this was a hundred, no ten hundred, times more satisfying.

Honestly, you expected him to call you into his office at some point, though you were surprised how patient he seemed since he picked Friday and right before you were about to clock out. This may have been his own oversight though, based on the fact that he knew he'd be dipping right into your weekend. Just to add to your misery, why would he not eat up your time?

"Are you insane?"

"...According to my health records, no, not clinically," pausing, you let your eyes wander a bit as you hummed, creating an illusion as if you were thinking through something. Scoffing in response, palm resting at the edge of his desk, you watched as his fingers curled around the margin. Gripping the furniture, you wondered just how agonizing his week had been while his knuckles surfaced an alabaster tone that was wreathed by a rush of blood beneath his skin. Honestly, you only complied to the last minute meeting just to have him relive his entire week through the festering wound you created, "You have got to be fucking crazy."

"Well you aren't a doctor, are you? So what do you know?"

He shot you a look as you smiled at him sarcastically.

"I didn't tell you all of that in confidence, but I didn't think you'd act smart with me," wedging his lip between his teeth in frustration, he finally released the desk as you barked out a laugh. It's the first time either of you hear this curdling trill, and it's rather frightening because you never once imagined that you'd be laughing in the presence of Mr. Im and he certainly never thought he'd be hearing it either.

“...You know, for someone who’s got some kind of issue around women, you seem to know how to fuck them,” lulling your head languidly to the side, you eyes traced over the features on his face as they contorted into a strange expression, “…I said I didn’t know how to interact with them, not that I didn’t know how to have sex with them.”

“All the more reason you should thank me for helping you,” shrugging your shoulders, a smile graced your lips, implying directly that you did him a favor. Which he obviously did not consider. Exhaling a halfhearted laugh, one that does not fill its full resonance, he grit his teeth as he spoke, “Do you have any idea how stupid that sounds?”

“Do you have any idea how stupid it sounds that you know how to have sex with women but not talk to them?”

Silence. Because it was stupid.

"...It makes a lot more sense than you imposing your so called help onto me," folding his arms over his chest, he narrowed his eyes while glaring at you, your smile never leaving your lips. You learned, in a matter of days, your actions held more weight than your words. It started on the very first day and his impression of your preparation, it was as if he complimented you when he arrived at expressionless silence. And it also didn't help that the language you both used seemed to be littered with spite alone. It was how you adjusted his schedules so he wouldn't constantly be parked at his desk for twelve to sixteen hours a day, or how you knew that he liked to stand on the right side of the elevator when you accompanied him to meetings. Even how you arranged his pens and documents in the morning to suit his left handed preference, all these little actions that created a warped way of understanding that held no flames to how you responded to him or would call him by his first name as an insult. It's how Jaebeom worked.

"I'm here to guide you Mr. Im, don't question my methods. I'm supposed to be both your support and mentor," placing a hand at your chest, fingertips gently grazing your necklace as you played victim, your sarcastic tone dug right into him as he sneered.

"You're doing a shit job at it."

"Well, I haven't been terminated yet have I? So I might not be so bad," wandering towards the bookshelf beside him, you peered at the generic picture frames that were made into partitions before glancing over your shoulder.

"Well don't get too comfortable," Leaning into his desk, arms still crossed tightly, his stoic expression reeked of rage as you mimicked his stance arrogantly. It really was all about action with him, and it had a lot to do with how well he read others. Watching his eyes roll as he exhaled yet another frustrated breath, your gaze incidentally found that his condition was acting up. Forcing your laughter back down your throat, you decided on a whim to instead, provoke him first, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You really have to ask? Don't get comfortable where you're at."

Realizing that his exasperation to your behavior must have circumvented any other physical response, the receptors in his head simply overworked by the onslaught of cortisol it must have been pumping this whole week, you discern that he had no idea he was straining in his slacks.

"...Speak for yourself," a stride forward, and you impetuously tucked a finger into his belt before pressing your other palm up against his very obvious erection. The sudden tension that plagued his face leaked down every feature until it dripped down his body, his skin instantly searing beneath your touch, "You're getting a little too comfortable, don't you think?"

The impulse trip kicked up again as you squeezed him through the fabric, guiding yourself just a breath closer. Just as you inhale, you captured the blunder of tobacco and pepper cease your senses before feeling the familiar hand grip at your hip, his thumb finding the slope of your protruding bone.

"...That's your best apology for the bullshit you did this week?"

But, that's how Jaebeom worked, his actions were always alluding to his true intentions. One curved revolution and your positions were reversed, your back creased along the edge of his desk as he trapped you with his hands along the margin. Unflinching, your pupils must have been flooded as you locked your gaze with his, fingers gliding up his silk tie before you gripped the fabric and yanked him a little closer, "That's the best you're getting from me."

In one deft motion, he hoisted you up onto the edge of his desk while dipping forward, the perimeter between the two of you filled with only anticipating breaths. It was as if you were both expecting the other to give in first, a quiet war that sparked a flint that was igniting a swarming fire that could be used to burn the other. But in some ways, you were the guilty verdict, and you took that as a victory rather than a loss. Palms settled behind you, you were ready to recline as you abruptly felt Jaebeom's hand press into your spine to restrict your movement, "As much as I'd love to watch you crack your head on the edge of one of my monitors, I'm not really in the mood to clean it up."

It half surprised you that he read your motion even before you committed to it, but he was always a little too observant anyways. Narrowing your eyes at him, the grimace on your lips deepened when he drank in your expression, his fingers gripping the plush of your cheeks as your mouth rested at the valley between his thumb and index. Crooning in the most unbearable tone you had ever heard, you rolled your eyes at him while he spoke, "Don't be a brat, aren't you supposed to be apologizing to me?"

A brat? Wrinkling your nose, you sneered at him, "Takes one to know one, huh?"

Forcing his thumb into your mouth, you were half tempted to bite down — you heard that all it took was the pressure of splitting a small baby carrot with your teeth to detach it from its joint. You decide against it belatedly as you heard sharp droplets littering the wooden surface before rolling onto the plush carpet, peering down at the lost buttons of your blouse, you groan in displeasure before using your tongue to push out his finger, "You fucking idiot, how the hell am I supposed to go home?"

"Not really my problem," shrugging, a shit eating grin plastered over his mouth, he continued his own handy work as he dove into your shoulder while reaching up to cup your breast in one of his hands.

"You're such a fucking jerk."

"Mhmm," savoring the way your jasmine infused perfume clung to the cotton of your shirt, he reached around and unclasped the hooks of your bra as the garment fell. Pushing the sleeves of your shirt away and discarding your bra along with it, you begrudgingly yanked on his tie — harder this time — as you drew him in and pressed your forehead against his, "Are you really not going to apologize for ruining one of my favorite blouses?"

"I don't remember you apologizing to me yet," and he sealed his sentence onto your mouth as his tongue swiped over your bottom lip, causing you to freeze up, brows furrowing, "...I told you not to do that."

"I told you not to schedule anyone without my permission."

"It was important."

"You want me to believe you thought it was that important?"

Lies were always a struggle for you to vocalize, they just never seemed to fall from your lips without some sort of awkward contradicting action, and even now you were fumbling with the silk fabric around Jaebeom's neck as you tried to pull it loose, "It could have been."

Sliding his index finger into the knot, he pulled the loop with one swift movement before grabbing ahold of your chin to induce eye contact, "But it wasn't, was it?"

"...I wouldn't know, I wasn't the one meeting with them."

The snarl you heard blossom in his throat had you flinch, Jaebeom taking advantage of your staggered movement by gripping your wrists and bringing them to his belt as he began carefully slipping the buttons of his shirt through their respective holes, "Then I can assure you, they weren't. So no more scheduling useless appointments, right?"

The tone he used put you off, and your decision to push him came into fruition almost immediately when your thumbs simply line the leather and silver plated buckle of the logo, as if memorizing the design. You weren't so keen as to drop your hands, but they certainly were not moving at the pace of his impatience. With your jaw in his hold once more, the empty eye contact held your silence between the two of you, as he articulated with more emphasis, "Right?"

"...Right."

Rather than succumbing — much to his desire — you instead only respond to give him the answer he was seeking, because in all essences, you were the one in control. If Jaebeom wanted to create an opulent fantasy where he could overrule your decision, he certainly had not learned about you the way you had learned about him. Pressing the hook through the hoop as the plate and metal hinge knocked against one another — the only sound that seemed to be reverberating between the short and shallow breaths you both shared — the belt came apart in your hands, a touch of fabric against the suede lining whistling in your ears as you let it descend. The dull thump of the heavy buckle hit the carpet as you kicked your heels off along with it, struggling to shimmy out of your own slacks before feeling your weight lifted up. Tucking you against his sturdy frame with one arm, he effortlessly helped you out of your pants before setting you back on the desk unceremoniously, "You're slow to undress, even this time."

"...You just always know what to say, don't you?"

"I'm rather good with my mouth," the smart comment instantly invoked a heavy desire of wanting to redress yourself and leaving without a single word more.

"Are you? Jokes are only funny when you're not lying."

"Do you think I'm lying?"

You weren't sure what your initial intention was but that was a threat, you were sure of it. But a threat you were tempted to see through. There was a prominent suggestion swirling in your mind as you contemplated whether to guide it into vocalization or to simply continue and slice through his ego, perhaps gaining a more intense result if you committed to the latter. The performative action of how you uncrossed your legs decided for you, "I don't believe things until I see them."

"Since when did your apology turn into me doing you a favor?"

Mouth agape, you feigned shock, "A favor? Mr. Im, it's only a favor if it's good."

And you receive the response you were eager to be in through the presence of a brute and concise expression of competition that riddled the perimeter of his whole face. Though he seemed to be composed, you realized early on that Im Jaebeom was a competitive bastard and a few carefully plucked nuanced words were all you needed to get his ignition going. You also realize, in the few moments where you let him finally rid you of the last garment on your body, he doesn't know how to take a joke the same way he delivers them and when he flattens his tongue ardently against your bundle of nerves, you suddenly realize what they meant when they said there were 8,000 of these endings in the clitoris alone. Dipping backwards, you winced as you felt Jaebeom yank your hips closer to him, skidding along the smooth wood and his teeth sinking into your inner thigh as he spoke into your skin, "I told you to be careful your hard head might crack one of the monitors."

The only noise you could utter in response is a groan as he stiffened his tongue back against you, causing an instant slur of moans to escape your lips. As much as people liked to credit the heightened experience of alcohol induced sex, there honestly was no comparison to sobriety, not when you felt every fervent breath between the calculated way Jaebeom used his tongue against you. Even the gentle brush of his teeth against your skin caused you to squirm in absolute delight, feeling yourself drip over every lick you received. Pure euphoric noises passed your lips as your fingers threaded through his hair the moment he slid a finger into you, and even he noticed how hard you were clenched around him. The labored breaths that sunk your lungs was his indicator that you weren't going to last, unraveling at his hands as he pulled away, timed perfectly before your uncoiling. Gasping desperately, you peered at him with a dazed expression as the words fell out on their own, "Why did you stop?"

"To check if it was good."

The violent desire of having his mouth meet your fist was all that roused your thoughts as your hazy expression began to take a tumble, absolutely speechless at his childish action. But he reassured you that he was simply the same asshole, nothing quite so new, you thought he was when he cleared his throat, "...If it was, you can tell me, and I can finish the job."

"So you got a praise kink, now?"

Earning yourself a deadpanned eye roll you can't help but expel an amused laugh, watching him hover over you with an acrid and unimpressed expression, "I mean, I wouldn't be surprised...What with you being an only child, mommy and daddy showering you in all their attention, right?"

There was a fleeting spark of something that crossed over his eyes, just for a moment, and if you had not been staring directly at him you may have missed it. It was a strange chill that emulated an emptiness you had not felt in ages, but you don't address it as he readjusted the banter back towards a boundary you had not meant to cross, realizing you may have not learned all you thought you did, "Call it whatever you want, but unless you say it, you're going to be the one dealing with your own mess."

"Mess? At least when I put my pants on, it doesn't look like I have a weapon on me."

"...So you think it's that big?"

Sucking in your lips, you held them in place with your teeth, a tight line bit down desperately when you realize your words were getting clumsier the more you spoke. Though he wouldn't be lying, you weren't willing to disclose that information with him just yet, "...You did good."

"That's it?"

"Very good," your eyes turned like a dial as you nudged your knee at him, "Are you going to let me cum now or what?"

"I don't know, it doesn't feel as convincing when you say it..." The provocation is supported by a warm growl that you recall from several nights back, a sound that easily caused a kindling and lust filled response. Typically, he spoke with a natural timbre and tone that even the occasions when he cleared his throat to speak during presentations caused your mind to stray and wander far from your reality. You let him win the round, "Could you please? You were right, your mouth is not just for talking shit."

You couldn't help the latter, honestly. But instead of taking offense he bellowed a laugh of disbelief, "Are you seriously begging and insulting me in the same breath?"

"Will it get you to go down on me again?"

"If it was that good, I thought you'd be more desperate."

Pride in humans was such a complex concept that molted and formed where it needed to, and it found a home between your legs at this moment, your knees kissing to relieve some of the tension you had pent up inside you, "...I need you to do it again, please? It was good, and I honestly don't know if it will feel the same if I try and get myself off."

The words jumbled when you attempted to feed them back into your own ears, the sound of distance in your own voice causing confusion in the strange tone and desire that lost to your human will. But the moments you have to feel any last shred of embarrassment is dispersed as soon as you felt Jaebeom's grip on your thigh, spreading your legs once more before continuing his ministrations. Pleasure instantly washed over you as he worked his middle finger back in, lips encapsulating your swollen bundle of nerves as he worked in tandem to let you meet your peak once more. Convulsing as your abdomen tightened, your fingers card back through Jaebeom's messy hair as you gripped hard and bucked your hips forward. When he referred to how apparent your arousal was by calling it a mess he should have simply referred to you instead, your reaction was intrinsic but your movements and inherent being were falling apart before him. A final exhale and you choked out his name while a high pitched moan managed to gather and release from your tongue.

The moment you found to steady your breath is the same one that Jaebeom used to turn you over on his desk, your chest against the wood surface as he propped your knee up at the edge. Hissing as you attempted to adjust for comfort, he selfishly began pressing against your overstimulation as your arms gave out from your position, "Why are you always so impatient?!"

"Can you not comment once in a while, I let you cum already."

