#so of course it’s in the godforsaken fic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

devilmademewriteit · 1 year

Text

Playing Dangerous

part 2 of Salvatore

pairing: javier peña x afab!fem!reader

summary: sure, the fact that he’d schemed up an entire, elaborate ruse to get between your legs was upsetting. more upsetting was the fact that he refused to fess up, insisting that you needed to be protected (or at the very least—cautious) because your life was in ‘grave danger.’ most upsetting, however? that would be the fact that through it all and above everything else, you still wanted him—badly.

warnings: rough sex/smut (fingering, fem penetration, oral [m receiving]) so 18+ only content; afab fem reader; mentions of reader having long hair; bratty!reader; brat-tamer!javi; alcohol consumption; smoking; pet names (baby, sweetheart, cariño, hermosa); some angst; dubcon (slight intoxication, power imbalance, age gap).

word count: 10.7k (sorry again)

no use of y/n in this fic

hello here is part twooooo! thank you for all the love on Salvatore I absolutely love all of you so much. you don't rly need to read p1 to enjoy this, just know that: reader is the ambassador's secretary and is an asshole, Javi is also an asshole, they fucked for the first time a few days ago b/c he took her home after someone seemed to be after her life.

don’t forget to join the taglist if you’re nasty; feedback, asks, comments, smoke signals and carrier pigeons always welcome. kisses. -em<3

—

read part 3, Dark Paradise, here.

—

Let’s get in the back of your cop car, officer! - Playing Dangerous

“I am not speaking to you.”

Murphy’s eyes come alive with exasperation, a striking shift from their usual half-asleep, perpetually vacant gawp. Not quite at the point of impatience yet, his voice is soft when he responds.

“Please.”

You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms. An impassive sneer makes its way onto your expression.

Not a fucking chance.

Not only were you not planning on ever doing Steve Murphy—and especially, his asshole partner—even the smallest of favours throughout your remaining time on this godforsaken planet, you’d come to the conclusion (quite recently, in fact) that you’d rather dance barefoot on broken glass than be in the same room as either member of the pair.

And it was a shame, really.

After that (now regrettable, once incredible) night at Peña’s place, everything had been fine.

More than fine. Not even awkward.

For a glorious moment, waking up next to him, ruined and sore and bruised and satisfied, sharing a morning coffee and then a ride to work—peace (and the planted seeds of something else, too) had finally settled across the worn-in battlegrounds between you, solid roots spreading with each passing second spent not bickering. For crying out loud, when he’d gotten called away to Bogotá that very same day, you’d put yourself to work keeping his place clean, going so far as to anticipate his return.

Everything had been fine.

Until, of course, you’d gotten the old Chevy serviced.

“Car’s running fine, señorita. Put that missing part back, s’good to go.”

“Missing part?”

“The spark plug—wasn’t in there when we looked.”

And the missing pieces fell into place.

How he’d waltzed into your car earlier on in the day, running his fingers along the hard, hot plastic of the dash—analyzing, observing, and finally commenting on your shitty engine. Then, he’d been conveniently there, waiting for you in the middle of the night, watching you wrestle your hood open in the parking lot after work. Hell, he took you to his place after he’d told you he'd seen a shady truck parked in front of yours… and you’d trusted him.

Without bothering to check for yourself, you’d trusted him.

You had to hand it to the man; it was a clever plan. Wear you down during the day only to corner you while alone, vulnerable, and at night, with no possible avenues for escape.

All to get inside your pants.

God.

Murphy huffs, bringing you back down to Earth. “Listen,” he rubs his temples, exhaustion weighing down the curves of shoulders, “We just want to make sure you’re safe. You don’t have to stay with him, either; Connie—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” you snap, narrowing your eyes in full view of his own. “I keep wondering, though... seeing as you're… thick as thieves, these days,” you lean forward over your desk, studying his swallow. “Was it you that shot off that gun? Or did he get someone else to participate in his little scheme?”

The agent tilts his head to the side, putting on the air of a wordless 'really, sweetheart?' before launching into a recitation of a sorely well-versed explanation.

But you cut him off, unforgiving in your suspicion. “Don’t bother, alright? Even if I did believe that, what, some 'cartel sicario'—” you emphasize the ridiculousness of the statement by tossing up a couple of well-timed air quotes “—was after me…?” and then you’re gesturing wildly to yourself, fingertips pointed straight to your heart. “I would rather die—really, seriously, die—than step foot into your home—or-or fucking Peña’s—Ever. Again.”

The mounting ire behind your breathless rambling finally wears him down; he surrenders his complexion to a look of genuine defeat. His arms drop to his sides, heavy and limp.

As you try to appear busy, fidgeting with the scattered papers and documents lying listlessly across your desk, Murphy turns on his heels, stooping toward the exit.

For a brief moment, he hesitates, coming to a slow halt halfway down his holy pilgrimage of freeing you from his fucking presence.

“Did you…” and he briefly trails off, anticipating your wrath with a wince. “Did you fill out that form?”

Irritation clouds your thoughts. Its manifestations in your body feel almost violent.

“What do you think, genius?”

You scare yourself with the aggression underpinning each and every word.

Inside the safety of your mind, your inner dialogue treats him even worse.

Go, motherfucker. Go, go, go, go, go or I’ll tear us both apart, I’ll explode, I’ll—

You hope that it’s Luck listening to your prayers (and not God), because as soon as your brain has time to register the nature of your wicked, near sacrilegious thoughts toward the man, Murphy’s yellow-dusted crown is drooping down in eventual resignation, leading the way as he trudges back to his corner.

A relief.

A short lived one.

Too short.

Because…

Well, because those fucking memories won’t stop replaying inside your mind, etched like crude Botticellis on the backs of your eyelids.

Overlaying the non-stop highlight reel of a vicious fight with Peña, just that morning—

“Well, I didn’t see a car. What I saw was you, whipping me over to your fuck-pad—and now? I see your whole... fucking masterplan to get me into bed.”

“You’re talking fuckin’ crazy. There’s no pussy in the world that’s worth pulling all that.”

—are flashes of his bare, glistening chest, an almost tangible haze of longing obscuring his eyes. You’d taken him in your mouth; you’d felt him all over: against you, with you, inside you.

And when you’re not seeing him, you’re forced to hear him, over and over and over again.

“You fuckin’ sing for me when you’re comin’ on my cock.”

So, you push certain memories away by calling on certain others, repeating every cruel word you’d ever exchanged with each other like a mantra, an affirmation.

They remind you of the man that Javier Peña truly was.

“You are the worst person I’ve ever had the shit-luck of meeting, Peña.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not too crazy about you, either. Got some serious growin’ up to do, sweetheart.”

A loud snap wrenches you back to your senses. You unfurl your fingers to reveal the broken remnants of a poor, innocent pencil you’d been white-knuckle-death-gripping.

What really had you ticking was that, after you’d hurled accusations and insults at him for the better part of an hour—totally monopolizing the space of the familiar, dusty old filing room—he’d had the nerve to continue on with his little act.

“You don’t have to stay with me—”

And his voice had been coated in poison, laced with the kind of fiery contempt that surely only a guilty man could achieve.

“—but do me a favour and just don’t be a fuckin’ idiot. It’s shit work, hiring new secretaries.”

He hadn’t waited around for an answer, leaving you alone with his final words and a mountain of your own unsaid ones.

So, you’d hissed a “fuck off” to the lingering ghost of his presence in the room, trying, in vain, to slow your shallow breaths.

You heave a sigh, forehead dropping to lay heavy against the desk.

If only you could take your brain out for the day. If only you could run it under cold water. Better yet, if only you could scrub it clean with bleach, put it in the dishwasher, run it with the damn laundry—anything to make it shiny and new and untainted.

Peña was lying.

He had to be lying.

What kind of shit sicario goes after secretaries who, beyond not knowing what they’re supposed to know about, don’t care enough to actually retain any of it?

Not a good sicario. Definitely not one who would still be alive in Medellìn, today.

It was all bullshit.

You weren’t the kind of person who attended work parties.

They always ran excruciatingly long. On top of that, you had to watch traumatized coworkers drink. A lot. Then, there was, of course, after-hours work-talk.

None of that had ever screamed 'best night ever!' to you.

Tonight, however, you hadn’t been given a choice: the ambassador had needed 'someone there, you know, just in case work stuff comes up’ which really meant that she was banking on you to give her a ride home at the end of the night.

Like that was happening. She hadn't been pleased when you'd made it clear to her that you were out of commission, off-the-clock, done-zo starting at fifteen to ten. You'd hoped that, at that point, she would've rescinded her original request.

She hadn't.

Still, Noonan had spent the week being remarkably kind to you—maybe her invitation was her (deeply misguided) way of trying to make up for the shit-storm she’d watched you face over past few days (whether she believed Peña’s dystopian, hitman fantasy was uncertain; either way, she’d witnessed your torment at his hands, and both realities seemed equally as emotionally taxing).

Despite all the hints you’d dropped about wanting the night off, she either hadn’t noticed, hadn’t cared, or thought you were just trying to be polite.

Come on.

She’d been your boss long enough to know there was no chance of you pussy-footing around out of politeness.

The event was meant to commemorate some big accomplishment—a narco sting gone right (or else, some big narco boss gone six-feet-under). The reason behind the festivities wasn’t of any importance to you—getting through the next few hours as quickly and as painlessly as possible took up all of the remaining (albeit limited) space in your head.

Because, afterwards? You were going out.

A good friend’s bachelorette, a shit-ton of dark tequila, and the warm lips of a total stranger.

God, you needed that. Every intimate spot on your body was in desperate need of a cleanse. Your tongue, the soft skin between your thighs, the peach-fuzz on your cheeks…

They remembered him.

They made sure you couldn’t forget him.

About half-way through serving your sentence in regulatory purgatory, someone turns on the stereo. A Queen song—the one that everyone knows. You’re looking around, trying to locate the source of the sound.

It’s mostly administrative and political bodies crowding up the office's stuffy foyer. There’s an odd clink of glass meeting glass whenever someone new walks in, or else when a deal’s finally graduated beyond the negotiation stage.

It’s too highbrow, too boring and white-collar for restless DEA agents, you remind yourself.

Slowly, slowly the hours trickle by.

The music helps—every Diaz song has the minutes moving double-time.

And after what feels like centuries of excruciating small-talk, of brushing off endless, casual condescension, of staring at the clock hanging off the wall, finally, it’s time to go.

First, a last minute change (you’re not wearing a damn button-up to the bar—it’ll be a tight dress and cute shoes or absolutely nothing at all) and a quick refresher in the bathroom. Then, you’re trailing a bee-line towards the exit with 'home-free' on the tip of your tongue.

Keep your head down. Nod. A chagrined smile to each pair of gawking eyes.

‘Cause soon? You’ll be dancing.

You’re straddling the office doors, left foot in, right foot out when an authoritative voice calls your name from behind.

Christ Almighty.

Turning slowly, you find yourself triangulated between Noonan and…

Fucking Steve Murphy.

That one looks apprehensive. The former?

A bit red in the face.

“Murphy, here,” the ambassador gestures sloppily towards the agent’s uneasy form, “Tells me he needs something. Papers, right? Think we can get that to him before you leave for your… little soirée—what do you say?”

She doesn’t catch it, but he does; your unbridled, aversive stare pierces him right between his eyes. Forcing it down (and oh, does it ever burn your throat) you etch a reluctant smile, nodding wordlessly to your boss.

God, if only money were an object. This damn job would be a short paragraph on your resume, a blip in your timeline on this Earth.

Noonan slaps Murphy on the back, harrumphing as though she’d just solved world hunger. Quickly, she finds someone new to accost (or be accosted by), swept into a different, equally-boring conversation before you can even begin to feel angry at her for putting you into such a… distasteful position.

And you whir on him.

Before the rush of accusations gets a chance to part from your lips, Murphy interrupts you, putting his hands up in mock surrender.

“I didn’t say a thing.” He sounds serious, sincere. “Swear. She came up to me and just… knew all about it.”

You narrow your eyes in suspicion. Nonetheless, your fingernails slowly retreat from their burrows in the skin of your palm.

It’s not because of his earnestness.

No.

It’s because only a serious maniac would flaunt their under-the-table bullshit so publicly, flying it right under the ambassador’s nose. Whatever those records were for (and whatever the reason why Peña and Murphy so badly needed them), it was becoming increasingly clear that they were not intended to land in either of their hands.

Murphy hadn’t been nervous because of you. He’d been nervous because of her. A little less drink, a bit more curiosity, and Noonan would've been privy to whatever it was that the pair was up to.

“Fine.”

He exhales, shoulders relaxing, dropping like stones with the release.

Without another word, you make your way down the hall, charging toward the alcove harboring your desk. Murphy trails behind, five feet back at all times like a recently-scolded school-child.

Good.

It takes a few, long minutes to get the job done.

He waits around anxiously, fiddling with your stationary (until you slap his hand away from your beloved pens and planners) and pacing around the room.

When it's done, you don’t read the form, you don’t investigate. The less you know, the better.

And frankly?

You couldn’t give less of a shit.

As the papers slide out of the printer, you warn him: “You’re gonna need a signature from their side, you know. I can only get you so far.”

He nods, taking the precious sheets in hand. “Think we got that side covered.” Then, he’s reading them over, checking to make sure everything's in order. You stand with your hand on your hip, waiting impatiently for his goddamn approval. After an eternity (really—by the end of it you’re genuinely wondering whether the man should get tested for dyslexia), Murphy hums in satisfaction, giving you an awkward, “Thanks, again.”

You scoff, crossing your arms over your half-exposed chest.

Didn’t even thank me a first time, asshole.

He spins around, aiming for the exit, when another body appears before him.

And the man stops Murphy in his tracks, deep-brown eyes trailing down to the packet of papers cradled between his partner's hands.

“Noonan came through, then.”

It’s all he says.

Your nostrils flare.

The skin on your face positively burns.

Of course it had been him. He was probably the entire reason behind the ambassador’s unusual tipsyness, too. Hell, he’d probably fed her Prosecco and half-compliments ‘til she’d been more than happy to do him a million favours.

Wasn’t that his M.O., anyways? ‘Get ‘em drunk and get my way?’

Three comfortable, familiar words find themselves sliding—easily—off your tongue.

“Fuck off, Peña.”

You surprise yourself with the cruelty of your tone, the biting emphasis of each word.

He settles his onyx eyes on you. They glaze over with hunger, with amusement, with danger.

Fuck.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, sweetheart—I will in a minute,” and he nods at his partner, effectively dismissing him.

Murphy hesitates, eyes jumping between the stand-off taking place before him. Likely, he was trying to decide which one of you was going to murder the other first.

Finally, with his beloved form tucked under his arm, Murphy heaves a sigh of resignation, and then he’s gone.

Leaving you alone with Peña.

The corners of his lips pull back into an arrogant smirk as his eyes rake over your body—done up, dressed down, and positively fuming in your little kitten heels.

“You look hot.”

It’s all he says.

Some girls would’ve killed to hear those words from him. You’d spent years watching their eyes trail his movements in the office, listening to their puling voices—'is Javi there?'—over the phone.

But it just makes you want to scream.

Fearing the actual possibility of that coming to fruition, you keep your mouth sealed shut. Tight.

Silence won’t do for Peña.

“What’d you tell me, once?” He muses softly, making his way towards your desk. “Somethin’ about this place not bein’ a… a what’d you call it? A brothel?”

Dog.

He yanks a retort from your lips as if he had full command over them. “I’m going out, asshole.”

His face twitches ever-so-slightly, just enough for you to catch the hint of emotion. Then, it’s gone.

“No, you’re not.”

Casual as ever, he does that thing: runs a finger from the corner of his bottom lip down the length of it, looks up at you through thick, dark eyebrows.

You bristle at the sheer, unwinding effect it has on you.

“Yes, I am.”

He raps his knuckles against the desk in irritation; nevertheless, his voice is soft, imploring as he persists. “C’mon, baby. I need you to listen to me, right now. It’s..." and he undresses you with a mere look, "It's not a good time for you to be goin’ to those kinds of places.”

Just like any other man.

Probably, Peña’s ego was so over-inflated that the mere thought of any of his conquests colluding with another man had him on the brink of spontaneous combustion.

Because God forbid you fuck anyone else.

God forbid you even think of touching anyone else.

And this strange, uncharacteristic possessiveness, this… need for control—it was wearing extremely thin.

The man had zero authority over you. He certainly didn’t get to preside over the choices you made during your free time.

“Don’t call me baby, Peña—I’m not your baby.” The snapped retort makes you sound so young, to the point where, for a moment, you understand why the agent had called you a brat so many times that one, fateful night.

Still, you soldier on, focussed on freeing yourself from yet another one of the evening's grueling set-backs. “And I’m not gonna ‘listen to you’ just ‘cause you think you’ve got some sort of… machismo claim over me.”

A deft muscle in his jaw tenses. He rounds the desk, moving just a half-foot closer to you; that alone is enough to jump-start your heart, and you’re almost sure he can hear it, jack-hammering away inside your chest. You both know that being the first to step away signified weakness—concession—so you stay put (even when your legs yield to a slight wobble).

And he’s almost crooning. “You can spread those legs for half the country, for all I care, baby.” A condescending look, cast down at you over the bridge of his nose. “Not what this is about.”

Yeah, right.

“Please.” You roll your eyes. “Still working that angle?”

He takes a step forward. “Is it so crazy to think that I could just be tryna look out for you?” Meeting your gaze, he speaks earnestly—pleading through his irritation.

“I don’t need you to ‘look out for me’,” Your back grazes against the ambassador’s doors—you kick yourself internally for having subconsciously conceded to a back-step. “Especially not since the last time I thought that’s what this was?” your fingers gesture wildly between the (lack of) space separating your bodies, “You totally took advantage of me.”

A pause as the agent fluctuates from bafflement to genuine offense.

“Took adv—are you being serious?” he scoffs, shaking the coarse, dark hair on his crown. “I gave you, like, one drink.”

Victory courses through your veins at the sudden, intense flood of irritation marking his tone, the vein popping in his jaw.

Anything to get to him, to make him tick, to scratch that itch.

Dig. Dig. Dig.

A shrug. “Maybe you put something in it.”

His eyebrows jump up, eyes widening with the movement.

Just. So. Close.

“And… you know, I am a lot younger than you—”

“—okay, enough.”

Peña’s growled response has your voice fizzling out into nothingness. Closing what’s left of the distance between you, muscled form looming, he flattens you against the ambassador’s office doors. As one large hand slowly splays out next to your ear, the other comes up to grasp your chin. His fingers wrap around your jawbone, all the way from one ear to the other.

You’re stuck, frozen under the weight of that dominant leer.

“Y’know,” he muses, deep and low, “It’s really fuckin’ obvious what all this is actually about, sweetheart.” Trapped in his glare, you watch his eyes grow dark, his gravelly voice falling into a register you’d never before heard it descend to. And he’s so, so close to you, close enough that you can smell him: that distinct, earthy scent of man that never failed to have your head spinning, your arms weak. “This… highschool bullshit you’ve been pullin’ since I got back… accusin’ me of all kinds of shit—"

You deny yourself the pleasure of looking at his lips when his words withdraw into an almost-whisper.

“Makes you feel real innocent, doesn’t it?

You don’t respond, concentrating on stifling the growing ache in your core, the thump-thump-thumps inside your rib cage, the lump forming in your throat.

A rarity, a miracle, Jesus turning water into wine: words fail you.

“Know what I think, cariño?” His fingernails press into your cheeks, digging soft indents. Not to bruise—

To hold you steady.

To assure himself of his command over your full, devoted attention.

When he finally continues, his smoky breath raises the hairs along your exposed skin.

God, it must be, like, nine-hundred degrees in the room.

“I think”—and he’s toying with you, near-black eyes dancing with amusement—��You’re just embarrassed.”

Leaning in, his lips brush against the ridges of your ear, slow words washing over you in big, heavy waves. “‘Bout how easy it was for me to get between these legs.” Male, calloused fingers ghost over the skin of your thighs, creeping higher and higher up the length of your body.

“Remember how wet you got for me, cariño? Beggin’ me to fuck you so rough?”

And for a brief, suspended moment—

You do.

He leans back enough for you to watch his eyes harden, uttering an “I remember it all, baby,” as his thumb leaves your jaw to trace the highest point of your cheekbone.

And his tone turns to stone.

“Especially when you’re acting like you need a fuckin’ reminder.”

Your cheeks grow red-hot. The ground feels unsteady under your feet—and the spell breaks.

Pig.

“You’re fucking vile, Peña,” you spit, wrenching his grip off your face. “And also, dead wrong.” Slamming into his shoulder, you aim to storm out.

He catches your arm, twisting you back around to face him. “If you go out tonight,” the man near-growls, lecturing down at you like a damn parent, “You’re putting your life and everyone else's on the line.”

You tear your wrist from his fingers, shrugging off his empty warning with a dramatic spin on your heels.

Strutting out, you leave him with a poison-coated, “Say ‘hi’ to the whores for me.”

And you’re gone.

It’s loud. Your feet are sore from dancing in your heels. A different, unfamiliar body is in reach in every possible direction from your own.

It’s perfect.

Five shots in and you still feel like you could take more, if only to forget the exhausting events of the day.

Less than 48 hours ago you’d been prepared—dear God, longing—to hand yourself over to a man you were now quite happy to never see again. With your hands wrapped around a stranger’s neck, you’re determined to cleanse yourself of his lingering traces.

He’s gazing down at you, male, hungry eyes gunning for the taking. Local, you guess, or at the very least South-American. After a daring look, you grab him by the collar, brushing your starved lips against his.

“Want to get out of here?”

The pronunciation isn’t great—but it does the trick. He nods enthusiastically, allowing you to take his hand in your own without hesitation. Too easy. The hard part is weaving through the agitated, bustling crowd with your nameless partner in tow.

It’s reckless. It’s stupid. But God, is it ever necessary.

Escaping your friends at the start of the night had been child’s play, and they could be counted on to be too fucked-up at this hour to notice your absence, anyway.

Good.

Your act of desperation would be remembered solely by its participants.

A gentle evening wind swirls around your tingling body, the day’s heat hanging thick in the air as you step onto the street, the syncopated thumps of Latin music fading unwillingly into the background.

Pivoting abruptly, you flatten yourself against the wall outside, pulling the stranger in close by the fabric of his blue button-up.

“Yours or mine?”

He smirks, gentle lines forming by his golden eyes. Internally, you commend yourself: the catch was quite pretty.

“Here is okay, I think.”

Then, his lips are on yours, parting you open in a sloppy, drunk kiss.

This could work.

His traveling hands already seem to be numbing some of the tension simmering under your skin.

This could work.

His rough kisses overwhelm your senses, slowly filling the hollow ache lodged at the heart of your core.

Please, God—let this work.

Just as a hand reaches up to cradle the back of your neck—

(let this work, let this work, let this work)—

Just as a pleased moan travels from your lungs into his own—

Tires screech against the pavement, slamming you back into your body, wrenching you straight into the dire moment. Tearing your lips from the stranger’s, you peer over his shoulder, eyes widening at the sight of a black Camino screaming to a stop right before you. Time stops; the windows are down, and what you know to be the barrel of a hand-gun pokes out from the backseat.

“Get down!”

Maybe it's in your head (after all, it would make sense for your psyche to summon his voice in a moment so violent); or maybe it's real. Either way, you listen to the command, hitting the ground without any reservations. And those stupid heels—you stumble, face-planting onto the pavement, scraping every exposed part of your body against hot, rough cement.

A cry of terror rips from your throat as the sound of bullets punctuates the warm, summer night—Jesus, it’s louder than anything you’d ever heard before.

Somewhere along the chaos, the pretty stranger from the bar books it down the calle.

Everything happens so fast. A familiar Cherokee veers in the way, separating you from the attackers. The surrounding air becomes rife with lead, a terrified chorus of male and female voices joining the symphony, and you really can’t tell whether the pain in your chest is from the friction of your own harmonizing screams or if it’s bullets tearing through your body. From the ground, you watch your attackers’ vehicle take off down the street, haphazardly parting crowds of cowering civilians in its wake.

When it all stops, it doesn’t really stop.

Violence persists, ringing in your ears like a doomsday clock going off, an A-bomb alarm siren. The echoes are happy to prolong your torment.

The Jeep’s passenger door swings open. You scramble back, scampering down the pavement as adrenaline claims you in never-ending rushes.

“Get inside, now.”

You nearly sob with relief at the familiar voice. It hadn't all been in your head. Jumping up on unstable legs, you lunge into his car, jerking the door shut behind you.

Without sparing a moment, his white-knuckled hands yank the wheel to the side, veering onto a road just off the main strip.

Javier Peña’s never looked so stressed.

“You’re not gonna follow them?” It comes out as a cry, a desperate plea for retribution.

He doesn’t answer.

Which doesn’t stop you.

You want to see them punished for making you feel so helpless, and for the scrapes and bruises decorating your elbows, your knees, your palms.

“Javi,” a begging king of shout, “Why aren’t we following them?”

“‘Cause you’re in the fucking car!”

In the heat of the moment, the cutting edge of his harsh tone doesn’t bother you. If anything, it’s gentle compared to the violent sensations stewing within your body and mind.

“So?”

He takes a sharp right, slamming your side against the Jeep’s hard interior.

“Been in enough…” He grits his teeth, trying to keep his irritation in check, “Compromising situations tonight, alright? Now, just shut up ‘n let me drive.”

You pipe down, not awfully interested in getting yelled at again in your fragile state.

At first, it feels like the full-body trembles wracking your entire being won’t ever cease. And yet, by the grace of God, after a few minutes, the thundering behind your ribcage slowly subsides.

It helps that you’re still a little buzzed.

It especially helps when his driving slows and the streets begin to empty—when the shops and houses become more and more recognizable, when the night grows more and more tame.

You know where he’s headed. The safety of the intended destination has you relaxing, finally level enough to take deep breaths.

Eventually, he stops the car, cutting the engine in full view of his building's front door.

