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moonjxsung · 7 months

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Where the Storm Looms

*This fic is part 2 to “When the Rain Stops.” You can read part 1 here.

Pairing: Lee Minho x fem reader

W/c: 13k

Warnings: smoking, drinking, mention of cheating, mention of masturbation, mention of casual sex, brief mention of calories, nipple play, unprotected sex, bulge kink, creampie, squirting

Synopsis: Now living in the city he despises, Minho is determined to find you again- despite the sacrifices he’ll have to make.

18+. mdni!

•

They say if you love something, you have to set it free. And if it comes back to you, it’s yours.

So what implication can be drawn if you go searching for it- for three months and 13 days straight?

Minho isn’t sure.

The city is just as grimy as he remembered it- teeming with the sounds of pushy street vendors, bumper-to-bumper traffic and conversations of plummeting stocks at every corner. The coffee is overpriced, and the people dress in gray slacks even on laundry day. The girls are pretty- they’re decent in bed, they work good jobs and they can carry a conversation well as long as it involves their respective companies or an ex-boyfriend.

But none of them are you.

Minho feels stupid for thinking about it this extensively. A random hookup in his bar as a result of bad weather conditions- one you never even bothered saying goodbye to him after, and yet he’s still hung up on you.

That stupid game. He should've never let you fix that arcade game. Maybe then you wouldn’t have stayed so long, wouldn’t have kissed him back even though he’s the one who initiated it. Wouldn’t have let him fuck you on the pool table, moaning his name over and over again like a prayer permanently etched into his memory. But he didn’t stop any part of it- in fact, he didn’t want to. Minho knows he wouldn’t have been able to deny you anything you asked for that night, not with the way you looked at him through wide sparkling eyes, scared you’d angered him, when all he really wanted was to keep you safe. Safe from the storm, safe from people with ill intent. He’d pour you a hundred cups of Diet Coke on the rocks if you asked, or be a chance card in another game of pool you’d inevitably lose at. He’d make love to you repeatedly on any surface inside the dive bar, kissing you every chance he got like it would be his last. Because you changed something in him that night- and he’s determined to find you again.

“Still waiting on that garlic bread. And we have another order for fettuccine.”

Minho nods once, drizzling a pan with olive oil and prepping the ingredients that sit in disarray on the counter in front of him.

Tales from the hotel kitchen.

So maybe getting his job back as a private chef was a harder feat than he’d originally anticipated it to be. But Minho’s sudden assimilation back into city life meant he had to make adjustments- sacrifices. And although he’s still technically the owner of the little dive bar 6 hours out of the city, he recently signed co-ownership off to Jeongin, who’s been practically running the place while Minho does some soul-searching in the city.

Of course, the soul he’s searching for is nowhere to be found.

Coffee shops, bookstores, convenience shops, dive bars... Minho recently read there are nearly 2 million people in this godforsaken city at any given moment of the day. That’s a 0.0000005% chance he’ll run into you again. Coupled with the fact he’s already run into you once before, and slept with you, the odds are considerably lower. But nonetheless, the objective remains.

Sometime after the initial run-in, Minho also realized he knows nearly nothing about you. You never spoke of an occupation, or a significant other, or even your favorite color. He does know you live in the city, you’re vulnerable against married men and you can use a screwdriver like a cellphone. The rest is left to his wandering imagination.

“Minho, your bread is burning,” a voice interrupts, and he snaps out of the daze he’s in to lower the heat on the oven. Minho’s sous chef Seungmin sighs in irritation, practically pushing Minho aside to retrieve the loaf from the oven himself.

“Do you want me to take over for the evening? You seem really distracted and we’re super busy out there.”

“No, I’m fine,” Minho says, his eyes darting briefly to the window across from him.

Dark rain clouds loom over the afternoon sky, but it doesn’t rain- in fact, it hasn’t rained once since that night. At first, he sees it as some sort of blessing, attributing the mostly-clear skies to your presence somewhere in the city. Perhaps where you go, the sun follows.

But he quickly realizes that it’s more of a curse, this constant storm looming over him, taunting him with promises of darkened clouds and rainfall, only for the nighttime to bring clear skies once again.

It never rains anymore. Sometimes Minho thinks he imagined you, that night in his bar.

Maybe he imagined the rain, too.

The ceiling of this apartment is in desperate need of some TLC, Minho thinks, as he lays in bed that night with hands folded over his chest. It’s riddled with cracks and imperfections, running along the drywall like a design choice. But it’s not a design choice- it’s a result of the shitty architectural integrity of this crowded city. Everyone’s so desperate to live out here they’d put up with leaky roofs and cockroaches before they’d live in the suburbs. Minho thinks back to his apartment in the suburbs, where his three cats are currently being taken care of by a friend, and the biggest pain point is patching up thumbtack holes when he moves things around. It’s spacious, a lot bigger than this dump, and it’s a hell of a lot cheaper.

There’s no set time Minho has dedicated to being out here. “When the time is right, I’ll leave,” he told his friend, averting his gaze to avoid raising suspicions about his intentions out here. But to most, it’s clear Minho is going through something. His hair is visibly longer, the silky ends of it now resting just above his shoulders. He can’t be bothered to care about what he wears, knowing very well that he doesn’t blend in with the other city-dwellers when he’s in jeans and a baggy t-shirt. But without the bar to dress up for like he used to, he doesn’t find reason in trying.

Minho’s also well aware that he looks like a complete lunatic, coming out to the city like this to search for a hookup. If your paths do cross, there’s a likelihood you’ll call the police and have him arrested for stalking. You could also have zero recollection of who he is, or that you ever hooked up with him. You could have a boyfriend, be married by now, or just not interested in Minho. Maybe you regret that night. Maybe you lied about being from the city. You could be on the other side of the world by now, and he’d have no clue.

But he feels it- he feels you, in this city, at every corner he turns. He sees traces of you in the people who smile at him when he passes them by. He sees you in the people who hold doors open for him, the baristas who make foam hearts in his lattes every morning, even the businessmen when they catch themselves admiring the beauty of the buildings on a smoke break. He sees you in all things good, when he’s reminded momentarily that the world has more to offer than boxing him in the confines of a dark bar out in the suburbs. And while he’s not completely in love with life all over again, it’s a start.

The hotel patrons give their compliments to his cooking, and he’s reminded of his days as a private chef again, chasing the sweet high of people fawning over his entrees and desserts. When he calls Jeongin to check up on the bar, he remembers the view out the window by the kitchen- nothing but a parking lot, empty most days, or plagued by truck drivers and prostitutes.

Sure, his apartment window in the city faces a brick wall, but he can escape at any given moment of the day to be part of the towering skyscrapers and city lights that stay on all night. It’s then that he feels bad for Jeongin, who doesn’t have the same luxury all the way out there.

Of course, Minho also remembers the sex from that night. It plays in his head on a loop, often echoing in his brain at the worst of times. The way you’d called out his name was all but intoxicating, chanting it in the empty space of the spare room like you’d done it a hundred times before. Your fingers looped through his hair, massaging his locks in praise while your moans did the rest. Your lips on his, smiling when he teased you about the game of pool- teasing him back, like the complex woman he knew you were.

He remembers the way your hardened nipples felt between his fingers, memorizing their feel with his nimble hands while he pressed his third erection of the night against you, a confession that this is what you do to me.

The way you took him with complete ease, undoubtedly craving him, too, gushing with arousal as he fit so perfectly inside you.

“You’re so big,” you’d said to him, and Minho isn’t sure he ever felt confident in his girth until it was inside of you, thrusting in and out like he was trying to make his semen catch, painting your walls white while you squirted on his still-hard cock.

He can’t get off with girls from the city unless he’s thinking of you and him, in the bar, bent over the pool table. He also avoids the spare room of the bar now, getting hard almost instantly at the sight of it.

It’s embarrassing, and he knows it, tucking his now-softened cock back into his boxers and reaching for tissues on his makeshift cardboard box nightstand. The shame washes over him as he folds his hands over his chest again, eyes locked with the shitty drywall ceiling. Have the cracks gotten bigger? He’s not sure of the large one to the left, caving in toward the window in the shape of a backwards L. If it rains, the roof will surely leak. How do you fix a leaky roof? Is it ever going to rain again? Where are you?

On a random Tuesday in the middle of the month, Minho runs into Jisung again.

He’s out by one of the tall buildings in the financial district, one hand shoved in the pocket of his suit while the other brings a turquoise-colored vape up to his lips.

Of course he vapes, Minho thinks. He’s just as predictable as he’s always been.

“Is that the Lee Minho?” Jisung says, blowing a cloud of strawberry-scented smoke into the air. Minho shrugs, saying nothing as he approaches Jisung.

“What are you doing all the way out here? Lost ownership of the bar or what?”

“No,” Minho replies, a stoic expression on his face. “I’m living here.”

“You’re living here? You? Avid hater of city life and all things that inhabit it?”

“Yeah,” Minho says, counting black spots on the concrete below him. “Not permanently. Just looking for something.”

“What are you looking for?”

Minho swallows momentarily. He knows he could bring up your name, and Jisung would probably know where to find you. After all, the two of you bonded over your love of the city before you almost went home with him that night. But he refrains, suddenly feeling a little jealous and overprotective. It’s the reminder that Minho was technically a second choice- maybe you’d just slept with him to get some relief for the sexual tension you felt with Jisung. You did lecture him when he cockblocked you, after all.

“Seeing if the apartments are better out here,” he settles on saying. “They’re not.”

Jisung chuckles. “Yeah, well, I could’ve easily told you that.”

He slides his vape back into the pocket of his suit, adjusting the buttons as he begins to speak again.

“When was the last time I saw you, anyway?”

Minho blinks nervously. His mind races with options of what to reply, but Jisung is faster.

“That storm!” He finally exclaims, clapping enthusiastically. “When we were stuck there while it rained fucking cats and dogs out there. You, me and Miss ‘hard to get’.”

“Right,” Minho says, his pulse quickening a little at the mention of you.

“Can you believe she backed out like that? I went back to that hotel with blue balls like you wouldn’t believe. I bet she’s a good fuck, too, the way she’s persuaded so easily.”

Minho grows irate, doing his best to refrain from lashing out at Jisung to defend you. The way he speaks about you like you’re disposable, like you weren’t only swayed by him because he puts on this act, one where he’s single and nice. Both polar opposite of the sleazy man standing in front of Minho right now.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jisung says. “I ran into her like a week after that, anyway.”

Minho feels his heart stop. He finally makes eye contact with Jisung, voice hitching in the back of his throat as he searches for words to say. What were you doing? What were you wearing? Were you with anyone? Did Jisung try to pursue you again? Was there any trace that you were as changed by Minho as he is by you?

“You did?” Minho queries.

“Yeah. She remembered me, for sure. Said she googled me and found out I was married. That’s the problem with women these days- they fucking google you. Who does that?”

Minho observes the way Jisung snorts with laughter, shaking his head like he’s not a serial cheater himself.

“Where was she?” Minho asks, quickly aware of the way the question comes off as a little too bold.

“Uh… I can’t remember. Think we were in the parking garage off 7th. She was all dressed up like she was going to work or something. Must be a private investigator with the way she stalks her potential hookups.”

Minho laughs internally at the irony.

“Why do you ask?” Jisung chimes in again, sounding a little skeptical of Minho’s behavior now.

“Nothing,” Minho says quickly. “Just curious.”

Jisung nods slowly, not taking his gaze off of Minho. He’s visibly tense, thoughts circling his mind as he tries to recall the buildings on 7th.

“I should get going,” Jisung says, pulling his vape back out to take another hit, much like the nicotine-addicted cheater Minho sees him for.

“Good catching up,” Jisung finishes, exhaling a cloud of smoke into his face. “Catch you later.”

And as Minho leaves, he turns back around to Jisung, pausing momentarily before speaking again.

“Oh, Jisung?”

“Yeah?”

Minho cocks his head slightly.

“Your wife really deserves better.”

The parking garage on 7th is a shithole. It’s a narrow, almost cylindrical building, filled back to back with rows of fancy cars. Minho remains parked on the third floor, sat in his car like he’s staking out the place, eyes darting over every passerby in hopes you’ll be one of them.

But they’re all middle-aged folks, blabbering into their cellphones with briefcases in hand, no sense of purpose for the life they’re living aside from money, and maybe their fancy cars.

He sighs, reaching for a cigarette and cupping his hand over the lighter to set it ablaze. Smoking is a recent development. Minho doesn’t think he’s chain-smoked like this since his culinary school days, when he’d spend late nights preparing for exams and practicing his plating techniques. It’s not that the cigarettes relieve him, nor does he even care for the flavor. But he does it as a form of sacrifice. The city keeps you from him, and consequently, he’s pulled back largely from things he actually enjoys, choosing to mirror the actions of the city-dwellers. Smoking, casual sex, drinking, dressing down, hardly ever eating full meals. He’s become reduced to a product of the disdain he feels for himself, spiraling further with every cruel reminder that you’re not his.

When his car stakeout passes the three hour mark, Minho is all out of cigarettes. He’s also starving, and dying for a beer. So he pulls out of the lot, most of the spaces vacant now, anyway, and starts the painful trip back to his apartment. The streets smell like sewage with his windows rolled down, but his own car reeks like a cheap casino. With one hand hanging loosely over the door of his car, Minho speeds down the crowded streets, groaning when he’s promptly halted by a red light. Cars press their horns impatiently as nobody seems to move. Minho glances to the right of him, scanning the streets that begin to darken as night falls. And then he sees it- a dive bar. It’s a city dive bar, of course, tainted by its rustic gentrifying decor and teeming with hipsters. But he’s sure you’re in there, knowing you probably regularly finish work and hit up the nearest bar to down Diet Cokes and chicken wings. In a frantic motion, Minho puts the car in reverse, using one hand to steer as he makes an illegal u-turn. The cars around him honk angrily, shouting profanities and pulling up to fill his spot. But he crosses several lanes to reach the bar, a sense of anticipation bubbling inside him already.

The place is much fancier than Minho’s, albeit much smaller. An open bar makes up most of the dive bar itself, a sleek laminate wood finish surrounding the series of draft beer dispensers. The wall above the bar is plastered in license plates from all different regions, and the patrons around all appear to be tourists judging by the way they take photos of it. There are several bartenders working tonight, the nearest one to Minho being a heavily tattooed gentleman with bleach blonde hair.

“What can I get you?” He asks enthusiastically, holding a pen and pad in his hand. Minho’s not sure he’s ever seen a bartender write down an order for a single beer.

When the bartender makes his way to the tap, Minho sits on one of the circular red stools. They’re a little too tall for his liking, swiveling around erratically while he catches his balance and glances around at the patrons. He’s the only one alone here, standing out even more in his loose jeans and an old jersey.

“That’s $12,” the bartender says when he returns.

“Can I just run a tab?” Minho asks, scoffing internally at the steep price.

“First drink’s upfront payment,” the bartender replies, flipping a tablet around to Minho for his payment details. Minho swipes his card and confidently smashes the ‘no tip’ button, earning a little eye roll from the bartender. These bars are nothing like his back home.

When the bartender moves away to attend to another patron, Minho swivels around on his stool, scanning the bar for a sign of you. There’s not a single cup of coke on any of the tables here. Everyone’s happily sipping away at whiskeys and vermouths, their drinks clutched closely in hand as they chat about their boring lives. Minho tunes in briefly to a conversation about someone’s broken toe and sighs, wishing so badly he had you to converse with. You’d probably laugh at all of Minho’s jokes about the people here, agreeing with his presumptions of them. See him? He’s definitely compensating. That guy there needs to cool off the vodka seltzers. She’s definitely not interested in him.

As he takes a sip from his mug of beer, it suddenly catches his eye. The arcade game, tucked away in the back of the bar like a little secret. It’s neglected, probably no one around old enough to know how to operate the thing. Minho rises from his seat, making his way to the game and smiling at the sight.

It reminds him of you, the giant black display of Galaga, decorated with whimsical drawings of aliens and Galaxian Flagships. He pulls out a quarter, slotting it in the machine, because of course you have to pay at this one, and slots it in, waiting for the thing to start up.

Only it doesn’t, the game not even emitting so much as a hum from the monitor. He smacks it a few times, partly in efforts to start it up, and partly to reclaim his last quarter. But it’s a moot effort- the game is completely dead.

Minho makes his way back to the bar, frustrated at the deja vu of broken arcade games and the memories they bring back to him.

“Your game’s broken,” Minho says to the bleach blonde bartender.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. That thing’s been dead for months now.”

“I put a quarter in. Swallowed it and won’t spit it out.”

“Yeah, it does that. Sorry, man.”

“Sorry? You should be. That thing shouldn’t be down here if it isn’t working.”

The bartender narrows his eyes as he mixes another drink for a patron.

“Yeah, well, people don’t usually try it. Again, sorry man. Not really anything I can do about it.”

Minho is angry now, his ears flushed a crimson shade as he speaks, not in any mood to reason with the bartender.

“Look man, just give me my quarter. Can’t you key the machine or something?”

“We don’t have access to it. It’s from some local vendor. You’re welcome to go find a few pennies on the ground if the 25 cents means so much to you.”

“What the fuck kind of behavior is that for a bartender?”

The other patrons and bartenders have noticed now, quieting down as they watch Minho down a few more sips of his beer angrily.

“Look man, you’re gonna have to leave. I can’t have you in here acting like this.”

“I want my quarter.”

“I can’t get your quarter, dude. It’s gone. Get out before I call the police.”

“Why don’t you hire someone to fix the machine, then? There are people in the city who do that, you know. I know someone who’d get it fixed in seconds. She’d be able to get the fucking quarter out, too.”

“Call the police,” the bartender says to another, and Minho raises his hands up in surrender.

“Relax, I’m leaving.” He chugs the rest of his beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as the other patrons look on in shock. Nearby, a different bartender has a phone clutched in his hand, ready to dial the cops like they’d requested.

“Tell me one thing,” Minho says before turning around.

The man says nothing, eyes narrowed in fear as he waits for Minho to finish.

“You guys sell Diet Coke here?”

The bartenders look around at each other nervously, confused at the question.

“We only have Pepsi,” one chimes in.

And Minho nods, understanding.

“Take care,” Minho says, waving them off as he finally exits the bar.

“I need you to come back for a little bit,” Jeongin says into the receiver one morning. He sounds panicked, like he might break down at any moment. Minho knows he wouldn’t request this of him if it wasn't something serious.

“Okay,” Minho replies. “What happened?”

“The place was robbed last night. By a group of guys. Nobody’s hurt, but they did have a knife on them. Cleared out one of the registers.”

Minho sighs, suddenly feeling awful about being out here. What is he doing out here when the business he owns is being threatened? Even worse, putting Jeongin and the other staff at risk while he embarks on the futile task of searching for what’s already gone? There’s no good explanation for it. It’s selfish- sure, he’s finally chasing after what he wants, but it’s a selfish task nonetheless.

“I can be there this evening,” Minho says, already mentally preparing himself for the six hour drive out there. “Just close up for the day. Make sure everyone gets home safe and knows they’ll be paid for the day anyway.”

Jeongin understands, hanging up on his end of the line and closing up the bar.

As Minho tosses his cell phone aside, he looks around the apartment, sighing heavily when he observes the state of things. His stuff is still stored away in cardboard boxes, the apartment looking more like a showroom than a space lived-in by him. The walls remain bare of any form of decorations, the tiny excuse for a kitchen is void of dishes and cutlery, even his toiletries are in travel bags, like he’s ready to go home at any given moment. And he just might be, after this week’s events.

The drive home is as excruciating as he remembers it. Exiting the city means sitting in miles of traffic, alongside impatient city-dwellers who somehow voluntarily make the commute everyday for their jobs. Minho briefly wonders if you’re in the traffic, too. You’re a little impatient, he remembers, thinking about how you demanded a phone charger from him that night in the bar. Only your impatience is something he’d gladly put up with in traffic like this, probably taking the opportunity to play his favorite songs for you and listen to you talk his ear off. He sighs to himself, wishing so badly you could fill the empty leather seat next to him, currently inhabited by empty cigarette boxes and discarded takeout boxes.

Six agonizing hours later, the sun’s beginning to set as Minho pulls into the familiar parking lot of the bar. Waning beams of sunlight reflect off the old bar sign, almost luring Minho inside as the nighttime chases closely after. When he unlocks the door and makes his way inside, it’s like he never left. The red booths are vacant, the peeling vinyl of their seats still scattered across the floor like he remembers. Bottles of alcohol neatly line the shelves behind the counter, which don’t reside far from the shiny mugs and glasses inside the cabinets. Minho runs a finger over the counter, well impressed with the state of the bar since Jeongin’s taken over. It’s impeccable, almost better than it was when Minho first left.

“Minho?” A voice calls, and a figure peeks from around the corner.

It’s Jeongin, who looks different in casual wear for the day, sporting a pair of sweatpants and a simple black t-shirt. He’s wearing his signature pair of thick framed glasses, running a hand through his hair as he takes a seat on one of the barstools.

“It was this register,” he says, gesturing to the one closest to Minho. “I think it was roughly $300 in there. They all had dark jackets and I couldn’t see their faces.”

Minho nods, opening the register to investigate, and then slumps back in the stool behind the counter.

“I’ll take the remaining cash to the safe. Let’s stay closed for a few days while I file a police report. They’ll probably want to poke around in here, and I don’t want any of the patrons to panic.”

It’s Jeongin’s turn to nod, making a mental note of Minho’s instructions. After a brief pause, he speaks again.

“How’s the city?”

“The city is…the city.”

Jeongin chuckles lightly, shaking his head.

“Are you working?”

Minho nods. “Not my private chef gig. But it’s a restaurant. I have a sous chef, which helps. It’s nothing special, though.”

There’s a moment of silence as Jeongin traces the table pattern with his fingers. He wants to ask more from him- he wants to know why Minho’s out there in the first place, why he even agreed to sign co-ownership off to Jeongin when this was his bar he was so proud of for all those years. But there’s seemingly no courteous way to go about it- any which way, he feels like he’s overstepping. Minho is usually on the quieter side, only confiding in his colleagues when it’s something that affects the business.

“Minho, are you…” he begins, his voice wavering in fear that he’ll unintentionally offend.

“Have you found what you’re looking for?”

Minho is silent, and for a second, it’s hard for Jeongin to gauge his reaction. His eyes remain locked on Jeongin’s pupils, trembling in discomfort as he thinks back to you. He thinks of the city, of the bar fight, of the hours spent in a dingy parking garage and the cracks in his apartment ceiling.

Jeongin begins to take back his question, disappointed in himself he’s even chosen to utter the inquiry. But Minho finally does give an answer, albeit a vague one.

“Not yet,” he replies, swallowing nervously before continuing. “You’ll be the first to know.”

When Jeongin leaves, he takes the cozy atmosphere of the bar with him, and the place now feels colder, more unfamiliar. Minho looks out the window at the darkness that envelopes the parking lot, feeling a sense of unease in knowing he’s going to leave it all behind again. This bar needs him, it needs stability. It needs someone to look out for the people who are vulnerable to sleazy married men or robbers. As he pockets the cash to transfer to the safe, he glances at the yellow Pac-Man game, sitting proudly where it has for the past three months since its repair. Little ghosts dance along the display screen, prompting users with ‘press A to start’.

Minho simply walks past it, knowing very well there’s little joy in a game that only brings back painful reminders. He makes his way to the back office, where the red leather couch and desk still remain. The cash is deposited in the safe, and the keys in the file cabinet- third drawer from the top.

Minho feels a gravitational pull to the spare room upstairs- he knows he shouldn’t, very well aware that he’s only hurting himself by picturing you up there. But still he does. Hands shoved in his pockets, he makes his way up the creaking stairs and through the little hallway.

The room is just as suffocating as he remembers it. The same old pool table sits in the middle of the room, and at the back where the arcade game previously lived, there’s a rectangle on the carpeted floor where it once sat, contrasting a bright untouched green to the older, worn down carpet. Minho doesn’t leave the doorway; he just stands, observing the room in all its mundane appearance. His eyes remain on the spot you’d previously hoisted yourself up to sit on the pool table, and he can almost see himself looming over you, too. From this angle, it doesn’t feel like it ever happened. It plays more like a cheap movie where a famous scene was shot. Like a figment of his imagination.

Have you found what you’re looking for?

He hasn’t, not yet. But seeing the potential of this old room, in the bar he owns, Minho knows it’s finally time to stop searching.

Back in the city, Minho’s days are numbered by the countdown. Two days until he’ll leave all this behind, for good this time.

The kitchen is busier than normal on this gloomy Thursday, more staff than usual working floor while others make trips up to hotel rooms for delivery.

Minho drizzles pans with olive oil in between plating a shrimp scampi, tonight’s special. The air is thick and fragrant with seafood and Parmesan cheese.

“I need a lava cake for room 302!” Seungmin exclaims to Minho in a rushed tone.

“On the cart by the door. Second row.”

Cooks work diligently in their respective areas, and Minho wipes his brow with the back of his sleeve. It’s a stressful role, no doubt, but he still feels a sense of sadness knowing he won’t be back to cooking like this once he’s back in town. He tries to mentally prepare himself for days of mixers and signature cocktails again.

“Minho, get out of here and go take a lunch,” Seungmin says as he reappears from behind the door. “That way the schedule doesn’t rearrange.”

Seungmin is a blunt sous chef, but he’s dedicated to his work. Minho knows he’ll have no problem working his way up to a head chef role one day. He appreciates his attention to detail and ability to work with difficult patrons, and he’d certainly entertain the idea of bringing him to work at the bar back home if he liked.

“On it,” Minho says, already pulling off his apron.