Your hips react differently to the way he lined his tip up and down your folds as opposed to your tone, back arching to meet his touch with wanton abandon as you shuddered when he finally entered you. If you were still in the mood to tease him, you liked to think you would have turned around and retorted some well thought out remark, but even then that could have lost to the possibility that the results would be the same. You had him inside of you recently, but somehow it felt like the first time again, the stretch sudden but coercing adrenaline in a way that blinded any initial soreness by raw pleasure. Fervent fingertips traced up your hips and finally to your waist, you plant one hand to pitch you up on the desk but the other curled around his bare wrist — if you grabbed his watch, you knew you'd leave a bruise on him with how tightly you're holding — giving it a squeeze. With no surprise or hesitation, Jaebeom took his cue and pushed his length entirely into you as you moaned.

The pace is slow for only as long as you can sneak a respiration, but his rhythm easily picked up to suit his impatience, and the string of obscenities that left your lips was growing in volume and length. Dousing the back of your neck with his breath, your sensory overload had you losing the last bit of control you had, submitting even your pleasure over to him as he thrust into you with perfect strokes, back and forth. The only focus you had left was to not cum too early and give him new ammunition to use against you, because he seemed to take pride in what he could manage to squeeze, whether that was a reaction or a way to beg him to fuck you, you now learned.

Without intention, you managed to complete his request of not commenting, simply relinquishing noises of delight and pleasure. Reaching for your neck with his free hand, he gently wrapped his fingers around your throat as you felt your skin blister from anticipation — it was sick how much he must have paid attention the first time if he noticed that you got off with how he choked you. Refusing to react, you simply pushed your hips back at the same rate he fucked you against the desk before his grip fused against your skin, pressing the column of your throat to capture your breath. You quietly thanked him for having turned you around because you weren't sure what kind of face you were making, lost in bliss the way every inch of his cock stretched you and how his rough hands were keeping the last bit of controlled ownership to himself.

Stifled moans are the last emission you can manage as you feel the quick snap of your core, completely unwound as Jaebeom crashed his hips into yours. By now, he knew exactly what you felt like when you were cumming, clenched around him and he'd be lying if he said there wasn't an insatiable desire that caused him to chase it every time. Not slowing his pace, he released your neck while pulling you closer towards him, his warm skin greeting your own while you rode out the last bit of your orgasm with soft whines, "You've cum twice and I still haven't gotten an apology."

There it was. But you don't have the energy to argue rather, you languidly reached around and draped your hand over his neck while catching your breath, peering up at him, "...I'm sorry I let all the nice and pretty girls in the company bother you this week. Don't be too mean, they just think you're cute."

Your words snuck between labored breaths as your half lidded eyes shut, your body still drowning in a post high you weren't quite sure you would come down from. There isn't any effort from you as he continued to thrust up to meet your hips, a smudged bout of laughter leaving his throat, "Never thought I'd hear you actually apologize."

"Then why'd you mention it."

"Just to mess with you."

"...You're such a fucking jerk, you know," while you mumbled, he moved his fingers that were originally inside of you against your lips, allowing you to taste what was left of when you soaked his skin and it's enough to make you want to cum against his cock again. You still hadn't figured out why he lasted so long and you decided it was because of his reverse erectile dysfunction, it had to be. When you managed to finish catching your breath, reality no longer lapsing you between a euphoric lust led fantasy, you alternated between how tightly you squeezed him with each thrust — hoping this would usher him to his end, but he doesn't react how you expect, instead his hands traveling over every inch of your skin and causing you to shudder.

It wouldn't be right to cum again, you keep telling yourself, but the way he's groping your breasts or how his fingertips were dug into your thigh was convincing you otherwise, "...I'm gonna cum."

You think the admission is at least better than not mentioning it at all, now for the third time, but you decide it's much worse once his lips pressed against your neck — just below your ear — and he whispered in a tone so gentle that the way he said it probably was what caused you to unravel rather than the way he fucked you, "Go ahead, cum."

Instant gratification was at his disposal as you leaned forward, only held in place by Jaebeom's arm around your waist as anything below your hips grew hot then numb, your toes curling in response to your body's reaction. Mentally you chant and beg for him to finish because you can assure yourself you're not going to be conscious for much longer, and though he could read others well, you started to wonder if he pretended he didn't know your intent especially when you felt his finger against your clit, "Wait!"

The yelp is instant as you shivered against him, torn between a mix of succumbing to every pleasurable desire you ever had being fulfilled or stopping to catch up with how your body’s reaction. Jaebeom, of course, ignored your request as you puddled out moans from your throat. Teeth in your shoulder, the onslaught of sensations were overwhelming every one of your receptors because it really did feel that good yet you couldn't savor any particular moment because it happened all at once.

Lost in a haze, your body felt as though it no longer belonged to you, every extremity inherently detached from the organic state and so heightened by pleasure and tension that they were simply extensions hanging from a frame. If begging could get Jaebeom to finish, you would have done it but you didn’t have the slightest idea how to coax him to cum. What was so intricate about the male physiology, anyways? Yet, through contradiction, you were the one spent over and over. The sudden rough grip on your breast forced you to hiss as the erratic tempo of Jaebeom’s thrusts offered a possibility of an end — finally — while your eyes pooled, festooning your cheeks with tears that were gifted from overstimulation.

The ragged breathing into your skin was your relief as you felt his sudden pull, but in your panic — especially from his disorganized way of spilling and leaving behind his mess — you gripped his wrist, “Just cum inside.”

“What?” A disgusted expression plagued his face as he seemed to lose his rhythm, “You really are fucking cra—”

“I’m on birth control so get over yourself and it’s gonna get on the carpet and your desk,” narrowing your eyes at him, you spoke quickly through your breathy pants. With a contorted expression, he rolled his eyes as he simply nodded, and not a breath later you could hear his painstakingly elongated growl. Shivering at the tone and how he held your hips in place, you finally released a sigh of relief before reaching over the desk to grab the tissue box near his keyboard. While his grip loosened, you secretly savored the warm and viscous feeling of how he filled you.

Watching your fingers tremor as you carried the cardboard container, you realized just how tense you must have been the entire time. Focused on gaining a proper grip back, you witnessed a flash of white as Jaebeom snatched several sheets and did the cleaning himself — much to your surprise and a tinge of embarrassment. You'd mostly expected to have done it on your own, and though this was already the second time you were allowing yourself to be completely naked and blissed out from being fucked by him, something about this action had induced some form of shyness. Gentle swipes over your skin and you listened to him discard the sheets as you whimpered while removing your knee from the desk, a heavy red mark along your thigh and your hip searing with initiated soreness.

The marks and fatigue would fade into an ephemeral glimmer, the same way your high would only last those fleeting moments more, but now in your sobriety you were left with an impression you weren't quite so sure would emulate the same transience. Several nights ago, you barely remembered how you managed to get your dress back on, how you purchased your breakfast, or even how you ended up at the park. Now, with full clarity, you were pulling on fabric over your skin with amplified sensory, listening to how every zip and clasp reattached itself in utter silence. It left your mind to wander once more, why you let this second time even ensue, better yet with your initiation. Two for two, right? You hadn't felt such a deeply mortifying realization until this moment as you awkwardly attempted to figure out how to wrap your blouse so you wouldn't be committing some form of public indecency.

How the hell were you supposed to get home?

all work, no play series masterlist

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mintymiknow · 3 years

Text

Trust Fall - ch. 10 | Lee Minho

summary | character profiles | masterlist

Pairing: Lee Minho/Lee Know x Reader

Summary: Pieces are falling to place like a puzzle, and the light at the end of the tunnel is seemingly near sight. But there are still some obstacles to tackle...as well as some other hidden fragments to collect.

Genre: Secret agent/spy au, romance, angst, action

Word count: Approx. 5.3k

Warnings for this chapter: Suggestiveness (another warning will be placed within the story so you’ll know which paragraphs to skip should you want to)

A/N: Another surprise! I really am getting busier, so I wanted to get another chapter out for everyone because there’s a high possibility that the next chapter will take longer than usual. This chapter will sort of signal the midpoint of the series. Also...for the Minho simps, another fragment of flashback of his past is included~ Oh, and more swoony moments! Enjoy, and don’t hesitate to send an ask if you have comments or questions!

Minho leads you to the door of room 1117, hand still clasped around yours. Just before he enters, he turns to face you. “I’ll have to leave you here for a while, if you don’t mind. Interrogations can get...messy.” he says softly, taking notice of how you have your hands protectively wrapped around your upper arms.

You nod, and Minho takes off his suit jacket to drape around your shoulders before making three knocks on the door. Seconds later, Changbin opens it and walks out, greeting Minho with a playful salute. “Target’s all yours.” he smirks.

Minho thanks him with a smile before proceeding inside the room. Changbin hangs back when the door closes, sliding down against the wall to sit on the floor. He pats the spot beside him, encouraging you to sit next to him. You do so, smoothing out the fabric of your gown’s skirt, currently focused on the warmth Minho’s suit jacket gave you. The buff agent tilts his head, “How was the gala?”

“Oh you know, I danced with Minho.”

“Oh you know, I told him a secret.”

“Oh you know, I nearly kissed him.”

“Ah.” you eventually respond, “I danced most of the time. And pretended to drink champagne.”

Changbin stretches his arms and chuckles, “Interesting.”

You nod, mind still too preoccupied with thoughts about yours and Minho’s interactions for the night. Wasn’t it your intention to stay away from building bonds while in SKZ? Well, ever since you rekindled your friendship with Seungmin and Jisung, that plan already seemed to diverge. That’s one thing, but it’s another thing to feel a certain way towards a certain someone.

Not that you admitted you liked Minho, but what was this fluttery feeling blooming in your chest, flooding you with warmth each time Minho smiled at you or got physically close?

You had spent years putting up protective walls, and was this agent tearing it down? Perhaps that was why he was an agent, right? They’re experts at digging into things.

Was Minho telling the truth about trusting you? Or was that another one of his effortless lies and covers?

Changbin seems to pick up on your tense and nervous demeanor. He then bumps your shoulder with his, catching your attention. When you abruptly look at him with wide eyes, he chuckles, “Thinking about something?”

“I…” you trail off before clearing your throat, “just suddenly felt tired. Sleepy. I’ve been wearing these heels for hours.”

“Hmm.” Changbin nods his head, “You could have gone back to your hotel room when Hyunjin called the agents over.”

“I preferred to stay where you all were for...reasons.” you say quietly, not quite sure how you were supposed to say that you felt safer that way.

“Understood.” Changbin nods in understanding.

Meanwhile, inside the room, Chan, Minho, Jeongin and Hyunjin look at their target now tied up on the floor. Chan’s sitting on the bed, sifting through the papers they managed to find in the room. “This is more than enough intel.” the eldest agent states, nodding his head definitively.

Hyunjin is leaning against the wall as he hums, “Unfortunately, those are just lab reports and results for their serum’s current status. Our lab department can handle that. We have no leads on who they were supposed to transact with tonight though.”

“Perhaps our target is willing to tell.” Jeongin sing-songs.

The target hisses, eyebrows furrowed in anger, “As if! I’d rather die.”

“That can be arranged.” Minho says nonchalantly, a bored expression on his face.

“He’s gonna do it you know?” Jeongin snickers, kneeling beside the target, “So I think it’s best if you just tell us.”

The target laughs, shaking his head, “Are you gonna do it knowing your little lady friend is just outside?”

Minho’s eyebrow twitches, but he still manages to keep a stone-faced expression as he crosses his arms, “Her presence is irrelevant.”

Then Minho’s shrugging his vest off, slowly approaching the male with calculated steps. He grabs the target’s collar with ease, lifting him from the ground and glaring intensely. “Who were you going to transact with?” Minho repeats the question in a growl-like manner.

“Didn’t know SKZ had good-looking agents.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, and Jeongin ends up releasing a sympathetic sigh. Hyunjin whistles where he stands, and Chan pays no attention to the group, much too busy skimming through the sheets of paper in his hands. Minho then releases the target to roll the sleeves of his shirt before slapping the target with minimal force. “Answer the question.” the agent says.

However, the target is stubborn and keen on keeping his mouth shut. He responds with unrelated statements, jabs tasteless jokes and even mocks SKZ. When he makes the mistake of saying something about endangering you, however, Minho’s lips curl into a smirk, and the rest of the agents know what’s to come.

Jeongin smiles, walking over to sit on the bed with Chan, “It was nice knowing you, Mr. Target.”

Minho cracks his knuckles and stretches his neck before kneeling down to the target’s eye level, “I’m not in the mood for a long night, so let’s get this over with, shall we?”

A few minutes later, the hotel room door opens, and Hyunjin walks out. Changbin stands and offers his hand to help you stand as well. With both of you on your feet, Hyunjin grins, “Heya y/n! You look good!”

“Didn’t you pick the dress?” you ask.

“Kind of. A female agent just asked for my opinion.” Hyunjin smiles before yawning, “Well, the target’s unconscious so Chan and I will keep watch until the pick-up team arrives to take him back to HQ.”

Jeongin is the next to exit the room, his grin still plastered on his face, “Unfortunately, we still have another meeting.”

Changbin nods, “Hope it’ll be quick.”

Minho is the next to exit the room as Hyunjin goes back in, gently closing the door as he does so. The older agent then nods at Changbin and Jeongin, “You two can go ahead. I’ll just walk y/n back to her room.”

The two fellow agents nod before waving and saying their goodbyes. They begin to walk down the hallway to the elevator, leaving you and Minho alone. He turns to you, gesturing towards the alternative staircase, “All our rooms are just one floor above. Mind taking the stairs?”

You’re tempted to refuse since you were still wearing your heels, but in the end, you nod and gesture for the male to lead the way. Minho nods, taking your hands in his once more as he ascends the stairs. You aren’t very sure why he does that - holding your hands and all - but...it was nice. It felt nice.

You both walk in silence, arriving in front of your hotel room door not too long after. The male turns on his heel to face you, nodding towards the door, “Go shower, get some sleep, whatever. Don’t worry about waking up early, I’m pretty sure Jung will have us leave after lunch tomorrow.”

You nod again, offering a small smile, “You didn’t need to escort me all the way here, you know?”

“Better safe than sorry.” Minho smiles, and for some reason, you see the gesture as more charming than usual. Were you that tired already?

You gently scoff, eyes never leaving Minho’s, “Truly an efficient and thorough agent.”

His lips curl into a somewhat larger smile as he shakes his head in amusement, “You flatter me. Go inside now.”

You stifle a laugh before nodding your head. You look into each other’s eyes for another second, but that brief moment of him looking at you fondly is enough to make you feel heat rising to your cheeks once more. With that, you move to open your door.

“Oh, one more thing.”

You halt your movements, turning to face the agent with a curious tilt of your head. Ah, maybe he wanted you to return his suit jacket.