The rumbling stops, and suddenly, it's very quiet. Javier groans, leaning back against his seat, bringing a hand up to his temples. He doesn’t look at you, keeping his eyes closed behind the palm of his hand.

And oh.

He’s pissed.

“Go inside, lock the door, don’t open it for anyone.” His command, though dripping with ire, is underpinned with genuine concern. When you don’t respond, he finally shifts his gaze to meet yours, fixing you with an intimidating, severe kind of stare.

“Do you understand?”

At first, your impulse is to respond with a bitchy retort, to meet his intensity head-on with your own brand of unpleasantness. You stifle that reflex, taking stock of the situation at hand: Peña had just saved you from a flurry of bullets.

Peña… had just saved you…

And the realization hits you like a punch to the gut.

He’d been telling the truth.

Someone was really after you. Twice, now, they'd tried to take your life.

And, still? Your addled brain can’t seem to wrap itself around the idea of Peña’s innocence. Your bursting question takes you both by surprise.

“So, you didn’t take my spark plug?”

He stares at you, full mouth parted in genuine bewilderment. Then, he scoffs, breathing an exhausted exhalation. “No, I didn’t take your damn spark plug, sweetheart. That’s what I’ve been saying. If you’d bothered to actually fuckin’ listen for once in your life…” he shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, “‘Could’ve avoided all… this.”

Shame tries its best to seep into your core. You resist it, scrambling for reasons to justify your actions to him.

To yourself.

You hated being wrong. That feeling had a tendency of overwhelming everything else—of overriding rationality, itself.

So, you turn to a classic defense, an ol' reliable: deflection. “After all the shit you’ve put me through over the years, can you blame me for not, just like, blindly trusting you?”

He scowls, angling his shoulders to square off with your own.

“Never asked for you to ‘blindly trust’ shit, though, did I?” He huffs, “Jesus.”

You try not to wince as he continues on, as the truth of his words and the seriousness of his delivery render you mute. “You’re a secretary, sweetheart. This is my job—my life—okay? When I tell you to be careful, for the sake of your own damn good, you need to listen to me.”

There’s a long pause as his words tease out your final, entangled threads of resistance.

He was right. You’d been stupid in your denial, putting yourself and dozens of others in danger.

Putting Javi in danger.

It takes everything you have to fight the tears threatening to well along your lashes. But there's no sense in allowing yourself to mourn your mistakes—at least not at this very moment.

No, now was not the time to work through your shame.

Now was the time to seek forgiveness.

To make amends.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, trying to catch his downcast eyes.

And it’s true.

Javi shakes his head, resisting your apology. He says nothing, and your heart aches for him.

Whatever this man was—he hadn’t deserved a fraction of the hell you’d given him.

The hell you’d given him because…

Because he’d gotten close. Too close. Close enough to soften you, to see you in a way that not one single person had the right to. He’d been a novelty: the first man you’d trusted enough to be capable of handling the full breadth of yourself. And when that had started to feel volatile—as though he’d gained too much of you?

Well, you’d needed a reason to push him away. To wrench yourself back from him.

Because you’d been embarrassed.

Knowing that he’d been right about that, too, makes you feel so small, so young, and deeply naive.

Immature.

You lean over, crooning at his turned profile.

“I mean it, Javi.” His name is your weapon—you will it to wear him down—a reminder of what it sounds like leaving your lips. “I’m sorry.”

Again, silence.

It’s fucking unbearable.

Placing an unsteady hand on his knee, you trail it up his thigh—slowly. His chest hitches with the force of a deep, sharp inhale and yet, he still refuses to meet your gaze.

But you catch his reflection in the glass: a slight twinge of the eyebrows, a delicate parting of the lips, and a hint of longing within those furious eyes.

Wiggle room.

“Could you ever forgive me?” You ask timidly, seductively, fingers creeping towards the crease of his trousers and that big silver buckle looming right above it.

Finally, he turns, his expression meeting yours with a hungry (albeit still deeply annoyed) look.

That wanting you’d learned to recognize…

It excites you.

And as you tug at his belt, releasing it with tantalizing slowness, you keep your steady gaze on his undecided one, uttering a pleading, “I can make it up to you, baby.”

Wordlessly, he watches your fingers move to the button of his pants, then to his fly, working with dedication, with delicate care.

There’s movement as you reach your fingers underneath the fabric. He grows hard for you, burgeoning out of the fabric in a matter of seconds.

It’s all the invitation you could’ve possibly hoped for.

His skin is hot against your knuckles as they slide down his lower abdomen. Grasping the base of his cock, you use two hands to spring him free.

God, he’s even bigger than how you’d remembered him—bigger than even your guiltiest fantasies.

Javi groans softly when you pull him, releases a hot, shallow breath when you stroke him, and a low, breathy “fuuuck” when you finally, finally take him in your mouth.

He tastes like the salt of the ocean. This close, you can smell men's cologne mingling with sweat.

It’s heaven.

And you just don’t want him to be angry anymore. It’s all you can think about—lips cradled adoringly around his cock, tongue running up and down the long length of him—as he throws his head back in pleasure.

He eventually relaxes, conceding to the ecstasy you persuade him with. Almost drinking the uncertainty—the resistance—right out of him.

“Christ,” he groans, tangling his fingers in your hair, forcing you to take in every last inch of him. “Wanted to shut you up like this all fuckin’ day.”

It becomes a challenge to breathe, but air simply isn’t a priority with a man like him at your fingertips, as your responsibility. This, he knows, his heavy hand determining the slow, careful pace, the impossible depth, and the angle of your unspoken apology.

Growing wet and lightheaded at the same time, you loose a moan against his velvety skin.

Javi laughs, darkly. “Always got somethin’ to say, huh? Even with a mouth full of cock.”

You smile around him—taunts are good. Better than silence, anyways. “Mhmm.”

The sounds of his laughter rumbles soft and low throughout his middle—so different, so sweet and innocent compared to the wet, filthy ones produced by your mouth’s ministrations.

You give him everything you have, ignoring the droplets forming in the corners of your eyes and lips, the dull burning inside your lungs. When the tip of his cock lodges at the back of your throat, you keep him there.

Whatever Javi gives you, you take.

Happily.

Every last drop would find its home inside you, traveling down the length of your tongue and into all of your warmest places.

It was the least you could do for him.

But he has other plans. His hand bunches up your hair, tightening into a fist to pull you off of him. His cock pops out from between your lips; you’re guided up to face him.

He looks stern.

Dangerous.

Out of breath, tears sliding down your cheeks, lips glistening with the slick of your own spit—you’re a welcome sight to any man of his kind.

“Say it.”

He makes use of his free hand, wiping the coarse pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, clearing the string of saliva collecting there.

It’s not rocket science, figuring out what it is that the man wants to hear.

“I’m sorry, Javi.”

Neither of you had ever known how much an apology could sound like a prayer.

“Yeah?” Despite the gentleness of his tone, his eyes darken with lust to the point that you feel genuinely nervous about his intentions. “What are you so sorry for, hermosa?”

Fuck, the pet-names... the way his voice changed when reverting to its native tongue—rolling with confidence. At such an awkward angle, you’re forced to grip onto his forearms to keep balance. They feel strong and unbending beneath your fingertips.

Everything… everything about him draws you in.

He just makes you crazy.

Crazy enough to smile, to turn your profile to the side, laying a long, careful kiss to his palm. Crazy enough to answer his question in a needy, whiney whisper: “for being such a brat.”

He almost smiles, near-black eyes dancing with hunger, with approval, with a playful kind of ire.

Jerking his head to the right, he gestures to the backseat. “Wanna show me how sorry you are, cariño?”

You’re nodding before the question really even registers.

He releases his hold on you, deft fingers quickly untangling from your hair.

Victory. Victory. Victory.

Then, you’re stumbling out of the passenger side, opening the door to the backseat.

(You take a second to commend yourself for driving a man so wild, making him so impatient that he couldn’t be bothered to walk the ten feet required to fuck you inside his apartment. Or, maybe he just liked letting the neighbours watch.)

Before you can even step foot inside the car, you’re being hauled by your upper arms onto Javi’s lap. He manhandles you into his desired position, spreading your knees around his thighs until your dress is hitched up, only covering your ass half-way.

After snaking a hand between your bodies, the agent runs his thumb down the slick fabric of your underwear.

Already, you’re holding back a slew of pathetic whines.

“Next time you give me head”—God, the feeling of those fingers against your clit, the bliss of them pushing your panties to the side, assessing your readiness for him—“Wanna be able to see that pretty mouth while my dick’s inside it, sweetheart.”

His lust has him speaking a bit out of breath. It makes every crude, filthy word sound sweet, almost endearing to you.

Nodding in response, you work with him—lowering yourself onto his fingers as he pushes them between your folds.

“Jesus Christ,” he smiles, head falling back in appreciation, “You’re soaked.”

His fingers curl up, pressing to please in all the right places. Your answer arrives between gasps: “You tasted good.”

That pleases him.

“Yeah?” and he’s dragging his digits out of you, letting them trail through your folds and along your heavy, sore clit before leaving you wanting, leaving that needy cunt clenching around nothing. “I bet you taste even better.”

Then, his grip is on your jaw, pressing damp spots into your skin under his index, middle, and ring fingers. With the pad of his thumb pressed firmly to your bottom lip (and the row of teeth behind it), Javi eases your mouth open, wider and wider and wider for him.

“Show me—show me how good you taste.”

His index crawls onto your tongue. You close your lips around it, sucking him in until his fingernail scratches the back of your throat. He wants to be shown, so you show him: gazing intently into his eyes, you watch his brow furrow as he studies your every movement, as he drinks in your every moan.

“Fuckin' hell,” he groans, commending your efforts. “You’d do anything I asked right now, wouldn’t you, hermosa?”

Your bottom teeth graze the undersides of his index as you pull off—“yes, Javi.” Almost instinctively, you’re reaching your hand down, letting it coast down the hardness of his chest to rub circles around the slick tip of his cock, still peeking out from his open fly.

“Not yet,” he clicks his tongue, pushing his index, and this time, his middle and ring, too, back through the opening of your lips, “Need to clean yourself off every one of these fingers, first—thaaat’s right.” You listen, obediently sucking everything he gives you. He instructs and praises, “easy—easy, cariño, there it is,” as he watches you glide up and down him in slow, big pulls, all the way down to his knuckles.

It’s fucking filthy, and he loves it, unable to keep that arrogant smirk off of his face.

He’s practically in paradise, coming up with a mental list of creative ways to shut you up.

Still, Javi allows you to multitask: all the while, your fingers continue to explore the exposed parts of his cock. Only when he’s satisfied, when his length couldn’t possibly get any harder—only then does he free your mouth, letting his damp fingers trail down the side of your neck.

The feeling sends a shiver up your spine.

Without warning, he yanks down the straps of your dress and bra, pulling them all the way down until you’re postured on his lap, chest fully exposed; his abrupt movement has you loosing a stunned "Javi!" He runs his palms over the most sensitive peaks of your breasts, a hungry smile teasing the corners of his lips.

Then, he shrugs. “Told you last time I wanted to see them. Got the prettiest fuckin’ tits, hermosa.”

You don’t have time to roll your eyes, to laugh, or to really even register the vulgarity of his words, nor the taunting, degrading way they’re delivered to you. Javi’s already holding both you and himself up in one arm (and, oh, how you’d simply ached for the feel of his strength) pulling down the waistband of his pants. He maneuvers you into the proper position to receive him in, two pairs of downcast eyes watching his cock spring free, tip curving in, grazing against the fabric of his shirt.

He rushes, but it still feels torturously slow. You’re craving, needing, as he uses the dark head of his cock to ease your ruined underwear to the side, guiding himself towards your dripping opening.

This time, he’s far too impatient to make you beg for it.

Ecstasy forces your back into an arch as he pushes himself between your walls, as you feel him filling you up, up, and up—wordless mouth falling open, your heavy head collapses aaall the way back.

Immediately, a hand is at the back of your skull, forcing your gaze back downwards. “No, no, no, baby, you let me see—let me see you when you ride,” and his voice is a little strained, a little desire-stricken, a little bit softer as he settles his every last inch inside your cunt.

Your irises could be forest fires as you set your sights on his own, seeing nothing, absolutely nothing but Javier in that moment.

Moving your hips in tandem, you set your pace.

Mother Mary—it’s hard, so fucking hard to keep your legs steady when he stretches you open—wide fucking open—and as his head grazes that spongy spot inside.

He doesn’t help, either. In fact, while your hands dig anchors into his shoulders (sometimes his chest, his neck, his waist) just to keep yourself upright, his own are trailing up to the pocket of his shirt, pulling out a pack of smokes.

You mewl softly at the heat building inside your cunt, loosing an indignant whine as Javi neglects his responsibilities toward your climax.

“Gave me such a hard time today, baby,” he muses, placing a cigarette between his fingers and tossing the rest aside, “Wanna hear a fuckin’ ‘thank you Javi’ every time you come.”

His words dance around you like streetlights passing in the night, barely registering inside your disintegrating mind. How could they? With the feeling of his thighs grazing the undersides of your own, the buttons of his shirt nudging against your aching clit… how could anything else even exist?

All you can give him is an “Mhm.”

He pulls a lighter out, smirking. “‘Tough-talker ‘til this pussy’s all full, huh?”

“I-I’m sorry, baby, I’m s-sorry.”

And he laughs. “Don’t say it, cariño,” he takes your hand, placing the light inside your fist. “Fuckin’ show me.”

He rolls his hips. Your weight collapses against his chest.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, pushing you off, straightening you up before placing the cigarette between his lips, “Aaall you gotta do is light up the tip. You got it, sweetheart.”

His hands travel down to your ass, giving it a rough squeeze before his fingers splay out. He spreads you open over his thighs, watching the etchings of your lust corrupt your expression as he fucks himself—slow, deep, hard strokes—inside you.

“Fu—please, Javi—I can’t, s’too much, baby—please—”

A smile, full lips parting around the dart. “S’wrong, baby?” The words are low, breathy, teasing, contorting around the smoke in his mouth. “Can’t focus?”

God, just make him happy.

It’s the only thought you seem to be able to form. His request doesn’t seem to be up for debate, either.

So, summoning every last bit of control still lingering inside you, you bring a trembling hand up to the unlit end, a string of moans and ‘Javi’s rising from your throat.

And fuck, he’s beautiful, brimming with playful passion, orange filter hanging off those pretty pink lips.

Trying to still yourself, you flick the lighter on—the flame dances between you, illuminating the expansive darkness lurking inside his gaze. It takes everything, everything you have left to light it for him, to make that white tip glow red hot, to stay steady enough, to keep from burning him.

And also, to hold your pace. That grip of steel wrapped around your hip serves as a constant reminder—

Keep taking it.

In those final moments, he picks up his pace, of course. Your simmering blood bubbles to a boil, the flutters inside your cunt graduating into pulsing throbs.

As the flame finally takes, you feel every muscle inside your core tense—when Javi inhales his first drag, you straddle the precipice of your orgasm.

Your weight falls onto his shoulder. One of his arms reaches up to ash the cigarette; the other wraps tightly around you, bouncing you against him as exhales a cloud of smoke into your hair.

“Baby—Javi, I’m coming, I’m coming, I'm c—”

Heat builds between your thighs, and as that bundle of nerves grows heavy, pulsing with the rush of your orgasm, his thrusts only deepen.

He pulls you in close.

“I know, cariño,” Javi coos, condescending into the shell of your ear, basking in the feel of your cunt near-strangling him in adoration. “Can feel you, y’know? Got such a grateful lil' pussy,” he places a kiss to the side of your neck, groaning against the soft skin. “Always lets me know how much you love having my cock buried inside it.”

As he speaks, you try to catch your breath. To come down from your high.

It doesn’t work. Not while his hips continue to grind against yours, not while cradled between his arms like his holy beloved, and especially not with his tip still pressing against every available, wanting spot on your walls.

Javi takes another long drag from the dart. “What do you say when you come, baby?”

A big, laboured inhale, and the words come out in one, rushed exhalation. “Thank you, Javi.”

He responds with a downright cocky laugh. “You’re welcome, cariño. Good girl.”

The praise… it makes you melt.

Tangling his fingers in your hair, nails grazing the skin of your scalp, he pulls you off of his chest. Your heavy breaths mingle together in the stale heat of the Jeep Cherokee.

You buck up, doing your best to keep pleasing him as he studies your devoted movements, as he leans back against the seat—groaning.

His hand—often glued to your rolling hip—provides you with only a mere hint of stability.

“That guy you were with,” he takes a drag from his cigarette, using his free hand to toy with one of your peaked nipples. “At the bar. You’d’ve done this for him?”

Your lips part, but no sound crosses the threshold of your lips. You’re dazed—still coming—and building to yet another peak. His unwillingness to move starts to ground you; the long length of every hard muscle beneath his arms, the round, bulging ridges of his shoulders… they become your salvation, places to lay your weight into. Riding him becomes second nature: you’re attuned to his rhythm and the desperate, commanding desires of your body.

Suddenly, you’re a part of him; when he exhales, the smoke creeps out of his lungs and into your own.

You burn right along with it.

He drops the still-smoking cigarette onto the seat next to your entangled bodies, bringing both his hands to rest against your dampened skin. One comes down hard, delivering a quick, harsh slap to your ass.

It would leave a mark.

“Tell me. Use that pretty mouth, hermosa. ‘Know you know how—used it—ran it all fuckin’ day.” Javi grunts, angling to bend over you, pushing into your guts as he wraps you in his arms, finally taking the burden of your weight off of your scraped up, wobbling knees. He continues on, “Tonight, too—been so easy, baby, lettin’ me put anything I want in there like a good lil' slut,” drinking in your cry of pleasure. He almost says it to himself, eyebrows furrowing as he reminisces, as your cunt begins to throb around his hardening cock once more. “You'd've done that for him, cariño?”

You swallow, trying to clear the stars dancing before your eyes, and that fuzzy sound of static. It muffles the symphony of Javi’s hoarse breaths, your own, helpless cries, and the filthy sound of skin colliding with—grinding against—skin.

He quickens, now, using you like a damn toy. Every rough thrust brings you closer to heaven; every ardent, breathtaking squeeze of his arms around your middle feels like angels sighing.

“No,” you breathe, closing your eyes. Your arms cling around his neck, fingers fanning through his thick hair—everything is him, him, him. He leans forward again, ducking down to kiss the hollow of your throat; you pull him in faithfully, moaning softly at the feel of his lips, his teeth under the valley under your jaw. “Only you.” It sounds like worship, sliding up an octave as that low ache worsens, as he compells a second climax out of your already-quivering body. “Only you, Javi.”

He growls, lips dragging up to your ear as the hairs of his mustache tease your cheekbone. “Prove it,” he breathes, deep thrusts growing even more erratic— needier, sloppier. You can barely hear him over your own noises, but he continues his gravelly coos inside your ear nonetheless. “Gimme another one, baby—wanna feel you comin' on my cock when I fill you up so fuckin' full, baby—show me that you’re mine—z’this pussy mine, hermosa?”

“Yesyesyes—oh God, y-yes—m’yours, Javi, y—”

Your legs seize as yet another release tears through your body. The skin of his neck anchors you in place, and you hang off of him like a rosary, digging your fingernails into the warmth of his flesh with every ounce of strength at your disposal.

He fucks you through your second climax, headed straight for his own.

“S-such a good girl, cariño—f-fuck—” Arms, wrapped around your waist, tighten enough to snap you in two as Javi crushes you against his chest, using the momentum of your entire, shaking body to finish himself off. He comes with a grunted “s-shit”—and you pay attention, wanting to commit the divine sound to memory. Swelling between your silken walls, Javi spills everything he could possibly give inside you.

A final, abrupt thrust, married with the non-stop, involuntary clench-and-release of your cunt works to cover every square inch of you with him.

When it’s over, the man refuses to let you part from him (not that you had any real desire to do so, anyway). A big, shaking hand keeps your head cradled in the firm crook of his neck, and he slowly, slowly softens inside you. He basks in the final, weak flutters of your cunt as you lose yourself in the smell of his cologne.

His heart hammers in his chest. You can hear it with your ear pressed to his neck. Going limp, your damp forehead rolls onto the hard roundness of his shoulder.

That aching, sore opening soaks the skin of his thighs. You shiver softly, dripping onto the base of his shaft.

“Say it, cariño,” Javi murmurs, laying a rough kiss to your temple. He runs his hands up and down your bare spine, fingers dancing along your sticky skin.

You loose a breathy laugh against his golden skin. “Thank you, Javi.”

And you pull back just in time to catch his genuine smile.

It fucking melts you. Adoration, pride… spreading like tree-roots under rich, forest soil throughout your still-heaving chest.

He rubs the pads of his thumbs under your eyes, wiping clean some of the going-out makeup that had no-doubt become a total, leaking mess.

“‘Pretty when you’re nice, y'know,” he mutters, moving to cup your cheeks between his warm, hardened palms. And then he pauses, reconsidering his words. “But fuckin’ hot when you’re mean.”

A breathy giggle. “What can I say,” you whisper, trailing a few appreciative fingers up and down his forearms. “You bring out the very best in me, Peña.”

He scoffs, but smiles all the while.

Off in the distance, there’s music. Sounds of debauchery and excitement travel through the warm summer air, audible even through the closed windows. The night is alive for the rest of the city; somewhere far, far away, an engine growls, rubber tires squealing against the pull of hard pavement.

It takes him away.

Javi grasps your shoulders, pushing you up and back to effectively slide you off of his half-soft length. “I’ll wait for you to get inside,” he says, yanking his pants back up over his hips, tucking himself back into his briefs. “Make sure you lock the door, alright?”

Pause.

What?

“You’re leaving?” You mirror him, hastily rearranging yourself—skinny straps find their way back above your shoulders, your short dress finds itself yanked down to its rightful place.

It’s awkward work, given the confines of the space.

The agent slips out from underneath you. He opens the door, rising from the backseat and straightening up with a groan. “Think I know where he was going,” he responds, mostly to himself. “I’m only, what…” a flip of his wrist as he checks the time, “Thiiiiiirty? Thirty-five minutes behind him?”

Before you know it, you’re bristling with irritation.

Again.

You throw your heels down on the street, unceremoniously shoving a cramping foot in each one. “Don’t be an idiot, Peña,” and you try your hand at standing, buckling slightly on a pair of Jell-o legs.

He comes around to your side, steadying you on your feet. Reflected in his deep-brown eyes is the same annoyance flashing across your own gaze. “D’you just expect me to be there, sweetheart? Z’that it? Every time your ass needs saving?”

Shame heats the soft skin of your cheeks. Your eyes trail down to the ground, volatile, incomprehensible emotions building with every passing second.

“It won’t happen again—I won’t-I won’t be so stupid, or-or—I won’t go out, anymore.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, well, that’s nice 'n all, but it’s sure as shit not gonna change anything.”

When you don’t respond, when you don’t look up, his edges soften. “They went to your house, sweetheart.” With his hands on your shoulders, he implores you to see sense. “It’s either we get them or they… get you.”

You exhale, hard. “You’re being dramatic.”

That does it for him.

After an exasperated shake of his head, he’s grabbing your hands in his own, placing a set of keys in the cradle of your palm.

His tone is low, demanding, unbending. “Lock the doors.”

Then, he’s turning to leave, walking to the front of the Cherokee.

Before rounding the corner, he turns his hardened profile to the side. The glare of the building’s lights dance on his tanned skin, turning the whole scene into a sort of lucid dream.

“Y’know, you’re really starting to piss me off with this whole… utopian fantasy you’re livin’ in.” He barely even addresses you, mumbling the rest of his sentiment mostly to himself. “I’m fuckin’ tired of being the only one looking out for you.”

Utopian fantasy?

You try to dismiss him—to call him ridiculous, to throw yourself into the familiar task of poking holes in his arguments—but… you can’t. Over and over, his words rush you in waves: “the only one looking out for you” “utopian fantasy” “the only one looking out for you” “utopian—”

Suddenly, you’re on a different street. In the same clothes, and in the same body, but somewhere far, far away, facing a different man. It’s somewhere very loud, where tires and knees come to a screeching stop against cement, where the downbeat of every Latin measure is punctuated by the sound of a bullet, inscribed with your initials, ripping through the static summer air.

Panic hits you like a bolt of lightning.

It doesn’t go away, either.

Not even once you’re back on Javi’s street, fossilized in amber, watching him move to the driver’s side of his Jeep.

All the fear you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel…

You’d forced him to shoulder it for you, instead.

But, inevitably, what goes around comes around. And he’s dropped your burden right back onto you with a few well-timed words.

Truth bares itself to you, settling heavy atop your bones like an ancient, primal wound. The result is a pair of unsteady legs, a perennial tremor in both, white-knuckled hands, and a crackling voice, resisting use.

“Javi…”

Only when you hear the sound of your own terror echoed back to you do you permit yourself to cry.

And there you stand. Disheveled, confused, broken—clothing misplaced, ruined, broken—

And you just don’t want him to leave.

Not now.

Not when you need him.

Not when you need someone.

Not when you think you’ve finally got it figured out, and especially not when you’re so damn close to speaking it into existence.

Realization. Acknowledgement. Expression.

It’s not a customary pattern, in your experience.

Javi stops in his tracks, stunned to a halt at the sheer emotion in your plea.

It stings when you clear your throat. “I just…” and you falter, strange, unfamiliar words sticking to your throat, sickly-sweet dried honey. Each vowel reverberates back to you, amplified by the acoustics of the empty street and their novelty.

Still, you’re not quite sure how he’s able to hear you, given that you can only bring yourself to speak a handful of decibels above a damn whisper.

“I’ve just never been important, Peña.”

You wipe a self-conscious hand across your face, clearing the sea-salt from below your downcast eyes.

Before you’re able to put a stop to it—it all comes rushing out. Averting his gaze, you ramble on in agitation.

