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gimmeurtmi · 4 months

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no nut november — 2min

pairing: kim seungmin x fem!reader x lee minho

tags: established relationship, polyamory, smut!!!🔞

warnings: swearing, alcohol, throuple, heavy mxm, use of “bunny”, “bubs”, "baby," clubbing, voyeurism, a no nut november bet, 2min who are little shits, reader is implied demisexual but can be read otherwise, fingering, multiple orgasms and overstimulation, lmk what i forgot <3

inspo: i mustn’t say 🤭

notes: one might ask, “lils, why tf are you posting a no nut november fic in january?” and i will simply answer “time is but a cage i cannot be locked into.”. no but seriously i had this idea in like october and well. you know. so i finished it now because i missed my 2min throuple verse! im not madly in love with this and i didn’t know how to end it but i also thought it was lowkey cute so here it is!!! mwah! <3

{ wc: 4638}

“You two are crazy,” you scoffed, before taking another sip of your brightly coloured cocktail. It was Minho’s birthday celebration, albeit two days later than the actual birthday, but it was the weekend and easier for your schedules to align for a night out.

“Come on, bubs, we’re serious,” Seungmin said, pushing his elbows forward and inching closer to you. It was odd of the pair of them to sit together and not fight for the seat beside you on the booth, but now you’ve understood they had an ulterior motive tonight. Trying to rope you into their craziness.

“I have no issues with not having sex,” you start, shaking your head at Minho’s brow raise, “you both know that’s not the thing I care about here.”

“Exactly,” Seungmin grinned. “You love us and not our monster di—“

“—shush!!” You quickly urged him, watching your waitress approach your table to check on your service. You order six more shots.

“I don’t understand the game, then,” you looked between them, eyeing them suspiciously.

“We were talking about it, and I think out of the three of us Seungminnie is least likely to make it,” Minho explained.

“But I’m a virgo,”

“But he’s a virgo,” you both echoed. Minho rolled his eyes with a small fond smile on his face, shaking his head.

“Yes, there’s that. And we kept going back and forth about it so we thought we should just try it and see who actually makes it a whole month.”

“This is incredibly stupid,” you decide, quickly shutting your mouth when the waitress arrives with your shots. You take one immediately and down it.

“You’ve done stupider things,” Seungmin said, leaning back in his chair. He’s close to admitting defeat, you can tell. And so can Minho, so he turns his full attention to you and grabs your hands.

“It’ll be so fun, come on. Imagine how frustrated the puppy will get when he keeps trying to hump our—“

“—hey!” Seungmin slapped Minho’s shoulder, earning an endeared giggle from the older.

“Why do you two wanna do it so bad?” You squinted at Minho, watching as he fixes his gaze on yours in determination.

“Because I wanna be right,” he rubs his thumb against your hand. “I think he’ll crack first, and then you. And then me.”

“I will last a whole month. Maybe even two.”

“Bubs, this isn’t just no sex with us. This is no touching at all. Nothing,” Seungmin tries.

“No kissing even?” You squeak.

“Yes kissing!” Minho practically yells, squeezing your hand tightly. He looks between the pair of you, alarmed as his bunny teeth peek out of his gasp. “Definitely lots of kissing!”

Seungmin laughs almost evilly at the pair of you, his bangs hiding his eyes slightly as he shakes his head.

“So just no sexual stuff,” you try to clarify. “That’s too easy.”

“Then let’s do it!” Minho exclaimed, grabbing one of the two shots placed in front of him and downing it with a dramatic head swing.

Seungmin rolls his eyes before downing one of his pair.

“I feel like you two are up to something,” you say, tapping your fingers against Minho’s palm. Seungmin scoffs.

“Why would we be up to something, bubs?”

“Yeah, bunny,” Minho blinks innocently, “what would we be up to?”

You scrutinise Minho’s ears, studying them carefully for any sign of redness—but the ambience is relaxed and luxurious around you, which for whatever reason means there’s barely enough light to tell if Minho’s ears are telling the truth or not.

“Hey,” Seungmin grabs your arm, squeezing softly, “let’s just forget about it, then. Hyung and I thought it would be funny but if you don’t want to then there’s nothing to discuss.”

“I’ll think about it,” you conclude.

It’s then you remember the other round of shots you each have waiting in front of you, and gesture to your boyfriends for a cheers. You dedicate it to Minho’s birthday before clinking your glasses together. Then, after three more rounds, Minho decides he’s ready for the club.

It’s packed full of people, Minho’s arm protectively wrapping around your stomach as he shields you from behind. Seungmin holds your hand tightly in front you, the three of you single file as he pushes through the sea of party goers. It’s just the last Saturday of October, it shouldn’t be so busy, but Minho says he wants to stay so the three of you stay.

Seungmin pushes all the way to the very heart of the dance floor where the bass is so loud you feel it in your ribcage. You can barely see anything around you—bodies pushing you from one side to the other, but you know it’s safe since Minho is completely behind you. Like your personal shield.

You tug Seungmin’s hand, pulling him closer to you until he stumbles, Minho’s other arm reaching for Seungmin’s spare one.

The three of you start dancing along to whatever overplayed club tune is on, so close no one could possibly separate you. So close you feel Minho’s hardness against your ass. You couldn’t exactly classify it as dancing, at least not by any standards Minho would allow. You’re basically just grinding on each other in time with the music. It’s a very fast song.

“Seung,” you have to yell in his ear, “he’s gonna get needy if we keep dancing like this.”

Seungmin, always quick to solve problems—or indeed, make them worse—grabs Minho by the back of his head and kisses him as messily as he possibly can. The grip on your hip tightens, and even the music isn’t loud enough to drown out Minho’s deep moan. You aren’t actually sure if you heard it or you could feel it vibrating against you but soon Minho grabs your jaw and starts kissing around it, Seungmin attaching his lips to yours.

The three of you aren’t the biggest participants of PDA, mainly because of the judgemental eyes that it brings with it, but the veil of alcohol and club induced horniness means you know you can get away with it here. Besides, it’s so dark and incredibly loud that no one is really paying attention to the three of you anyway.

You feel Minho sucking onto your skin, your senses clouded by Seungmin’s tongue—but Minho’s hands are obviously inchining higher and higher, getting dangerously close to your chest.

“Min,” you let out softly, detaching yourself from Seungmin for only a moment to let out your weak sounding warning.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Minho grumbles, grabbing Seungmin and you by the wrist as he pushes his way outside.

A very tense taxi ride back, and almost two hours of worshipping the birthday boy later—the three of you fall on the bed, naked and sweaty and spent.

As the one with the most working limbs, it’s your turn to get water and snakes and warm clothes to change into. You quickly wrap yourself up in your fuzzy robe before running to the kitchen. You grab two bottles and the fruit Minho cut up before you left “just in case” as if you weren’t all aware your evening would end the way it did.

When you returned, hands full, you saw a rare tenderness shared between your boyfriends you don’t often get to see.

They’re too often caught up in their fake bickering and inability to show their feelings that it can be easy to forget just how much they love each other.

You try not to make too much noise, not to disrupt their bubble as you watch Seungmin, a love sick puppy look in his eyes as he combs Minho’s sweaty hair back from his face, before he leans down to kiss him ever so softly.

Minho barely moves, which is expected after what the pair of you did to him, and smiles softly against Seungmin’s full lips. You feel your heart bursting at the sight of them, so wrapped up with each other, and it gets harder and harder not to join them. Not to mention your full hands.

You slowly sit down on the bed, Minho’s fingers blindly reaching for your hand and you wrap your fingers around his once you put all your items to the side. You were going to grab clothes too but Minho isn’t going to let go of your hand any time soon—so you simply admire the scene, your boyfriends exchanging soft kisses.

“Hyungie,” Seungmin giggles after a few minutes, “you can’t fall asleep yet.”

“But—“ he puckers his lips up, perfectly pillowy as he demands more kisses. His eyes are closed shut, a small muted whine leaving him as he’s left kissless for more than two seconds. Seungmin looks up at you with his signature shit eating grin and gestures for you to give him an apple slice, promptly shoving it into Minho’s puckered up lips.

Minho only opens his eyes for a moment to recognise what’s been shoved into his lips, before he obediently gets to eating his fruit with his eyes still shut.

Seungmin gestures to the water bottle, telling you in sign language he’d like to dunk all of it on the incredibly peaceful Minho below him. You laugh loudly before crossing your hands in an X.

Minho silently demands more, and you have to sit him up this time to properly eat and hydrate, and the three of you finish all the fruit and water in relative silence.

It’s only after you’ve washed and dressed (and Seungmin changed the sheets) that Minho speaks up.

“That was a really good birthday,” he mumbles, incredibly tired now that most of the adrenaline wore off.

“You’re gonna be really sore tomorrow though,” Seungmin chuckles, ignoring the pout Minho sends his way.

You giggle, agreeing with Seungmin before you wrap your arms around his middle and promptly fall asleep.

Seungmin makes your coffee the way you like it the next morning. Minho is still asleep and you decide you don’t want to disturb him yet.

The pair of you listen to the news for a bit and then put on a rerun of a variety show before you speak up halfway through the episode. Seungmin quickly lowers the volume.

“We should do it,” you say, sipping from your lukewarm coffee.

“Do what?”

“Your stupid no sex for a month pact,”

“Was the sex that bad last night?” He blinks at you, mouth gaped and perfectly round.

“Maybe it was just that good that you broke my cunt and I need a month off,” you raise your eyebrows at him.

Seungmin starts to smirk just as a grumbled voice says, “yeah, me too. Never touch me again, Kim Seungmin.”

Minho crashes on the chair next to yours, groaning as he sits down, before nuzzling his face into your shoulder.

“So you two agree I have a monster d—“

“Seung!” You both yell out.

November 28th

The boys have been away for weeks.

They didn’t quite consider the pact they made was perfectly timed with their packed schedule and so there was no real way for you to break it anyway. Even if you were to resort to the classic solution of phone sex, they rarely had time.

There was always a good night text, and a good morning selfie, and the unappealing close ups of Minho’s food for the day. Your group chat was still as active as ever with the boys exchanging stories and you sharing all your personal gossip with them.

But there was no time to think about the bet.

That was until they came back home two days ago.

You were doing perfectly fine before they had to be in your house every day, sharing your bed, walking around with just a towel after their morning showers.

Both of them were incredibly irritating that way—existing next to you without instigating anything, without sharing tender kisses with you while they touched your body.

You meant what you said then, of course the sexual aspect of your relationship wasn’t a top priority but there was an intimacy you craved with your boyfriends that you always felt during sex and with them being gone for work for the better part of a month, it was the first thing you wanted when they came back.

But you stayed strong, you wouldn’t let yourself be the one to lose.

Last night you fell asleep before the boys even came back home, but at some point you felt hands around your shoulders and a knee against yours and so you knew they were back with you.

And in the morning after blinking your eyes open, you were met with Minho’s beautiful face. You smiled softly to yourself, a content sigh leaving your chest as you snuggled closer to your boyfriend. The other side of the bed was empty, but you could hear a faint melody coming from the shower, so you knew Seungmin was awake and well, too.

After spending the morning cuddling with a half sleeping Minho–Seungmin only annoying you once when he walked over and kissed your shoulder in greeting, before shaking his wet hair all over the pair of you–you had to get up to do some errands around town.

Your boyfriends offered to come with you but you insisted they shouldn’t, after all, Minho could barely keep his eyes open for more than ten minutes and Seungmin had a vocal lesson in an hour. You didn’t want them to go out of their way for you when you needed to take care of boring adult stuff anyway.

While you were still stuck in traffic, Seungmin sent you half a dozen pictures of Minho’s sleeping face with a text that said ‘help me hide his corpse’.

You knew Seungmin was obviously bored but you couldn’t possibly help him from so far away, instead you challenged him to a game of one on one trivia through an app you both liked.

At one point, when your phone said you were still thirty minutes away from home, Seungmin didn’t take his turn–so you concluded that either Minho woke up or Seungmin found something more interesting to do.

When you got back home half an hour later, you discovered exactly what it was that Seungmin found more interesting than your trivia game.

“I’m home!” You announced as you walked in, quickly taking your shoes off and washing your hands. It was quiet in the house otherwise, and with the door to the bedroom closed you assumed they were both napping again. They always came home tired from their schedules and the mixture of jet leg so you tried your best to make a snack as quietly as possible.

But then you heard a moan.

“Seungminnie,” Minho said softly through the walls, “so good.”

You quickly snapped up from your chair, rushing towards the bedroom.

You had no doubt about what you heard (Minho was never good at volume control) but you still wanted to confirm it fully. Slowly, quietly, you opened the door to the bedroom. And there, sure enough, were your boyfriends half naked, kissing, their hands down each others’ boxers.

They haven’t noticed you yet, Minho's eyes were closed in pure pleasure as Seungmin switched between kissing him and moaning against his cheek. You could see both their hands moving in sync as they jerked each other off—still completely unaware you could see everything.

At least you won their stupid bet.

You always love being the centre of their attention, but watching them was a completely intoxicating experience. Getting to notice every little quirk of Minho’s eyebrows as the pleasure took over him, watching Seungmin’s uncaring facade disappear as he gets lost in the feeling his boyfriend provides. You could feel your wetness soaking through your clothes, you could feel the dull throb of arousal between your legs—but you didn’t want to do anything other than watch them. You should probably make your presence known, but all you wanted to do was keep watching.

You could tell Minho was getting close since he scrunched his eyes shut and started whimpering out Seungmin’s name, and you could tell Seungmin was close since he wasn’t making any noises at all, and you watched in awe as they sped up their movements.

“Hyung, I’m close,” Seungmin whimpered out.

“Me too,” Minho groaned. “Together baby, okay?”

You had to stop yourself from moaning out loud at their words, from gushing at the small kiss Minho pressed against Seungmin’s lips before the pair of them groaned out together as they came.

Seungmin is the first to open his eyes, and he reaches for some wipes to help clean them both up. He smiles, soft, as he kisses Minho’s cheek.

“Do you feel better, baby?” He asked, barely above a whisper.

Minho smiles, one thin line, as he nods quickly before shutting his eyes and snuggling into Seungmin’s chest.

They still haven’t noticed you.

“You want to sleep more?” Seungmin asks as he plants a kiss on the top of Minho’s head.

“I wanna make dinner before Y/N gets back, she’s probably gonna be hungry when she gets here.”

You feel your heart speed up at the mention of your name, but they haven’t even looked in your direction yet. So you don’t move.

“Okay, let’s rest for a bit first,” Seungmin concludes. Minho hums in agreement, moving closer to his chest and planting a small kiss on his heart.

“I don’t think she’s been eating well while we were gone,” Minho mumbles, “you two are exactly the same. If I don’t cook it’s only takeout for your lazy asses.”

“That’s rude,” you chuckle.

They both gasp, and Minho’s eyes shoot right open as he realises what he’s heard.

“Bubs!” Seungmin yells. “H-how long have you been home?”

“Long enough,” you smile, as innocently as you can allow yourself, before making your way over to the bed. You sit on the edge of it trying your best to keep a serious face as the boys look at you slightly apprehensive.

They both sit up, moving away from each other as if to prove that definitely nothing happened between them two seconds ago.

“But how long?” Minho asks, eyes wide.

“I should ask you two the same thing, no?” You tilt your head to the side, eyebrows high on your face.

Seungmin chuckles nervously, looking at Minho before looking back at you.

“Nothing happened, you know. We were just cuddling,” Minho is quick to say.

“Right,” you nod, “of course.”

“Seriously, bubs, it’s was just—“

“—you two cumming at the same time?” They both let out a sigh of defeat, realising they can’t possibly lie to you since you’ve seen it all unfold.

Minho shakes his head softly before reaching for your wrist. He rubs his thumb against the back of your hand before sighing softly.

“Truth is, we made the bet because we wanted to see how horny you’d get,” Minho rolls his eyes, “but it just made Kim Seungmin more unbearable than usual.”

“Lee Minho,” he says quickly, “that is not the truth.”

“He doesn’t even respect his elders,” Minho mumbled at you, a disapproving frown on his lips. You roll your eyes before turning to Seungmin with a questioning raise of your brows.

“Hyung got horny first,” Seungmin corrects him.

“I did not,” he retaliates.

“You did. You dragged me to the dressing room after MuCore and you—“ Minho slaps his hand onto Seungmin’s mouth, his upper lip curling in on itself as he tried his best not to yell too much at his boyfriend.

“It was a frustrating day,” Minho explains, trying to regain some of his pride back.

All you can do is laugh. “So your plan to make me horny backfired on you?”

They both nod. “I was embarrassed about it so we didn’t want to tell you, we thought we’d just let the month end and not bring it up again.”

“Hyung,” Seungmin sighs. They share a look between themselves, something you can’t understand, before Seungmin turns to you. He plants a soft kiss on your cheek.

“I’m sorry we didn’t say anything. We had a lot of sex this month,”

“Like, a lot,” Minho agrees with a giggle.

“And we wanted to tell you! But we also thought it would be funnier if you cracked like Minho did.”

“I told you guys it was a stupid idea,” you grin.

“You’re not mad we didn’t tell you?” Seungmin asks, and Minho squeezes your hand tightly.

“No,” you shrug, “it’s not like you did anything wrong. You just proved that I’m the best out of the three of us,” you giggle—laughing harder when Seungmin’s mouth gaps.

“So it’s all good? We’re fine?” Minho asks.

You hum softly. “You had a lot of sex this month, right?” They nod. “And I haven’t had any at all.”

“True,” Minho starts playing with your fingers, a small smirk forming on his lips.

“So we need to balance the scales a little, don’t you think?”

“Oh, definitely,” Seungmin nods eagerly, jumping forward to grab your hips and plant you firmly on his lap.

Instantly, Minho straddles Seungmin’s knees, wrapping his arms around your middle. Seungmin grabs your jaw, crashing his tongue against yours as you moan into his mouth. You didn’t realise just how much you were craving your boyfriends touch until that very second you received it and then your whole body lit on fire with the longing you had for them.

You didn’t even need to ask for more, as before your brain could even tell your tongue to use words, Minho was taking off your shirt and bra. He cups your tits, pinching and twisting your nipples as you moan loudly.

A month without touching yourself, days of your lovers cuddling up to you in your sleep, and then watching them cum at the same time has all caused you such extreme horny brain fog you didn’t even know what to do with yourself or how to react. All you could do was throw your head back onto Minho’s shoulder and let your hips chase the pleasure you craved against Seungmin’s lap.

“Seungminnie,” Minho coaxed softly, “can you suck on bunny’s tits for us?”

Seungmin eagerly nods, his hair jumping with the motion before he wraps his full lips around your nipple. Minho kisses your shoulder before he runs a hand through Seungmin’s hair with a soft, “good job.”

Seungmin’s lips sent waves of pleasure up and down your body, an aching throb shaking against your core as you grow more and more desperate. Luckily, neither one of them is in any position to make fun of you or hold it against you. In fact, they’re both so eager to keep making you feel good.

Minho slips his hand into your underwear, quickly finding your clit and rubbing figure eights against it in a bruising pace.

You don’t think more than ten seconds pass before you grab Seungmin’s hair tightly, and chant out that “I’m cumming, I’m cumming, I’m cumming.”

Minho kisses your neck as it rushes over you, while Seungmin squeezes your thighs as they start shaking.

Your vision blurs for a moment or two before you refocus, and catch sight of a bewildered Seungmin wiping his lips.

“Bubs that was so fucking quick,” he sighs, amazed. “How?”

“Min, I need another one,” is all you provide for an explanation.

Minho is quick to follow his orders and resumes his previous pace as he rubs your clit again. It takes a few seconds longer and Seungmin notices, so he quickly gets back to teasing your tits for the extra stimulation you’d need. It doesn’t take long after that, and although your walls flutter around emptiness it’s so much better than not cumming at all. You moan loudly as it hits your entire body.

Minho plants kisses all around your face as you catch your breath, but you don’t even care about breathing. You mumble out, “more.”

“My turn this time!” Seungmin rushes out, pulling your underwear off and softly rubbing your sensitive clit.

Minho leaves you with a firm kiss before he lays back down next to Seungmin, watching your face with laser focus.

“You’ve been waiting for this, bunny?” He says lowly. You nod quickly as you make no effort to stop the broken moans tumbling out your chest. “Your cunt has been so eager for us, huh?”

“M-Min, I’ll fucking cum again—“ Seungmin applies more pressure to your clit, rubbing as hard and as fast as he can before you fall forward with the impact of another orgasm.

“Holy fuck,” you say once you catch your bearings.

“That was fun,” Seungmin grins. “Want more, bubs?”

“Yeah, yes,” you moan, still aching for more as your clit throbs, “want something inside me.”

The boys exchange a look before Minho rubs your shoulder. He drags you off Seungmin’s lap, slowly, before he places you between the pair of them.

He makes sure to spread your legs as you get comfortable on your back.