You grip the jacket in an attempt to get it off of your shoulders when you suddenly feel Minho grabbing your wrist, gently pulling you close. As if happening in slow motion, the male leans closer - similar to what happened in the ballroom - until you can feel his breath fanning over your skin. Your hands grip the jacket around your shoulders tighter, heart threatening to leap out.

Then that’s when you feel his lips coming into contact with your skin, a soft and chaste kiss on your cheek, slightly above the corner of your lips.

In his mind, that was more than enough. That was fine for now.

“Goodnight, y/n.” he says after pulling away, flashing you one more small smile.

He does the honor of opening your door for you, seeing as to how you were frozen in place. Minho chuckles, gently pushing you inside the room. He bows his head politely before walking off to meet with the others, leaving you dumbfounded once more.

When you’re sure he’s gone, you slam the door shut and lean against it, eyes wide with panic as you reach a hand up to touch the area he kissed. “Why…” you ask yourself, failing to comprehend the agent’s actions.

No matter. Shaking your head, you kick your heels off and make a beeline for the bathroom. Maybe you needed a bath to clear your mind, so you readied the bathtub with nice, warm water to soak in. Once ready, you don’t waste a single second in stripping your clothes and submerging yourself in the warm water, sighing in relief as your tense body relaxes.

You lean forward to grab the bottle of body wash that was on the shower rack and read the label. The liquid inside was a pretty shade of pink with a little shimmer swirling inside. The label read “Levanter Collection: Sweet Rose Lips” for the name of the product, and the description read, “A softly fragrant rose-scented body wash. Go ahead and pamper yourself with this wash that will leave your skin soft and supple - perfect to kiss if applicable!”

You roll your eyes at the cheesy description, putting the body wash back on the rack.

“Leave your skin soft and supple - perfect to kiss if applicable!”

Kiss. The word echoed in your mind repeatedly.

“Thank you.” Minho suddenly whispers, and it only dawns on you now that he’s mere centimeters away from your face.

He’s so close that you feel his breath mingling with yours, the tips of your noses barely touching. His hands rest at the small of your back, but there’s a certain pressure to his touch as if he was restraining himself from something. Your breathing comes to a stop as does time, and your grip on his broad shoulders tightens. Both your eyes are lidded as you stare at each other; you can tell his eyes have landed on your lipstick-covered lips, and the agent can deduce the same for you - your eyes are definitely caught up in looking at his own lips.

Something in your heart booms - or maybe snaps - and it would seem the same for Minho because he’s leaning closer, eyes now closed as he closes the gap. You shut your eyes as well, preparing yourself for the touch of his lips on yours.

You soon feel the ghosting touch of his lips grazing yours, sending a jolt of electricity up your veins. Then, his lips capture yours, overwhelming your senses like a wildfire that leaves you burning in its wake. Minho hugs you closer and tighter, one hand going up to cup your jaw and stroke the skin there. You relish in how soft his lips are against yours, a beautiful contrast to the roughness of his hands. Your own fingers tangle with his locks, pulling him as close as possible as your lips continue to melt together like slow-moving lava.

You aggressively splash the water in the bathtub, squealing as you cover your face. “That’s not what happened, you dummy!” you reprimand yourself, muffled screaming into your hands.

Your heart is beating two, three, four times faster than usual, and despite the water being lukewarm and almost cold by now, it feels much too hot in the bathroom. You groan and dunk your head in the water before re-emerging with pouty lips. The water drips down your hair and face as you hug your legs to yourself. One hand makes its way to your lips, and you gently brush your fingertips against it.

It was for a brief moment - barely a kiss - when Minho’s lips grazed against yours.

His lips seemed so soft. So tempting. Inviting.

You squeal again, sinking lower in the bathtub until it’s just your nose and above that isn’t submerged in water. With tired and nearly deadpan eyes, you think to yourself, “Get a hold of yourself, Dr. Song.”

“You’ll have to say goodbye when this is all over.”

If this will actually be over.

“In summary, Cle was supposed to transact with Red Wing, a private company that directly supplies manpower and weaponry to a militant group. Their agent attended this gala to give a prototype serum that, as per the papers, is almost complete. In exchange, Cle would be given a large sum of money to mass produce the said serum.” Jung reads the report from Chan, “Is that correct?”

“Yes sir.” the agents reply.

“And according to the papers, the serum that was being sold is a prototype?”

“Prototype 1.” Minho states, “Technically, Cle is reporting the serum as 90% complete.”

Jung sighs, shaking his head, “Are we certain that the transaction didn’t push through?”

Chan nods, his voice sure and firm, “Yes, sir. Jeongin, Minho and I kept our eyes on him the entire evening, and Hyunjin and Changbin tailed him afterwards. No transaction happened.”

The head agent nods in response, an approving look in his eyes. “Did we manage to acquire the serum that was supposed to be sold?” Jung asks.

Minho hums, gesturing his head towards the window in the room, “One bottle. We’ve given the serum to the pick-up team. They’re en-route to HQ as we speak.”

“Good, good. Jisung and Seungmin can start analyzing it.” Jung seems happy, “Oh...Dr. Song is here, is she not?”

Chan tilts his head, “Yes. Why?”

Jung hums, hand on his chin as if he were deep in thought, “It would have been nice to have her return to HQ to help Jisung and Seungmin so we can immediately determine if this prototype serum brings us a step closer to a solution. Where is she now?”

Minho raises an eyebrow and leans against the wall. He remembers you admitting to him that you somehow discovered a semi-solution to negate the serum; though not final, you had admitted that you discovered something of significant use. That you were close to finding the final solution.

Minho doesn’t say a word. Instead, he addresses the head’s question. “She’s asleep by now, I assume.” he starts a bit too protectively, and he doesn’t miss the teasing smirk on Jeongin’s lips, “She was with us the entire night.”

If Jung notices the tone of protectiveness in the agent’s voice, he doesn’t say anything about it. “I see.” Jung nods in understanding, “Well, the most we can do now is just wait. You’re all dismissed. Go get some rest and sleep for the night.”

All the agents excuse themselves and politely bow before leaving Jung’s hotel room. Jeongin, Chan and Changbin go ahead, getting off the elevator to the 10th floor while saying goodbye in between their yawns. Meanwhile, Hyunjin and Minho get out of the elevator on the 12th floor. While walking towards their respective rooms, Hyunjin softly chuckles, “You’re awfully quiet again. Something happen between you and y/n?”

Minho sighs, furrowing his eyebrows as he chooses his words, “I nearly kissed her.”

The long-haired agent gasps, eyes wide with both shock and amusement. If it were possible, there could have been a million stars in his eyes right now. “Oh?” he whistles, “What brought that about?”

Minho groans, sighing as if he had just faced his biggest predicament, “We were dancing in the gala, and we just...talked. Before I knew it, I was...leaning in.”

“And what stopped you from indulging?” Hyunjin asks with curiosity.

“Many things. We’re on a mission...you called and told us the target was captured…” Minho mumbles, “Among others.”

Hyunjin raises an eyebrow, “What are these others?”

“Fear.”

“Oho, the Lee Minho’s afraid?”

Minho glares before deflating into a more tired stance, “You know what I mean, Hyunjin. If I fall, there’s no guarantee I can get back up. Or worse, someone to cushion that fall.”

“Well, isn’t y/n there to make the fall easier?” Hyunjin muses, “Guide you through it? I mean, she’s new to it I’m sure, but the two of you will help each other. I’m positive of that.”

“You really think?”

“You’re not as smart, huh?”

“Hwang Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin laughs, “Ok, ok! I’m just saying…a little change isn’t so bad. Maybe it’s time you cast off that particular ghost - you know what I mean - and find a...better chapter in life.”

Minho looks at his friend with a deadpan expression before breaking out into a small smile, “Who knew you were this poetic?”

“Going undercover in various places has its perks.” Hyunjin laughs before stopping in front of his hotel room door, “Think about it. For the meantime, goodnight!”

“Night.” Minho replies, opening the door next to Hyunjin’s to go inside his own room.

And when Minho strips his clothes off, takes a shower and plops down on bed, he expects to fall asleep right away, especially since his body is so exhausted. He expects to relish in the warmth and softness of the bed and pillows, carrying him over to dreamland. He does not, however, expect to lay still on his back, eyes glued to the ceiling as the darkness of the room washes over him.

[A/N: italics = flashback] / [Warning: suggestive and implied actions, but nothing graphic and explicit at all. Should you still wish to skip this, press CTRL + F (or any command to help you search for words on a webpage) and search “Minho guaranteed that”. You can continue reading from there]

The room was hot. His skin was hot and flushed. Everything was hot, especially her lips on his. They’ve been in this...compromising? Intimate? position for a while now, the woman on his lap, both of them in nothing but their bare skin. She was pressed against him, leaving no space for air to dance in between as he devoured her lips with his own, hands traveling here and there.

“Didn’t you say you were tired from your mission?” Jiyeon laughed as Minho shifted his attention to her neck.

Minho laughed in kind, a playful glint in his eyes, “Yeah, but I have just enough energy for one round.”

“What is this? A video game? Low stamina and health points are going down!” the woman joked around, keeping the mood bright and lively despite the nature of their current actions.

“I have the energy, but I am a bit tired.” Minho smirked, “I think you’ll need to be quiet for a while.”

The man silenced her with hungry kisses, placing her down on the bed as he entered her space. In between the pants and breathless gasps, whispers of love were announced here and there like some proclamation or oath that shouldn’t be forgotten. And by the end of the night, the two figures lay in bed, snuggly in each other’s arms and paying no heed to the sweatiness of their skin.

It didn’t take long for Minho to fall asleep, soft snores escaping his lips. Jiyeon looked at the man with a warm gaze, eyes narrowing as she smiled and stifled a giggle. The woman reached out to gently comb her fingers through the male’s hair - dyed orange at the time - taking her time in getting a feel of the soft locks, almost as if trying to remember what they felt like.

She brushed a few strands away from his face, resting the hand by the male’s jaw. “I really do love you.” she whispered, placing a very quick kiss to his nose.

Jiyeon then got up, gathering the articles of clothing that were on the floor before slipping them back on. Now fully dressed, the woman took her pistol from the bedside drawer and aimed it at the sleeping male. Just about ready to pull the trigger, Jiyeon’s eyes widened for a brief second before she regained her composure.

“If you’re going to pull the trigger, make sure you’ve put your silencer.” Minho said, eyes still closed, “Wouldn’t want Chan and the rest running over here.”

Jiyeon lowered the gun, sighing as if she was very much bummed out, “As expected. Nothing slips past you.”

Minho’s eyes were now open, but he didn’t spare her a glance. Instead, he kept his gaze on his clothes on the floor, an uninterested expression on his face. “We both know I’m not going to engage with you now, so you either kill me or walk away quietly.” he said calmly, but the threat in his voice was powerful.

“If I go, will I see you again?” Jiyeon teased a bit too flirtatiously.

Minho’s expression didn’t waver; stoic and blank, yet a certain inferno engulfed the stars in his galaxy-like eyes. He ran a hand through his already-messy hair before speaking with a poisonous and bitter tone.

“Perhaps.” he started, “But the next time we cross paths, one of us will end up with a bullet in their heart.”

“Didn’t your heart already get hit by a bullet, Lee Minho?” Jiyeon chuckled before tucking her gun back in.

Without another word from either of them, the woman walked out the door, closing it gently.

Minho stared up at the ceiling of his room, not blinking even once as he felt something cool - no, something hot - stream down the sides of his face.

Hot tears of...sadness? No, anger.

Anger and vengeance.

Yes, his heart was hit by a bullet named Jiyeon.

And he was still alive.

Jiyeon was going to get hit by a bullet named Lee Minho, and she would not survive.

Minho guaranteed that.

Minho doesn’t even realize his eyebrows are angrily furrowed until he hears a knock on the hotel room door. Breaking from his trance, the agent sighs as he gets up, cautiously approaching the door. He relaxes only when he hears a soft, familiar voice saying “Minho?”

Opening the door, the agent looks at you inquisitively before asking worriedly, “Y/n? What’s wrong?”

You give him a smile of reassurance, “Oh, nothing serious, don’t worry. Um, I just...wanted to return this.”

You stretch your hand out to give him his suit jacket. Minho chuckles and takes it from you before raising an eyebrow, “You could have just returned it tomorrow.”

“I...might forget.” you chuckle sheepishly, unconsciously tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

The agent smiles fondly, giving your cheek another pinch, “If you missed me, you could have just said so.”

“Who says?” you hit his arm which really doesn’t do anything, “I just wanted to return it before I forget!”

Minho bites his lip to stifle a louder laugh. “You’re still pretty hyper.”

“You’re one to talk.” you glare, reaching up to pinch his cheek as well.

But when you realize what you’ve done - and judging by the twitch of his lips - you freeze and feel your heart drop, legs suddenly weak. Your hand remains in place, your pinch on his cheek loosening but the hand is still there. Minho blinks twice, his own hand slowly coming up to envelope yours. With your hand in his, he pulls it away from his face, poking his tongue in the inside of his cheek.

“I…” you stumble over your words, “I didn’t mean to. Uh...I’m so sorry.”

But Minho ends up erupting in soft laughter, his eyes crinkling in amusement. He lets go of your hand to lightly tap a finger on the tip of your nose. “I think you’re the first person to have had the guts to do that.” he teases, “I’ll admit I’m amused.”

“You’re probably just pulling my leg.” you deadpan.

The male agent shrugs casually, smiling as he speaks, “Maybe. Anyway, shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

You pout, “I was...until I remembered to return the jacket.”

“Ok, fine.” Minho smirks, “Thanks. Now seriously, go get some sleep.”

“Yes, Agent Lee.” you stick your tongue out.

“Hmm. Charming. Real charming.” he deadpans, but not a second later, he’s chuckling.

“You’re the charming one.”

You don’t say that, but you wish you could.

The next day, after the team returned from the previous mission, the agents had set off almost immediately after lunch. Not even stepping foot into the HQ, Minho and the other agent boys had already left for the continuation of their mission. Changbin and Jeongin remained, the older agent going back to the main building while Jeongin headed for the cafeteria for an after-lunch snack. You went to the living quarters to drop some stuff in your room and get changed into more comfortable clothes.

Afterwards, you began your usual walk to the lab department to look for Jisung and Seungmin. You peek into the usual room where the three of you work, but there was no sign of the duo. You hum to yourself, rattling your brain to think of anywhere else they could be.

As you exit the room, Changbin exits another one as well. He sees you and offers a smile, “Heyo.”

“Hi.” you smile, “Have you seen Jisung and Seungmin?”