“Oh, and can you bring a Diet Coke to table 6 out there? I brought regular on accident.”

“Yup,” he says plainly, grabbing a clear glass from the clean stack and filling it at the fountain.

Minho thinks back to his apartment- this might be his last day at work, but he still has a generous amount of packing to do when he gets home. He’s relieved he kept most of his stuff in boxes, or else he’d easily be stuck here another week.

Minho counts boxes in his head, balancing the glass in one hand and his apron in another as he exits the kitchen to the seating area. He’s seldom out here, only really passing through when he gets in for the day. But he’s not in charge of serving guests, and the whole thing suddenly feels a little uncomfortable to him. Quiet jazz music plays overhead as tables fill the room with noise of their conversations, everyone dressed up with legs crossed neatly under white tablecloths.

Minho looks around frantically as beads of condensation on the glass wet his hand- where the hell is table 6?

A family sits at the back, every member paired with their drink of choice. An older couple sits closer to Minho, two cups of coffee steaming in front of them.

And by the window, two women deep in conversation- one of them passionately sharing tales of work or perhaps a lover.

And the other one, you.

Minho thinks he’s hallucinating for a moment, when he first observes you sitting there. You’re nodding as the other woman talks, a smile pulling on your face as she exaggeratedly makes a hand motion during her story. You’re not dressed like the other city-dwellers here, looking starkly more beautiful in a sweater and a pair of jeans. You’re the only one in here wearing jeans, aside from Minho. He smiles when he takes notice.

Another server passes Minho in a rush, shoving by him with a tray of food in hand.

“Oh sorry,” he says, eyeing him a little confused. “Did you want me to take that? I know you’re on lunch.”

Minho grips the coke firmly in his hand, shaking his head almost immediately. He’s never refused something so fast in his life before.

“No, I got it,” he says, finally taking the first step toward your table.

Minho glances down at his appearance briefly, fixing the collar of his shirt as he approaches you. He’s a little more dressed up for his last day here, a pastel blue button-up tucked into his jeans, his now long hair parted down the middle. He wishes he could tuck back into the bathroom and see himself more clearly, but he knows he’ll lose you if he doesn’t make his move now.

Minho’s thought of this moment so many times, replayed the conversation in his head like a speech he’s been waiting to give. He wants to proclaim his adoration for you, giving you a romantic explanation of how he’s searched for you all these months and never stopped thinking of you. And in an ideal scenario, you’d say the same, kissing him in front of all the restaurant-goers here and leaving back to town with him to live happily ever after.

But he’s never considered the idea of a friend being present. Or being crunched for time on a 30-minute lunch break. It’s all happening so fast, and his head spins with anxiety as he approaches you.

You’re still in conversation when he sets your Diet Coke down at the table a little too hard, hoping to get your attention. You don’t so much as look his way as he does, and he lingers by your table for a moment as he thinks.

“Do you need a straw?” Minho asks, eyes darting over your face briefly. Your hair is a little longer, too, but you look the same. He’s sure you’re not a hallucination.

“No thank you,” you say, finally glancing over at him to give a small nod.

And just like he’s lost for more words, you seem to be too, lips parting slightly as you keep your gaze fixed on his.

“Thank you for lunch,” you say to your colleague at the end of the meal, who’s been passionately talking about her recent project at work for the last hour.

You tuned her out after the first 15 minutes, being completely awestruck when the server delivered your requested Diet Coke to your table.

Either the brain fog from work is finally starting to catch up with you, or you’re simply too tired. But the server looks exactly like Lee Minho, the bartender you slept with a few months ago. Normally, you’d tuck away and hide at the sight of running into a hookup again. But Minho wasn’t just a hookup to you.

He’s lingered amongst your thoughts for the better part of those three months, the polite action of protecting you from sleeping with a married man and letting you seek shelter in the storm remaining some of the nicest things someone’s ever done for you.

He wasn’t just a hookup, not with the way he spoke of his hopes and dreams and asked about all of yours. And then he fucked you like a husband, the feeling you got from him bending you over the pool table like that still sending chills down your spine.

Your colleague pulls her scarf and coat on, nodding as she gestures to the door. The lunch rush has died down by now, and most of the tables are vacant as the streets bustle with people returning to work.

“I’m gonna grab a meal to-go,” you tell her. “I’ll meet you back at the office. Thank you again for lunch!”

Fortunately for you, she doesn’t question it, leaving you to order as she heads back to the office.

Minho is nowhere to be seen, only one server present on the floor as it’s more empty now.

“Can I help you?” A voice asks, and you’re met with the warm smile of the singular server.

“I… I wanted to give my compliments to the chef,” you say, sounding a little unsure of yourself.

“I’ll be sure to do that, thank you very much,” he replies, bowing when he finishes.

“I meant my personal thanks,” you clarify, and he furrows his brows in response.

“Uh… sure, I can ask him. Do you know if it was the head chef?”

“His name’s Lee Minho,” you say with a smile. “He’s probably the head chef.”

Minho’s sous chef runs his kitchen like the navy, you quickly learn, as he ushers for you to leave soon after Minho exits the kitchen due to the impending dinner rush.

There’s no time to catch up with him, only being able to utter a short “thanks for the meal,” as he waits for you to speak.

But he recognizes you, his gaze staying on yours a little too long as he nervously bows.

“Y/n,” he says in response, the action saying nothing and yet so much at the same time.

And you smile back at him, relieved he still remembers.

As Seungmin calls for him a second time, you pull a pen from the pocket of his apron, scribbling your address on a napkin from one of the tables.

He nods back at you, napkin clutched in hand, as he makes his way back to the kitchen.

And for a brief moment, neither of you can make out the implications of the action. An invitation for sex? A date to catch up? The details are blurry to both of you. But you hope he shows, and Minho already knows he wouldn’t miss it for the world.

As you fix your hair in front of the mirror that evening, memories of Minho play in your mind like they did after the night you spent together. You know you had to leave- it wasn’t something you decided lightly, but you and him are fated for different things. And who are you to intervene where the stars align? Minho deserves someone who will be available for him, someone uncomplicated and willing to inhabit the place he loves so dearly.

You, on the other hand, have a historical bad run with men, and so pursuing Minho would be uncharacteristic. But also unfair to him. It’s clear from that night that your worst traits will always remain the most significant parts of you- impatience, judgment and naivety. And while Minho comes off as curt, he’s anything but. He’s too good for you. You’re just a byproduct of this city- everything he despises. It would be over before it even started.

Minho shows at exactly a quarter to nine, knocking twice at the door as he waits out in the hallway for you.

When you unlatch the door, he perks up from nervously staring at the carpeted floor, adjusting his collar and clearing his throat. He looks more casual than you’ve probably ever seen him before, in a striped gray and black top, layered with a black collared shirt and dark ripped jeans. He also looks particularly handsome tonight, but also different, noticeably thinner in his face where his cheekbones protrude generously, his hair a little longer now.

“Hi,” Minho says plainly, his gaze fixated on yours in an almost trance-like state.

“Hi,” you reply, unsure of where to start. “Come in, please.”

You step aside, ushering him into your apartment and shutting the door behind you both. Minho looks around, impressed with the state of your apartment in comparison with his. There are cherry wood bookshelves lining the walls, filled top to bottom with stacks of old novels and textbooks. Colorful modern paintings decorate the walls, which are admittedly much taller than his own, and cozy lighting fills every room in the space.

Minho bows a little, handing you a bottle, and you smile in amusement as you scan the contents. A single liter of Diet Coke.

“You remembered,” you say, endeared by the simple action.

“So you don’t waste your calories,” he replies with a small smile, echoing the statement you told him so many months ago.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” you tell him. Minho takes note of the shakiness in your voice, a little relieved that you seem to be as nervous as he is. It’s certainly not a matter of picking up where you left off when you both have your walls up like this, but he prefers the silence to your absence any day.

You disappear into the kitchen, pouring both of you glasses of Diet Coke as Minho settles on the edge of the couch. He folds his hands in his lap and blinks nervously, trying so hard to remember everything he’s wanted to confess to you since returning here. But in this proximity to you, in your own home, everything suddenly seems like a bad idea. He feels dramatic, overbearing, trying to make sense of this. Maybe he shouldn’t have come.

When you return, Minho takes a deep breath, quietly thanking you for the beverage when you place it on the coffee table in front of him. And then as he feared, a silence washes over both of you.

You take a sip of your coke, waiting for him to speak, and similarly, he waits for you. You’d forgotten, briefly. That Minho is inherently a quiet guy. It’d been you who brought his walls down, challenged him to a game of pool and even instigated the argument when he told Jisung to leave the bar. As he blinks at you a few times, you realize it may be his way of asking you to do it again, to help him feel comfortable again.

“Your Italian food is on par with your chicken wings,” you say to him, finally breaking the silence. “Think you need to add shrimp scampi to your bar menu.”

Minho smiles, and the whole room seems to brighten up when he does. His eyes turn to little crescents, his grin flashing you the skewed front teeth you were so endeared by when you first met him. His presence feels like the bar did- safe, familiar.

“It’s not my best work,” he replies. “It’s just a temporary job. But I do have a sous chef here, which is a plus.”

“The one with the nice smile? I know, he almost kicked me out for asking to see you. He’s very deceiving.”

You and Minho share laughter, recalling how Seungmin yelled at you several times at the restaurant today. When your laughter dies down, he swallows nervously, unsure of how to proceed.

“Thanks for… giving your compliments today,” he says. He really wants to say ‘thank you for seeing me again’.

“I knew I recognized you,” you say back to him. “I was surprised to see you here in the city. I guess I just wanted some confirmation it was really you.”

“It’s me,” Minho says sheepishly. You smile at him, feeling a little sorry at the way his tone sounds so unsure.

“What are you doing in the city, anyway?” You ask.

Minho isn’t sure what to say. In an alternate timeline, he’d like to tell you he came for you. But he knows he’ll come off as a creep, and the last thing he wants is to lose you again.

“Just wanted a break from the suburbs,” he settles on saying.

“Do you like it?”

He toys with a frayed hem on the throw pillow beside him, shaking his head a little hesitantly.

“If I say no, you’ll think less of me.”

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his lips, not wanting you to think he came here for you to pity him. In fact, the reality is quite the opposite.

“I would never think less of you,” you assure him with a gentle smile. “You’re allowed to have your opinions.”

Minho nods, not entertaining the subject anymore.

“How’s the bar?”

“It’s okay,” Minho says, sighing a little as he thinks back to recent events. “It was robbed just the other night.”

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you say to him with widened eyes. “Is everyone… okay?”

“Everyone’s okay,” he affirms. “Just lost some money. I’m working with the police on it, so hopefully we’ll have someone arrested if we’re lucky.”

You nod at his words, feeling disheartened at the mention of the robbery. Although you’re not particularly fond of the suburbs, the bar is a sacred space for you, and knowing he and the staff were put in that situation makes you uneasy.

“How’s work?” Minho asks, and you chuckle at the question.

“Nothing special. I did get a promotion last month, but I’m only making a few dollars more than I was last time we met. Nothing to write home about.”

“We’ll congratulations anyway,” Minho says, raising his glass of Diet Coke. “Well deserved.”

“Thank you,” you say, clinking your glass against his and letting the cool carbonated beverage soothe the nerves still present in your demeanor.

“Oh, you’ll never believe it! I ran into Jisung out here,” you say to Minho with a scoff. “He tried to pursue me again, the bastard. I’m pretty sure he was even wearing a wedding ring this time. I had to tell him I found out he was married on-”

“On Google,” Minho finishes your sentence. “He told me.”

“You saw him too?”

“Yeah, just the other day. He’s just as obnoxious as he was three months ago.”

You smile at Minho, briefly reminded of the way you were able to bond with him as a result of Jisung’s antics.

“I never got to say thank you,” you say a little quietly, averting his gaze. “For that night. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you there to help me.”

He looks down, pondering your words for a moment.

“You left without saying goodbye.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to. Trust me. But I figured…” your voice trails off, trying desperately to decipher how to word your sentiment politely.

“Figured what?” He says, looking back up at you. His eyes tremble a little in anticipation for your reply.

“I figured we’re just different people.”

Minho nods, pursing his lips together as he replays your words.

“And by that you mean that you’re a successful member of the city, and I’m just a bartender.”

Your face drops at his words, suddenly panicked that he’s come here because he’s angry at you. You would never think less of him for being a bartender- hell, you wouldn’t even think less of him if he was unemployed. You’re not sure you could think less of him if you tried.

“That’s not what I mean. And you know that.”

Minho narrows his eyes a little, challenging you.

“Then what do you mean?”

“I mean,” you begin, sighing before continuing to speak. “That I’m everything you despise. I let people down. I’m not inherently a good person, the way you are. You know how I stormed in there demanding a phone charger? Fighting you at the bar because you wouldn’t let me sleep with a married man? That’s the kind of person I am. I’m impatient, and naive and I’m nothing like the girls you’re used to.”

“How do you know what I’m used to?”

“Come on, Minho,” you say, and the conversation finally begins to sound a little more natural between the two of you. “You said it yourself- I’ve never lived without the notion of wanting to migrate as soon as possible. Who’s to say that doesn’t apply to people, too?”

“You’re nothing like you say you are,” Minho interrupts, and you can feel yourself getting frustrated at his words.

“How would you know that? Because you slept with me in a bar? I’m not this dream girl you think I am, Minho. I was looking out for you. You deserve better.”

Minho says nothing for a moment, swirling Coke around in his cup and watching the bubbles fizzle away as they hit the rim of the glass. He shakes his head a little to himself, and then he begins to speak again.

“You want to know why I came out here again?”

You remain silent, already knowing what he’s going to say. But to your surprise, his answer is a little more complex.

“I came out here because I wanted to. I wanted to work as a chef again. I wanted new colleagues, I wanted a different view and I was tired of being stuck in that little bar.”

You don’t reply to his statement, waiting for him to continue.

“And do you know why finding you was something I held onto so dearly?”

“Why?” You ask, the question coming out in a shaky tone. He takes a deep breath before he answers.

“I wanted to thank you. I wanted to tell you all about it. To tell you that you were right- sometimes, simple isn’t better. Sometimes you have to go back and make amends before you can move forward again. I wouldn’t have done any of this if someone really cool didn’t walk into my bar and make it clear to me. I guess part of me just hoped you were changed by it, too.”

Your expression softens at his words, feeling awful for the way this conversation has gone so far. It’s not your intention to hurt him- in fact, you feel particularly protective of Minho.

“I came looking for you, too,” you say after a moment of silence, and Minho perks up at your words.

“You did?”

“Mhm,” you nod. “I visited your bar. Twice since that night. I asked for you both times. The guy said you weren’t there anymore. I think after the second time, I took it as a sign to stop trying.”

“Jeongin?” Minho says, furrowing his brows together in visible confusion.

“He was blonde, a little small. Freckles.”

“Felix,” Minho says, chuckling lightly. “He’s a new hire. Jeongin would’ve told you differently. I have co-ownership with him now.”

You nod, folding your hands in your lap.

“I was changed by it,” you say, finally letting your gaze meet his. “I never stopped thinking about you. But it scares me. In so many ways, you’re everything I tried to run from when I left the suburbs. I don’t think I was ever good enough for any of it- all I cared about was money, and my work and finding an apartment with a nice enough view of the city. I didn’t care about the memories I made there, or that there’s genuinely good people. I didn’t even visit my parents very often. You reminded me that there’s more to it than just that. There’s more to the past than its negative aspects. So thank you, too.”

Minho is quiet for a moment, his mind racing with thoughts of what to do- how to keep you around. But in this moment, it’s clear to him- he has to let you go. He said what he had to say. He’s done the search, all three months of it, and he found you. He validated his own emotions and made sense of yours- you were just as changed by it as he was. But maybe that’s enough- perhaps the rest is just wishful thinking.

“Looks like we felt the same about it, then,” he says with a small smile, sitting up from the sofa and making his way to peer out the large glass window in your living room.

“And by the way, you definitely succeeded with the view out here. Mine’s just a brick wall.”

You chuckle, making your way over to the window and standing next to him to take in the view, too.

“It’s nice, right? All of the east side is visible from up here.”

“See that down there?” Minho points. “Visited that dive bar the other day. It sucks if you’re wondering.”

“CJ’s? Yeah, it’s kind of a shithole. They don’t even serve Diet Coke.”

Minho chuckles lightly, a little sadness evident in his tone.

“You know, maybe if you swung by and fixed their little arcade game, they’d supply you some. Probably something to do with all the ABC’s.”

“The what?” You query, furrowing your brows together and chuckling as he speaks.

“The little gidgets inside. You know, with the pins.”

You pause to think for a moment, mentally mapping out the circuit inside.

“The EPROMs,” you say finally.

Minho feels his breath hitch in his throat as you utter the acronym. It sounds so unfamiliar, and yet so familiar to him at the same time. He suddenly remembers that night, in the spare room, hearing you say it for the first time.

“The what?” He replies gently, not removing his gaze from the window.

“The EPROMs,” you clarify, a little louder this time.

“Say it again,” Minho breathes, a small smile painted on his face now.

“EPROMs?” You question, turning to face him, visibly confused.

“Yeah, those. What’s it stand for, anyway?” Minho finally asks, turning to face you. You face him, too, endeared by the curiosity he’s displayed for that game repair since the first night you met.

“Erasable programmable read-only memory,” you explain, aware of how close he is in proximity to you now. His eyes flicker down to your lips and then back up again, his plump lips pulling into a knowing smile as you speak. He knows he’s wandering into dangerous territory now, but he can’t help it- not when it’s you who makes him feel like this.

“God, it sounds so sexy when you say it,” Minho says sheepishly.

And he knows he shouldn’t entertain it- he’s well aware that his intention is to walk out of here and get on with his life, comfortable with the knowledge that you’d sought him out, too. But he can’t help himself when you’re this close to him, talking circuit repair so intelligently and erotically.

So without another question to stutter, or a fight to be had, he closes the gap between you two, pressing his lips onto yours and kissing you one last time.

You don’t protest the action, instantly tangling your hands in his tresses and reciprocating with the same hungry, passionate kisses he delivers. Maybe it’s the long hair, or the ripped jeans, but part of you also wonders if he’s been dying to kiss you tonight as badly as you’ve been craving him. The flavor is reminiscent of the bar to you, on that pool table like the first time you kissed him. He tastes like mint, enveloping your tongue with hints of Diet Coke while he nibbles on your bottom lip between kisses.

Without any sort of end goal in mind, your hands snake down to his collared shirt, which you tug on hungrily, and then begin to push off his torso. Minho smiles into the kiss, reaffirmed that you want him just the same, and he pulls away momentarily to complete the task of pulling off his button down.

Underneath, his striped t-shirt is cut off generously at the shoulders, completely exposing his arms to you. You almost gasp at the sight of his toned arms jutting out, veins running along his forearms and flexing with each movement. Minho chuckles softly when he takes notice, amused at your reaction.

When his button down shirt is fully off, he kisses you again, hands finding their way to your waist as he pushes himself against you, desperate to feel you against him. You walk backwards, cupping his face between your hands and leading him toward your bedroom.

For a fleeting moment, you’re nervous to take it any further than this, the last person you slept with being Minho himself. You can’t remember which undergarments you wore, or what your bedroom decor looks like to anyone except yourself. But Minho’s kisses shut you up, his lips moving against yours with desire and passion, and you don’t want to do anything except this, right here.

When you’ve made it to the bed, you pull away, crossing your arms over your torso and pulling your sweater off over your head. You’re in a lacy black bra, you realize, because of course you thought to dress for him. Minho blinks a few times, crossing his own arms over his torso and finally pulling his shirt over his head.

It’s then that you realize you’ve never seen Minho without his shirt before- he wore that white button down in the bar, only allowing you to see a generous amount of his collarbones. But standing in front of you like this, he’s breathtaking, his toned torso and his sharp collar bones complementing his sculpted thighs and arms so perfectly.

When he takes notice of you staring at him, one hand flies down to his mid-torso, where he spreads a palm out over the skin, seemingly in an attempt to cover something. You take one step forward, gently placing a hand over his and moving it so that his torso is exposed again. And across his tanned skin, a pale pink scar catches your eye, not very noticeable from your previous distance, but definitely perceptible when you observe his body long enough.

“Minho,” you coo, running your hand along the scar and tracing it with your fingertips. “You’re beautiful,” you say to him after a moment, smiling up at him sincerely.

Minho’s heart almost stops in its place, overwhelmed with his emotions for you, to be here with you, the desire to make love to you eating away at his mind like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

And if it is, he’d die a happy man.

His lips crash against yours again, hands snaking down to your jeans, where he unbuttons them, your hands meeting his to help pull them down. While you take over, he unbuckles his belt, snaking the leather out from around his waist and undoing his buttons. It’s then that he pushes you gently against the bed, hoisting your legs up so that you’re at a comfortable angle, finally propping himself above you and working kisses down your neck. He nibbles your flesh between his teeth the way he did before, beginning to work purple bruises around your throat. And you let him, without protest, because you’re desperate for a reminder that he’s here, that he’s yours. Minho smiles against your neck when he feels you moan softly at the sensation, satisfied with the way you melt at his touch.

“Minho,” you call, and he brings his lips to press a chaste kiss to yours again.

“What is it, baby?” He coos gently, pressing a series of kisses to your lips before you speak again.

“I never should have left,” you reply, toying with a strand of his hair around your fingers in a pleading manner. Your chest is heavy with guilt, tears almost pricking at your eyes as he looms over you like this.

He chuckles softly, kissing you for a moment before grazing his lips over yours again, speaking just above a whisper.

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m right where you left me.”

And it’s your turn to kiss him, crashing your lips against his again as tears fall from the corners of your eyes. Minho takes notice when the salty taste of them dance along his tongue, kissing them back up your face and holding you a little closer to him. His hands wrap around the small of your back to find the clasp of your bra, skillfully undoing it with one hand and pulling away from you to discard it on the floor. It’s Minho’s turn to stare, running one hand down your clavicles until he’s grazing your nipples with his fingers.

You feel your breath hitch in your throat with anticipation, before he finally dips his middle finger down over one of your hardened nipples, earning a stifled gasp from you. He works little circles over your nipple with one finger, the gentle stimulation making you gasp into his mouth as he kisses you again.

And then he moves back to your neck, kissing over the bruises he sucked into your flesh, trailing lower and lower until he’s just above your breasts. You look down at him with bated breath, almost clenching at the way his lips exhale little breaths against your nipples, making them even harder. With his eyes on yours, he finally lowers himself, latching both lips around your breast and sucking.

Your back arches up into him instinctively, the feeling of his teeth grazing your skin sending divine shivers up your spine. In a sudden motion, his tongue swirls around your bud, the cold sensation causing you to moan fervently. He smiles with your flesh between his teeth, while your hands tangle themselves in his hair and massage him encouragingly.

It feels so primal, so natural to have his mouth all over you, your legs pressing together to calm the ache between your legs. He takes his time on one breast, only coming up to press a kiss in the valley of your breasts and then moving to give attention to the other one. You could stay here for hours, like this, if it wasn’t for the pulsing reminder in your groin that you want to feel him inside of you.

“Please,” you say gently, pressing your legs together and squeezing in efforts to relieve yourself.

Minho chuckles softly, letting go from your nipple with a gentle sucking sound, a string of spit hanging from his lips as he looks up at you with hooded eyes.

“I want to feel you inside me again,” you admit shyly, tenderly running your nails along the back of his neck. Minho’s lips meet yours again, and his hands quickly find their way to the hem of your underwear, sliding them down and pulling away to discard them on the floor.

He’s promptly reminded of how needy and vocal you are, smiling down at you as you pull his face back to yours and swirl your tongue around his. But truth be told, he’s just as needy as you are, equally reminded of how much he’s touched himself to the thought of this and secretly prayed he’d be able to make love to you again. And now here, his lips on yours, it’s finally happening, his rock-hard erection proof that it’s always been you.

As you arch up into him, one leg wrapping around his to push him even closer against you, your hand snakes down to his erection, palming him through his boxers. Minho groans at the contact, his lips parting a little as he winces in pleasure.

“You’re so hard,” you say with a smile, pleased at his evidently equal desperation for you.

“All for you,” Minho replies, running one hand down your stomach to rub little circles on your clit, causing you to moan in pleasure.

“Ah- fuck,” you breathe out, contorting against him, desperate for him to fill you up. “Please, Minho, want to feel you inside me,” you pant against him, pleading for the second time now.

He remains like that for a moment, working little circles onto your clit as he observes the way your eyebrows arch up in pleasure.

“Want me to fill you up?” He asks, cocking his head with yours as you grasp his forearm.

“Yes, please,” you reply, trying your best to stave off your orgasm until he’s inside of you.

And without teasing you any further, Minho pulls away from you to slide off his boxers, his cock springing up against his abdomen in anticipation for you. You prop yourself up on your elbows, in awe at the sight as he tosses his boxers aside and leans down to kiss you again.

“Lay down,” Minho orders sweetly, and you do as you’re told, exhaling once to calm your steadily beating pulse.

“Is this still okay?” Minho asks, caressing your shoulder with concern as you wait for his next move.

“Yes,” you say, giving a half smile to him when he rubs his thumb along your cheek lovingly. He smiles back at you, giving one small peck to your lips before hoisting himself up and wrapping one hand around his cock.

You watch as Minho wraps his slender fingers around the base of his cock, pumping a few times before leaning down to kiss you tenderly. The sensation causes him to breathe a few gasps into your mouth, Minho also trying his best to stave his release until he’s inside of you.

“Gonna put it in now, okay?” He asks, breaking away to part your thighs. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

But you don’t- not when you’re this wet for him, this desperate to finally feel him fill you up again, like you’ve fantasized for so long.