“I’m not ready yet,” he says with a small kiss to your temple, “think my fingers will be enough?”

“Please,” you nod.

“I’m not ready either,” Seungmin says while lacing his fingers with yours, “but since my hand is much bigger wouldn’t you prefer my fingers?”

“I-I-I,” is all you manage to stutter out, your brain too slow after three orgasms. You don’t even know who they’re trying to tease, you or the other, but there’s only one thing on your mind. “I just wanna cum.”

“But you already did, my pretty bunny,” Minho brushes your lips together softly, “are you gonna be so greedy that you’ll ask for both our fingers for a fourth orgasm?”

“How many times has Seung made you cum in the past month?” You manage to accuse.

“About fifteen? fourteen?” Minho shrugs.

“Then you owe me twelve more,” you whine.

Minho nods slowly, blinking a few times before he smiles. “Mine or Kim Seungmin’s?”

“Both,” you groan, “just take turns I don’t care.”

“Fuck that’s demanding,” Seungmin chuckles dryly. “Guess we do owe her, though.”

“Guess we do,” Minho shrugs.

Seungmin leans down to kiss your neck softly and you feel his hand sliding up your thigh, slowly circling your entrance before sinking inside you. The stretch feels so good it echoes to your thighs and you moan loudly as it deepens. You feel Minho’s fingers crawl up your thigh before your walks tighten as more slips inside you. You blink your eyes open to see it was in fact both of them.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” you sob out as you feel six fingers inside you, a loud and wet noise accompanying their movements as they slide their fingers in and out, perfectly synchronised with each other.

“Minho-hyung made me cum twenty times, so we owe you thirty two all together,” Seungmin says simply.

You clench tightly at those words, at your boyfriends’ promise, and they both smirk at each other when they feel it.

It was a long evening after that, the boys insisting on going until you had to tap out and say you couldn’t take anymore. They kissed you softly and apologised again but you told them they were certainly forgiven. You didn’t even actually need twenty nine more orgasms from them. But they insisted that was the only way to make it up to you that they even suggested such a silly bet just to get a reaction out of you.

Minho does eventually feed you, and Seungmin brushes your hair after your shared shower, and they promise to keep kissing you until you fall asleep.

They never break any of their promises to you, and by the second week of December their debt is cleared too.

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ikarakie · 1 year

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eddie's impression of steve harrington only really begins to turn around not because of henderson's constant insistence that he's a really cool dude now, but because of his brief interactions with robin goddamn buckley.

he first realises that she's affiliated with him when she pokes her head into hellfire club one day. she asks henderson if he's seeing 'the dingus' tonight, and when henderson confirms that he's picking them up, she tosses a green vest at his face. asks him to give it to him, since he's working an opening shift and left it at hers. eddie only realises later that she was talking about harrington, and the implication that he'd stayed overnight had him reeling. buckley was a weirdo. a band geek. what was king steve doing associating with her?

it only gets weirder. he goes to one of sinclair's games, and ends up a few rows behind harrington. he's whooping and cheering and so goddamn excited for the kid when he gets to play. when the band performs, he screams robin's name during the applause. she finds him in the crowd and sort of wiggles her shoulders excitedly in response. after the game, he sees him scoop her up in the biggest goddamn bear hug and kiss her on the cheek. not the kind of couple he'd expected, but they were cute. he supposed.

but then the kiddies stop her in the hallway a week or so later, asking something about a movie night at harrington's. eddie can't really help himself, he was a curious thing.

"so, buckley," he begins, leaning against a locker. "i'm dying to know how a band geek like you landed king steve as a boyfriend." to his side, henderson sighs, heavy and dramatic. robin gets the most genuinely disgusted face.

"oh, god. ew." she says, emphatically. "i am not dating steve. gross." she fucking shudders at the thought. eddie can't keep his jaw off the floor.

"no?" he asked. "but- the game, the other week. he kissed your cheek." she nodded. he gestured wildly in lieu of response, begging for more information.

"stevie and i," and eddie has to fight the urge to roll his eyes. because, seriously? stevie? she expects him to believe they're not together and she calls him stevie? "are strictly platonic. with a goddamn capital p! people can express platonic affection even if they're different genders!" henderson mocks her quietly, to which she whacks him on the arm. she turns back to eddie. "i think if anyone should understand, it'd be you, handkerchief."

eddie feels his stomach drop. robin's giving him a look. a knowing fucking look. arms folded across her chest, one eyebrow raised. surely not.

"you?" he asks. she nods. "so harrington-"

she cuts him off. "knows." and wow. wow. colour him fucking surprised. "was the first one to know. he's-" there's a pause. "he's cool. so fucking cool." she was so fond, smiling a little. "he's a really good guy. i love him to death."

and well... he believes her. truly fucking does. it's only then that he finally allows the walls he'd built around his opinions of steve harrington to falter, to allow himself to think maybe- just maybe- he is actually is a good dude.

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lovelybluebirdie · 3 months

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A sight to behold

Astarion x gn!Reader

Summary: Astarion is far more than his beauty, and you want him to know.

Word Count: 1,7k

fluff, comfort

[AO3]

“You should get some rest, love,” Astarion whispers against your hair. He holds you comfortably in his arms, your fingers loosely grasping the end of his collar while his hand strokes along your waist, caressing your battle-bruised skin.

Usually sleep didn’t take long to claim you after an exhausting day of defeating vigorous creatures or learning another disturbing fact on the tadpole inside your brain, but tonight it seems to avoid you for some reason, leaving you tossing and turning within your bedroll until Astarion eventually pulled you into a loving embrace.

“I’m good,” you mutter as a deep yawn escapes your throat, smothering your last syllables.

Astarion cups your chin between his thumb and index finger, surveying your face. “You’re a weary little love if I ever saw one.”

“Fine, you’ve got me,” you reply in a drowsy voice. “Maybe I am a little tired, but somehow I can't find any sleep.”

His brow furrows. “Is anything troubling you, my dear?” he asks sincerely, pondering if he might’ve done something wrong.

The unpleasant thought has no room to spread its hooks any further, as he's met with only fondness from your tired eyes, leaving his ribcage bursting with adoration.

“No need to worry about me, Astarion. I promise, everything’s alright,” you assure as you begin to massage his ears, causing them to twitch.

“You still need to get some sleep though,” he scolds with half-closed lids. It's more of a moan, as he’s unable to suppress his desire for your blissful fingers to go on. You seem to know exactly where he enjoys them most, he notices, when another quiet groan spills from his lips.

You brush the pointy tip of his ear once more, cautiously not to overstimulate this sensitive part of him, before you rest your fingers on his neck and playfully raise an eyebrow.

“Perhaps you’ll allow me to indulge in your beauty a little longer before I find myself dozing off.”

A benign remark, and yet something inside Astarion shifts. Something he can’t fully fathom at first, a faint sense of melancholy starting to linger, despite the comfort of your touch.

He’s been called beautiful more times than he can remember, but he’ll never be able to judge for himself, being robbed of his reflection since Cazador turned him into a vampire spawn centuries ago – his own appearance remaining a dark shape from his past.

“Beauty you say?” he mumbles quietly. “Tell me then, what is it you see when looking at me?”

Your expression softens as you grasp for his hand and squeeze it lightly. It seems you’ve already caught his musings, as you often do, without him needing to vocalise that something’s on his mind.

“Well, your most outstanding features are probably your piercing eyes – crimson, like rubies,” you explain before resting a kiss on his cheek.

Astarion listens attentively. His gaze must indeed be exceptionally sharp, he thinks, trying for a brief moment to recall the colour his eyes were before he was turned, but to no avail. A shiver runs down his spine as he wonders if you might think of him as a dangerous predator at times, uncertain whether this poses a pleasant or a frightening notion.

“Sometimes they’re full of anger, resembling freshly shed blood. And other times they’re… so soft. Reminding me of the cutest puppy eyes I’ve ever seen, almost competing with Scratch,” you giggle as you draw your thumb along his cheekbone, right where your lips parted from his skin.

Astarion stares at you in bewilderment. “What do you mean – puppy eyes?! I’m a century-old vampire spawn, not some gushing maiden.”

“You asked what I’d see when I’m looking at you, didn’t you?” You offer him a mischievous grin before blowing a strand of hair off his forehead. “Or do you prefer me to stop?”

Astarion rolls his eyes and lets out a sigh. “Fine, go on.”

Although not particularly delighted by the comparison you draw, he can’t resist the urge to listen to you further describing him.

“There are also your beautiful white curls – so smooth that I often find myself wondering which soap you use for them to stay that way,” you say as you take one of said strands between your fingers. “Come to think of it, those are probably one of my favourite parts of you, my love.”

“Mhm, I certainly have the best hair in camp,” Astarion purrs approvingly, a smug grin playing around his lips, vanishing the furrow on his brow from your previous remark.

“Don’t let Shadowheart hear,” you joke before continuing. “Of course I also adore your smile – seeing those little wrinkles when you laugh.”

Astarion’s grin freezes as he quickly feels the spot beneath his temples.

“My sweet, you surely must’ve noticed by now that one of a vampire spawn’s rare perks is eternal youth, so I’m quite positive that there are no such things as wrinkles on my face.”

“If you say so,” you chuckle as you reach for his hands to press loving kisses on his fingertips. “This was supposed to be a compliment, you know.”

“Perhaps if I wasn’t your lover, but your doting grandmother,” he grumbles with pursed lips, but doesn’t pull away.

“I sense you desire to listen to some of your less grandmotherly features, then?”

Astarion battles another grin but loses, his lips twisting to a wry smile. “Yes, please.”

It's true, he doesn’t want you to stop, secretly enjoying how sincere you express your sentiments.

“Let’s see if I find some, though…” you tease, earning a gentle nudge to your hip before your eyes are glued to his face again. “Honestly, you're stunningly beautiful, Astarion – a goddamn sight to behold.”

Astarion’s smile widens at your flattery. “Oh dear, that sounds far better than being described with the attributes of an old lady.”

“As I thought,” you reply, brushing one of his curls behind his ear. “But do you want to know what I adore about you most?”

Astarion's eyes grow round. “As humble as I am, I'm always thrilled to receive some more praise.”

He notices a flush to your cheeks as you let your finger slowly trace along the bridge of his nose, until it comes to a rest on his lips.

You clear your throat, seeming in search of the right words.

“You’re so much more than your beauty,” you begin, your fingertip still resting on his bottom lip. He presses a kiss, his curiosity roused.

“I love the way you make me laugh, like no one else can, despite all the madness we have to endure. Or watching you reading for hours, chuckling at little passages you like. Seeing how you squint when you take in the details while you embroider a piece of fabric.”

You pause to cup his face in your hands and smother him with gentle kisses, starting at his jaw, moving up to his nose and then his eyes. Astarion remains silent, graciously relishing your warmth.

Your words and touch are like a balm, and not for the first time he wonders how he came to deserve such kindness.

“Your skin is cold, yes, but no one has ever kept me this warm when being in their presence. You’re brave, and despite everything you had to endure, you turned into this wonderful man I came to love more than everything I ever held dear. You're most precious to me Astarion, and I never want to spend a day without knowing you by my side.”

It’s not often that Astarion finds himself speechless, and yet your genuine affection robs him of the ability to respond. He has to hold back tears that dwell behind his fluttering lashes.

Deprived of his ability to speak he can only press a kiss to your forehead, followed by another peck to the tip of your nose, before his lips crash into yours – hastily, in need of you.

Astarion can sense your pulse quickening as his tongue enters your mouth, a soft moan escaping your lips while your hand runs through his hair.

He gently bites your lower lip, the initial rush of his kiss replaced by a sudden tenderness, a flutter spreading right where his dead heart once beat.

Astarion has never felt like this with anyone but you. Perhaps you've turned him into a love-struck maiden after all, he thinks with a smile as he kisses you once more, gentle and soft, before your lips part and he glances at your endearing eyes, finding his voice again.

“I love you too, you cheeky little thing. Even if you have the guts to describe me like a grandmother first, and then almost make me weep from your loving words,” he chuckles while grasping the fabric of your nightgown to pull you closer against his body.

Astarion is used to conceal his emotions behind his jesting shell, and yet when he’s with you, his façade naturally crumbles.

“Guilty as charged,” you reply fondly.

“But honestly… Thank you,” Astarion speaks softly. “For seeing me, like no one else does.” His words come out raw, honest. “You know I don't pray to any of the gods, but if I did, I'm sure I would've caught myself thanking them for bringing you into my life. You're a vision, and through the time I spend with you, it almost feels like my dead heart starts beating again.”

“You’d better stop with that loving talk yourself, before we'll both start to weep,” you laugh as you reach for the corner of your eye, a single wet streak glistening on your skin.

Astarion moves up to kiss it away. “As much as I like to revel in our mutual affection, I don't wish to see more of your tears.”

“Well, perhaps we should call it a night then. I’m certain I’ll find some rest soon,” you whisper as you shift closer in the crook of his arm.

“You truly should, as I'm positive there’ll be more shenanigans awaiting us tomorrow,” Astarion replies and places a kiss on your hair. “Sleep well, my love.”

“You too, Astarion,” you hum, sounding slightly weary again. Maybe sleep has decided in your favour after all, he thinks as he notices your breath becoming more even.

When you finally doze off in the safety of his embrace, Astarion's chest is filled with warmth over the love he holds for you.

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luveline · 1 month

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I can definitely see a steddie x reader where reader is just enjoying their banter bc she thinks they’re being adorable and Steve is annoyed and Eddie is just being cheeky

Reader would definitely be just smitten about it, in all honesty-

“You’re not doing it right, Steve.”

“Am too.”

“You are not, babe.”

Eddie sounds so genuine, like he truly cares that Steve’s not doing it right, but you can tell he’s messing with him. It’s in his smile. He sees you noticing him and puts a finger over his lips.

“You owe me,” you mouth.

“What did I do wrong?” Steve asks, agitated already.

“You have to press the plastic down,” Eddie says, stepping behind Steve where your boyfriend tries to grate a head of broccoli using the food processor. “This bit. Babe–”

“Stop with the babe, you’re patronising me.”

“That is not true.” Eddie takes him by the hip, reaching around him to shove the hand guard down onto Steve’s broccoli.

“You’re seriously patronising me.”

Eddie talks close to Steve’s ear. “Now why would I do that, Steve?”

Steve smiles but pushes him away. “Get off of me, I can do it. Go irritate Y/N.”

“I’m just trying to help,” Eddie says.

“You’re not, you’re trying to make me mad.”

“Is it working?”

Eddie dives away from his shove and ends up hanging on you instead, arms slotting over your shoulders, warm and relaxed as he turns his flirting to you. “What’s the damage?”

“He figured you out pretty quickly. No charge this time.”

“How generous.” He sounds as warm as he feels, leaning in to draw a line on your cheek with his nose. “Think he’ll take the bait again?”

“Aw, don’t,” you laugh, though really you want him to. Steve is a good looking guy and it’s worse when he’s playing mad, he gets loud and his brows draw together, darkening the honeyed brown of his eyes to a more shadowy colour that you adore. “He’s just trying to make dinner for us. He’s so nice.”

“I’ll make it up to him,” he promises, kissing your cheek.

Eddie once again approaches Steve, this time with a softer disposition, like he might be giving him a kiss. Steve lets Eddie touch his arm, lets Eddie wraps his fingers around his wrist and press a cheek to the top of his shoulder.

“Don’t try and say sorry now,” Steve warns. Then, after a few seconds, he wraps an arm behind Eddie's shoulder to rub his arm roughly. It’s fond and annoyed at once.

“I’m just trying to help.”

“I know how to use the blender.”

They sound in love. It makes you laugh, one because it’s nice to see, you love them too, and two because Eddie’s messing him around again.

Steve looks back at you suspiciously.

“I know you know how to use it, I’m just trying to help,” Eddie says.

“Are you?”

“Sometimes you get kind of stubborn.” He encourages Steve’s face back to his with a kind hand. Steve sticks his tongue in his cheek as Eddie tucks a lock of stray hair behind his ear. “You know, on account of you being extremely stubborn,” Eddie whispers.

Steve rolls his eyes and shrugs away from him. “I’m used to being right. You know, on account of you being an idiot.”

“Don’t act like that.”

Steve lets Eddie link their pinky fingers together, even as they continue to argue about the blender. Feeling a little left out, you slide off of your barstool at the island and sidle up on Steve’s other side.

“What are you doing?” you ask. “Broccoli and cheese?”

“Uh-huh. Don’t know why I bother,” Steve side eyes Eddie, the one out of the three of you who loves broccoli and cheese soup more than breathing. “He’s making it more difficult than it’s worth.”

“It’s gonna be done at bed time if you keep taking so long.”

“Don’t start on me too.,” Steve says, though he leans in for a kiss soon after.

Eddie tries to high five you behind his shoulders. You grab his hand and wrap it around Steve’s shoulders, who then tries to sweep you both in for a hug, assuming an Eddie style apology, and regardless of all the teasing he’s endured.

“I don’t wanna cook anymore,” Steve mumbles.

Eddie feels sorry, then, and tries to kiss his neck.

You pinch him. “Let’s just order takeout.”

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undiscovered-horizon · 6 months

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"Everywhere is good but home is..." - Mihawk x Reader

@thetempleofthemasaigoddess wondered why Mihawk doesn't quite get along with his mother-in-law and who am I to keep such secrets to myself?

SUMMARY: Mihawk is not exactly fond of his in-laws. Nevertheless, he compliantly tags along whenever you pay your parents a visit. If it makes you happy, he's willing to bite his tongue. For a day, at least.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 2.6k

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Imagine, if you will, an angry boar. A large, stout boar with birse as dark as the night sky. As boars do, it will gore with its tusks to let out the frustration and get rid of whatever it was that made the animal seethe. Now, if you take away its tusks, what can it do? Angrily dig for truffles?

Or maybe stand beside you, a scowl on his face and a begrudging “I am fine” every time you ask about the bitter expression?

Mihawk doesn’t like visiting your parents. It’s the sickeningly sweet familial atmosphere that suffocates him. Don’t misunderstand - he’s fond of the thought of having a family with you but the aura of your childhood home is a little too… overwhelming for him. A little too picture-perfect. But being the man he is, Mihawk has never outright talked about his dislike because he’s aware of how much that would hurt you. Still, you know your husband a little too well to disregard his sighs and frowns. This piece of secret knowledge always makes you love him more - he’s willing to suffer for a day or two just to make you happy. If it’s not love, what else could it be?

The farmhouse looks different than it did last year when you visited: the roof tiles have been changed, the outside of the building has been repainted and even some of the fence surrounding the land is new. Clearly, your parents have been busy with their retirement.

Despite the irate expression on his face, Mihawk silently overtakes you and opens the shabby wicket gate to let you enter first. He gives you a questioning look when you suddenly stop.

“It’s going to be fine, Mihawk,” you reassure him.

“So you’ve been saying, darling.”

Comforting warmth spreads inside his chest as you smile at him and kiss his cheek. He turns his head, hoping to catch your lips but you’re already on your way to the older man raking leaves in the distance. Mihawk clenches his jaw and lets out an exasperated sigh. With a loud bang, he closes the gate behind him. He follows you in slow steps, naively putting off the fateful moment of meeting your family.

Walking down the path leading to the farmhouse and the fields behind it, Mihawk looks around the desolate landscape. It’s quaint, he thinks to himself. Tall trees sway on the chilly, autumn wind. Right above their peaks, although far away, are mountains with their tops covered in snow. Uncut grass brushes against his clothes. A flock of cranes flies high in the sky, disappearing and reappearing as they fly through grey clouds. Their key is directed south, towards warmth that will shield them from winter snow. The area is a bit too colourful and bright for his liking but with a nice “please” from you, Mihawk could see himself settling down in a place like this.

Dracule just comes into earshot and has the displeasure of hearing your father yelling:

“Pumpkin!” The older man’s voice is filled with excitement. He lets go of the rake, letting it fall on the ground. Despite his age and clear exhaustion from the work, he wraps his arms around you and hugs you almost to death. “Honey, come out!” he shouts towards the farmhouse. “It’s Pumpkin!”

Mihawk almost can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. You’re a grown woman, married at that, and they still call you by a nickname they had come up with while you were still in diapers. ‘When I asked where children came from, they told me that they found me between pumpkins in their field,’ you once explained to him.

The door to the building flies open. Soon enough, your mother is running to you. Her greying hair is braided into a plait. She’s wearing an apron with traditional patterns hand-stitched into it. Half of the motif had been done by a skilled hand, stitched with precision and perfection. The other part, however, is a lot more crooked and amateurish, probably done by a child’s hand. Your hand.

Tears glisten in your mother's eyes. Despite her older age, there’s vigour and youth inside those irises - a certain love for life that you’ve taken after her. She quickly wipes her hands on the apron and hugs you.

“Oh, Pumpkin!” A stray tear leaves her eye. “I haven’t seen you in ages! You could have said you’re visiting.”