“No, actually. I was looking for them.” Changbin pouts, and it’s a funny contrast to his buff physique, “Minho asked me to ask them if the results for a serum test came out already…”

“Yeah, I was going to ask them that as well.” you sigh.

The agent then shrugs, a soft chuckle escaping his lips, “Well, seeing as to how those two are probably on break if they aren’t here, you should join them.”

“Aren’t we...still on duty?” you ask cautiously.

“I am.” Changbin pretends to sob, “But technically you aren’t since lab results and tests can take time. Besides, Minho and the rest are still on an ongoing side mission, so either way, we have to wait for them to return to know how to proceed next. For the time being, I think it should be fine to have a day-off.”

“Are you positive? Minho might have my head.” you mumble.

At that, Changbin laughs, “Oh, you’re funny. I like that. Well, Minho can’t do anything about it ‘cause he’s not here. Go and have fun with the younger guys. If you can’t find Jisung or Seungmin, ask Felix to help you locate them!”

“I will, thank you Changbin.” you politely bow.

“No need for that.” he laughs, giving your head a pat, “See you around.”

About 5-10 minutes later, you and Felix locate Jisung and Seungmin in one of the lounge rooms of the living quarters - the one with a swimming pool.

You stare in disbelief before turning to face the freckled agent, “Really? A swimming pool? Is this a government organization or a hotel?”

Felix laughs, his eyes crinkling with amusement, “Come on, y/n! The swimming pool in the training center is to train the agents. This one's for recreational purposes! We agents can get stressed and want to relax when we can, you know?”

“I know…” you stifle a laugh, “I just...wasn’t expecting a whole pool.”

Jisung swims over to the edge and smiles at the two of you, “Care to join us? Those test results you all want are going to take another three hours or so.”

“I’ll just sit here and watch, thanks.” you offer a small smile.

Felix, on the other hand, is already taking his shirt off, enthusiastically happy that he chose to wear sweatpants and not jeans today - wet sweatpants were less of a hassle compared to wet jeans. He jumps into the pool with a splash for an impromptu swimming break. You and Jisung laugh as Felix lets out a loud “whoo!”. Seungmin wades over much calmer compared to the two, hoisting himself up to sit on the pool edge. “Did you guys just get back?” he asks.

“More or less.” you answer, grabbing a chair and sitting on it.

“So,” Jisung wiggles - you presume his butt - in the water and narrows his eyes mischievously, “tell us about the gala! Wasn’t your cover supposed to be lovers with Minho?”

Felix squeals in the background, splashing water like a child. Seungmin has to hold back a snicker as he looks at you expectantly. You’re aware of the fact that your cheeks heat up, but you shoot the boys a glare either way. “How’d you know that?” you ask.

Jisung snickers, “Jeongin told me!”

“Why that…” you mumble under your breath before clearing your throat, “Well, sorry to burst your bubbles, but nothing much happened. Dancing, eating, drinking...that’s it. I barely did anything afterwards.”

Jisung makes a “boo” sound, causing Seungmin to kick at the water and splash him. Meanwhile, Felix raises a question while floating around, “Did you and Minho do anything fun?”

“If you consider dancing as fun, then there you go.” you say, suddenly flashing back to the near-kiss you shared.

Seungmin is quick to notice the reddened flush of your skin, so he smiles innocently and muses, “Hmm? Did you enjoy dancing with Minho, y/n? I wouldn’t blame you. All the girls here have had a crush on him at some point.”

You ignore the pang of jealousy that sizzles in your bones, covering your flustered state with another glare. “I did not.” you defend yourself, crossing your arms, “I swear, it was just nothing.”

Jisung hums excitedly, flailing in the water, “I can tell you’re hiding something!”

“I am not!” you nearly stutter.

“Gee, Minho’s right. You’re a bad liar.” Felix says innocently, earring him a high-five from Jisung.

“Spill it.” Seungmin says with a devious smirk.

You avert your eyes, glancing to the side as you mumble, “He kissed me on the cheek.”

Of course you left out the part where he nearly kissed you on the lips.

With that admission, the three boys yell and cheer, the sounds echoing in the pool room. You look at them surprised, cheeks now redder than ever. Jisung is the first to stop squealing, “I’ve known Minho for so long, and this is the first time he’s done that!”

“Not really.” Seungmin corrects before waving his hand dismissively, “Well, the first time in a while anyway. Looks like the Ice Prince is melting.”

You don’t get to dwell on the implications of Seungmin’s words - implying that Minho acted like that with someone before - because Felix is the next to giddily speak, “Well? Why’d he do that? What happened?”

“He just walked me back to my hotel room. Then...we both said good night, and he just leaned in. It was super fast! You’re all overreacting!” you yell, causing the three to laugh.

“Ohoho. You probably liked it.” Jisung wiggles his eyebrows teasingly, “Ooooh you wanted to kiss him so bad I bet!”

“No I did not!” your face twists in mock-disgust.

“Kissy kissy on the lips.” Felix playfully puckers his lips at you.

Your cheeks are as red as apples, and your ears are burning at the tips. “Felix!” you complain.

“Look at you all shy!” Seungmin teases.

This prompts you to get up from the chair and push him into the pool. He emerges with a laugh, but the three boys soon swim close to the edge and grab your wrist. Jisung smirks, “You have your phone with you?”

“No, I put it on the table there by the - ”

You don’t get to finish because the three of them pull you into the pool, causing you to scream in surprise. When your head emerges above the water surface, hair and clothes all soaked, you pinch each of their ears. “The three of you are so dead.” you grit your teeth, but their cheeky grins are enough to cause you to break into laughter.

“My, my. What children.” Jeongin teases as he arrives at the entrance of the pool room.

“You’re one to talk, you snitch.” you smirk.

Jeongin winks, “Not snitch. I prefer the term ‘wingman’.”

“Where’d you learn to talk like that?”

“...K-drama.”

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demonsigh · 3 years

Text

the vampire hunter

rating: orange/pg pairing: male vampire x male human features: drunken antics, in vino veritas, enemies to lovers warnings: blood, throwing up length: 2434 words

A very hungry vampire takes care of a very drunk vampire hunter. Based on this prompt submitted to @monsterkinkmeme

There were many undeniable perks that came with being a vampire, and several of them lent themselves well to scholarly pursuits. Ellis had an infallible memory for names, dates, and quotations. He had excellent night vision, which made candles unnecessary for reading in the dark. And whereas the research of mere men spanned decades at most, Ellis had pursued his studies for centuries.

But immortality had not cured him of the bad habits he’d developed as a human academic. Sometimes he became so absorbed in his work that he went for weeks without feeding, without realizing, until he would look up from a book and be suddenly crushed by a hunger so strong that it hurt. As a vampire, this was not only unhealthy, but dangerous. He posed no threat to errant humans if he kept himself well-fed, but when he was starving, sometimes his self-control slipped.

He wouldn’t have called himself “starving” tonight, but he was hungrier than he thought was responsible. He planned out a hunting trip in his head while he packed necessities into a small leather bag. He always travelled far to feed, and never dipped into the surrounding hamlets. He found that the locals tolerated him as long as he kept his distance, even if they found him strange or had their suspicions about his true nature. He was careful not to upset this uneasy peace. A mob of frightened humans could be just as deadly as a vampire.

A loud knock sounded at the front door. Ellis paused in the act of packing, then heaved an enormous sigh. He thought briefly about slipping out the window and avoiding this encounter altogether, but he told himself that it wouldn’t be very sportsmanlike.

The person at the door was almost certainly Nicholas Golding, a vampire hunter of mild renown who’d been pursuing Ellis for months. They’d met abroad, on one of Ellis’s hunting trips, and since then they’d developed something of a rivalry.

“St. Claaaaiiiirrrr!” It was Nicholas, growing impatient at the door. “I have you this time, you devil!”

Ellis rolled his eyes, wondering if he could convince Nicholas to postpone the match until next week. Not likely.

He opened the front door to find a sword pointed in his face, the tip wobbling in clumsy little circles as if trying to find the perfect spot to stab.

“You’re mine now, St. Clair.” Nicholas swayed in place as he spoke, fighting to keep his footing. It was to his credit that his sword arm stayed as steady as it was.

“Golding,” said Ellis, as he pushed the sword aside with his hand, “you’re drunk. Go home.”

Nicholas laughed loudly. “You know even half-dead I’m more than a match for you.”

Ellis privately conceded the point. Nicholas was an arrogant prick, but he fought like a demon. He was incredibly skilled with a sword, resourceful, creative, and insufferable in his tenacity. Even drunk, he was a much more challenging opponent than any of the stooges the Church sent after him.

But Ellis had never seen Nicholas this drunk. The man positively reeked of ale, speech slurred, gaze unfocused, cheeks flushed an appealing shade of red. It was a wonder he’d made it up to the castle without falling off a cliff.

“Anyway,” said Nicholas, lowering his sword. He attempted to sheath it, but couldn’t manage to align the tip with the opening. He let the sword fall to the steps with a clatter instead, then looked back up at Ellis with a dashing, lopsided smile. “The innkeeper kicked me out. Let me stay the night, will you?”

“Are you out of your mind?” asked Ellis, scowling. He was far too hungry for a guest; particularly one who’d just held him at swordpoint. He was sure he had every right to slam the door in this man’s face.

But what would Nicholas do instead? Sleep drunk in a ditch? He’d be robbed blind by bandits if the wolves didn’t get to him first. Something in Ellis recoiled from the thought.

“I’ll sleep on the sofa,” Nicholas slurred. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

“Why not take the bed?” asked Ellis, sarcastic, but somehow he found himself stepping aside to make way. “It’s unoccupied at night, of course.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Nicholas’s face as Ellis invited him in. Then he reassumed his cheerful smirk and staggered over the threshold. “I knew I could count on you, St. Clair, you’re a gentleman and a scholar.”

“Yes, well, your timing has always been terrible,” said Ellis. “No sense turning you away now.”

Nicholas grinned and opened his mouth to fire off a retort, lost his footing, and went crashing down face-first onto the flagstone floor.

“Damn!” he said, snickering to himself. He struggled and failed to push himself up. Ellis sighed.

“Idiot,” he muttered, while he bent down to help. He grabbed an arm and heaved Nicholas to his feet, then gasped as he held him upright, knees buckling. It wasn’t the weight — Ellis had superhuman strength, after all. It was the smell. It was the man’s blood, rushing thick and hot beneath his skin. It was mouthwatering.

Oh I’m in hell, thought Ellis. Nicholas Golding was the last person on earth he wanted to drink from. But now the man’s whole warm weight was pressed against him and Ellis was suddenly ravenous. His mouth was inches from Nicholas’s neck.

He pinched his lips shut and held his breath as he half-carried the drunken fool to the bedroom and dumped him on the bed as gently as he could manage. Then he grabbed his leather bag and slipped away. Now that the hunter was taken care of, he could go about his own hunting in peace.

But he hesitated halfway out the door, plagued by niggling worries. Nicholas had barely been able to stand. How much had he had to drink? Was it safe to leave him like this? He didn’t want to come home to a week-old corpse.

Ellis wasn’t a monster, no matter what the neighbors thought. But he was a vampire. He was strong, and fast, and that was putting it mildly. He almost always emerged the victor from their little duels. And of course it had occurred to him to just kill Nicholas and be done with him once and for all. But that simply wasn’t how Ellis did things. And so, after every defeat, he left Nick Golding alive. That fact alone seemed to gall the man more than anything else; his pride had clearly suffered the worst wounds.

But over time, Ellis had sensed a corresponding reluctance that puzzled him. This came to a head one evening when their skirmish was interrupted by another hunter — one from the Church — inserting himself into the fight. The poor man hadn’t been anywhere near their league, but the distraction had given Nicholas an advantage. He managed to pin Ellis. He had his blade pressed against his throat. Ellis saw the flash of triumph in his eyes, before — nothing. Nicholas withdrew the blade. He let Ellis escape.

That was when Ellis realized that, somehow, their relationship had changed. Nicholas didn’t want Ellis dead. He wanted to defeat him, fair and square. They were fighting for sport.

Did that make them friends? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he felt an annoying but undeniable concern for the man passed out drunk in his bed. And so, against his better judgment, he turned around and trudged back to the bedroom.

He stopped dead in the doorway. Nicholas was sitting up on the edge of the bed, gingerly fingering his nose, and blood was streaming from one of his nostrils.

“Think I broke my nose when I fell…” he muttered.

“Clean yourself up, you fool!” Ellis hissed, recoiling from the sight. Nicholas looked up with wide eyes, startled and bewildered.

“Oh— damn,” he said, as realization seemed to strike. He pulled an appallingly dirty handkerchief from his pocket and made a clumsy attempt to mop up the blood. It was hardly effective, but Ellis appreciated the effort.

“Better?” Nicholas asked, having the nerve to look cheerful, but his face fell when he saw the condition that Ellis was in. “Are you alright?” he asked, almost whispering.

Ellis was not alright. He wanted, ferociously, to drink Nicholas’s blood. He gripped the door frame with white-knuckled hands, struggling to compose himself, afraid to imagine what kind of expression was on his face.

Alarmed, Nicholas tried to rise, stumbled, fell to his knees, then picked himself back up unsteadily.

“Don’t come any closer,” Ellis warned.

Nicholas seemed ready to ignore the warning, but then he paused.

“Wait…” he asked, squinting across the room. “Are you drunk too?”

“Of course not,” Ellis snapped. He looked away, and without thinking, he said, “I’m starving.”

Nicholas froze, and a silence hung heavy between them. He sat back down on the bed. Ellis shut his eyes, trying to find some untapped well of resolve before he made a terrible mistake.

“You could drink from me,” Nicholas said.

The vampire’s eyes snapped open. He was sure that Nicholas was making a tasteless joke, but when he looked he saw nothing playful in the man’s face.

“Do you want to drink from me?” he asked again, as if Ellis hadn’t heard.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” said Ellis hoarsely.

“Course I do. I’ve spoken with some of your victims. They don’t make it sound so bad.” He flashed one of his roguish smiles, and Ellis scowled in response. What was he thinking? Did he see this as another sort of absurd challenge? Let the vampire have his way with you and live to tell the tale?

He would never tell the tale if he knew what was good for him. For a vampire hunter, to be bitten was a terrible disgrace.

Nicholas’s nosebleed had slowed considerably by then, and the smell of fresh blood was replaced by the tang of the dry crust — not nearly as appetizing. Ellis breathed a bit easier.

“Don’t be a fool, Golding,” he said, “I’m not going to drink from you of all—”

He stopped short when he saw that Nicholas was unbuttoning his shirt.

“S’ppose the neck’s alright?” Nicholas asked, reaching for another button.