A strand of his hair falls into his face as he finally guides his cock inside of you, rubbing your clit as he thrusts in fully and bottoms out. You gasp at his size, almost having forgotten just how thick he is, the stretch making your head spin with pleasure. When he gauges your reaction, he begins to move with you slowly, giving gentle thrusts while you wrap your arms around his back.

The bed creaks as he moves in and out of your sopping pussy, emitting lewd sloshing sounds as he leans down to kiss you, your tongues and mouths doing much of the same. You can hardly kiss him back, your lips already dribbling strings of drool in fucked-out satisfaction from him filling you up like this.

“Fuck… baby… you’re so tight,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut in pleasure.

“Feels so good,” you breathe back, gripping his shoulder a little bit when he picks up his pace. “No one fucks me the way you do,” you say to him, and his cock twitches inside of you at the admission.

“Fuck,” Minho says again. “I dreamt of you for so long,”

“Me too,” you say, reaching up to move a stray piece of hair out from in front of his eyes between your heavy breathing. “I wish I came looking for you again. God, I wasted so much time.”

Minho kisses you, burying his lips in the crook of your neck to caress the bruises he’s already left.

“I never stopped searching for you,” he breathes out against your skin. “It’s you, it’s always been you.”

His words make your heart flutter as he continues to thrust in and out of you, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix with every thrust now. Your moans get louder as he picks up the pace, digging his nails into your waist as he holds you in place. Between kisses, he caresses your thigh with his hand, positioning it up and bending your leg at the knee beside him. You moan instantly at the new angle, his length caressing every inch of your pussy, his girth stretching you out with every thrust inside of you and tickling your pulsing clit as he moves against your hips.

“Good girl,” Minho says, smiling against you as he kisses you. “Take me so well.”

Your nails dig into his back as he thrusts a little faster now, the rhythmic motion sending shivers up your spine.

“I’m close,” you breathe out, and judging by the way Minho’s cock twitches inside of you, he is too.

“Will you do that thing again?” You ask in a shaky voice between moans, and Minho lets out a breathy chuckle.

“What thing, baby?”

But he knows very well what you’re referring to, having replayed it in his head every time he got off without you. You don’t respond to him, instead intertwining his hand in yours and bringing it down to your abdomen, where you sprawl his palm across your navel and give it a little push. Minho groans at the feeling of your warm abdomen under his palm, remembering the way you reacted last time. And he’s eager to please you, to do it exactly how you liked it before.

Without teasing you any further, Minho presses down on your stomach, observing the way you moan when he does, and then thrusts a little faster. He can feel his length sliding in and out of you under his touch, locking his gaze on the bulge in your abdomen that appears with every thrust.

“Min, I’m so close,” you say, gasping desperately and digging your nails into his back.

He presses down a little harder, burying his face in the crook of your neck and moving even faster, moaning every time he can feel himself move against your abdomen.

And as he brings his lips up to meet yours, you finally let go around him, making a mess of your sheets as you cum around his cock, your clit pulsing in syncopation with your entrance as he fucks you through your orgasm. Minho finishes just seconds after, emptying his milky white release inside of you, both your juices spilling into each other and coating the bed in your arousal. He doesn’t pull out immediately, slowing his thrusts for a few minutes as he kisses you much gentler this time, your lips still glistening with the exchange of saliva.

When he feels you shiver against him, Minho finally slides out, turning over to lay on his back and catch his breath. The two of you remain like that for a few minutes, catching your breath and wiping beads of sweat off your forehead as you do. After a moment of silence, he turns to you again, a worried expression on his face.

“I promise I didn’t come here to have sex with you,” Minho says. “I wasn’t lying about wanting to tell you all about it. I guess I just happened to-”

“Min, I know,” you say with a small smile. “I didn’t think that’s why you came here.”

He lets out a silent chuckle, and you mirror the action, smiling back at him before laughing silently. The two of you remain sore and wearied, your languid bodies a comfortable distance away from each other on the soiled duvet.

Still, Minho extends a hand out from beside you, palm facing up and shifting his gaze onto yours out of his peripheral vision.

Your hand meets his, intertwining your fingers together, the delicate embrace a reminder that he’s here, right where you left him.

“Can’t you just stay another week?” you say to Minho, leaning down to press another kiss to his already swollen lips.

You lie on top of him as he lays back on your couch, his hands tucking strands of hair behind your ear as he smiles up at you.

“It’s just for a little bit, I promise. I just have some unfinished business out there.”

“I don’t want to lose you again,” you say in a whisper, tracing the bridge of his nose with your fingertip.

“You won’t lose me,” Minho replies, his tone turning serious at your words. “You’ll never lose me.”

“What am I going to do without you?” You ask him, feeling yourself grow increasingly more panicked at the thought of being away from him again. You’ve spent the better part of three months searching for each other, desperate for some closure to this fleeting thing- and now he’s leaving, and you can’t help but feel like you’re doing something wrong by letting him leave like this.

“You’re going to be the woman you always have been,” Minho says with a smile, stroking your hair gently. “You’re going to work your job, and fix things and be absolutely remarkable wherever you go. And I’m going to finalize a few things out there and then meet you right back here in the city. And we’ll lie on this couch, and we’ll pick up right where we left off.”

You smile at him through pricking tears, feeling them begin to fall as he reaches a thumb up to wipe them off your cheek.

“Hey,” Minho says to you reassuringly. “You know- I was thinking a lot about the bar.”

You nod at him, trying to hold back the rest of your tears as he speaks.

“We have contract negotiations coming up next month. And I was thinking of… maybe…handing it off to Jeongin.”

You sit up a little, eyes widening at his words.

“Complete ownership? But you love that bar, Min.”

He shrugs a little, blinking a few times as he pauses.

“I want to cook. And I think being out here made me realize I need a change of pace again.”

“You mean like… moving out here? To the city?”

He lets out a breathy chuckle, throwing his head back a little before meeting your gaze again.

“Maybe. Just something I’ve been thinking about.”

You chuckle too now, cupping his face in your hands as you sit up to look at him.

“You know,” you begin, thinking for a second before continuing to speak. “This really cool bartender told me once that sometimes you have to go back and make amends before you can move forward again.”

His lips flicker down to your smile and back up to your eyes as you speak, a visible sparkle in your pupils as you look down at him. “Whatever you decide to do back there, I’m here with you when you go forward again. As a bartender, or a chef, or whatever you decide. I’ll be right where you left me.”

And he doesn’t have to ask you twice, knowing in his heart, you’re already here with him- every step of the way.

Minho leaves bright and early that morning, grasping your hand firmly in his as you make your way down the concrete steps of your apartment building to where his car is parked.

He looks more angelic than you’ve ever seen him, his smile illuminating the space around you as he holds you in his gentle embrace on the sidewalk. The two of you say nothing, only speaking through the tender touches of your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, face tucked in the crook of his neck as he holds you. He presses kisses to the top of your head, reminding you through hushed whispers that he’ll be back as soon as possible. And you know he will, feeling completely enveloped in his loving trust as he holds you, as he promises not to lose you again.

When he pulls away to look into your eyes, tears prick at the corners of your eyes for the third time this morning, and Minho chuckles lightly, reaching up to wipe them away with his thumb.

Before he can say anything, he feels it, finally.

The gentle caress of droplets on his face- not your tears, not his, but the sky above, showering you with little raindrops for the first time in three months and some days.

At first, Minho thinks he might be hallucinating it, when he looks up to squint his eyes back at the cloudy sky. You do the same, feeling the familiar kiss of raindrops on your skin. And then, as if the sky’s taking notice, it begins to pour, warm rain showering you both in the hazy atmosphere of the city sidewalk.

Minho laughs up at the sky, shaking his now damp hair as he looks down at you again. All this time he’s waited for the rain, thinking maybe he’d imagined it that night in the bar- the same night he ran into you. But as the raindrops graze his skin and glisten under the light of the city, he realizes it was very much real, as are you, standing right here in his arms. And like everything falls into place, so does the rain over the city, washing away the doubts he held onto for so long.

“It’s finally raining!” Minho exclaims, holding you closer to him as he tilts his face up to the sky again.

You watch him in admiration, laughing at the way he embraces the sudden downpour, also remembering the first night you met him because of the storm like this.

The city-dwellers around you begin to seek shelter under the cement roofs of the high rises, but you remain there on the sidewalk, warm in each other's embraces, content with the sudden turn of the weather. When he looks back down at you, his hair is now completely soaked, stringy pieces falling into his face as he continues to laugh.

“Minho,” you say through gentle laughter of your own. The rain comes down violently now, drenching the two of you as he holds you closer to him.

“Where have you been all my life?”

And he smiles down at you, the familiar beam of his giggle instilling the same safety and comfort as the first night you met in his bar.

“Right here,” Minho replies, leaning in to kiss you again.

“I’ve always been here.”

This time, you make no effort to escape the rain, comfortable in the way it looms over the city, much like how Minho looms over you- fortuitous, and with promises of new beginnings.

#skz smut #Lee know #Lee know smut #Lee know fic #stray kids hard hours #skz #stray kids #skz scenarios #stray kids x you #Lee minho #lee know scenarios #Lee know x reader #fanfic #smut #stray kids hard thoughts #stray kids x reader #stray kids x y/n #Spotify

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ginnsbaker · 8 months

Text

Bulletproof (6/10)

Part Summary: It's three months after the attack on the compound and you lost your invincibility against bullets.

Chapter word count: 2.6k+ | Tags: Light Angst, Still UST, Still gay

Ship: Wanda Maximoff x Gender Neutral Reader

Next Part | Series Masterlist

The sound of the doorbell at “Café Lumière” reverberates around the room, your heart reacting before your head can even register it. It's the softest of sounds, but it pulls you like a siren's song. Every fiber of your being is acutely aware of that door, with both trepidation and hope hinging on its every swing.

Steam curls up from the frothing milk, whispering past your fingertips as they work on a delicate latte art. Your focus is unwavering, yet as the door chimes again, your heart skips. You risk a glance, your hope suspended for that split second, only to crash back down when it's not her.

Louisa's eyes, which have been watching you mischievously for some time now, find yours.

“Clock's ticking,” she teases, nodding toward the ornate clock hanging precariously on the wall. “Not 3pm yet.”

You feign confusion, but your playful smirk gives you away. “What are you going on about?”

She grins knowingly. “Your weekly muse isn't due for another... oh, ten minutes or so?”

An exaggerated sigh escapes your lips, the warm notes of roasted beans surrounding you like a comforting embrace.

“I'm not waiting for her, you know,” you say, though your voice lacks conviction.

Louisa smirks and pats your shoulder, “Sure, sure. Just give it time. She's never missed a Thursday, has she?”

As you're about to come up with a clever retort, a sharp sting on your finger draws your attention. You wince, looking down to see a thin, red line forming across your finger. Tearing the receipt from the register to hand to the awaiting customer, you’re slightly taken aback at how much the cut bleeds.

“Everything alright?” the customer asks, noticing the blood.

"Yeah, just a small paper cut," you dismiss, trying to downplay it. Grabbing a napkin, you press it against the cut, soaking up the crimson liquid.

Louisa's sharp eyes don't miss a beat. "Careful there. Those can be nasty," she comments, retrieving the first-aid kit from under the counter.

Louisa holds out a bandage, but you shake your head, not wanting to make a fuss over something so minor. “Really, I'm good,” you assure her.

A few seconds later, you open the napkin to check the cut. To your surprise, the skin seems perfectly whole, as if it had never been broken in the first place. You flex your finger, the earlier sting now a distant memory. “See? I'm fine,” you declare, shrugging.

Louisa tilts her head, narrowing her eyes in astonishment. “That healed incredibly fast. You sure you're okay?”

You chuckle, deciding to make light of the situation. “What can I say? Maybe I have superpowers.”

A soft clearing of the throat interrupts the moment. The customer, who you hadn't realized was keenly observing the entire exchange, raises an eyebrow. “Can I get some napkins, please?”

Flustered, you quickly hand a bunch over. “Of course, sorry about that.”

Louisa grins at you mischievously as the customer leaves, “Superpowers, huh? That's a new one.”

The doorbell rings out, pulling your attention instantly. You lift your gaze, hope surging momentarily, only to see the same customer making her way out. The door gently shuts behind them, the anticipation that had built up inside you deflating.

Louisa, noticing the brief flicker of disappointment in your eyes, nudges you playfully. “Don't look so down,” she says, her tone light and teasing. “She’ll be here. You know how punctual she is. Maybe she's just running a bit late today.”

You give a half-hearted chuckle. “Yeah, maybe.”

“I wonder though why she never gives her name,” Louisa muses.

“Hm?”

“You know, for the cup,” she clarifies.

You shrug. “Some people love their privacy, I guess.”

Hours seem to stretch endlessly, the weight of the clock's hands growing heavier with each passing minute. The crowd in the café starts to thin as evening nears. Although the store is open 24 hours a day, seven days a week, your shift only lasts until 8. And in the midst of the dwindling crowd, one spot remains unclaimed—the corner seat by the window, the one she always chooses.

She is the sole reason you continue working here despite your persistent restlessness. Pouring coffee for hundreds of customers daily never truly satisfies you, even when some tip generously. There's an inexplicable nagging feeling, suggesting this isn't where you belong or what you should be doing.

Yet, what anchors you between the register and the espresso machine is the girl who comes in every Thursday, late in the afternoon, always punctually, sometimes a few minutes early. It's disconcerting and exhilarating, this sudden shift of your universe tilting on its axis. You've never been one to believe in love at first sight or fated connections, but there’s something in the way she holds herself, something in her gaze that tugs at strings you didn’t even know existed.

But even if you can write the sweetest song or the most evocative poem about every titillating thing about her, it’s just a crush.

A crush that will lead to nothing. Not because you've attempted to ask her out or because she's already spoken for.

It's because your very existence is shrouded in uncertainty.

The past few months have been a jumble of rehab appointments, therapy sessions, and sleepless nights trying to piece together fragments of memories that always seem just out of reach. Surviving that near-fatal crash was a miracle in itself, but the loss of your past—it took away a part of who you were. Or who you're supposed to be.

Every day, you grapple with an identity you don’t recognize, yearning for some semblance of the person you once were. A glance at the reflection in the coffee machine shows a face still unfamiliar. Eyes that hold stories you can’t read, a curve of a smile that feels out of place. When people share anecdotes from their past or talk about family and childhood, all you can offer is a nod, a practiced smile, and a tightness in your chest that never truly fades.

And how could you possibly burden her with this emptiness?

The small apartment you return to every evening, given by a private charity, is filled with borrowed things and a life that doesn't truly feel like yours. They said you had no family, no one waiting or weeping for your recovery. Your recovery was overseen by faceless benefactors who, for some reason, deemed you worthy of a second chance. Yet, every evening as you unlock your door, you wonder if you truly deserved it.

The beautiful woman who steps into the coffee shop every Thursday, with her air of confidence and those captivating eyes, deserves more than what you currently are. More than this fractured self, teetering on the edge of self-discovery and despair.

What could you possibly offer her? Nights filled with stories of... nothingness? Days shadowed by the fear of not knowing who stares back at you in the mirror? She deserves someone who is rooted in memories, with stories to tell. Not this fragmented existence you live.

Perhaps it's safer this way, to admire her from a distance, to let her remain this source of hope and inspiration. A lighthouse guiding you through the stormiest nights. If you ever manage to find yourself again, then maybe, you'd take that chance.

Glancing at the clock again, it's 7:45 PM. Still no sign of her.

Dejectedly, you remove your apron and prepare to leave.

Wanda Maximoff blends into the bustling streets, the hood of her jacket pulled low over her face and her boots echoing a muffled cadence on the pavement. Dressed in tight denim and a nondescript hooded jacket, she hardly resembled one of the most powerful Avengers.

She mumbles a silent curse under her breath, glancing at her watch. She's late—later than she's ever been—and she hates it. Thursdays at the cafe are her only remaining connection to you.

She can see the cafe now, its warm light spilling out onto the street. She pushes the door and her eyes immediately scan the room, searching for that familiar face behind the counter. The disguise continues to work; to everyone, she’s just another customer. She doesn't draw the same attention here as she does in New York.

It’s North Carolina after all, and the town they put you in cares more about art than superheroes.

Louisa's attempt at nonchalance is commendable but slightly betrayed by the quick tightening of her lips and the slight flutter in her eyes. “Good evening,” she begins, voice as steady as she can manage. “Can I get you the usual today?”

Wanda's gaze, sharp and unyielding, remains locked on Louisa's face. “Where's Y/N?” she asks tersely.

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but I can't share information about our staff's schedules.”

She pauses, letting the words settle before adding, “If you're looking to see Y/N, perhaps you can drop by tomorrow between 2 pm and 8 pm.”

“Oh,” Wanda mutters softly.

Vision, in his human disguise, comes up behind her. “Wanda, we should go,” he murmurs, attempting discretion, but Louisa catches his words nonetheless.

Wanda hesitates, her posture rigid. “I needed to see them, Vis,” her voice is laced with a quiet desperation, a yearning for something—or someone—lost.

“I know,” he replies softly. “But they aren’t here. And we can always go back tomorrow.”

“I just have a feeling,” Wanda says. “Maybe this time, they’ll—”

“You’ve had that feeling for weeks now, but nothing has changed.”

They've lowered their voices to whispers, forcing Louisa to strain her ears to catch the exchange between the two. Vision soon catches on to Louisa's subtle eavesdropping. Their conversation abruptly stops, and Wanda, a bit lost, looks up at him for an explanation. Vision subtly nods toward Louisa, signaling her presence.

Clearing his throat, Vision steps forward, deciding to divert attention. “A hibiscus tea, please,” he says.

Louisa, embarrassed at being indirectly called out, fumbles slightly before regaining her composure. “Of course. Name for the cup?”

“Victor,” Vision replies smoothly. With a nod, Louisa gets to work, while Vision takes a few steps to the side with Wanda, resuming their conversation in even lower tones.

Louisa sneaks occasional glances while pretending to be engrossed in her work. The two stand slightly apart, their conversation seeming both intimate and tense. Wanda's fingers fidget, wringing her hands, her lips moving quickly. Vision responds with a calming gesture, fingers grazing her forearm.

The steamer hisses as Louisa finishes the hibiscus tea, her curiosity deepening.

Setting the cup on the counter, she clears her throat. “Order for Victor!”

No reaction.

With a little more force, she calls again, “Hibiscus tea for Victor!”

Again, no response.

The cafe grows impatient, a soft buzz of conversation fills the air, and a few customers shoot curious glances at the duo.

“Victor!” Louisa exclaims, this time with a touch of impatience.

At this, Vision finally turns, the gentle hum of their conversation breaking. He approaches the counter, his blue eyes apologetic. “I'm sorry,” he says, taking the cup from her hands. “Thank you, Louisa.”

Louisa simply nods, her gaze flitting between the pair. As they head towards the exit, she can't help but wonder about the nature of their relationship with you and what has them so concerned.

Three months ago

“You can’t do this to them.”

Wanda's voice crackles with anger and a hint of desperation, her collected demeanor fraying at the edges. The holographic projections of the globe, pinpointing potential locations and glimpses of Y/N's impending new life, bathe Wanda's face in a cold blue light, each flicker taunting her with the reality of your imminent departure.

Flashbacks flicker behind Wanda's eyes, pulling her into that harrowing moment. She feels you in her arms again, your life seeping away between her fingers. She's surrounded by dust-covered streets, crumbling buildings, and the deafening silence after the explosion. Your blood, vibrant and so, so red, pooling at the ground beneath you, staining Wanda’s shoes. She's paralyzed, every second stretching into an eternity, every breath a labor.

She was so slow, so clouded by fear. Why didn't she act faster? Why didn't she see the signs? Could she have saved you?

It was Steve's voice that brought her back to reality. “Wanda! We need to move!” She barely registered the panic in his voice, the way he swiftly and gently took you from her, laying you on a makeshift stretcher.

Every moment after that feels like an agonizing irony to Wanda. She knows grief and loss intimately, but this... this is an entirely different kind of pain. The trauma of watching you battle death is only overshadowed by the realization that while you might physically be here, mentally, the person who risked their life for her twice has disappeared.

In the quiet spaces of her heart, she acknowledges a truth she's been running from: she's spent so long building walls, so long pushing away the vulnerability that came with connecting deeply with someone, out of fear. Fear of loss, of pain, of being too raw and open. With you, those walls had started to crumble, brick by brick, but not fast enough.

She wishes she could go back, to relive those moments with the knowledge she has now.

“You can't do this to them,” she murmurs again, the words more for herself than anyone else.

Steve stands across from her, hands on the table, his posture rigid yet his face betraying a deep sadness. “Wanda, it's not about what I want or what you want. It's protocol.”

Wanda's face contorts with anger, her voice rising, “Protocol? Y/N isn't some object to be managed! They have rights, feelings, memories—”

“Which they don't even remember!” Steve interjects, his rarely-seen frustration surfacing on this particular occasion.

“You can’t just... toss them into the world like they're yesterday's news, Steve,” Wanda hisses with barely-contained anger. They remain the lone figures in the meeting room after the team unanimously voted to craft a new identity for you, placing you in a secluded town, untouched by global news, let alone the cosmic battles waged galaxies away.

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “Wanda, it’s not about 'disposing' anyone. The protocol is clear. If a super loses their powers, they reintegrate. Y/N can't live in the compound because they no longer belong in this world of chaos and danger.”

“Because they're powerless?” Wanda’s eyes blaze. “Or because they're no longer of any use to the cause?”

“It’s not like that and you know it,” Steve says, stepping closer to Wanda and meeting her gaze. “Y/N has lost their memory, they don’t remember any of this—any of us. Keeping them here would only confuse and possibly hurt them.”

“They just sacrificed everything for me. And now you want to push them aside because it's convenient?”

“No,” Steve replies, “Because they’ve done enough. They’ve given enough. Don’t you think they’ve earned the right to a peaceful life? The privilege of normalcy?”

Her green eyes shimmer with unshed tears. “All I’m saying, Steve, is that they should have the choice. And right now, we’re taking that away from them.”

“Your girlfriend showed up last night.”

You whip your head around to look at Louisa so quickly, it feels like you might've given yourself whiplash.

“Come again?”

Louisa grins, tying her apron around her waist with a knowing smirk. “You heard me. Your Thursday regular? Gorgeous, and those piercing green eyes? She came by looking for you after you left.”

Your eyes widen, heart racing. “That doesn’t mean she’s my... girlfriend.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Louisa teases, leaning in closer. “She seemed pretty keen on finding you. Even asked for you by name. Speaking of which... guess who found out her name?”

Your mouth opens in surprise. “Y-You did?”

Louisa nods, a smirk on her lips. “Wanda. Her name’s Wanda.”

“Wanda,” you repeat, savoring the name as it slips from your lips.

Putting a name to such an unforgettable face changes everything. But like so many things that have recently unfolded, you just don’t know the significance of it yet.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #wanda maximoff fanfiction #captain america civil war #the avengers #vision

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hyperfixatedoncrimminalminds · 3 months

Note

Maybe the teen (about 15 ish) daughter of an unsub who spencer is questioning about her unsub dad and there's clearly more that her dad is doing to her that she won't tell him about and maybe she gets a little clingy to spencer?

Spencer Reid x Teen Reader

Request: Maybe the teen (about 15 ish) daughter of an unsub who spencer is questioning about her unsub dad and there's clearly more that her dad is doing to her that she won't tell him about and maybe she gets a little clingy to spencer?

Third person pov...

Y/N walked into the police station, she had been called by thr sheriff to come in, they had some questions for her. They had been calling about her Dad all week.

Which of course made that his reason to beat her, accusing her of rating him out to the police, she promised him she never said anything of course he never listened.

Y/Ns father is the serial killer the police have been looking for, hes been kidnapping and murdering young girls who he finds annoying in some way for the past 6 months, a new one goes missing every week.

Y/N of course has witnessed every kill and kidnapping, the man was ruthless if he wasn't killing and making the girl watch, then he was abusing his daughter.

Still recovering from the beating she got jsut before she left the house the teen pulls at her clothes making sure her neck and wrists are covered.

Limping slightly she tells the receptionist who she is and they tell her the sheriff if waiting for her, giving the officer a smile she walks through the busy bullpen until she get to the sheriffs office.

Knocking on the door she walks in. "Hey there Y/N, glad you could come down" Says Sheriff Briest, he stands up and walks towards the teen, noticing how she steps back automatically.

The sheriff of course noticed, he had been called to the L/N residence alot over the years since Y/Ns Mum died, reports of crying and shouting coming from inside the house.

When questioned Mr L/N would tell them everything was okay and that Y/N was acting up, these lies continued all her life making the young girl seem like a troubled teenager who was rude and never listened to anyone.

Though the sheriff knew something was wrong he saw the signs and so did his officers but knowone was able to do anything about it as Y/N never told anyone not even when she was a kid.

Threat of death proved to be useful, Her Father would remind her what would happen should she tell anyone. "There's some people I want you to answer some questions for okay" Says the Sheriff.

Y/N freezes sightly as they walk into one of the briefing room that was usually unoccupied, but was now being used by a group of people. 'FBI' thought the girl instantly.

"Agent Hotchner, Y/N is here. Y/N these are the Behavioural Analysis Unit. They are here to help us find the killer" explained Sheriff Briest, Y/N doesn't look up at the people.

If she looked anyone in the eye she'd get beat again by her Father. She learnt that the hard way when she looked up at someone who was speaking to her Dad when she was 6. Since then she avoids eye contact.

"Hi" Says the teen looking at the shoes of the agents. "Hello Y/N, I'm Agent Hotchner these are Agents Jareau, Gideon, Morgan , Greenaway and Dr Reid" says polished black shoes.