“You’ve always loved surprises, mum.”

She lets go of you and redirects her attention to Mihawk. Her face lights up as though he’s her own son, beaming with love and pride. To his absolute horror, your mother puts her hands on the sides of his face. He almost pulls away to avoid the unwanted affections.

“Sweetie, you look handsome as ever!” she exclaims. Her expression falls as she looks him up and down. “But you’re a bit thin, aren’t you? And that open shirt, tsk. Winter is coming, sweetheart, you’ll catch pneumonia if you don’t cover up.”

“Delighted to see you again, ma’am,” Mihawk lies through his teeth. To some degree, you’re impressed with how honest he sounds.

"Oh, sweetheart, I told you to just call me mum!” She laughs. “We're family now."

You can see the relief in Mihawk’s eyes as your mother lets go of him. Some part of you wants to burst with laughter as you recall countless moments when you’re the one cradling his face and Dracule is more than overjoyed with the tender touch. It feels like there’s something beyond special about you, that he welcomes such intimate things. Although, truth be told, when it’s your hands on his face, you usually lean in to kiss him and that’s definitely not something he wants to think about while standing in front of your mother.

“He’s a grown man, honey.” Your father nags at his wife. He waves his hand in a dismissing manner. “Leave him be.” Mihawk’s terror returns when a heavy hand reaches for his shoulder. “Come, son, you’ll chop some wood for the night. I’m too old for this. The last time I tried chopping firewood, I got sciatica.”

“Pleased to help,” Dracule drones his words. He gives you a glance like a silent plead ‘Look what I do for you’. Then, he follows your father further into the garden.

You feel your mother put her arm around your shoulder. “Boys are off to have fun and we have a dinner to make.”

Something inside you stirs with excitement - cooking and baking used to be your bonding activities with your mum. Since you’ve married Mihawk, you’re not allowed to do any housework. Everything is taken care of by servants. You find that you’ve grown to miss the rhythm of mundane life, although it would be a lie if you said that you dislike the life you have with Mihawk. It’s just… different.

The sound of pots, pans and knives hitting the cutting boards is like a symphony to your ears. An aria to your childhood. If you closed your eyes, you could almost see the world as it used to be, your eyes right below the level of the countertops, always standing on a stool to help your mother.

But the thoughts of your younger years dissipate as you stare out of the kitchen window. You have the perfect view of your husband chopping firewood with your father raking leaves in the back. Mihawk’s skin glistens in the afternoon, autumn sun. There’s not a bead of sweat on his torso. He appears completely relaxed as he swings the axe with one hand. Some logs are already cracked or particularly dry and those he rips apart with his bare hands. Those same hands that tear pieces of wood into matches have caressed your skin with almost fearful softness; the arms that bring destruction have tirelessly shielded you from the dangers of the world.

Your dad looks over his shoulder at the pile of firewood with a nod of awe. If Mihawk keeps up his tempo, he’ll prepare enough fuel for the next week.

“You remind me of your dad and me when we were younger.” Your mother’s face shakes you awake from your thoughts. Suddenly remembering that you were supposed to be helping her, you look down at the awfully chopped carrots. At least you didn’t cut off your finger. “Always stealing glances as though we weren’t already married.”

A sigh of yearning leaves your lips. What did you do in your past life to deserve a man like him?

“Dad still looks at you in an uncomfortably intense way,” you answer, a smile on your lips.

Your mother’s laughter brightens up the small, crowded kitchen. It’s not hard to correctly guess what your dad saw in her that made him want to spend his life with that woman. “He does the same when you’re not looking,” she says while vaguely pointing at Mihawk.

Her words make you blush. A deep shade of red covers your cheeks, making your whole face hot to the touch. “What do you mean?”

She looks at you with sympathy. “I saw it the day you introduced him to us. And each time you come over, he seems to be a little worse in his affliction, staring at you like you’re the one who hung stars in the sky. It made your grandma remind her of grandad so much, that she cried at your wedding.”

Listening to her, your longing gaze returns to Mihawk who appears oblivious to your undivided interest in him. “Mum, does it ever get boring?” you ask without looking away. “The sense of calm when you’re around him. Like everything could be ruined but it’s fine because he’s there.”

“It’s the only thing in the world that never gets tiring.” A flustered, juvenile smile decorates her face. Even with wrinkles and greying hair, she looks barely older than you at the moment, reliving the flame of love inside her that has never dwindled. “Now, let’s finish with the sentiments and stuff the duck, eh?”

Mihawk is reaching for another log when something makes him momentarily freeze. There, in front of the stump he’s been chopping wood on, sits a dog. It’s clearly a mutt, each feature taken from a different breed. The fur is an amalgamation of markings in different colours: orange, grey, white and black. As the dog notices Mihawk’s interest, it gets up, restlessly stomping in place or rather hopping as the pet is missing one of its hind legs.

“Gulliver,” Dracule recalls the name of the mutt you’ve told him so much about. Your first and only friend growing up in the countryside.

The name is taken as an invite and so the dog places a drool-covered, chewed-out ball next to the piece of firewood. The pet sits again, tail wagging as fast as it can.

For a moment, Mihawk is torn. He wants the dog to leave him be but that would mean he has to put his hand on the slimy toy. Then again, the pet is sure to continue disturbing him now that he has acknowledged its existence.

Cringing at the wet and warm sensation of the ball, Dracule picks it up, only furthering Gulliver’s excitement.

"This means nothing," he drones his words and throws the toy so far it almost disappears from sight. The dog, overjoyed, runs after the ball.

Considering that your dad’s throw has gotten weaker with age, Mihawk might have dug his own grave with the distance he made the ball fly. Gulliver will probably want another run. Or ten.

For a moment, Mihawk goes back to the fantasy of settling down with you in a mountainous wonderland. Maybe you could have a dog too? Not a mutt but a hunting hound? They look very noble.

But he shakes those thoughts away and continues chopping wood.

The dinner went well. Homemade food, family you haven’t seen in a year, the cosy and sentimental atmosphere of your childhood home… And Mihawk didn’t look as miserable as he probably felt. Although you’re enjoying this little family reunion, you seize the opportunity for solitude when it arises:

Your parents go to the kitchen to put away the dirty dishes, plate the dessert and brew some tea. Tugging on Mihawk’s arm, you pull him outside the house.

The old flooring of the porch creaks under your weight. A bright, melodic tune is carried by the wind as it brushes against the chimes hanging under the roof. The sun has recently set and the sky is still in a lovely, indigo shade. Birds croak in the distance, announcing nightfall.

His warm hand rests on your lower back. The touch makes you momentarily take a deep, relaxing breath. Your thoughts become both orderly and fuzzy as though Mihawk’s presence turned all of your wandering, useless ideas into static you can easily ignore. How can a person have so much control over you?

Mihawk is towering over you. He tilts his head downwards to look at you. Something about his looming aura makes you feel not only protected but also well-cared-for, as though you could give yourself up to him completely and you’d still live like a queen in a castle.

“If you keep frowning, your face will stay like that,” you say to him.

Mihawk’s expression relaxes at the mere mention of his visibly bitter mood. Or maybe it softens because he’s looking at you. “I was under the impression that you’re rather fond of my face.”

“And you’d be correct. But I do have to say that seeing you tear wood apart was much better.”

You lean closer to him as you put your arms around his neck. He welcomes the gesture, allowing his hands to travel an inch or two downwards, a little too low for when one is in the vicinity of others. Especially someone’s parents.

“So my wife likes to see me do manual labour,” he states, his warm breath brushing against your cold cheeks. There’s no surprise in his voice and there shouldn’t be. He’s noticed the way you look at him when he wields a sword and Mihawk would be an awful liar if he said he doesn’t enjoy those glances.

“I like seeing you, full stop. Chopping wood is just a nice variation to the scenario. Strong arms and all that.”

The said arms pull you by your hips into a kiss. Although he’s spent only a day in this part of the region, he already smells like fresh mountain air and pine needles. Mihawk groans, feeling the curves of your body against his. He will never get enough of this. Enough of you.

“Tea is served!”

Your mother’s exclamation makes you pull away from Mihawk. He instinctively chases after your lips before letting out an annoyed sigh. A chuckle rumbles in your chest. Dracule rolls his eyes but lets you thread your fingers with his and pull him back inside the farmhouse. There, you interrupt an interesting conversation:

“Darling, when’s the cake tasting again?” your father asks while flipping through the calendar, a pencil in his hand.

“On the 25th, honey,” she answers. The dining room is immediately filled with the aroma of bergamot as your mother pours the tea. “At 6 in the afternoon.”

“Cake tasting?” you repeat in confusion. “What’s going on?”

“Our golden wedding, of course!” the older woman beams with joy. “We’ve yet to send out the invitations, though, so don’t tell anyone. Especially your aunt. Gods know she runs her mouth like it’s a marathon.”

As though you’re thinking the same thing, Mihawk and you glance at each other. The miserable, irate expression in his eyes elicits a burst of bright laughter from you. He just can’t catch a break, can he?

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wonderlandwalker · 4 months

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Living Nightmares | Finnick Odair x Reader

THG Masterlist / Taglist / Inbox

Summary: Finnick wakes up to find you slipping away from him. As he tries to get help, he loses track of you, only to find you in the hands of the careers. The situation seems to get worse before he finally thinks he's at peace, but you're there to remind him to keep going.

Content Warnings/Tags: angst, a whole lot of it, fluff at the end though I'm not a monster, mentions of blood, hypothermia, violence

Word Count: 3.4k

A/n: I've been obsessing over our boy Finnick so here's a fic full of angst, because apparently that's the only thing my brain can think of. Dividers by @chilumitos

This wasn’t exactly where they had thought they’d be at the moment. It all started during the second day in the arena, they had the allies, they had the supplies, and they thought they had the advantage, but worry took over as they started losing sight of each other in a chase, and they tried to find the others, only to end up in a new part of the arena. It was dark, cold, and they had lost their supplies, and there was no food or water source nearby.

Neither of them was really to blame. It had been a long day, and the surroundings didn't inspire much hope. So, both of them had fallen asleep on some of the leaves that covered the ground. The cold air was still blowing around them.

But at least he wasn't alone, two sets of minds were better than one, at least he still had you.

The rising sun urged him to open his eyes, and he stretched out his arms, which had become stiff from the cold. It was only when he sat up and ran his hand through the hair that had fallen in your face that he noticed how cold you were. He quickly got up from behind you, pulling you into his lap, tilting your head up a little. Your skin was almost as white as snow, and your lips were starting to turn blue. The colour that once held so many fond memories of the ocean and the sky, now being replaced by fear and panic. He shook you lightly, trying to wake up as if you were just sleeping deeply. When you didn't react, he called out for you, his voice laced with concern.

“Y/n? Come on love, wake up.” But the only movement that came from you was your arm falling from where it was, the harsh thud to the ground reinforcing his fears.

“No, no come on. This isn't happening, wake up” Finnick had thought about this happening, how could he not when it was the basis for most of his nightmares? But he always woke up from those to find you resting in his arms, your soft breathing comforting him back to sleep. This time he didn't wake up, and he didn't hear your breathing to soothe him. He checked your pulse for a heartbeat, but all he could feel was his own heart racing in his chest. He looked around him as if there would be someone there to help, but you were alone.

He started CPR to try and quicken up your pulse, to get you to breathe again, and while he knew you probably couldn't hear him, he had to try.

“Do you remember when you came back from your first games, I really thought that had been the scariest moment of my life. When I survived my own, at least I knew you were alright at home. When you came back, I thought it was over, I wanted to see the positive side, but you seemed so weak, and having watched you, I knew how bad of a state you were in. It tore me apart to have to see it and not be able to do anything." His voice cracks a little, his head starting to swim with more thoughts.

"I won’t do this without you. You can't leave me now, not like this." He pushes a little harder on your chest while doing compression. He's sure if he does so anymore, he will crack one of your ribs.

"I imagined us getting married. I imagined proposing to you by the lake, that little spot you showed me, I know how happy you were in the middle of the field of dandelions. Every worry seemed to slip away from you, like a little hideaway from the horrors of the world. That's how you make me feel every time I'm with you. It's like there is no one in the whole world except us. And I know how cliche that sounds, I know you never liked cliches, but it's true, you are my world, and there is nothing I wouldn't do for you.”

Right as he was about to pour out more of his heart to you, he heard a noise coming from the distance. The steps were too heavy to be coming from a small animal, but his instincts also told him that whoever it was, they weren't there to help.

He knew he had two options. try and fight off whatever was coming while carrying the love of his life with him. Or keep you hidden, try and fight while distracting them away from you and coming back when the coast was clear. He tried his best to hide you underneath a blanket of leaves, making you disappear into the surroundings, he gave you a light kiss on the forehead, scared to get too close and feel how cold your skin still was. He heard the footsteps come closer.

“Just hold on a little longer darling, I’ll be back before you know it.”

And so he turned around, grabbing his trident a little harder than normal, and came face to face with one of the careers. Finnick's muscles were still sore from the night, but he was ready to run. He had to get away from here before the tribute started to wonder if he had been alone.

He ran towards a clearing, making the tribute follow behind him. He ran to a split in the path, which gave him two options, left or right. He heard rustling coming not far behind him, and his instincts told him to go right, so he did. He ran for a while until he reached a dead end, the line of trees becoming so dense he couldn't get through anymore. The tribute was still on his heels, and Finnick had to think fast again. He saw a body of water nearby and decided that diving in, despite the creatures that might be in it, and the chilling temperature it must be, would be better than certain death. He knew he would be able to outswim the career, it luckily being one of his strengths. He started to run towards it, and when he got to the edge, he jumped like his life depended on it, but it still wasn't his life he was worried about, it was yours.

Once he got to the other side of the water, he looked back, and the tribute was nowhere to be seen, probably having decided that the risk of the wild waters wasn't worth it. Finnick wasn't thinking about the relief of escape, all he was thinking about was how much time you had left.

It was by some sort of miracle he found Peeta, Johanna and the others on a small beach nearby, and he practically ran straight into them at full speed without even announcing himself. Once the others had realized it was Finnick, and he was not a danger to them, they calmed down, but the state of despair he was in did alarm them soon after

Peeta looked up at him, he was completely out of breath from how fast he had run.

“Sit down Finnick, try and catch your breath” He told him, while placing an assuring hand on his shoulder.

“There’s no time to sit down, I need to go back.” He spoke with such certainty it startled the others.

“Go back where?”

“ To the clearing, I don't know where it was, but I remember how to get there.”

“Why do you need to go back?” Johanna asked him, seeming confused.

“Because y/n is still there, and she doesn't have long”

The others didn't need to hear more, and started to pack up the things they had with them to follow him.

When they had made it back, Johanna was in front with Finnick, she wouldn't care to admit it out loud, but she was worried about you as well.

“Where?” She asked him

“Over by the cut-down stumps, next to the maple and the oak tree.” Finnick had memorized the entire area in order not to lose track of you, and with Johanna being from the lumber district, he knew this clue would be the most helpful to her.

“There’s no one here” she said, looking back at him frustrated.

“There has to be, she was right there when I left.”

“She might have been, but unless hypothermia comes with the power to turn invisible, she’s gone.”

“Well, she couldn't have left by herself” His mind was reeling with all the possibilities, each one more horrible than the last.

“Well then who took her, there are no drag marks, it wasn't any kind of mutt.”

“I don't know, maybe-” his eyes fell to the mud next to the fallen leaves, the ground here was in permafrost, it couldn't have come from here. When the tribute started chasing him he had already put distance between where you were and where he was going. They must have gone back after he went into the water to try and see if he had any supplies, and have found you. But your body wasn't here, that was a good thing, that means you must be alive, why else would they have taken you?

“They’re at the swamp”

“How are you so sure?”

“The career, he was alone when he chased me, he has to have set up camp somewhere with the others, it can't be far from here otherwise he wouldn't have carried her.”

“Alright, but we don't even know where that is, the swamp must be massive, they could be anywhere, we can’t just run in without a plan.” Johanna tried to reason, looking over to Finnick, only to realise he was no longer there.

“Where did he go?” Peeta asks her.

“Probably to the swamp, probably without a plan.” She sighed, she was annoyed, but couldn't say she was surprised, she knew he would do anything for you, including laying down his own life.

“How do we find him, we don't even know where the swamp is, y/n and Finnick were the only ones who crossed it.”

“You don't happen to have a map, do you?” Johanna asks, sarcasm heavy as usual.

While the others were trying to figure out where exactly Finnick had run off to, he himself ran into some trouble. He knew it was his fault for going in without a plan or any backup, but he had listened to his heart, not his head. His heart convinced him he had to find you, telling him that if he didn't find you and wake you up, he’d never be able to see your eyes looking back into his. His heart was telling him to go and save you, even though his head was telling him it was probably already too late anyway.

He wasn't paying close attention to his surroundings as he should have been, trying with all his might to find you. They had found him when he was distracted and from that moment on they kept trying to break him. He was tied with his back against a tree, most of his body covered in blood and a little dizzy from the loss of it.

“It’s very easy to figure out what makes you tick Odair” the district one tribute spoke to him. He couldn't see very far ahead of him, and he couldn't see you anywhere.

“What’s that supposed to mean” He was confused and angry. Confused about what they meant, why they hadn't killed him. Angry they kept him from finding you, from holding you.

“Don’t worry, you'll find out soon enough.”

And as if it was planned, right after the career had spoken, a loud, soul-cracking scream echoed around him. Finnick immediately recognized it, how could he ever forget? It couldn't be real, it had to be a trick, jabber-jays, something. But there wasn't a flock of birds around, and nothing would be able to replicate such a crushing sound. He tried closing his eyes, but when he did his imagination ran wild with images and scenarios, and it only made it worse. The only thing he could do to calm down was tell himself it wasn't real, even if he didn't believe it, repeating it like a mantra over and over.

“It isn't real, it isn't real, it isn't real.” It was nothing more than a whisper and most probably only a mumble of incoherent words.

“Oh but that's the best part Odair, it is real, and it's not gonna stop until you give us what we want. to know.”

“You’re lying” He spit out, barely able to say the next words without falling apart completely “I saw her die.” A single tear makes its way down his face as he tries to keep his composure, cracking now wouldn't do him or you any good.

“Are you willing to take that risk? She’s pretty feisty, I'll give you that, but if you don't crack soon and tell us where your friends are, she's not gonna make it.

He tried ignoring it, trying to listen to his head instead of his heart, but once again the attempt was futile. All he could hear was the screaming, even when he was sure it had actually stopped, the sound still lived in his head. It was hard to say which was worse, the deafening screams, or the silences in between.

He tried to think with his head, tried to think what you would say to him. It would probably be something along the lines of ‘don’t do anything stupid when I'm not there.’

It was far too late for that.

When the career returned, he had a smile on his face that seemed way too happy for the situation they were in.

“She’s strong, that girl of yours, that much is true. The question is for how much longer, everyone has a point of no return, and I have a feeling she’ll cross it soon, But you can make it stop, tell us where your friends are, and it’ll stop.” The tribute had bent down so he was face to face with him, and by the look in his eyes, he now knew for sure this wasn't a bluff.

Finnick didn't know where they were, they wouldn't have stayed at the beach where he found them or at the clearing where the two of you had slept for the night. And maybe it was for the best he didn't know, because right now if he was honest with himself, he would have told them anything he knew if they wanted it. He would do anything to get to hold you again, to feel the warmth of your body against his, to feel your lips pressed against his own. But the careers weren't stupid, he had no reason to believe they would actually let you go, and even if they did, he knew a part of you would never forgive him for what he would have done.

“This is a waste of time.” He screamed, silently hoping you were close enough and conscious enough to hear his voice, hoping it would be enough to tell you not to give up. He pulled at the ropes tying his hands together with all the strength he had left, knowing it would likely not achieve anything, but hoping for it nonetheless.

But it didn't make a difference, your screams didn't stop, and his heartache didn't stop. Seconds turned into minutes, and minutes turned into hours, up until a point where Finnick couldn't tell how much time had passed. It was difficult to keep track of time when you kept blacking out, but it was peaceful in the most morbid way. He didn't sleep, he lost consciousness, so he didn't dream. When he blacked out he had a moment of peace, a moment where he didn't hear your screams echoing around in his head. But he would always wake up and have to face reality again.

He couldn't hear his heartbeat anymore, he couldn't hear his breathing or his thoughts, all he could hear was the screaming and the cries, even though he wasn't sure if they were there or if his mind kept playing tricks on him. He had always feared this, but he didn't think that his worst nightmares would actually come true.

He looked down and saw a puddle of his blood staining the ground and the leaves he was sitting on. The last thing he heard before he blacked out again was shouting coming from the distance.

When he wakes up he can't see much, his eyes heavy and his body tired. But he can feel his cheeks getting wet, it’s a heavy liquid and he guesses it's his blood until he opens his eyes far enough to see you kneeling in front of him, your hands cupping his cheeks to lift his face while you're silently crying, the tears creating a clear path down the grime on your face.