Ellis raced across the room and grabbed Nicholas by the collar, pulling his shirt shut.

“Would you stop that?” Ellis hissed. “Have you forgotten you’re drunk? You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Nicholas was still for a moment, staring down at the vampire’s hands. Then, gently, he wrapped his calloused fingers around Ellis’s wrists, and looked up into his face. “Ellis,” he said. His gaze was bleary and unfocused, but somehow full of an earnest concern. “I’m worried about you.”

Ellis’s long-dead heart thumped unevenly in his chest. He snatched his hands away. Nicholas took the opportunity to pull his shirt back open, exposing his neck and chest.

“Just do it, St. Clair,” he said. He glanced away, looking unexpectedly self-conscious. “It’s the least I can do. Since you’re letting me stay.”

“That’s not—” Ellis faltered, struggling to formulate another objection. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the flushed skin of Nicholas’s chest. His fangs ached in anticipation of the bite. His resolve was wavering.

He reached out a trembling hand. Nicholas certainly did owe him this, he reasoned, after all the months of trouble he’d caused. What was one little bite among friends?

No! What was he thinking? The man was drunk; he didn’t know what he was saying. Ellis had a brief vision of Nicholas waking up in the morning, acutely hungover, and horrified by what had occurred the night before. In fact, if Nicholas remembered any of this in the morning, things between them might change forever, and that thought hurt Ellis in a way he did not expect or know how to account for.

“It’s alright,” Nicholas said, voice low. “I don’t mind.” He placed his hands on Ellis’s hips and pulled him slowly closer. Ellis’s breath caught in his throat.

“I can’t let you do this,” he whispered. “You’ll have a scar. I’ll put your entire reputation at stake.”

Nicholas let his head fall forward, shoulders shaking. At first Ellis thought he’d given up, but then he heard the quiet laughter.

“At stake…” said Nicholas, snickering drunkenly.

“Oh you moron…” muttered Ellis. He should have used the distraction to pull away, but he didn’t. He couldn’t make himself.

Nicholas recovered with an effort, then looked back up at Ellis.

“I’m not worried about the scar,” he insisted; and there was something sly in his voice as he said, “Just bite me somewhere no one will see.”

A flash of intuition struck Ellis. He couldn’t quite believe it, but he threw caution to the wind and asked anyway.

“Are you trying to seduce me?”

Nicholas’s mouth slowly spread into a wicked grin. “I’m—” he said, but his expression suddenly soured. He shoved Ellis back, leaned over, and vomited messily onto the rug.

“Oh, perfect timing as usual,” said Ellis drily, raising his voice to be heard above the noise.

“I’ll clean it up,” Nicholas groaned, head hanging. He sounded miserable, and Ellis felt a twinge of guilt over his sarcasm.

“I’ll clean it up. Get in bed.”

“But—”

“Now, Nicholas,” Ellis barked, and Nicholas hastily obeyed, clumsily tucking himself under the covers.

“Forgot how scary you can be when you want,” he said, chuckling to himself as his eyes fell closed.

Ellis snorted as he left the room to fetch some water. He prayed that he’d kept his expression composed, but if his heart had still worked, it would have been hammering. His mind was reeling, trying to process what had just happened.

At least one thing was certain: There was no way he was going to bite Nicholas now. He was far too dehydrated to lose any blood. It was a relief to finally reach a decision, though his hunger still stung him like the pain of a wound. He would just have to bear it for now.

And what about in the morning? Would Nicholas renew his offer, or would he take back the things he’d said? Would he even remember? Ellis would certainly remember. He felt a hundred years younger, torn between apprehension and a boyish sort of excitement.

He smiled to himself, shaking his head. All this distress over that fool of a man… And a vampire hunter no less. Yes, things would certainly be changed between them tomorrow, but perhaps that was alright.

#exophilia #monster romance #monster boyfriend #vampire boyfriend #monsterkinkmeme #sighs writing

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wiypt-writes · 3 years

Text

Murder, He Wrote

Part 3 Co-Written with @southerngracela

Summary: It’s Thanksgiving, but when you’re being held hostage by Hugh Ransom Drysdale there’s really not a lot to be thankful for, is there?

Warnings: Bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N: So this is Part 2 to our submission for @Jtargaryen18 ‘s Haunted House 2020 Challenge. Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

Part 2

You could feel the chill of the outside seeping into your space, your bones, through the vented window following your shower. The way it crept in made you realize just how far along through fall you were, maybe it was even approaching the onset of the holiday weather. Either way, a storm seemed to be outside. At least it felt like it. Once dried, you found yourself wrapping up tighter in the thick cardigan you’d chosen before you dried your hair, and allowed yourself a quick squirt of perfume before settled into the reading chair in the corner of your room, your journal on your lap.

The little, leather bound book had been in your handbag which had been given back to you earlier that morning as the latest reward for behaving and as you ran your hand over the deep brown cover, you couldn’t help the air of excitement you felt at having been given your treasured little note book, despite the dreary sky you could see from the porthole above your chair.

It had actually surprised you that Drysdale had kept it and not disposed of it the same way he had your phone and your car. But for whatever reason, he’d held onto it, and for that you were grateful. Grateful that you had something of your own from before this imprisonment to anchor too. You’d expected him to want some kind of favour in return but he hadn’t demanded any sort of sexual gratification, simply informed you he would be out most of the morning and would be back mid to late afternoon. As soon as he had gone you had eagerly tipped the contents of your bag onto the bed, almost crying at the sight of your half empty bottle of Coco-Mademoiselle, the Mac Lip-gloss, NYX Eyebrow pencil, Mont Blanc fountain pen, a full tube of mints and your treasured journal. With teary eyes you’d put everything away in its new place, apart from the book and pen before padding into the bathroom for a shower, deliberately sorting yourself out for the day. All you could think of was taking the time so you could savour the moment when you could hopefully make some sense of the jumble in your head by spilling it onto a page.

You opened the cover and flicked to your last entry, the morning of Halloween. A rambling rant about Mick-The-Prick filled the page and you paused, tears in your eyes, as you’d give anything to be stood in his office thinking about ingenious ways to kill him and get away with it. Ironic, really considering that was exactly what your captor had done; committed murder and gotten away with it.

You went to jot the date down in the corner of the page and realised that actually, you didn’t have a clue what it was. Down here, night bled into day, day bled into night…and soon it all bled into weeks. However, given the fact your cycle had been and gone a week ago you figured that it was maybe four weeks since Halloween. Of course, you could ask Hugh, but the less you had to ask him the better as far as you were concerned. You hate the fact that he had this hold on you, that you had to ask for and ‘earn’ things by being ‘good’. And whilst it made you sick to your stomach, you’d fast learnt it was easier to comply than rebel. The night he had left you tangled in your sweater had hurt. It had taken you a good twenty minutes to muster the strength to work your way out and drag yourself into a bath, your body shaking with the trauma, sobs wracking your frame. Your body ached for days, your mind in a post-traumatic cloud of despair. And whilst it hadn’t broken you per-say, it had certainly made you realise exactly what the bastard was capable of, and you had no intention of finding out just how much further he was willing to go.

So, in summary, it had taken Ransom Drysdale two days to break you into compliance.

You’d become passive, so to speak. You gave into his whims, let him use you as he saw fit, did as he told… for the most part anyway. There had been a few other incidents post the sweater one where you’d forgotten yourself and protested, fought a little and he’d gone hard on you, but nothing like that second night. Your passive behaviour was mistaken by him for compliance, and as such you had earned a number of rewards. The bistro table where you took your meals, a book or two which just so happened to be by his grandfather, a gesture you weren't sure was him purging or pressing an agenda onto you. And more recently and most preciously, your bag. But, the strange thing was, that whilst he wanted you to give into him physically, he seemed to enjoy the fact that you were in no way, shape or form compliant to him in others. You openly sassed him, bit back, called him out and he actively encouraged it. He’d started spending a little more time with you in the mornings and afternoons, not just visiting you to toy with you or fuck, but to engage in these little tete-a-tete’s, and the sickest, most perverted thing about it was that you were almost glad. The loneliness was crippling, and you craved company. Even if it was his.

All things considered, you’d rather ask him for as little as possible so instead, you flicked to the front of the book and crossed off the days on the small calendar inside the cover. Deciding that the date it led you to was as accurate as it was going to get, you turned back, jotted it down in the top right of your page and stared at the blank lines, looking to sort your thoughts for your next entry.

The saying used to go, what's in a name, however as I sit here thinking back on the last few weeks I wonder now what's in a day. My days consist of imprisonment. Held by a captor I have met once before. He's smart, almost too smart. Displaying forms of abuse and aggressive behaviors any FBI analyst would love to dive deep into. But that's not my job, no, my job is to please and satisfy him. Answer to his whims of gratification at any call of the day. I have nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. But if I behave, he lets few things get by. I miss home, my bed, my life. I miss Mick, which is saying a lot all things considered. I don't know still what he wants from me, other than the obvious sexual gratification with little to no room for anything else. I'm a toy, a means to an itch. I don't know how long exactly I've been here, I can only guess it's been about a month. Nor do I know how long I'll have to stay. The answers are blurred like my vision, marred by tears and the low light inside. I haven't seen outside since the day he took me. I haven't been anywhere outside this room. I can see from the small porthole window above this stupidly soft leather chair the season has changed. It feels like deep fall, and as a storm comes outside, what little sky I see is bleak and dark, clouds covering the bluest of skies, angry and ready to open up, raining down water to wash away the sins of the day. I wish I could do the same.

Before you realized, time had obviously passed, for the sound of the door bolts unlocking had you guessing it was late afternoon or early evening. A glance up at the porthole behind you confirmed as much. The sky was dark and rain had been beating on the window for a little while.

In came Drysdale, hair a bit wet, a strand slightly out of place, wool pants and maroon sweater. He carried a plate of food in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He looked irked, like he'd wasted time on something, a look you were now able to decipher after weeks of seeing it.

"Happy Thanksgiving," he said, setting the plate down on the bistro table with its two accompanying chairs, waiting for you to join him.

Instead of biting back, you simply whispered, "it’s Thanksgiving?" You checked the inside cover of your journal and see the date again. You were a day off and it now dawned on you. It was the fourth Thursday of the month and indeed, Thanksgiving. You glanced back up at Ransom and a deep sadness washed over you. Closing your journal and setting it on the table by your chair, you stood, moving towards him and the plate of food. You took a seat and looked down at the plate, full of the holiday dish basics; turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, stuffing, diced not candied yams and roasted green beans. It was gourmet and nothing near what he'd been serving you or managing to try. "Thank you," you said softly, rolling your fork through the potatoes. You take a bite but it's about as bland and tasteless as your despair.

"I brought it back from the country club, I met my father there," he looked under your gaze again, as if willing your eyes to his. "Do you not like it?"

Finally, your gaze met those cold cerulean orbs, setting your fork down and you took a drink of water, "No, it's fine." Then you picked up your fork again and took another bite, this time of the turkey and gravy. You didn't have it in you for an argument or it's physical ramifications.

"Are you not hungry?" Ransom pressed.

"I guess not as much as I thought," you repled further poking at your food, your voice cracking a little as you try to keep your composure. The sting of the holiday has you broken, far more than you'd expected. Normally, today you'd be helping your mother in the kitchen, settling the final touches on the side dishes and listening to your father tell your uncle about some a-typical dad joke he'd heard. Your sister would be giddy over the wine while her boyfriend of the month received death glares from said uncle and your father.

Ransom outwardly sighed and you wait for what you were trying to avoid. "Are you alright?"

The question threw you off guard completely and you struggled to hide the shock from your expression. He never cared about your feelings before. Maybe he thought you were coming down with something. You braced yourself to answer honestly. There was no point in lying, he'd see through it.

"I'm fine, I'm not sick if that's what you're thinking," you answered, a deep restraint on your tone to keep yourself in check. "I hadn't realized what day it was. I didn't know it was Thanksgiving." You swallowed the lump in your throat and blinked hard. "My mom, my sister and I, we used to all help make dinner as a family. My dad and uncle would talk a bunch of shit around the fireplace while shooting death glares at my sister's flavor of the month."

He looked at you like he was confused. You scoff, "Of course you wouldn't understand."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He squint his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek. His body language completely changed as he leaned forward on his forearms, popping one shoulder up higher than the other.

"Nothing," you backed down immediately.

"Tell me," he pressed.

God, he was relentless. You pushed your plate forward and leaned on your own elbows. You looked at him with a raised brow, "am I going to be in trouble if you don't like what I have to say?"

"Depends," he popped a shoulder smugly.

You matched his expression and his demeanour falters just a fraction. You saw it, but you didn't hold back. "Then I'd rather keep it to myself. That's what you want isnt it? Me to comply, be obedient? Frankly, I'm not in the mood."

He failed to hide his smirk and you noticed that too, "Sweetheart." It wasn't laced with teasing, rather his pet name for you on his tongue held a cautious venom.

"You hate your family. You know nothing about love and what it takes to give love. Hell, I don't doubt that for a minute you've ever felt loved. It's all an act. Self-preservation even. I don't know you or your family outside of the hours of research I did and the mere forty five minutes I listened to you drone on about your 'predicament'. But, the cold hearted truth of it is, you don't know how to love." You watched him run his tongue along his teeth as he continued to glare at you, but you weren't finished. "And that's what family is, it's what they do. They love, they are the embodiment of love at its deepest root. Maybe, just maybe somewhere along your life, your parents loved you, but judging by the Thrombey-Drysdale standards, none of you know what love is outside your selfish tithings and flashy cars. It got lost along the way, more than likely long before you ever were born."

"Wow," he raised his brows and clicked his tongue against his teeth, "That's good, that's really good."

You're fear receptors suddenly spiked as recognizable flash of anger in his eyes flashed through his irises. But there was something else there that you couldn't put your finger on it. Your breathing quickly up-ticked as you felt your palms begin to sweat.

He inhaled a deep, almost centering breath, "that perfume in your bag, I like it."

As if he'd grown a second head, you blinked hard refocusing on him. Had you heard him right? You'd just broken a rule, laid out an unspeakable truth for him and now in a blink he's, God forbid, complimenting your scent? Who the fuck was this guy? Was he on meds? Because he should be or he should at least probably share. It might make life here more bearable. "What?"

"The perfume from your bag, you're wearing it. It smells good," he lamented.

Alright, now the 'of sound mind' argument might be worth something because he sure as shit wasn't now. You swallowed and picked up your fork, taking a bite of the cold food just to buy yourself some time as you tried to process the scene before you. You had no remark to make. Confusing jumbled any thought of a coherent word you could utter.

"Maybe if I'm out, I can pick you up a new bottle. I noticed you were near empty," Ransom offered.