"Nice to meet you" mutters Y/N, soon she is sitting in an interrogation room with Dr Reid. Nervously tapping her finger on the table she waits for the young Dr to walk in and ask her questions.

Minutes later the man walks in and sits down on the chair infront of her. After a few seconds of silence he speaks. "Hello Y/N, my names Spencer I work with the BAU, I'm going to ask you some questions okay?" He tells the girl.

Y/N nods her head. "Yes sir" she mutters wanting to go home and not be there. "Now can you tell me about your Father" Says the man, Y/N freezes her tapping increasing as she shakes slightly.

Trying desperately to stop shaking she answers the question. "I love my Dad, he doesn't do anything wrong he loves me" she says, her voice robotic as if it had been planted into her head as an automatic answer to that specific question.

Spencer takes notes of her behaviour, eyeing the two way glass he askes another question. "I'm sure he does, now, does your father leave for long periods of time, not telling you where he's going or why?"

Y/N hesitates before shaking her head. "He doesn't, Dad is always as home after work, dad loves me he doesn't do anything wrong" Spencer notes how the last part it connected to the answer from before.

"Okay, Y/N. Does your Dad hurt you?" Spencer knows asking that question would have a strong reaction but he didn’t expect the girl to slam her hand on the table and stand up and start pacing.

"No he doesn't hurt me! Dad loves me he doesn't hurt me" she yells almost crying, tears in her eyes but not falling yet, Spencer gasps at the raw emotion in the 15 year old eyes.

Desperation seeped into her voice, as she stared into the man's eyes, he noticed this was the first time he had seen her eyes. Suddenly the girl gasped and slammed her back into the wall.

Gripping her head she bring smacking her back against the wall. "Nonononono can't do that against the rules can't do that" she mumbles falling into hysterics, Spencer is soon joined by Derek and Elle.

The two had ran in when Y/N started repeating to herself. The three stand in shock not knowing what to do to help, Spencer is quick to notice the bruises on her neck and wrists. "Morgan" he whispers, the man nods his head he's seen the bruises on the girl.

Pulling out his phone, him and Elle leave Spencer alone with Y/N, the girl is still smacking her back on tjr wall as if she was punishing herself, the man slowly inches towards the grill.

"Y/N, Y/N its me Spencer remember" he whispers to the girl, holding out his hands non threateningly he speaks to the teenager desperate to calm her dow from her panic attack.

"Nonono broke the rules" muttered the girl. "Y/N you haven't broken any rules, your Father can't get you here okay, your safe your safe with me" he tells the girl, slowly Y/N pulls her hands awa from her hair and stopping smacking her back against the wall.

Smiling at the teen Spencer stays back. "I'm safe here" she whispers horsely, Spencer nods his head. "Yes that's right your safe here, I won't let anyone hurt you" he says.

Y/N slowly begins to inch closer to the man eagerly seeking comfort, soon the girl was throwing herself at him, Spencer hugs her tightly whispering that she was okay and he wouldn't hurt her.

An hour later the Team and swat had arrested Y/Ns Father for the abuse she suffered and 15 accounts of murder.

Over the next few days adter they had caught the killer, Y/N had grown close to Spencer, she wouldn't let him out of her sight scared her father would come and hurt her, Spencer stayed with the teen while she recovered in hospital from the abuse she suffered from her father.

The end!

Hope you liked this oneshot sorry for the wait, as usual sorry for any grammar and Spelling mistakes.

Request are open!

Word count: 1277

#criminal minds #fanfic #behavioural analysis unit #x child reader #fluff and comfort #oneshot #x teen!reader #abusive dad #child abuse #lots of angst #spencer reid x child!reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x teen!reader #Spencer Reid x victim teen reader #eventual fluff #lots of comfort

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deepseaorchid · 3 months

Text

Stay With Me - Sejanus Plinth x GN!Reader

Summary: An eventless walk to your mentorship duties at the arena ends in catastrophe. When the rebel bombs in the arena severely injure you, you find your legs trapped under rubble. Fortunately, your sweet friend Sejanus Plinth arrives to help you and carry you to safety. Emotions are high between you and Sejanus, resulting in a teary-eyed confession from him that provides you with an answer to a mystery that has occupied your thoughts for months.

Pairing: Sejanus Plinth x Gender-neutral! Reader

Warnings: Romance / Comfort / Fluff / Angst / Hurt / Blood / Brief graphic violence / Canon deaths / Slight canon deviation for plot purposes / Injury / Angst with a happy ending

Word Count: 4.9k

A/N: This was a request from @flutteringphalanges

Thank you so much for requesting! I had a lot of fun with this. I really hope you like reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

The pink morning sun shone through the curtains of your bedroom window. You woke up before your alarm, not that you managed to sleep much last night anyway. The events of this week plagued your thoughts too much to sleep easy. On the day prior to the Hunger Games, the mentors were required to show their tributes around the arena, where all but one will die. A lump formed in your throat. You were mentoring the District 6 tribute, Ginnee. She wasn’t a fighter, none of them were. They were children.

Ginnee was a nice girl, and you like to think that if the circumstances were different, maybe you could have had a chance at being her friend. You had almost no hope she would survive the games, which made seeing her difficult. What do you say to someone who you know will likely not live to the end of the week?

You pull back the feathery covers of your bed and put your feet on the cold floor, stretching your back. You lean to the side, pulling open the crystal knob on the ornate bedside table. Your cold feet tap on the floor as you reach into the draw. Within the small table held a collection of love notes with smudged, blocky handwriting. You pick one up, turning it over in your hands. You’d read each letter a thousand times over now. They were sappy and saccharine sweet. They spoke of kissing cherry lips so gentle and a burning desire to hold you forever. It was silly and poetic but it kept you going on hard days like this. It showed you someone was looking after you, even though they wouldn’t say who they were. The only indication of the sender was a squiggle at the bottom of each note.

You stand up, putting all the letters away but one and moving towards the large wooden armoire. You open the door, pulling out the same scarlet uniform you wore every day. You grimace at the colour. You used to like it, but now the colour reminded you of blood. Blood you would inevitably see tomorrow. You tuck the love letter inside the breast pocket of the uniform.

The radio in the living room crackles softly, and a gentle tune begins playing, drifting down the hall. Your father was awake. You dress quickly and fix your hair, finishing getting ready for the day. Walking down the hall, you spot your father in the dimly-lit kitchen cooking breakfast. Following the war, you had to lay off your poor cook, unable to afford him anymore. Your father took up cooking and while his dishes were experimental at best, you appreciated the effort.

“Hey Bud!” Your father chirps, he looks up only momentarily from the cast iron skillet. You smiled at the nickname he had used for you since childhood. You walk up to him, glancing over his shoulder to see what he’s making. Eggs again. The yellow, runny mess dances around the pan as your father stirs lazily.

“Want some?” He asks, holding the pan up to your nose. You do your best not to grimace.

“No thanks, I’m walking to school with Sejanus,” you sigh. Your father seems displeased with that answer, his silver eyebrows furrowing slightly.

“Is that the Plinth boy upstairs?” He asks. You roll your eyes. No matter how often you brought Sejanus over to study or just to hang out, your father seemed to forget who he was. You couldn’t decide if he was messing with you, or if he simply did not care enough about Sejanus to learn his name.

You mumble an agreement. Your father shrugs his shoulders.

“Have fun, I suppose. You really should eat something. I made these with you in mind,” he says, pointing to the yellow slop in the pan.

“I can tell.” You chuckle quietly. Your father feigned a look of shock. “I am trying!” He gasps, he clearly had much more energy than you had this morning. You probably might have eaten the eggs if it were not for the knot forming in your stomach over your task as mentors today. It was a solemn event, and for some reason, it felt inappropriate to be eating breakfast when your tribute would likely have nothing today.

You glance at the grandfather clock pushed against the wall. 6:50am. It was probably time to head out soon. You quietly excuse yourself, saying goodbye to your father on your way out of the heavy black front door. You walk down the hallway of the apartment building. Once grand and elegant, the pinnacle of Capitol sophistication, the building now stood in a state of disrepair. Hallway lights flickered and blinked, and a suspicious mould had begun forming around parts of the ceiling. You push the white button for the elevator. After releasing it, the button pops off and clatters to the floor. You sigh, leaning your head against the elevator wall. You hate it here.

The rickety elevator pinged, announcing its arrival. The golden gates open with a metallic rattle.

“One of those mornings, huh?” Your friend’s voice rang out. Sejanus stands with his back to the far wall, a smirk on his face that did not reach his eyes. You step in beside him. You knew that the Hunger Games were tough on him. You had no clue how he was managing even a half-smile for you at this time.

What started as simply work partners for a project in an earlier year had evolved into a quiet friendship between yourself and the District boy. You would occasionally meet in the lobby of your apartment building to go on runs through the Capitol. You were each other’s first choice for everything. School projects, lunches, a shoulder to cry on, you both had an unspoken and quiet trust in one another. It was not a particularly showy friendship, but he was your friend nonetheless. A friend who made your heart beat just a little faster.

“You know it,” you sigh in response. You reach out and rub his arm as a comforting gesture. The elevator lurches forward as it begins its descent to the ground floor.

You study his face. Sejanus’s jaw is locked in place, eyes hard and skimming the passing floors in front of you. He was vocal about his dislike for the Hunger Games, and you understood where he was coming from. Had the hands of fate played differently, it could have been him at the reaping every year.

He swallows hard. “How’s Ginnee?” He asks, turning his head to you.

“She’s about as well as you can imagine,” you say, averting your gaze. The guilt you felt over the situation hung thick over you like a cloud.

“Figures,” Sejanus mutters before the elevator pinged again, stopping at the ground floor. You step out of the elevator first, striding across the marble floors over to the large glass doors of the apartment lobby. The bellhop hadn’t made it through the war. Sejanus took his job over for a moment, rushing ahead of you to hold the door. You muster a small smile for him in return.

The walks to the Academy were usually calm. The morning traffic would just be getting going. Shops with faded displays would open their doors to customers - not that there were many anymore, and you and Sejanus would go over the material for the day’s classes.

This was not the usual chatty, happy morning you had grown accustomed to. Both of you had no real desire to talk, opting to walk shoulder-to-shoulder instead. Your steps fall in sync and your breath hitches in your throat, terrified of what was to come with your tributes. Maybe it was just the city smog, but your breathing became shallow and you find yourself gasping against the wind.

Sejanus picks up on this and wordlessly wraps an arm around your shoulder. He pulls you into his chest, squeezing tight. You glance down at his large hand on your shoulder.

“It’ll be fine,” he mutters against your hair. His words feel forced, things wouldn’t be fine. Nothing about this was alright. But it was all he could manage at this time. You close your eyes and try to just focus on your breathing and Sejanus’s arms around your shoulders.. Things would get better one day. ‘It’s like ripping a bandage off,’ you think to yourself.

‘Once it’s done, it’s done.’

…

“Enjoy the show!” The turnstile chimes. A lump forms in your throat. Ginnee’s lip trembles, tears welling in her eyes.

“Enjoy the show!” In front of you, Sejanus turns around, meeting your gaze. He offers you a tight-lipped smile. You couldn’t bring yourself to smile back. You swallow hard.

“Enjoy the show!” You and your tribute walk through the gate. The grating voice continues to chime as you enter the arena. You look up, glancing around. The dome covering the arena hangs above you, letting in a small amount of natural light. You examine the pedestals where the tributes would stand before the games started. The walls were entirely smooth, impossible for a person to climb. You begin to sweat. Your main strategy was to tell Ginnee to hide during the initial bloodbath, and then pick off the stragglers. You hoped this would be enough to bring her to victory, but your heart sinks seeing that there isn’t even a place to hide.

You glance back over your shoulder towards Sejanus. Marcus is walking as far away from him as possible, Sejanus trailing after him, trying to get his attention. You turn back to Ginnee, who is observing the walls, craning her neck for a better angle. You call her name to get her attention.

“Ginnee, c’mere for a second,” you say, trying to formulate a new plan with her. She takes a few steps forward. Within an instant, the wall behind her explodes and a devastating BANG fills your ears. You’re knocked over from the force of the impact, flying several feet before sliding and rolling. The only thing you hear is ringing. You cover your ears, locking your arms in front of your eyes. The ringing doesn’t stop as more dirt and smoke kick up. Your head spins. Where’s Ginnee? Where’s Sejanus? You scream, hoping someone, anyone will hear you. The ringing begins to subside. You glance around. Your dull screams mix in with that of others. Someone near you is crying. Ginnee? You reach out, trying to find someone amidst the smoke. There’s blood on your hand. Who’s blood? Yours? You try pulling yourself forward on your stomach. Pain shoots through your body and you almost pass out. You cry out in agony and turn around. A huge slab of concrete from the wall had fallen on top of your legs, crushing them.

You reach down and try to get purchase of the slab with your fingertips. The mixture of sweat and blood on your hands makes it impossible to grab. Your hands kept slipping, slicing your palms and fingers deeper.

Another explosion went off at the far end of the arena. You see a figure - a boy, fly back. His body slams against a pile of debris with a sickening crunch, and he lays limp on the floor like a ragdoll.

You scream in horror, trying harder to lift the rubble off your legs. You alternate between lifting with the palms of your hands, and trying to grip with your fingers. Nothing worked. You yell in frustration, your palms sliding off the rubble and tears completely blurring your vision. You should have had your father’s disgusting, runny eggs this morning. You should have reread the love note. There was so much you should have done differently.

“Help me!” You scream as loud as your lungs will let you, the sound reverberating in your brain.

You keep pushing, changing tactics to slide out underneath it.

A rough hand wraps around yours pushing up with you. Your head snaps up. Covered in ash, dust and blood is Sejanus. He bites his lip in concentration and strain, a deep frown etched on his face as he pushes. Gradually, the concrete begins to lift.

“I need you to run,” Sejanus yells over the sound of gunfire. The Peacekeepers had entered the arena, opening fire at tributes attempting to escape.

“I can’t!” You sob, grabbing your legs and trying to move them out. Sejanus bites his lip again, drawing blood. He looks up.

“I’m going to let go on the count of three,” Sejanus gasps.

“What? No! Please don’t leave me!” You beg. Sejanus lifts higher.

“One, two,” he starts. Another explosion. You cover your ears and brace for impact.

“Three!” He yells. Before you have time to react, Sejanus shoots behind you and hooks his hands under your armpits. Your body slides back as he practically throws you out of harm’s way.

Sejanus had lifted the slab of rubble you were trapped under upright, helping you escape. It wobbles back and forth, shedding grey rocks as it tilts. Gravity quickly causes it to lean forward again, slamming back down onto where you just were. The impact kicks up a cloud of dust around you. Grit and dirt enter your eyes and you cough hard. Two large hands reach around your body. Sejanus wraps one hand around your shoulders, pulling you close to his chest, and reaches the other under your legs. You scream at his touch, white-hot pain shooting through you.

“I know, I know,” Sejanus says, voice shaking. “But we’ll get you to a hospital, alright?” He gasps. Your head lolls back, fading in and out of consciousness from the pain. Sejanus hoists you higher in his arms, tilting your head onto his shoulder.

“Hey, hey, stay with me here,” he pats your arm hard, leaning into you as he stands. He touches his cheek to your forehead.

“Please,” he chokes out. Your eyes roll around in your head trying to focus on your surroundings.

“Is it bad?” You moan against his skin, gritting your teeth. “My leg?” You cough. You feel Sejanus tilt his head to look.

“No. It’s fine, you’re fine.” He breathes. You feel yourself getting jostled. The agony that courses through you from the sudden movement is unlike anything you felt before. You can’t even scream, your vision immediately fades to black.

…

The linen surrounding you smells stale. Hushed whispers bounce around you. You crack your eyes open. You need a moment to let your eyes adjust. As shapes came into focus, you see a row of neatly-made beds to your left lined up one by one. There is an arched doorway, with people dressed in white clothes and strange hats scurrying to and fro.

To your right, a pale blue partition. A pair of boots sticks out from the side, resting on the bed. Who was that? You look down. Your feet are encased in thick white bandages. You try to wiggle your toes. Nothing. Your eyes trail up to the figure perched at the side of your bed. Sejanus held a ceramic bowl filled with clean water. In his hands, a wet rag dabbing carefully at some wounds on your fingertips.

“Hey,” you croak out. His head snaps towards you.

“Oh my god you’re awake,” He cries out. His eyes were red and puffy, like he’d been crying for hours. You try to reach up to him, but he catches your hand in his, clasping it firmly.

“How long was I out?” You ask, rubbing your eyes with your free hand. “About 12 hours,” he whispers, voice shaking. You study his face. Dirt and grime are still smeared across his face, whereas the exposed parts of your skin are clean, small bandages covering all your cuts. His injuries remain untreated. Had he been caring for you all this time?

“You’re hurt,” you say flatly.

“M’fine,” Sejanus smiles, eyes welling up. “I was looking after you,” He forces a laugh, looking away. You hold your breath. He stares fixed at the peeling wall in front of you, shoulders and head turned to you. You reach a shaky bandaged hand out and rest your fingertips atop his. His head snaps back, looking down at your hands together. A tear falls onto the back of your hand, splashing your knuckles. That’s why he turned away from you. You pull your hand out from under his and try lifting it up to wipe his tears. He catches your hand midair, gently pushing it aside.

“I should be the one comforting you,” he chokes out. Your eyebrows furrow. Classic Sejanus, always putting you before himself, even when he shouldn’t. You squeeze his hand hard. He bites his lip and looks down, inhaling sharply.

“Marcus escaped.”

“What?” You try to sit up. Sejanus places a hand on your shoulder, gently easing you back into the pillow of the hospital bed.

“He has a better chance out there in the Capitol than he does in the arena.” There is a twinge of anger behind his words.

“They’re still holding the Games?” You raise your voice, shocked. Sejanus only nods. Your stomach knots with anxiety. There was a pregnant pause.

“And Ginnee?” You ask after a moment. Sejanus hesitates.

“There was a parade,” he speaks slowly. “And they brought out the dead tributes on the backs of horses…” You gasp at the implication, covering your mouth with your hand. “What was left of them, at least,” He finishes. You feel sick. You must have looked sick too, because Sejanus calls a nurse for a bucket.

“I’m fine, I’ll be okay,” You say, holding your hand up to the nurse. She struts off out of sight again. You pull your forearm back for support as you try maneuvering yourself upright. This time, Sejanus didn’t stop you, moving his hand behind your back and holding your outstretched hand to pull you up. He doesn’t remove his hand from your back after sitting up, opting to rub gentle circles into the small of your back. You lean your head onto his shoulder, letting your eyes glaze over. All that for nothing. It was better her death was quick than drawn out in the Games. She didn’t suffer.

You point a shaky finger at your legs wrapped up in two neat white casts. Your toes poke out from underneath the bandages.

“Still got them, huh?” You exhale softly as a sort of half-laugh. Sejanus lets out a low chuckle.

“Yeah. They’re pretty broken though. You’ll be in a wheelchair for a while.” He glances down at you. You lift your head off his shoulder, gazing up at him. His eyes flick towards your legs, not meeting your gaze.

“Actually, in the arena…” he hesitates. “In the arena, you asked if your legs were alright when I got you out of the rubble.” You nod your head slowly at his words, recalling that moment before you lost consciousness.

“And I lied. They looked really bad. I didn’t want to scare you, so I lied and said you were fine. I could see the bone though,” his voice is little more than a whisper, lip quivering slightly. You grimace at the gruesome mental image. You feel Sejanus’s shoulders shake, and just like that he’s crying again. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, running your fingers through his soft brown hair. You feel his body tense up momentarily, before relaxing into your touch. You don’t know what to say, so you choose silence. He sobs quietly into your neck, tears wetting the collar of your hospital gown. You just keep ghosting your nails over his scalp to calm him.

“I thought you were dead,” he chokes out against your neck. “I thought you died in my arms.”

You squeeze him tighter at this admission.

“I’m not going anywhere,” You whisper in his ear. He squeezes you back, not as hard as you did. It was as though he was afraid of breaking you even more.

Sejanus pulls back from your embrace, wiping his tears off his cheeks with his hands. His gentle brown eyes are bloodshot.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffles. He stares down at his knee for a moment. You tilt your head, trying to get a better look at his face. You have never seen him like this before.

Before you can ask him what was on his mind, he reaches over behind you to the stand beside the hospital bed. You hear metal clinking and something shuffling, before he sits in front of you again.

“Here’s some of your stuff,” He says in a hushed voice, placing the items softly in your hand. He runs his large hand through his curls.

“I thought maybe you’d want it back. When the doctor gave back your uniform, I took the stuff out of your pockets. I didn’t mean to snoop, I’m-”

“Thank you.” You gaze into Sejanus’s eyes, interrupting him. He glances down, shying away from your words. You comb over the items in the palm of your hand. Your small gold watch’s face is cracked, but the seconds hand still ticks. You could get that fixed.

There’s the small teddy bear keychain - the one Sejanus bought for you on the way back from a study session.

“It reminds me of you,” he had smiled at you on that warm, sunny day. You kept it in your pocket ever since that day. Now, it is missing an ear, covered in dirt. Your eyes well up with tears.

You pick up another item. The matching friendship bracelet you made with Lysistrata Vickers when you were 12 years old is broken. The pink thread holding it together had snapped in two parts and some of the beads were missing. “B-st Frien—” it reads now. Had you been standing any closer to Ginnee, you would have met the same fate as her, scattered across that arena in several pieces.

You’re crying now, you wipe your cheeks frantically, trying not to show it. You catch Sejanus staring at the wall across from you, pretending not to notice your tears. You silently thank him for allowing you to have a moment to gather yourself.

The last item is a tattered piece of lined paper. You unfold it with shaking hands. It’s smeared with your blood, and is torn in different parts. Some of the words are missing, but the messy, blocky scrawl instantly brings a wave of peace over you. You read what you can, holding the paper together in some parts.

You smiled at me today,

My head spins as if I’m drunk when you look my way

Your sweet lips - the word is smudged with blood, you can’t make it out.

I dream of kissing your soft cheeks

I know you don’t think of me that way

But I can’t help but wonder what your hand feels - the paper is torn

For now, I’ll hold my own hand and pretend it's you,

And my broken heart will - the mangled paper cut off the rest of the words.

There were supposed to be an additional four lines to the note, you remember that much. The bottom of the paper is mangled and tattered, the words lost in the explosion. The contents of the love letter were terrible, truthfully. Barely even poetry. But someone loved you, someone thought about you enough to write consistently, and they tried. That was good enough for you. You close your eyes, allowing yourself to cry as you kiss the paper lightly.

“I don’t even remember what it said,” you laugh through tears. Sejanus’s head turns towards you.

“Can I see?” He asks. You hesitate for a moment. You never told him about the letters you’d been receiving. You figure it couldn’t hurt to show him. Gingerly, you hand the letter over with shaking hands. Sejanus skims the contents.

“And my broken heart will always love you. I’d follow you to the ends of the earth if you let me. We could build a house by the sea together. You have my whole heart, and I hope one day I’ll have yours.” He finishes, receiting from memory and choking slightly. The memory of the letter comes crashing over you.

“How did you-” You stop mid-sentence. Oh.

Sejanus stares wordlessly at you, lip quivering. A tear rolled down his cheek before he buries his head in his hands and sobs. You quickly lean forward and wrap your hand around his strong arm, stroking it gently.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Sejanus repeats over and over through tears. You reach up and pull his hands from his face. His tears had mixed with the dirt still caked on his cheeks.

“Why are you sorry?” You ask gently, trying to meet his eyes. He averts his gaze.

“M’sorry you found out this way,” he hiccups. “I didn’t want you to know until I was ready. It was supposed to be special. I was going to bring you flowers,” he says, wiping his red eyes.

You feel your stomach drop a little. You barely even had time to process the fact that you now knew who wrote the dozen letters stacked in your bedside table at home. And finding out it was your sweet friend? You’re torn between feeling elated and heartbroken for him.

Not wanting him to take your silence as rejection, you lift up a bandaged and bruised hand and touch his chin, gently turning his head towards you. The low light from the hospital wing casts a shadow over the right side of his face. He looks incredible. Your heart hammers in your chest. You study his face for a second, an unreadable expression across his soft features. Quickly, you lean forward on the bed and kiss his soft cheek. You press your lips against his soft skin long and hard, trying to put months-worth of unspoken feelings into one kiss.

You pull back. His mouth hangs slightly agape and his bloodshot eyes glaze over.

“I read those letters every night before bed,” you whisper. “I always carry one with me. Now you know what my lips feel like against your cheek,” you giggle softly, referencing the letter. His big dark eyes twinkle a little and he laughs.

Your eyes flick down towards his lips for a moment. Sejanus swallows hard.

“Can I kiss you properly?” Sejanus asks quietly, his voice barely audible. You hum a response in agreement. He tilts his head slightly and leans forward. The casts wrapped around your legs prevent you from moving any further, but he meets you all the way. His lips ghost yours gingerly, before meeting fully. Just like that, the pain in your legs and the hospital scene melts away entirely, and all you can focus on is Sejanus. His lips are slightly chapped, scratching yours lightly. He kisses you hungrily, wrapping an arm firmly around your waist and pulling you in closer.

Your hand trails up his chest and finds a home in the crook of his neck, stroking lightly. He tilts his head, meshing his lips with yours. His tongue swipes across your bottom lip. You gasp, your open mouth allowing him entry. He deepens the kiss, reaching a hand up to stroke your face. You squeeze the back of his neck gently, continuously running your fingers through his hair. Your lips are numb as he kisses you hungrily. He exhales, pulling back from you slowly.