“y/n?” His voice barely reaches a whisper, but you look up into his eyes immediately.

“Finnick, oh god, please wake up we have to get out of here.” Your voice sounds strained, and Finnick isn't sure if it's because of all the screams that must have taken a toll on you, or if the sounds have damaged his ears, he hopes for your sake it's the latter.

“No we don’t” He says with a sense of peace that doesn't match up with the predicament you're in.

“What do you mean?” You ask him, while trying to remove some of the blood stains from his skin, but failing miserably.

“We’re in heaven, aren't we, that's why you're here, I was hoping I would see you.” A sob from your throat almost interrupts his whispering, and he looks up to you again.

“Why are you covered in so much blood” He reaches out to touch your face ever so gently, as if he's scared you're only a figment of his imagination, and you could disappear anytime.

“It’s nothing, I’m alright, I’m more worried about you, you look like you could open your very own blood bank with how much you’re losing.” Your voice is shaky, and it matches the tremble of your hands.

“No need to worry about that, You're here to bring me to heaven, we’ll be together again, it’ll all be perfect.”

“Finnick listen to me! I’m not here to take you to heaven, I’m real and I'm right here in front of you and I need you to stay awake!”

Only he’s not responding to you anymore, his eyes closed again.

“Goddamnit”

You tried to lift him off the ground, but almost fell over once you got him upright. You weren't in your strongest state, and Finnick not being in any conscious state wasn't helping, his whole body weight leaning on you. You put your arm around his shoulder and put the other around his middle, trying to keep him standing so you could move. But with your hands busy trying to keep Finnick upright, you had no way to defend yourself. All the commotion must have alerted other tributes, but you didn't know how many there were to begin with, or who even started the disturbance that allowed you to break free. You thanked whoever was listening that the two of you made it out of the swamp without running into further trouble, and entered an opening of trees that finally allowed bright sunlight to touch upon your skin. You can hear footsteps close by, and prepare for the worst.

“We need to get the two of you back to the others” A familiar voice enters your ears, and you didn't know you could ever be so grateful to find Beetee.

You make your way to a lake not far away. When you get there, you refuse to leave Finnick’s side when Beetee had insisted you needed tending to as well. It was like an unspoken rule. Whenever one of you was hurt, the other didn't leave their side until you were sure they were going to be okay. But you weren't sure, and you weren't leaving him. So you lay down next to him, and the others knew it was useless to try and separate you.

After some time had passed, Finnick started to softly grunt and woke you up with him. Your face contorted in a mix of anger and pain. You leapt up into his arms. It hurt him a little with how tight you were holding him, but he didn't dare let go. Still a little afraid it wasn't real. But he could feel your breathing against his neck, hear you crying in his ear, and hear your heart beating in your chest, in sync with his, you were here, and you were okay.

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famwhy · 10 months

Text

Bereavement (2)

noun

/bɪˈriːv.mənt/ The state one is in when losing someone important to them

Spiderman: Across the Spiderverse

42! Miles X F!Reader, 1610! Miles X F!Reader

Synopsis: Miles is missing, and all you can think about is getting him back. Upon finally finding him, however, you're taken aback by the copy that stands beside him—the same copy that was staring at you with wide, shaking eyes full of... disbelief?

Note: I can't—for the life of me—believe how many notes the first part got after just a few days of being out, you guys are actually insane. Thank you all so much. And thank you too, Kingpin, for giving me the idea in the first place lmao. (Do me a huge solid and lemme know if any of my Spanish needs some work, I studied it for 3 years but it's been over a year since it's been put to practice so I'm a little rusty)

Miles would never drop you, not in a million years—you knew that.

Something had stopped him, forced him to let go as he froze in time; in an assortment of colours he couldn't control—that was how you found yourself where you were now—free-falling to your death for what was perhaps the second time in your life.

"Y/N!"

It was a lot scarier the first time—you had to admit—when you fell from the glass room right beside the huge collider more than a year ago. At the time, Miles had insisted you stay away from his spider business for your own safety, but you—being you—followed him down anyway.

That was your first mistake.

Your second—however—came in the form of letting Kingpin know you were there after allowing quite the ridiculous sneeze out of your mouth. And once he saw you, it wasn't hard for him to pick you up and throw you through the shattered glass in his rage and dismay of his failed plan.

Miles had his back completely turned to you when it happened, and yet—somehow—he was the first to whip his head around and notice your quickly descending form.

"Y/N!"

You had come so close to the ground—seconds away from touching it—when that familiar warmth wrapped its way around your waist, carrying you through the wind to prop you onto your own little cloud of safety.

Ever since then, Miles refused to leave your side. He took you out on every mission he went to—pretty much every news station had you pinned down as 'Spiderman's girl' and he never bothered to correct them.

So even as Gwen went off to another dimension, Miles grabbed you before following after. Even as he was invited to the headquarters of this 'spider society', he refused to go without them also granting you permission inside too.

When you asked him why he went to such lengths for you, he simply replied, "I almost lost you once while being in the same dimension as you, if you think I'm going to let it even come close to happening again, you've got another thing coming."

So no, you didn't find the second time you were falling to your death all that scary. Not when you knew Miles would save you—

"I've got you, cariño."

—you just didn't exactly know that it would be the other one that did.

His arms were wound tightly around the underside of your knees and upper back—carrying you so intimately, looking at you with so much love in his eyes, you found yourself growing slightly flustered.

...okay, very flustered.

"Oh, Cariño," as he spoke, he didn't lose the breath in his tone—the gentle air of disbelief he took on since your arrival, "you're here. I can't believe it—you're here. Te extrañé mucho." ("I missed you so much.")

You were speechless, gaping up at him like a clueless fish—what else could you do? You were being held in the arms of a copy of your best friend after he basically just confessed to you because the 'you' in this universe was apparently dead.

Though, luckily for you, there was no need to say a word for he continued speaking with those soft, fond eyes, "I missed your smile and your laugh. I missed how you always used to tug me around whenever something caught your eye... and how you would go on and on about whatever show was your new obsession of the month. You were always so... pretty when you spoke passionately.

"Speak for me, cariño," he continued, "let me hear that pretty voice of yours again."

"I—" you were stuttering—why were you stuttering?—"I, uh..."

Pull yourself together, Y/N.

"Miles—"

"Ah, I just realised how much I missed the way you say my name."

"—guh!" How the hell was he spitting such smooth lines? "Miles! Just listen for a minute, okay?!"

"Of course, mamí."

"I— I'm not who you think I am. I mean, I am Y/N but I'm not your Y/N. And you're not my Miles."

As the words came tumbling out your mouth, the boy's—this earth's Miles'—lips tugged down, gaze hardening and grip around you ever-so-slowly growing tighter.

"Don't be silly, mamí, of course I'm your Miles. I always have been and always will be."

Your brows furrowed and your eyes trailed to the view behind him, moving rapidly as you tried to locate your best friend. Though, soon, your view of the sky was cut off by the male with braids once more.

"What are you doing?" A growl. "Stop looking for him, look at me. I'm right here. He dropped you."

"He glitched! This isn't his world so of course he would, it wasn't his fault!"

You were quick to defend him—he was your best friend so of course you were. There was no way you were having anyone accuse him of anything negative, even himself.

"Cariño, you almost died. Again. He can't take care of you." Miles narrowed his eyes, as if just the thought pissed him off; as if he had the right to be pissed off.

"Oh what?" You scoffed. "And you can? I'm my own person, I don't need to be taken care of."

Stubbornly, you found yourself pulling away from him—or well, attempting to at least, he didn't seem to want to let you though, judging by the way his claws slowly began to dig into you a little.

His eyes were narrowed and his lips were tugged down, gaze seeming to pierce through you—as though he was trying to use you as a vessel to glare at the person he was really mad at.

Though, soon, the expression was gone, replaced by sullen eyes and an almost-far-away look—glossed over in a cloudy haze full of what you could only assume to be the grand despair that was grief; grief over a loss so great, it would pain someone to even admit it ever happened.

"Cariño, please. I don't want to argue with you, I just got you back. Please."

The look on his face, the crack in his voice—it was all too much, you almost couldn't stomach it, and soon, your arms loosened up as you lost the will to pull away.

"Miles," you whispered, "I... I'm really sorry—"

"Don't be, you're here with me now, aren't you? We can make up for all that lost time."

"I can't." Your vision blurred as you shook your head from side-to-side. "I'm sorry, I can't."

For a moment, all was silent. No words were exchanged, leaving only the strong wind to howl in your ears; to warn you of your grave mistake and whisper taunts into your ears. Then—

"It's because of him, isn't it?"

You almost couldn't muster words. "Huh?"

"The other me—it's because of him that you won't stay with me, isn't it?"

The look in his eyes was something of a dark nature, swirling with malice; with hate so inextricibly deep, you almost couldn't believe your own eyes—because... because there was just no way, right? There was no way your Miles (or any other Miles for that matter) could exhibit such a lethal level of loathing towards anyone...

"If I get rid of him, it won't be so much of a problem anymore... sí?"

...or was there?

@justmare, @majestichugs, @milktealvrr, @ladyfairenvale, @sakura-onesan, @haunted-pass, @phoenixgurl030, @stupendousnightmaretrash, @ultimate-geek14, @liaaa-1, @sluslutts, @angrypomeranianwifey, @thatbeanieboss, @kkate8008, @lilslmao, @honeydewpie, @elenasstxarr, @sloverr, @quartzangel0, @crystalsinwater, @astrosdelululand, @sflame15-blog, @nightshxdex, @dottoresgarden, @crowshiny, @teamowolverine, @bangtannie7, @k0la22, @kissmxcheek, @myloveforreading, @jared-oranges, @shisuishoe, @veryfancydoilies, @sunshinesetsstuff, @lovefks, @omg-the-nutella-queen, @hazzapotter, @levanneisdumb, @angie2274, @blueberrystigma

#miles morales #spiderman: across the spiderverse #spiderman atsv #across the spiderverse #female reader #miles morales x reader #earth 42 miles morales x reader #earth 42 miles #earth 42 miles x reader #prowler miles #earth 42 #earth 42 miles morales #miles morales prowler #spiderverse

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ghost-with-a-teacup · 11 months

Note

Okay okay, hear me out.

A bantery sort of annoying best friend trope with Miguel O'Hara. Like, hes stubborn, but reader is just as stubborn and hard headed. So like, on a mission Miguel is like "Why werent you paying attention?" and SpiderPerson!Reader is like "You're a very distracting man." And then like, the classic upside down Spiderman kiss. Apologies if this is a mess, the brainrot is real.

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x Reader

Warnings: None, just some good ol' fluff paired alongside some classic best friends to lovers. You know the dealio :3

It wasn’t easy being best friends with Miguel O’Hara.

He was stubborn, stoic, annoying, always thought he was right, and incredibly grumpy (almost all the time! It must be exhausting) amongst many other things. But all those things made him who he was, alongside the kindness and care he has for everyone, hidden behind that Spider-Society leader guise.

It wasn’t easy, but he was your best friend just as you were his. Your favourite person amongst the millions of people on this planet, and the billions upon trillions of people in the multiverse.

But it was even more difficult when you had the biggest raging crush on him. You felt like a little teenager, lost in the vastness of your own heart that quickly grew more and more fond of the person you loved with each day that passed.

Your feelings made you act silly and lovesick (and you knew damn well he noticed, he just never said anything about it), but they weren’t going anywhere for the time being so here they stayed.

They weren’t too great during missions though.

“Hey, Miguel~,” you say, sidling up to him with a stupid grin on your face. He stops you with a palm on your face, not allowing you to get too close.

“Ugh, what-?” he says, pulling his hand back in disgust. “Did you just lick me?!”

“Don’t put your hand in front of my face then, you should know by now the consequences of that,” you say with a tsk, before bursting into laughter at his expression.

“Unfortunately,” he sighs, rubbing it onto your suit. “Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?” you say, pretending to be confused.

“What do you mean what- The mission? Are you ready for the mission we’re supposed to be going on in the next minute,” he huffs incredulously.

“Obviously, Miguel,” you snort. “How long have we been doing this job? Have you so little faith in me?” you ask.

“Yes,” he deadpans, and you gasp.

“How dare you?” you say, pressing a hand to your chest in offence.

“You are the most dramatic person I know,” he says, glancing over toward you as he programs the watch to the universe you were both headed to.

“You love me,” you say in turn.

“Unfortunately,” he says, and you grin widely.

“Awwww, Miguel~,” you say, pulling him into a hug that he hesitantly returns (though you knew he loved hugs, he would just rather die than admit it).

“Alright, alright,” he says pulling away. “Focus up, we need to be on our A-game for this guy.”

“Aye, aye, captain! Lead the way,” you say, and he rolls his eyes but can’t quite conceal the smile on his face at your antics before his mask reforms on his face.

Together you both make your way through the portal, getting transported past thousands of worlds in mere seconds before arriving at the one with the anomaly.

“Oh, cool~,” you say with a childlike wonder. Around you is a world that looked like it came straight out of a painting, everything looking almost acrylic in nature and beauty.

“You saw this in the briefing,” he says to you but looks around himself with a sort of wonder.

“A picture on a screen is entirely different from seeing something like this in real life, Miguel,” you retort, still looking around in awe. Looking down at your own form, your costume was blended in splotches of your iconic colours, like you had walked right out of a portrait.

He doesn’t say anything to that, instead patting your head once before walking away toward the mission site.

“C’mon. The faster we finish up, the sooner we can head back. We can have a movie night back at my place, yeah?” he says, and you perk up immediately before running after him.

“That sounds perfect, ‘cause I baked too many cookies that I don’t know what to do with,” you say embarrassed, knowing full well that you had baked them for him. He always did love your baking.

You notice the side of his mask shifts upward slightly, a telltale sign that he was happy even with the mask concealing most of his expressions but you don’t say anything, only smiling softly to yourself.

“Lyla, do a full sweep of the building before we head in. I don’t want any surprises,” he calls out, and the AI pops up immediately.

“Ugh, so bossy,” she says, and you snort.

“You could say that again,” you say in turn, while Miguel only sighs.

“Are you two done insulting me yet?” he says, and you turn to face him, walking backwards as you do.

“Never!” you say, before you’re snatched off of the ground with a yelp. He calls out your name, immediately swinging in after you.

“NOT COOL DUDE,” you shout to the villain who had his tentacles wrapped around your waist, dangling you upside down as she stuck to the ceiling. “Shouldn’t you be in the sea, doing…whatever octopuses do?”

“This seems a lot more fun,” the villain says, her voice a gurgling sort of low tone that sounds much more ominous than it should.

You shoot your webs out onto the ceiling, trying to pull yourself up and out of her grasp to no avail, her hold too strong.

Bit by bit her hold continued to tighten, inhibiting your ability to breathe.

“H-hey, we can talk about this right?” you gasp out, but before you know it Miguel was flying up toward you.

He looked so serious and intent on getting you out, his muscles flexing as he held on to his webbing.

Quite frankly, it was hot.

So hot that you failed to notice that Miguel had smacked you out of the villain’s grasp, expecting you to swing yourself out. Instead, you fall to the floor with a thud and a loud groan. It wasn’t a far fall, and all your limbs were still intact but the wind that was already limited in your lungs was smacked out of you, and the ground was definitely going to leave a bruise.

“FOCUS!” he shouts to you, sending another punch to the villain’s face to knock her off balance. That luckily snaps you out of your reverie as you stand back onto your feet, swinging up to help him out.

You use your webbing to pull the tentacles off of the wall, meanwhile, Miguel acts as a distraction so she can’t focus on the fact that she’s being brought down to the ground where a trap lay for her to land in.

Bit by bit more tentacles become loose, and with one last hit from Miguel she falls to the floor with a scream, the force field raising around her immediately.

“You won’t get away with this!” she says angrily, but you only smirk, swinging down to her level.

“Doesn’t seem like there’s much you can do in this position, can you? Don’t worry, we won’t keep you for long. You’ll be back in your universe in no time~” you say, opening up a portal straight into the holding room for the other anomalies and pushing her in.

“Bye!” you say simply before the portal closes, taking her with it.

Then, the building is quiet, and you wince as you feel Miguel’s imposing aura behind you. Grasping your shoulder, he whirls you around as he looks at you exasperatedly.

"Why the hell weren’t you paying attention?" he asks you, arms moving animatedly as they usually do.

“In my defence…you didn’t notice her coming either,” you say.

“That’s not an excuse! You have your Spidey-sense, you have an instinct that tells you when you’re in danger,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And that fall, what was that? You saw me coming, why are you so distracted today?” he says with a sigh.

“Well, you’re a very distracting man,” you mumble, and his eyes widen slightly under his mask before it dissipates, leaving only his handsome face behind. You pull off your mask in turn, only staring into his eyes.

He stares back before sighing.

“Are you hurt?” he says, his eyes running over your body scanning for any injuries.

“I’ve taken worse hits than that, you know,” you say in turn, your face heating up slightly.

“An injury is an injury regardless of how bad it is,” he says, walking around you to make sure nothing is out of place.

“Jeez, you should take your own advice Mr. ‘I don’t need to go to the infirmary ever’” you huff.

“That’s different,” he retorts.

“It’s really not.”

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

“I’m not gonna argue with you right now,” he rolls his eyes.

“Oh c’mon, you know that’s your favourite pastime,” you smirk.

“It’s not.”

“Don’t lie to yourself, it is.”

“I only tell the truth, it’s not.”

“You say that, but here you are arguing with me again,” you grin, and he groans.

“Regardless, you did good today,” he says after a moment.

“I always do good, what do you mean,” and he looks at you incredulously.

“Can you just allow me to compliment you?”

You just shrug.

“Ehhhh, I struggle to accept compliments because deep down I’m incredibly insecure and can’t make myself believe that I can do well, let alone have other people think that so…yeah!”

“…we’ll talk about this later,” he says, patting your shoulder (the tiniest bit awkwardly, which made you almost laugh considering how long you two have known each other).

“So, since you think I ‘did good’ today, what’s my reward?” you ask expectantly, the corner of your mouth quirked up. He hums for a moment before slinging his webs onto the ceiling, swinging himself up so that he hung upside-down.

“C’mere,” he says, and you look at him confused.

“What on Earth are you doing?” you say.

“Can you just listen to me for once and come here?” he says exasperatedly, so you relent and walk so you’re about a foot away from him.

“Closer,” he says, and you step closer hesitantly, the proximity making you nervous. He only huffs, reaching out to grasp onto your arm so you’re standing face to face.

The hand on your arm reaches up, softly placing itself on your cheek as you let out a little gasp. His eyes bore into yours, and you get lost in the swirling crimson and gold.

“Is this alright?” he says softly, his breath fanning across your face. You felt your heartbeat pick up as the warmth of his hand pressed into your cheek gently. You can’t do anything but nod.

His lips press into yours, slightly chapped but soft as he kissed you softly.

You had never felt anything so right.

“What was that for?” you whisper as he pulls away after a few seconds that felt like an eternity condensed into a single moment.

He snorts softly before swinging back onto his feet, pulling you into his chest with a hug.

“I know you have feelings for me,” he says, and your body tenses for a moment at the blatant comment.

“I-” you start, but he interjects calmly.

“Hasn’t it been obvious that I have feelings for you too?” he asks as he pulls away, cupping your cheeks in both his hands.

“I, I thought it was just because I was your best friend,” you say as all those little moments you’ve had over the years play through your head. It makes him laugh softly, oh how you loved that laugh.

“You’re painfully oblivious sometimes, you know,” he says, but the fondness is evident in his voice.

“Can you kiss me again?” you ask, a tad bit flustered but you already missed the feeling of his lips on yours.

He smiles down at you before kissing you tenderly, fingers tangling through your hair as your hand rests on his chest, feeling his racing heart.

Finally, you felt complete.

“I didn’t know you were so soft,” you giggle as you return back to HQ.

“I am not soft,” he says almost offendedly, but the corner of his lip is quirked up the tiniest bit. “Though if I was, it would only be for you.”

Taglist: @beiroviski, @scaraza, @blueoorchid, @remuslupinwifee, @local-mr-frog, @johfaam0, @rawegggohan, @honeycriess, @alexenoirex, @chimpkinnuggies, @rqdior, @banana—belle, @notasadgirlipromise, @6billionyearsold, @gods-perfectidiot, @ieatmunson, @honeii-puff, @wh0re4zaynmalik, @toplinehyunjin, @ohworm-writes

A/N: Two updates in one day? That's wild, haha. Am I writing this because I saw this prompt and I myself am in love with my best friend? Absolutely, but hey! Coping mechanisms, am I right :)

#miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o hara #miguel ohara x reader #miguel x reader #spiderman #spiderman 2099 #spiderman across the spiderverse #across the spider verse spoilers #across the spiderverse #spiderman 2099 x reader

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ineffable-suffering · 6 months

Text

The Jane Austen Ball and why it was never about Nina and Maggie

Otherwise known as (*takes a deep breath*): A completely inflated close-up look at various dialogues and events of Season 2 that prove that the Whickber Street Traders and Shopkeeper's Association Meeting Cotillion Ball was supposed to be Aziraphale's confession to Crowley

Look, the point's been made before but that's never kept me from making it myself again, still. In fact, even I made it before, at the end of one of my other metas. But I feel like it's absolutely worthy enough to get its own soppy, way-too-long post. And I do love it so very much to write ridiculously long essays on something that could easily be condensed into a short paragraph.