“Not beyond being a-a pair of hands to make fucking photocopies—or as the butt of some sort of “prissy receptionist” joke or even just as some—as-as a kind of fucking challenge to men—men like you, Javier—because I… well, because I’m mean, and I-I guess it’s just fun for everyone to see how far they can take it before—before I…” You give your head a fervent shake, trying to reel yourself back in, trying to close off the monologue.

But the cracks had formed, and with nowhere to go, the mounting pressure of the seven seas washes away the rest of your weakened dam.

The agent can't even get a word in.

“Anyways, that’s-that's not the point. The point is that it just… it didn’t seem possible that anyone in this whole fucking country would even think twice about me—even if it was just to… to kill me…”

A lump forms, lodging behind your larynx.

You start to rush.

“So I really am sorry that I acted like such an asshole, but none of this makes a fucking lick of sense to me—I’m-I’m a secretary, for fuck’s sakes—I’m nothing, no one, I’m not—” and then you’re frantic—

The gunshots, the tires, the music, the spark plug, a Camino—

“Just please, don’t go, don’t—I-I know you’re mad, just—please, just don’t—”

It’s impossible to catch your breath. Every heaved sob racks your lungs, shaking you all the way down to your buckling knees.

You want to turn, to run and hide, to fling yourself into oncoming traffic—anything to end the interminable humiliation you couldn’t seem to keep from putting on display in front of Javier Peña.

And shit. No man could see a woman in the same way after this. No man would care for a woman like this, destroyed and pathetic and—

“Oh, cariño—”

And he’s there.

Those arms—so used to taking—they wrap you up, pulling you into the heat of his body, protecting you from the pointed echoes of laughter and song breezing through the night air. Those hands, the ones that bruised, slapped, grabbed—they hold—the right unburdens you of your oppressive weight, pressed flat against the small of your back. His left cradles the back of your head, laying your temple to the side of his throat.

“You’ve always been important to me, sweetheart.”

His soft murmurs tumble down your spine. That smoky breath envelops you; it reminds you of those blankets in the movies—the ones that the firemen hand out after the disaster’s over, the survivors rescued. In the denouement.

“S’okay, S’okay. I’m sorry, baby, alright? I’m not mad, cariño, it’s okay.”

Running his fingers through your hair, supporting your head like a delicate, sacred object, murmuring comforts against the softest parts of your neck—Javi goes on and on. Despite the frequent shifts between Spanish and English, you manage to catch the main gist of his crooning.

“I could never be mad at you, baby.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m not mad, cariño.”

“And I’m sorry, baby.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad.”

“I’ll stay.”

“I’m sorry.”

After an eternity, you feel calm enough to pull away. You’re a wreck, gazing up at him with big, silver-lined eyes.

And it’s then that you see him.

That you really see him.

The concern, the anguish, the affection… You’d punished him for doing the very thing that you were incapable of doing.

Protecting you.

Caring for you.

As tears continue to leak from your eyes, you take note of his beauty. Not just of his looks, but also in the sheer power radiating from him, towering like a knight over you. In those capable, caring hands—hands that had torn others apart, that had put you back together—there was beauty in them, too.

You wipe your face dry.

And you soften your tone, aiming to lighten the mood. “Stop trying to get in my pants, Peña." A sniffle. "I don’t sleep with cops.”

He rolls his eyes, the ghosts of a smile tugging at his lips. “Y’know,” he cups your face, drying the final, lingering remnants of your melt-down off your cheeks, “I waited outside that fuckin’ bar for hours tonight. Just in case.”

Oh.

God, you’d never even bothered to think about how he’d gotten to you so quickly.

Of course he’d been there.

That truth feels… warm.

He goes on. “Watched you… saw you with that guy.” He scoffs at himself, shaking his head. “Had to look away when you came outside. S’why it… took a minute. To get there.”

That has your gaze trailing off, eyes cast down in shame, studying the worn-in rubber on the Jeep’s tires.

It would have never worked, anyway. There wasn’t a man on Earth who could ween your mind off of this one.

With the pad of his thumb against your chin, he brings you back to him. Javi commands your full attention with the just the sincerity of his stare.

“Even when you want nothin’ to do with me... I’m there, alright? I’m here, baby.”

Those eyes… softened with affection, hardened with conviction. Javier always had a way of straddling both worlds at once.

He waits for your signal, your quick nod of acknowledgement.

Then, he’s kissing you—softly. Fingers curling around his forearms, you borrow his strength to keep yourself from swooning. He holds your face as tenderly as he caresses your lips, and with every synced inhalation, he speaks yet another unspoken word into existence.

After giving you enough to make you feel whole again, he pulls away.

With his great-big-palm to your cheek, he says everything you need to hear.

“Let’s go inside, sweetheart.”

—

part 3

—

TAGLIST: @millllenniawrites @pining-and-tired @inkedells @stardust-chords-enthusiast @mattmurdocksgirlfriend @bookofbee @liviloo12346 @anyas-stuff @readingsunshine97 @maudlinflowers @sullysflm @sexygaypalpatine @livyjh @s-unflowxr @lostsoldieronahill @chapterhappygirl @raeluvshammett @silkiers @jupitersmood @supernaturaldean67 @razrsharpwhiteteeth @peqchsoup @corrodedcherries @hawsx3 @monboudoir @theonewithacrush @pono-pura-vida @totallynotastanacc @dzaga890 @swedishscumfuck @killerrxger @niallsbunny @cilliansangel @snowyarcher @grnherbs @mswarriorbabe80 @tercabed @sweettea-and-honeybutter @julesonrecord @bbyanarchist @thisgirl-knm @pedrit0-pascalit0 @princessdjarin @isitselfishifwetalkaboutmeagain @pseudonymist @goldengrapejuice @soullumii @jazzerbelle14

—

Officer Officer Everybody knows that I'm a good girl, officer No, I wouldn't do a thing like that, that's for sure The house was already on fire, I swear I'm not a liar (Well) I'm a little shaken, but I'm fine, thanks for asking Tell me, do you always work alone so late? Gosh, I'm a little shy standing here in my night gown Do you really have to put those tight handcuffs on?

Looking at me, then suddenly

I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

I've been bad, I've been wrong Playing a dangerous game I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane, hurricane, hurricane

Let's get in the back of your cop car, officer You can ask me anything you want Anything, anything

Do you have a girl? I don't see a ring on your finger Well, that's interesting Have you ever thought of dating a singer?

The flames are getting higher So is my desire It's kind of exciting Don't you think?

Then suddenly he's uncuffing me

I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

I've been bad, I've been wrong Playing a dangerous game I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane, hurricane, hurricane

Love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I can be the bad girl I'm getting you so hot You can be the good guy Tell him please stop

Love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

You can be the good guy (Officer) I'm in love Tell him please Stop (Officer) (Officer) You can be the good good (Officer) I'm in love Love in a hurricane

—

#Javier Peña #javier peña x you #javier peña x reader #javier peña smut #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier pena smut #javier pena fic #javier peña fanfiction #narcos fanfiction #narcos #Pedro pascal #Pedro Pascal x reader #Pedro Pascal smut #javier peña x y/n #javier peña narcos #javier pena narcos

4K notes · View notes

kivino · 5 months

Text

BIG GUY || SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY X GN!READER

my masterlist

ao3 link to this fic

Word counter – ~1,8k

Tags/Warnings – Fluff, a bit of miscommunication and jealousy, nothing much.

Summary – Ghost takes a liking to the nickname you give him, but struggles to understand just how much he likes it.

A/n – I’m still struggling with my school projects so wish me luck, I made this instead of making a video for my language class lmao, enjoy! i’ll add the ao3 link a bit later.

upd. link added for ao3 enjoyers!

It didn't miss anybody, the way Ghost seemed more easygoing and light-hearted on certain days, letting recruits get away with a bit more than usual. Coincidentally, it was right after various interactions with you, be it training or sparring together, doing reports, moving some shit around the base, or just hanging out in the common room. Nobody could just figure out what it was about your interactions that lifted Simon’s spirits so high, which was notoriously hard, courtesy of how gloomy or menacing the man usually appeared. But the answer was quite simple, really.

“Thanks, big guy. Always a huge help.” Simon catches your small smile as you pat him on the shoulder and nods, barely containing his joy, he’d hate to make it too obvious. He was wearing a balaclava after all, and the smallest stretch of the fabric on his cheeks and around his mouth could easily give away how joy spread itself in his chest at the affectionate nickname.

Big guy. Big guy. Your big guy.

Nickname reserved only for him, exclusively from you. Of course, Ghost knew he’d be larger than your average soldier, and that regularly got acknowledged by others, but something about you calling him like this made it different. That pleasant warmth inside, which reminded him of the sun, or that stupid fluttering in his stomach, was…unusual to say the least. It made his mood better almost instantly, an interaction he eagerly, but silently looked forward to each day. Something about you calling him a big guy made his head spin, swimming in the endless clouds. Something Ghost hasn't felt in a long time and didn’t think he’d ever experience.

It was easy to let down his guard around you, you stripped him of the metaphorical armor just like this, with an effortless joke and that godforsaken pet name thrown in somewhere in the conversation. And just like that - Ghost’s low laugh rumbled in unison with yours, heart missing a beat when he looked into your eyes that sparkled with something unknown and captivating. It felt…good. New. And so fucking warm, Ghost felt like he was about to suffocate.

You were the newbie, your reputation preceded you but Ghost didn’t pay much attention to all the rumors swirling around on the base, like some suspicious soup in a boiling pot. He had better things to do. Like following you similarly to a lost puppy, maybe staring intently right at you with his huge brown eyes, if he was feeling brave. Or lingering somewhere around, just to make sure you’re adjusting alright. After all, all of you soldiers have to look out for each other, right? Right. Definitely.

It felt good to finally be able to just laugh and play around with someone, who didn’t seem scared shitless by his presence, mask and, well…everything about him, that seemingly drove people away. Not that he didn’t understand the reasoning for that – quite on the contrary. But you were probably just built differently, drawn to the weird, unappealing, and scary. Maybe Ghost should feel lucky that you were like that. And truth be told, he did. He liked it and he liked you.

Ghost could only hope that he lightened up the things for you the way you did for him. To ask and dig deeper would probably be too much, Simon could still feel that caution and tremble at the mere thought of trying to grow closer to you and spend even more time together. Like he’ll put a curse on you the moment he decides to open up a bit more and show you at least some inner workings of his mind on a more intimate level than just some stupid puns, or gossip and discussions about the way you spent your day. Although they were certainly pleasant, with you giving him a subtle, understanding smile from across the table, while steam from your coffee mug made it seem so domestic and wholesome like Ghost was in a dream. So, Ghost kept what little distance he could, despite his wishes, and hoped that you take your time and be patient with him.

That is until he overheard something that startled him, to say the least.

“Well, your jokes are a bit too much for me, big guy.” You say, letting out a clear, loud laugh, as you patted Soap’s chest. Scotsman straightened up almost immediately in front of you, a proud toothy smile beaming on his face. Now Ghost felt like he just got punched in the gut, for some reason. Annoyed and on edge in a split second. But why? He truly couldn’t seem to pin down the reason for the surge of anger and something bitter in his chest, bubbling right under his skin.

It was probably nothing worth his attention. Just something weird with his body, exhaustion from the training, muscle cramps...or whatever it could be. In any case, running headfirst into dissecting his mind for something so small and minuscule? Ridiculous, really. Completely unnecessary. Of course, Simon knew that both you and Johnny weren’t saints, two rascals more like, but he had no obvious reason to feel this bitter stinging inside of him, that slithered and slipped around, followed by tightening of his throat and bobbing of his Adam’s apple. He swallowed loudly, trying to wash down that gross aftertaste on his tongue hours after he saw that interaction. And the fact that he couldn’t get it out of his head was telling enough, that he was, in fact, bothered by something.

So, Simon decided to do what he did best. Bottle it up. But then it just kept sitting in his head, that nasty feeling still eating him from the inside out. It didn’t help that he started seeing you talking with Johnny more often, while Simon unintentionally avoided you, still buried deep in his thoughts and contemplations about what caused him to feel the way he did. Of course, he couldn’t help but eavesdrop. And there you were. Laughing with him. Calling him “big guy”. Again. This only caused Simon to become more cranky and unfriendly, taking his frustrations out on poor privates who’ve never ran so many laps in their entire lives.

The only people Ghost was outright cruel and merciless to were his enemies. He wasn’t the friendliest guy, of course, but everyone noticed when the lieutenant who usually would crack jokes and dumb puns at the expense of others at most suddenly started to get annoyed at smaller mistakes more, using harsher words and overall look like he was down in the dumps. Nobody dared to talk about the subject though, so Ghost was left terrorizing the privates and recruits, having lunches in his office and avoiding areas where he knew you’d be at certain times of the day from your long talks before. Which, of course, didn’t help him to understand what was wrong at all.

So, all Ghost was left with were his own thoughts. He didn’t feel jealous of you interacting with other people before. You were never his, so he had no right for that at all. But there had to be something else that pushed Simon to where he was now, tired, unsatisfied, and craving at least a passing smile and a short “Hey there” from you. So that the two of you could sit down somewhere together, and you’d talk about some irrelevant nonsense, and then you’d open your mouth again and call him “big guy”. It didn’t feel fair that Johnny got to be called that. It was Simon’s nickname. From you. Wait-wait-wait, hold on a second.

The sudden revelation as to why exactly Ghost was feeling that way when he saw you talk with the sergeant hit him like a damn bus. Fuck, that is childish. Weird. God, Simon feels like a damn creep. Getting upset because of a damn nickname, way to fucking go, you oaf. This felt confusing. Irrational. Absolutely fucking stupid. To think that something that simple threw him off so easily. That’s human relationships for you. Now it felt like he needed even more time. Not to make it complicated. Not to hurt you and himself.

Regardless of his wishes, he didn’t have any more time to think when he was soon approached by you, a concerned frown adorning your face, along with a look full of sympathy and understanding. Ghost already dreaded the conversation that hadn’t even begun. And he wasn’t even the one reaching out first. Which makes it even more embarrassing.

“Hey, Simon. I have something I want to talk about with you.” You, bless your heart, probably thought something terrible happened in Simon's life when in reality he was just running away from you and his feelings like a whole wildfire was chasing him. The only correlation he could think of is dumb teenagers, which is…remotely fitting with his recent behavior. “I’ve noticed you’ve been kind of…avoiding me? Did something happen, or am I just overthinking everything?”

“It’s stupid, really. Nothing you should be worrying yourself about.” Ghost blurts out before he can even think. Great, now he can only tell you the whole truth, without the options to back out or lie. But it was truly so unusual for him because Simon never expected to get attached to a nickname and to you.

“Well, let’s hear you out. I won’t judge.” Again, with your perfect reassuring smile and your calming presence. Simon lets out a deep sigh, his throat itching from what is about to ensue. He knew he was going to embarrass himself, but he just couldn’t bring himself to lie. Which would’ve been so much easier, instead of baring his true feelings in front of you.

“Well, your nickname for me…You know what I’m talking about.” Simon’s tone is deep and gruff as he tries to conceal that uncertainty in his voice. You appear to be listening attentively, your eyes trained on him, head slightly tilted to the side, which makes his heart melt. You give him a confident nod at the mention of the nickname, and Ghost continues. “I want you to call only me like that. And I mean, only me” He can see your eyebrow rising, your expression more teasing than questioning. There we go, now you’re going to mock him or laugh at him. Just perfect.

“Sure thing, big guy.” A shudder runs down Simon’s spine from your words, a sweet, saccharine feeling immediately blossoming in his chest. Oh, he had no words to describe how hard he missed it. All his worries lifted immediately. You didn’t find it weird. In fact, from what Ghost could tell by your satisfied expression, it was quite the opposite of the reaction Simon initially expected. Which was extremely relieving. He would hate to lose your intriguing relationship to the miscommunication of his own making. “Could’ve just said that you wanted it reserved just for you.”

Oh, it wasn’t just the nickname that did it to him. But it’s a bit too early to tell you that.

check out my masterlist for more fics or send me a request/comment!

1K notes · View notes

moonjxsung · 7 months

Text

Where the Storm Looms

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

Pairing: Lee Minho x fem reader

W/c: 13k

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

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

18+. mdni!

•

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

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

Minho isn’t sure.

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

But none of them are you.

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

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

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

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

Tales from the hotel kitchen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe he imagined the rain, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you looking for?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did?” Minho queries.

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

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

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

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

Minho laughs internally at the irony.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Jisung?”

“Yeah?”

Minho cocks his head slightly.

“Your wife really deserves better.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, it does that. Sorry, man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want my quarter.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You guys sell Diet Coke here?”

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

“We only have Pepsi,” one chimes in.

And Minho nods, understanding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s the city?”

“The city is…the city.”

Jeongin chuckles lightly, shaking his head.

“Are you working?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have you found what you’re looking for?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the other one, you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you like it?”

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

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

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

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

Minho nods, not entertaining the subject anymore.

“How’s the bar?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You saw him too?”

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

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

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

He looks down, pondering your words for a moment.

“You left without saying goodbye.”

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

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

“I figured we’re just different people.”

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

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

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

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

Minho narrows his eyes a little, challenging you.

“Then what do you mean?”

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

“How do you know what I’m used to?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did?”

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

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

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

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

You nod, folding your hands in your lap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The EPROMs,” you say finally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And if it is, he’d die a happy man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What thing, baby?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where have you been all my life?”

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

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

“I’ve always been here.”

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

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

927 notes · View notes

agustdiv1ne · 7 months

Note

dom!tutor!yn x sub!stoner!cocky!beomgyu who doesn't even care abt college, only wants to get in yns pants

ada. you just kinda got a lil fic out of me with this one so i made it pretty n aesthetic (might have to make this an actual fic, like. a Long one bc this concept is doing smth to me....) honestly, this turned into more of a switch!beomgyu x femdom!reader thing so i apologize for that,, HOWEVER, he is submissive for most of this <3

wc: 1.8k

(MDNI!!!!!!! and please stop asking for a part 2)

beomgyu couldn’t give less of a shit about college. his parents are rich — they could buy his degree if he asked them to — so what the fuck is he doing? why is he not in his dorm right now getting high off his ass? why is he here, sitting in this musty study room in the library? for him, that’s easy to answer: it’s all because of you, the pretty thing that he’s roped into being his physics tutor.

you’re currently trying to explain a law made by some dude named ohm and all he can really think about is how nice your lips would look around his cock, how your pretty fingers that are playing with your pencil would press so perfectly into his thighs as he thrusts into your mouth, tears welling in your eyes as he uses you to his heart’s content. you’re a cute little thing, aren’t you? a bit quiet in class, kinda submissive as far as he can tell — and all he wants to do is bend you over this desk and fuck you ‘til you’re crying for him to stop.

with half-hazy eyes from the joint he snuck a couple huffs from before this study session started and a stupid smirk, he places a hand on your thigh and watches you pause, brows furrowing as he trails it up a bit higher and squeezes the soft flesh under the hem of your shorts. your nose scrunches up as you move your attention from your notebook to him. with a scalding glare, you hiss, “the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

woah. did that just come out of your mouth? for some reason, the words only make his shit-eating grin grow wider, and he squeezes your thigh again. “nothin’. something wrong, sweetheart?”

you stare at him for a moment, gaze cold and calculating, nothing like the wide-eyed look you wear on a normal basis. all he can think about is how fucked he is as soon as he feels you wrench his hand from your thigh and slam it onto the table. he yelps at the pain that radiates through his fingers, rubbing them as he looks at you like a wounded puppy. your lips purse. “i know your stupid game, beomgyu. either let me tutor you, or get the fuck out.”

“jesus,” he sighs, hands shooting up defensively. “fine, whatever. do your worst, i guess.”

beomgyu can’t deny the twitch in his cock at your cruel words. you’re more feisty than he thought; maybe he’d let you take the lead, if you even let him get in your pants in the first place. he was wrong, you seem like the type who’d want control. of course you did. you’ve never fallen at his feet like some of the other girls in your class, the ones who know he’s rich and good in bed and friends with the best plugs on this godforsaken campus. you’ve never wanted anything to do with him; your sore lack of interest just made him want you more, so to let you shut down his attempts to fuck you right here, right now? nah, not fucking happening.

so after a bit of actual studying to appease you, his hand sneaks onto your thigh once again—

oh, he’s hit the jackpot.

you’re standing up now, hand gripping his chin so hard that it hurts. the tick in your jaw is enough to indicate that he’s really pissed you off, a fire surging behind your irises as you glower down at him. he’s leaned back into his seat because you’ve leaned in so close, caging him in — and fuck, does he like it. he’s never had someone be so mean to him. they’ve always let him take the lead, let him use them, but you? you have different plans, it seems.

“what did i say?” your tone is sharp, dangerous. the air around him suffocates his lungs, yet he smiles. he likes this game.

“to let you tutor me, and i was, so what’s your problem?” he shrugs as if you don’t look like you’re about to incinerate him with your gaze right now. your head tilts as soon as you glance down at the hard-on in his lap, that unimpressed, calculating glint returning to your eyes. suddenly, you let him go, shoving him backwards into his seat as you resume your own. you look down at his lap again.

“y’know what? fine. i’ll make you a deal: i’m gonna jerk you off as you do this problem set. if you complete it, i’ll let you cum.”

oh. oh wow. did he hear that properly? you’re gonna jerk him off? he feels a little dizzy because honestly, this is just the first step to getting you to give in to him, to lose control and ride him until he’s a drooling mess for you, ‘cause god, you’d love to him like that, wouldn’t you? he can tell that you would. so—

he gives you another one of his trademark cocky smirks, and says, “yeah, sure. i’ll get it done in no time.”

and beomgyu tries. he tries so hard to focus, but he does not, in the end, get it done in no time. it’s been thirty minutes, and all he’s gotten done is two out of the ten problems that you’ve been assigned to complete by tomorrow. how can he with your hand stroking up and down his cock so slow that he wants to cry? whenever he stops working to try and thrust into your hand, gain any semblance of pleasure, you remove it. he can’t fucking win.

“do the problem,” you command, leaning against the desk with the most bored expression ever painted on your face, as if you’re not jerking him off beneath the desk right now. as if you don’t even want to be here. “you have an hour to finish these, y’know. i can’t stay here all night with your dumbass. i have better shit to do.”

his hips twitch up. fuck. fuck. he needs you to degrade him more. you sound so pretty doing it.

“c’mon,” he whines. “can’t you just let me cum? i’m never gonna get this shit in an hour.”

“sounds like a you problem.” and you go back to stroking him, thumb teasing the flushed red tip and spreading his precum all over, further lubricating your hand to make your movements smoother. he gets back to work, trying his best to ignore how fucking good it feels to be edged like this. to get so close, only for it to be torn away from him. by problem seven, he’s sniffling and whimpering for you to let him cum, “please let me cum. please? wanna fuck you so bad. wanna feel you pussy around me, fuck.”

all you do is give him a mean-spirited laugh. “you really think i’m gonna give in and let you fuck me? y’probably thought i was some submissive little bitch at first, didn’t you? well, you thought wrong — so either solve these fucking problems, or else i’m not letting you cum. and you’re sure as hell not getting to fuck me. you’re more stupid than i thought. how pathetic.”

he could cum right now, but he thinks you might kill him if he did. so he struggles through problem eight. and nine. and ten — and finally, finally he’s finished. finally, you start to pump him as fast you can, whispering mean little names in his ear, calling him a stupid little bitch for thinking you’d be that easy, a fucking idiot for even trying. twisting your wrist, you lean over with your other hand to squeeze his balls, manicured nails biting into the sensitive flesh and—

he spills all over your hand with a pathetic whine, his whimpers loud enough for you to slap a hand over his mouth and whispering to keep fucking quiet, or do you want to be caught? he doesn’t care though, it feels too good to let go after being tortured for so long, his cum spurting all over his shirt and jeans and all over your hand.

when he’s finally done, he feels you wipe your hand on his shirt, mumbling how disgusting he is as you grab some hand sanitizer, apply it, and start to pack up. wait, you’re leaving now? he doesn’t get to fuck you?

“where are you going?” he questions, watching as you slip your calculator into your bag, not even sparing a glance at his ruined state.

“home,” you bluntly reply. “like i said, there’s no way in hell i’m letting you fuck me. and i’m not tutoring you anymore. find someone else.”

okay, that’s enough to get him panicked. “what? but you’re the only one who agreed to do it!”

“you think i care? go to the professor, then.”

“wait,” he says. grabbing the sleeve of your jacket before you can walk out. you turn, judgment apparent in the way you scan over his cum-covered clothes. despite that, he pushes on, “aren’t you at least a little turned on? why don’t you let me help you?”

“as if,” you scoff, even though yes, you’re really fucking turned on and wanna ride him until he’s an overstimulated mess right now. you’ve never had a boy bow to you as easily as him, and you enjoyed it more than you’d like to admit, but at the same time, this is beomgyu you’re talking about. he’s terrible news, and wouldn’t be a good influence on your academics. you try to pull away and head towards the door. “i’m out of here.”

“liar,” he accuses, pulling you backwards. “you have to be a least a little turned on. c’mon, i know you want to fuck me, wanna see me all stupid for you. you seem like the type to like that.”

he’s stupid and cocky and infuriating, but he’s also right. you want to tie him up and use him for hours. you want to watch his pretty rich boy face twist up and turn red as he starts to sob and whine for you to stop. you want to see him brainless and pliant and willing to do anything you ask. staring at him, your mind feeds you scenarios of his fucked-out face, sweat rolling down his temple and mixing with his tears. with a deep breath, you wrench your wrist from his grip and fully turn towards him.

you’ve made your decision.

“fine,” you say. “i’ll make you another deal: get a 90 on the exam next week, and maybe i’ll let you.”

there’s no way he can do that, can he? it sounds impossible in his mind given his track record of 20s and a 15 percent on the last exam — but he finds himself nodding anyway. he has to do this, he's desperate enough.

“you have a deal.”