You touch your nose against his, rubbing softly.

“So, does this mean you like me back?” Sejanus breathes. You giggle against his mouth, pulling him in by the shirt collar.

“Yes Sejanus, I thought it was obvious.” You smile. He pecks your lips, letting out a low hum. He presses his lips against yours harder and harder with every additional kiss.

The click of heels against marble floors interrupts you both. You hesitantly pull back from Sejanus and crane your neck. Peering over his shoulder, you watch your father stride through the tall arches of the hospital, trailing behind a nurse. He pauses upon seeing you.

“You’re awake!” He calls with outstretched arms. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” His tone is playful.

You laugh, shaking your head and embrace your father as he walks up to you. Sejanus shuffles out of the way. Your father hugs you tightly, squeezing your shoulders. He pulls back, turning to Sejanus.

“And you must be Sejanus, my future son-in-law! Thank you for helping,” your father beamed. His tone was still as teasing as ever, but laced with sincerity. Both you and Sejanus blush a deep red at his words. Sejanus looks down at his hands, wearing a grin that meets his ears.

“I just did what I could,” he says quietly.

“Nonsense, my boy! We must have you over for dinner soon. I’ll be in debt to you for as long as I live,” your father’s voice shakes slightly. Sejanus smiles softly, saying nothing, only nodding.

Sejanus and your father help you gather your belongings, easing you into a wheelchair and leading you out of the hospital to a waiting car. Sejanus helps maneuver your legs into the black vehicle safely and sits beside you on the red leather seats. Little star-like lights twinkled above on the ceiling, and your father enters the front to sit by the driver. The car slowly pulls out of the hospital parking lot, driving past high-rise buildings and sparkling city lights in the night. Sejanus’s warm hand wraps around yours. He leans his head closer to you, his dark brown curls tickling your skin.

“I’m happy you’re here with me,” he whispers.

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throneofsapphics · 3 months

Text

have your little girlfriend, part 6

poly!Rowaelin x f!Reader

Summary: “Aren’t I safe with you?” Maybe the words were a bit bitter, a bit manipulative, but right now she didn’t care. Neither of them would do anything to her when she was hurt like this.

Warnings: darkish aelin/rowan, mental health struggles, forced medicating, implied sexual content

Word Count: ~2.6k

A/N: a short one but I promise it's not abandoned, there should be about two more parts, and I have them vaguely planned out!

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Soft moss caressed her feet as she ran through the woods, into the dark night’s welcoming embrace. The sweet night air welcomed her, the trees whispering in her ear; faster.

Sharp and icy wind knocked her to the ground, sending her tumbling over and over and over.

Launching forward in bed, her breaths came fast and heavy - pain lancing through her body. Rowan’s hands were warm on her skin, tugging her into his embrace. The same wind, gentler, cooled her neck.

“You’re safe,” he murmured, arms tightening. Wincing, she tried to wiggle out of his grip.

He let her go, and snatched a tonic from the bedside table. The color gave away which one it was.

Ignoring the pain, she rolled away. “I don’t -,” another lash of pain, “need it,” she gritted her teeth.

“Bullshit,” he sounded tired. Hopefully too tired to fight her. She should’ve known better.

Footsteps, and a smaller hand pushed hair away from her face. Aelin frowning down at her. “You need it, petal.”

“I don’t.” Her hand ran over her hair again, and she sighed, melting into the touch.

“Yes you do.” Rowan said from behind her. Fists clenched the sheets.

“I said I don’t.”

She was frustrated for several reasons. One, she hadn’t had a minute alone in what felt like years - really it was only a few weeks. Two, those damn tonics numbed her, put her right into a heavy sleep. Three, they hadn’t ‘allowed’ her to do anything that felt worthwhile. No going back down to her workshop, no walking into the forest or through the city - even when the tonics did their job. All she got was brief walks around the private gardens, ushered through secluded passages, and rare contact with anyone beside them. So, she’d made a personal pact with herself. Until she had a promise she could leave the fucking castle, that same day, she wouldn’t take a tonic. At this point, she’d take even an hour away from her new prison.

That started three days ago, but the pain started to feel good. It reminded her she was still alive, that everything was real. Thank the Gods she’ll only have to settle once. Sure, she’d heard of the physical effects - but nobody mentioned how much it scrambled their emotions. Maybe that was only her, she didn’t want to ask.

“You know it’s not safe for you to leave,” Aelin said softly. She squeezed her eyes shut again as another pain shot up her spine. It was always worse at night, especially when the nightmares came.

“Aren’t I safe with you?” Maybe the words were a bit bitter, a bit manipulative, but right now she didn’t care. Neither of them would do anything to her when she was hurt like this. Maybe Rowan was making a tally for later, but that was a problem she’d face months from now. Aelin sighed before sitting, pulling her head onto her lap, fingers running through her hair. She could’ve purred.

‘We should just take her,’ Aelin said to him. He glanced down at the figure, body still curled in tightly, even with Aelin’s fingers running through her hair. Every protective instinct roared against it, especially with her so vulnerable in the first few weeks. Somehow, he hadn’t given in during her little three day protest. If they gave in, she’d either be pacified for a while, or start pushing for more. He’s well aware it would be the latter.

‘We need to wait at least a month.’ It was Aelin’s first time watching someone else go through this, and it’s different than experiencing it. Part of him felt bad, Aelin only had him to deal with during hers, but she had both of them. That part was heavily outweighed by satisfaction that she had two people to protect her.

Could she go a whole month without giving in? Probably, but there’s no fucking way he’s letting her go that long without one.

“Take it, and in one month we’ll go out.”

“No deal.”

Looking at Aelin, they both knew what they needed to do - and she’d probably hate them for it, at least for a little while.

Easily, Aelin picked her up and shifted her in her lap, arms holding her back flush against her chest, legs crossing her to pin hers. She realized what was happening a few seconds later, and started squirming.

Rowan had already moved, his hand squeezing her jaw, prying it open and tipping the liquid back down. She spluttered, but his hand was already holding her mouth closed. Cheeks puffed, she refused to swallow.

He called her name as a warning. She still didn’t. Rolling his eyes, he pinched her nose shut. Eyes widened, and she tried to hold out. Her face reddened, eyes revealing just how furious she was, but the need for air overtook her, and he watched her throat bob.

All sorts of foul curses, including ones she probably just invented, left her mouth as he released her, still thrashing in Aelin’s arms as his wife held her steady. It was easy enough for Aelin to hold her, and wait until she’d calmed somewhat - until sleep started to overtake her eyes.

“I hate you both,” she murmured, before her eyes finally closed. It didn’t phase him. Rowan didn’t care if she hated him now, as long as she was safe and free of pain.

Even after she fell asleep, Aelin continued to hold her - stroking her hair, arms, anywhere that might bring a bit of comfort.

Everything seemed more extreme for her. Emotions included, she’d been … unstable, and it didn’t help that she had her breakdown directly before this. Settling was different for each person, but Rowan hadn’t seen anything quite like this before.

She woke up pissed, fully aware of what happened right before sleep overtook her. Truth be told, she’d expected something like this, but it didn’t make her any less angry. She felt violated. Was there any line they wouldn’t cross? No, not when it comes to her and her safety. That disturbed her more than she cared to admit.

In her current state, she couldn’t go anywhere, but once she was well again? Would staying or leaving hurt more? Well, if she left they’d track her down and drag her back here, and then she’d never taste freedom again, unless they allowed it. She winced at her own thoughts, Aelin and Rowan weren’t that bad.

Blinking her eyes open, Aelin was standing a few feet away - assessing her. Checking if she’d bite, probably.

“I’m mad at you,” her voice was rough with sleep - and she wasn’t sure why she said it, maybe she wanted the air clear, for them to know exactly where they stood with her right now.

“I figured,” Aelin seemed to think it was safe to take a few steps towards her, reaching out her hand. Looking at it, she felt the desire to spit, but settled for rolling to her other side instead. The hurt came through the bond, and she ignored it. Good, maybe Aelin could feel a fraction of what she does right now.

Gods. That doesn’t sound like her.

Launching up in the bed, she held her head in her hands.

“Are you hurting?” Aelin asked, ignoring her not-so-subtle request for distance and taking a seat next to her on the bed, close but not touching.

A shake of her head, and a quiet, “no.” Silence settled over the two of them, and she had the sudden desire to actually speak. Instinctually, she knew she could trust her mate. Maybe she’d regret saying this later. “My mind … it feels wrong, like it doesn’t belong to me.”

Aelin shifted closer, their shoulders now touching. “Does it feel like someone else is there?”

Does it? Like someone is messing with her mind. She ran through her body, trying to assess for anything malignant or out of place. Nothing. Another shake of her head. An indistinguishable wave of emotions flooded through her - such a twisted mess she couldn’t pick one from another but only had the desire to get it out, to fend it off by any means necessary.

Vaguely, she heard Aelin calling Rowan’s name, heard the door open.

She seemed fine one moment, and the next she’d started hitting the side of her head. Aelin grabbed her hands, holding them down but then - she felt her magic. Like an ancient beast writhing inside of her, trapped and trying to find a way out. She yelled for Rowan, and as soon as he entered a shield of flames surrounded the room. Keeping them and her magic inside.

Was she keeping her safe, or keeping the world safe from her? It didn’t matter, not now.

Rowan’s hands gripped the sides of her head, forcing her to look at him. “Bring it back in,” he snarled softly.

He held firm, even as she tried to pry his hands away from her face, nails leaving small red marks behind. Not enough to draw blood, but enough for a slight sting. He was aware how easily he could hurt her, and slid his hands down, gripping her wrists instead, straddling her thighs.

Her body fought him, but her magic didn’t touch him or Aelin - only wreaking havoc on their surroundings. Rowan tried her name, again and again. When nothing worked, he gave a silent plea for forgiveness.

The air ripped from her lungs, he watched her face grow red, her body to the brink of unconsciousness, before the magic stopped - abruptly, leaving the room feeling distinctly empty. Forcing air back into her lungs, she hovered on the edge of barely awake.

“Stay awake for me,” he gently shook her shoulders. He didn’t notice Aelin had crawled up next to them, her hand now brushing the hair away from her face.

“Come back to us, love,” she murmured.

Slow and heavy blinks, he watched her eyes focus, taking in her surroundings. His hands were still holding her in a sitting position, and once he was convinced she could sit on her own, he let go, shuffling slowly off her. Rowan wanted to be out of the striking range, just in case.

There really wasn’t any line they wouldn’t cross - not when it came to hers or their safety. Abstractly, she should thank him - he did her a favor, keeping her magic from completely destroying the surroundings. In reality, she didn’t thank them. That would feel dishonest, and she didn’t feel like being a liar today. Did it make her a petulant child? Maybe, but her entire autonomy had been stripped from her over the last few weeks and she was sick of it. They took it in their hands to make all of her decisions, to decide what she could and couldn’t do.

Insane. That’s how she felt. Like she was holding desperately onto the last thread of her sanity, clinging to it like a lifeline. Was it possible for Fae to go completely insane while settling? Maybe. It looked more likely by the day.

“I didn’t like that.”

Aelin snorted. “Neither did I.” She shot her a puzzled look. “In Wendlyn,” she explained, “I came close to a … burnout, of sorts, and he did the same thing to me.”

For some stupid reason, it made her feel a bit better.

“You should get some sleep,” Rowan’s voice was gruff. She shot him a particularly withering look, and his mouth tightened but he didn’t comment.

Aelin, instead, reached over to a side table and plucked two books, passing one to her. She’d bought two copies of the same book for them, and somehow exercised enough patience to read at the same pace as her.

“Don’t you have things to do?” Aelin told Rowan. Probably things they both should do. His eyes rolled, but he pressed a kiss to both of their foreheads before heading out the door.

She let Aelin fuss and arrange the pillows around her, before they both settled into the book.

Her mind was still scrambled, head still dazed enough it was difficult to focus on the words. Eventually, she - gently - tossed the book aside and leant her head on her mate’s shoulder. “Read to me,” she said, adding a “please.”

A soft laugh, but Aelin’s comforting voice filled the room, putting inflections in the right places, painting a clear picture in her mind. This, she should ask her to do more often.

Rowan woke to her the sweet scent of her arousal, like the first bloom of spring. His eyes shot open, meeting Aelin’s stare. Turquoise eyes were filled with amusement, she squirmed between them, nightdress ridden up, thighs rubbing together.

It had been painful, but necessary, keeping themselves from touching her the last several weeks.

Soft and gentle moans left her lips, laced with frustration.

‘We really should help her,’ Aelin’s eyes met his.

‘Wouldn’t want to leave our mate unsatisfied.’ Her eyes gleamed. ‘Be gentle,’ he cautioned, ignoring his wife’s glare and switching his attention back to her.

A month passed, and the days switched between dragging each second out and passing in a semi-aware haze.

“Do you want to get out of the castle?” Aelin asked, not seeming keen on the idea, but y/n nearly threw herself off of the bed, Aelin moving quick enough to steady her with a soft chuckle.

“Yes,” she repeated, “yes, yes, yes.”

Begging for basic freedoms? She shut the voice out.

They took a secluded exit out of the castle. The sun was barely cresting over the horizon, the cool air filling and refreshing her lungs. She was aware of Aelin watching her every reaction, her hand clutched around hers, but she didn’t care at this moment. There would be time to analyze it later, for now she’d take the temporary reprieve. The streets were near empty, but she didn’t mind. After this much time … alone, she figured it might be a bit overwhelming to see several people, and even she could admit her magic was erratic at best.

The longer she spent trapped in their room, the more time she had to think, and the more dangerous her thoughts grew. Sometimes she thought they underestimated her, maybe thought she wasn’t quite on their level of intelligence, a feisty little creature that would eventually cave to their wishes - even if it took some time.

They’d quickly proven there were no limits when it came to her, and that idea, that they would keep her locked in a tiny box in name of her safety, started an itch all of her rationalization couldn’t stop.

The smart choice would be to talk to them, but the last time she tried that everything shattered around her. Instead, she dreamed and planned. After she got through this, she’d be immortal - filled with endless time to wait before she acted.

Her head lay on Aelin’s chest, her fingers running through her hair, a book propped in her mate’s other hand.

Sweet moments and memories fluttered through her mind, but she forced herself to remember the others. Their trust in her was fragile, all she needed was to build it back up again. She didn’t think of the after, only of the freedom. It became her only goal, the one thing occupying her idle mind.

The door shut gently, and she lifted her head, Rowan’s frame filling it. His mouth curved into the slightest smile seeing the two of them, striding over towards the bed.

“You’re dirty,” Aelin snapped at him. His eyes rolled before meeting hers.

‘Did I miss something?’

‘Something with the book, she’s been on edge,’ she answered silently. His brows rose, but he knew better than to try to interrupt again, and headed towards the washroom.

She forced the guilt deep, deep down, letting sleep take over instead - exhaustion still filled her, the effects of her settling lessening, but still present.

taglist: @wallacewillow0773638 @inloveallthetime @sstrohma @moonlightttfae

#rowaelin x reader #poly!rowaelin x reader #poly!rowaelin #throne of glass x reader #rowaelin x y/n #poly!rowaelin x y/n #throne of glass fic #rowan whitethorn x reader #rowan whitethorn x y/n #aelin galathynius x y/n #aelin galathynius x reader #aelin x y/n #aelin x reader

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 6 months

Note

WIBTA if I confronted my boyfriend about not feeling praised enough? Over dumb D&D shit?

Background - I (20s F) live with my boyfriend (30s M) and things are usually great. He's always been supportive, emotionally intelligent and caring and we've had no major problems. We met via D&D several years ago so it's pretty important to both of us, and I'm a DM. Before we met, he was involved in a years-long campaign with some friends and is generally more experienced in D&D than me (I've been DMing around 5 years, he's probably closer to 10).

The current campaign that I'm running is something I'm really proud of. It's a mid-length campaign and I made the story myself (I typically plan mine to be 6-8ish months to avoid things fizzling out) and I've tried really hard to step up my writing and story planning for this one.

I've put in a LOT of extra time and effort and have been holding myself to a much higher standard than I usually do. As a DM I get self-conscious over how much time people are spending with me each week, and I want to make sure it's REALLY worthwhile. And because my boyfriend is more experienced in D&D than me, I've been looking to him for feedback and/or praise, as it would mean a lot to me coming from him.

And I've been getting close to nothing. At the end of each session he immediately falls asleep and doesn't talk about it at all. It makes me feel like I'm keeping him up/boring him. So I started asking him things like "hey what did you think about how I handled X" and he'll give a brief response like "yeah it was great" without explaining anything.

He didn't even give much thought into the character he's playing either - for his old campaign he created a HUGE story for his character, background, goals, etc. I know for a fact he's an incredible creative writer and could have come up with something wonderful for this. But he didn't put down anything other than basic character sheet stuff. When I asked him about it, he says he only goes deep into character when it's "long campaigns like my old one" and "too bad a long campaign like that will never happen again. That's D&D at it's best but now we're all adults, and we're too busy to ever do that, half my friends have kids, it'll never happen again and it's so sad" etc etc.

It made me feel like shit - like anything I try to do is a waste of time and pointless compared to this legendary "old campaign". Like it's barely worth staying awake for, like it's some kind of chore he has to sit through every week just because I'm his girlfriend and he's just humoring me.

The other players have been EXTREMELY enthusiastic and supportive - they send me art they make based on the campaign after every session and have contacted me privately to compliment me on certain aspects of the campaign. I want to make it clear that this is NOT something I EXPECT, but moreso I just really really love and appreciate that they do this for me, especially while my boyfriend is kind of leaving a void where I'd want this kind of praise.

Full transparency, one of my worst fears is forcing people to play along with something that I am passionate about, but bores them to tears. I never want to make a big deal over something that means a lot to ME but doesn't mean that much to someone else. So maybe I should just let this go because, at the end of the day, it's just a game? And taking it so seriously makes me an asshole and I should touch grass? I feel like potentially starting a fight over stupid nerd stuff would be pointless on my end. But at the same time, the more we play the more I feel deflated and I really hate feeling that way. I'm not sure what to do tbh.

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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legendofmorons · 5 months

Text

How to fall in love twice part 6

Pairing: Time x reader x Malon

Rating: T

Summary: Fate must really hate you guys. You and Malon have a brief encounter with the chain while escaping monsters. But it's over before you can really talk.

Warnings: cursing, vague fighting, Time is having a very bad day.

Other: If I missed anything, please let me know.

-------

Twilight has never before genuinely considered smacking the back of Time's head - until now.

Watching the old man pace over trampled grass for the umpteen time is painful.

Twilight gets it - mostly. He gets losing someone you love to an unknown.

But this is too much - it's been a month or so, and Time has spent every day on edge as he worries for you and Malon.

"Would you be still for five minutes? You're giving us all aneurysms." Legend barks from his spot tending the new fire.

"That’s not physically possible." Wild says without so much as a glance at the others.

"Time. You're going to wear a trench into the dirt at this point. You should take a break." Twilight says with a sigh, "You'll be no good if you tire yourself out."

"But -"

Leaves rustle and running can be heard. Voices sound - familiar voices.

"Farore above." Twilight manages.

All of the boys work to get to where your voice is heard.

-------

"I would really like to stop meeting monsters like this!" You call to Malon.

She laughs, taking down another monster with her bow.

You parry an attack and watch a portal open again. At least you can escape

"(Y/n)!" Someone calls.

That wasn't Malon.

"Malon!" Time's voice rings through the clearing.

The boys are running towards you- but you're pretty sure you have to leave through the portal and not stay outmatched by the monsters.

This is bullshit.

"Link?!"

"We have to go!" You call out, ducking an arrow.

You move then, with extreme spite and displeasure.

"Just stay there!" Time yells out.

Warriors are the ones to stop the others, taking the lead. He says someone to them that males Twilight look fairly upset.

"There's no time!" You yell. "Malon, come on!"

You can watch Malon look between you and her husband. She looks pained- and you can watch her try to fight the urge to stay.

"Mal!" Time calls, almost there.

It's not enough.

Malon tackles you out of harms way and through the portal.

You hit the ground hatd- but most unhurt.

"You okay?" Malon asks you.

You look around yet another strange place and no sign of a portal. Great.

"Mostly. Are you okay?"

"I'm- tired. But I'm okay."

"Good."

Malon stares at you - still hovering over your sprawled form. Her expression is something.

She's got a soft look on her face, but she also looks like she might like to cry.

"Has anyone told you you have pretty eyes?" She asks, moving off of you.

She sits to the side, her knees under her as she looks you over.

You can feel your face heat up. That's- not necessarily a common thing to hear.

"Maybe." You admit.

"It's true."

"Thank you." You say, sitting up and letting your arms hold you up.

"Any idea where we are?"

"The woods, mostly."

"Sounds right. We should follow the path then."

"Okay."

"Do you think the boys will be okay?"

"Of course. We've made it this far- and there are more of them.",

"That's fair enough." She gives a strained smile.

"Are you sure you're feeling okay?" You ask, trying to land somewhere between serious and not accusing.

Malon looks to you, and you can genuinely see how hard this has been on her.

Her eyes bear dark bags and bloodshot veins.

She's got littered bruises and fresh scars like stars in the sky. She's got dirt smeared across her and her clothes in at least ten places.

Her clothes are patched over too many times to last much longer. Her hair is in bad shape.

And you still think she's beautiful. (You must be really gone. Like- Malon is definitely pretty under usual circumstances, but no one can look that great in this condition.)

(Right?)

"I'm just tired." Malon says after a moment.

"Okay." You say.

You stand up, holding your hand out to her.

Malon takes your hand, standing up with only half a wince. Her ankle is still weaker than either of you would like.

Your phone gives a little notification sound

Your phone!

It's stayed at the same battery charge the whole adventure thanks to magic you suppose.

But it's not done more than self-storage and pictures.

You have a notification.

"I know where we are." You smile, "or at least when."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Let's follow the path. We're in my time."

"Oh! Is that good?"

"Maybe. Depends on where we actually are and such."

-------

You are in America, somewhere in the Pacific Northwest if the pine trees and rain are any clue.

You find a fairly nice extended stay and book about a week or so.

However, there are a few problems.

One, you and Malon both need new clothes.

Two, you have a lot of modern things to explain.

And three - which may actually be the biggest problem - there's only one bed.

However, just now, you're at the nearest Walmart superstore getting together some actual supplies for the time.

Watching Malon read all the ingredients in the shampoo and conditioner is eye-opening.

You've managed to find some decent jeans and some other clothes too.

You grab some basic foods and some other things before checking out.

This is going to be something.

-------

Time skids to a stop in the middle of a monster hoard. The reason you and Malon had to escape.

The portal closes just as he reaches it.

Fuck.

Fuck!

Time ... isn't really aware of his surroundings until that evening while he's cleaning his shield of monster guts.

He listens - realizing that Twilight and Warriors are trying to figure out how to get to you and Malon again.

"It might have been a fluke." Legend pipes in.

"I doubt that." Warriors says firmly.

But none of the conversations matter. Time can only replay the minute or two he saw you and Malon.

The way his wife tackled you through the portal ... he's glad she's never lost her drive.

You had looked - well, it's really not fair how pretty you looked.

And Time is so worried.

He knows Malon can handle herself.

He knows you can handle yourself.

But still.

He'd just watched you have to get tackled through a portal so you could both stay safe.

This is some shit.

Fuck whatever deity is running this sick game.

#lu #linkeduniverse #misty writes #linked universe x reader #lu time #lu malon #time x malon x reader

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depressedhouseplant · 5 months

Text

🔞 Illusion (Woosan) 🔞

Synopsis: As a joke San’s friends set him up with an escort. Except he falls for the beautiful man he can never have

WC: 3700

Tags: Rich Boy San, Escort Wooyoung, Public Hand Jobs, Anal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Top San, Bottom Wooyoung, Brief Homophobic Language, Light Bondage, Polite Suggestion of Sommophilia

A/N: This is the escort fic of which I spoke. It wasn’t one of the better performers. Let’s see what y’all think. Bonus Content can be found here

Wooyoung rested his head on the doorframe as he watched San leave. They were both getting tired of this. Forget tired. Exhausted. Wooyoung knew he would always be San’s dirty little secret. If San expected to keep the life he knew, he had to pretend Wooyoung didn’t exist. His family had only just accepted that he was gay. Now they were on the hunt for a “suitable husband”, as San called it, for him. Wooyoung scoffed as he closed the door. It was the 21st century. San should’ve been able to pick who he wanted to be with. The Chois didn’t see it that way. They were old money- very, very old money and dragged all the traditions that came along with it. Then Wooyoung’s phone dinged in his pocket.

I miss you already, baby. Check your nightstand. 💕

Wooyoung didn’t remember anything being on his nightstand when they left the bedroom. Yet there was a carefully wrapped box sitting there waiting for him. Wooyoung opened it and pulled out a watch. It was a limited edition Rolex. Wooyoung knew they were almost impossible to get. Of course, this was Choi San, not some random person off the street. There was an inscription on the back.

Love you until the end of time - Your Sannie.

Wooyoung quickly texted him back.

WTF? I don’t believe you!

San: I love you too, baby :)

Wooyoung: This is too much & you know it.

San: NOTHING is too much for you. You know that.

Wooyoung furiously wiped the tears out of his eyes. The watch was beautiful and he wouldn’t be lying when he said one of his clients bought it for him. Except that San wasn’t a client anymore. He was the love of Wooyoung’s goddamn life.

When can you come back?

Wooyoung had given up on sounding desperate.

I can sneak away tomorrow night. Take you to dinner?

Wooyoung almost dropped his phone. They weren’t supposed to go out. They could risk being seen and then San’s parents would freak. Even if they didn’t find out that Wooyoung was an escort, he wasn’t someone they’d already vetted.