So, here we go! Snuggle up, get cozy, settle in and, most importantly:

(Word count: 3.177 | Reading time: ~13 minutes)

As I already said above, I laid out a similar case in my meta about why Aziraphale is somewhat of an unreliable narrator. I'll try and recycle it here briefly, so I can further make my point.

When Aziraphale arrives back in London from his Edinburgh journey, he seems oddly happy and giddy for the fact that he just had a rather odd and threatening encounter with Shax. I explain in my other meta that this is because he just spent the last hours of his drive reminiscing on the thrilling and romantic magic show adventure of 1941 and also the fact that he just found out that Crowley has been replaced by Shax and no longer works for Hell.

Ergo: We have a hopelessly lovesick Principality at our hands, who's practically swooning over his serpent who saved him, his books and his magic show all those years ago.

Ergo:

✨This✨

Realistically, Aziraphale should probably be a tad worried about the eery encounter with Shax, in which she definitely had the upper hand on him. But well, if you spend many-a hours driving across the serene countryside (Edinburgh is about an 8-hour drive from London), pondering on one of the craziest, sticky-sweet romantic adventures of your not-life life, well ... things tend to turn a little rosy around the edges. Head in the clouds and all that. Light shades of grey!

Alright, onwards: Once the angel, filled to the very brim with fond memories and butterflies, gets out of the Bentley, he's kindly met with a face full of verdant plants and a very in-character-grumpy Crowley.

Fhwack! Way to burst the rosy bubble.

Seriously, the absolute lightning speed with which Crowley storms out to vacate the bookshop the very second Aziraphale arrives makes me giggle every time.

Let's make a first small (who am I kidding) diversion into analysing the following conversation in unnecessary detail ...

... simply because I enjoy quoting dialogue as an accurate reference in my metas. I'll also highlight certain passages I want to comment on in individual colours so I can back up my thoughts with them below. Alright, their little chinwag goes as follows:

Crowley: "They you are! I was worried something might have happened to you." Aziraphale: "No, nothing happened to me. Very uneventful journey indeed. No strange things at all." Crowley: "Good. That's what we wanna hear." Aziraphale: "Um .. everything okay with- ah.." *nods to the bookshop* Crowley: "Oh, yeah, fine. He's singing to himself. I think he must have been asleep. I heard snoring coming from his bedroom–" Crowley, to the Bentley: "Did you miss me? I bet you did." Aziraphale: "... I'm sure it did." Crowley: "So, any more clues from the mystery of the missing archangel?" Aziraphale: "Not exactly. Or, if there are, I haven't yet cracked the case. But I'm certainly hot on the trail of something." Crowley: "I'm sure you are. Oh, by the way, the whole sudden rain and awning thing was a complete washout." Aziraphale: "Sorry?" Crowley: "You know, project making Nina fall in love with Maggie. I failed, it's your go." Aziraphale: "I see. Well then, Whickber Street Traders and Shopkeeper's Association Monthly Meeting, here we come!" Crowley: "You're really hosting the meeting?" Aziraphale: "Absolutely! And I can guarantee you, it will be a night to remember."

At first glance, this has little to do with the plot of this meta but actually, it folds into my point very nicely! However, it's not time for that yet, so we'll just state the facts as they are for now and then bring them back 'round later when we need them. That being said: For the love of Someone, will these two ever manage to simply tell each other the truth of what happened instead of thinking they can protect each other by lying about it all the time? Hrmpf. As a big fan of open communication myself, I'm close to developing a stomach ulcer with the amount of false truths being spewed here. (Then again – and yes, that is another, way larger meta I'm currently cooking up – it plays so very perfectly into the whole Jane-Austen-Pride-and-Prejudice tragic miscommunication theme that this entire Season has, so I understand the point of it.)

Very uneventful journey indeed, Aziraphale, except for the fact that you were ambushed by a demon who told you she was Crowley's successor, knows about the rumors of the two of you being an item as well as what went down in 1941 (that almost had both of you exposed) and also seems to have figured out where you and your demon boyfriend are hiding Gabriel, all in the span of about a minute. No strange things at all, nooo!

And Crowley's "Oh yeah, fine" is a total lie too. Again, we see him make an absolute run for it before Aziraphale can even enter the bookshop. After all, he just once again witnessed Jim have a Gabriel-flashback, speaking of the Second Coming, while Crowley was alone with him. As fumingly angry he is with the amnesiac archangel – he's also absolutely terrified of what might happen (to him and Aziraphale) should Jim regain his memories. So, no wonder he's quick to vacate the premises after witnessing Jim's rather eery memory flashback (and was, just like Aziraphale, threatened by Shax mere moments later, lol).

But no, nothing out of the ordinary happened to either of them. Tip-top. Absolutely tickety-fucking-boo.

Alright, let's get back on track with the actual topic of this meta. Certainly hot on the trail of something, hm? At first glance, it might seem like Aziraphale is talking about the fact that Gabriel was in company of someone whenever he went to the Resurrectionist Pub. (The clue!) However, I don't actually think he is talking about that. Why? Because, and this slipped my mind too at first, he never actually follows any of this information up, does he? Yes, sure, he went to Edinburgh, found the capital-c Clue and then returned to London. But what does he do with it? Nothing. He doesn't keep investigating this hot trail because that's not the important thing he realized during his journey. No, the more important clue Aziraphale found during his trip, is that Crowley no longer works for Hell and that he is also very much irrevocably in love with him and must confess this at the earliest given chance. (The latter part isn't necessarily a new discovery for Aziraphale, but it surely is fuelled by the fact that he just realized Crowley's out of a Hellish job and simply hasn't told him yet.)

This exchange just the perfect indicator for the fact that Aziraphale, at no point during his drive back, was thinking about the Maggie and Nina mission. He has no idea what Crowley is talking about once he mentions it and seems surprised, even, that he would. Even though they just talked about it on the phone when Aziraphale was still at the graveyard. Which is another important piece of evidence because it means that the last status update Aziraphale got of Mission Lovebirds, was that Crowley had sensed an opportunity to make them fall in love – and had then hung up on him. Why is this important? Because it means that until that very point of their conversation, Aziraphale did not know that Crowley's attempt had failed! There would have been just as much of a chance of Crowley's weather miracle actually working out and Maggie and Nina already having skipped into the sunset happily ever after.

So, riddle me this:

Why would Aziraphale spend the entire ride back from Edinburgh plotting "a night to remember" (because clearly, he already had the entire Ball planned out down to a T in his head since he goes into action right away after arriving) if he didn't even know yet that Crowley's attempt had failed?

To be very clear here: We're not talking about Aziraphale driving on the M1 to London, having a silly little idea for putting on some good music, miracle-ing Nina and Maggie to dance to it and watch them confess their love–

No.

He planned an entire actual Cotillion Ball with very particular location design that involves re-arranging the entire bookshop, specifically designed individual outfits for (almost) every single attendee, topped off with a live band, hors-d'œuvre, drinks and an actual choreographed group dance.

During one car ride.

Where's the party planner Aziraphale AU? I'm waiting!

Now, sure, we know that it's still quite important for Aziraphale to convince Heaven of the faux-reason they gave for their accidental ✨25-Lazarii miracle✨. But if we're all honest, this all seems to be a tad much just to make two random humans fall in love, even for that.

Glittery ball gowns and suits? Red and gold wall curtains? A modified language filter? Bloody vol-au-vents?

Talk about over the top ...

Once we start S2E5, Crowley is still surprised at the mere fact that Aziraphale is actually planning to organize the Monthly Meeting – and he doesn't even know yet that it's gonna be the most extravagant ball-boogaloo that the Whickber Street Community has ever seen! Aziraphale wanting to organize the meeting alone, is enough to render Crowley incredulous, because Aziraphale never mingles with the other shopkeepers. He usually actively avoids them and any sort of social encounters as much as he can because he doesn't care about the bloody Christmas lights, alright?

These things seem mundane and uninteresting to him, obviously, since all he really cares about is hoarding his book collection in peace like the little hedonist he is and drawing as little attention as possible to his none-business business.

Oh, right, speaking of books:

Let's take another unnecessarily detailed look at the whole Whickber Street invitation scene:

Aziraphale realizes very quickly that he's not the only one who's quite unenthusiastic about the blessed Chritsmas lights. And despite his very persuasive methods of temptation ...

... he has to take some more drastic measurements. And those are?

That's right: Giving away his books.

I'll repeat it again, slowly: Aziraphale is willingly (!) giving away or lending his books to pretty much complete strangers to, allegedly, make two other humans strangers fall in love.

Seriously, who is that angel and what has he done with our prim, fussy, hedonistic Aziraphale that protects his books with the vice grip of an eagle carrying his precious prey?

Believe in the importance of Mission Lovebirds as much as you will, but we're talking about Mr. A.Z. Fell here who, over the past millennia, has pretty much spent every day actively working out methods to stop people from purchasing as much as a single paperback from his holy shelves.

And yet: the 1965 September Dr. Who Annual? Given away. The first edition of Expert at the Card Table that was S. W. Erdnase's personal copy? Lent away to grubby human hands to fondle around with.

Let's do another coloured dialogue diversion (don't worry, it's not as extensive as the last one):

Crowley: "You just did what I think you did?" Aziraphale: "I'm not prepared to talk about it." Crowley: "You gave away a book." Aziraphale: "I had to! Maggie and Nina are depending on me. They just don't know it yet."

Crowley backs up my point: This is a huge deal. Aziraphale does not sell his books – let alone give them away for free. We're all shocked! Flabbergasted!

And the explanation Crowley and us get just ... doesn't satisfy. Something and someone sure is depending on this Ball and doesn't know it yet. But it's most definitely not Maggie and Nina, folks.

You know for whom Aziraphale would give away his books in the blink of an eye, though?

Mhm, that's right.

This pretty old serpent.

I want to take a minute to show you the reaction again that Aziraphale has upon entering the very same magic shop him and Crowley went to in 1941 to acquire the Bullet Catch:

You ... you need a minute there, angel? You're sure looking a little ... affected.

And I mean, well, no wonder. He reminisced about that very memory four hours last night. To him, this shop is where the most turbulent, ecstatic, adrenaline-fuelled and romantic night of his life began. And it shows.

I've made my point in my other meta series about how Aziraphale is an incredibly nostalgic character. He romanticizes so many things in his memories – especially the parts that feature Crowley. So, it doesn't surprise me in the slightest that he's once again willing to loosen the tight grip he has on his book collection to get the successor of Will Goldstone's Magic Shop, the shop that started it all for him, to come to his fancy Ball.

As we watch Aziraphale and his little lap dog demon pat around Soho, I'd like to take another second to point out that he goes to seven or more establishments before he even invites Nina.

... and he only does so because she starts talking to them on the street. Almost like he'd forgotten about it. Why not ask her at the very beginning? To establish whether or not he'd have to book-blackmail her too?

"Perfectly ordinary invitation with no hidden agenda of any kind", except that he's using you and Maggie as a pretence to resolve his own clusterfuck of a relationship-miscommunication Jane-Austen-style so that he can then hopefully confess his undying love to his demon not-boyfriend boyfriend.

Marvellous!

You'll forgive me another short diversion but my God, the whole exchange at the Marguerite's restaurant with Crowley literally cat-call-whistling Aziraphale over to him (and Aziraphale checking if he meant someone else first, I–)? I am weak. So, so weak and

However, this is also when we get a snippet of Crowley finally revealing the truth in place of his "Oh, he's fine"-lie earlier and telling Aziraphale that he's actually pretty scared Jim might turn back into Gabriel and smite him altogether. And Aziraphale's response is, in a cosmic sense, (remember the pink paragraph now) so hilarious:

"Have you thought of just talking to him?"

Yeah, have you? Have any of the two of you? Just thought about talking? To each other? About anything?

'pparently not. But hey, it's all good because remember what the ultimate remedy for star-crossed lovers simply misunderstanding each other is?

Bish, bash, bosh, problem solved!

Back at the ballroom bookshop, Aziraphale sends Crowley to invite Maggie in order to, in my opinion, not spoil the Ball-y surprise for him. (Inviting Maggie only now?! Wouldn't she be one of the only two guests who really should attend? Why the short notice? If she's really that important for the Ball you're planning, hm?)

On top of this, we see Nina almost not attending the Ball meeting after her partner broke up with her and Crowley being the one who coincidentally runs into her and ushers her into the bookshop before Shax and her "legion" of demons start creeping up on them. Again, if this hadn't happened by pure coincidence, Nina would have left to go home and this whole Ball would have taken place without her, rendering the apparent sole purpose of making her fall in love with Maggie useless.

Why doesn't Aziraphale care more for both of them to attend and be there? Why is he instead busy fussing over everything looking perfect and wonderful and doesn't even seem to notice that both Nina and Maggie are really late to the meeting?

Well. Well.

The answer's in the title, babes.

Alas, Crowley safely gets Maggie and Nina to join them, Mr. Brown is the only one who doesn't get a miracled outfit (fussy, petty angel, you just don't like him, do you?), Jimbriel stuns with glamour and flirt (and whatever sexually suggestive thing he does with his cheeks) and the Whickber Street Ball is a-go!

Sorry, I just had to chuck this in again because Crowley's face here absolutely kills me every time. He looks so confused, I am hollering.

And the heart eyes Aziraphale is making at Nina and Maggie now that they're actually here?

Oh, bless it, angel.

He's all like "Oh look, it's working! Jane was right! It's all going to be resolved, all the misunderstanding and quarrels! Crowley, where's Crowley–"

Ah yes, there he is.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is an angel who is not listening to a single word being said right now. No, in his head, Aziraphale is already down on one knee, pouring his heart out to Crowley after they just danced the night away.

Oh, yes, right. The dancing.

Parallel much?

But well, as marvellous and beautifully romantic as her stories tend to be, it turns out that Jane Austen isn't always right after all. Because before we know it, the perfect night shatters into many-a tiny pieces (literally).

And once again, fhwack:

... the rosy bubble bursts.

Let's take one more deep breath so I can make my final point:

In S2E2, Aziraphale explains to us very exactly what Jane's Balls (hrhr) used to be about: Solving miscommunication and confessing love to one another.

During his car journey back from Edinburgh, Aziraphale:

doesn't know Crowley's Mission Lovebirds had failed

remembers 1941 and just how badly he's in love with Crowley

and also realizes that they seem to have been wildly miscommunicating for quite some time now. (Crowley didn't even tell him he basically got let go!)

So, what does maddeningly strong love plus a want to resolve all the miscommunication equal? That's right: A night to remember! A Ball to change it all! A dance, a vol-au-vent, a confession. And, ideally, a happy ever after. Because:

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man angel in possession of a good fortune Jane Austen collection, must be in want of a wife demon husband.”

The Ball was never for Nina and Maggie. As a byproduct, maybe, yes. But the whole rest of the glimmer and glamour, the careful, romantic planning and set up of it all, the book-bating the other shopkeepers– that was for Crowley and Crowley only.

And oh, if only it were as easy as in the books.

*whispers* I'm sorry, I had to.

***

Your honour, the tinfoil-hat crackpot defence rests. Feel free to share thoughts (and prayers) if you want to!

Au revoir! 💗

#good omens season 2 #good omens #gos2 #go2 #good omens 2 #good omens meta #good omens s2 #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #my own meta #the bloody vol-au-vents made me do it #aziraphale has balls #truly #jaune austen ball #it is a truth universally acknowledged that this show is going to drive me out of my mind #azi just wanted his silly little love confession #but then he had to surrender the angle #bummer

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frenshushutoast · 4 months

Text

minghao as your boyfriend

notes: happy new year! my first post in a Long time but here's to more writing in 2024... let's do this!

lots of quiet moments together. even in loud, crowded rooms, minghao still finds a way to give you little moments of solace with a hand in yours and quiet, whispered conversations.

art gallery dates! so many art gallery dates. every time a new one opens, you're equally excited to go visit. sometimes you'll both quietly share your interpretations of the different pieces with each other, and sometimes you'll just bask in the beauty of the creations and simply being able to experience it together.

very endeared by you. you will simply exist and he'll let out his soft giggle, burying his face in your shoulder, pinching your cheeks, and kissing all over your face when you guys are alone together. you're confused when he first does it, asking what you did for him to be so impossibly fond. he just responds with a you're so cute, baby and it makes you far more flustered than you're willing to admit.

very protective over you. not because he thinks you're weak–you're one of the strongest people he knows–but he's very gentle with you anyways. he does everything he can to make sure you don't get hurt, and is very, very attentive to you. you've been doing everything yourself for so long, he just wants to take care of you.

you're both a very fashionable couple. long trench coats, nail designs, matching colour schemes. everybody is intimidated by you until they catch you giggling together in a corner.

loves having you in his lap. he'll wrap his hands around your waist and rest his cheek on your shoulder, quietly telling you how much he appreciates everything about you.

he will casually say the most devastating things, randomly, while he traces little shapes on your hip. baobei, i'd give you all the stars if you ask. you're my warm patch of sunlight, my safe space. everything slows down when i'm with you. little i love you's scattered all over the things he says to you.

he gets uncharacteristically shy when you compliment him. the first time you do it, it's when he got his nails done differently and you told him it was pretty and his ears went very red. you've taken advantage of it ever since.

takes you on romantic dinner dates, well thought out and so, so perfect.

he teaches you how to slow dance, even through all the times you accidentally step on his foot. he twirls you and kisses you so sweetly, you could turn to putty in his hands.

a Very good kisser. i could expand on this but the brain worms are simply too strong. but he's Good with his tongue. the first time you really kiss him, you pull away very breathless and tell him just that. the only thing he answers you with is a small smug smile and a gentle peck, so different from the heated makeout session.

takes the best photos of you and hypes you up while he does it. the only reason your instagram feed looks so good is because of his amazing photography skills.

#seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #svt writers #svt scenarios #svt x reader #frenshushutoast writes #seventeen fluff #minghao x reader #minghao #minghao fluff #minghao headcanons #the8 x reader #seventeen fic

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boorines · 7 months

Text

sushi and soft kisses | kim mingyu

“so”, you hear from your spot behind the kitchen counter, “am i right in assuming you loved the lasagna?”

you breathe out a laugh while digging around for a pair of kitchen scissors. “yes, gyu, and i’ll say it only one more time. y’know, just in case the first 15 didn’t inflate your chef ego”. there’s only fondness in your words, you’d eat his lasagna and compliment it for the next 20 years, but he didn’t need to know that.

drawers and cabinets open and swing shut as you look for the small pair of scissors for your sealed packet of dried seaweed. you huff in defeat and walk over to mingyu’s place on the couch, wordlessly holding out the packet. he puffs out his chest in exaggeration, shoots you a dazzling smile and tears the plastic with ease. you go to pat his head in thanks before he catches it and leaves a feather-light kiss on the back of your palm. even after 3 years of compliments, touches and kisses you find yourself blushing at the action.

you walk back behind the kitchen counter, getting comfortable as you prepare for 20 minutes of wrapping tuna and rice balls in now ready-to-use seaweed. 2 minutes deep in your hard work you notice a pair of arms leaning against the counter. you look up and find yourself face to face with your boyfriend.

“hi”, you giggle.

“hi, chef”, he whispers back.

you pick up a wrapped rice ball and hold it against his lips, him opening his mouth in compliance. “good?”

“excellent”, he mumbles around a mouth full of rice and tuna. “maybe even better than my lasagna”.

you laugh with a roll of your eyes. “yeah yeah, mister world’s best lasagna”. you feel a bite being held up to your mouth and you accept being fed contentedly. you smile at him, all bright and inviting and he can’t help but melt. before you know it, there are arms around your waist and a kiss being pressed to your shoulder.

“i hope you’re okay with being called mrs world’s best lasagna by our friends for a long, long time”, he says and you short circuit. mingyu hasn’t been shying away from talks of becoming more and it never fails to make butterflies erupt in your stomach.