#txt smut #beomgyu smut #txt x reader #beomgyu x reader #txt scenarios #beomgyu scenarios #txt imagines #beomgyu imagines #txt x you #txt x y/n #beomgyu x y/n #beomgyu x you #txt hard hours #txt hard thoughts #beomgyu hard hours #beomgyu hard thoughts #💌 — gyu #agust.nsfw #kinda went off i'm ngl.....

930 notes · View notes

hotdamnhunnam · 4 months

Text

On Your Knees

A/N: So as I noted in this teaser thingy, I don’t really intend to be back on tumblr actively, BUT I just couldn’t resist writing for Kai!! This fic will be smutty, while also providing a bit of backstory that I feel he needs and deserves honestly. I fucking love this guy 💗

Pairing: Kai x F!Reader Warnings: smut (p in v, oral), swearing, dom!Kai, dirty talk (but it’s not until Part 2 that shit gets degrading and dark) Word Count: ~3.8k

“On your knees.”

It’s been forever and a day, since you last laid your eyes on Kai. Since then you’ve searched for him across the whole entire fucking sky. Whatever words you had expected him to say… you never would have dreamt of these.

On your knees.

The blood in your veins is on fire; it burns as the blue of his gaze starts to freeze. The blaze rises higher, so desperate to melt down this fortress of ice that you hadn’t believed you would find. Paid the rumors no mind—he’s a bounty hunter or a gun for hire, who would sell his soul to any well-paying buyer, or so everybody agrees—yet you’ve come here to seek out the true heart of gold that you know lies behind. But all gold can be sold and it seems that he’s taken his fees.

And now he’s set on taking whatever he damn well may please.

Your voice escapes your throat pathetically. “Kai, it’s me…”

Cocks his head. Lifts his brow. Silent laughter at what you just said. Obviously. But who you are doesn’t mean shit to him now. “Aye, I see.”

You might just choke. The heart that never once stopped beating for this godforsaken rogue just fucking broke.

He snickers down as if the beating of your heart is just a joke. The curl of those cruel lips holds even more force than his words. And that’s what brings you to your knees and makes you weak, so weak it hurts, as he comes close and rests his palm against your cheek, piercing your soul straight to the core with just one stroke.

Straight to the core. Summon what strength you have to speak, unsure whether the vows that you once made have any value anymore. “I’ve come back to you just as I swore…”

“Of course,” he utters as those ice-blue eyes seek out and strike the deepest truth in yours. “You’ve come to me just as you were before: still nothing but a worthless fucking whore.”

***************

--- Years Earlier ---

“Impressive.”

You smile over your shoulder as he comes up from behind to wrap his arms tightly around you, in a warm embrace that’s all at once affectionate and aggressive. Passionate and possessive. Just as his touch is every night when he pins you to bed and pounds you.

Kai is wildly impressed to see you standing tall at the helm of this ship where he’s found you. The ship is in shambles and beaten down, long since abandoned here out on the plains past the outskirts of town. Still the grandeur of spacefaring vessels like this never fails to astound you. The freedom that they represent gives you hope that someday you and Kai might escape from this planet that’s bound to the rule of a ruthless imperial crown.

Yet this starship is broken and dead. It feels good to stand here for a bit and pretend you can steer it—steer something for once in your life so that you can cling onto what little is left of your spirit, forge on towards the future instead of just having to fear it… but you know it’s best not to let false hope get to your head.

“You’d make a fetching pilot, love,” Kai purrs into your ear while he plants kisses on the soft skin of your neck. “So fucking hot I think you might stir up the engine of this wreck. Won’t be surprised if you just up and fly it off.”

The laughter on your lips melts into his, as you lean back to taste his kiss. “I wish I could. The two of us would fuck shit up in space so good.”

“Aye, that we would.”

For now Kai is more than content to fuck you up against the window of this spacecraft and you both know that’s exactly what’s in store. Know you were put upon this planet just to serve him as his filthy little whore. On any planet you would always be just that and nothing more.

Through the layers of both of your clothes you can feel the thick length of his shaft, pressed up against your lower half. Desperate hands reach into his pants to set him free and grasp at every perfect inch of him that you exist to worship and adore.

“Impressive,” you echo his words from before.

He chuckles in that playfully suggestive, sinful way that always hits you in the slick heat of your core. The man knows he’s massive. He wields his cock like a damn weapon of war.

But with you it’s a war fought for love and he makes it so pure.

It’s just unfathomable to you that this man is fucking yours.

You’ve only ever been to this small corner of the vast expanse of space, yet when you look upon his face, you have no doubt that he’s the most beautiful man in all the universe.

As ever in his presence you’re tempted to fall on your knees. It’s your favorite position: to kneel before him in submission. To swallow his cock till he fills your throat with his delicious release. Kai knows this but is ever the tease. He knows just what you’re wishing, but holds you up right where you are to prevent you from sinking so he can keep kissing your lips, one hand gripping your hips, while the other roams over the parts of your body that nobody else ever sees.

“K-Kai please…”

“What is it you want?” he sadistically taunts, and then animalistically grunts, as he feels the wetness of your cunt.

You can’t speak, at the touch of his fingers exploring the treasures they seek.

So he feeds you the words. “This big cock in that sweet little mouth of yours?”

“Yes—please, yes…!” you gasp, heightening his desire as well as your own as you handle his hardness with long strokes and squeezes, loving how it throbs in your tightening grasp.

Kai loves making you plead, getting off on the way that you moan for him over and over again. Till he’s ready to finally provide what you need. Ready now then he reckons. A wicked smirk crosses his mouth and it threatens to end you this second. “Indeed. Since you’re beggin’.”

At last then he lets you sink down to the floor, where you instantly bury your face in his crotch and start slobbering madly all over his cock because this is what you fucking live for.

He smells and tastes simply divine. Better than any man fucking should. Smash your nose in the fine golden hairs at the base of his dick and get drunk on his scent like it’s wine… swipe your tongue up the length in a sensuous line…God it’s good. The salt and sweetness and the musk with earthy undertones of wood. You know nothing of what gods exist in this world or the next, other than being certain that Kai is a living breathing god of sex.

His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer into him and holding you right fucking there. It’s heaven when he plows your throat. No other feeling could compare. You reach to clutch at the firm muscles of his ass and meet his blue gaze as you eagerly wait for him to unravel and explode. The twinkle in his eye reminds you that you’re his and that he never wants to share, just as he’s yours and no one else deserves the privilege to take his precious load.

You take it down with your cheeks hollowed, throat contracting tight around him as he groans in utter bliss. Your love for him deepens with every drop you’ve swallowed, since the day when you first met and every day and night that’s followed. Didn’t think it would be possible to love him more than this. To be so cock-drunk and so lovestruck… fuck, it’s glorious.

Your worship of him always takes him somewhere far beyond the stars. So fucking far. He loves the whore you are, just as you love the whore he is. The kind of love that heals as deeply as it scars. You’re only whores for one another which is why the love you make is always pure no matter how dirty it is.

He worships you in turn, that filthy mouth on him a fire-breathing sin. Making you burn. Laying his claim to every last inch of your skin and every fiber of your being deep within. Your impulse is to be down on your knees for him but when the man insists on pleasuring your cunt—because for him your pleasure’s always at the forefront—well of course you just give in.

And then he fucks your cunt to pieces to make sure you won’t ever forget that his sex is the reason you’re living.

You can’t begin to wrap your mind around him being so damn perfect. But you sure as hell can wrap your pussy tight around the war weapon that’s pumping deep inside of you so powerfully erect. Both of you like it good and rough, and soon enough, this stranded spaceship’s not the only thing that’s wrecked.

The vessel tilts a little bit with his last thrust; this ship is huge but so is Kai, and he’s apparently so strong that he just rocked the goddamned deck. That shit is so insanely hot you might just die. Combust. Crumble to dust. As you both come down from the high, your pulse is racing and he traces its pace with his parted lips pressed to your neck.

The two of you remain entwined for hours, as you always do. Whispering sweet nothings that you wish could be true. Let’s just pretend this ship is ours. That the universe is ours. That we’ll fly away, and soar the skies someday, just me and you. But nothing is nothing regardless of how sweet it seems, and you can’t fly away from the fact that the universe bows to formidable powers. To forces that devastate dreams, through and through.

To the powers that be. Powers that crush all hopes of ever being free or being happy.

Kai reads your mind as your thoughts drift to that dark place. Knows that it’s time to tell you what he came to say, when he found you aboard this ship today, before he got distracted and ended up fucking your brains out past the farthest reaches of space. It’s not a message that he’s eager to convey. But it’s an order that you can’t really afford to disobey.

Still he wants you to stay, blue eyes begging you to as he softly caresses your face. Yet he knows on some level that dreams of resistance are silly to chase. That the price of just one slice of heaven is steep and there’ll be hell to pay.

He clears his throat and breathes in deep, wishing the price weren’t so damn steep. “Meant to tell you that he’s been… requesting your presence again.”

You had known to expect this. Chosen to neglect this. As if you could run to some empty abandoned starship to hide from the constant demands of that monster who thinks he’s a god among men.

But you can’t and to even attempt this… is useless and reckless. Though Kai referred to the imperial officer’s order as just a request, it was obviously a command. So you stand, smooth your skirt with a trembling hand—knowing Kai wishes he could hold on to you now and protect what is rightfully his—but your honor is yours to defend. No one else’s. All yours in the end.

He knows this too but wishes he didn’t. He hates this part. Watching you leave is the part when he cages his heart, locking it in a block of cement. “So you’ll just run off to him then?”

All too familiar with his defense mechanisms, you don’t halt your rhythm. The whole fiasco of this moment is always the same with him, despite the fact that he must know this isn’t something either one of you enjoys. So rather than rushing to blame him, or letting the swell of emotions inside you erupt into violence, you cast him a side glance, remind him in silence: it’s not as if I have a choice.

Evidently today the cement is much thicker than usual; the next words off his lips at your lack of response come off particularly cruel. “What, lost your dignity and your voice?”

God, he knows how to hit your inner slut, and make her want to die. To bleed her dry. His name escapes your throat in a defeated sigh. “Kai…”

He hates himself right now more than that monstrous fucking officer or anyone at all. Down to his core. Your knees just buckled and he rushes to catch you before you fall, but he’s so broken now himself that you both end up on the floor, down on your knees. The words he’d just uttered were driven by demons he’s struggling to bury—lately there have been a whole lot of these. Pulls you in close and releases his heart from its stone wall, as he dissolves into a mess of regrets and apologies. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Inevitably you end up making love, which is the only answer when words aren’t enough. Soft and slow. But it has to end quickly, because you have somewhere to be. Can’t hold on to the afterglow. Leave before tears overflow. Just a few words then you have to go.

You wish Kai could see things from your point of view. He gives you every reassurance that he gets it; his response earlier was impossibly harsh but he clearly regrets it. Still you can’t help but feel as if he’s disappointed in you. Despite how authoritative the Imperium is and the consequences that are sure to ensue if you stand up against it… he sees your obeying the officer’s orders as something you’re making the choice to do.

And that view baffles you because how could you possibly choose to do something that fucking destroys you?

The officer knows all your weaknesses. If you should ever defy him he’d go after Kai, to hit you where he knows it would hurt you the most and you can’t stand to think or to speak of this. You’d rather die. And your fear of that terrible punishment forces your hand; you must heed his command. Without having to spell this shit out you just wish Kai would understand why.

“I understand,” he says, but he can’t meet your pleading gaze. He’s not quite certain whether what he said is true, and surely you would see right through. Instead looks out the spacecraft window at the distant stars that deign to cast their rays upon this conquered stretch of land. It feels like pity and that shit infuriates him in a million fucking ways. “I understand, I do. It just kills me to think of someone else inside you—”

“Kai, I’ve told you time and time again to trust me that he hasn’t…”

“That’s not even what I meant.”

“It’s what you said.”

With worlds of pain behind his plaintive eyes he reaches out to cup your cheek then smooths his thumb across the creases in your forehead. “What I meant is that I just can’t shake this sense that he’s gotten inside your head. To men like that nothing is sacred. He’s attracted to your spirit ‘cause he knows that he can break it. Wants to wait for you to give your body to him though it’s well within his power to just take it. And whatever little honor you’ve got left down to the final fucking shred… he won’t stop till it’s fucking dead.”

His warning chills you to the bone, because you know it to be true. For better or worse you’ve got some defense mechanisms of your own. Just a few. Brush off his touch and clench your jaw and let a little bit of spite sharpen your tone. “So then what would you have me do? Not all of us can be as honorable as you.”

Now his jaw clenches too. So hard that he might be at risk of breaking it. “The choice is yours, of course,” he mutters, eyes flashing an icy shade of blue. “Just know you’re making it. Don’t hide behind the lie your hand was forced.”

At that you turn to leave him with a scoff, throwing a bitter glare that tells him to fuck off.

But just before you disembark, you catch a glimpse of some metallic thing that glimmers in the dark. The mess of clothes that Kai had flung off of his shoulders when he fucked you up against the window, some hours ago… he’d had a gun tucked in among them and the sight of it right now is fucking stark. You have no reason to be shocked about it though.

He wasn’t hiding it from you; the fact that he’s been packing unauthorized arms is something you already knew. That doesn’t mean it’s something you wanted to know. Seeing this fatal metal thing strikes you as such a blunt reminder of what he intends to do. And you know where it’s bound to go.

Where your gaze and your thoughts wander his always follow. “There’s a strategy session set up for tomorrow,” he states in reference to the folks in your town who believe independence is something that any respectable person would die to defend. Even if it means battling forces against which they can’t even try to contend. “May be able to make concrete plans now that we’ve finally got enough guns stashed in our secret cargo. I already know better than to ask whether you’d want to attend. Guess the answer will always be no.”

The two of you have talked about this countless times before. And every time it turns to fucking when you both can’t bear the talking anymore. It’s irresponsible and immature, but in the rosy throes of youth, it seems to you love is the only fucking truth, the only thing you know for sure. The only thing that’s clear and pure. Love keeps you whole so you don’t fall apart from fear of what your hopeless-looking future has in store.

But you’re not that young, and you can’t just fuck away these pressing issues for that long. He can’t just kiss you to prevent the words from falling off your tongue. He knows it too and so you sit and talk for once and hope shit doesn’t go too wrong.

You admire and love him for being so brave and so strong. Tell him so. But that small band of big-hearted rebels is not somewhere you feel you’ll ever belong. He has to let it go.

And you have to let go of your hope that he might change his mind. That he might decide doing what makes sense to simply survive matters more than misguided delusions of honor chasing after some kind of freedom he won’t ever find.

You tenderly caress his face and feel the warmth of his blood rush to meet your hand. It’s all that you can do to pray his precious blood won’t spill someday fighting a war over some worthless stretch of land. This lovely planet is your home but in your eyes it’s all worth nothing without Kai. “I know how fiercely you believe in your brothers, and in your friends. In the rebellion that all of you have planned. What terrifies me is this feeling that it’s fucking doomed to fail and if you die… I can’t fathom anything worse. Of course I know the choice to fight with them is yours, but for my part I’m not as brave as all the others. I can’t bring myself to stand behind this cause when I’m afraid it won’t be worth it in the end. Please understand.”

Kai leans into your touch and turns his face to kiss your palm, cracking a sad smile to fight the tears that otherwise would come. Unshed they shine like stars hiding behind his eyes so blue. “Aye, I do.”

It’s a lie. Lie as big as the sky. But he hides behind it till it might become true, or at least fucking tries to.

At that it’s time for you to go, fearing that you should have done so hours ago. The sheer pressure of fear shatters you; fact is deep down it shatters him too. He just copes with his hopes and fears in a more complicated way.

“I promise I will always come back to you.” These are the same words that you always say, when you leave—words you fiercely believe—to assure him that nothing could keep you away.

When you leave him with those words Kai usually lets you, eventually once he’s done venting all his pent up rage and dealing every card he has to play. But evidently not today. “You wouldn’t have to. If you’d just stay.”

The way his voice trembles with gentleness, with selflessness, as he abandons every one of his defenses… it fucking kills you when he gets this way. It doesn’t happen often, and it always makes your heart open and soften. “That’s true. Maybe I can keep him waiting just one day…”

His eyes go wide, unable to believe that this is something you would actually decide. It makes him love you even more and suddenly he’s shy and blushing as if he thinks he’s unworthy of the privilege of your touch. “Or just one hour or one minute for I ought to know I shouldn’t ask too much—”

You shut him up with your forefinger pressed against his luscious lip. Provocatively bite your own to make it known that you want him to spend all day fucking you up against this ship.

Last time he did it shook the whole entire deck; maybe this time the sex will be so fucking hot that it’ll set fire to this wreck. Wouldn’t put anything past Kai. It’d be a perfect way to die.

Slamming your back against the window of this wrecked dreadnought, he effortlessly reads your every thought—goddamn that thought just now was a particularly bold one—and from his wicked smirk it’s plain to see that he agrees it would be perfect and insanely fucking hot. “You might want to hold on.”

And you do, clinging closely to him like the sky clings to stars at the coming of dawn. In the bright glare of day they’ll no longer shine through. But that won’t mean they’re gone.

Here tonight, and even if they’re out of sight, come morning light… all the stars in his eyes shine for you. With those stars guiding you, you’ll hold on.

***************

… To be continued in Part 2!

The plan is for Part 2 to explore more of the earlier timeline and also carry forward the opening scene of course, which is when dark degrading dom!Kai will be out in full force 🔥

If you’d like to be added or removed from the taglist for this fic (below), just let me know! Much love to all of you 💖

Masterlist

Taglist for this fic (based on responses to the teaser) – @midnightbabylon @rayslittlekitten @pikapuff-316 @youflickedtooharddamnit @laurfilijames @okin-awa @lovebittenbyevans @jmamas92 @theliterarybeldam @dirtytomatoedwrites @ughdontbeboring @netflix-imagines

#charlie hunnam #rebel moon #kai #charlie hunnam fic #rebel moon fic #kai fic #charlie hunnam fanfiction #rebel moon fanfiction #kai fanfiction #charlie hunnam imagine #rebel moon imagine #kai imagine #charlie hunnam x reader #charlie hunnam x you #kai x reader #kai x you

257 notes · View notes

here2bbtstrash · 2 years

Text

the spins (explicit)

genre: smutttyyyyyy as hell (with like one angsty conversation about isolation as a trauma response, but said in much vaguer terms lol)

pairing: jungkook x reader

summary: you discover a new side to your former lab partner, frat wonder boy jeon jungkook, when you confess to him the one thing no man has ever been able to make you do.

word count: 10.3k

contains: explicit sexual content AKA porn!!!!! alcohol, minor frat house shenanigans, reader is a total bitch but in a highkey relatable way, jungkook is The Only Good Frat Boy, mentions of shitty hookups/sexual dissatisfaction/faked orgasms, an **absurdly** lengthy and gratuitous cunnilingus scene, a lil bit of teasing/begging, spitting, LOUD sex, reader’s first partnered orgasms, also JK has a tongue piercing 👀

A/N: so writing this nearly killed me,,, lmao. i have two inspiration sources that i must credit- one is jai’s @gimmethatagustd INCREDIBLE fic paint me naked, which gave me the final shove i needed to topple over into JK hard stan land (listen he’s 3 years younger than me, i had a complex about it, it’s fine). seriously go give it a read and give her some love, i fully credit her with moving college!JK into my brain where he now lives rent-free.

the other source of inspiration is this insaaaaane imagine audio (WARNING, extremely NSFW and will literally ruin your life!!!!!) that hooked me on the idea that JK would be competitive about eating pussy and….. yep, smack those two things together and ta-da, this porn was born. godspeed and thanks as always for reading 💜

this is now (finally) on AO3!

~*~

You really don’t know why you came to this party. It’s so crowded, bodies pressed together, people screaming to be heard over the noise, or just because they’re white girl wasted. The music is terrible, the floor weirdly sticky, the container of jungle juice in the kitchen extremely suspicious. You opted for tequila instead, the last of which you now drain from the bottom of your red solo cup. The whole place smells like cheap beer, vape smoke, and frat boy cologne.

Yet another Jack Harlow song comes on over the bass-boosted speakers and you roll your eyes. That’s it. Time to go home and actually finish the psych paper you’re putting off.

You shove your way into the kitchen, trying to be the only upstanding citizen in this godforsaken frat house and actually put your trash in a trash can. You spot one in the corner– nearly overflowing, but still good enough, except that a whole circle of Brads and Chads block your path. You do your best to squeeze past them, but because they don’t do anything except live at the gym and snort protein powder, they might as well be a brick wall.

“Excuse me,” you try. Nothing.

“I need to get through,” you say with a gentle push. It’s like talking to a brick wall, too.

“Alright, fuck it.” You roll your eyes and decide to just fucking go for it. You’ve had enough liquor that you won’t feel the pain until tomorrow anyway.

The circle breaks apart in confusion, not a brain cell in sight, as you slam your way through. They part so quickly that your plan works too well, and the excess momentum shoots you forward. You stumble, losing your footing, already cringing because you’re about to faceplant on the nasty floor of this nasty frat house kitchen.

“Hey, whoa!” A voice way too close to your ear for comfort shouts, but then an arm snakes around your waist and saves you from your doom, gripping you tightly. “Careful!”

You glance up, wondering if this guy is going to try to turn the moment into some attempt at flirtation, the world’s worst meet cute, but then you see big round eyes staring back at you with legitimate concern. Oh, fuck. You know those Disney princess eyes. Your stomach drops.

“Whaaaaaaaat!” Holding you in one arm, an unopened 18-rack of beer hoisted up on his shoulder with the other, grinning like a kid in a candy store, is none other than frat wonder boy Jeon Jungkook.

Ah, shit. You knew he was in a frat, of course. He doesn’t shut up about it. But you didn’t know it was this one– well, actually, you don’t even know which frat house you’re in right now. Alpha Beta Omega? They’re all the same to you. You don’t really understand why they have factions anyway instead of all just living together, but that would probably be too gay.

“I didn’t know you partied!” Jungkook is still smiling a smile that takes up his whole face, clearly unable to believe that you’re standing here in his disgusting frat house kitchen in your leather jacket and your combat boots.

You huff a laugh as he slowly unloops his arm from around you, assessing to see if you’re stable enough to stay upright. You shoot him a look as if to say I’m fine, dumbass. Uncoordinated, not intoxicated. There’s a difference.

“I do not party,” you correct him. “Never once in my life have I partied. I merely come to the parties, stand on the edges and observe, get my free alcohol, and then depart. Like I’m doing right now.” You aim your solo cup at the trash can and miss by about a foot.

“You– hang on,” he pauses, turning back to offload the fresh case of beer onto the kitchen counter. There’s a clamor of excitement from the Brads and Chads as they crowd around to slap him on the back, shouting things like “okay, JK!” and “let’s fucking gooooo!”

You have to get out of here, you think to yourself, and then you watch Jungkook bring his tattooed hand up to rip the cardboard front of the case off effortlessly, and that is lowkey kind of hot.

Quiet, you tell your tequila brain. No lusting after frat boys. Not even the one you sat next to for an entire semester in bio lab, the one who was actually way smarter than anticipated and didn’t just use you for an easy A, who genuinely seemed like he cared about the way you answered “How was your weekend?” every time he asked, and who didn’t even say one problematic thing the whole semester.

Just because he’s the exemplary form of his species doesn’t make him not what he is, you remind yourself. Even the best frat boy is still a frat boy.

Jungkook returns as the rest of the bros swarm the counter and proceed to decimate the case of beer. That must have been the reason they were waiting here, at their proverbial watering hole, because they circle up and dissolve back into the party, several of them clapping Jungkook on the back again in thanks as they leave.

You realize he doesn’t have to yell to be heard anymore as he says, “You’re leaving already?”

“Yes, Jungkook,” you sigh. “I have a paper to write.”

He scrunches up his face, knowing he can’t argue with academic excellence. “It’s still early. What if you just have one more drink, and then go? I haven’t even gotten to enjoy the party yet. The pledges severely underestimated how much alcohol it takes to run this place.”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, I’m so terribly sorry that your child servants who literally give you money in exchange for friendship got something wrong.”

The words feel biting as they leave your mouth, and you honestly expect him to protest, but he only shrugs. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re right. The whole thing is stupid.” For a moment you wonder how on earth he’s immune, what it is about him that allows him to live in the cradle of toxic masculinity and still be so regular, so good.

“Will you stay?” He asks again. You try to purse your lips to hide your smile, but it doesn’t work, and then he’s smiling too.

“Fine.”

The kid literally fist pumps, and your laugh bubbles up before you can stop it. He gestures broadly to the kitchen counters which are a veritable nightmare of liquor bottles and beer cans. “What’ll it be? Don’t say the jungle juice,” he warns with a laugh.

You look at him like he’s gone entirely insane. “I would never say the jungle juice. Tequila, please.”

Jungkook moves fluidly, as if he’s imitating those ridiculous Las Vegas bartenders who do tricks while they pour your obscenely overpriced drink. He shakes a solo cup off the stack and throws it up, spinning on his heels and catching it in his other hand, and you’re laughing again because he’s such a fucking dork.

He crosses to open the freezer and scoops up some ice in your cup, then pours a healthy amount of tequila in. “And mixer?” He looks back at you over his shoulder.

You pause. “Uh, just ice is good.”

He puts the bottle down and turns to squint at you in disbelief. “You drink straight tequila and you’re telling me you don’t party?”

You falter, a little flustered. “I don’t know. It’s not like I’m drinking it for the taste, you know?”

“Can I show you what you’re missing out on?” He asks, and you don’t know why the question makes you swallow hard. “Seriously.” He picks the bottle of tequila back up, eyeing the brand with distaste. “This stuff is… not great.”

Your instinct is to joke about him slipping something in your drink, but you bite the words back– because first of all, not funny. But you also genuinely don’t think he would ever do something like that, and you don’t want to give off the impression that you do.

“Alright,” you say instead, lifting your hands in surrender.

He opens the fridge door and crouches down, digging around through what you can only imagine is a Costco-sized amount of egg cartons and packages of chicken breasts. Finding what he’s looking for, he pulls away with a carton that’s been Sharpie’d to death, “JK ONLY DO NOT DRINK” on all sides. It’s really every bro for himself out here, you think.