Dinner?

San: It’s our 6 month anniversary. I want to take you out. Then maybe we’ll make love for hours when we get back, but I expect you to be wearing my gift.

Wooyoung: Make love? Who are you & what have you done with San? LOL

San: I might be a lil stoned.

San had confessed to getting high when he got back from seeing Wooyoung. He claimed it made the transition back to who he was supposed to be easier. Wooyoung had chastised him, but it hadn’t done much. Wooyoung knew would make his drinks a little stronger after San left. It was completely unhealthy, but neither of them had anyone they could confide in.

Wooyoung: Go to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow night.

San: I love you so much, baby.

Wooyoung: I love you too.

San sent a long string of hearts and kissy face emojis. Wooyoung returned with a heart and a kiss. He carefully put the watch in the box and back on his nightstand. The sheets were still a mess from earlier. Wooyoung had started insisting they put a towel down so he didn’t have to change them every time. He knew he should shower, but he didn’t feel like it. He simply dropped his robe on the floor and crawled into bed naked. Wooyoung had ridden San hard earlier, so the pillows smelled like San’s hair. He buried his face in one and let the aroma seep into his nostrils. It was more than just his shampoo and cologne. It was him. Why did this have to be so fucking complicated? Why was he still playing by their rules? Wooyoung would’ve told his parents to fuck off a long time ago. Of course, San genuinely loved his parents. Wooyoung didn’t. They’d kicked him out of the house when he came out and he’d made his own way in the world since.

Wooyoung’s good looks were how he got picked up by a pimp when he was 17. He lied about his age and no one bothered to check (more likely didn’t care). He slowly saved up enough to buy his way out and try his luck on his own. A few coy smiles and well placed compliments got him in the door with a much higher class clientele. Now he was 25 with an enviable list of clients and a 5 figure price tag for one “date”. Several of San’s friends had hired him for San’s birthday to pretend to be a blind date. The joke ended up on them because not only did the date go extremely well, San became one of Wooyoung’s clients.

Feelings didn’t get involved until they’d been seeing each other twice a week for almost a month. Wooyoung had stopped charging him after only a few times when it became obvious they both enjoyed the sex as more than just escort and client. San was the first one to confess. They were sweaty and half asleep, both on their 3rd or 4th orgasm of the night when San let slip “I love you”. Wooyoung had stretched and rolled on top of San, telling him that he loved him back. Somehow they’d worked up the energy to have sex again and fell asleep with San still inside Wooyoung.

Wooyoung hugged the pillow and sighed.

“Maybe someday,”

The next night Wooyoung was fixing his tie and about to put on his watch when he heard a key in the door. He’d given San a key to save them both the annoyance of having to buzz him up every time.

“And what if I’m not ready?” Wooyoung called from the bedroom.

“Then I guess I’d just have to take you before we left,” San replied. He was wearing the same dark gray suit and sapphire blue tie he’d worn on the night they met.

“If I didn’t already have all my clothes on, then I’d most definitely take you up on that,” Wooyoung kissed him.

“Haven’t put my present on yet?” San noticed the watch in Wooyoung’s hand.

“Maybe I was going to let you put it on me,” he held out his arm and San slid the watch on his wrist.

“Perfect fit,” he grinned.

“Impressive,” Wooyoung smiled back

“I remembered you have delicate wrists,” San took Wooyoung’s hands and wrapped them around his waist. He was bigger than Wooyoung and had initially been hesitant to go hard in bed, but Wooyoung had proved he was more than able to handle him.

“Weren’t you going to take me out?” he asked.

“I am. I might just be skipping ahead to what we’ll be doing in here later,” San kissed Wooyoung’s neck.

“Slut,” Wooyoung giggled.

“Proud of it,” he grinned.

San took Wooyoung to the same restaurant they’d gone to the first time.

“Ah, Mr Choi,” the host said when they arrived.

“I apologize that we’re a little late,” he said.

“Don’t worry. I’ll show you to the rest of your party,” he replied.

“Party?” San asked.

“Oh, I didn’t know it was supposed to be a surprise. I’m sorry,” he said, leading them through the restaurant. San was almost crushing Wooyoung’s hand. This could only mean one thing…

“Mom, Dad, hi,” San wasn’t hiding his surprise very well.

“San, you didn’t tell us you’d be here tonight,” his mom said.

“Um, yeah, it was kind of a last minute thing,” he replied. Wooyoung was pretty sure he was losing circulation.

“Who’s this?” His dad asked.

“I’m Wooyoung. San’s friends introduced us at his birthday party,” Wooyoung held out his hand. San’s dad shook it and his mom gave a demure nod.

“Maybe we should just go,” San said anxiously.

“We can stay. If your parents don’t mind,” Wooyoung squeezed San’s hand.

“Not at all. Please sit,” his mom said. San pulled out the chair for Wooyoung and he gracefully sat down. He didn’t end up with a client list full of closeted rich guys because he didn’t know how to handle himself in five star restaurants in front of lesser royalty. San sat next to him and couldn’t stop rubbing Wooyoung’s thigh. Wooyoung gave him a calm down look.

“So Wooyoung, what do you do?” Mr Choi asked.

“I’m a social planner,” he replied.

“What's that?” Mrs Choi asked.

“It’s like a personal assistant, but I manage the social calendars of select clients. It’s a bit of a niche market, but I enjoy it,” he replied, taking a sip of wine.

“I don’t suppose we could hire you,” she smiled.

“Unfortunately I’m fully booked, but if you ever need a recommendation, I’m sure I can help,” Wooyoung returned the smile.

“I don’t feel well. Excuse me,” San practically bolted for the bathroom. Wooyoung got up and followed him.

“I can’t believe they’re here. They’re fucking here. All I wanted was a nice dinner with you and then to be able to go back…” San started babbling.

“Baby, breathe,” Wooyoung caught him by the shoulders. “Let me handle this.”

“A social planner? That’s a hell of a way to spin it,” San said.

“If you keep letting me spin it, I’ll have them begging me to be their son in law by dessert. I don’t charge $10,000 a night because I can’t charm men away from their money. However, I can’t do it if you look like you’re 10 seconds away from heart failure for the rest of dinner. Okay?” Wooyoung told him.

“Okay,” San nodded.

“Then we’ll go back to my place and I’ll take you nice and slow. I’ll savor every inch of that perfect cock of yours. I’ll have you whining for me,” Wooyoung slid his fingers down the front of San’s pants. “I’ll have you whimpering ‘Wooyoungie, please. Please let me touch you’.” He flicked at San’s belt buckle with his thumb and weaved his belt loose. He wrapped his other arm around San’s shoulders. Wooyoung could feel San’s erection slowly growing near his fingers.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it, Sannie? You want me on top of you, slowly riding you, with you completely helpless. You remember the first time I tied you up and how hard you came. Then I sucked you off and made you come for me again. Then I got you hard again and finally let you touch me. You remember that,” Wooyoung could feel the tip of San’s dick in between his index and middle fingers. San was panting, but this time it was from trying not to come simply by listening to Wooyoung. “Do you want me to get you off, Sannie?”

“Please,” he begged, digging his fingers into Wooyoung’s back. Wooyoung steered them into a stall and deftly unzipped San’s pants with his thumb.

“You have to be quiet. We can’t attract attention,” Wooyoung’s lips barely grazed San’s ear. San whined. “Good boy.”

Wooyoung gripped the tip of San’s cock between his fingers and rested his thumb under the head. San jumped.

“You have to hold still, too,” Wooyoung whispered. San tightened his grip on Wooyoung’s back and nodded into his shoulder. Wooyoung deliberately massaged San’s dick with his thumb. He whimpered and whined into Wooyoung’s neck. “I wish I could see your pink cock right now. How pretty it is. How slick it is. How it’s shaking and just waiting for me to impale myself on it. I might be getting a little hard thinking about having it filling me up - feeling just how good you stretch me and how it’s almost too much, but not quite.” Wooyoung carefully pressed his hips against San’s thigh so he could feel Wooyoung’s own erection starting to bloom.

“Wooyoungie, please…” San’s eyes were starting to water.

“No crying, darling. Your parents will already have enough questions. I don’t want to have to explain why I made you cry,” Wooyoung pressed harder with his thumb. San jerked and grunted. “I think we’ve been in here long enough.” Wooyoung ran his thumb over the tip, dipping into the slit like he knew San loved. San came bucking against Wooyoung’s fingers and squeezing tears out of his eyes.

“That’s my good Sannie,” Wooyoung cooed as San spilled come on his fingers. San muffled his moans in Wooyoung’s neck. San finished and Wooyoung let go, wiping them down with toilet paper. Wooyoung gave him a quick check for any rogue come stains. He zipped San back in when he determined everything was satisfactory. San’s hands were shaking while he washed them.

“You still look terrible,” Wooyoung said.

“I’m trying not to,” he breathed.

“Let me handle it. Smile, nod, and let your parents pay for dinner,” Wooyoung told him. “This was my job, baby. At least before I became a kept man.”

“Okay,” San breathed.

“Thank you,” Wooyoung kissed him. “Come on.” He led his half fucked out half painfully anxious lover back to the table.

“Everything okay? We were beginning to worry,” Mrs Choi said.

“I’m fine,” San coughed. “Just fine.”

“Honestly, this is a little embarrassing, but this is only our second date. I know San’s birthday was a while ago, but we could never find a good time to meet up. We weren’t expecting to run into you tonight,” Wooyoung smiled the dazzling smile that got men into bed with him and paying for his penthouse.

“San, you never mentioned that you met someone,” Mr Choi said.

“Like he said, it’s only our second date,” San replied.

“How do you know San’s friends?” Mrs Choi asked.

“I met Yeosang a while ago. I suppose he thought San and I would be a good fit,” Wooyoung told her. It wasn’t a total lie. Yeosang had initially contacted him and paid the deposit for their joke. His other friends Yunho and Mingi had made up the difference.

“Mom, is this really…?” San started. Wooyoung squeezed his knee under the table.

“It’s fine,” he replied. Parental interrogation was old hat in his world. At least they weren’t going to call him a worthless faggot. He assumed.

“What about your family?” Mr Choi asked.

“Unfortunately my parents and I don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. I haven’t spoken to them in years and that’s for the best. It’s a shame, really. They pushed away their only child,” Wooyoung stroked San’s knee with his index finger. He knew how to spin anything. Now he was an abandoned only child who somehow had the manners of someone raised at San’s level.

“That’s such a shame. I can’t imagine not having any contact with your child,” Mrs Choi said. Got her. Wooyoung always knew the moment he got his hooks in someone. San was also an only child.

“I’ve gotten used to it. There’s something to be said for learning how to survive on your own in the world,” he replied.

They continued through the rest of dinner, Wooyoung easily fielding all of San’s parents’ questions. He even made a show of trying to pay. By the time San and his dad left to pick up the respective cars from the valet, Wooyoung and Mrs Choi were quite comfortable with each other.

“I certainly wasn’t expecting to meet San’s date tonight, but it was very nice to meet you,” she said.

“I admit, it was a bit awkward to have a ‘meet the parents’ on the second date,” Wooyoung replied with an easy smile.

“San has always been a bit high strung,” she said.

“I noticed, but I promise to take good care of him,” Wooyoung told her.

“Thank you. He needs someone like you in his life. His friends can still get a little...wild,” Mrs Choi sighed.

“Don’t I know it,” Wooyoung’s tone didn’t give away anything. Wooyoung never gave up anything he didn’t want to give. The cars pulled up and their respective partners came to get them.

“It was a pleasure to meet you both,” Wooyoung said as they left.

“I’ll be back later,” San mumbled in their direction.

“Do you need me to drive?” Wooyoung asked when they got in the car.

“No,” San replied.

“I had your mother eating out of my hand so stop panicking,” Wooyoung told him. “And unofficial permission to date you. You should be tap dancing right now.”

“It’s just...they just...I’m scared…” San said as he put the car in gear.

“What are you afraid of? Tell your Wooyoungie,” he looked over at San.

“They’ll find out that you’re...an escort,” San finished.

“Was an escort,” Wooyoung replied. “Currently you’re paying all my bills.”

“I love you so much. I’m terrified they’ll find out the truth,” San put his hand on Wooyoung’s thigh. Wooyoung tucked a piece of hair behind San’s ear.

“Let’s go home and I’ll make you feel better. You still want that, right?” Wooyoung asked. San nodded.

“Then your Wooyoungie will strip you out of that suit, tie you to the bed, and take you until you can’t stand it anymore. You’re free to cry as much as you want this time, Sannie. We don’t have to make any excuses why tears are coming out of those beautiful brown eyes.”

“I’m trying to drive, Wooyoung,” San huffed.

“Do you want me to stop?” Wooyoung cocked his head.

A beat of silence.

“No,” the other man replied.

“Good,” Wooyoung slid his hand up almost onto San’s cock as he leaned over and undid his pants.

“What are you doing?” San asked.

“Just releasing the pressure a bit,” Wooyoung’s smile curved all the way up to his impeccably sculpted brows. He pulled his hand back away from San’s crotch. “And the best part is you don’t have to leave tonight. You can stay and I can wake you up in the middle of the night sucking your dick. In the morning I might let you fuck me into the mattress. The options are endless, Sannie. Maybe you’ll wake up and decide to slide into me while I’m asleep. Then I’ll wake up filled with your cock.”

“You...you’d let me do that?” San had started to sweat a little and his boner was threatening to expand completely out of his pants.

“You know my limits. That’s not one of them,” Wooyoung replied.

“What if I start to...you know...fuck you in your sleep?” San ventured.

“I’m a light sleeper. It wouldn’t take much to wake me up. It would be a great way to wake up, though,” Wooyoung winked at him.

“I…” San’s brain had all but stopped working. Wooyoung kept smiling.

San practically carried Wooyoung up to his apartment. The concierges had learned to look the other way a long time ago when they saw Wooyoung.

“Tie me up, baby. Please,” San breathed when they got upstairs.

“It would be my pleasure,” Wooyoung purred. He carefully pulled the silk ties out from under the mattress and San obediently lied on his back. Wooyoung swiftly tied him down and sat on his thighs. He lazily ran a finger up San’s quivering dick. Precome was dripping down the tip.

“You want your Wooyoungie that much, Sannie?” Wooyoung swirled the sticky liquid in circles around the tip.

“Yes,” San replied. Wooyoung could see his chest starting to heave. He slithered up San’s body to his mouth.

“I’m gonna make you cry, sweetheart,” he kissed his lover hard. He nipped at San’s earlobe before he sat back up and generously lubed San’s cock. He slowly lowered himself down going only a fraction of an inch at a time. San was already whining. “Did I not satisfy you earlier?”

“You did,” he replied.

“Then why do you sound so needy?” Wooyoung asked as he bottomed out.

“Need...you…” San panted.

“I knew that,” Wooyoung slid his hands up San’s bound arms. “You always need me.”

“Mmhmm,” San nodded as Wooyoung kissed him. He pressed his chest against San’s and slightly bucked his hips. San grunted. Wooyoung took San’s lower lip between his teeth and pulled slightly before he sat back up. He began slowly grinding his ass down on San’s cock.

“You want to touch me, don’t you darling?” Wooyoung braced his hands on San’s thighs, arching his back and exposing his entire chest and hardened cock.

“Yes,” San squeaked.

“How badly do you want to touch me? Enough that I should untie you?” Wooyoung looked down at him.

“N-no, wanna come l-like this,” he stuttered.

“If you’re sure,” Wooyoung ran one hand down his own torso and traced the tip of his dick with his finger. It came back wet with precome. “You want a taste?”

“Please?” San’s pupils were blown wide with desire.

“Open your mouth and stick out that talented tongue of yours,” Wooyoung instructed. San did as he was told and Wooyoung dragged his finger down the center of San’s tongue.

“Taste good?” he smirked.

“More?” San whined.

“No, my love. That’s all you get,” Wooyoung brushed his wet finger down San’s cheek. Then San’s eyes started to water. Wooyoung pulled his hand back and kept slowly working San’s dick. “Now is my baby getting desperate?”

“Uh huh,” San noised.

“How desperate?” Wooyoung prompted.

“Wanna c-come h-hard. Inside you,” the the other man breathed.

“Of course you’re going to come inside me, silly boy,” Wooyoung watched San’s hands flex against the restraints. If he really wanted to, he could get loose. They both enjoyed the illusion more, though.

“P-pound you,” he gasped.

“You want to pound me? You want to wreck me on your cock? What if I let you?” Wooyoung asked. San looked up at him. Wooyoung untied San’s wrists and then his ankles. San flipped them over and began slamming into Wooyoung. He was practically snarling while he fucked him. Wooyoung dug his nails into San’s back every time he hit his prostate. He heard a cracking sound, but wasn’t quite sure what it was. He was too focused on the cock ramming his ass.

“Fu-uck,” he grunted as he started to come all over both of them. San was still growling and bucking into him then fell on top of Wooyoung when he started coming. They were practically glued to each other when they finished.

“Uh, Woo,” San said.

“Yeah?” he replied.

“I think I broke the headboard,” San replied sheepishly. Wooyoung looked up and sure enough there was a sizable crack roughly where San’s hand had been.

“Well, so much for making love when we got back,” he laughed.

“At least you were wearing my gift,” San held up Wooyoung’s arm.

“We got it half right,” Wooyoung smiled.

“I love you, Wooyoungie,”

“I love you too, Sannie,”

#ateez hard thoughts #ateez fanfic #ateez hard hours #minors dni #ateez smut #wooyoung x San #Jung Wooyoung x Choi San #woosan #just fucking write 2k24 #bonus content

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youreobsessedwithtoomanyfandoms · 10 months

Text

My Hand Was The One You Reached For

Words: 556

Warnings: angst with a tiny bit of happiness, probably poor writing and OOC characters but whatever

DC Masterlist Main Masterlist Join My Taglist

Takes place a few years after Bruce adopted Dick and a few before Dick left. Y/N, also from a big and prominent Gotham family, and Bruce have been together for 6, going on 7, years

I haven't posted in a while...still not really back but decided to make this.

Based off of her new and technically unreleased song, You're Losing Me by Taylor Swift and her song The Great War

Part 2 here

Anywho, enjoy

Love Z <3

Y/N Y/L/N and Bruce Wayne. Two of the biggest socialites in Gotham. Coming from two of the biggest families in the city. No one was surprised when they got together. But what did surprise everyone was how private they kept their relationship. Especially when they considered the fact that Y/N had had many well-publicized relationships beforehand and Bruce had been a known playboy. So when they made it to the 5-year mark, everyone thought they would. Everyone including Y/N, who would still always smile and blush when talking about Bruce.

But it was after that that things started to go downhill. People said things that would get to Y/N, but Bruce acted like it didn't even bother him. She would sit there, begging him to do something to remind everyone that he was hers and not someone else's. To stop making this relationship seem like only one person was in it. To acknowledge the cheating reports and stop telling just her that it wasn't true. To tell every fucking person who thought they were allowed in their relationship that he hadn't cheated on her.

To just do something that made it no longer feel delirious.

But now here they were, on the verge of the 7th anniversary, staring at one another. She stood in front of him in a room that she hardly recognized, in front of a man who she hardly recognized. A man who just kept going on and on about how this was inevitable. She was getting tired of it all. Tired of putting up a front when the cameras were out just to fall when they were gone. But now she was starting to think he just nailed the final blow.

After all her signals, the signs, everything that she gave the man, she thought that they would make it. That this all would not be for naught. That they would make it out in the end. And now he was standing there saying that he knew they had been going down for a while now. That it was bound to happen in the end.

She tried to find anything that would make her heart feel for the relationship, but she couldn't. She could find nothing. Not in Bruce. Not in his home. Not even in Dick.

She raised her hands and placed them gingerly on his chest. "Please, Bruce. Please just stop." She looked up at him, "Stop and look at me." She begged him. Pleaded for him to look at her finally. So when he finally looked at her for what felt like the first time in months, she saw a man whose eyes were void of any love previously held from her. "Bruce, you're losing me. Please, just stop."

"Maybe it's for the better then."

"Bruce."

"I'm being honest here--"

She stopped him, "Let's get through the night, okay? Please. Let's go downstairs to that party, make it through, then talk afterwards."

He looked at her incredulously before his face softened and he nodded. "Okay, alright. But as soon as it's over, we're coming back to this."

She nodded, "Yeah, I promise."

He slowly walked away from her, but his hand stayed lingering by hers. And for a moment, a brief moment, she felt like they could make it through. Felt like they could make it through this "war."

#bruce #wayne #bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne imagine #batman #batman x reader #batman imagine #bruce wayne angst #batman angst #x reader #imagine #angst

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tokoyamisstuff · 2 months

Text

Breaking Bonds Ch. 6

Synopsis: Rabban and you have a long-due honeymoon on Lankiveil.

Warnings: Masturbation, unprotected sex A/N: I'm not good at writing smut but enjoy this lil' treat either way! 💌

"No man chooses evil for the sake of evil; he only mistakes it for happiness, the good he seeks."

- Mary Wollstonecraft

[Previous Chapter]

There was no going back now - you've long since passed the point of no return. And still, no matter how much time passed, you couldn't shake this nagging conscience off...

...after all, you had selfishly become enamored with a man that had - and still causes - so much misery in the entire Empire and especially your home planet.

To be fair, while the Baron alone decided about the tax height, your husband has at least greatly lifted the burden on his colonies lately, concentrating on gathering ressources instead of harassing the populace. His men were advised to tone it down, and shall a village not be able to provide the demanded amount, they'll have two more chances before there'll be consequences.

That was his way of expressing what he could otherwise never put into words.

Rabban was snoring softly besides your insomniac self, shuffling close enough to wrap his arms around you. He pressed your body against his chest from behind, a content sigh escaping his throat at the feeling of your skin against his.

"Good morning, my Countess" he purrs, nose nuzzling against your neck before tracing kisses across your collarbone. You return the favour, nails tenderly raking across his scalp. "Good morning, my Count."

Your husband's touch soon becomes more eager, groaning shamelessly as his hands wander upwards to massage your breasts, who betray you and stiffen under the touch. "Glossu, you're insatiable."

"To my defense, I've waited more than long enough" he teases, nibbling on your earlobe. His hand rested under your navel just for a brief moment before wanderin downwards. "And besides, we still have an obligation to fulfill."

Your laughter soon turned into pleased moans as well, music in your husband's ears as he slid under the covers, head settling between your spread legs with an almost predatory glint in his eyes.

"Let me wake you up properly, dear."

This whole situation still felt like a bizarre daydream - one your past self would refuse to believe to ever become reality.

A short while back you loathed this wicked man with a passion, were nothing but repulsed and petrified whenever he was near you - but right now you were yearning for his touch at every opportunity.

After that first fateful night spent together marked the beginning of something more intimate, it was also new terrain for both of you.

While you expected a cruel joke, revealing itself just when he'd gain your trust, your husband feared his feelings being used to control him for your own benefit.

Needless to say, neither of it occured.

Maybe you had completely lost your mind, but at this point you couldn't care less - at least that was what you told yourself on this important day.

Since Harkonnen troops had now completely retreated from Arrakis, until your husband would be called to battle he decided to grant you this heartfelt wish of reuniting with your family.

The image of your planet in space was a sight to behold, never ceasing to amaze you. An ice world where seasons would last for years instead of months, known among the galaxy for it's precious whale fur.

From afar, it looked almost as sacred as your father had always described it in his tales.

He was a man of unbreakable faith - at least until the death of your eldest brother on the frontlines of the resistance. Your whole family stopped practicing the religion entirely since then, except for occasional prayers in time of distraught.

After his loss, your father said that god has left this planet the moment House Harkonnen set foot on it.

Whereas you still miss him painfully, the grief strickening to this day, you were also relieved that he did not have to see you like this - his beloved daughter, giving her heart and body up to the enemy.

"Welcome home" Rabban declared as you prepared for the spaceship to land, already preparing to descend towards the planet's surface.

You seemed both aloof and apprehensive at once, so it wasn't long until Rabban offered you his hand as means to placate. "It'll be fine."

Will it be, though?

Since birth you had been among them, attended this farce of a welcome committee alongsides the other natives. It was not a voluntary decision, presence was mandatory.

You remember very well how much you wished to have the courage and throw a rock at your oppressor - but knew what deadly consequences it'd bring for you and everyone else.

Yet right now you were on the other side of the coin, and taking a good look down on yourself - skin bleached through the lack of sunlight and dressed matching to your spouse - you wondered if they'd even differ, or simply see you with the same burning hatred that you felt back then.

"Now arriving: Your beloved rulers, Count and Countess Rabban!"

Eventually you felt nauseous as the shuttle opened and you were greeted with exagerrated fake applause from the capitol, retracting your intertwined hands before anyone could see.

With the planet being currently in spring, bright sunlight hit your face, eyes needing some time to adapt after the eternity you had spent on Giedi Prime.

The Beast looked at you with a mixture of worry and irritation, brushing his fingers over your back yet again you winced away. The current situation made it impossible to bid it any more concern, but your behavior left a bitter aftertaste.

Of course he understood. While in private you could act like lovestruck fools all you want, however it was dangerous to do so in front of witnesses.

Ironic, considering you're officially a married couple.

For that very same reason he was also unable to go too easy on your - otherwise the other Harkonnen's were to notice, and such weakness would not remain unpunished.

However this tiny act of affection might also be interpretated as courtesy among two weds...

...so why did you insist to tear yourself away from him?

As the two of you strutted through the tremulous crowd, accompanied by his best soldiers, he reminisced back to easier times.

Rabban vaguely remembered that at every arrival of his you stood out ouf the crowd - at least to his eye - even long before your ways would actually cross.