“oh, i could get used to it. especially if i get this treatment every time i cook”, you say coyly. this, mingyu takes as an invitation.

suddenly, you feel your feet lift off the ground as you’re carried to the couch, placed softly between the cushions. the seat dips beside you as mingyu drapes himself over your form, head nuzzling into your neck. you feel his warm breath on your skin as he sighs in content.

you swell with warmth as your hands tangle in his hair, subconsciously carding through his curls. “pretty boy, you forgot the sushi balls i spent ages making on the counter”, you punctuate your words with a kiss on his mess of hair.

he props his head up to look at you, “we’ll get to them later, i have something tastier with me”, he says with a smirk. you feel your stomach tighten at his words but you choose to hit him lightly on his arm instead. he laughs at your red cheeks and leans in to place a soft kiss on your mouth. you feel him smile on your lips when you kiss him back with added pressure.

“scandalous, gyu”, you whisper as you pull away to look at his face.

“mm, you don’t make it easy for me”.

you laugh and move your hands to his cheeks, cupping his face as you press a kiss to his nose. then one more to his lips.

he’s gone for you. your bright eyes looking at him say so much more than any words can. he doesn’t know what to do with himself but stare a little longer. he squeezes your waist when you whisper a quiet “yeah?”.

“nothing, i just love you”.

“i love you, too”, you smile, “what’s brought this on?”

“just love my pretty girl”, he says matter-of-factly.

your cheeks colour for maybe the 20th time today. and oh, does he notice.

“how about we have your sushi and finish with some… dessert”. you turn a deeper shade of pink and his lips quirk up when he feels your legs tighten around him. he pushes himself off the couch and gets ready to scoop you up into his arms. your hand wraps around his bicep.

“actually, let’s skip to dessert”.

—

ahhhhh this is my first work!! i really hope u enjoy it and i can’t wait to bring you more! requests are open!

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skzdarlings · 7 months

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part viii: bodyguard!felix x reader

masterlist.

PART I ; PART II ; PART III ; PART IV ; PART V ; PART VI ; PART VII ; PART VIII ; PART IX ; FINAL PART.

( READ ON AO3. )

Your father hires an inconspicuous bodyguard to accompany you at school and supervise you at home. What seems like an innocuous change in routine eventually spirals into a forbidden romance that grows more passionate over the years.

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: smut. violence. parental abuse. situations of intense peril overall. forced proximity. enemies2lovers. angst with eventual happy ending. (chapter word count; 13,800 words)

chapter warnings: the usual dynamics and abuse history. reader is harassed at a bar by a handsy man. some fighting. unprotected sex. BDSM dynamics (dom!felix/sub!reader, sadism, masochism, rope bondage, spanking, belting, fear kink).

You sleep through most of the afternoon, waking in that bleary, purple hour where evening is unexpectedly creeping into the day. Felix is not in the room, though the evidence of your lovemaking remains in the mess of your shared bed. There is also a tender ache between your thighs but it does not register as pain, or at least not as bad. It is proof of pleasure.

You touch yourself there, still sleepy but still wanting.

You listen for Felix. He is talking in the other room, on the phone with your father. You slip out of bed and dig around for a shirt, because you don’t want to distract Felix too bad while he is reporting.

A conversation with your father will no doubt cool him down, more effective than a douse of ice water, but you will not abandon him to that cold. Never again.

You wait in the corridor, listening as he mentions your missed class but lying about you having a stomach flu. He claims he made you rest because you have an important exam in a few days. He also claims you argued with him, which is convincingly in character for you, but naturally he won this supposed argument so your father has ‘nothing to worry about’.

You grin, biting your bottom lip, as tender from loving as the rest of you.

Felix ends the call. After a moment, he sighs and says, “I know you’re there.”

You turn the corner. Felix is sitting in the middle of the couch, dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt. His hair is partially pulled back, a lazy half-bun with the rest in a messy sweep around his neck. The collar of the shirt does not hide the love bite on his throat, twin to your own.

Despite his frown, he is sitting with his legs apart, and light sweatpants do very little for hiding anything inside them. He clears his throat but doesn’t close his legs, just cocks an eyebrow when you meet his gaze.

You blink oh-so innocently.

“You made me sound like such a good girl,” you say. “Even I almost believed it.”

You can see the amusement tugging at his lips. He pushes his tongue into his cheek.

“Mmm…” His low voice comes softly. “But you are a good girl. When you want to be.”

“When I’m made to be, you mean,” you say.

You hold his gaze as you approach. He plays the professional, watching you with a detachment that contradicts the thickening bulge in his sweats. Your desire is even more obvious, in your eyes and face and the sway of your body.

You put your hands on his knees and bend over, the collar of your shirt swooping low. Still, he looks into your eyes and no where else. A conversation happens there, beneath the surface of your words. You have often read each other like a book.

Come with me, you say, and though he does not move, though his body and eyes are rooted, he lets a little fondness run through the fissures of his usual mask. He finally looks at your lips.

“Do you tell them?” you ask. You get down on your knees, face at level with his open thighs. “When they ask how you get me to behave, how you seem to do it so easily when so many tried and failed…”

He says your name, darkly coloured with promise. You both know where this is leading.

It is not just about the kneeling or the pouting, but that this is you, who has never willingly knelt for even the most dangerous of men. And when you rest your head on his knee, you are thinking about that, about how it is only for him, exactly as he is. How he knows every possible way his body could be used to hurt someone. How he runs a gentle hand across your hair.

“Sweetheart,” he says.

“Do you tell them how you win our arguments?” you ask, flicking your gaze from between his legs to his face. “Or do you leave out the part where you shut me up with your dick in my mouth?”

His hand drifts down your face and he holds your chin, lifts your head. He furrows his brow as if he, too, is completely innocent.

“Shut you up?” he asks. He presses two fingers at your lips in a patient request. You open your mouth and take him to the knuckle. “That doesn’t sound right.” He lets you tease him, lets you swirl your tongue around his fingers. He looks at those fingers as he slides them out between your lips and back in again. “You weren’t quiet this afternoon,” he says. “Mmm, the opposite even, I think, don’t you?”

You give him your best glare, to which he laughs, a little huff of amusement.

“You can hate me,” he says, “if it makes you feel better.”

He stands and takes his fingers with him, so you chase him with pursed lips. Your breath catches when he grabs the back of your neck, stopping your pursuit, holding you firmly, safely.

He smiles down at you with that too-sweet, too-innocent smile. His other hand unties the band of his sweats.

You swallow. Your heart is thumping, an excited and pleasurable thrum you feel right down to the core of you. You blink up at him as the waistband comes loose so he can roll the material down, his dick hard and springing up, his hand as firm on the back of your neck.

You smile.

“Make me,” you say.

He smiles back.

“Don’t have to,” he says. “You’ll do what I say. Now come on. Be a good girl and open your mouth.”

He is right, that it takes nothing more than that. You want him too badly to even pretend to refuse, your lips parting in an open kiss that welcomes him to enjoy you as much as you are enjoying yourself.

Though he plays along, Felix is naturally restrained. Even when assuming the semblance of total control, he holds himself in a type of bondage, his body tense and breath ragged.

You make a showy mess of your wet mouth and stick out your tongue.

“Is that it?” you ask. “I don’t think you would any arguments like that—”

He laughs and shakes his head. He hesitates only a moment before taking your face in his hands and fucking himself back into your open mouth.

It gets you hot and wet, how he hands himself over to you, how he trusts you with the pleasure he is always so reluctant to accept. You give it to him and more, until your jaw is sore and your face is wet with tears.

He touches you there, looking down at you with the sort of reverence that usually comes from the person kneeling. He cups your face and tilts it up, looking at you affectionately even while stroking his dick right beside your cheek.

You glance there out of the corner of your eye, then bat your eyelashes up at him.

“I hate you,” you say, and it makes him come in a streak on your wet cheek.

It is stupidly hot, but Felix being Felix apologizes anyway.

When he reaches for you, you lean away. His gaze is wary, watching as you swipe a finger over your cheek then lick that finger clean. There is very little evidence left on your face, but you gather what remains and put your fingers back in your mouth, giggling as he huffs but surrenders to a smile. He reaches again but you dodge his hand.

You wonder if he is also remembering your first night together: how he chased you to stop you from petulantly shoving things in your mouth, how you were the hot-tempered girl you are pretending to be now, how he was the dutiful soldier already in over his head because of that girl.

You think he does remember, because you understand each other with one glance.

You run and he chases you. He vaults the couch and sweeps you into his arms before you can get too far.

When Felix truly applies himself, you stand no chance of escaping, so every little squirm and wiggle is something he grants you.

Right now, he concedes no ground. He locks you in his arms, your back to his front, and marches you right up to the window.

It is a mirror on the outside and, even if it was not, you are too high up for anyone to see anything but a spec in the glass. Still, there is a thrilling moment when you feel like you are standing on top of the whole city, where everyone can see you, where they can see him, his hand slipping under your shirt as you plant your palms on the glass.

“That’s it,” he says, nudging your feet apart with a little kick.

Your breath is already fogging the glass by the time he touches you. He makes an even more guttural sound than you, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as he rubs his fingers through all that wet desire.

His hair is more dishevelled now, wisps falling from the knot. You unravel just as quickly, quicker even, riding the rhythm he sets with his hand.

His arm is around your neck, cradling you close, and his other hand is inside you. You press against him and come to the soft sound he makes, to his breath hitting your neck, to everything intimate between you.

His touch gentles but not stop. You realize he does not intend to stop, that he is slowly working you towards another orgasm. You whimper and wriggle in his grip, but you also push desperately onto his hand.

He shushes you soothingly, his arm holding you steady when your knees start to tremble. He eases you both down, on your knees, never ceasing his touching.

You come even harder the second time, throwing your head back onto his shoulder.

He kisses your face then slows down and finally stops his touching. He cups his hand over your pussy with a sort of possessiveness. Then he sighs with satisfaction, his breath waking goosebumps along your skin.

“That’s my girl,” he says, a soft murmur.

It is only for you, a secret whisper spoken right into your ear. You look down at the city beneath you, sprawling as far as the eye can see, all the way to the where to the last rays of sunlight peek over the horizon. An entire world.

You touch a hand to the glass. He kisses your neck and your eyes close. You imagine falling into that big open world, secure in his protective hold.

You let yourself relax in his arms. You release a breath you did not realize you had been holding.

The next few semesters pass in a blur of similar dreams and desires. It is just you and Felix in the middle of everything, in and out of a dangerous world, escaping to a haven of your own design.

You do not know where the times goes, but weeks turn to months. Semesters come and go. Another graduation looms on the not-so-distant horizon. Somehow, you feel as ill-equipped for the world as you did when you were a teenager.

So much has changed and so much has stayed the same. When it is just you and Felix in that apartment, you feel free to safely exist. You lives are mired in trouble and trauma but you grow comfortably into your weird, grown-up selves. You might even say you are happy to be who you are, appreciating the good days because of the bad ones.

But beyond graduation is the looming threat of a permanent return to your father’s house and the life he has planned for you.

You are spending the weekend there, in your old bedroom, because of a few events your father wants you to attend. After just one day in his house, you revert to all your anxious teenage habits. It worries Felix when you withdraw like that, when you get snippy and cold, though he knows you well enough to understand.

You look at him now, on the opposite side of this huge bed, far away because you are not alone in this house. The space feels bigger than you remember. Terror forms its usual death grip on your heart. You wonder how you were ever so reckless with your safety, with his safety. Felix is the bodyguard but you would do anything to keep him safe.

You slide a little closer, then a little more. The cadence of his breathing changes as he wakes, always a light sleeper, though he does not open his eyes.

You brush some hair off his face. He leans into your touch and you smile despite everything. You stroke his cheek and feel your sorrows melt with his soft exhale.

“Rest,” he says in a deep voice rough with sleep.

You continue to stroke your thumb over his cheek, just looking at his face. His roots are getting dark again and his freckles are more pronounced in the blue dark of this bedroom. You admire his profile, the slope of his nose, his lips, and you find yourself overcome with affection and desire.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers, catching your hand when it slides down his neck. “Not now.”

His admonition makes sense. You have only been here a day. You will be back in the apartment in a few more. An apartment with privacy and protection, where you can touch each other without any consequences. There is no reason to put yourselves in jeopardy here, tonight.

Maybe you do remember how and why you were so reckless as a child, stealing back whatever parts of your life you could, whenever you could, however you could. You should be allowed to touch who you want when you want. You should be allowed to live in your own body.

You want to feel alive, and you feel most alive when you act in defiance of all the rules that would restrain you, when you face down danger in your path and steal back your heart from that death grip.

“Felix,” you say. Then, in a softer hush, you whisper, “Baby.”

It catches his breath as it always does, such a simple endearment, so common, like he is just a boy and you’re just his girl. You are certain if you slide your hand lower, you will find him already getting hard just from hearing it.

“Please,” you whisper.

“This is crazy,” he whispers, eyes still closed, tightly now, like he can make the rest of the world disappear by not looking at it.

“I’ve always been crazy,” you say. “You like me anyway.”

He finally opens his eyes. He looks at you and your heart skips beats, and you wonder if that gaze will ever cease to make your heart race this way. Years and years and years of sharing this bed, and you still feel warm and dreamy when he strokes the pad of his thumb across your knuckles.

“Hmm, doesn’t matter how I feel, yeah?” he says. “You hate me no matter what.”

His tone is light and teasing. It is your usual innuendo. The game you always play.

You do not want to play any games tonight. Tears prickle in your eyes as you look at him, as those words cross his lips. You want so badly to say what you really mean, but your emotion gets the best of you and the words never cross your lips.

His brow furrows when he realizes you are struggling with something. He touches your face, turning it towards him to look at you more closely. A tear slips down your cheek and he wipes it away.

“Felix,” you say. You shake your head. You clasp his hand to your cheek. “Make love to me.”

You cannot help but laugh at the look on his face. Very little surprises him, a consummate professional in all appearances, and he is good at absorbing his own shock and moving on. But he looks physically stunned, eyes wide and mouth open, words caught in a cluster on his tongue.

When you laugh, it snaps him out of his daze. His face softens, expression fond if not a little morose.

“This is, uhh…” He clears his throat, shakes his head. “Stupid.”

“I don’t care,” you say.

It is the truth. You are suddenly completely apathetic to everything beyond the bedroom door. You don’t care if they catch you. You don’t care if they hurt you. You don’t even care if they kill you. That dark thought has you reaching desperately for the only source of light and life in the room.

You wrap your arms around Felix. You hold his shoulders and kiss his face, lining your body up against his. When you kiss below his jaw, he makes a soft sound of surrender. His hand slides up the back of your shirt, rests between your shoulder blades and holds you, firmly, as he looks at you then kisses you.

Your eyes close and you kiss him back. They stay closed, even when the kiss deepens, when he licks into your mouth, when he catches your sigh with a bruising press of his lips. You let yourself fall into the sublime haze of desire, not looking but feeling.

He puts you on your back and holds himself above you. You are already breathing hard. You tug on his shirt so he leans back and whips it off. Then you are touching his bare shoulder, his back, dragging your nails down his backside and feeling him shiver against you.

His open mouth is hot against your throat, wet on your chest through your shirt, then under it. You tug it off and over your head, leaving it spilled on the pillow beside you, then your arms are around him and your legs are spreading to fit his hips. You are both fumbling with the last of your clothes when he gasps against your throat and mumbles something like, “We don’t have—we can’t—”

Some distant, logical part of your brain knows he means protection. After the first coming together, you’ve been careful in all your intimate moments. But sense and logic are far from your mind right now.

Once you are both completely naked and free, you wrap around him and pull him to you. He comes to you with another surrendering sigh.

Your eyes have been closed for so long, and the physical sensations have been so strong, that you very literally see stars when he is finally inside you.

He instinctively covers your mouth when you make too loud a sound. You grab that hand and lace your fingers, then rest it beside your head. He covers your mouth with his, gathering your other hand so both are pushed into the mattress on either side of your head. He is so close, his whole body pressed to yours, that you think he must be deeper inside you than ever before.

His hips roll against yours with a slow sensuality, one sometimes lacking in your more desperate couplings. It all feels so good that you genuinely believe you could die happy if you died right now.

He makes another soft noise that sounds like a question. You answer with a gentle moan of your own, a squeeze of your fingers between his, and a clenching between your thighs that has his whole hard body going soft and tender in seconds. He comes inside you and maybe that should wake you up and cause alarm, but it doesn’t. The room just gets quieter, your heart thumping against his all the while. He holds himself above you for a few breathless seconds then lets go.

You hold him against you, hands separating so you can slide them along his arms and up into his hair. His face rests in the crook of your neck and shoulder.

Maybe you should feel more concern for your circumstance. But you are not really worried.

Tomorrow, you will attend another party, you will smile, you will dance with someone your father pushes your way.

A few days later, you will convince your father to let you take birth control, claiming it is to manage your irregular and too-heavy period flows. He will be as immature as ever and quickly agree, anything to end a conversation he finds too awkward to navigate.

You and Felix will go back to your apartment. You will study for tests and drink coffee and write essays. You will count the days to graduation.

Right now, you laugh. It is soft and carefree. It catches when he slides out of you, but it returns when he looks at you with a quirked eyebrow. But his regard is a tender one. You stroke his face and he kisses your palm, then he swoops down and kisses your nose and cheeks and just under your chin.

I’m alive, you think. In your father’s house, disobeying all his rules. He has tried so hard to kill you, to break you down into pieces that he can rebuild, the way he does with any malfunctioning piece of industry tech. And he has failed. Despite his best efforts, despite his money and power and influence over what seems like the whole world, you are alive.

You concede that maybe with your problems and imperfections, there is not much more to boast, but being alive is all that matters.

Felix kisses you. You think about the childish fairy tales that your father and grandfather ensured never took root in your mind. If you were like them, you would not believe in magic kisses or true love or saving grace.

You kiss Felix back.

“Can you ride a motorcycle?” you ask.

Felix, who is concentrating so you do not fall off your bicycle, briefly flicks his gaze up to you. You lose your balance and swerve, but he is quick to catch the handlebar and steer you straight. His hands hover around you as he walks alongside where you peddle.

“I can do anything,” he says but absently, too focussed on watching you.

You snort and your amusement almost derails you again. You correct your wobble with a little jerk of the handles.

“Cocky,” you say. “I’ll have to see it to believe it.”

Felix laughs. He holds the handle and guides you around a corner in the path.

“Maybe I should learn to ride a motorcycle,” you say with absolutely no sincerity. “I’m sure my father would loooove that, don’t you think?”

Felix levels you with a predictably dry regard. You giggle maniacally which causes you to swerve again.

He steers you forward with a quick yank. He cannot help but smile at your cheesy grin.

“How about you learn to ride a regular bike first, hmm?” he says.

“It’s not my fault,” you say, wobbling again. “It’s the wind.”

“Mhm.”

“It is!”

It is a rather blustery day, all grey skies and swift winds. Felix almost lost his favourite beanie, so now it is yanked tight and low over his head so you can hardly see a wisp of hair. You are similarly bundled in a hoodie, the strings drawn comically tight around your face so it would stop blowing off. Felix keeps snickering when he looks at you, but it just makes you giggle back at him.

The university has bicycles for rent to cross campus. Though you usually walk, today you thought it would be fun to try, even if you did immediately disprove the old adage about memory and bike riding.

You have not ridden a bike since childhood. You were not allowed to use it outside because your father was concerned the wheels would carry you away too quickly, that something could happen before your nanny and guards caught up. You were only allowed to ride your bike in the gym, which got very boring very fast, so you never bothered with it. The only other time you sat on a bike was the few times you sat on the handlebars when Jisung rode his bike around.

The memory comes so suddenly, a snapshot of a moment you did realize you remembered so vividly. His goofy laughter sings through your memory, your own delighted shrieks as he sped down a slope and scared himself more than you.

It makes you a little sullen. After years, it seems ridiculous that you should still be so hung-up on an adolescent friendship, especially with so much more to occupy your mind. But then, you suppose it was not just any friendship. The Han Jisungs of the world are few and far between. You were lucky to know him while you did. Without him, you doubt you would have ever gotten on a bike again.

Without him, you doubt you would have ever done much of anything but curl into an empty husk of a person.

Instead, you are soft and smiling when Felix touches your back. He notices the change in your disposition and looks at you with concern, and it does not trigger frustration nor do you flinch from his touch. You just smile and steady your handlebars.

“Just silly stuff,” you say with a shake of your head. “Sometimes I sat on Jisung’s bike while he drove us around. Just… thinking about him, I guess.”

“Mm.” Felix nods, understanding. He holds the handle to help keep you steady but he looks ahead, sighing into the wind. “It’s not silly. Your friendship was important,” Felix says. “Though, uhh, I definitely wouldn’t trust Jisung behind the wheels of a motorcycle.”

You laugh at the image of Jisung on a motorbike when that poor boy would sweat just from speeding down a hill.

“No,” you say. “Definitely not for him.”

Of course, maybe that is not true anymore. You are picturing a teenage boy, but Jisung will be as grown as you now. Who knows what he looks like or what he enjoys, what he fears or wants anymore.

Romantic intimacy holds its own special felicity, but it is still different from the gentle affection of friendship. Your heart pangs with the ache of missing him, of years passed apart, of your first ever friend now potentially being as unrecognizable to you as any stranger.