“Grapefruit okay?” Jungkook double-checks, and you give a shrug and a nod. He pours a little, inspects the cup, then adds a splash more. “It’s not too sweet.”

He passes the cup off to you and returns his juice to the fridge, shuts the door, then seems to realize he forgot to make himself a drink and repeats the entire process again, spinning in a full circle which has you hiding your giggle in the rim of your cup. Once he’s made himself a matching drink to yours, he leans against the counter and takes a sip, surveying you.

You mirror him– the drink is admittedly a lot better than straight bottom-shelf, and you like how the sour taste lingers on the back of your tongue.

“Thank you,” you remember to say after a few sips, and he waves it off as if to say it’s no big deal.

“So, why are you here? Observing us in our natural habitat?” He puts on a voice for the last part, in a clear imitation of you, and you smirk. It does sound like something you would say.

“I’m an agent of chaos,” you say and he gives you a look like he’s waiting for the real answer. You choose that moment to take a long swallow of your drink, buying time. He continues to wait patiently, so you finally just shrug and make a face. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to do my paper. I saw a thing for it on insta. And I was tired of rotting away in my dorm room.”

He nods thoughtfully. “I tried inviting you to stuff when we were lab partners.” You wonder if the tequila is making you imagine that he sounds a little hurt. “You never seemed into it.”

At that, you laugh, because he’s being kind. Jungkook did invite you regularly to whatever mixers or ragers his frat was planning, and every time you would tell him no, directly to his face, like the bitch that you are. You eventually started trying to come up with as many creative ways to phrase it as you could: no, nope, never, not in a million years, when hell freezes over. He took them all like a champ, and that was one of the first things you remember liking about him. A frat boy who can respect when someone says no and not try to push it– now that is a rarity.

You want to apologize, but you really have no explanation for what makes tonight any different, at least not one you can say eloquently. How do you tell him you’re fucking sick of staring at the walls, feeling like “the best years of your life” are passing you by and leaving you with nothing to show for it? That you’ve painted sarcasm and an “I don’t give a fuck” attitude over your life for so long that now it feels like you’re backed into a corner where you can’t give a shit about anybody because there’s nobody left to give a shit about? So you were neck deep in insta stories on a Friday night like a fucking loser, and you saw a stupid post about a stupid frat party by some girl you swore was going to be your bestie the first week of freshman year who you promptly never spoke to again, and something in you snapped and said, “fuck it”?

Oof, tequila coming in strong, you think to yourself. You decide to spare Jungkook the emotional word vomit.

He keeps going when you don’t respond. “I just figured you had better things to do. Like ride motorcycles, or be in a mosh pit.”

You roll your eyes. “Motorcycles are giant metal death traps. Hard pass. And I don’t like getting punched in the face by nazis, so I don’t mosh.” You take a sip of your drink and size him up. “You’re one to talk, little alt boy.”

He’s playing with his lip ring when you say it, and the blush that creeps up his neck is honestly cute. Thoroughly unfazed by your words, he rolls up the right sleeve of his eyesore of a button down until his arm is fully exposed. “Check it out! Finally filled in the shoulder piece.”

You step closer to admire the fresh ink. Jungkook’s sleeve is, admittedly, really fucking cool. You still remember the first time you saw it in bio lab. It was the first day where the temperature crept up to an actual tolerable degree after what felt like a winter that would never end. You’d only known him in hoodies up to that point, so when he rolled into class that day in a baggy t-shirt and you saw the hint of lettering and shading peeking out from under his sleeve, your jaw nearly hit the floor.

“It’s rude to stare,” he’d said with a soft laugh and a cheeky-ass wink.

You wonder now if maybe you stepped too close, because you can feel the heat radiating off of his body. He holds his arm up for you, rotating it to show off the whole thing. Throughout the rest of the semester, you’d watched as he slowly started to fill in the blank spaces, but now it’s even more cohesive; he’s nearly finished it in the time since you last got a good look.

“Just need something on my wrist. And I might do the back of my hand. I haven’t decided.” He squeezes his hand into a fist and flexes with a put-on grunt, and you laugh even as the swell of his bicep makes your heart jump in your chest.

Emboldened by how close you are to him, and also the tequila, you trace your finger along the words that wrap across his forearm– rather be dead than cool. “That one’s my favorite,” you say softly.

When you glance up, he’s already looking at you, and now your heart’s in your throat. “I swear this thing’s the only reason you like me,” he says, the non-pierced corner of his mouth crooking up in a barely-there smile.

You open your mouth to protest when the kitchen is suddenly alive with noise as a mass of bodies crash through the doorway. A girl in a minidress that has ridden dangerously far up her thighs is nearly carried in by two of her friends, with several more trailing in right at their heels, and her name must be Hannah because they all say it about a thousand times in six seconds. A couple of dudebros shuffle in behind them, shouting for everyone to step back and give her space.

Nowhere else to go, you’re forced that much closer to Jungkook as far too many people try to squeeze into the tiny kitchen. You’ve basically got him pinned against the counter, and you look away, then look back, extremely uncomfortable.

“Sorry,” you mouth, and he shakes his head like it’s not a big deal.

He does smell really good, you realize now that he’s this close. Not like he took a bath in Axe body spray or Drakkar Noir, as most of his frat bros do, just… warm and clean, with a hint of the good kind of boy musk, salt and skin. It’s a welcome distraction from the unbridled chaos of Hannah and her entourage.

“She’s gonna be sick,” someone warns, and you wince in preparation.

“Hannah, aim for the sink!” Another girl coaxes. You turn over your shoulder and watch as Hannah takes a few steps forward, legs quivering like a baby deer, then does a last-second pivot and vomits directly into the jungle juice.

“Oh, party foul!” One of the bros yells.

You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head, and then Jungkook’s breath is ghosting over your neck and you can’t think about anything else. “Do you want to go to my room?” His voice is low, his lips inches from your ear.

You look up at him over the rim of your cup. “Yes, please.”

It’s only once you start walking that your mind is able to process what’s happening, and the panic sets in. Jeon Jungkook is guiding you through his packed frat house, his hand on the small of your back. Of course the crowds part for you like the fucking red sea, no throwing elbows required, because everybody loves him.

His bros greet him as he passes, “‘sup JK!”, and you try to avoid eye contact. You wonder how regularly they see this, him leading some wide-eyed girl up to his room to do what frat boys do best. Your stomach twists as you wonder what his expectations are, and what the fuck it is that you’ve just agreed to by saying yes.

You climb the stairs, his hand still pressed to your back, and he leads you to the first room on the left when you reach the top. When he opens the door and motions for you to step through, you’re surprised.

For one, it doesn’t reek of weed. It just smells like he does, but stronger, with a hint of fresh laundry. His bed isn’t made, but there are also no questionable stains on the black sheets, and he has four pillows and a bed frame, not just a mattress and box spring on the ground with one sad rectangle. There are some cups on the nightstand, but no ash tray overflowing with burnt out ends of blunts, no empty beer cans, and you can actually see the floor.

Not bad, you think to yourself, and then the anxiety presses in again as he shuts the door behind you. Nope. You are absolutely not doing this.

“Sorry about that,” he says with a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “These things get really crazy around finals season. I guess people need an escape in the form of mild alcohol poisoning.”

You cross your arms, unable to continue the polite conversation. “Look, I don’t know what you think is going to happen in here, but it’s not going to happen, okay?”

He steps back, his brow instantly furrowing. “Wait, what? Are you mad at me right now? I just figured you’d want to get out of the kitchen, since a girl was actively puking.”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” you say, not buying it.

“I-I’m not.” Jungkook seems genuinely flustered, enough that you realize he’s probably not acting. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he starts, and then he sighs, like he’s correcting himself. “But, I guess my intentions really don’t matter, because it seems like I did. So I’m sorry.”

You squint at him, wondering who the fuck taught this boy how to apologize so damn well. This is the first time you’ve ever heard a frat boy say “sorry” without it being immediately followed by “but” and then something so offensive that it negates the entire thing.

He waits for you to respond, then gestures to the door. “If you want to go, you can go. I just wanted to talk to you. I haven’t seen you at all since last semester, and I’m really glad you came out.”

The thought of going back downstairs is slightly more anxiety-inducing than staying in this room. At least here it’s quiet, and it smells nice, and he apparently is not actually trying to get into your pants. It really does seem like you read him wrong, you admit to yourself, and then you unceremoniously plop down on his carpet.

Jungkook doesn’t even try to hide the big smile on his face as he joins you on the floor, and you both lean back against the foot of his bed. He slips his feet out of his slides and you lean forward to pull your boots off.

“Like I said, I’ve been rotting away in my dorm room,” you remind him with a dry laugh.

“You should’ve texted me. I would’ve come rot with you.”

His words make you smile a little, but you’re still suspicious. “Uh-huh,” you intone as he takes another sip of his drink. “And what would we have done, Jungkook?” The question nearly makes you cringe; it’s like reading a bad sext out loud. You don’t know why you keep pushing him on this.

Maybe, a tiny part of your tequila brain whispers to you, you’re goading him so hard into saying that he wants to hook up because for a split second back there in the kitchen, you realized that’s what you want. But you’re a hyper-independent bitch who can’t ever admit to needing anything from anybody, so you need him to say it first.

You grit your teeth and give your head a nearly imperceptible shake, trying to shut that brain cell up.

“I don’t know,” he says with a shrug, like he really doesn’t. “Play video games?” He gestures to a Nintendo 64 in the corner of his room, hooked up to a large TV that’s mounted on the wall.

It’s certainly not the answer you expected, but you don’t hate it. You raise an eyebrow as if to challenge him. “Well, I will kick your ass in Mario Kart.”

He sucks gently on his lip ring as he looks you over, and there’s a glint in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. You’ve clearly tapped into something. “Oh, I highly doubt that.”

“Then prove it.”

Dropping out of shit-talk mode for a second, Jungkook gives a laugh that almost sounds embarrassed. “I should warn you, I get pretty competitive.”

You refuse to back down. “Better work on your gracious losing face, then.”

In acceptance of your challenge, you watch as he sorts through the bin of cartridges next to the console until he finds the one he’s looking for. He brings it up to his mouth and blows on it, some strange gamer ritual you’ve seen before but have never understood, and a shiver runs through you.

“Here,” he says, tossing you a dark blue controller, letting the cord unravel and plugging it into the port. “You can even use my favorite.” You take it in your hands and smile when you see the yellow Pokémon logo stamped across the center.

“You’re going to regret that when I beat you with it,” you retort, shrugging out of your jacket for optimum mobility. He’s grinning as he settles back next to you and the menu music starts up.

It turns out you’re pretty evenly matched in the Mario Kart skills department. You sail past him on the first course, easily finishing in first, but get entirely wrecked by a blue shell in course two and he’s able to clinch it no problem.

You would’ve expected more shit-talking based on his warning, but instead he’s just so focused, eyes wide, mouth wiggling his lip ring back and forth. It’s a little endearing. A lot endearing, really. You keep sneaking glances over at him as you start up the third and final course, wondering why he has to be so goddamn cute, why you’re incapable of finding a single flaw in him no matter how hard you try.

Forcing yourself to focus, you return your attention back to the screen, only to see that he has flown right by you and is far ahead in the lead. Oh, this simply will not do, you think to yourself, and then an item box hands you a perfectly-timed golden mushroom, and you see your path to victory.

You drift around the sharp corners, giving yourself a speed boost each time, and it’s just enough. “Get fucked,” you say with a giggle as Princess Peach cruises her way past Bowser into first place. You use the last few seconds of your mushroom power to put a solid amount of distance between your characters. There’s less than half a lap left, and absolutely nothing he can do to deny you of your win.

Or so you think, until he reaches over and drags his hand across your controller, forcing your joystick in the opposite direction and causing Peach to start driving in circles on the screen.

“What the fuck!” You scream, trying to smack his hand away, but he closes one of your hands in his and forces that down on the joystick, making your car go fully backwards. “You fucking cheater!”

“You’re the cheater,” he grunts, which doesn’t even make any sense, but pisses you off enough to reach for his controller to mimic his strategy. However, you fail to account for his evolutionary advantage of having longer arms than you; he’s easily able to scoot away while keeping his hand pressed down on your own. You see in the game that he’s inches away from overtaking you now, the fingers of his other hand stretching to work joystick and button at once.

“No!” You cry out in frustration, desperately trying to wriggle your hand free. You can’t just sit here and watch him steal this out from under you, so you dive hard to one side and yank the controller away at the same time.

It’s only a little too late that you realize you have once again made an uncoordinated lunge and ended up with far too much leftover momentum. He does not relent, and you underestimated the severity of his grip on your hand because when you fall over he comes with you, both of you toppling onto the carpet as the controller flies out of your grasp.

You end up flat on your back, and his reflexes are only barely fast enough to respond, his hands bracing the floor on either side of your head so he can avoid landing on top of you.

But that’s even worse, because now Jungkook is hovering over you, and you’re both breathing heavy, and his hair is falling in his eyes, and you don’t even know how but his thigh has managed to end up pressed between your legs.

For a moment, you don’t move or say anything, and neither does he. You just stay like that, staring at each other. Your eyes drop to his mouth, and then he cracks a smug grin.

“I told you I don’t like to lose.”

Your stomach flips as your panic rears back in full force, and you meet his gaze again. “Am I still supposed to believe you didn’t bring me up here to hook up?” Your voice is barely more than a whisper.

The smile drops off his face as his eyes search yours. “What do you want?” He asks, and you can hear the exasperation in his voice. “Because you’re the one who keeps talking about it.”

You falter, unable to come up with any witty retort because you know he’s right. Jungkook moves away from you and you sit up with a sigh. He scoots back a few more inches, giving you plenty of space, and reaches for the remote to mute the TV.

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” you say, your voice still soft. You can’t look at him, so you stare at the carpet instead. “That’s just alcohol and adolescent sex drive talking. It’s not a good idea.”

“Why not?” He doesn’t sound mad, but confused, like he wants to understand your thought process. Good fucking luck, you think to yourself.

You give him a look. “Because I’m not an idiot. Hooking up with a frat boy in his frat house is never a good idea.”

The way his face falls makes you feel like the biggest bitch on planet earth, and you desperately wish you could shove the words back in your mouth, that you were capable of shutting up for once in your goddamn life.

“Is that really how you see me?”

Of course it’s not. You know it’s not, and you hope he knows it too, despite your inability to ever actually say what you fucking mean. But you can’t stop yourself. The defense mechanism is fully engaged now.

“Jungkook, you are literally a frat boy. We are literally in a frat house. This is not a perception character judgment thing. It’s an objective facts of reality thing.”

He fixes you in his gaze, saying nothing, then sighs. “Why do you do that?”

Your heart sinks. “Do what?”

He shakes his head, worrying at his lip ring again, clearly a nervous habit. “I don’t know, it’s like… Sometimes I think you like me, but then you always throw a wall up at the last second. I just wish I knew why.”

That makes two of us, you think bitterly, but your heart is simultaneously cracking apart at how vulnerable he’s being with no hesitation. You’re almost jealous that he can just move through life like this, open and honest, so unafraid.

“I do like you,” you admit, and you open your mouth to add the qualifier, to put the wall up, but he speaks first.

“I like you, too. I’ve liked you for a long time.” This kid is going to be the death of you. “I’m not just looking to score, or whatever."

You pull your knees to your chest, crossing your arms over them, trying to shrink until you no longer exist. You start to shake your head. “Jungkook, I don’t–”

“See,” he cuts you off, “you’re doing it right now.” You groan and bury your face in your arms. “What is that? We like each other, why can’t that be enough?”

The question hangs heavy, because you know there’s no good answer.

Finally, you look up at him and sigh. “Because,” you start decisively. “You’re… you. And I’m me.” You gesture between the two of you. “We’re from different worlds.”

His face scrunches up a little, and it’s his turn to shake his head slowly. “I really don’t think we are. I think you’re just telling yourself that.” You can see he’s getting frustrated and you don’t fucking blame him. “And I don’t get how you can complain about sitting by yourself in your dorm room, but then keep blocking everyone out so that you’re always alone.”

“I like being alone!” The lie comes out reflexively before you can even think to stop it. You’ve said it so many times at this point that it almost feels true. “Alone is best.” You pause, and for a second you really wonder if you’re going to cry right now, on the floor of Jeon Jungkook’s bedroom, in his stupid frat house. “You can’t get hurt, or disappointed, or left behind if you’re alone,” you conclude. There it is. The truth, kind of.

“I wouldn’t do any of those things to you,” he says softly.

You just stare at him for a moment. The promise is too good to be true. It always is. “You can’t know that.”

He pauses, then nods once, staring back at you. “You’re right. But I don’t want to do those things. And I would try really hard not to. I just want to make you feel good. Whatever that looks like.”

You can’t help where your stupid tequila brain immediately takes the idea, and you let out a dry laugh. “Well, if that’s what you’re after, there’s really no chance.”

His brows pinch together, clearly not understanding. “What does that mean?”

“Many have tried, none have succeeded,” you say with a roll of your eyes, stretching your legs back out. “I am a puzzle that no man can solve.”

The realization slowly dawns on him, and his eyes widen. “Wait, are you saying you’ve never had a–”

You wave a hand in the air as if to shush him, and you cut him off. “Stop. Don’t be dramatic. I’ve had plenty of orgasms, courtesy of my vibrator and my showerhead.” Your face is a little hot from talking about this in front of him. “Just… only alone. The running theme here, apparently.”

He tilts his head, processing this new information. “So do you fake it?” You tell yourself you’re just imagining that he sounds a little upset.

You grimace. “With my high school boyfriend, yeah. He was my first everything, and we were so young. I was too embarrassed to say it, so I just let him believe he had a magical dick that brought me to orgasm at the exact same time as him every time.”

Jungkook huffs a laugh of disbelief.

“And after that,” you continue, looking down in embarrassment, “I don’t know, it’s pretty much just been hookups, and most usually don’t bother to ask. Some have tried for a while, and then given up…” The memories make you cringe. “It’s just uncomfortable. Hence the alone thing.” You give a half shrug. “It’s okay. My vibrator is nice.”

He says nothing, and you mentally kick yourself for oversharing. This is why the wall goes up, you think, but when you look at him, he’s already looking at you, and not in the way you expected.

In fact, you’re surprised to see that glint in his eyes again. He licks his lips, and you realize your pulse is racing.

“The way I see it,” he begins slowly, his voice low and even, “we have two options.” You raise an eyebrow, your interest piqued, and he continues. “Option one. You let me know, for real, that you’re not interested. You don’t have to tell me why, but you do have to mean it. And I’ll leave you alone, and you can go home and write your paper.”

Your mouth goes dry as you try to prepare for what might come next.

“Or, option two.” You swear his eyes darken as he says it. “You admit to me that you like me, and that you want me. And you let me take care of you. Which includes keeping you in my bed for as long as it takes me to make you come. I don’t care if it takes hours. I’ve got hours.”

He shrugs like he hasn’t just said the most devastating thing you’ve ever heard. “We can figure out the rest after. It doesn’t have to be anything you don’t want it to be. But it’s your call. I won’t be mad, whatever you choose. I just need to know.” He leans back on his hands, awaiting your choice.

“Jungkook,” you breathe. “You don’t know how tempting that offer is.” You try to say more, but he’s faster.

“Then say yes.”

You want to scream at him that it’s not that simple, that letting people all the way in is a door you slammed shut long ago, never to be opened again. But despite your best attempts, this cheeky, dorky, pierced and tattooed frat wonder boy has managed to wedge that door back open, just an inch. And it’s enough that now you can’t help but wonder what’s on the other side.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe it really can be that simple with him. Maybe safe doesn’t always have to mean alone. Isn’t that why you came to this party in the first place?

You let out a slow exhale, and then for the first time in your life, you decide to get out of your own way.

“Okay,” you say, and you have to work to keep your voice from shaking. “Yes. But,” you quickly add before he has a chance to react, “I don’t want this to turn into a big thing if…” you trail off. “You know. If I can’t.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that.” He says with a self-assured smile, and you hate that it’s so hot. “I have a secret weapon.”

And then he opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out, and the end of a silver barbell winks at you.

Your jaw drops. “I’m sorry, you have a tongue piercing?!”

He smirks. “Got it a couple months ago. It’s fully healed now, so you get to be my maiden voyage.” You cringe and he laughs self-consciously. “Sorry, that sounded cooler in my head.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re laughing too as his hands reach for your ankles. He gently starts to pull you towards him and you cross your legs, scooting the rest of the way forward until your knees are touching his.

“Can I please kiss you now?” Jungkook asks, but you take his face in your hands and beat him to it.

Given his competitive streak, a part of you had expected everything about this to be rough and hard, but the way he kisses you is so gentle, it’s romantic. You’d forgotten what it’s like to be kissed like this, intimate and slow, not just a tongue shoved down your throat. Jungkook is continuing to prove to you what he already has time and time again: he is nothing like any man you’ve ever met.

You are really curious about that piercing, though, so you tilt your head and tentatively lick into his mouth. When you bump against the metal post he whines a little, and goddamn, you need to be in his bed right fucking now.

He must have the same thought because his hands run firmly over your hips and you both maneuver to your feet without breaking apart. You let him guide you backwards until your knees hit the end of the bed, and you sit down and gaze up at him, breathless from his kisses.

You’re a little nervous, you realize, but then you see the way he’s looking at you. “God, you are so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, and your face flushes.

Jungkook ducks his head to kiss you again, moving you to lay down, and his hand finds the small of your back beneath you. You can’t help but smile when he uses the arm wrapped around you to effortlessly lift you up and scoot you backwards to the head of the bed. You lean against the pillows as his tongue returns to your mouth.

His fingers start to play gently at the hem of your shirt as if asking a question. You nod and he pushes it up, your lips breaking apart only for as long as it takes to pull it over your head before finding each other again.

You reach to do the same for him, but he makes an “uh-uh” noise into your mouth, then pulls away. “I want this to be about you.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Jungkook, that is incredibly sweet, and it can absolutely be about me. But I think you will severely hurt your chances of bringing me to orgasm if you’re wearing that creamsicle nightmare shirt while you’re doing it."

He raises his eyebrows for a split second like he’s weighing whether or not he should accept that challenge, but then he shrugs with a grin and pulls his shirt off over his head. His body is ridiculous, lithe and toned, and he inhales sharply when you run your hands up his chest.

You realize now, as he unhooks your bra and tosses it off the edge of the bed, then starts to kiss down your jaw, that Jungkook is vocal. He makes these breathy little sighs against your skin as he goes, and when you do something like scratch your nails over his back or dip your head to trace your tongue along his neck, he outright moans. The low, raw sound makes your pussy throb.

Noise during sex has always been weird for you; you felt like guys expected you to be loud, which is hard to do convincingly when you’re nowhere near satisfied. But none of the sounds he’s making now seem in any way performative. You can tell it’s just him enjoying your shared pleasure the same way he does everything– unashamedly.

So when he sucks gently at the place where your neck and shoulder meet, lightly running his piercing over the sensitive skin there, your eyes flutter closed, and you don’t hold back the noise he pulls out of you.

“Fuck, Jungkook,” you breathe, and you feel him smile.

You’re overwhelmed by all the different sensations his mouth can make against your skin. He kisses, licks, drags his tongue ring, and bites along your neck and your collarbones, working you until you couldn’t keep quiet even if you wanted to. His hands slide up your waist, coming to cup your breasts, and he tries similar experiments with his thumbs over your nipples: barely-there tapping, then firmer pressure in slow circles, then light pinches that make you gasp and writhe.

He’s clearly educating himself, paying close attention to your responses to figure out the best ways to touch you and take you apart. No one has ever cared this much about what actually felt good to you before; this is a far cry from the half-hearted two minutes of foreplay you’re accustomed to. He really does act like he’s got all the time in the world.

The thought of him touching and kissing you like this for hours is dizzying. Even if he can’t make you come, you don’t fucking care, everything he’s doing still feels incredible. It’s a hell of a lot better than writing a paper.

Jungkook groans into your skin as he mouths down to your breasts, and when he shifts, you can feel his erection grind against your thigh. The knowledge that he’s just as turned on by this as you are, paired with a deft flick of his piercing over your nipple, makes you whine loudly. Your core is already aching to be touched, licked, fucked– anything.

He reaches to unbutton your pants while his lips and tongue still work at the bud of your breast in his mouth. Your hips lift up at his touch and he pulls your jeans down, dropping your nipple from between his teeth so you can kick them the rest of the way off.

His hands slip under the band of your panties with a grunt so heady it’s nearly a growl, but instead of pulling them down, he loops the fabric around his fingers once and pulls up, so the lace is pressed tight against your dripping cunt. Even that small amount of friction makes you whimper, your hips rocking in desperate search of relief.

“Can I take these off?” He pairs the question with another firm tug, so the lace rubs right over your clit as your hips circle.

You don’t even have the breath to answer, you want it so bad; you can only nod.

He pulls your panties off, tossing them to join the rest of your clothes on the floor before moving down between your spread legs. You’re so wet for him now that just his breath on your core is enough to make you moan.

You brush his hair off his forehead and watch as he brings his mouth to your thighs, trailing lips and teeth upwards. With each pass, he comes so close to where you want him, where you need him, but deliberately stops just shy, teasing you. He runs his tongue along the crease where your hip and thigh meet, and the drag of his piercing on your skin makes you cry out, delirious with anticipation.

But then his mouth goes in the wrong direction. Rather than close the small amount of distance left to finally, finally make contact with your cunt, he shifts away from it. His lips and tongue trail back over your hips, your stomach, and up the valley between your breasts. You lift your head in disbelief to watch him, and you don’t think you’re going to make it– you’ve never been denied pleasure like this before. Your eyes start to sting like they might well up with tears.

He keeps going, lips moving from your neck to your jaw and then finally back to your mouth. You turn your head to the side, your breathing ragged.