Oh, how drunk he got on your fear back then, excited by the defiance he detected in your eyes nonetheless. It was as if your emotions were written right on your forehead and damn, what a feisty little quim, weren't you?

He secretly prayed that one day you'd put those thoughts into practice, commit something so imprudent that he'd have an excuse to drag you into his chambers despite your status. Implementing his own means of punishment, without ever allowing you to escape....

...in hindsight, this might've been a precursor of this strange infatuation after all. Better keep this to himself though - even he knows this isn't exactly considered romantic.

In the midst of the formation your family awaited you - or rather what's left of it. Scatters of a once great bloodline.

Rabban looks over to you, only a silken dress cascading down your body in the shivering breeze. The cold did not seem to bother you at all, in fact the soft glow bestowed you an even more divine beauty.

The serenity you were radiating was slowly crumbling however, as you came to a halt far away from your kneeling loved ones. Seeing them like this felt horribly wrong, a perfect symbolfor the harsh reality of this marriage which you desperately tried to shove back into your head.

You were hesitating, eyes darting helplessly between your husband and relatives. "What are you waiting for?" Rabban speaks in this low, authorative voice of his. "You may leave."

His approval was enough for you to drop the composure together with your remaining dignity, running towards them as you broke out into irrepressible sobbing.

A sinister look decorated Rabban's face as you collapsed into your mother's arms, a dangerous mixture of jealousy and obsession stirring in his mind. He tries to ignore it, internally fights to contain himself for your sake.

You are the stunning image of your mother, he thinks, trying to distract himself with trivial annotations. The children however - your younger siblings, as it seems - he doesn't warm up to that easily. Not really his area in general, but he'll figure out once he has brats of his own. Better not think about it too much, the pending responsibility leaves him with an odd unease.

A girl around five years of age he overhears asking why you were accompanying the 'behemoth', timidly peeking over your shoulder as you had lifted her up. "You know, I can understand every word" he retorts flatly and in perfect Lankiveili. It catched you by surprise, since the Harkonnens on your planet kept mostly to themselves. Of course, as a leader it made perfect sense to at least know the common global language.

Sometimes you forgot that your husband was in fact a sophisticated man, just wildly - intentionally - underestemated.

"Leave my sisters alone!" your younger brother, barely eleven years old, leaped in front of you, a shakily pointing a wooden toy sword at the Beast.

"I thought we got rid of all the males in the Årud bloodline..." Rabban spoke in sadistic amusement, crossing his arms as he assessed the boy. Well, your mother was pregnant back at the time and the Count was not really paying attention the following years. But you wouldn't deliberately make things worse by pointing out his disinterest for politics, knowing he already felt inadequate.

"Please, dear husband" you try to appease him, hands clasping together in a begging manner. "He's just a child. No one's questioning your rule. It's not worth it."

"When I was his age, I already partook in huntings" the Beast harrumphed, face contorting into an almost-snarl. "Killed my grandfather a few years after." He reached out for your brother, who was rooted on spot, cowering in fear...

...and just when you were about to intervene, he put his hand on the boy's head, slightly ruffling his hair. "You have a brave heart. Become a good warrior and make your family proud."

Rabban then turned to you, looking at him absolutely flabbergasted. "Just leave" he spat, waving his men over. "Got important business to take care of. You'd be no help either way."

You crack a smile, tiptoeing to peck a quick kiss on his cheek before turning around, this unexpected public affection left this mountain of a man - and frankly everyone around you - completely baffled.

"What are you looking at, you dogs?!" he shouted at his squad and their chatters ebbed out with his command. "Get. To. Work! Anyone I consider useless, I'll kill on sight."

It wasn't until Rabban and his men were actually gone to run errands for his uncle that your folk was able to breathe freely again, now truly cheering and celebrating your arrival.

You were almost considered a national hero, your marriage being considered the most noble sacrifice, ensuring the prosperity of Lankiveil.

No one dared interacting with you more than necessary, though. It was simply not worth the risk of earning the wrath of the infamous Beast.

"This detestable waste of a mother's love! Threatening a child like that. Did you see how scared your brother was?!"

"Lower your voice" you interrupted your own mother, who felt comfortable enough to verbally lash out at the Beast now that you were in your own four walls. "My husband has eyes and ears everywhere. Just- just be glad he didn't actually do anything."

"Don't tell me what to do, young lady" she scolded you harshly. "You may be our Countess now, but you must never forget-" The words die in her throat, her soft caress of your cheek having pulled your hair far enough back over our shoulder to reveal the choke mark on your neck.

A mere lovebite of some sort - he had a bruising grip, and holding back was never his forte. This is nothing compared to what he's normally capable of, but a sadist remains a sadist.

You want to back away, but your mother got a hold of your wrist, pulling up one of the sleeves only to find more bruises scattered across your arm.

During the act you rarely ever notice - in fact it was rather enjoyable - but how should you tell your mother that the most hated person on this forsaken planet kissed those minor injuries afterwards, mumbling sweet affirmations as his hands draw circles on the sore skin?

She seemed desolate, on the verge of tears and yet may have realized at this moment to better not speak against a man that was capable of practically anything.

"Mother" you assure her, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had settled between you licke a thick haze. "You needn't worry, I promise."

"...if we had been informed of your visit, we would've prepared festives" she croakes as she changes the topic, needs to do so in order to keep her grace. "We'll make up something right away."

Guilt was eating her alive and you knew it - the day when the Baron proposed this alliance, she had to pick between loss and loss.

As a leader, she absolutely chose correctly.

As a mother? Not so much.

All logic asides, it pained you to be reminded that she put the fate of strangers over your own. If your father was still alive, he would've rather let this planet fall into chaos than willingly lose another one of his children to the Harkonnens - if only metaphorically.

To a certain extend you sympathized with Rabban's rage- the feelings of a child abandoned by their own mother.

But then again, what's one ruined life compared to so many others, an entire civilization even?

...and do you truly consider your life to be ruined?

"Sure..." You swallow harshly, try to suppress your emotions to enjoy the scarce time you had with your loved ones. "That sounds wonderful."

Meanwhile Rabban was in the greatest hall of his mansion, slumped on the throne of your ancient monarchs - which he stole it for his private collection long ago.

He tries soothing himself through meaningless pastimes, yet materialistic luxury and fleeting pleasures did not hold the appeal they once had...

...they could not substitute your presence, at last - and without it his thoughts spiraled back to the only coping mechanism he knew: Violence, or worse.

This cannot be love, the feeling he had heard so much about yet never experienced in all his decades of life.

Why would anyone want to feel this way, being so desperate for someone else?

Sadly the attempt to drown his violent urges in expensive beverage only intensified his intrusive thoughts, dampening the little self-control he still possessed. Luckily sober him had all servants informed that he was under no context to be disturbed - otherwise not all of them would make it to sunrise alive.

Wait a second...why did he even fucking care what you'd think of him?

This was his planet, his servants, his everything! And you were his wife! Your whole purpose was to endure and obey each and every of your husband's whims, no matter how depraved!

Shit, this is the exact reason you'll always shy away from him in the end. He just can't get out if his skin - and right now it was itching for blood...

...all just because you were currently not at his side, enjoying yourself with people that were what he could never be for you.

He loathed this godamn ice block of a planet, it's people and rites and especially the fact that he could never replace or even imitate the home your heart has on here.

Now that he saw how you acted with people that you truly loved, it was all obvious to him: You had merely arranged yourself with the circumstances - but would never willingly choose him.

Rabban's frustration wandered right down to his pants, sent an even more pulsing desire straight to his cock as he remembered the ethereal way you walked besides him in that delicate sin of a dress.

Fuck, it's been an eternity singe he's done the work himself - after all, he he had countless women to pick from to tend to this need...

...but he knew damn well that unless it's you, he'd only be left unsatisfied and eventually kill them.

Your husband spread his legs on the throne, pulling back one leathern glove with his teeth while the other squeezed the hardened member swelling beneath his belt.

Growling moans he had bit back until now fell casually from his lips as he pulled his dick from it's confines, gripping the angry shaft fiercely. Swiping across the slid already leaking precum, he intended to make a quick end of it.

His eyes fell shut, head rolling back as he tried dwelling in pleasant memories of your naked form beneath him, the way you moaned his name like a sacred prayer each time you came undone.

"Shit, Y/N..." he rambled out, grunts and groans mixing with incoherent Harkonnen swear words as he eagerly stroked himself.

"Yes, my Count?"

The sudden appearance of your voice made his blood run cold, eyes snapping open only to catch your silhouette in the doorframe, calmly watching the scene unfolding before you.

His face instanty dropped into stern hostility, peering at you like he was considering murder as nerest solution to escape this humiliation.

"What the hell are you doing here?!" he barks, not yet bothering to cover himself as to not admit his embarassment. "Enjoying the view, I guess."

"Bitch" he thought, contemplating to shove his cock down your throat just to make you shut up. Albeit you strode towards him keenly, a smug smile playing on your lips when his manhood twitches at your approach.

"You seem stressed, my love..." you chant oh so alluring in his ear as you lean over him, the nickname pulling at his heartstrings. "I can change that."

There was something so fundamentally wrong with doing it right here, giving yourself to an oppressor right on the throne of your people...

...maybe Rabban had already corrupted you, because that fact was exactly why it aroused you enough to discard all morality in exchange for temporary carnal pleasure.

All you knew was that right now you were in charge - and the very man that had done so much wrong was literally wax in your hands.

Irony of fate, one would say.

Your fingers teasingly ghost across his shaft and Rabban lets out a noise of both disapproval and desperation, hips bucking against your palm to find some release. "I missed you" you speak, invitingly batting your lashes.

"Stop lying" this utter wretch spat weak, tentatively, the lust in your scent feeling like being stabbed. You smile down on him in return, unimpressed by his vocal attempts to push you away.

His defense falters as you straddle his waist, kissing him with an affection like he was something precious and not in fact the most despicable person you've ever met. "I'm not lying, Glossu."

He wants to say something, anything, but his throat closes, a torn-out sob being all he manages to wring out.

Primal need takes the wheel again when you push your panties aside, folds sliding across his member in preparation and god you were so wet already, just for him.

Both of you sighed in relishment as you lowered yourself on his cock, meekly clawing into his shoulder as you adjusted to his size. Meanwhile Rabban's hands busied themselves on your ass, back, thighs, every damn inch of skin he can get while his hips chase yours.

The Beast kisses your pulse point as he pulls you impossibly close, face hidden in the crook of your neck so you won't see how he falls apart right in front of you. Yet your name keeps erupting from his lips as you ride him, not yet a plea but certainly endearing.

He holds you in an almost bonecrushing hug as you ride him, your tits spilling so scrumptiously out of your cleavage that he can't help but sink his teeth into the thin fabric, earning an ecstatic yelp in return. Soon his tongue dives into your mouth in exasperation, only ever breaking the kiss when the lack of oxygen became too hard to bear.

As the pace speeds up your husband finally brings himself to watch you grind on his crotch, the view enough to drive him over the edge. Both awe and passion wash over him in the tidal wave that was his orgasm, so much pulsing inside of you it borders on obscene.

Even long after overstimulation followed his peak, he couldn't stop the jackknife-like thrusts into your sensitive cunt as your high chased right after his.

Who wouldve thought that sex filled with laughter instead of cries could be this...enjoyable?

An odd tranquility sets above the two of you, remaining in the position for a while before either of you dared to move.

"Convinced now?" you ask between short, ragged breaths, heart fluttering while his practically beat like a drum.

"Dunno" he hums playfully, sweaty foreheads stuck together as he mirrowed your smile. "We might have to repeat this a few times, just to be sure."

Both of you broke our in boisterous laughter and you nudge his side, chuckling some sweet nonsense about him being insufferable.

"SERVANT" You almost fell down from the seat by surprise, and Rabban yelled for no one in particular once again. Panicking, you wanted to pop off his softening member and hide - yet your husband had other plans, still holding you tight.

"Nah -ah -ah" he gurred with a shiteating grin on his face as he felt his pride returning. "We don't want you to waste a single drop of my precious seed, don't we?"

Asshole. He really was incorrigible at times...

Gladly your dress had fallen down to your hips, far enough to cover your priavtes yet not enough to hide the peculiar embrace the two of you still shared.

"A partnership is no fight for dominance, you know?" you whisper as a maidservant entered - an elderly Lankiveilan woman looking down in unease. You wanted to be swallowed by the earth right then, being seen defiled by the enemy in front of one of your own people.

Oh, you just knew he was enjoying showing off what was rightfully his, didn't he?

"Just playful banter" he promised, hands still lazily roaming your body. "Run us a bath" he orders, "Then get lost. And leave some new attire at the door."

The servant nods and commits her work in silence, shooting you one last, pitying look before she disappeared as fast as she came. Rabban insisted on carrying you to the magnificent bathroom, sinking into the relaxing scented water and pulling you to his chest once again as he began to ponder.

For once he got what he wanted without taking it by force - you returned to him out of your own free will...

...and what an amazing feeling that was.

By Harkonnen logic, he should be terrified of the effect you have on him, put a stop to it immediately - all of what happened was considered pathetic weakness in his culture, nothing more than a flaw.

But damn it, he wouldn't trade it for the world.

"What are you brooding about?" you ask, fingertips tracing the several scars on his chest. "Why are you really here? Surely you did not just come for...this."

You snort in amusement, joking "I thought I'd look after my husband, before he gets bored and blows something up."

The Beast grinned at your words, allowing himself some sort of vulnerability as he seeks your reassurance. "I thought you'd seek the comfort of your old home."

His words made you furrow your brows in confusion, almost offended by his assumption. "This is my home now" you answer firmly, pressing a wet kiss to his knuckles. "You are."

The answer pleases him as it seems, pulling you in for another kiss, limbs tangled with each other in an inescapable embrace.

"Perhaps you want to accompany me tonight?" Your husband had helped you out of the now cold water, having stayed there until your discomfort became greater than the joy of closeness. "The people of the capitol will hold a small festival."

Rabban seemed bewildered, insulted even at the suggestion. "Why should I bother with those savages? This is beneath me." You roll your eyes at the man, not wanting to hear that belittlement for your culture coming from people who hunt others for sports.

Quickly towel-drying your hair before slipping into traditional clothes rather than the one he had picked out for you, he swallows the frustration of this separation through your different styles.

"Maybe because your wife is one of those 'savages', and so are you. You're half Lankiveili, hell, you even carry one of our names!" you correct him, pointing an index finger directly at his face just for him to gently slap it away. "You've been born and raised here, not on Giedi Prime."

"So?" he retorts matter-of-factly, glaring at you. "A dog born in a stable still doesn't nicker." You almost facepalmed, unnerved by his blatant stubbornness. "But you can't deny your blood. Your mother-"

"Was a Bene Gesserit, first and foremost." Rabban interrupted you, tired with the discussion already though he elaborates. "Their children are nothing more to them than means to an end."

There was a subtle hint of disappointment in his voice, one you could very well resonate with. "But- I mean, you weren't useful to her, right? Hence the younger brother."

Wow. That sounded way less insulting in your head - and you were sure had anyone else but you pointed this out, they'd been six foot under already.

"Thanks for the reminder that I'm inferior to my brother in every way" he gritted, not seeing the point of this useless conversation. You looked at him sympathically, cupping his face with both hands but he turned away in anger. "N-No, I didn't mean it like that. I-"

Well, things can't get any worse than this. Might as well speak your mind. "Bene Gesserit are ordered to kill genetically undesirable children immediately after birth..."

You see him clench and unclench his fists, but take his hand and intertwine your fingers with his. "...and yet you're here. What do you think that means? She loved you dearly, I'm sure of it."

He twirls you into his arms, effectively shutting you up with a breathtaking kiss. Your lips searched his again as soon as he pulled away, yet he already went for the door.

"Alright alright, I'm feeling generous today. We'll go. Just don't complain if I ruin the mood."

That very same evening, your husband participated in the festival with you - well, more or less. He mainly remained on the sidelines, following you like a shadow and eyes shooting daggers at everyone looking at you for too long.

His soldiers he had warded off to another place, so they'd leave your people alone for tonight - and als that there wouldn't be any witnesses to his tameness.

This whole parade reminded him of a rather unpleasant part of his childhood, what it means to be born in between two worlds and fully belonging to neither.

Many years ago his mother, Emmi Rabban, had dragged him to such an event in an attempt to make her son embrace his heritage.

People would look at him with revulsion and hostility - a natural reaction, considering his Harkonen outerior, even though he was a mere child back then. He used to tell himself the mantra that being feared something to be proud of, more reliable than some feeble goodwill.

Ultimatively, when one of the other children started throwing rocks at young Rabban, he saw red...

...and like so often, only when his anger subsided and he returned to his senses, the adults were able to pull him away from the bloody heap he had beaten the other into.

It was not the first time his mother had looked at him that way: Shame, disappointment, fear of her child and what he was capable of. Regret of having kept him alive, if your theory was true.

This core memory only strenghtened his taunting disconnection and self-loathing.

After that day, Rabban's mother had stopped bringing him anywhere public at all. Kept him trapped at home as often as possible, like a feral animal restrained by a cage.

And yet here he was again, watching you enjoy yourself as you sang and danced in the streets, never breaking eye-contact and gifting him the sweetest of smiles. Whenever you returned to his side, you clung to his arm and babbled about whatever, not minding what your precious subjects or even your own family might think of you...

...kissing him so openly, so deeply, as if you were proud to be his wife, despite everything.

Maybe this planet wasn't that bad, all things considered.

"You know, you could stay here. Until I secured Arrakis for your arrival, I mean" he promised solemny later that night, as you warmed each other under the sheets. "And I'll take you to Lankiveil as often as I can."

Rabban's offer made you stirr in your almost-slumber, witnessing his pale face glow more lively under the chimney's embers. "Why would you do that for me?"

The question caught him off guard, fumbling with his words. "Don't mock me, woman. This is the first time I felt something like this. Its...difficult for me, to say the least."

"Well, I'm grateful for the offer" you mumble sleepily, guiding his hands to rest on your hip. "But my place is at my husband's side."

After this long and eventful day it was no wonder you couldn't stay up for much longer, the security your husband's hug provided guiding you into a sweet slumber.

Rabban lets out a shaky breath, unable to fathom how he deserved feeling such bliss. He covers you with the blanket, waits until your breathing pattern indicates you're fast asleep until he dares speaking his mind.

"I love you, Y/N" he whispers, feeling a profound sense of happiness encase him after confessing this - mostly to himself.

#dune #dune part two #glossu rabban #beast rabban #glossu rabban / reader #beast rabban / reader #self insert #writing #rape tw

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yoonsdoll · 7 months

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flower - ksy

content : n-i!hoshi x f!reader ; fluff , strangers 2 lovers ; 1.8k words warnings : brief mention of sickness - where you're a florist, and soonyoung (an incredibly cute customer) catches your eye. an : i hope that u enjoy!! ive wanted to write something like this for a while but ive been busy + not proof-read so apologies for any mistakes!

“same customer again..? i swear he comes here every day… what does he need this many flowers for?” you heard your co-worker hum with a little smirk.

the familiar stranger, who without fail purchased flowers daily, has just departed from the flower shop where you worked at, the stupidly handsome guy who always seeks your flower advice, the one who boldly orders custom bouquets exclusively from you. you were the newest florist, the least experienced among your colleagues, so, why did he always choose to talk to you?

“how would i know?” you managed to shrug your shoulders tiredly, offering nothing more but a sigh. “he probably buys flowers for his girlfriend… or maybe girlfriends? i mean… i like flowers too, but what girl wants to receive flowers daily…”

“i wouldn't be surprised, he's a hot ass guy… i’d be all over him too if i had the chance.” your co-worker giggled. “i’m jealous of you, he always comes in and asks you for help, maybe you find him attractive too?”

“yes.. i mean.. no? i don't know. hes cute i guess, but i'm sure he has a girlfriend and is only asking for help cause he needs someone else's opinion on the flowers he gets. to be honest, i don't even know his name.”

it blew your mind how you started working as a florist under three months ago, promising yourself that this job would just be a way to earn money for education. but now its been two weeks since the same nameless guy started visiting the store every day, two weeks since you've actually started to look forward to work. its not like you didn't previously like it, but it definitely made it easier when you started to indulge yourself in delusion, in dreams that contain the same handsome guy coming down to the store to see you daily.

you didn't mean it to end up like this, you told yourself that it was only a coincidence, that he really did just have a girlfriend that he cared for and loved. but you couldn't help and imagine what it would be like to be that lucky girl.

“how could you fall for someone who’s name you don't even know?” your friend hansol asked you when you told him about it.

…but how could you not? seeing all his different outfits - which you’d describe as streetstyle, with oversized pants and cool shirts, occasionally wearing jackets and hoodies - hearing his husky voice in the tiring afternoons, noticing the way he so carefully thought about the choices of flowers he would get, even doing so much as asking for recommendations.

weeks passed and you’ve gotten into a routine of seeing him at this point. you always welcomed him with a “good afternoon” to which he would start to respond with “good afternoon, y/n” after you started wearing your name-tag badge that everyone was usually required to wear, but you never wore due to old people always reading it wrong or mispronouncing it.

but today was different. it was 5:43 pm, and you were going to close soon, yet he still hasn’t arrived.

time passed quickly, before you knew it, it was 6 pm and you just finished helping an elderly lady to walk down the steps of the store. it was now time to close, you couldn't help but feel disappointed. you flipped over the wooden sign on the door that said ‘open’ so that passer-bys wouldn’t walk into the store after hours. you hummed to yourself as you swept away any fallen petals that dropped on the floor, until you heard the bell that always notified you when someone entered. “it's closed..” you mumbled, turning around to face the door.

“i'm a little late huh?” the familiar face spoke, “ah… i should've hurried. something came up and…” his tone quietened as he spoke. “nevermind” he smiled once more, putting his left arm out, which held a cup of coffee that you recognised, a coffee from the expensive café a street away. “i got you coffee.”

“oh. thank you?” the corners of your lips rising into a smile, reaching out for the coffee, your fingers brushing against each other. “do you still need to buy flowers? you do everyday right?” you glanced at the clock on the wall that read 6:04 pm. “i can stay in a bit to help if you’d like” you added.

his expression turned into one of guilt, you could tell he didn't want to keep you in work for any extra time. “no it's okay. actually… i came here to thank you, for always helping me pick the best flowers, the bouquets you make are really beautiful. you have some real talent.” you couldn't help but giggle at the flattery, never really hearing words like these, especially from a guy that you found cute.

“ah… by the way, i’m soonyoung. i don't think i ever introduced myself. i'm sorry, that must be really awkward for you considering i know your name already.” you laughed softly, soonyoung's chuckles quickly following yours.

“its okay, its my fault for not asking previously, i was just nervous,” you quickly admitted, the awkward atmosphere melting away.

“no but seriously, my mother loves the bouquets you make,” he added to his previous statement.

oh. his mother.

suddenly it all hit you. he hasn’t been buying flowers for his girlfriend (or plural - considering at one point you thought he was a player). he has been buying them for his mother like a good son would.

“i feel so stupid oh my god…” you muttered to yourself, unaware of how loud your muttering would be in a completely quiet room.

“whys that?” soonyoung concerningly asks, his head slightly tilted at the sight of your flushed cheeks and embarrassed expression. but his concern quickly changing into a smirk as you stutter trying to let any words leave your lips.

you felt as if the universe was torturing you. the fact that its been weeks since you met this cute stranger but kept your distance because you didn't want to be a homewrecker. and the fact that you were now standing in front of him having to explain the comment you made that you assumed he wouldn't hear.

and worst of them all, having to explain that same comment with his pretty face staring right at you, acting stupid, when in reality you had a feeling that he knew everything.

and know everything he did. in fact, he was even worse than you. ever since he entered the store with hopes to find his sick mother some cute flowers, he couldn't get you off his mind. he told himself everyday that it would be the day he would ask for your number, but always ended up leaving with just a little more knowledge about your favourite flowers and a bouquet that his mother would later put in a glass jar next to her hospital bed. he acted so sweet, he put on his best outfits, he did anything to hint that you should maybe make the first move, but he eventually came to the conclusion that maybe you didn’t find him attractive. he was a mess, telling all his friends about the cute girl that worked at the flower shop, making them hype him up prior to entering the store, yet he never even had the guts to even tell you his name.

but seeing your smile as he entered, seeing you in your cute uniform with your name-tag he assumed you wore for him, seeing how fast you were to come up to him and help him with the selection of flowers he might’ve wanted that day, it all ignited hope within him that maybe he had a chance with you. a chance that you wanted to talk to him just as badly as he did with you, a chance that you counted down the hours till he got to see you just as he did, a chance that there would be something out of this random crush he developed on a late tuesday afternoon a few weeks ago.

“i assumed you were buying these for your girlfriend,” you finally spat out, doing anything to avoid eye contact. his smirk only getting wider, and his cheeks a shade redder.

“you got it all wrong,” he chuckled once more, admiring your sudden shyness. “i wouldn’t be coming to this flower store with the knowledge that such a pretty girl worked here if i did have a girlfriend.” he casually told you as he fixed his jacket.

you looked up at him surprised, your heart beating a little faster at the sudden confession.

“don't act so shocked… why in the world would i need to buy my mother flowers everyday? i like getting her gifts, but her room is filled to the brim at this point… all ‘cause i didn't know how to ask for your number, so i just visited everyday to see you.” soonyoung’s heart now picking up a pace too, his confident expression masking the amount of thoughts he was having in the moment.

his confession ended up leaving you speechless, looking at him with wide eyes and a half-pout, half-smile trying to figure out if he's serious or not.