This was starting to make your stomach turn. If he'd gone through your bag, because why wouldn't he at this point, smelled your perfume, had he read your journal? You made a mental note to go back through and see if there was anything he'd read that he had used against you thus far or could use to corner you in the future. You looked around the room, waiting to see if you were being Punk'd. Just who the fuck is this guy? Without your expression giving too much of your confusion away, you nod at him in reply. "Thank you, I'd like that."

"Hmph," he paused, a dramatic effect he seemed to know that your heart rate up in anxiety. "Well, then why are you looking at me like I have two heads, Y/N?"

Tread lightly, you thought to yourself. He didn't call you by your first name often, in fact, the last time he had, you were very much smarting back and it resulted in a forceful situation that left you raw and sore for a few days. It was always 'Sweetheart'.

He baited you, you knew it, but you couldn't back out now. So you sighed, "I know I'm not supposed to ask questions, but, I don't even know who you are right now. Do you? One minute you're giving me food and being gentle, the next you're allowing my opinion, and now you're ready to flip this table. That's as close as two heads as it gets."

"Careful, Sweetheart," he now glared at you. There it was, you were in for it. The approach of choice, you weren't sure of, but he was done. You'd learned the different tones in his voice by now, the cues he gave. You were definitely in trouble. You dropped your eyes to your plate. The food stone cold and no longer even appealing in its slightest measure, a wave of nausea washing over you. You further pushed your plate away, "I don't think I'm hungry anymore."

His broad frame rose from the chair, "you weren't to begin with," his left hand reaching for the plate and holds it in his hand, "Third drawer down in the armoire. Pick something, I'll be back."

You watched him leave, the familiar click of the door shutting and snap of the lock sounded around the small apartment and you exhaled loudly, your head dropping into your hands. This wasn’t the first time he’d requested that you ‘dress for the occasion’ so to speak. With a deep breath you stood up and crossed the room, opening the drawer of requirements, seeking out a negligee for him to no doubt remove. Your fingers roamed over the fabrics and selection. La Perla, Agent Provocateur, Carine Gilson, Coco de Mer and Fleur of England were just a handful of the expensive, high-end brands that filled the space. Your fingers smoothed over a black macrame and tule underwired long line bra and the matching thong that was folded neatly under it. Plucking it from the drawer, you headed for the bathroom. You slipped out of your casual tee, duster cardigan and leggings, the bra and panties you'd had on. You sighed as you took a good look at yourself in your naked form.

While you hadn't lost a ton of weight over the last month, you could tell you'd grown thinner. You weren't gaunt but your lack of a daily Dunkin' Donuts macchiato had seemed to thin you out. Your captor made sure you were fed, but you didn't always eat. The plump of your cheeks had receded and your little pooch brought on by happy carbs was sucked into your frame. There were a few bruises still seen, near green, an indication of their final healing stage. The pock mark from a hickey he'd given you still a bit scaby as he'd broken the skin just barely. This was your life now and it made what few bites of Thanksgiving dinner in your stomach nearly lurch forward back up your throat.

You swallowed it down, pulling the long line bra straps up your arms and clasping it behind your back. Your legs slipped into the thong panties and you pulled the material up your freshly smooth legs. Your shaky fingers plucked at the hair tie that fastened the end of your brain closed, nails raking through your hair to loosen your tendrils. He always wanted your hair loose. You looked at yourself in the mirror, you were ready.

***** Ransom tossed the un-eaten food into the garbage and dumped the plate into the sink to be dealt with later. Turning so that his lower back was leaning on the edge of the kitchen counter he ran a hand over his clean shaven jaw, his mind ticking over the events of the day so far. A pain-in-the-ass Thanksgiving meal with his father had been made bearable by the fact he knew he was coming back to her, and because he hadn’t wanted to be a complete monster he’d made the effort of bringing her a nice dinner back too. But she’d hardly touched any of it.

And what disturbed him most about it, was the fact that instead of wanting to punish her for being an ungrateful bitch, he instead felt a deep rooted sense of concern. She’d lost weight, her face was pale, her hip bones more pronounced, and frankly the last thing he wanted was her passing out on him. Whilst he wanted her compliant, necrophilia really wasn’t his bag.

He had thought by giving her back the bag she’d had on her the night he took her he might have seen a lift in her spirits so to speak, a little gratitude, but instead she’d been meek and reserved until he’d coaxed that familiar sass out of her. And even then she’d been reticent.

It should have pleased him that she was learning her place and becoming more subservient. But if he was being honest with himself, he almost missed her fighting and arguing back. It had been exciting in a way, and he had thought it would have taken longer than it had to break her so to speak. Maybe he had overestimated exactly what a fighter she was, maybe she wasn’t the right muse for his writing after all. Because, let’s face it, writing a tale about a woman who was captured and broken into submission within two days, merely becoming a puppet for her captor’s whims was hardly going to win him any accolades was it? He needed more, needed something that he could spin a good story from. He knew now that when he went back down to her he had to try a different tact so to speak, he needed to coax her mind into reacting not merely her body.

Because if he couldn’t do that, there was no point in keeping her.

He allowed her half an hour or so before he headed back down the stairs and found her sat on the bed, dressed in one of the sets he’d purchased, her hair loose round her face and shoulders the way he liked. She jumped to her feet and he had to actively supress the groan that was rolling in his throat as his eyes scanned her up and down, and he didn’t miss the slight bruises that dotted her skin in various places where he’d marked her as his own. She’d long since stopped trying to cover herself up. Instead she stood stock still, her eyes focussed on the floor.

With long strides he walked into the room and stopped in front of her, tipping her chin up with his finger so she was looking at him, her eyes wide with trepidation and he gave a smirk as he reached up, brushing her hair off the side of her face and neck, dropping his head as he did so.

“You smell so good, Sweetheart.” He inhaled against her pulse point, lips pressing into her there. He felt the gasp of her breath, the way her skin pricked with chill bumps. He smirked to himself, he’s found her spot. And he filed that away, committing it to memory.

“I like this…” he practically purred as he toyed with the straps to the bra, a long, thick middle finger outlining the strap against her skin, lips following pursuit.

“You should, you chose it.”

He chuckled, ignoring the snark behind her words. “Like I chose you, huh?”

Like I chose you.

His words echoed around your head, reminding you exactly why you were in this fucking situation. Because he had decided you would be. He wanted you, and just like with everything else in his life that Hugh Ransom Drysdale wanted, he simply took. But what worried you the most about all this was whether or not you would be discarded the same way he no doubt discarded the other possessions he lost interest in.

You took a deep, steadying breath as his hands moved from the straps of your bra, long fingers moving to caress the back of your neck, but there was no grabbing, no force. He was being positively gentle.

And it scared the crap out of you.

“Are you afraid of me?” He asked, his breath hot and wet in your ear as you trembled under the further graze of his fingers against the macramé of your set.

“You know I am," you swallowed nervously. You weren't new to this, this wasn't your first time, but the way he was being soft, a stark character change to his a-typical stance with you was what had you crawling in fear in the inside. Was it a game? Was it some sort of ploy? Was this his idea of foreplay now before he turned it up and went hard enough to bruise but not hard enough to make you cry?

A flat palm ran down your abdomen, already taught in fear. But not before a thumb grazed along the underside of your breast. Agonizingly slow, his hand, still splayed over you, dips into your matching macrame panties, dipping into your wet folds, thumb lightly pressing against your clit.

“You’re so wet, considering you’re scared.”

You didn't answer, just swallowed hard, the lump stuck in your throat as it fought against a little whimper.

His mouth once more latched onto your neck, the kisses gentle as opposed to the bruising ones you had become accustomed to. The fingers in your folds matched his slow nature, teasing you in such a way that when you closed your eyes and focussed your mind elsewhere, you could almost believe you were somewhere with a man you’d given permission to touch you in such away. But when his lips moved to your jawline and you took a deep breath, the heady scent of his cologne hit your senses and your eyes flew open as you were reminded just whose lips and hands were violating you in such away.

You swallowed as Ransom pulled away, his hand gently grasping your chin once more as he issued a simple instruction.

“Strip for me, sweetheart.”

You took a deep breath, swallowing down the bile that had once more risen up your throat as he sat down on the edge of the bed, his legs bent, hands resting on his knees as he watched you the way a lion watched its prey. You undid the clasp on your bra, your eyes remaining locked on his as you slid the straps down your shoulders and dropped the garment to the floor. Your captor took a deep breath, his eyes flicking down your body as you moved to shed the bottom half, wondering what on earth had been the point of wearing it in the first place. But even as you asked yourself that, you already knew the answer. It was a bout power, another way for him to remind you just who you belonged to now. How he could strip you bare in more way than one without even lifting a finger.

But lift a finger he did, curling it in mid-air as he beckoned you towards him. You took careful steps over the floor until you were stood in between his legs. His large hands smoothed up the outside of your thighs, before he pulled you towards him, his nose brushing the skin of your abdomen as he took a deep breath, fingers curling round your thighs.

And then, in a flash he stood, taking you with him, and before you could so much as utter a squeak or noise of surprise he had you naked, laying across the bed, the sheets cold against your skin, a contrast to the heat emanating from the body against yours. The look in his lust blown eyes was overwhelming. You didn't know what you were in for but as his body, still clothed in the frayed maroon sweater and wool slacks sunk into the mattress between your legs, you felt a chill course through your veins, your skin, again, pricking in bumps all over. His hands, with their thick fingers, trailed long lines up and down your thighs, Ransom's full lips kissing at your sensitive inner skin, a nip or two here and there as he went from your knee, upward.

He could smell your arousal, see it glistening as it dripped from your core. "Someone's ready," he quipped. He watched you swallow hard, a literal lump in your throat bobbing the skin. Your eyes never left him. "No cumming until I tell you. Do you understand?" When you didn't answer immediately, he swiped his tongue over your wet lips, tasting the honey your body gave him, your back arching away from sheets. "Do you understand?"

And there it was, your punishment finally arriving from your little moment before over dinner. As you still had your wits about you, you uttered a single word response, in the hope that the more submissive you were, the more accepting you were of your chastisement, the less hard on you he was going to be.

"Yes."

His mouth expertly devoured every inch of you, from your inner and outer pussy lips to the depths of your walls, tongue fucking you like you he was starving, the lavish holiday meal he'd partaken in not filling enough. His thumb pressed against your engorged nub, causing you to writhe but a firm arm over your abdomen kept you in place. The same thick fingers that traced lines up your thighs, two were now buried deep inside you, his tongue working away any juices that seeped out. As he gave you a third, stretching you more, you felt your walls start to tighten, that burning coil in your belly flare and your hands gripped the sheets tighter.

Ransom could clearly feel you flutter against his fingers as he stopped his assault and looked up at you.

"What did I say?"

Your chest heaved, your stomach taught and you fought to obey. When you managed to calm yourself, he began again, almost from square one, slowly, tantalizingly slow.

The action was torture and you were desperately willing yourself to remain grounded as again your body fought to ride over the edge building inside you. When his mouth was over you completely, tongue deep, thumb pressing again into your clit, you felt the urge to cum. But he pulled away, slowly, his thumb stopping the pressure, his tongue slowly dragging out of you.

"I said no. This is your punishment for your smart mouth over dinner."

"Please, I need to, I'll... I'll make it worth your while, please just let me." Your voice sounded alien as you spoke, the words leaving your mouth in the desperate hope he’d take pity on you but to no avail. Your attempts at bartering served only to frustrate him, anger him even and he Ransom backed away, roughly pulling you to the edge of the bed before stripping out of his sweater and undershirt, the undeniable outline of his hard cock along his thigh strained against his wool slacks.

Harsh in his grip, he repositioned himself between your legs, your thighs across his shoulders, ass dangling above the floor as a heavy arm kept you still. His flat tongue, hot and full of your sex was eating away at you while his final throws of resolve ate away at him.

“I’m done playing fucking games.” he growled against your aching cunt “I should have gagged you, stuffed my cock deep into the back of your throat, something, anything to shut you up.”

You barely had time to register his words before once more you were flat out against the mattress, trying to regain your breath and calm yourself down when he backed away, tore open his flies and smirked down at you.

"Oh no, Sweetheart, we're not done yet." He kneeled beside you, his chest heaving, hair completely out of place, anger and wait, was that pain, flickering in his eyes as he stuffed you with a hard thrust of his length. "Now you’re gonna cum on this dick."

He thrusted hard and within a few slams of his hips against yours, he allowed you the release you were begging for, "that's right, Princess, cum on my cock."

You wept at the feeling finally freeing you, cries of pleasure spilling from your lips as you squeezed around him. Your chest heaving against his, skin to skin. The fabric of his wool pants hot and itchy against your inner thighs. He was still thrusting but now it had slowed to a roll, slow and calculated. Your muddled mind was buzzing and rapidly trying to sort out if he'd cum inside you or if he wasn't finished. His features were softer, but still filled with purpose and his lips latched onto a naked breast causing your body to react, tingles and flames licking at your core again. His eyes looked up at yours as he caged you in, still buried deep inside you, hips rolling.

"I said we weren't done," he rasped. His thrusts and rolls, the two very different tactics mixing now, made the swell of his cock inside you abhorrently pleasurable. Try as you might, it was impossible to feel otherwise.

And Ransom was finding it equally as hard to hold on. His weight was evenly distributed over her, his cock swelling inside her heat. It took all he had not to blow his load the first time he made her cum, hearing the sinful sounds of her orgasm that felt like a volcanic eruption around his hard shaft. But now he could feel her again, tiny little pulses around his already overtly sensitive dick. He was sure his precum was leaking out, wanting to paint the way for the rest of him to follow. He rolled and thrust as his lips nipped at her neck. She moaned loudly, her body exuding lust. He could feel her shake beneath him and to his delight and surprise her eyes were no longer screwed shut and turned away. Instead they were locked on his. The moment those deep hued orbs met his, he felt a hitch in his breath and tightness in his chest that travelled through his belly and into his cock, causing the thick member to throb inside her. Tiny, soft hands gripped at his biceps, her touch a fiery scald against his skin, almost as if it were frost bite. Her touch equally shocking as her stare and he gave a roll of his hips to hide what he felt. A deep, satiated roll of his hips that sent her over the edge.

"Hugh!" She came around him, harder than her first, crying out his given name. It snapped him from his moment of revelation, driving him insanely frustrated at the word leaving her lips. He slammed into her as she rode out her orgasm, chasing his own.

You felt the dismissal of his body as he violently pulled free from your walls, spewing his hot seed over your abdomen, drops claiming your tits too. He nearly collapsed, his dick in hand, the other holding himself up against the mattress between your legs.