“Jungkook,” you nearly sob, “please.”

His voice is hoarse when he murmurs in your ear with a dark laugh, “I was wondering how long it would take you to beg for it. You really held out on me.” He kisses you again and you whine in frustration as he sucks on your bottom lip. He pulls away with a smile. “Talk to me. Tell me what you need.”

Your head swims; you try to form words through your desperation. “I– fuck, anything, anything. Please, Jungkook, please.” You sound so wrecked, so needy, but if he wants you to beg, you’ll do it, gladly. You’re going to die if he doesn’t touch you soon. Your hips shudder up against his, your nails dragging down his back.

“Good girl, love it when you say my name like that,” he groans into the crook of your neck, and your pussy clenches around nothing, your brain short-circuiting at the praise.

He doesn’t drag it out any longer– you don’t think you’d survive if he did– and instead just shifts to settle back between your legs. His hands come to your thighs and you’re so keyed up that you jump under his touch as he spreads you wide open. You’re nearly clawing at the bedsheets in preparation to finally feel him after so long, but instead of his fingers or his tongue, something wet hits your clit.

It takes a second for your brain to process that he spit on you. Fuck.

You look up to see him looking at you, wide-eyed, like he’s only just realized what he did. “Sorry, I should’ve asked first. Was that okay?”

It was fucking hot, actually, but you’re so far gone that you can’t make the words happen. You can only nod and roll your hips up toward him.

“Jungkook, please,” you manage to whimper one final time, and he dips his head to press a kiss to your inner thigh.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs against your skin, “I’ve got you.” And then he closes his lips around your clit.

“Oh my fucking god,” you moan, relief flooding through you like a shot in the arm. His movements aren’t that different from how he first kissed you, gentle and sweet, and your clit throbs when his lip ring rolls over it.

Jungkook’s mouth falls into a steady rhythm, and he’s groaning against your pussy like it feels good for him, too. Enthusiastic is the only way to describe the way he eats you out; you really do believe he could do this all day.

Alternating with the movement of his lips, he starts to incorporate long, slow licks of his tongue across your folds. There’s enough spit and slickness that his piercing slides right over your clit, and it’s a sensation like nothing you’ve ever felt before that has you bucking against his mouth. He whines mid-lick when you do, and the vibration rips through you, your back arching in response.

That earns you two of his fingers slipped into your cunt, and for the second time tonight, you think you might die. Your legs start to shake as his fingers curl inside you.

“Yes, yes, oh fuck,” you groan. You don’t recognize your own voice; you’ve never made noise like this before, but nothing’s ever felt this good. You’re coming undone in his hands, under his tongue.

He changes up the rhythm on your clit, moving between fluidly swirling his piercing over it and pulling it into his mouth for hard suction. The pleasure is still overwhelming, but something about the switch-up takes you out of your body and into your head, and you falter for a moment.

He’s been at this for a while, and he does seem to be enjoying himself, but even so, you start to feel self-conscious. Are you taking too long? Is his tongue getting tired? What if you still can’t come from this?

Your momentary silence and lack of movement must be enough to send Jungkook’s competitive edge into overdrive, because he grabs your thigh with his free hand as if to pull you even closer and fully buries his face in your cunt.

He flattens his tongue against you and starts to shake his head aggressively, wiggling his tongue with it, and the barbell tapping rhythmically at your clit has you gasping for air and grabbing at the bedsheets.

As if that wasn’t enough, he adds a third finger inside you, slowing down for just a moment to make sure you’re accustomed to the stretch. He runs his free hand up your thigh and lays it flat below your stomach, pressing down firmly on your lower abdomen. You don’t know what to expect– no one’s ever done it to you before, but when he resumes rocking his fingers back and forth against your front wall under that extra pressure, you nearly drench his hand in arousal, it feels so good.

“Fuck, Jungkook, fuck!” You moan, and you wonder if the whole party downstairs can hear. You sound like a goddamn pornstar, the kind of noises that are so ridiculous you’d think they were fake if you weren’t experiencing the insane, all-encompassing pleasure yourself firsthand. Here, in Jungkook’s bed, in his fucking frat house, getting eaten out like you’re his last fucking meal.

You can’t even remember what you were worrying about now. There’s no space left in your brain for it, and your pussy is already starting to flutter around his fingers as you feel the pressure building in your core.

Out of sheer desperation, you wind a hand through his hair and lift your hips up against his mouth, matching his rhythm. He looks up at you and moans around your clit, nodding his head, clearly trying to encourage you without letting his tempo slow.

His breathing is ragged and loud as you grip his hair and rock your hips, bumping your clit against his pierced tongue again and again and again, exactly the way you need it.

Your moans increase in pitch and pace as you feel your orgasm crest. He responds back in time, encouraging you, his voice coming from some raw, primal place as he grunts open-mouthed, “uh-huh, uh-huh” against your clit, and you can hear his fingers working your cunt so well, and it’s all too fucking much.

You come so hard, it makes you question if you’ve ever actually had an orgasm before. Hands gripping at the sheets, toes curling, legs shaking violently, back arching up off the mattress, all with a loud moan that’s more like a sob. You have never in your life felt anything this good.

Jungkook slows but doesn’t stop as the aftershocks roll through you, slowly moving his head up and down to lick flat, long stripes over your clit as you continue to shudder against his face. Your thighs pull together reflexively when you become too sensitive, and that’s when he finally relents, pulling off and out of you.

You stare up at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe and wondering if you really did die after all. There’s a loud bang on the door, but you’re too blissed out to even give a fuck, and it’s just one of his frat bros yelling “alright, JK!” from the other side.

At least they’re supportive of a woman’s pleasure, you think, and then you can’t help but laugh at the sheer insanity of it all. Jungkook slides up the bed to lay next to you, and he’s smiling as he wipes his face with his hand.

“I guess you didn’t fake that one, huh?”

You can only shake your head as you struggle to get your breath back.

“Holy shit, I feel like I should say thank you,” you eventually manage, and he laughs his perfect laugh. You roll over to bury your face in his shoulder. “What the fuck, Jungkook– I think I saw my life flash before my eyes. That was fucking crazy.”

Jungkook flips onto his side facing you, propped up on one arm, his other hand gently running back and forth along the curve of your waist. “What can I say? I play to win.” He can’t hide his satisfied smile as the official winner of your first ever non-solo orgasm.

You lean against him, allowing your eyes to close again as your pulse slows, and you sigh contentedly as he presses his lips to your hairline.

“What time is it?” He asks after a few minutes. “Do you need to go write your paper?”

You tilt back to shoot him a death glare. “Do not mention my fucking paper right now, Jeon Jungkook. I’m trying to bask in the glow here.”

He laughs again and pulls you closer. “My bad.”

“And besides,” your face softens, and your eyes trace down to his hand that’s now gently palming over the front of his pants, where you can see the bulge of his erection. “I believe you promised me hours.”

He raises his eyebrows slightly. “Oh, I’ll give you hours.”

Your pussy doesn’t feel anywhere near recovered, but you’re somehow also aching for him to fuck you. If that was only his head game, you genuinely don’t think you’ll survive sex with Jungkook. But you’re willing to die trying.

“Come here,” his voice returns to that near-growl and he crawls over you, one hand cupping your jaw as he brings his lips to yours.

This time when his thigh presses between your legs, it’s on purpose. Your clit still twitches at the contact, but the pressure is indirect enough that it only feels good, and you rock your hips slowly into him.

You’re desperate to see him, touch him, return the favor, and your hand slips between your bodies to grab him through his pants. You whine against his lips when you feel how thick he is in your hand, and you pull little gasps out of him as you slowly start to pump him over the fabric.

“Please fuck me, Jungkook,” you whisper when you break apart, begging for it the way you’ve learned he likes, your hand still working him.

He bites down hard on your neck with a laugh, like he can’t believe you’re real.

You start to unbutton and push down his pants and then he flips onto his back to do the rest, shedding pants and boxers at the same time. You can’t help but giggle a little at his apparent urgency, pleased that he needs you just as bad, as he yanks his nightstand drawer out, retrieves a condom, and rips it open with his teeth.

But that urgency is gone once he’s hovering over you, cock teasing at your entrance, your knees bent and legs spread for him. It’s replaced by that same look in his eyes, those same gentle kisses, and arousal pooling in your belly at the realization that he really could do this for hours. But you need him now.

“Please,” you whisper one more time, and he groans against your throat as he pushes into you.

His pace is slow, hips rolling fluidly, and you’re still so sensitive that your walls flutter around him with each thrust. The thickness of his cock feels just as good as you thought it would. You moan loudly, arching back against the pillow, as his head drags over your sweet spot.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he groans, his voice ragged. He keeps rolling his hips, stroking so slow and deep that it’s pleasure and torture all in one.

Jungkook must be a fast learner, because when he thrusts into you one more time and you whine in response, the same strangled noise you made when he teased your cunt, he knows what you need. You don’t even have to beg for it.

His hands slide along the backs of your thighs and he pushes, just a little, folding your legs up so your pelvis tilts to give him full access to your cunt. And then he picks up the pace.

The pleasure is overwhelming as he bottoms out inside you over and over, and you’re already close to the edge of a second climax. You rake your nails down his back and his hips move even faster, both of you moaning with every thrust. The sound of skin on skin is so loud it’s obscene; there’s no way the whole party doesn’t know what you’re up to by now.

You don’t give a shit. You hope they’re all jealous.

Your legs start to shake as the pressure in your core builds, and you’re suddenly in dire need of release all over again. You move to reach a hand down between your legs, but Jungkook doesn’t miss a thing.

He lets go of one of your thighs to knock your hand away, replacing it with his own, his thrusts never slowing. You watch this time as he spits on your clit again, and then starts to rub circles over it.

It’s a touch you’ve felt before, fast and hard, usually performed by a guy who has no idea what he’s doing, and usually painful as all hell.

But Jungkook is very obviously a fucking expert in his field, and he must know that when you’re as slick as you are from his mouth and your own arousal, and you’ve already come once, and you’re this insanely turned on and desperate for it, it doesn’t hurt at all. Your hips lift up off the bed because right now, it’s fucking perfect.

“Oh my fucking god, Jungkook, fuck, yes, don’t stop–” you cry out, and your last moan is nearly a scream as you come all the way undone for him. Your cunt squeezes tightly around his length, and he only has to rut into you a few more times before he’s coming, too, with a loud groan of your name.

His head drops onto your shoulder as he finishes, gasping for breath. You lean back against the pillows, still shuddering a little but entirely spent, fucked out of your mind.

You’re only vaguely aware of what’s happening when he pulls out of you, or when the bed shifts as he gets up to dispose of the condom, then collapses back down next to you with a dazed sigh.

You roll into him, still lost for words, and he wraps both arms around you. You can hear his heart thudding hard in his chest, the same tempo as yours.

A laugh rips through you as you play the last few moments back and remember his hand shoving your own away. You look up at him. “So what are you, in charge of my orgasms now? Did I sign a contract tonight?”

“No,” he gives a small smile, and you see a blush creep up his neck at the reminder of something done clearly in the heat of the moment. “I don’t know. No one had ever made you come once before, so… I just wanted to do it twice. Set a new number to beat.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t hide the grin on your face. “I’m not a video game, Jungkook.”

“Nope,” he laughs, tightening his grip around you. “You are so much better.” He ducks down to kiss you gently.

You’re still smiling when he moves to rest his chin on your head. “And you are better than my vibrator.”

There’s a comfortable pause, and then you decide you may as well do what you do best and ruin everything. “So, is now the time when I ask you the phrase that every frat boy dreads to hear?” You start, and he’s already looking at you when you glance up again. “What are we?”

He shrugs, looking totally nonplussed. “That’s up to you. I will literally go out there right now and announce to the entire party that you’re my girlfriend and I’m the first man to ever make you come, if that’s what you want.”

You press your face to his chest and laugh self-consciously. “Well, I think they already know about the second part. I wasn’t exactly quiet.”

His lips brush against your temple. “Don’t be. I want them all to know who’s fucking you right.”

You sigh, wondering how on earth this kid is real. There’s a big part of you, especially with the high of two orgasms rattling around in your brain, that wants to take the leap right now, straight into the unknown. You want to trust him fully, but you’re still scared of the uncertainty, the potential for disaster. It’s been a long time since you let someone all the way in.

“But the G word…” you say nervously. “That’s a lot for me, at least right now.”

“Okay,” Jungkook says simply, and when you meet his gaze, the look on his face betrays no hurt feelings or hidden agenda. It makes you feel like it really is okay. “We can be whatever you want,” he continues. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You can feel yourself getting emotional, and you bring your cheek to his chest again, hoping he can’t tell. “Well, whatever label we put on it, you are eating me out like that at least once a week.”

“Once a week?” He huffs softly. “How about once a day?” He shifts slightly to trail kisses along your neck. “Actually,” he murmurs in your ear, “I could go for seconds right now…”

You laugh and shove against his chest. “Hey, I’m still getting used to this brave new world over here. If you make me come again tonight I think I might literally die in your bed.” He relents with a smug smile and a kiss pressed to your cheek.

“But if you wanted to wake me up that way tomorrow…” you offer, and he gets that goddamn look in his eyes, the one that may forever be known as the look that ruined your life.

“Oh, I think we can make that happen.”

#jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #jungkook x y/n #bts smut #bts x reader #the spins

5K notes · View notes

gaysindistress · 5 months

Note

Hiya ❤️ would you maybe do buck imagine for my bday tomorrow for me? I'd really need some distraction atm. One where you have a crush on each other but of course don't talk about it. Then one night you enter the living room all dressed up for a date and buck is totally flashed by you, until you ask for his opinion for it. When he realizes this is for another guy he gets all bad mooded and leaves. Then instead of your date, you head to Buckys room and decide to finally make a move and kiss him and admit your feelings, which leads to also sleeping together and lots of cute Bucky afterwards? 🙊

Hi babes!!! Im so sorry I didn’t reply to this sooner. I wanted to wait until I finished the fic before I answered. I left it more suggestive but there’s plenty of cute Bucky!!

Warnings: cursing and suggestive content

“I told you to stay back! Do you ever listen?” Bucky sneers when he spots a furry of black rush past him into the open courtyard.

“Yeah just not to you. I’ve learned to tune out your voice,"I plainly state back, tucking myself behind a cement pillar after making a mad dash across the courtyard.

“Would it kill you to put your ego aside for one mission? For…” he’s interrupted by the rain of bullets coming his way and he drops down to the ground, “Sam do you copy?”

“Loud and clear,” he answers through their earpieces, “It looks like there’s about five guys shooting at you. Want Redwing to take them out?”

Bucky’s nose flares at the mention of the godforsaken machine but concedes, “Cover her and I’ll do it.”

“Excuse me? I don’t need anyone’s…” a shriek cuts me short and the sound of my own bullets confirms that I do, in fact, need help and Redwing is on it within seconds, taking out the offended men.

“What was that?” Bucky tries not to sound mocking but it’s just too good of a moment to miss.

“Shove it, Barnes. You’re the one who doesn’t immediately think of his bionic arm because he’s right handed.”

“Sam you told her about that? That’s it. Both of you are fired when we get back.”

We chuckle at his false threat and focus on the task at hand; getting inside of the looming concrete building, extract the intel, and get out in one piece.

“Sammmmmmmmmm…”

The man glances up from the book he is reading at the sound of his name being drawn out, “yesssssss y/nnnnnnn?”

“I need to talk to you,” I nervously whisper, twisting around to see if anyone is in the room. Slipping his bookmark into the book, Sam sets it down and sits back against the couch, gesturing for me to take a seat.

“I swear to god if this has to be with robo cop, your free therapy sessions will come to an end,” he teased me but comes off harsher than he intended and he cringes when my face falls.

“Oh it’s okay. I’m sorry to bother you,"I quickly try to recover the social blunder I’ve made but he grabs my wrist and tells me to sit my ass back down.

“You’re not bothering me and you know better than to take me seriously,” he gently chides me as he pulls me into his side, “what did he do now?”

Fingers twist in uncomfortable angles as I ring my hands together in my lap. Regret starts to fill me and pushes against me like the strong coastal winds, trying to shove me off of the couch and out of the room.

“Nothing. I just…I just hate it, ya know? I hate the whole shitty back and forth we have and how he’s always such an asshole but only to me. I hate that…” I trail off and lean my head on Sam’s shoulder, “I hate that I can’t just tell him how I feel. At this point just getting it off my chest is all I want; I don’t care if he feels the same. I wouldn’t even care if he rejected me, as long as I just didn’t have to live with this disgusting school girl crush.”

Sam chuckles, “have you tried talking to him?”

“We are talking about the same person here, right?”

Although I can’t see him, I can feel the eye roll and heat it in the sarcasm that drips from his voice.

“I will shove you off this couch, I’m trying to HELP you,” he jokingly pushes me away causing us to both laugh, “if you won’t talk to him, then why not move on?”

My laughter dies instantly.

Move on?

Move fucking on?

“It’s not that simple,” I snipe at Sam and he hisses from the fake burn of my words.

“It was a suggestion. You don’t have to listen to it,” he says with mock defensiveness.

Another fit of laughter overcomes us and I fall into his lap, completely unaware of how this might look to others. That is until we hear a snort of disgust from the doorway.

The owner?

The one and only Bucky Barnes.

I scramble off of Sam and clear my throat, embarrassed that Bucky walked past.

“Come on, Sam. You can do better than her,” he says with a scowl before striding down the hallway again.

Sam’s jaw tenses and he’s muttering to himself as he stands, taking off after the super solider. He pauses at the door, “I’m sorry for him.”

“It’s fine,” I mumble but it’s not convincing enough.

“No it’s not and I’m going to kick his ass for it. And for the record I think you should at least try and date other people.”

I give him a small smile as he turns and takes off after Bucky, shouting the whole way that he better be ready to get his ass whopped.

Try and date other people.

It feels deeply wrong to even think about dating other people but Bucky clearly isn’t in a place to even hear my feelings for him.

I pull my phone out and open the most god forsaken app to ever exist; Tinder.

The profile that Yelena and Natasha helped me make has several matches and unread messages but I haven’t had the heart to respond or even open them. Scrolling aimlessly, I pick someone random and message him back.

I have to at least try no matter how loud my heart is screaming at me.

Nelly Furtado and Megan Thee Stallion have been on repeat for the last three maybe four hours. I’m sure everyone is annoyed and would be banging on my door, shouting at me to turn it off if Sam hadn’t told literally every single person in the tower that I had a date. Tony clapped me on the shoulder, congratulating me for getting out there while Yelena and Natasha demanded to know every detail about this mystery man. I promised Sam that I wouldn’t forget this and he better be ready to lose next time we spar during training. His usual smile dropped as the fear of god struck him. Well the fear of ME struck him.

Smoothing my dress down, I cock my head at my reflection in the mirror. I have to admit that I look stunning in the simple fitted dress that Natasha practically ordered I wear. It’s a tie dye pattern of cream and red with thin straps and a scoop neckline that shows off the star pendant necklace that Tony and Pepper gave me when I first moved in. A “welcome to the tower and good luck” gift as he put it with a teasing smile. Simple hoops line my ears and two matching bracelets adore my wrists however the simplicity of my outfit feels over the top. I’d changed my shoes about 40 times and settled on a pair of tan platform sandals but something is nagging at me to change again.

I check the time and curse under my breath when I see that I need to leave in 5 minutes, which certainly isn’t enough time to change everything. The thought of canceling occurs to me but I know I’ll never hear the end of it.

Checking my reflection one last time, I grab my phone and shove it in my purse before leaving my room. Normally I’d be able to tell if someone was in the common living room but I’m too distracted by hyping myself up for this date to notice that there is someone sitting on the couch.

A certain asshole who never fails to piss me off but also makes me fall for him even more to be exact.

I come to a halt when I feel his presence and duck behind the wall, praying he didn’t see me. Peaking my head out, I’m relieved that he hasn’t and my heart clenches at the sight. Bucky looks so peaceful sitting on the couch dressed in a hoodie and joggers with a well loved book in his lap. Although his hood is pulled up, his ruffled hair peeks out, having grown longer and longer with each passing day. When I first met him, he was damn near bald with his short cropped hair but he’s let it grow long enough that he has to push it back every now and again. I jokingly offered him a hair tie during training one day after I saw how frustrated he was getting with it. He snatched it from me with a grumble and sported a unicorn hair for the remainder of training. Sometimes I think I see that black hair tie on his wrist but he’s all too eager to get away from me for me to properly look.

“I can feel you staring, pervert,” his voice cracks from not being used in hours and I flinch at the sudden noise.

“I’m not staring,” I weakly mumble and step back into the living room.

He hasn’t looked up from his book, still reading the pages as he speaks to me, “yes you were.”

I roll my eyes and stick my tongue out at him which of course, he somehow sees. It’s beyond me how he can literally sense everything except for my feelings towards him.

His piercing eyes flicker up at me for a brief moment and back to his book before doing a double take.

“Where are you going?”

His question catches me off guard and I scowl at him, “what are you? My dad?”

His jaw twitches but he says nothing.

Satisfied that I got the best of him, I push my luck and ask him, “how do I look? Would you want to go on a date with me?”

Apparently that’s a big fucking mistake because he’s up and storming out of the room like a fucking child without a single word.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble under my breath and go after him, “Barnes! I asked you a question, don’t you know it’s rude to storm off and not answer when someone asks you something?”

The behemoth of a man still says nothing as he continues to stomp down the hall.

“Bucky!” I shout at him and he stills right at his door. His left hand is gripping his door knob and I can hear it crumble under its strength. He doesn’t turn to look at me. No no he turns his head just enough to side eye me as he spits out, “fuck off, Y/N.”

The use of my first name takes me back. He never calls me y/n, not even when he’s furious with me for not falling orders. It’s always my last name, Agent, or some rude nickname and on very rare occasions when he’s flirting with me to be a dick, doll.

“Excuse me?” I scoff at him, crossing my arms over my chest.

“I said fuck off,” he grits out as he rips the door open and tries to slam it shut but my hand stops him.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that, no matter how much you hate me. What is your deal anyways? All I did was ask if you liked my outfit which shouldn’t matter to you anyways,” I tell him as I shove into his room. It’s his turn to be taken aback and he stumbles backwards when I push through.

“You’ve made it very clear that you despise me and I, for the life of me, cannot figure out why,” my pent up frustration and anger come spilling out as I continue to tell him off, “I was nothing but kind and friendly when I first got here but you? You were a dick from day one and only to me! You didn’t treat Yelena or even fucking Sharon that way. It was just me and it got worse! Oh my god it’s gotten so much worse and whether or not you want to believe it, I’m a person who has feelings! I can’t even begin to count how many times I’ve cried in the shower because of you. It got so bad that I would cry myself to sleep like a fucking idiot and someone had to sit with me until I fell asleep so I wouldn’t throw myself into a goddamn panic attack. Poor Sam almost moved in because he was the only one that could calm me down. Did you know that?”

He’s staring at me with wide eyes but not a single emotion crosses over them. It makes me unbelievably angry that my outburst doesn’t even phase him.

So I keep going, “and you want to know the worst part? The day I got here, Tony was showing me around and he brought me into the kitchen where everyone was eating. You were there, flirting with Sam just to piss him off but you looked so happy. You were laughing and smiling so much that Tony, fucking Tony made a comment about how that was the happiest he’d seen you in a while. You hadn’t seen us yet but when you did, you gave me that charming Brooklyn smile and it was all over for me. From that single smile, I knew I was screwed because I’d caught feelings for you. Not that it mattered though because within a matter of hours, you lost that smile and were so awful. I tried so hard to make you like me but nothing. If anything it made you hate me even more but no matter what, I’ve always had these…feelings for you that I don’t want anymore. I don’t want to look at you and feel my heart breaking because you don’t feel the same way. I don’t want to pick apart every person I talk to because they’re not you and I hate that they’re not. I don’t want to cry to Sam about how it feels like a piece of me is dying when I’m not around you but you want nothing to do with me. I don’t want to feel like this anymore, Bucky. I can’t… I can’t feel like this.”

By the end of my confession, the tears I swore I would never shed again have fallen. They ruin the makeup I spent an hour putting on, pretending it was a date with Bucky because thinking about Miguel makes my skin crawl. I know I look like a mess but I don’t care. I’ve said my peace finally and while it’s embarrassing and I know I’ll regret it later, it’s done. Maybe now I can move on or at least find comfort in knowing that I won’t have to face Bucky again and live with these disgusting unrequited feelings.

He’s still said nothing, hasn’t moved or otherwise acknowledged that he’s heard me. He just stands there, staring at me with a clenched jaw and completely still. The only noises that fill his room are my sniffles and the subtle whirring of his arm as he clenches his hands into fists.

Of course he wouldn’t say anything. Why would he? It’s not surprising but hurtful regardless because I would’ve hoped he’d find a shred of kindness to show me under all of that hatred.

I shake my head as I turn to leave, unable to deal with him and with the fact that I’m now late for my date. My phone buzzes and I’m greeted with a rather rude message from Miguel about how unattractive it is that I’m late and didn’t even give him a heads up. It takes everything in me to not scream as loud as I can and throw my phone against the wall. Instead I settle for angrily shoving it back into my purse while more than a few foul words fall from my lips.

A cold metal hand clasps onto my wrist as I pull open the door and I look down at it in shock.

“I don’t know what to say,” Bucky whispers, his grip gentle but inescapable all the same. I want to tear myself away but he’s touching me. My heart begins to pound at the connection between us and I let out a shuttered breath.

“You can start by apologizing for how you talked to me,” I manage to say with a voice that is steadier than my breathing.

“I’m sorry, doll. Not just for that but for everything. I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I’m sorry I made you cry and made you think I hated you. I’m sorry I ever treated you the way that I did. No one deserves that and especially not you,” he says in a low voice while slowly closing the distance between us. His hand slides up my arm until it rests on my bicep and he asks for me to come closer too with a soft squeeze.