“your coffee will get cold.” he then pointed out, zipping up his jacket. “i promise to bring you a bouquet next time, with all your favourite flowers in it.” he smiled at you so adoringly as you nodded your head a little in response. “see you y/n!”

soonyoung soon left, leaving you in silence. it took you a few minutes to gather yourself together, remembering the coffee you were still holding in your hand, which was keeping its heat from your warm hands. you lifted the cup to your lips, noticing some writing on the side of it. your eyes quickly shifted to see what it said.

‘please text me. - soonyoung’ with his number written underneath and a cute doodle of a baby tiger next to his name.

that night you opened your phone and typed in his number into your contacts as soon as you got home. you saved his name as soonyoung, but struggled picking an emoji to put, stumped between a flower emoji and a tiger, but eventually coming to the conclusion a white heart would be the cutest. you spent the rest of that night texting him about literally everything, even calling him at some point.

the next day he kept his promise and brang a big bouquet full of your favourite flowers that you always rambled about to the store, with the offer of a date, which of course you would never decline. it didn't take long for you and soonyoung to start seeing each other outside of work. texts ended up in more dates, and dates ended up in promises of regularly seeing each other.

you would've never thought that the cute guy who came in to buy his ‘girlfriend’ flowers would become your boyfriend, your soonyoung. but maybe those weeks full of heartbreak and delusion were really worth it considering you had the privilege to finally call him yours, and he had the privilege to call you his.

#seventeen #seventeen fanfic #seventeen fluff #kwon soonyoung #soonyoung x reader #soonyoung fluff #svt #svt hoshi #seventeen soonyoung #svt soonyoung #hoshi fluff #fluff #soonyoung brainrot #kwon hoshi #yoonsdoll #laura : fics !#laura : writing !

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thoughtfullyrainynightmare · 4 months

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About chapter 369:

Remember that these are my own, personal opinions, and you don't need to agree with them (however, friendly discussion is welcomed as always). And my opinions are affected by the rumour I heard about there being only 3 chapters of BC left, including 369. Meaning that we'd get the finish, maybe, Christmas 2024.

The chapter was very MagLuck centric, which is amazing to those who love the dynamic duo, and I'm happy for them, but... I felt that essentially... nothing happened? I mean, Asta comes back, with Ichika, and we have the very brief "omg Captain Yami's lil' sister is here?! wait?! He has a sister??!!", but it was very brief. And, I get that due to the tempo of the point where the story is, them being in the battle where we've been for the past... 30+ chapters (granted that Asta was in yet another battle within those 30 chapters, but it's been basically just one battle after another ever since the start of the Spade arc); battles make the tempo quick. That's how most prose works. You can't focus on many events in the heat of the battle, but BC... in my opinion, has become about nothing else than fighting. It's like Luck took over Tabs and it's just fight fight fight. The movie was just one 1h+ long fight scene with minimal story, and so is the manga as it stands now.

And... if Tabs is supposed to wrap it up in 60 or so pages, I cannot see how he could realistically do that unless it ends in the "you all die" ending. Which would be very un-BC like.

Could Lucius die of a heart attack? It's possible. The big bad's heart can't take the toll of all the mana he's consuming suddenly and it gives out and he flops down. Asta and Yuno wouldn't get their rivalry settled and life in Clover would go back to business as usual. (I'm not seriously suggesting this of course, I'm trying to be funny)

I hear that this is very Berserk type of a situation to be in. You got one chapter every 6 months and nothing essentially happens, because the plot is progressing so slowly. But as of now, I feel like BC is a falling house of cards. A lot happens, without proper development, and it's buried under flashy fights, maybe, meant to distract the reader.

The next chapter will (if we believe the battle order in the end of chapter 368) have the Mereo&Morris battle, and the last issue will deal with Yuno&Asta vs. Lucius. But it all feels too hasted.

There absolutely are good things about BC, which is why I'm saddened to feel that it's going out in flames. I just don't find things to expect anymore.

I am happy to those who feel hyped for the MagLuck moment, and them having their Great Duo Fight against the big bad, and my criticism isn't just about this chapter. It's about the last 100 chapters. The movie. The lack of lore, world-building, character-building, the lack... of a story.

And I blame the manga industry pushing Tabs to burnout, which is why we're here.

I feel bad for Tabs. I feel bad for the story. It could've been a cool story.

And that's the real tragedy here, to me. What might've been

#black clover #black clover manga #black clover manga spoilers #369 spoilers

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sowoozoo-7 · 1 year

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Love, Lust & Litigation | Ch 1

Pairing: Jungkook x Fem Reader x Namjoon

Genre: lawyer!AU, coworkers to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut

Rating: M (18+) whole fic, this chapter PG-13 (for language lol)

Warnings: some swearing in this chapter, nothing explicit

Word Count: 4k

Summary: Unfortunately, you have developed a massive crush on your new boss. Even more unfortunately, your equally attractive coworker is also harboring massive crush on your boss. AKA Jungkook and reader both pine for big, sexy brain Namjoon.

A/N: Phew! Here she is! The first chapter of my first fic. This has been slowly chewing away at my brain for the last few months, and I finally decided to say fuck it and write it. I don't know anything about law or lawyers other than what I've seen from movies and read in books so I'm sure I've gotten something wrong, but whatever, it's my own alternate made up universe.

Anyway, I’m new to all this — longtime reader, first-time poster — so I’d love feedback if you have any! Hope you like it ~

mlist | ch 1 | ch 2 | ch 3 | ch 4 | ch 5 | interlude | ch 6

Two hours into your new job at Bang and Associates, and you’ve already made a fool of yourself.

The first couple of hours went smoothly. Check-in with HR was all standard forms, waivers, and NDAs, and the view from your new office is killer.

Though your new boss and the other associate on the litigation team are at court for the morning, you get to meet two of the paralegals on your team, Jimin Park and Hoseok Jung. They look like they just stepped out of a menswear ad, in their fitted suits and slicked back hair. You'd normally be wary of office workers who look a little too put together, but you get the sense that they’re going to be good coworkers from the few minutes you spend talking to them, both good-natured and quick to share a laugh.

It’s when they’re giving you a tour of the office that your heel slips on a set of marble stairs and you find yourself briefly experiencing flight. You decide flying is overrated when you land on your ass and bounce down several steps. One of your shoes takes its own trip and lands a few yards away. You sit on the steps, frozen for a minute, with your bare foot just out there for the world to see.

“Oh my god,” says Hoseok as he rushes down to the step where you landed. “Are you alright?”

You’re quiet for a moment while you deliberate whether or not you’re going to cry. It’s inevitable that you’ll cry in front of your coworkers one day, but looking around, you see everyone else in the atrium glancing over at the absolute idiot who fell down the stairs on her first day.

Not the day to cry, you decide. First impressions and all that. At least you wore a pantsuit today and not a dress.

“I think I’m okay,” you say with a rueful smile. “Just a bruised ego.”

Jimin retrieves your shoe and hands it to you with a sparkle of laughter in his eyes. “Another one bites the dust." It’s not malicious, you don’t think.

“He means that you’re not the first to slip down the stairs,” says Hoseok. “We think the janitors are polishing them extra to get back at all the asshole lawyers.”

You limp for the rest of the office tour.

***

You get sent to the courthouse after finishing the brief admin in the office to shadow your new boss, the firm’s superstar.

Namjoon Kim is mesmerizing.

You have heard of his reputation — how could you not? Top of his class with a winning streak unmatched in the industry — but you have yet to see him in action.

He lives up to his reputation.

You sit at the back of the courtroom, trying not to put too much weight on your bruised ass, watching as he delivers his closing statement.

His voice is deep and measured, drawing everyone to the edge of their seat to hear every twist to the argument he’s crafting. You pity the opposition. They went first with their closing statement and now they’re squirming in their seats as Namjoon takes down every argument, point by point. The jury hangs on to his every world.

Maybe it’s the way he carries himself, with a quiet confidence and authority, maybe it’s that he’s built like a tree and looks like a dream in his pinstripe suit. Whatever it is, you get the feeling that working under a beautiful genius is going to be some kind of Dantean torture.

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

You blink, realizing it’s over, and you watch as he goes to sit. Silence hangs in the court room in the brief second it takes the courtroom to snap out of their Namjoon-induced daze. The room shuffles as everyone shifts back in their seats. The closing formalities continue, with the judge sending the jury to deliberations.

“Court is adjourned.”

The room rumbles with a flurry of activity as everyone goes to exit. You hurry to catch Namjoon — you want to introduce yourself to your new boss as soon as possible — but you get lost in the shuffle of people filing out. By the time you catch up to him outside, he’s giving a press interview on the steps of the courthouse.

You wait on the outskirts of the small crowd that’s gathered. Deja-vu hits as you watch the reporters lean in to hang on to his every word. He takes the questions with grace, and even a little humor, and smiles at a joke one of the reporters makes.

Dear lord. He has dimples.

“Spectacular, isn’t he?”

A young man stands next to you, smirking as if he knows how much you’re fangirling over your new boss. You recognize him as the second attorney at the defendant’s counsel table. The remaining member of the litigation team.

If you weren’t so preoccupied with Namjoon, you’d be mooning over this man instead. His just-messy-enough-to-show-he-doesn’t-care hair frames his face in waves. An eyebrow piercing and a lip piercing glint in the late morning sun. Tattoos decorate the back of one of his hands. He would look like a punk kid up to no good, but you can the tell the suit he’s wearing costs more than your monthly rent. Jesus. Is everyone in the office just a walking GQ campaign?

“Excuse me?”

“Namjoon,” he says with a smile that changes his expression entirely, from a little rakish to boyish in its delight. “I call it the Namjoon Effect. No one’s immune. I think it’s the dimples.” He puts out his hand to shake yours. “Jungkook Jeon. I’m th—“

“The other associate on the litigation team. I know.” You shake his hand and introduce yourself. “Looking forward to working with you.”

“Ah, I thought it was you. Jimin texted me to look out for you today.”

The impromptu press conference breaks up and Namjoon ushers his client down the stairs.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you,” says Jungkook, flying down the steps. You follow at a slower pace, the twinge in your hip reminding you of your fall earlier that day. Still, you try to strike a confident stride in your heels. First impressions and all.

Namjoon pats the roof of the private car he has bundled his client into and straightens as Jungkook claps him on the shoulder.

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about any type of evidence to the press.”

Namjoon raises an eyebrow. “The PR team said that. I didn’t agree to anything. Besides, it’s the same evidence we presented at the trial, just in a different light. Even if we have a less-than-favorable verdict, we’ll still have the public on our side.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “Why do you even bring me with you?” He sees you and gestures you over. “Namjoon, may I present your latest lackey.”

“I resent that,” you say, mock-frowning and pointing a finger at Jungkook. “But you’re not wrong.”

You introduce yourself to Namjoon and shake his hand. It’s warm and firm. You hope yours isn’t cold and clammy. “Pleasure to be working with you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine. I’ve heard great things from your former boss,” he says with a smile. There go the dimples again. He glances at his watch. “Shall we discuss our caseload over lunch?”

You feel a little thrill at being included in the “our.” Bang and Associates have a reputation for working on some of the most high-profile cases in the city and you’re ready to dig your greedy little fingers into the cases.

“Cat’s Pajamas?” asks Jungkook. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll drive.”

Namjoon sighs as Jungkook turns to walk towards the garage. “He always weasels his way into lunches. I swear he’s a never-ending pit,” he says with a note of fondness for the younger man.

Cat’s Pajamas is an airy bistro just a few blocks away from the offices. There’s a sizable lunchtime crowd, filled with self-important business people taking their clients out to lunch. Jimin and Hoseok meet your group at the restaurant.

You wince at you sit down, rubbing at the side of your hip. The bruise you expected from the fall is developing faster than you thought.

“Are you okay?” Namjoon asks.

He and Jungkook look at you with concern.

You wave them off. “Just a bruise.”

Jimin shakes his head. “The marble stairs have claimed their newest victim.”

“Ah,” says Jungkook with a knowing nod. “I almost broke my wrist when I fell down those stairs a couple months ago. It’s practically a rite of passage at Bang and Associates at this point.”

“Looks like you’re already part of the team,” says Namjoon, lifting his water glass in a toast.

***

The rest of the day passes quickly.

You return to your office to find a stack of documents already on your desk, with a sticky note from Hoseok on top. Welcome to the team!!!! it says, with a big looping smiley face next to it.

You slip out of your heels and bring your legs up under you as you settle into your desk, a routine study position that has followed you from college through to your professional life. There’s nothing you like more than finding your way in the maze of paperwork and laying out your trail in court. You lose yourself in the legalese, getting familiar with an ongoing case that Namjoon mentioned over lunch.

Jungkook pulls you into his office when you’re returning from the bathroom to strategize about the case. His office is exactly the same as yours, with enough space for two guest chairs, a large desk and a set of bookshelves crammed with leather-bound law books. And, your inner petty competitor is pleased to see, the view is also almost exactly the same. Of course, he has a slight advantage because he’s worked here longer, but you have the same job title, the same office. You’re almost on even footing. You’ve noticed a competitive streak in him, and you’re excited to play against it. It’s only going to make you a better lawyer.

The “quick chat” turns into an hour-long discussion and you decide by the time you leave his office that you’ll head home at normal close of business hours. You’ll be staying late anyway as your caseload grows.

You’re surprised to find a brown paper bag on your desk, one of the simple gift bags you can find at the drug store. Inside, you find a get well soon card with a cartoon of a man on a hospital bed in a full-body cast with a thermometer coming out of his mouth and an ice pack on his head. Inside, it reads:

Even though your welcome to Bang and Associates was a painful one, I’m very happy to have you on the team and I look forward to working with you. Now you know to avoid the stairs :)

-Namjoon

Inside the bag you find a bruise balm and a travel size pack of ibuprofen. Warmth spreads through you, pleased at the gift. There’s another layer to that warmth, a feeling that you don’t want to examine too closely, because he’s your boss, and you suspect (no, you know) it's inappropriate to feel that towards your boss.

Later that night, though, as you’re applying the balm to the colorful bruise on your hip, you can’t help but think of his dimpled smile.

***

“You’re babying me.”

You’ve won your first case for Bang and Associates. Your client, a rich young widow who married an older man for love, was the sole inheritor to his massive fortune. His children, some older than the widow, were upset that they got nothing in the will. As you worked with the client, you got the sense that she was genuinely sad about her late husband’s passing. Not that it made any difference. She was a paying client, and you had to represent her regardless, but it made rooting for her easier.

“I thought it was for sure a trick case and that there would be something to trip me up in the prenup, but it was so straightforward.” You’re in the elevator with Namjoon heading up to the office. He was present at the trial, to keep an eye on you to make sure you lived up to the promise of your initial interview.

He shrugs. “It’s nice to start off with a win. You’d be surprised with how many people don’t prepare or get wrapped up in how things should be and completely flounder.” He pats your shoulder as the elevator dings open. “You did good today. Good prep, good execution.”

He nods a goodbye and heads to his office without looking back. You head to yours at a slower clip, your shoulder burning where he touched you. You feel warm overall anyway, knowing you did a good job, but the praise still feels good. A little too good, maybe.

Over the next month, the cases get harder and harder, and you have to pull out the most obscure references from your time in law school. You start spending more and more time at the office, racking up insane amounts of billable hours. You have a permanent cup of coffee at your desk and you change into your fuzzy slippers you brought from home to give your feet a break from heels whenever a new case file lands on your desk for review.

At least you’re not the only one pulling crazy hours. The rest of the litigation team often stays late. You fall in quickly with the guys, cracking jokes over the Nespresso machine you all hover around. They were wary of you at first, an unknown entity coming into the equation, but you proved worth after the second night you stayed late and cracked the key piece of a case buried in ancient tax laws. They treated you to drinks at the local watering hole afterward. The biggest reward though, was getting a small dimpled smile and a thumbs up from Namjoon before he called it a night.

It helps that your boss stays late with the rest of the team. Every time you come to him with a tricky case, without fail, he gives brilliant insight or a nudge in the right direction, giving you advice on where to look for the answer. And when he goes to his fancy client dinners, he’ll always bring something back to the office when he inevitably stops by the office on his way home. You can’t say no to a good takeaway creme brûlée.

One Friday afternoon, Namjoon pulls everyone into a meeting a half hour before close of business. “It’s been a tough few weeks. You’re all going home at five today.” He holds up a hand when the team starts to protest. “I’m going to be at Silver Spoon for happy hour. Drinks are on me. You don’t have to come, but you can’t stay here.”

“I have too much work to do,” Jimin says with a pout.

“I’m firing you if you don’t leave at five on the dot.” The good-natured threat falls easily from Namjoon’s lips. “That goes for all of you. Wrap up what you need to.”

You spend the rest of the time cataloguing what you need to finish Monday morning. Usually you’d work Saturdays too, but with the promise of an early weekend, you decide everything can wait until open of business Monday. Well. Maybe you’ll work on that memo from home over the weekend, but everything else on your to-do list can wait.

You join Jungkook and Hoseok at the elevator bank three minutes before the hour.

“Think he’s gonna make it?” asks Hoseok with a laugh.

You check your watch. “Two minutes left. He’ll make it right at five.”

“He’ll be two minutes over,” says Jungkook.

“I think five over,” says Hoseok.

“Loser buys the nachos,” you say. They both shake on it.

Jimin runs into the elevator bank just as the clock ticks over to five. You pump your fist in victory while the other two groan.

Jimin leans over to catch his breath. “I thought I wasn’t going to make it.”

He straightens just as Namjoon rounds the corner from his office.

“Glad I’m not losing any of the team today.”

“And I get two sets of nachos,” you say, getting into the elevator behind the rest and pressing the button for the ground floor.

“Hobi gets the nachos. I’ll get the wings,” says Jungkook.

Jimin looks back and forth between you two, a confused pout on his face. “What did I miss?”

***

Silver Spoon is all leather and dark wood. Namjoon leads the way to a large booth in the back, waving to the bartender behind the gleaming wooden bar.

“You know everyone,” comments Jungkook as you all pile into the booth. It ends up with Namjoon in the middle, you and Jungkook flanking him, Hoseok next to you, and Jimin next to Jungkook.

“I’ve been working in this area a long time. It pays to get to know the people working at your favorite haunts.”

Namjoon drinks whiskey, neat. Junkook orders a pint of the house craft beer. Hoseok has a glass of red wine, and Jimin has a double straight vodka. You get an elderflower spritz, light and refreshing in the unusually hot fall afternoon.

The conversation deteriorates to work talk, as it usually does among coworkers. The nachos and wings follow the drinks, and everyone digs in. They’re good, just the right amount of elevated to make the price worth it, but not so fancy that the bar food is unrecognizable.

Silver Spoon fills up as the finance bros and hedge fund managers who work in the area trickle in. You recognize a few former coworkers, and you raise your glass to them in a toast when they wave hello, but you don’t attempt to engage further. You don’t care to reconnect with them. The cutthroat, backstabbing environment at your last firm is what made you leave in the first place. Bang and Associates hires ambitious lawyers, but fosters a workplace that manages to keep the ones that are ambitions without the cattiness, encouraging a collaborative work environment over individual hotshot lawyers. You're settling into your new workplace just fine, thank you.

Namjoon gets a call shortly after the third round of drinks, and Jungkook and Jimin shimmy out of the booth to let him out so he can take the call in private.

Hoseok picks up where the conversation left off, brainstorming where to start to research a tricky case. Jimin interrupts him before he can get a full sentence out.

“Uuuugh,” he says, dragging his hands down his cheeks. “Can we talk about anything but work?”

“Please,” you say.

Jimin looks at you with a mischievous grin and pops his chin onto his hand. He calls your name in a singsongy voice. “Are you seeing anyone?”

You snort into your drink. “Do I look like I have time for a relationship?”

“It’s amazing what you can get up to in our limited free time if you have some determination,” mutters Hoseok with a sidelong glance at Jimin.

“Jimin is slowly working his way through the office,” explains Jungkook.

Jimin crosses his heart with his finger and holds a hand up. “All above-board with HR, of course.”

“Doesn’t mean you haven’t left behind a trail of broken hearts,” says Hoseok.

“They all knew what they were getting into when they consented to the relationship.”

“Or lack thereof,” says Jungkook with a snort.

Jimin turns to look at him, eyebrow raised. “Speaking of lack of relationships, still hung up on Namjoon?”

Jungkook turns an impressive shade of red. “Stop, I’m not—“

“Ever since he broke up with his ex-girlfriend, he’s had this massive crush on Namjoon,” Jimin tells you.

“Shut up!”

“We all see how you look at him,” says Hoseok, not unkindly. “Stars in your eyes when you think he’s not looking.”

So you hadn’t been imagining that.

Jungkook’s only response is to chug the rest of his pint.

“I don’t blame you,” you say, then freeze as three heads whip around to look at you. “What?” you ask, voice squeaky.

“Not you too,” groans Jimin.

“What?” You hope the heat creeping up your face isn’t noticeable in the low bar lighting. “I have eyes. He’s attractive. You can’t deny that.”

“And smart,” says Jungkook morosely.

“And kind and he’s a good leader. I’m surprised you guys aren’t also harboring secret crushes,” you say, as if they’re the idiots for not having a massive crush on their boss. In reality, it’s terrifying to say these things out loud, everything you’ve been thinking over the past month you’ve been working at Bang and Associates.

“Unfortunately, I’m straight,” says Hoseok.

“And disgustingly in love with his fiancée,” sneers Jimin. “It’s actually sickening to see them together. She’s super pretty and an amazing dancer — you’ll see at the holiday party— and you really want to hate her but she’s also really nice on top of all that.” He takes the rest of his drink in one shot without a wince. You’d think he was sober if you hadn’t seen him down his vodka doubles like they were water. “And I’m not straight, but I know a lost cause when I see one. Namjoon’s practically married to his work. There are other men and women still waiting to be added to my bedpost.” He waggles his eyebrows in an exaggerated imitation of a leery cartoon character.

“You’re disgusting, you know that?”

“Thought I don’t know about Namjoon.” Jimin continues like he didn’t hear Jungkook’s comment. “I don’t think he’s married, because I’ve never seen a ring, and I’ve never seen him flirting or taking anyone home after drinks. No dates to company parties.”

“Maybe he’s asexual,” says Hoseok.

“That would be a shame because I bet he’s got a big d—“

Jungkook interrupts Jimin with an elbow to his side. He sits up straight, and you follow his line of sight to see Namjoon coming back to the table. They move out of the booth to give him his spot back in the middle.

“Sorry about that. What are we talking about?” asks Namjoon as he settles in, just an inch closer than he had been sitting before. The intoxicating spicy smell of sandalwood that you’ve come to associate with Namjoon fills your nose and you suppress the urge to take a deep breath.

You and Jungkook exchange guilty glances over the table. Jimin heaves a dramatic sigh, thankfully drawing Namjoon’s attention away from you two.

“We were just bemoaning our single status. Not Hoseok, of course.”

“I’d be surprised if you all have time to date, what with the hours we’ve been pulling.”

“How do you balance it all? Work, a social life, dating?” The question falls from your lips and you wish you could shove it back in your mouth. Jungkook kicks you from the other side of the table, and Jimin looks impressed that you actually asked the question.

Namjoon lets out a hollow laugh. “I’m the wrong person to ask.”

You exchange glances with Jungkook again. Does this mean he’s single?

Before anyone can ask a follow-up question, a group of lawyers from the (mostly) friendly competition approach the table to make small talk. You want to shoo them away like pigeons so you can continue the conversation, but you busy yourself with your drink instead.

Your coworkers disperse soon after, with Hoseok slipping away to go home first, red-faced and quiet. Namjoon talks to a group of his law school classmates by the bar.

As the evening progresses, it’s painfully obvious to you now that Jungkook is mooning over Namjoon. You’d had your suspicions before, but after the conversation from earlier, the not-so-subtle glances make you cringe a little. You hope you’re not that obvious too.

Not that Namjoon’s presence stops him from chatting up sone of the women who join your table. They work in the advertising firm a few floors below you, and you’ve gotten friendly with them over the past few weeks. The petite woman with the swishy blonde hair touches him a little more than necessary.

You and Jimin exchange looks when you both clock her hand on Jungkook’s bicep for the third time in as many minutes.

Jungkook and the blonde head out together not too long after. Good for him, you think, not getting so hung up on Nmajoon that he can’t focus on a different pretty face for the night.

When it’s just you and Jimin left at the booth, he leans in a little close. “What do you say you and me head out?”

You laugh in his face. “I’m not going to sleep with you, Jimin.”

He takes it in stride, and stands with a wink. “If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”

He blows you a kiss before zeroing in on one of the finance bros who’s been looking over at your table for the past hour. He won’t know what hit him once Jimin is done with him.

You don’t bother trying to pull someone at the bar, choosing instead to slip away without any fanfare. Though you’re no stranger to one-night stands, you’re looking forward to sleeping in and you can’t be bothered with the logistics of a hookup. Tonight, you have a date with your bed, and your bed only.

The air has a bite to it as you step out of the bar, and you pull your coat around you as you hurry to the curb to your Uber. You settle into the back of the car as the driver pulls out into traffic.

You can’t help but feel kinship with Jungkook, what with both of you lusting after the same ill-advised man. The city lights blur by and you let your eyes unfocus.

You wonder what would happen if you were the last three people left in the world. Would he go for you or Jungkook? In your buzzed state of mind, you think you really wouldn't mind sharing.

Please do not copy or repost. I do not crosspost anywhere else.

#jungkook x you #namjoon x you #jungkook x reader #namjoon x reader #bts fic #bts smut #junkook fanfic #namjoon fanfic #jeon junkook smut #kim namjoon smut #fic: love lust & litigation

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