“I just hope he’s happy,” you say, feeling it so strongly you cannot keep it yourself. But then, that was always the way with Jisung, to have liked him so much that you cannot help but let it spill out of you, consciously or not. You’re kinder for having known him. You know how to joke and be goofy and make Felix smile.

“Me too,” Felix says. “He was… well, sort of my friend too. In a way.”

“He was,” you say. “I guess he was the first friend for us both—whoa!”

You make a playful swipe at his shoulder and it makes you lose your balance again. Felix fortunately catches you with those lightning-fast reflexes, holding you up while your bike hits the pavement. There is some stumbling while you try to stand, tangled up with the bike, and nearly yank him down with you.

Eventually you step out. Felix brushes off your shoulders and pats down your arms, as if inspecting for injuries.

“I’m fine,” you say, at the same time Felix says, “He wasn’t.”

“Huh?” You blink at him. “Who wasn’t what?”

“Jisung,” Felix says, a little exasperated. “He wasn’t my first fr—” He cuts himself off when he meets your eye, frowning instead. He tugs on the string of your hoodie so your already tight lacing gets a little snugger. “I’m not talking about this while you look like that,” he intones dryly.

Before you can even open your mouth to protest or ask more, he picks up the bike and swings onto the seat for himself.

“Come on,” he says, patting the handlebars. “I’m hungry. Let’s go.”

You are not exactly a spritely adolescent anymore, but you manage to get yourself perched up on the handlebars. Felix is a better driver than Jisung, faster too, and you find yourself laughing into the wind from the thrill of it. When you reach the campus café, Felix is smiling too, and your previous conversation is forgotten for the time being.

You park the bike in one of the rental receptacles then enter the café. The warmth inside is a balm after the chill. You take off your hood and breathe in deeply, satisfied. Felix rubs your back as he walks you up to the counter to order.

You are waiting for your order when you hear your name. You lift your head, smiling when you see the friendly, dimpled grin of a class-mate, Yang Jeongin. He is a year younger than you but academically advanced so you have shared a few classes over the years. He is a very sweet boy, but you have kept your distance given what happened to the last very sweet boy you befriended.

“Jeongin, hi!” you say.

“Hi, what’s up?” he says. “Have you started any of your final projects? I’m already drowning.”

His big smile and wheezy laugh is disarming in its boyish charm, though you know Felix has his guard up as always. You are still not expecting to feel a proprietary touch settle low on your back, subtle but possessive, and it makes your stomach flip.

It is not really necessary anyway. Jeongin is genuinely just being friendly. He even invites you and Felix to sit with him and his friend, Seungmin, and talk about some readings.

Instinct almost propels you to blurt your usual reply, a polite dismissal or vague promise of a next time that never comes. Friendships don’t end well. You know that.

But Jisung is on your mind, not just the bad but the good. You find yourself agreeing, then you find yourself sitting at a table with two class-mates, having a normal conversation about school and exams and some silly, gossipy campus rumours. You laugh and drink, and Felix does too.

You touch his knee briefly. He touches your hand under the table.

You leave the café feeling lighter, a bounce in your step that has Felix smiling affectionately at you.

“I do have to tell your father something,” Felix reminds you. “If he found out you were seeing people and I said nothing—”

“Ughhhh, clock out for two seconds,” you say. To be extra annoying, you reach out and yank his beanie down over his face. “Just tell him I’m studying with some people. It’s for the benefit of my education, so I can be his perfect and dazzling heir, since I am such a well behaved little girl now, all thanks to the dutiful care and guidance of my oh-so competent bodyguard. See? No big deal.”

Felix fixes his beanie and shakes his head at you, but he still smiling.

“I think you and the rest of the world have, hmm, a different idea of no big deal,” he says. “You know, your extremely powerful father for one… and how he might, uhh, ruin our lives…?”

You shrug.

“Win some, lose some,” you say, to which Felix laughs and rubs his face in disbelief.

Although some days the power of your father and the world under the thumb seems insurmountable, some days all you can do is sigh in the face of it. Today feels like one of those days. You are so often frightened or sad or just downright despondent. Sometimes, the pendulum swings back the other way, and all you can do is laugh.

You do so now, pulling your hood up and tightening the string around your face again.

“Don’t worry, bodyguard,” you say with an exaggerated, innocent flutter of your eyelashes. “I trust you to keep me out of trouble.”

“Oh, you are gonna get me in so much trouble,” you say.

Seungmin laughs.

A few weeks have passed in which you have tentatively befriended Jeongin and Seungmin. Jeongin is all smiles and wheezy laughter, with a biting wit that catches both you and Felix off guard. You can tell Felix enjoys his companionship, even beyond the superficial college-boy role he plays. And not just because Jeongin is something of a gamer and Felix not-so secretly likes having a go at whatever hand console Jeongin keeps on him.

You quite like Seungmin. He is more soft-spoken until he has an opinion to vocalize, at which point there is no escaping his somewhat scathing commentary. His frankness reminds you a little of Hyunjin, just without any showmanship or embellishment. With Seungmin, what you see is what you get. He’s smart and funny and playful, and you like listening to him talk about the readings and his family and all the general shenanigans of an ordinary life.

Felix has told your father they are study partners, which is not an outright lie as all of your interactions have taken place on campus. You have stayed away from parties and clubs and private spaces, so there has been nothing tangible to protest.

But today certainly straddles that line.

After class, the four of you went to your usual campus café. With a major project due at the start of next week, you have been swamped with work.

It was after a few hours and several coffees that Jeongin suggested a break. There are a couple bars around the sprawling campus. Felix was a little hesitant but your pout was as effective as ever in persuading him.

The bar is a cozy one, packed wall-to-wall with noisy students seeking downtime. There is no way anything insane would transpire in here.

Other than Kim Seungmin.

“What, you can’t leave your boyfriend for a second?” Seungmin says, but with no animosity, smiling his big puppy grin. He exhales and shakes his head, eyebrows lifted in faux exasperation. “That sucks for you, wow.”

“First of all, he’s not my boyfriend,” you say. You look over at Felix who is standing at a pinball machine with Jeongin. His eyes keep darting over to you even though you are not that far away. The game is just a few steps from the couch where you and Seungmin sit.

Felix smiles. He is in his favourite black beanie, some ripped black jeans, and a crisp white coat, wisps of blonde hair falling over his freckled face. He looks like such a guy, just a casual university senior, slouching against the wall with hands in his pockets, chatting with his friend and his eyes on his smiling girlfriend. It certainly looks as simple as that. Your heart does not know the difference.

He looks away for a moment because Jeongin says something. Felix laughs. The room is loud so you do not hear him, but you know that laugh so well, the low drop and happy rumble. His eyes crinkle with delight. Your heart skips beats like a little girl with a crush starting all over again.

“Right,” Seungmin says, looking between you and Felix. “Sure.”

You punch Seungmin playfully on the arm.

“Stop,” you say. “We’re just friends.”

It is for the best you maintain that as your cover story. It would be far too convoluted to pretend to be together while being together but lying about being together and—

No. It is for the best that no one ever suspects, that everyone assumes you are close friends or room-mates and nothing more. Not an inkling of your true dynamic.

No one needs to know you woke before your alarm this morning, that you kissed Felix awake, planting soft kisses on his face until he smiled. That you teased him and kissed him and finally bit his shoulder, a playful step too far, so he gathered you in his arms and kissed you breathless. That he stretched out behind you, that he pulled back your thigh with a strong grip and kissed your neck. That he fucked you long and slow until you were gasping and wriggling in his arms. That he made you come mere minutes before your alarm. That he then made a professional call to your father about the week’s plans and the pompous, foolish, awful man was none the wiser.

You look his way. Felix winks then looks down at the game again.

Seungmin clears his throat and you look at him with all the innocence you can muster. He just laughs.

“Uh-huh,” Seungmin says. “Well, does he know you’re just friends? I mean, seriously, watch this—”

Seungmin slings his arm over the back of the couch, not quite around your shoulders but close nonetheless. He leans in ever so slightly and Felix looks over as if on cue. He would never cause a scene without due cause, and, besides, you doubt he seriously considers Seungmin a threat, but he instinctively shifts into guard mode.

It sends Seungmin into peels of laughter. You thump him on the leg.

“Ahaha,” Seungmin says, but lowers his arm. “Fine, I’ll go get drinks all alone so your super good friend doesn’t pop a vein if you come with me.”

You hide your face in your hands and shake your head while Seungmin laughs. He gives you a pat on the back before rising and pushing his way through the crowd to get to the bar counter.

Felix watches him go then looks at you. You smile at him reassuringly, waving a hand, non-committal.

Your stomach does a little flip when his sharp stare softens to something more intimate, something just for you. Years ago, you worried those glances and touches would be addicting, and you were right. It is more intoxicating than anything in a glass. Headier than the atmosphere of the bar. You are flushed with warmth in seconds, the packed heat of the bar keeping that warmth at a simmer.

You have always desperately chased highs and adrenaline, whatever form they took, good or bad. When Felix looks away, you crave the thrill of his determined attention, so you stand and step behind the couch. He looks up as quickly, like you knew he would, standing straight and taking his hands out of his pockets.

You truly do not go far. You have no intention of running, of making him follow, of making him worry. You would not do that to him. While you are certain no one would try anything in a place as public as a campus bar, you nonetheless will not play completely stupid games. You only mean to catch his eye so you can level with him a teasing smirk of your own.

But then someone grabs your arm and yanks. The unexpected touch and the forcefulness triggers a swift panic, your eyes swimming with the shapes of shuffling bodies, your ears slurring what sound like a friendly enough sentence – someone asking if you are in a certain class with him.

“I think I’ve seen you,” he says, still gripping your arm. He smells as drunk as he sounds. Harmless, or maybe not, given the bruising strength of his touch. Drunken stupidity can be as dangerous as conniving intention. “But you always got that little lap dog hanging around, cutie,” he says. “Can’t get within a foot of you without him in the way—”

Said lap dog manifests without delay. The man is taller but he is no match for Felix who comes up behind him and yanks on his collar.

Felix pulls the man over backwards to stare him down. He says, “Hands. Off. Now.”

The man lets go but with a stupid, futile struggle, shoving you so hard that you hit the woman behind you and topple her drink.

In less than a second, the man is on the ground, people shrieking and stepping back when he falls. Felix steps over him to reach you, catching your hand and touching the side of your face.

“You all right?” he asks.

Everything happened so fast that you hardly know what to say. Instinctively, you throw your arms around his neck to be closer to him. He hugs you back as fiercely, murmuring words of comfort that get muffled in your shoulder.

His senses are sharper than yours. He knows the man is up and he turns in time to catch the clumsy punch the guy throws his way. Felix does not show off, even though he could probably lay the guy low a second time. He just pushes the hand away.

This nonchalant rejection seems to anger the man more than a direct hit. He is embarrassed and his stupor only encourages retaliation. His buddies are trying to pull him back now, failing to lead him off.

The man looks at you, red from both exertion and embarrassment, and says with a snarl in his upper lip, “Should keep that dog on a leash.”

Splash.

It takes a second for everyone to realize what just happened. The man is as startled as you, standing stock still with something dripping down his face.

You all look over to Seungmin who is standing there with a half-empty glass.

“Uh… Woof I guess?” Seungmin says, then throws the rest of his drink on him.

The guy staggers towards Seungmin who backs up rapidly. Then Jeongin literally flies in between them and takes a swing at the guy. It completely misses and he smacks his hand on a stool, but it is enough for the man to back up. He must decide that the odds of three-on-one are not in his favour so he finally abandons course, shaking his head as he stalks off with his friends.

“Yeah, yeah, walk away,” Seungmin says as menacingly as Seungmin possibly can, which is not much, especially with Jeongin doubled over beside him. He is shaking out his hand, his face contorted with pain from hitting the stool. “Are you okay?” Seungmin asks.

“Yeah, I’m—” Jeongin starts.

“Not you, dumbass,” Seungmin says. “Go apologize to that chair you assaulted. I’m talking to her.” He looks at you with a tilt of his head.

You nod, letting Felix tuck you under his arm. He rubs your arm soothingly, up and down, and it helps ground you.

“Just happened really fast,” you say. “Startled me, you know…”

“The guy was a jerk,” Seungmin says.

Felix scoffs. His eyes follow the retreating figure. “No kidding,” he says.

“I just wanna go home,” you say.

Your panic ebbs and the hurricane inside you settles.

You touch Felix’s chest. His heart is beating fast with adrenaline. Your breath catches when he looks at you, tendrils of frustration radiating off him. Yet despite the aura of energy, he looks composed, hair neat across his forehead, beanie in place. His jacket is slightly rucked up the arm, but otherwise he is in perfect command of himself.

Your heart dances its bewildered little dance.

His hand drops to your hip and he tugs you close. He exhales through his nose, your eyes drawn to his closed mouth.

You think you must be drunk despite not touching a drop of liquor. How else to explain the physical sensations inside you, so contradictory to your heart and mind? Your soul could never, ever abide by violence or true possessive domination, not with your history and upbringing.

But perhaps it is that, the naturally contradictory nature of its manifestation in Felix. Made by violence, but not made of it. You feel safe because his careful touches and gentle glances do not come from the same blithe, civilian naivete of your sweet friends. It comes from all the violence and control that he rises above.

He holds you and you are safe, protected.

You say goodbye to your friends and Felix calls the car. You wait outside together in the light of a streetlamp. The cool night air dwindles what remains of his adrenaline, though his heart picks up when you step closer, when you press your face to his neck and sigh.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“You did nothing wrong,” he says, cupping your cheek and lifting your face. His thumb strokes your cheek, down along your jaw. He looks into your eyes and smiles. “You were just standing there. He shouldn’t have grabbed you. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say. You look down and his hand falls away from your face. You fiddle with the zipper of his jacket then drag it down a couple inches. “I’m just really sorry.”

He is silent for a moment, his back a little stiffer. You think he catches the tone in your voice because his hand drifts a little lower, resting on the base of your spine.

“I see,” he says, voice lower. “Even though Jeongin did all the work hitting that stool—?”

The unexpected joke in a sultry exchange makes you snort with laughter. The sound surprises Felix who laughs so hard he almost falls over. You give him a little shove, shaking your head.

“All right, all right,” he says, patting your back. “Behave. The car is coming.”

“I always behave,” you say with a swish of your coat, stomping ahead of him to the approaching sedan.

You sit in silence for part of the journey, quiet even with the partition up. Felix has an elbow resting on the window sill, temple pressed to his fist as he stares at the passing streetlights.

“Are you mad?” you ask in your coldest tone.

He looks at you out of the corner of his eye, dimple flashing with an aborted smile. “I’m never mad,” he says. “I’m a professional.”

“Right,” you say. You slide across the seat to be closer to him but he puts up his hand, stopping you.

“I know it’s a limo, but seatbelt, yeah?” he says. You do not miss the patronizing tone.

“You gonna make me?” you ask. You grab his hand and lower it, looking at him with your smokiest gaze.

His tongue jabs into his cheek as he looks at your hands, palms touching, fingers lacing. He appears contemplative, beyond your little game. You give his hand a gentle squeeze. His eyes meet yours.

“I never want to hurt you,” he says, low even though no one can hear you back here. “You know that, yeah? You know I— I never knew how to want or not want something. I would never—”

“I know, Felix,” you say.

I love you too.

It sits on the tip of your tongue. You very nearly say it in that same low voice.

He lowers your hand to your lap, his palm to your knuckles as he cups your thigh and squeezes. Once, twice, three times. He taps on your knee three times then guides you to do the same. You are a bit bemused until he says, “If you want to talk to me, then…” Three more touches.

“I see,” you say, hot beneath the skin of your cheeks and throat, your heart a thunderous thing. “You expect to shut my mouth then?” You blink at him too cutely.

“I expect you to apologize properly,” he says.

He catches your face before you can spit a rejoinder. It steals your breath. He holds your face steady in his hand, jaw pinched, mouth shut, his eyes burning into the side of your face.

“You answer to me,” he says sternly. “You think you’re sorry, yeah? Then you’re going to apologize. Properly. Quietly. Obediently. Now nod for me. You understand.”

You do not nod. You look at him out of the corner of your eye. His lips break into a smile.

“Ah,” he says. “I see.”

And he does. He has always seen to the depths of you. Just as you have always seen beneath his surface smiles.

The driver sees nothing but a professional on payroll, exchanging an evening pleasantry before Felix escorts you into the apartment building. The greeter nods at you, you nod back. Felix marches you into the elevator and stands politely at your side, hands in his pockets.

You lean on opposite walls of the elevator. He takes off the beanie and tucks it in his pocket. Then he runs his fingers through his hair, fluffing the fair strands. Eventually he meets your gaze. You stare at each other, a silent exchange of thought and anticipation.

In the apartment, he does his security check. You take your time drifting toward the bedroom, wiping off your lipstick, dropping your coat in the middle of the doorway. He scoops it up as he enters behind you, tutting while he brushes it off.

“No respect,” he says but lightly, teasingly.

He walks right past you and drapes the coat neatly over the back of your computer chair. There, he stands with his back to you, unzipping and discarding his own jacket. It leaves him in a black t-shirt and his ripped black jeans, plus those heavy regulation army boots. He is a sharp streak of black shadow, all at odds with his light hair and sweet freckled face as he turns to look at you.

You stand across the bedroom from each other. Your heart is going a mile a minute as he looks you over. You hardly know why the roving glance affects you so deeply. He has seen you in a hundred variations of dressed and undressed. Checking you out in your jeans and t-shirt should hardly warrant a herd of butterflies in your belly.

But it does. Your skin feels alight as he looks at you, assessing you like a target. When his dark eyes flick up to meet yours, he is not smiling. He exhales. His shoulders are tense, his body hard.

“Take off your clothes,” he says.

You expected some deviance from routine given your flirtations, but that is still quite different. You often undress each other, or you provoke him by stripping, flustering him into surrender. He is not flustered now, his stare cold and ungiving as he waits expectantly for you to obey.

Your fingers flutter at your side. Your lips part with a breath.

“Um,” you say, voice rough with arousal in a way you cannot hide. It is hard to fake an affronted feeling, though it is not hard to look nervous. “Excuse me?”

“Everything,” Felix says. “Off. Now.”

You scoff, suffusing the worst of your jitters into the sound. You feign a cocky tilt of your head, hands on your hips as you say, “I don’t think you’re in position to give me orders. If my daddy knew—”

He lifts his knee only infinitesimally but when his foot slams down there is a knife in his hand.

He flicks some hair out of his hair and smiles, perky, just like Felix.

“Off,” he says. “Or I take it off.”

What should be a flicker of fear is a font of pure desire, sharp in your belly and hot between your legs. You look at the knife then his cool smile, the crinkle of pleasure in the corners of his eyes, the pretty fall of his hair. He flips the knife over his knuckles, around and around, smoothly, thoughtlessly.

You step out of your shoes and kick them aside. Your jitters are back, excited and jumpy, prickling under your skin as you lift your shirt over your head and toss that aside too.

“Neatly,” he says, with a tsk, tsk tsk. “Don’t make a mess. Daddy wouldn’t like that, would he?”

“Bastard,” you say, flushed with the admonition. It also makes you a little giddy. There is real power and real evil out there, and it is utterly meaningless in the face of everything between you and Felix. It is a punchline. It is an inside joke. The only thing that holds any real power is his gaze, his voice, his hands.

Your eyes, your sigh, your obedience. It makes him blush, despite his relative position of power, watching you neatly fold your shirt and place it on the bedside table. You remove your jeans and fold those too.

When you look at him, he points the knife to your underclothes, a mute statement: yes, I mean those too. So you take off your bra and place it on the table, flushed and hasty and embarrassed and excited. You slip off your panties and crumple them. You miss the table and they fall to the floor, and Felix points to it with the knife.

“Pick it up,” he says.

You do, quickly, putting it on the pile then stepping away. You cross your arms, only a little chilled, mostly hot under his gaze.

“Good,” he says. “Very good.”

With a flick of his wrist, the knife is swiftly embedded in your desk behind him. He does not even look back.

You jump. It makes your heart beat even faster, stomach tied up in anticipatory knots, desperate to unravel as he approaches you with a slow, predatory stroll.

He circles you. His fingertips brush your side, sending a shiver shooting up your spine. He takes a pillow off the bed and puts it on the floor.

You stand with your back to him, arms still crossed. He touches the middle of your back, walks his fingers gently up your spine until he is holding the back of your neck, pulling you into him, your naked body against his clothed one.

“Get on your knees,” he says. You swear his voice is even deeper than usual. “Sweetheart.”

You cannot think of a snarky reply, not even when he steps back and you can breathe again. You just look at him over your shoulder and make a show of rolling your eyes. He tips his head, regarding you as if oh-so confused by your petulance.