“I know actions are louder than words and if you’ll let me, I will do anything you ask of me to make it up to you. All you have to do is ask, doll and I swear I’ll do it,” his voice cracks with emotions that I never thought he could feel. Tears brim his eyes as he looks at me with such hope that I feel my own threaten to start falling again.

“No,” it shocks me just as much as it shocks him. His hand loosens and falls to his side.

“No,” I breathe out, “I can’t…that’s….Bucky I just admitted that I’m in love with you and that’s all you have to say? I appreciate the effort but it’s not…no it’s not enough.”

“You’re in love with me?”

Disbelief laces his words and I let out a scoff because he can’t be fucking serious right now.

“Don’t… don’t make me say it,” I stammer over my words as my sobs get caught in my throat.

He blinks at me for a moment before repeating it more to himself than me, “you’re in love with me.”

I wait with bated breath as he processes the revelation. He takes a sudden step forward and I take one back out of habit. Pain explodes onto his face as he steps back again and I swear to god I’ve never felt my heart break as much as it is now.

“Don’t play with my emotions, Bucky,” I hiss, the words harsher than I intend

“Jesus fuck,” he mutters while running a hand through his hair, “do you really think I’d do something like that?”

An answer materializes on my tongue but I can’t say it and he learns it from the struggle in my eyes.

“Wow, I…I can’t believe that you think that low of me.”

“No, I don't because I think the world of you.”

He shakes his head, “don’t play with my emotions either, doll.”

“Considering that I don’t know what they are most of the time, I don’t think I could even if I tried.”

There’s a shift in the tension and I can’t place what. Bucky straightens his shoulders and looks at me with a new intensity. He attempts another step in my direction and when I don’t back away, he begins to prowl towards me.

“I’m not good with words.”

“Trust me I’m aware.”

“I haven’t been able to think about my own wants and needs until recently.”

He backs me into the door but stays a foot or so away from me.

“Where are you going with this?” My voice is whinier than I’d hoped and I pray to god he doesn’t notice.

But he does and the smile that hooked me in the first place overtakes his face.

“Anywhere you want me to, doll. If you want me to give you space, I’ll give it to you even though it’ll break me,” he whispers seriously, “If you want me to grovel until we’re both old and forget why, I’ll gladly get on my knees for you right now. If you want me to show you how I feel, all you have to do is say yes.”

Hesitation creeps up on me because I know what I want and what I want is not what I need.

“Yes.”

Bucky takes the final steps and pins me against the door, both arms caging me in so I have nowhere to go. My hands fly up to his shoulders as he leans in, not quite letting our lips touch.

“I’m in love with you too,” he whispers against my lips before his descends upon mine. I half expected him to devour me but it’s unhurried, slow and languid as our lips move in sync. I can feel his love in the way that his tongue slides against my bottom lip before slipping in. He’s gentle with me as his hands move to cradle my head and pull me impossibly closer. He's apologizing for the tears and angst I’ve felt as my phone rings and he silences it without breaking our kiss. He’s showing that he’ll spend as long as it takes to show his love for me as he urges me to wrap my legs around his waist and takes me to his bed.

My phone rings again and he lets out a frustrated growl as he breaks our kiss to answer it. He rolls his eyes at the name that flashes and presses the answer button with a little too much aggression.

“Hello?”

I can’t hear what Miguel says but Bucky’s replies are very clear.

“This is her boyfriend.”

“Since when? Since right fucking now.”

He hangs up and tosses my phone to the other side of his bed.

“Boyfriend, huh?” I tease however it falls short when he dips his head to my neck, licking and sucking at my skin.

“Have a problem with it, doll?”

“Not at all.”

#bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #marvel imagine #bucky barnes fanfic

260 notes · View notes

iliveiloveiwrite · 9 months

Text

Confessions and Confidences // Nikolai Lantsov

Request: what about a nikolai fic with the "there was only one bed" trope? IM A SUCKER FOR THAT TROPE PLEASE- something like nik and the reader went somewhere like ravka ovest (during siege and storm/ruin and rising) to promote his return and they end up staying for the night in a hotel somewhere but it wasnt the one they made a reservation in so there's only one room. - @the-massive-simp

A/N: Thank you so much for your request! I am so sorry it has taken me so long to write it, but I have to tell you - I loved writing this so much. I hope you like it, and I hope I have done it justice.

Warnings: female reader, pining, mutual pining, lots of feelings, friends to lovers, one bed trope, fluff, cute.

Word count: 2k+

“Tell me how I did… honestly,” Nikolai requests, loosening his tie and rolling his shoulders to relieve the tension that had built there over the last three hours.

The carriage jostles you from side to side, leaving you faintly nauseous as you meet the eyes of the Ravkan prince. A fond smile creeps over your face. “You had them eating out the palm of your hand.”

Nikolai pauses; his fingers a freezing on the tight Windsor knot of his tie. He meets your gaze only fleetingly, but long enough for you to see the insecurity hidden in those crystalline blue eyes. Nikolai returns to his ministrations, fiddling with the navy blue tie as he asks you. “Do you think so?”

He huffs before giving up with the tie. You roll your eyes, scooting forward on the carriage bench, reaching for the wrinkled material. “I don’t think,” You murmur, working on the tightened knot. “I know so. I was in the crowd, Nikolai. I hear every gasp of awe and every hum of agreement.”

Nikolai’s gaze fixes on your face, searching for what he does not know, but his eyes do not leave your face as you battle with his godforsaken tie.

Silence falls in the carriage as you work with his tie, feeling it begin to loosen. A shout of victory rings true when the navy material gives way and Nikolai feels the tie relent. Satisfied, you sit back, crossing your arms over your chest. “I know,” You laugh, “I’m amazing.”

Nikolai snorts, tipping his head in recognition of your talent. “Of course,” He drawls, “I would never have done it without you… or the valet riding in the carriage behind us.”

Pouting childishly, you kick his shin. “Hush,” You say, “You know you would never survive without me.”

“Naturally,” He answers with a coy grin.

You smile at each other; unabashed, joyful smiles that leave your cheeks hurting in a matter of moments. You meet each other’s gaze; a silent battle breaking out over who will break and look away first as the tension begins to build. A tension that had become more and more noticeable over the last few months; feelings that you thought you had long since buried making their way to the surfaced with every touch, every laugh and every glance sent your way by the blue eye prince sat across from you.

You break first, turning your face to stare out of the window. “So,” You state, clearing your throat. “Are we heading back to Ravka tonight?”

Nikolai shakes his head. “It’s far too late and I think we all deserve a rest. I had someone ride ahead to find a hotel for the night.”

“Lovely,” You sigh, already dreaming of the bubble bath that awaited you.

Nikolai laughs, settling further into his seat as he lets any anxieties over tonight leave him in a rush. Instead, he thinks of the warm, comfortable bed waiting for him in his hotel room.

—————————————————————————

The scout Nikolai had sent out earlier meets the royal party close to their hopeful destination. Nikolai thanks the scout, promising him extra money in his wage packet and a day off for himself and his horse to recover.

Shocked by the prince’s generosity, the scout leads the party to the hotel in silence, thinking of what he would do with his newly awarded day off.

As the carriage stops outside the hotel, it becomes clear that it isn’t grand but rather a family run establishment that looks well loved. Nikolai exits the carriage and falls for its charms. He greets the owner with a warm handshake.

“We are honoured for your business,” The owner states, bowing at the waist.

“We are honoured to be your guests,” Nikolai replies, gesturing to you and the rest of the party.

The owner smiles. “I have provided my best rooms, but I’m afraid you may have to share if that is no trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” You smile, seeing the stress leave the owner’s face. “If you would give us the room keys, we can allocate ourselves.”

“Of course,” The owner allows, returning to his desk to find the keys he had put aside earlier.

You turn to Nikolai in the meantime. “How do you want to do this?”

Nikolai shrugs; he goes to speak but is interrupted by his valet, Roberts. “Sir,” Roberts begins, “With all due respect, we have already sorted ourselves out.”

“Oh?”

Roberts nods. “We often have to share on the road so we tend to stay with the same partners. It would seem that yourself and Miss (Y/N) may have to share this time too.”

You pause for thought, glancing at Nikolai. “Thank you, Roberts,” You dismiss with a friendly smile. You watch Nikolai watching the hotel owner hand everyone their room keys before he stops in front of you both.

“Your room key, your highness.”

Nikolai takes the key with a simple nod of gratitude. The owner smiles before departing. The rest of the party have disappeared, noting the time and the early start in the morning.

“Come on,” You murmur, nudging Nikolai to get a move on. “There’s a bath with my name on it and you’re holding the key.”

Nikolai breaks out of his trance, smiling in a way that could disarm entire armies. “Well, we wouldn’t want that. Would we?” He offers you his arm. “Are you sure you don’t mind sharing with me?”

“No,” You answer, fixing him with an unimpressed look. “I don’t mind so long as I have dibs on the bed closest to the window.”

The blue eyed prince laughs. “Deal.”

It’s a short walk to your shared room. Up a flight of stairs and along the corridor to the fourth door on the right. You quash yawn after yawn on the walk to the room, feeling your bones grow heavier as the tiredness begins to settle in. Finally, one yawn escapes you just as Nikolai slides the key into the lock.

“Will I have to fish you out of the bath when you inevitably fall asleep in there?”

You scoff. “Of course not. I’m wide awake.”

“Sure you are.”

“Stop arguing with me and open the door, Lantsov,” You command in time to his laughter.

“As you wish.”

The door clicks open to reveal a small and modest room. The late summer sun bathes the room in a warm light showcasing the bathroom to the left of the entrance, a single cream armchair and a bed.

A lone bed. One bed. Big enough for two, but not what was expected.

You pause at the sight of it. Numerous pillows and a duvet that all but screams comfort and coziness – they taunt you as you know this could be a problem.

“I’ll take the chair,” You announce, hauling your things to the corner of the room, ready to make camp for the night.

“Absolutely not. I’ll take the chair. You have the bed.”

“You’re royalty. Your title deems you to have the bed.”

“I’m also a privateer and have slept on much worse than an arm chair.”

You glare at the stubborn blonde. “It seems we’re at an impasse.”

“I agree. What shall we do?”

You sigh, “Look, I’m exhausted and you’re practically dead on your feet. I’m fine with sharing the bed if you are.”

Nikolai hesitates for a single moment before agreeing. You smile, happy that things are settled. “I’m still sleeping by the window, and I have first dibs on the bathroom.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Nikolai laughs, perching on the end of the bed to toe off his long worn in leather boots.

His laughter follows you to the bathroom where you immediately set the bath running and shut the door. You sit on the edge of the bath, testing the water temperature now and then as you try to calm your pounding heart. It was one thing to share a room with Nikolai, but it was another thing entirely to share a bed with the man who was the main character in your dizziest of daydreams.

Adding plenty of bubbles, you begin to talk yourself through the night. You let it become your mantra as the bath finishes and you undress. You repeat your actions of the evening to yourself as you slip underwater, wondering if it was all going to go to hell in a hand-basket.

Meanwhile, Nikolai undresses before rummaging through his overnight bag to find a pair of night trousers to sleep in. He remains shirtless, knowing he would get too warm in the night. Ready for bed, he closes the curtains and settles under the covers. He fluffs the pillows once… twice… before huffing and getting back out of bed. He paces the floor, back and forth as he feels panic mounting in his chest, rooting there and cutting off his breath. It was one thing to share a room with you. It was another thing completely to share a bed with you. Not when he found himself reaching for you in the middle of the night; not when he wants to be the first and last person you speak to everyday; not when he yearns for you with every fibre of his being.

The bathroom door opens, steam pouring out and Nikolai freezes. You look deliciously rumpled; soft and warm with your skin still flushed from the heat of your bath. Nikolai clenches his hands into fists; resisting the growing urge to pull you into his arms, confess everything and kiss you senseless.

“Aren’t you in bed yet?” You ask, hanging your towel to dry.

Nikolai shakes his head, doing his best to rid himself of the quickening of his heart. “Too much on my mind for me to settle.”

You come over; any of your own anxieties fade as you press a hand to his cheek, seeing the slight panic reflected in his blue, blue eyes. “You were great tonight, Nikolai. A true Ravkan prince. You should be proud of yourself.”

“Thank you,” He whispers, leaning into your touch.

“Let’s go to bed,” You say, a tired smile on your face as you pull away from the blonde, leaving him cold from the lack of your touch.

Doing your best to quash any butterflies, you slide into your promised side, letting out a moan of comfort. “This has to be heaven,” You announce sleepily; the words drowned out by a yawn.

Nikolai chuckles, sliding into bed next to you, finding it much easier to settle with you beside him. He fluffs the pillows, plumping them so they sit better under his head, and waits for sleep to come.

He waits and waits. He feels tired; he feels the weariness sitting upon his shoulders and his eyes want to close but they remain open, staring at the ceiling. “Are you awake?” He asks the darkened room.

Your sigh breaks through the room. “Yeah,” You answer, a slight tone of frustration to your words. “It’s as if I am so tired that my body won’t settle, and my mind won’t shut off.”

“I understand that all too well,” Nikolai sympathises, turning on his side to face you.

“Something you experience often?”

Nikolai nods, humming in agreement. “More now than before,” He explains softly. “It used to happen when I was away; my mind would be too loud, but I would go out on deck and stare up at the sky and watch the stars as they blazed their path across the sky. Instead of focusing on whatever what bothering me, I would think of the stars and what their paths would hold. They were directing us somewhere, but to where?”

“And what about now?”

He sighs. “And now I feel pulled in a thousand different directions. The role I play within my family and the role of Sturmhond…”

“You are beloved either way, Nikolai.”

“I don’t want to let anyone down.”

“You couldn’t. I was in the crowd tonight, Nikolai. I heard the whispers between couples and families; they were all in support of you. They agreed with your motivations, they loved your presence. If they could have you for themselves, I’m certain they would. I know there were a few ladies in the crowd willing to try.”

“You always know what to say…” He croons.

“I know you, Nikolai.”

He smiles; bright and true. It lights up his face, only enhancing his handsomeness. It makes your heart skip a beat. “Now, tell me about the ladies wanting me to themselves.” He chuckles, enjoying the slight boost to his confidence.

You huff, crossing your arms across your chest. “I shan’t. I’ve done enough for your ego for one night, I think.”

Nikolai splutters, incredulous at your refusal. “But… But…”

“Nope.” You refuse, shaking your head.

A smirk grows on his face; he leans closer to you before stating, “I understand now… You’re jealous.”

“Jealous?!” You cry, annoyed at how quick he hit the nail on the head. “I am not jealous.”

“Yes, you are. You’re jealous.”

You huff, casting your gaze to your lap, overcome with your feelings. It was all becoming too much; loving him from afar. Hearing the young women tonight, listening to how attractive they found Nikolai and how they believed they would make the right match for him. It hurt; it hurt hearing it and knowing that deep down it was true. Nikolai would find someone and love someone and marry someone who wasn’t you, and acknowledging that hurt more than anything.

“Hey,” Nikolai prompts gently, “I’m joking. I don’t expect you to be jealous. I’m sorry if I’ve gone too far.”

“But what if I am? What if I am jealous?” You breathe, your heart beginning to pound at your candor. Throwing caution to the wind, you meet his stare, seeing the understanding land there in the slight raise of his brows and turn of his lips.

“Well…” Nikolai begins, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “I would have to tell you not to give it a second thought. There’s nothing and no-one to be jealous of.”

“Oh?” You whisper, feeling hope begin to bloom in your chest.

His thumb brushes your cheekbone as he hums in response. “You have nothing to be jealous of. I’ve been yours for a while now.

“Mine?”

Nikolai nods; his blue eyes no longer clouded with panic, but clear with intent and starting to brim with hope. He presses a kiss to your cheek; quick and fleeting. “Yours. I think I always have been.”

“I think I have always been yours too.”

“Thank the Saints,” Nikolai breathes, relief written clearly on his face. “It would have been awkward if this was one sided, love.”

“Oh Hush!” You laugh, nudging him slightly.

Nikolai grabs your arms, pulling you into an embrace that feels like the beginning of everything. You settle into him; your face pressed against his bare shoulder, inhaling the all too familiar scent of his cologne - oud with notes of vanilla.

A kiss is pressed to the top of your head. “We’ll talk more in the morning, but I want you to know that I’m eternally grateful for one bed.” Nikolai murmurs, promises ready to be made on the tip of his tongue.

You kiss the junction between his neck and shoulder, humming your agreement before sleep finally claims you both, deep and dreamless and in anticipation for what the morning holds.

#nikolai lantsov #nikolai lanstov x reader #nikolai x reader #nikolai lantsov imagines #nikolai lantsov fluff #nikolai lantsov fanfiction #shadow and bone fandom #shadow and bone fanfiction #six of crows fanfic #fluff

265 notes · View notes

mistymem0ryy · 1 year

Text

Il Dottore x Reader

The Fall of Icarus Chapter 1 - An unexpected letter

Summary: While being a student in the prestigious Sumeru Academy, the reader begins to form a weird friendship with the genius student Zandik, only to then lose said friendship due to his banishment. Years later a rogue letter finds its way to their report-file desk.

The gender of the reader is not specified.

(Minor spoilers for Dottore’s identity ig)// Word count: 2066

Notes: I am quite tired of the constant fics where the Reader happens to not be at a similar intellectual level as Dottore… Do not get me wrong I understand that it could be quite intimidating since the guy is quite literally a genius, but I always wondered how different his common behavior and developing intellect would have been during his Academia years…

Chapter 2

{No beta we die like Zandik’s grades}

People like Dottore are usually blessed with what I call an Imaginative Genius, he is inventive and curious in nature but that is not all you need in order to excel in an Academic environment. Any undergrad level Science student will complain to you about obligatory courses that range from boring classes on how to write an adequate lab report, to mind draining mathematics units that you have to take in order to graduate but most probably will never need in your actual profession.

Dottore is a genius, yes, but he is also impatient and insatiable, and those are the traits that led him to his unlabeled relationship with you…

The Academia is constituted by various facets dedicated to different areas of research, but they all possess one common thing, and that is the dreadful compulsory mathematics and report units. Mathematics is the language of the world, therefore it would be only logical that a self respecting scientist would have a certain degree of fluency in it…And to add unto that, a great researcher must too be capable of describing all observable phenomena in harmonious text.

Dottore… or should I say Zandik? Well, no matter how much his brain was capable of maneuvering itself into creating unimaginable gadgets and devices while simultaneously researching lost ruins of forgotten civilizations, he simply could not wrap his head around a certain set of classes that he deemed utterly useless.

He wanted to go out and research the unknown, feel his surroundings and understand their development, he wanted to acquire knowledge beyond the one present in the various dust collecting books that encircled him every minute…

He wants to punch down that godforsaken door and leave this classroom at this precise moment… But to his utter disdain he cannot.

You see Zandik is quite the intelligent fellow, his curiosity leads him further in his personal research but he must balance all of that alongside all the courses the Academia requires from him in order to finish his initial program. But no matter how “important” a certain class might be, if it doesn't strike the interest of the blue haired student then he will not even glance towards its direction twice… His time is precious and slowly but certainly running out, so he must make the most of it, even if it means missing a rather concerning number of classes.

You would like to say that perhaps, in some sick and twisted way, Zandik considers you a friend… an appreciated company? a tolerant fellow student?...

After years of being in the Academia you have come to recognize the fact that you were the one sole person he did not outright treat with pure hatred. Sometimes you look back to your first year in the Academia, when you were solely a freshman ready to embark on a new intellectual endeavor and happened to be partnered up with Zandik for a class on “The Etiquette of Writing a Concise and Clean Scientific Report”. A boring class that you honestly thought quite useless, I mean haven’t you all been writing for years already? Why would you need a specific class centered around writing a report when you could be spending this precious time on other more alarming subjects?

After receiving your first graded assignment, and looking to your side only to be met with the hellish mess that was your Partner’s crumbling sheet you finally realized why this class was an obligatory module for graduation… You cannot decipher at which point his description of physical phenomena turned into a horrific amalgamation of scribbled equations, and- is that khaenri'ahn script? Nevermind, you do not want to know…

Zandik catches you fearfully attempting to understand the meaning behind his rather… messy report…and lets out an annoyed huff in the process.

He is an excellent scientist in the making yes, but he has a hard time translating the concepts that take place in his head into a mere sheet of paper, and the fact that someone, especially YOU, happened to be witness to one of his intellectual weaknesses, that he so arduously attempted to hide, stroke a nerve.

The moment the class is dismissed Zandik is packing his materials and leaving this humiliating experience, you quickly come to the understanding that his speed is not necessarily a byproduct of his failing grade, but rather of the fact that you saw said grade.

You knew Zandik had a reputation for being a Genius in the making, and honestly a part of yourself could not help but be relieved by the fact that this class was proof that he could also fail, that he was indeed human.

You gather your belongings as fast as you can manage, and decide to follow the boy into whatever corner of this building he has decided to retire himself into. When you find him you offer to secretly help him with his failing grade, which he reluctantly accepts. That is the beginning of the rather weird relationship you happened to establish with Zandik, you weren't necessarily friends… you knew that despite his act in front of the professors and all the well calculated smiles he threw into the air, Zandik didn't actually see any of your colleagues on exactly friendly terms… but you hoped… You hoped that perhaps after all of this he could find in himself the sympathy to see, at least yourself, in a softer light…And the thing is, he did, trully. You simply weren't capable of perceiving it.

It was rather unnoticeable, and only someone with an extremely keen eye and patience would be capable of noticing the slight ways in which Zandik would relax his composure when in your presence, how his gaze would linger on you while you corrected another maze-like report of his, how he would lie to you about being offered 2 coffees instead of one thanks to his Genius-like reputation among the academic staff, and now you would have to drink the other one so he doesn't over caffeinate his system.

It was honestly quite warming, while it lasted at least. You helped Zandik obtain the grade he needed in order to pass that tormenting class, and sincerely hoped that this would not be the end of the untold arrangement between the two of you.

The unnamed relationship between you and Zandik, to your surprise, remained intact after that class, he continued to talk to you whenever you too happened to be in the same room (which even though at first glance does not seem to be that much, it is actually quite important for him since you happened to be the only other student which he does not see as a complete waste of his time), and when he noticed that you were having a hard time with Multivariable Calculus he took it upon himself to tutor you through that fearsome class. It was those tutoring sessions that really allowed Zandik to learn more about you, from your favorite dish to your family history, and eventually to teasingly referring to you only by the name of your favorite constellation.

“Careful there Icarus you don’t want to burn your wings away now do you?”

“Zandik why is the lab on fire?”

It was all going quite well… until the rumors began…

All the compliments that embellished Zandik’s reputation in the beginning slowly metamorphosed into quick whispers in the hallways pertaining to his rather unorthodox ideas, people began fearing for their safety after the disappearances and deaths began… And the initial worry directed towards your person and safety, as being the closest student to Zandik, eventually transformed itself into comments about how you too must also possess some sort of sickness in that head of yours in order to talk with him so casually…

Zandik was ok with people gossiping about him, that is as ok as one can be when your sanity has turned into a theme of communal discussion, but when the hatred that those around him started to deviate from being completely aimed towards him and began to shift towards your unknowing figure, he had to put it all to a stop. You were the only person in that damned establishment that saw him beyond the performance he put up every waking hour, the only person that treated him as if he were an actual human being and not an interesting concept, and no matter how ardently he wanted to be accursed alongside your embrace he couldn't bring himself to actually bring the both of you into your own doom.

He stopped talking to you completely. It's as if in the matter of a fleeting night your bodily presence had been turned invisible to his eyes, your voice echoed upon deaf ears, your pleas for an explanation gone unheard, left to rot alongside yourself.

You tried, you really did, but Zandik persisted, and at some point your loud requests for an explanation had been turned into a fleeting glance on your way to class, only to then become the impossibility of seeing him for weeks on end…

You want to say that you were surprised when he was expelled, but honestly you saw it coming before he did. Zandik, no matter how many times he bashed in his capacity of predicting the outcomes of any possible situation, was always a victim of his own ego, he thought himself undefeatable and it was (temporarily at least) your job to ground him to reality when necessary.

He had strayed too far, and now his own genius could not save him from whatever grave he had dug for himself this time, not even you could stretch a lending hand to bring him from the darkest pits of his mind back to the light…

It has been years since the last time you saw Zandik, out of everyone in your sector of the Academia he was the only one you were certain of achieving greatness in the future, only for that hypothetical greatness to be cut short before he could even graduate successfully…

You tried to find him, after he was banished from Sumeru, no matter how hideous his actions, you could not forget the fact that he too was a human being, you had seen parts of Zandik the world considered utterly impossible, and you hoped that he could see that no matter how tarnished his person could become by the words of the masses, you still saw him as the boy that would ramble about Ancient Civilizations while you studied anatomy, the same boy that would take you to the areas of Sumeru streaming with wildlife and lecture you on all the different properties of the various species inhabiting your surroundings, the same boy that sent you letters nearly every two days when you had to temporarily interrupt your studies to help a sick family member…

But now it has been years, and even though you were able to somehow balance out both your professional research and that for the whereabouts of Zandik, you have found yourself with absolutely no fruitful outcome to the latter.

You quickly realized that you had completely spaced out with your various reports left untouched in front of you, recently the amount of times you temporarily lose awareness only to daydream about your old days with Zandik has become alarmingly bigger, you really should get some healthy amounts of sleep from now on…Especially after receiving a heads up from Alhaitham of a wandering Traveler that supposedly is going to pass by your office today in order to request your help.

You begin to clean up your reports, organizing every sheet according to your personal system until your eyes land upon a rogue letter that you cannot recall having in your possession.

The only tip that could lead to the identity of the sender was the initial -D stamped upon the untouched envelope. You switfly grabbed and began to open the lonely envelope in an uninterested manner, that is until it suddenly fell upon your paralyzed feet, leaving your trembling hands stuck in their prior position, as if you were still holding that now forgotten letter within your grasp.

All it took was one inked phrase.