He left you there, dirty, degraded and shut the door with a barked instruction for you to clean yourself up. You no longer cried in front of him, either before, during or after. There was no point. He didn’t care about how you felt, but the thing he DID seem to care about was the fact that you still refused to call him Ransom.

It was the one thing you held on to, the only thing that gave you an inch of control in this entire fucked up situation. You hadn’t missed the look on his face when you’d cried out 'Hugh' in the throes of your last orgasm. Before that moment there had been a softness in his eyes, one that had unnerved you no end, along with something that had looked suspiciously like hope. But when his given name had tumbled involuntarily from your mouth and not the one he preferred that softness had turned to contempt and you didn't miss the undercurrent of disappointment either.

And seeing that, knowing that it pissed him off and dare you say it, upset him so much was your single, albeit feeble, act of rebellion that served as a desperate boost to your ever waning inner strength. *****

Ransom laid in his large, plush bed, hands behind his head as the silk sheets pooled at his waist as morning was in full swing outside. His thoughts strayed to his girl in the basement and he took a deep breath, shifting slightly as he remembered the way her fingers had felt as they’d curled around his biceps, her touch firey but cold. That had been the first time she’d touched him when she wasn’t trying to push him away, it had been involuntary, he knew that, a reaction to the way she’d been feeling, the way he had made her feel.

A twitch resounded deep in his belly....the way he made her feel.

He realised now that he’d been going about this the entirely wrong way. The force had been necessary to make her comply at first, but last night she hadn’t just complied she’d participated, just what he had wanted all along. And all after he’d shown her a little leeway, brought her dinner, entertained her talk. He understood now that he needed to play a different card from his hand. She responded better to conversation, talking. Ransom hated fucking talking, he was more cerebral, calculating. Conversation means connecting, and connecting was something he wasn’t particularly interested in normally. He needed to lead, to be in charge, but it was clearly what she knew and thrived on, so he had to swallow his apprehension down to play the long game, to get what he wanted.

Now he understood that, it was going to be so fucking easy. All he had to do was to seemingly show her compassion, a little give so he could take so to speak. He rolled his head, cracking his neck as he remembered what she said about cooking with her mom so he decided that after her stellar performance last night, today she’d earned a bigger reward than a book or some journal. He was going to show her what she could have if she just gave in and admitted what he knew she truly wanted. A large house, a garden, a pool, a hot tub, silk sheets, a large bed, and a man to fuck her every way to heaven and back. He could give her everything that any woman could possibly desire, and then some.

With a twitch of a smirk across his lips, Ransom pulled his naked frame out of bed and slipped into joggers, a soft waffle knit thermal long sleeve pulled over his tousled hair. He felt like company for breakfast and he knew exactly to invite up.

His bare feet padded with purpose over the plush carpet of his room, down the stairs and onto the first floor, over the hard wood and marble tile of the halls and entry, down the plush carpeted spiral staircase down to the basement.

He reached the door and gently turned the locks, quietly pushing the door open as he turned the knob. It opened quietly and his eyes fell upon the empty bed. He frowned slightly, wondering where she was. Then his eyes found her, sitting curled up with her eyes cast upward, that little tease of a porthole window in her focus. She'd turned her chair around so she could see it more clearly, the throw blanket he'd tossed at her the week before was wrapped around her body. He didn't know the time, but it wasn't early nor was it afternoon. Not that it mattered, neither had anywhere else to be.

"Good morning," he said lowly. He watched as her eyes slowly moved away from the only bit of outside world she'd seen for weeks now.

"Morning," she replied quietly, her eyes locking onto his. "I err, I was just..." she trailed off. "Actually, I don't know what I was doing to be honest."

He stalked up to the chair, kneeling in front her. His hand reached up and cupped her cheek, his thumb running over her cheek bone. "You were such a good girl last night. Took me so well, teased me with that little number you had on. I've thought about you all morning."

Ransom watched her throat bob as she swallowed before licking her lips and biting the inside corner of her lip. Such an innocent gesture that had him half hard straight away.

"I want to give you something. But you have to be good, or it goes away," he started. "Can you be good, Sweetheart?"

She nodded, slightly. "Okay," he smirked. "Now, fix the chair and come up to make us breakfast."

Ransom stood back, allowing you some space to accommodate his request. You slipped the throw blanket from your shoulders and left it in the chair as you rearranged the piece back to its normal state. You met him at the doorway. You didn't miss the way his eyes moved over you, the way they lit up in a way at as he looked at the silken material covering your body. The dark teal silk and lace cami set was just one of a handful of options he'd provided for you. All the same, different colors, all in your size.

You hesitated for a second, not sure if this was another one of his little games but he simply met your eyes with his own and nodded up the stairs. With tentative, shaky steps you climbed them, sensing him close behind you as for the first time in weeks you left your prison. You felt anxious, highly on edge and nervous. What was awaiting you? There was the sickening feeling in your stomach of excitement too, you hadn’t seen the outside since Halloween. You paused at the top of the stairs in the hall. The kitchen was directly across from you, the entry to your right. The door to the basement clicked shut and you felt Ransom’s firm chest behind your back as his form invaded your space. He dragged a finger down your arm causing the strap of your top to fall away, placing a soft kiss on your shoulder.

"Straight ahead, Sweetheart."

“Okay,” you whispered before you slowly made your way through to the large, airy kitchen. You stood looking around, taking in the fancy appliances before you turned back to Ransom. "Did you have something in mind?”

"Well..." Ransom leaned in the doorway, watching you as you stood in the middle of the tiled floor "Yesterday wasn't the first time you said you enjoyed to cook so I thought you might like to." His eyes flicked once more down your frame and back up again before he nodded his head towards the rear of the room. “Anything you need is in the pantry and fridge.”

“And I can make anything I want?” You blinked, not quite able to believe what he was allowing you to do. It was fucked up that you were even considering this as a reward but, you’d take it. Boy would you take it, anything to grasp some sense of normality in this day-by-day hell you were living.

“Sure.” Ransom popped a shoulder again and you took a deep breath before you turned and headed to the sink to wash your hands before sorting out your menu and you froze. The outside landscape had stopped you cold. From what you could see of the back garden the property was secluded, not over looked. A lawn extended a fair distance back from the rear of the house, a neat decking area stood to the right which sported a hot tub and a little further down there looked to be a pool of some kind which was covered over for the season. Trees hung over the bottom of the garden lining the high wooden fence, what few leaves they still sported were shades of crimson, gold and brown and the river traced it’s banks as it curved around the side and back of the house, the sun shining off the surface, giving it the impression it was made of sapphires. It was breathtakingly beautiful and you felt your heart shatter, your eyes well and you couldn't help but hold back the urge to weep as your chest contracted painfully. You were so close to the outside, separated only by a pane of glass, yet it had never felt further away.

His voice broke you from your despair and you swallowed back the sob that choked your throat as you flicked your attention to the left, Ransom's reflection drawing closer towards you as he crossed the terracotta tiled floor.

"Everything alright?"

You cleared your throat and gave a quick shake of your head, "Fine."

Again you felt him in your space. His presence consuming. “You sure?”

Sure? No you weren’t sure. Because none of this was fine, in fact it was as far from fine as it could possibly get. In that moment you wanted nothing more than to spin round and hammer your fists into any part of his body you could hit but you knew that it wouldn't get you anywhere, bar back in the basement likely shackled naked to the bed so you instead turned slowly to find yourself caged in by his broad frame so close to yours. You cast your eyes downward, uncomfortable at his searching stare, "Yeah, I’m sure.”

Your tongue flicked nervously over your lips as you continued to avoid his gaze before you cleared your throat “How do you like your eggs? Or would you prefer an omelette? Pancakes even?" The urge to move away from him pulled you away from your idea of a menu. Brunch basics were flooding your brain and you rattled off a few nervously. He may have said you could make whatever you wanted, but right now, you had no clue. Seeing a different space, the outside world and breathing new air had rattled you.

“You choose.” Ransom spoke softly, his hand reaching up to brush your hair off your face before he tipped your chin up so your eyes met his. He looked at you, and you swallowed as for the first time there was something unreadable on his face. His eyes were looking at you in a way they’d never looked at you before, with a softness you’d never have anticipated he could possess.

"Waffles." You suddenly blurted out, desperate to escape his gaze "I err, do you have a waffle iron?”

“No.” He deadpanned.

"Oh," you swallowed "Erm, then in that case French toast...maybe? Is that ok?"

“Sounds delicious.” He said, his hand dropping from your face, “Sure it’ll taste almost as good as you.”

“Great. How about with fresh Chantilly cream and berries if you have them?” You asked, completely ignoring his blatant back handed compliment and you started familiarizing yourself with the space as you glanced around.

“Like I said, whatever you want, Sweetheart.” He shrugged, and with that he stepped back to allow you to move away.

Ransom watched her move around the luxurious kitchen, looking through the pantry and cabinet near the stove taking out cinnamon and vanilla, plucking items like bread, butter, eggs, berries and cream from the fridge. Searching drawers for utensils and measuring cups and spoons. Finding a pan and bowl from a bottom cabinet. Measuring sugar from the glass jar on the counter. He hoped the ingredients were still fresh, he wasn't exactly sure how long they'd been stored. She moved like she belonged there, he thought to himself. So sexy looking in her nightwear, bare feet on the tile, her ass and breasts moving underneath the silk as she stretched and worked.

"Coffee?" He offered, as he moved from one side to the other. He made sure his exquisite espresso machine was ready as it sat in all its glory on its own portion of the counter like a batista station inside Starbucks.

He didn't miss the way she watched him move around her, preparing the coffee and grabbing the orange juice from the fridge. He reached over her shoulder, his body brushing against hers as he opened the cupboard where he kept the glasses and mugs. He peered down at her, giving a twitch to the corner of his mouth. A smirk indeed. He noted the way her eyes followed him as he poured the juice, like he was going to poison her or something.

"It's just juice, Sweetheart," he said nonchalantly and put the juice back in the fridge. He set the breakfast table for them and took a seat in his place, a now hot cup of coffee in his hand, hers sitting on the counter next to her.

It wasn’t long before she had finished and brought the plates to the table, sitting down timidly in the seat to his right as he gestured to it, stopping her dead as she was about to make her way around to the opposite side.

It was quiet, the only sounds heard for a while were the click and scrape of forks and knives cutting away at the plates of food. Ransom wouldn't admit it out loud, but this was the best French toast he'd ever had in his life. Something about it, the way it was not soggy, but perfectly moist, the edges just crispy. The way the cream made for no syrup and the sweet berries added the final element. He watched her pick at the food for a moment or two as he glanced over at her and saw a small bit of Chantilly in the corner of her mouth.

A long arm reached across the table and automatically she flinched a little, as if she was going to pull away but one firm stare stopped her in her tracks. His thick thumb padded away the white, sweet cream and he brought the same thumb to his lips, sucking the cream away. He lifted his brows in a teasing manner and twitched up his lips, "Delicious. Like I said, almost as good as you, Sweetheart."

"Thanks, I think," she paused.

"Trust me, I know."

The comment seemingly threw her off her meal and it didn't get past Ransom. She had started picking at it, moving it around the plate like she had done with her dinner the night before. He, on the other hand, was near finished.

"Are you still not hungry?" He inquired.

She shook her head, "I just made my portion too big. I overestimated my appetite, I guess."

"Huh," he placated her reply. He knew she was lying but he let it slide, realizing that seeing a new space, the window to the outside was overwhelming. So, he thought he'd sweeten the deal. "I thought maybe you'd like to see the house," he offered, watching as her big eyes locked onto his and she took a deep breath.

"That sounds nice, thank you."

"Good, after breakfast then." He nodded affirmingly, as if it were drying ink in his mind. He picked up his coffee and finished it off, his plate already clear.

She stood from the table, collecting his plate with her own and headed for the sink. He turned in his chair, stalking her, watching her every move. The way she pitched over the sink, bending her frame over the dishwasher to load it as she cleaned up the kitchen.

With each bend and snap of her hips, he felt his mouth water more. Her little silk cami riding up as she moved, her breasts falling in and out of a fuller view. When she tucked a stray hair behind her ear, he was on her. He moved behind her, his hands grabbed her hips as she spun around completely startled giving a gasp and a quick yelp.

"Easy, Sweetheart," he chuckled as she looked at him, her eyes wide.

"Sorry... you, err...you startled me." She whispered as he moved his hands so they gripped at the side of the kitchen counter on either side of her, caging her in with his body.

"Some women would like that," he quipped, arching an eyebrow a little and watched as she swallowed hard and cast her eyes downward. Moving one hand slowly up her arm, over her shoulder and around her neck, he tipped her head back up so those large, Bambi eyes locked onto his.

His hand adjusted, gripping her chin softly as he moved closer still, dipping his head he pressed a firm kiss to her lips. He felt her go rigid, her chest spiking as she drew in a sharp breath, her body shaking slightly in his hold. "Stop fighting it..." he whispered against her mouth before he kissed her again. This time, his tongue traced the line of her upper lip, the feel of it soft and soothing.

You felt his tongue line your lip and you couldn't hold the whimper of fear that passed through you. He’d never kissed you before, not on the mouth anyway. You felt him deepen his kiss, his big hand cupping your face, pulling you into it more. Your mind went elsewhere, imagining anyone but him kissing you like this. You couldn't deny it, this intimate moment, completely lost on both of you for different reasons, felt good and he was good at it. He was damn good at it in fact, and that alone made you want to vomit your breakfast into his throat. At that, you jerked back, panting a little, feeling your lips swollen from the way he'd sucked your bottom one between his, pulling at it just the right way. You hated the feeling between your legs that it had evoked, your body betraying you just like it always did.

In an attempt to stave off the conflicting emotions spiking within you, you focussed on his face, the face you hated and to your surprise he looked dazed. The usual stoic expression that clouded his features had been replaced with something akin to surprise but no sooner had you noticed it, it was gone.

"Clean up and I'll meet you in the study." He told you, his voice a deep almost pained whisper.

"But I don't..." you started but were quickly cut off.

"You're a smart girl, figure it out," he smirked and slipped away.

You were tempted to follow, just so you'd see where he was going but you knew not to defy a command. The feeling of unease seemed to disappear as you slumped your shoulders and instead defeat filled your frame. A trembling hand came to your lips as jittery fingertips touched your swollen skin. Your bottom lip quivered like a ripple in a river and you quickly covered your mouth, turning on a dime as your French toast littered the sink. If the water hadn't been running already, Ransom would no doubt have heard you retching. You rinsed your mouth out to attempt at hiding that vomit taste from your tongue and quickly finished your task of cleaning up the kitchen, salty tears dripping from your chin, mixing with the soapy water.