He stands while you kneel. You sit back on your heels and hum to yourself as if bored.

He ignores that, pointing to bed and saying, “Face there, not me.”

You look at him with genuine confusion, once more surprised by his direction, but you do as told. You kneel facing the bed. He gets down on one knee beside you, cups the back of your head and guides you up, off your heels.

“Up, up, up,” he says in too jovial of a tone, so frustratingly Felix. “Hands up here.” He pats the bed with his other hand until you uncross your arms and place them where directed. “That’s it,” he says. “Just like that, sweetheart.”

He stands, leaving you kneeling at the bedside, upright, arms in front of you. Kneeling like a penitent in prayer at their bedside. You look over your shoulder at him, wearing your best and bitchiest expression. There is an irrevocable challenge in your eyes.

Clink.

Your eyes drop to his belt, to the swift flick of leather and metal over his hands as he opens it. He is unhurried, sliding it free of its loops.

But then he does not discard it. He folds it over his hand. Once, twice, three times.

He tips his head. He holds up three fingers, a question.

He knows the significance here. He knows how your insides unravel at the sight of that belt hooked around his fist.

You know he would stop if you said so. If you said the word three, if you held up three fingers, if you tapped three times or did anything else to speak to him. He has given you a voice in every form.

He is standing over you, at once a personification of your pains and fears, and also he is none of them. This does not feel the way it did back then, unwilling and tortured and harmed.

He loves you. And he is trapped with you, and he is carving out holes in the world with you. He is handing you back your life, if only pieces, however he can. You are not a scared little girl under him. You are in control of that pendulum of emotion. There is no power in the things that once scared you. It is a punchline. An inside joke.

You smile at him.

He gets down on one knee again, squeezes the nape of your neck then runs his hand down your spine. Your back arches under his touch, breath staggering into gasps even though all he does is caress you skin.

You jump when he smacks the soft curve of your ass, just the flat of his palm on your skin, but already you are tingling head to toe with pleasure.

“I am responsible for you, yeah?” he says, and smacks you there again. “That means you are mine. You don’t run off, you don’t play games. You do what I say.”

“Or what?” you say, voice already breathy. “You’ll beat me up like you did that brute in the bar?”

You can hear him adjusting the belt, flipping it around his hand for a better grip.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” he asks. “Does it get your pussy wet, watching me hurt them for you?”

You don’t get a chance to answer. Your voice is a feathery-light sound, piercing a gasp when he brings that strip of leather down against your backside.

You squirm. You are already so, so wet.

“Hmm?” he asks, and does it again, a stinging, hot line across your skin. “Is that how it is?”

“I hate you,” you say. You are gripping the blanket, nails digging in. Your back arches at another strike, chest pushing into the bedding.

“Awww…” he says, careless. “Yeah… I know.”

You must be wriggling too much because Felix pins you down with his free hand, your cheek pressed to the blanket. He adjusts his position for a better reach.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says, and snaps the belt across your skin. This one makes you cry out. “I know exactly how you feel about me.”

You cry turns to a watery whine, shaking when he gently sweeps his fingertips across your smarting backside. Your breath snags when he leans in close, breath ghosting your skin.

“I know,” he says. “Because it gets my dick hard. Oh? What’s that? Did that scare you?” He hits you again. “You wanna tell your daddy? Tell him how you’re all wet because your mean bodyguard got a little too, mmm, rough with you?”

He kisses the middle of your back and you shiver.

“Mmm,” he says. “No. You’re not going to do that, are you? You’re going to stay right… here…” He leans back and snaps his wrist again, patting you when the belt sears your skin and you cry out again. “That’s it. You’re gonna take it until you apologize—”

“I’m sorry,” you say, even while tilting your hips, seeking more from him. You can feel how wet you are when you squish your thighs together, hot and slick between them. “I really am.”

“Oh?” he says. “For what?”

“Uhhh—” It turns to another yelp when he hits you again. “F-for disobeying y-you.”

“Why is that bad, sweetheart?”

“B-because—” You don’t even cry out when he does it again. This sound is a pure moan, roughly exhaled into the bed. “Because you’re in charge,” you say breathlessly, voice on the cusp of a sob. You can feel your knees starting to shake. “Y-you’re in charge of me.”

“Am I?”

You hear the belt unravel, the clink of the metal as it hits the floor. He touches you with his bare hand, smoothing his palm over your warm, smarting skin. Every inch of you quivers with the tingling aftershock of the soft touch.

“Yes,” you say. “I’m—I’m yours, Felix.”

There is a moment of quiet when all he does it touch you, gently, a caress across your stinging skin. Your whole body reacts to him, the slightest brush sending floods of heat shooting through you.

He traces a circle on your backside, pinches the warm skin. It makes that sob spill over your lips.

“Say it again,” he says, his voice lower, only just above a whisper.

“I’m yours,” you say just as softly. A tear spills onto the blanket.

“My name.”

“Felix,” you say. “My bodyguard.”

“Yes,” he says, still in that soft voice. He slips his hand down between your legs and you rear up, spreading your thighs, eager to feel him. “I am, aren’t I?” He hardly needs to touch you to feel how wet you are. Just a surface touch wets his fingers with your desire, a slow stroke that makes your knees shake again. “I’m good at it, aren’t I?” he says, and takes his hand back. “At guarding this body. Hmm?”

Another tear spills out. You nod, breathing hard into the blanket.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat.

He stands up and you lift your head, blinking up at him with big, wet eyes. You can see how hard he is, obscenely bulging behind his fly. It makes your mouth water, makes you press your cheek into the blanket as you stare at him wantingly.

“If I’m not going to hit you,” he says, “then what am I going to do with you?”

His thumb presses at his zipper and he smiles, dimpled and cheeky, and slowly tugs it down. Your knees finally surrender and you sit again, slumped against the bed and reaching between your legs.

“Uh-uh-uh—” he says, diving down to catch your arm.

You groan, wriggling while he scoops you up and deposits you on the bed as easily as tossing a pillow. You shuffle around, making some pitiful blubbery noises as you lay on your sore backside. You rest your head on a pillow, breathing hard, so aware of your body in a way you have never felt before.

Felix takes off his boots while you settle yourself. Then he gets on the bed and kneels at your feet, a vision of sin in his black clothes with his flushed face and heady, dark eyes. He wets his lips, leaves his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth as he looks at you like a meal offered to a starving man.

“Hold the headboard, sweetheart,” he says, nodding above you.

You do not look away from him, reaching back to grip one of the bars in the headboard. Though your legs are pressed together, you feel the exposure of the vulnerable position, throbbing everywhere he looks at you.

Your breath gets ragged when he moves closer. He takes a pillow, ripping it out of its case and tossing the cushion aside. He flips the soft material of the pillowcase around his fist until it makes a long line like a soft rope.

Then your hands are bound to the headboard. His fingers curl around yours, showing you how to tap, how to talk to him. It registers, even if he immediately distracts you with a wandering hand, slipping down your body to touch and fondle.

Then he is back at your feet, grabbing your ankles and sliding up, up, up until his hands are hooked under your knees and he can spread you open to him.

Your hips buck, your back arches, legs shaking in his steady hold. You are so open to him that it makes you whimper and close your eyes.

They open again when you feel his mouth between your legs, his teasing abruptly finished as he dives in with full commitment. You cry out in relief, with utter ecstasy, noisier than you have ever been as he licks and sucks and strokes. You twitch when he nips at your thighs, when he slips his tongue inside you, when he licks back up then tortures the source of your pent-up need, again and again until you are crying out and coming hard on his tongue.

He lets you finish, takes over that peak and beyond. He lowers your trembling legs, lets you wrap them around his hips. You make a horrible mess of his pants, you are sure, grinding up against the hard material.

“Shhh, shh, shh,” he says, reaching past you to the bedside table.

You hardly have a second to look before he is shoving your balled up panties in your mouth.

“That’s it,” he says, kissing down your neck. “That’s a good girl. Don’t need to think, yeah?”

He sits back on his heels and finally unzips all the way. He shuffles his pants and boxers down past his hips. He smiles, then pushes your legs against you so are nearly folded in half.

“Just—” he says with a soft grunt, pushing at the soft, wet heat of you, so easily sliding inside. “Just—need—to—take it.”

And you do, moaning helplessly into your gag, still sore from your earlier punishment but all that sensation mingling with everything hard and sweet and good between your thighs. Your eyes close and you let yourself float, feeling as he hits all those soft places inside you that make your body keen. When you come again, it is just from that, and a stream of euphoric tears follow as you wrap him between your legs and bring him over the edge with you.

“God,” he says, dropping every trace of his persona, sounding near tears himself as he comes inside you. “God—fucking—You. Oh, sweetheart. Jesus. I—”

His brain sounds as mushy as yours, maybe only marginally smarter because he takes out your gag and releases you from your bondage.

Your arms fall limp around your head and you hum sweetly, literal music moving through you as your whole body aches with pleasant aftershocks.

“We gotta clean you up,” he says softly, from somewhere, stroking your sweaty skin. “And I wanna take care of where I used the—”

“Felix,” you murmur, “if you don’t get over here and kiss me stupid, then I’m gonna take a turn with the belt.”

He laughs, then you feel him stretched out beside you, his arms circling you. You roll into his embrace, throwing your leg around his hip and snuggling into him.

“You still hate me, yeah?” he says after a moment, though how he expects any coherency when he is massaging down your arm like that, you do not know.

But you nod, kissing his chest.

“Of course, you’re my bodyguard,” you say.

You sigh when he smooths his hand over your backside, tenderly caressing the sore skin.

“Yes,” he says. “Always.”

It sounds almost ridiculous to say, but he honestly fucked you so good that you feel like a new woman.

You have a little skip in your step – or maybe it’s a limp – for the next couple days, and it’s cute how it flusters him in the daylight because he knows the cause.

In the mood for a full cleansing, you get the idea to clean out your closet. You toss things around left and right, sorting donations and garbage and pieces you forgot you owned.

You are elbow deep in a pile of old sweaters when your fingers curl around something soft. You yank it out of the pile, hidden away at the very back of your closet. You wonder what it is and why you have not been wearing it when it is so soft—

Peppy music is blaring out of your speakers, your disposition cheery and pleasant as can be. It all gets a little fuzzy when you unfold the sweater and realize it is Jisung’s hoodie, the one he gave you that last night you left his house.

You and Felix are meeting Jeongin and Seungmin after class today, a usual coffee at your usual café while you do the finishing touches on your semester project. Having friends and a lover and a future you can almost see, can almost imagine controlling if only in your own special way, makes you realize how far you have come.

Things have changed. You have changed. You have forgotten a lot about high school. You don’t really remember faces, or the things that had you stressed, or half the arguments with your father. You were obsessed with Lee Minho for years but, frankly, you can hardly remember what he looked like.

But you touch the hoodie and you can feel your best friend, solid as if he was still sitting beside you. When you lift it to your chest, you swear you can faintly smell the lingering trace of him, that boyish body spray that was probably baked into everything he owned but that you stopped noticing because you were around him so much.

It is the smell that overwhelms you. In a matter of moments, your face is buried in the hoodie and you are crying, and you don’t know if it’s because you’re happy or because you’re not.

Felix comes running, stumbling to a stop in your closet door and looking at you with alarm.

“Sweetheart?” he says, crouching down beside you. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say, because you don’t know what to say. You lift your head and look at him, face streaked with tears. He wipes them immediately, a gentle back and forth, soothing you until your crying is just a mere hiccup. “I’m sorry,” you say, wiping your face on your sleeve. “I don’t know why I still get so worked up.”

“About what?” Felix asks.

You open the hoodie and recognition lights up in his eyes.

“Jisung,” he says.

“You recognize it?” you say, a bit surprised.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, and looks at you with a dimpled grin. “You were wearing this the first night we—”

“Right,” you say with a watery giggle.

You look back down and sniffle some more, blinking back another onslaught of tears. You run your hand over the material while Felix rubs a soothing circle on your back.

“Why is it so hard to let go?” you ask softly. “When I have people here, now... When I have a future and…” You trail off, voice breaking. You wipe your face again.

“I don’t know,” Felix says, sounding as morose. His gaze wanders. You can see his own mental space shift as he goes somewhere far away. “I guess…” He rubs the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. “One person can’t, uh, really replace another, I guess. And he was your friend. It’s different.” He swallows. “You can’t just let go of love. Not… not easily.”

“I guess not,” you say. You trace a circle on the material with your thumb. You sigh. “I should get ready for school.”

“Yeah,” Felix says, voice breaking too. He clears his throat and stands. “Do you need anything?”

You shake your head, hugging the hoodie to your chest and staring straight ahead.

“No,” you say softly. “Thank you, Felix.”

You are a little too distracted with your own thoughts and grief to notice his own solemn disposition. He does not hold it against you, though, as you are distracted for the rest of the day. The cause is reasonable enough.

You are sitting in the library with Felix and your friends, working on your project but distracted, when you lift your head and spot the library computers.

You have not looked for Jisung anywhere, not online or in person, far too terrified your father would find out and track him down and kill him. You remember his rage. You know how serious he was.

But that seems far away now, not the same nightmarish terror that haunted your every shaking step. Now you are staring at the campus computers with a more calculating air. You realize there is no way to trace any searches back to you if they are made on a public server.

Felix looks up when you stand, shooting you a questioning look. You just point to the computers and he nods, slouching back in his seat again.

You feel a little queasy, maybe from the tumultuous feelings of the day. Maybe plain worry. Until now, you could pretend Jisung was fine, but what if he isn’t? God, what if your father went after him anyway? What if something else happened? What if he got worse after you left him on that hospital bed? You are sick with the thought.

The world needs him. You need him. Even far away, even without seeing or touching him, because your friendship does not require that. It can be words on a page, tucked away in a yearbook that you read on your worst days when you need a reason to keep fighting.

And so you search. You find results faster than you thought. It turns out Jisung has been writing music. He is very underground and indie, it seems. He does not have a huge collection of followers, but his artistry has stirred interest nonetheless. You find his social media profiles without much struggle, as well as his soundcloud and professional profiles. It looks like he works part time at a grocery store while making music.

You click through his profiles, smiling at some of his goofy pictures and videos. There are some click-bait short videos with dramatic fonts slashed over his face, saying things like GIRLFRIEND DRAMA!! and GAY RIVALS??

You click on a couple. It’s just videos where he talks to the camera, but he’s so funny that it feels like miniature stand-up routines. Some of these videos get more views than his music.

It looks like he had a girlfriend for a while, then a boyfriend, which is probably not too surprising when you remember he was obsessed with Hyunjin.

He says exactly that in his video, laughing as he runs his hands through his hair, black-painted nails stark against the lighter dyed locks.

“Yeah…” he says, laughing awkwardly, “Turns out most people don’t have an arch-nemesis that occupies their every thought in their horny teenage years. Who knew, right?”

The comment sections are all a bit chaotic, as comment sections are often a no-man’s land of anarchy, but it feeds the algorithm so he lets the public run amok. It does not seem to ruffle his feathers.

You scroll until you see a video with the words BEST FRIEND? It is the only video where he turned the comments off.

You are not sure what you are expecting. It has been years. This video could be about anyone. He has more friends, quite a lot by the look of it.

His video starts with that very message.

“I know it’s hard to believe since I am, like, so insanely beautiful and funny and popular and talented now,” he says with a goofy drawl, grinning at the camera, “but I used to be like… the loser. Not even a loser, no way, man, I’m an overachiever. I mean the loser. I did not have any friends but, like, I didn’t even have any enemies either, like what’s a guy got to do to get bullied around here? I was just, you know, kinda invisible I guess… Hard to believe I developed issues and became an online clout-chaser like whoo-hoo…”

You shake your head, smiling in spite of yourself. The Jisung on camera is wearing glasses, his hair longer than you remember. His shoulders are broader and he looks good, healthy.

He rubs his shoulder as he gazes past the camera, looking wistful.

“I had one friend, though, eventually,” he says. “I used to think she was kinda scary but, also, to be fair, I thought everything was scary back then haha… I mean, not haha, you know I was… It was rough. I was like ready to end it all, man… Times were hard! Teenage angst, you know, nothing like it! But she, uh…”

He looks at the camera and it makes your spine straighten. This was posted a year ago. He is not actually talking to you, but for a moment he feels present.

“She was really good at seeing people,” he says. “I think, maybe, that’s because she wanted for someone to see her too. But, like, that’s hard to ask for… And even harder to accept when you finally have it. She would run away just as fast as she would want attention, haha. But at the same time… You know, she got it. She got me. We got each other. Until then, neither of us had ever really—you know, we didn’t really have good families and stuff, we didn’t have friends. I talk about firsts a lot, and, you know, every one makes a deal out of their first kiss and their first lay and stuff but like… Your first friend...”

You pause the video for a second, blinking so you don’t cry in the library. You briefly glance at Felix, Jeongin, and Seungmin. Jeongin has predictably strayed from his studies, showing Felix something on his hand console. Seungmin throws a pencil at them.

You smile then look back at the screen, hitting play.

“It changes you, you know?” Jisung says. “Especially at that age, you know, when you’re growing and stuff… You kinda learn from each other. Even though we super different, in some ways we were the same, and I think I still… um, carry her with me. It sounds cheesy but it’s true. I was a stupid softy but her…! She never took anyone’s shit! And I got better at that, and I think it was because of her. We, um, we didn’t exactly have a falling out— Life just— Sometimes life isn’t fair. And she was… she was kinda in a bad spot. And at the time I felt like I let her down, because I couldn’t get her out. Of course, now I’m like, yo, we were both kids, haha, how the fuck was I gonna do that anyway… And before we said goodbye, you know, she told me I did save her, and I didn’t really know what she meant at the time. But when I realized how much of her was still with me all the time, every day, how much she taught me to get me where I am today… I got it. I still wish I could have done more, but I get it. And I mean, um, hey, if you’re out there—”

You are startled into greater attention when he looks directly in the eye of the camera. You realize he is speaking to you, across space and time, as surely as a scribble in your yearbook or a laugh in your memory.

“I don’t know if you’ll ever see this,” he says. “But I, uh, I told you once a best friend promise is forever. Ten years, twenty years, fifty years, you know… hit me up. But, um, even if you don’t… even if you can’t…”

He takes a breath and shakes his shoulders, wiggling like he would do when he was trying not to cry. He exhales and smiles. You can see all the emotion behind that smile, grief and hope alike.

“I just hope you’re happy,” he says. “I am. And that’s partly because of you. So if you ever need a reason, or an excuse, or whatever to be happy… This is it. Thank you for… for everything I guess. I loved you so much that it made me love the whole world just because you were in it. So I don’t need anything else from you, but if you could be happy for me… Yeah. That, uh, that would be good.”

He pauses, purses his lips, then he laughs a very watery laugh.

“Okay!” he says. “I’m gonna go cry now like a big baby. Love you all! Bye! See you next time. Oh yeah, stream Volcano! Bye!”

You end up laughing through your tears, Jisung being so incredibly Jisung. You glance back at Felix and your friends, watching them try to keep their laughter down as they snicker over something in Jeongin’s game. Seungmin has his big puppy grin on and Jeongin’s dimple are so deep as glee pours off him.

Felix looks so delighted and carefree, his whole face glowing like it was touched by a drop of sunshine.

You want this.

Now. Always.

Oh, Jisung, you think to yourself. How many times are you going to save me?

You open a new window and make a profile on the website. Fortunately, Jisung allows private messages from accounts he does not follow. You just hope he clicks on the message despite the blank profile. You cannot have anything public that would give you away in any capacity.

But you open the private message and you write, and you hope it reaches him, even after you have closed the window and walked away, head high with your purpose and a newfound determination to fulfill his only wish for you.

To the bestest most awesome boy in the world, from the bestest most awesome girl in the world.

I think I have that whole note memorized by now. I don’t know you even remember these words, but it was how you started your message in my yearbook.

I know it’s been a long time but I wanted to reach out. My situation hasn’t really changed, so it’s still not safe to see you properly, which is why I’m messaging this way. I’m sorry for that. But I saw your video where you said you were happy, and I just wanted to say how glad I am. You deserve the world, Jisungie. I hope you know how much it loves you back. How much I love you back.

I have friends and even a boyfriend now. I don’t think I would have any of it if not for you. I think I am starting to be happy, but truth be told I don’t really know what that is supposed to feel or look like. But I think I am starting to understand. I think I know what I have to do.

I’m going to get out. I am going to get my love out too. I have been waiting and wallowing, but I’m not going to do that anymore. I want to be happy, whatever that looks like.

Thank you for saving me when you did. Now it’s time for me to save myself.

You also gave me the world and I love it a little more everyday. I hope someday soon I can see more of it. If I’m lucky, maybe I will see you too, but even if we never meet face-to-face again, know I carry you with me too. A best friend promise is a forever promise, right?

Take care, Jisung. Keep fighting. Be happy.

Love,

Your best friend.

Now and always.

♡

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