When you could stall no longer, you sighed and headed out into the large hallway, taking a quick look around. It was light, airy, the grand staircase swept in and curved round to the next floor and your eyes lingered on the heavy wooden door just beyond it. You hesitated, and then with a dejected sigh realised there was no point even trying to escape. Even if it was unlocked, which you doubted, the threat to your family was just too much for you to risk. Instead, you decided to head down the corridor to your right and found yourself in a large open plan living room of sorts. It was decorated in clean whites and crisp greys with a huge feature stone open fireplace and sported a bar at the back. A brown leather sofa and two matching arm chairs were strategically placed around an expensive looking coffee table but you didn’t bother to look at the rest, this wasn’t the room you needed so you turned back on yourself, walked back into the hall and took the turning to your left.

This time you found yourself walking into what you could only assume was his study-come-den of sorts. It was huge, and once again sported a sofa pushed up against the wall, looking out over the spectacular view of not only the garden but the river too. But that wasn’t what caught your attention, nor was it the walnut desk and laptop that sat upon it. It was the floor to ceiling bookshelf behind it. Your mouth dropped open as you made your way towards it but then you stopped, biting your lip. Were you supposed to be looking at them? But, he had said to meet you in here. And left you to find your own way. Surely, if he didn’t want you looking around he wouldn’t have left you to it.

Throwing caution to the wind you strode forward, your pace hurried this time and your eyes quickly scanned across some of the books. You couldn’t help but feel shocked. Whilst there was a huge collection of his Grandfather’s books, and a number of other crime novels of types, it was the colourful spines to your right that made your chest heave in delight. The entire Harry Potter collection. With a shaky hand you reached for The Philosopher’s Stone, noting the British version of the title, and opened the front page giving another gasp as you read the publishing details.

This was a first edition. And from the date you also knew it would be one that contained the misprint errors. And as such, would be worth a small fortune.

“See something you like?” that familiar voice hit your ears and you gave a little shriek, jumping around, clutching the book to your chest to avoid dropping it.

“I’m sorry.” You hastily began to apologise “I was just…erm…”

“It’s ok.” He assured you, crossing towards you. Once more he encroached into your personal space and you felt the blades of your shoulders press into the shelf behind you. “Harry Potter fan?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, “Didn’t think they’d be your type of thing.

“They’re not really.” He shrugged “I’m a collector. Everything on the shelves, well they’re all first or limited editions, so worth a lot.”

“Figures.” You mumbled, turning round and slotting the book back into the space it had come from. As you did you felt him push up behind you, his hands on your hips, the unmistakable feel of his hard on dug into the lower part of your back and you fought to stop yourself shuddering. He was after pay-back for allowing you to leave your prison.

“Did you like the house?” he asked, brushing your hair off your neck.

“Yes.” You answered politely, your voice catching a little as he placed a kiss to the crook of your shoulder.

“You know, it could all be yours sweetheart if you just stopped fighting what you know you want” His kisses continued up your neck as his words whirled around your brain and you were back to where you had been in the kitchen. It felt good. And that disgusted you.

“Did you enjoy making breakfast?” he whispered, his lips by your ear.

“Yeah.” You nodded, your voice barely there.

“Show me how much.” His teeth nipped at your lobe, his hips grinding forward and you swallowed and closed your eyes. You knew what he wanted but as you turned to face him you had an idea. One which would save you being fucked no doubt over the desk or on the hard looking couch.

With a lick of your lips you looked at him and sank slowly to your knees, taking his sweats with you. His hard cock sprang free, slapping his lower abs and you reached out, grasping it in your hand.

“Fuck, yeah baby…” Ransom hissed as you moved your head forwards and took him in your mouth.

You pulled out all the moves, you took him as deep as you could, gagging a little as he wasn’t a small man. You kept your hand firmly on the base of his cock, you hollowed your lips, you swirled your tongue around his shaft and he let out a little groan his hand fisting in your hair as his hips bucked forwards.

“Jesus, I knew your mouth was smart but…” he panted, looking down at you. You raised your eyes to look at his as he bit his lip, his entire face contorted in pleasure…

Pleasure that was ruined by the sound of the doorbell.

“What the fuck…” Ransom growled out, un-fisting his hand from her hair. “Who the fuck is that?”

He glanced down at her and she looked up at him, wide eyed. She was a mess, swollen lips, wet chin and dressed in nothing but her skimpy tank and shorts. With a frustrated growl, Ransom pulled his dick out of her mouth and grabbed his phone from the table to check the doorbell camera. His face blanched as he saw who it was.

“I don’t fucking believe it…” he mumbled, as she looked up at him.

“Who is it?” She asked, wiping her face, “I’m not exactly dressed for visitors, Hugh.”

Ransom might have been pre-occupied with the familiar face staring at him from his phone, but he still picked up on that 'Hugh' and he glared down at her. “No shit, and because we have a visitor, I'm gonna let that one slide. Get up.” She rose to her feet, blinking a little as he pulled off the thermal he was wearing and tossed it to her. “Put that on. No one gets to see you in silk but me.”

She blinked as she caught it, confusion spreading across her face. “Don’t you just want me to go-“

In a flash, he grabbed her chin between his thumb and finger and she winced, “If I wanted you downstairs I’d have said. So put the damn shirt on, and when he starts asking questions just remember what I said I could do to your family and friends.”

In complete complacency, he watched her slip his thermal over her head, her fingers barely peeking through the sleeves to fix her dishevelled hair. The material hit her mid-thigh and his eyes brows gave a flicker of approval before he walked to the entry and opened the door. "What do you want?"

"Pleasure to see you too, Mr. Drysdale..." that infuriating Southern drawl hit Ransom's ears with all the finesse of a cheese-grater. Benoit Blanc, without so much as a gesture of request, pushed past Ransom as he strode inside, stopping in the tiled entry, looking around.

"Do you have a warrant?" The man of the house snipped in his usual spiteful tone.

Blanc still didn’t reply, and Ransom rolled his eyes following him as he wandered down the hallway, stopping at the open door to the study. "Well, if it isn't the lady of the hour."

Ransom stood behind Blanc, an infuriatingly warning glare sent his girl's way. He noted the way she was sitting on the couch, her legs tucked underneath her, lips still swollen, cheeks flushed, hair tousled. She looked like a sex kitten, and maybe that was the idea. He warned her to sell it after all…

"Excuse me?” Y/N looked up at the two men in the doorway.

Blanc stepped inside the room, taking a seat on the edge of the same couch where she sat. "I've been looking for you, young lady. A lot of people are looking for you, you know Miss Y/L/N.”

“I errr…” she swallowed a little as she slowly got to her feet, her hands pulling the hem of the thermal down before she folded her arms across her chest, not in a defiant manner, but almost as if she was hugging herself “Did someone send you or…”

“No, nothing like that. You see, I heard you'd gone missing, and I knew you had a work connection to Mr. Drysdale, that, shall we say didn't go quite as planned. So when things started adding up, I thought to ask the man himself."

“Well, congratulations, this is one mystery you actually solved correctly, Sherlock. As you can see she’s here and she’s fine, and we were in the middle of something, so if you don’t mind….” Ransom folded his arms, his eyes moving from hers to Blanc, who was irritatingly completely ignoring him, his gaze focussed intently on the woman who stood in front of him.

Ransom could see him take her in fully, now seeing the situation he may have just walked in on. She looked dishevelled and was missing crucial parts of her clothing, but she had no tears in her eyes, no markings looking to be of abuse or out of the ordinary. None that were visible anyway. Blanc’s gaze then dragged over to Ransom who was bare foot in joggers and still half aroused, which he did nothing to hide as he folded his arms over his naked chest.

Ransom held Blanc’s gaze, his chin jutting out defiantly, the detective only looking away when the lady of the hour spoke, her voice quiet, as she gave a small nod. "He’s right, I’m fine."

"Then why not tell your family where you are?”

“I err…” Y/N’s right hand gripped he cuff of the sweater sleeve tightly, “I just, well, I…”

Ransom could see that she was losing it and he knew he had to intervene. He walked over to her and placed an arm around her, kissing the top of her head lightly, "It's alright, Sweetheart. I know how he can be frustrating. We're doing nothing wrong."

With that he turned his gaze to the man in front of him, not even trying to hide the sneer of contempt that was crossing his face “I have neither the time nor the crayons to explain this to you Blanc.”

“Well, maybe Miss Y/L/N has some crayons hidden up her sleeve so to speak.” Blanc smiled innocently and Ransom felt the anger floor his system.

“You’re starting to really piss me off.” he snarled, “You barge into my home, without so much of an explanation…” his rant was stopped dead as Y/N placed her hand on his chest, palm splaying over his bare skin. Ransom swallowed at the touch of her fingers against his skin, firey hot just as they had been last night when they curled around his arms.

"Hey," she spoke and he looked down to see her giving him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes but one that should be enough to convince the dumbass detective who was watching them. "It's okay." She then turned to Blanc as he held his hand up, palm open, speaking to Ransom.

“I’m not trying to be frustrating Mr. Drysdale, I'm merely enquiring after Miss Y/L/N’s wellbeing."

"I'm not here under duress if that's what you're thinking.” She spoke, clearing her throat. “Hu… Ra, we have had to keep our relationship private,” she stumbled on the right identity, settling for 'we'. Clearing her throat again and settling her nerves, she continued, "Mr. Blanc, as you well know, I'm reporter and his background has been less than stellar as of late. It no doubt would not look good for either of us if it had come to light. My reputation as a journalist would have been in tatters.”

“Well, lies and deception certainly go hand in hand when it comes to Mr. Drysdale...”

Ransom rolled his eyes dramatically “Change the record, Blanc. The static is a little loud.”

Blanc completely ignored him, his attention still on her. “So you caused all this worry, because of some…” he waved his hand in front of him, gesturing between the pair of them.

Ransom’s arm curled round her even tighter, his fingers pressing into her hip and he felt her stiffen a little before she relaxed into his side and gave a small nod.

"Like I said, it wouldn’t have gone down well with my family, or my career.”

“Ahh, yes, your job, which you quit.” Blanc looked at her. “Yes, I spoke to your boss.” He answered her unasked question. “Why would you be so worried for your reputation as a journalist, if you’re not actually a journalist anymore?”

At that she took a deep breath “I quit the paper because my boss is an asshole. His antics on Halloween were a step too far. But that doesn’t mean I have no intentions of working ever again. I'm currently taking a long overdue sabbatical.”

Blanc studied her again, almost as if he was weighing something up and she once more began to fidget and Ransom decided he’d had enough.

"Okay, I’m done being polite,” Ransom moved his arm from around his girl and stepped towards Blanc, placing himself directly between the detective and the woman. “You've interrupted out little post brunch love affair and I’m horny, so…do you need help finding the door, or can your super sleuth skills figure the way back out of it on their own?”

“Miss Y/L/N?” Blanc spoke, his eyes locked onto Ransom’s. Ransom felt the nerve in his jaw twitch, the fact that Blanc wasn’t scared of him irritated him no end.

There was a pause and then her voice came clearly from behind him as she spoke, “If you'd be so kind as to not tell my family where I am, I'd appreciate it. I prefer this time without their unwanted opinion.” Her voice was steady, measured almost. “You can tell them that you've found me, alive and well."

Blanc knew he wasn't welcome, he had proof of life and no reason to suspect foul play. He stood, his long wool coat falling into place around him. "Well, then I guess my work is done." He brushed passed Ransom and gave a quick quip, "I'm warning you...."

"What was that?" His girl wondered. She'd heard him.

"Have a nice day," Blanc nodded curtly “I’ll see myself out.”

You watched the back of the detective as he left the large living room, Ransom following him to the doorway where he stood, arms folded, watching. The sound of Blanc’s feet on the tiles of the hallway grew fainter and fainter until eventually they stopped completely. The latch of the door sounded and you fell to the closest thing you could sit on. Your while body shook with a chill that crept into your bones but not from the cold. No, you were sick to your stomach in fear and worry. The bile of deceit rose to your throat and had you not already spewed up your breakfast it would have most likely decorated the carpet of the study. Instead, you swallowed down the sour bile as Drysdale approached you and you glanced up at him, blinking whilst he studied you for a second, his face passive. As you held his gaze, something akin to amusement flashed in his cold blue eyes and a twisted smirk spread across his face.

“Your acting skills certainly improved there along the way, at the end you were almost award worthy.” He drawled, his hands falling to his hips. “Even Meryl Streep would be jealous.”

"Fuck you," your voice quivered.

He arched an eyebrow, an amused expression on his features “Already played that game Sweetheart, and carry on back-chatting me and you’ll be back in the basement.”

"Wh... What?"

"You pulled through in the end there. It was a rough start, but you convinced Colonel Sanders that you were here on your own."

“Colonel Sanders?” You blinked, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Blanc. CSI KFC.” He replied. You were none the wiser as to what he was going on about and it must have shown on your face as he simply rolled his eyes. "Never mind...the point is, sweetheart, I'm in a good mood. And seeing as you behaved...”

"What?" Your voice was quiet, meek.

"If you shut that pretty little mouth for longer than a second, I'll explain." His tone was measured but you didn’t miss the underlying threat.

“Sorry.” Your eyes fell to the floor, your left hand worrying at your right.

“Eyes on me.” He barked and your head whipped up automatically and he smirked at you as you took a deep breath. “As I was saying, seeing as you were such a good girl, I thought I’d reward you, let you stay up here with me for the day.”

The notion shocked you. Your mouth went dry and you couldn't make sense of it. But then, the more you thought about it, the more his audacity irked you. He’d imprisoned you, used you, abused you…and now he was implying that staying in his company was a fucking reward.

“Wow, thanks…” you blurted before you could stop yourself, sarcasm lacing your tone. As soon as the words had slipped from your mouth you felt panic flood your system as he stepped towards you and reached out, his right hand curling around your throat.

"Don’t push me sweetheart.” His voice was low as his fingers squeezed the column of your neck, a reminder of how easily he could simply end it all whenever he chose.

And just like that the softness that he had displayed with you earlier that morning was gone, and the shutters were back up. You swallowed hard, feeling the strain of your throat against his touch, his eyes now dark and full of that familiar angry lust and desire that chilled you from head to toe. Blanc had riled him, gotten underneath his skin, that was easy to see while your mouthy comments fuelled that ire. And as such, he needed an escape, an outlet.

And he was going to get it from you.

“Now on your knees and finish what you started."

**** Part 4

#murder he wrote #dark ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale #dark ransom drysdale x reader #dark ransom x reader #dark ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale fic #chris evans #chris evans characters

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