“Greetings, my dear Icarus…”

#genshin impact #genshin imagines #genshin harbingers #il dottore #il dottore x reader #dottore #dottore x reader #fatui harbingers #harbingers x reader #fatui harbingers x reader #imagine #zandik #zandik x reader

1K notes · View notes

codfanficedits · 6 months

Text

Drunken piggyback rides.

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!Reader

Summary: Simon gives you a piggyback ride home :)

Wordcount: 4775| Rating: E (18+ only!)

Warnings: miscommunication, communication, friends to lovers, fluff, swearing, drinking.

A/N:I didn't proofread and English isn't my native tongue, so please let me know if there are mistakes. This was supposed to be short, but it ended up longer than I planned. See this as a little make up gift for the last fic

“Next time you’re drunk of your tits, you call me, got it?” You can recall Ghost’s gruff words the last time you got drunk out of you mind. You’d thrown up in Price’s shoes, and it was fair to say that no one was really charmed of your drunken antics. Especially not when half of the taskforce was send out to look for you, since your drunken mind was unable to stumble back to base. So here you were, waiting in the godforsaken cold, until Ghost came to pick you up. You didn’t hear him coming, his footsteps silent while he took long strides your way. How could a man so tall, so bulky be so quiet?

“Bloody hell.” He groans, as he sees your drunken state. A lazy grin on your face, unable to stand straight on your own feet. “The next time I see Soap I’ll kill him for challenging him to a drinking contest.”

“Thank you.” You giggle, unable to determine if his annoyance is real or a decoy. Ghost shakes his head. “You’re goddamn lucky that I came to pick you up and not some fucking pervert. Do you know what could’ve happened?” But his scoldings are for the deaf, you simply do not care. He is here now? So what is his problem. You can see him struggle on how to take you back, you’re too drunk to walk, and he isn’t one to pick you up bridal style. So he sighs and offers you a piggy back ride. His hands are firmly under your thighs, his touch is warm and gentle, a nice contrast to the cold air. You notice his walk is slow and steady, almost as if he is afraid to drop you. You close your eyes, rolling your head back as you finally relax.

“Thank you again.”

The sound he makes is something between a growl and a chuckle. “It’s nothing.” He says in a dry voice. In truth, you’re probably the last person he expected to pick up tonight, he had hoped you had learned your lesson. But here you were, drunk out of your mind, and Simon is soft at heart, for you at least.

The last time you’ve had a piggy back ride must’ve been when you were a child, and right know it brings back some nice memories, his strong hands making you feel secure and safe. You’ve already thanked him twice, and you want to thank him a million more times. But he is Ghost and you know you’ll get an earful if you do so. You do open your eyes again, taking in every detail of the side of his face that you can see. “You have a little scare here.” You murmur as your fingertips trace it.

His steps falter. Simon knows the scar you’re talking about. It’s the one on his left cheek, a reminder of the lowest points of his life. He dislikes showing his face, but he is okay with his teammates seeing it. Yet here you are, touching him softly.

“Yeah, just a scratch.” He growls, in an attempt to play it cool. But he has to admit, he doesn’t hate what you’re doing.

Of course you knew the scar, you were there when he got is, you knew how hard that mission had been, you knew how many the team had lost, how close you’d been to losing him too. Your soft lips press against the scar, a sweet little kiss. “I’m glad you’re still here.” Your voice a soft murmur.

That unexpected kiss sends a wave of emotion through him, and before he can even respond, you give him a warm smile that makes his blood pump faster through his veins. Simon tries to regain control of himself, and he fails miserably.

“I.. Damn it.” He growls, trying to hide the blush that creeps on his face. “You are.. a bloody.. troublemaker.” He manages.

But you’re too drunk to notice his inner turmoil and his comment is rewarded with a giggle. You rest your chin on his shoulder, as he carries you back to base, and you feel content, happy even. “Will you kick my ass if I thank you again for walking me home?”

It would’ve been the perfect moment for a funny comeback, but all the snark in the world fails him as he turns his head to the side and is met with you. You’re a handful, and there’s a part of him that wants to strangle you for it. But there’s also a part of him that wishes he could…

He coughs to catch himself before his emotions get the better of his thoughts. “No, uh, probably not.” He grumbles. “But don’t push your luck.”

You know your teammate, your friend, and you know he is annoyed that he is carrying you home instead of sleeping in a warm bed, but deep down you also know he cares too much to let anything harm you.

So you smile at him, your cheek resting on his shoulder as you look at him. The alcohol in combination with the attraction you’ve always felt towards him takes over as your hand makes its way to his hair, running your fingers through the short, dirty blonde hair. “So soft.” You whisper.

A low growl escapes him, a sign that he is slowly, but surely losing the battle to keep his cool. “I know you’re drunk, princess, but you should try to behave yourself.” He grits out. And no matter how many times he had seen you, you always looked gorgeous to him. Your hand in his a sure way to set him off, and this entire situation seem tailor made to drive him insane. Simon picks up his pace, desperate to avoid even more chaos.

Now being called princess by Ghost was a new thing for you, but you weren’t against it. Your fingernails caressing the back of his neck when you take your hand out of his hair. “I’m sorry.” You whisper softly, your breath tickling his ear. Your hand rests at the back of his neck, it felt nice to touch someone, especially when it was someone you cared about.

His jaw tenses as he tries to distract himself from the sweet, warm feeling of your hand on his neck. You are not making this easy for him. If this was any other woman, he’d be all over her in a second. Hell he’s done it before.

But when it comes to you, he feels.. different. A mix of emotions that he is not comfortable with. And the fact that it is you just makes it more confusing.

His clenched jaw doesn’t get unnoticed by you and you remove your hand from his neck, letting it rest on your own body. You knew he wasn’t interested in you, not like that. You had seen him be with other women. Just friends. That is all you’ll ever be. You close your eyes again, and suddenly being back to base is the only thing you want.

Simon doesn’t say anything as he walks faster, desperate to put some distance between him and the situation. As if reading his mind, the entrance of the base appears out of the darkness.

“We’re back.” He growls. As if he suddenly remembers your head is resting on his shoulder, he stops walking and tries to push you off. “Get off.” He snaps, his tone more harsh that he intended.

You look up from his shoulder, bracing yourself when his hands stop holding your thighs as he lets go off you. You know you have walk the last part yourself. “Thank you.” You mumble after an awkward silence, and you watch him walk away, not saying a word to you as he disappeared into base. And for that moment you hate yourself, but you suppress those feeling as you stumble back to your own quarters.

Simon doesn’t look back; it’s better that way. He walks to his own quarters, alone, and he sinks down to his bed. Why does it have to be you that gets to his emotions? Why do you have to be the one to make him feel this way? He doesn’t want to think about it.. he hates himself for it. But the thoughts won’t go away. And now, all he can hear is your voice. The way it sounds when you whisper.

“So soft...”

You hate this, you hate how your feelings for him come out when you’re drunk, and that while you’re so good at hiding them when you’re sober.

A friend. A friend. A friend. You keep chanting it to yourself, a mantra stuck in your brain. Ghost just sees you as a friend, and you need to learn to accept it. You drop yourself to your bed, your eyes falling shut as you think about the inevitable, facing him again tomorrow.

But Simon can’t get you out of his head. No matter how many times he tries, the thoughts refuse to leave.

Your voice.

Your face.

Damn it.

He watches the hours pass, the walk home replaying in his mind.

There’s no point in sleeping and he wants a cigarette and he wants it now.

“I still bloody hate you.” He murmurs to himself.

You’re tossing and turning the whole night. Short naps, short sessions to stare at the wall and the cycle repeats. The alcohol starts to wear off and you’re faced with what happened this night. You curse yourself, you curse yourself for touching that scar, for kissing the scar, for touching his hair. God, you hated yourself. You swing your legs over the edge of your bed, hoping that a quick shower and a change of clothes would make you feel better.

Of course they don’t. A pounding headache starts to form, a sign that your thoughts are finally sober. A glass of water and two painkillers enter your system as you slip on some shoes. God you need a cigarette and some fresh air. Fuck. You stop in your tracks as you spot him, smoking all by himself. Why him? Why now.

Simon takes a long, slow drag from his cigarette and leans against a wall outside base. He closes his eyes, enjoying the peace of the empty morning.. and then he hears footsteps. His head snaps up, his eyes narrowed and scanning the area. But it’s just you. Of course it is. A wave of unease washes over him as he watches you approach.

“Morning.” He mutters. He doesn’t want to talk to you, and yet there’s a small part of him that’s secretly glad you’ve come.

It is awkward. Oh dear God it is awkward, and you wish you had just stayed in bed, rotting away while you cringed at your drunken behaviour, but no, you just had to go outside.

“Simon.” You mutter back as a greeting, before you light your own cigarette, keeping the distance between the two of you. God damn it, why couldn’t they just allow smoking everywhere on this base? Why did he have to be out here too, in the little smokers corner?

The uneasy silence stretches between you. You both know what happened last night but you’re both too embarrassed to speak about it. Simon inhales and exhales, exhaling clouds of smoke as he struggles to look anywhere but at you.

“Look I.. what the hell were you thinking?” he asks suddenly, breaking the silence. “Do you.. what.. what the hell?” he struggles to continue.

You close your eyes at his harsh words. Opening them again after you’ve taken a deep breath. What the hell had you been thinking? You don’t even know yourself.

“Look.” You start with a hoarse whisper. “I am sorry.” And you truly are. You’re sorry that he had to carry her home, you are sorry that she kissed his scar, you’re sorry that you ran your hand through his hair.

“I shouldn’t have done any of this.”

Simon takes a long drag and then exhales, his jaw clenched and his expression is one of irritation. “But you did.” He growls. He’s annoyed, and yet.. even he is too embarrassed to admit that he enjoyed the way you were looking at him last night. But he pushes that thought aside. “Why?” He hisses. “Why did you do that?”

Yeah, why did you do it? Because you love him, because you have had the biggest crush on him the moment you met him. But he doesn’t look at you the way he looks at the women he takes home from the bar. So you push it away again, like you had done plenty of times before.

“I was drunk.” You say meekly, and it’s the truth. “I was drunk and I want to let you know I’m glad you didn’t die on that mission.” You continued, the main reason why you kissed that scar. “And now I’m sober and I’m embarrassed.” You shake your head. “I’m sorry for treating you like this, you’re my friend and I overstepped your boundaries.”

Simon stays silent as he drags on his cigarette. His mind races.

Don’t think it. Don’t think it. Don’t think it. You’re imaging it, that’s all.

His eyes flick to yours for a split second, and then fix on the ground again. He wants to be mad at you right now. He wants to be mad because it is easier than all these emotions he is not willing to explore.

Don’t think it. Don’t think it. Don’t think it.

Oh but this is even worse, the way this silence lingers between the two of them, how he doesn’t even look at you. God, you hate yourself for letting it go to this point.

Your cigarette is burning up by itself, you haven’t even taken a single drag yet. You bring the cigarette to your lips, taking a drag before she blows out the smoke, waiting for him to say anything. But there is just silence, nothing more than silence. So you press your cigarette our against the wall.

“I’m sorry.” You repeat again.

Simon finishes his cigarette too and stubs it out against the wall. Then he does something he never thought he would. He closes the distance between the two of you and embraces you tightly. Burying his head in your shoulder and wrapping his arms around you. He doesn’t say or do anything else. He just stands there, for the longest time, enjoying the feeling of having you in his arms.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You don’t know what to do. You don’t know how much longer you can keep up this façade of just being friends. But you can’t lose him, anything but losing him. So your hand rests on the back of his head while he buries his head into your shoulders, hiding in your hair. Your other hand resting on his back, your nails making soft circles on his shirt, while your heart feels like it is beating out of your chest.

Simon buries his head further into your shoulder, closing his eyes in the process. Your soft touch is making him feel things that he is not ready to acknowledge, let alone face them. His breathing matches yours, slow and steady. And he doesn’t want this moment to ever end. Why does this, with you, feel more intimate than any of the other woman? Why does your touch feel different than everyone else’s?

You close your eyes too as you hold him close. You like this feeling more than you’ll ever let him know. But God, do you want to hold him longer, kiss him, touch him, taste him, be his. The hand on his head gets lifted and moves to his neck, making the same soft circles as on his shirt.

The sensation of your nails on his skin sends tingles throughout his body, the sensation becoming almost too much for him to bear. But he does bear it, refusing to give in to the feeling of your touch. The feeling of what he could have. Of what he could be with you. He struggles to keep his mind clear, to ignore what the body wants to do. But it’s hard, it’s so very hard.

It's torture.

Torture that he wants to make last forever.

Your eyes lift up to the sky, the morning colour painting the sky as a canvas and for a brief moment it is all perfect. But reality dawns on you again, you’re holding your friend, the man you’ve been crushing on since you met. But who will always be just a friend. You place your cheek against his head, both hands, both set of nails softly caressing his skin.

Simon lets out a low murmur of approval as he feels your hands working their magic, a growl emerging from him as he turns his head slightly and buries it deeper into the crook of your neck. This… this is torture.

He wants your hands everywhere on him. He wants this moment, this feeling, to never end. God, how much longer can he take it?

“It’s.. it’s just too nice.” He murmurs. But he is not saying it to you, he is saying to himself.

You can barely make out the words that leave his lips, but they make your heart flutter. You can feel his lips move against the sensitive skin on your neck. The hand on his neck stays there, although your nails dance around the border of his hairline, before they go back to his neck again. The hand on his back goes from making circles to making long strokes, up to the shoulder blades, all the way down to the small of his back.

Simon lets out a long sigh, feeling your hand stroke across his back. It feels good. Damn good. Good enough that the can only think about how he doesn’t want it to end. It brings him a sense of comfort he hasn’t felt in a long time. Please stay here, right here, right now. His arms squeeze your tighter as your nails send tingles of pleasure throughout his body. Don’t let it end.

Standing here like this, with him in your arms makes you forget about it all, it made you forget about him carrying you back to base, about you being so drunk you kissed his scar, about the awkward silence you had while smoking. It doesn’t matter anymore, all that matters is this moment. Your nails run all over his back, changing the pressure. Going from slow to fast, back to slow again. All so you can hold him a little longer.

Simon is basking in the sensation of your hand running all over his back. The change in pressure, the slow to fast, back to slow again, is heaven on earth.

You’re his heaven.

This moment is heaven.

He breathes a sigh of content as he keeps his head in the crook of your neck, wanting this bliss to last as long as possible.

A smile curls on your lips as you notice his reaction to the change of pressure and speed. Anything to make him happy. In a moment of boldness you press a soft kiss on the top of his head. Begging that he will take the hint and takes the lead.

His breath catches in his throat as you kiss his head. This isn’t torture anymore.

It’s torment.

Goddamn torment.

But don’t you dare stop.

Simon isn’t the only one who finds this torment. You’re craving the feeling of slipping your hand under his shirt and letting your fingertips and nails caress the bare skin of his back. But you can’t, you’re still outside, you’re still just friends. But how can you love another man after his?

Your continued touch is driving him absolutely insane. God do you even know what would happen if he did let you slip your hand under his shirt? And do you even know what he wants to do to you right now? God, his mind is filled with thought he never knew he had. You just want to know what could be, what could happen if one of you was to cross that line of being friends. But you’re scared, scared of losing him as a friend. But you’re just as brave as you are scared. Brave enough that when you reach the small of his back again, you let your hand slip under his shirt, your nails making soft circles on his bare skin, all while you hold your breath, anticipating his reaction.

Oh God. His breathing catches in his throat as he tries to ignore the sensation of your nails against his bare skin, but he can’t.

He wants.. He wants..

Simon turns quickly, his hands reaching for your waist before he pulls your body close to his. His free hand holds your head, his face inches away from yours. “Don’t you do this to me right now.” He hisses. “We’re friends. You’re my friend.”

You swallow the lump in your throat as you remove the hand from under his shirt, the hand on his neck stops moving before you remove that one too. Your hands falling limp next to your body. “Friends.” You whisper back.

Simon takes a deep, calming breath to settle his heart rate before he leans in closer, his lips mere centimetres away from yours.

“Friends.” He whispers. It’s a simple, yet charged word that hands in the air between the two of you. He know what he just did. He knows what he almost let happen between the two of you. But he knows that he can’t. He won’t let that barrier fall. A friendship is too precious to ruin. And friend don’t kiss each other.

Now it is his turn to torture you. His lips mere centimetres away from yours, and you want to kiss him, you want to be more than just his friend.

You want. You want. You want.

Your heart is pounding in your chest. Your mind is racing.

Friends don’t kiss each other, but rules are made to be broken, right? You don’t want to think, not of the consequences.

So you press your lips against his.

His lips are against yours, and he wants nothing more than to deepen these soft kisses as the two of you lose yourselves in each other’s bodies. His arm wraps around your back, his other hand stroking the locks of hair behind your ear as he caresses your cheek. For Simon there is nothing else here, nothing else is real, nothing else matters. Just you in his arms, and his lips on yours.

Oh God, you had expected him to push you away, to remind you that you were just friends. But instead, Simon broke the rules just like you did. You hand goes to his back again, holding him close again and it is making you feel alive again.

He continues to press his lips against yours, his tongue sliding against yours as he lets out a low groan of pleasure. His fingers run through your hair as if he is running through a field of golden wheat. His hand moves down to your lower back and brings you in tighter, as if he wants nothing more than to hold you closer than he’s ever held anyone.

Just a little longer.

You’re so close to him, to the point where you don’t know where he ends an you begin, but by God are you loving it. No matter how much you enjoy this, how much longer you want to this, you need to breath, a little strand of saliva between the two of them as you pull back.

Fuck.

The taste of your tongue lingers in his mouth, even when he pulls back with a reluctant groan.

His voice is husky, thick with desire. “Friends don’t kiss. Remember?” As much as he wants to continue, he knows that it can’t. At least not right now. His body yearns for yours, but this isn’t the time. He can’t risk losing you to a moment of passion. Because you’re more than just his friends.

You’re everything.

You hate those words, and you hate that he is the one saying them. But even if he is saying them. He is still holding you close, too close for just friends.

“Then be more than my friend.” You whisper.

And that one sentence cuts him like a blade through the heart. He looks at you.. really looks at you. Those words, if he were to say yes, if he were to tell you everything he wants to right now, would you do the same? Would you be more than just his friend? Would you risk everything just to have him?

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” He asks quietly. He lets go off you, removing his hands from your body. God, this moment is killing him.

Your body feels empty, cold without his hands on it, and you’re craving his touch, more than you’ve ever craved something else in your life.

“Yes.” You whisper. “Yes I am.”

The weight of your reply hangs in the air, the tension between the two of you almost painful. He wants you. He wants you more than he’s ever wanted anything. He wants to sweep you off of your feet, to have you in his arms in a way he’s never wanted anyone. But more than that. He wants to keep you. “What if I lose you?”

This hurts, it crumbles up your heart, but it is a fair question and you need to answer it. “But what if you don’t?” you answer. “We’ve been friends since the beginning. I can’t pretend to be friends any longer.”

Your words catch him off guard. You wanted this all this time? And here he was thinking this was just happening. Suddenly, this little moment of passion isn’t as little as he thought. “This whole time you wanted more?”

You hoped it would have slipped past him, but of course it didn’t. It was Simon we’re talking about here.

All this motherfucking time. All this motherfucking time of you wanted this. He lets out a soft groan of pain, his chest tight with nerves and emotions. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

Because you were terrified of losing him, because you were so used to putting others first it felt natural to forget about her own feelings. “Because I thought it was a stupid crush at first, we were both young, filled to the brim with hormones.” You admit. “But now we’re no longer young and filled with hormones, and the feeling stayed..” You voice dies out as you sigh. “I’ve seen the way you look at the women you take home from the bar, I’ve seen the way you look at the women you date, and you never looked at me like that. So I kept it hidden.” You let out a deep breath. “I guess.. Bottomline I didn’t want to get hurt.”

“I didn’t look at you like that because I never saw you like that.” He says, his voice cracking slightly with emotion. “I always saw you as my best friend, my rock. So much more than just friends.” He closes his eyes tightly as he tries to find the words.

“You were never a stupid crush for me.” He continues. “You’re everything to me.”

Everything.

“Goddamn.. How am I going to look you in the eye after this?”

Yeah, how do you go from here? Can you even go from here? You’re not sure.

“With some love, I hope.” You say, with a sheepish smile.

His heart is in his throat as he takes a deep, calming breath and he opens his eyes again. “With some love.” He repeats. Then he wraps a hand around your waist and pulls you in close to him again, his lips inches away from you.

“And a lot of kisses.” He breaths.

He wants you, he wants to finally stop looking at you as just his best friend. He wants to look at you as his.

“And a lot of kisses.” You repeat, before your lips meet his again.

Sweet damn, it feels even better than before. He can feel the world disappear into nothing but two hearts beating in the darkness.

Two bodies pressed together.

Two souls intertwining.

Two people losing themselves in each other.

Two people, now more than friends, more than best friends, more.

He is lost in you.

This moment.

Right here, right now.

Is everything he’s ever wanted.

Everything.

205 notes · View notes

grxmreaperx · 7 months

Note

YOUR WRITING IS SO GOOD AAHHH 🥰🥰 If you’re still taking requests, could I get something for Hoffman x Female reader?? You can decide the main plot points, I’m just looking for something with maybe a hurt reader and fluffy ending and smut, if you’re okay writing that of course!!

I’m so glad there’s more people writing for Saw and Hoffman. 🫶🏻

Of course, lovely, you’re so sweet!! Y'all get to eat good tonight, fic writing has become my way of winding down at the end of the day, so the Hoffman stans get two smut fics in one night!

Also, I am working my way through my replies! If you have submitted a request, I promise I will get to you (don't worry Strahm babes, I haven't forgotten about you <3)

I wrote this from Hoffman’s POV, just for funsies.

Nurse Hoffman

Pairing: Mark Hoffman x female reader

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: canon violence (gas house trap), hurt reader, Mark being angry and protective; smut 18+!! Mark making the reader feel better in more ways than one; oral sex (f! receiving), p in v penetration, Mark being filthy and cocky as fuck

Summary: You and Amanda go into the gas house to make sure the game goes smoothly. When Xavier goes on a rampage looking for everyone’s number, he gets a little too close to you for Mark’s comfort.

“Let me in the fucking house, John!” Hoffman yelled, slamming his fist against the table.

“Not until the game is finished. We need the recording for the police.”

The two men were watching the security cameras as the women made their way through the house, Amanda trying to protect Daniel, and you looking for something, anything to stop Xavier.

“This wasn’t part of the plan! Let me in the fucking house!” Mark felt like he was going to explode, watching the tank of a man stumble after you through the house of death. He paced around the room, fists clenched tight, eyes not once leaving the screens.

The toxin had started to show its effects on you: Mark could see the sweat coating your face, the blood you retched up into your hand. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He had told John not to pick Xavier, he was too much of a liability, too big of a wild card. But no. The fucking game.

He saw what you were doing. You lured Xavier away from the starting point, away from your point of escape, so Amanda and Daniel could have more time. He watched as you backed yourself into the needle pit room, Xavier moments behind you, and pried one of the broken floorboards off its final nails.

He knew they needed Daniel for the plan, they needed something to lure in Matthews. But he’d give everyone in that godforsaken house to have you sitting safely in that room with him.

His breathing stopped as Xavier entered the room, that taunting smile spreading across his face.

“You think that piece of wood is going to stop me, huh? Cmon sweetie, I just need the number on your neck. It’ll be quick, I promise.”

You stood, knees slightly bent, eyes boring into the man in front of you. Hoffman watched as you backed slowly closer to the pit of needles, plank raised in front of you. “Come get it then.”

Xavier lunged at you, knife swinging through the air. Mark’s heart stopped when he saw blood blooming on your shirt sleeve. Oh, he was going to kill him. He was going to kill him, and he was going to make it hurt.

You dropped to the ground and for a moment, Mark was ready to raise Hell and bring it into the abandoned house. Until he saw you slide between Xavier’s legs, jumping up behind him, and taking your shot.

He didn’t breathe again until he saw the blow land on the back of Xavier’s head, knocking him off balance just enough for him to teeter into the pit of needles.

“You bitch! You fucking bitch!” The man swam around, trying to get a grip on something besides the sharp point of a syringe.

You fell to the ground as, on another camera, Amanda and Daniel made their way into the old bathroom. Game over.

Mark hurried toward the door, ready to tear down the walls of that house if he needed to.

When Mark saw your eyes flutter open, it felt like the world began to spin again.

“Hey there, Detective,” you said softly, voice hoarse. “How long have I been out?”

“A couple of hours. I gave you the antidote and had to bandage up your arm.”

You looked down at your left arm, almost as if you had forgotten Xavier had even come close. “Ah, shit. Motherfucker.”

Mark let out a small laugh. “How you feeling?”

“Better than ever. You been here taking care of me?”

He gave a shallow nod and watched as you looked around, trying to get your bearings, before realizing you were safe in your apartment.

You looked over at him. “How did you know where I hide my key?”

He laughed. “I thought a smart woman like you would know not to hide her key under the mat.”

You rolled your eyes at him. You slowly sat up and before he even knew what he was doing he was right by your side. Your eyes met his as a smirk spread across your lips. “What, you worried about me or something, Hoffman?”

Pulling his gaze from your eyes, clearing his throat, the only words he could conjure were “I’m gonna get you something to drink, you need to rehydrate.”

He felt you reach up, wrapping your hand around his shirt collar. “I’m fine,” you muttered, before pulling his face down to meet his lips.

Something snapped deep in his stomach and suddenly he was on you, caging your body under his own, careful to avoid your bandaged arm. Your lips crashed together, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth. He felt your hands reach up, burying themselves in his hair. He reluctantly pulled away from your lips, dragging his down to your neck.

“You sure you’re up for this?”

You nodded, running your hands over his chest. He grabbed your wrists, pinning them down on either side of your head, lips making their way over your throat.

“You want me to make you feel good, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you breathed, wrapping your legs around his waist.

A growl rumbled in his throat as he ran his hands down you body, pulling down the sweats he had dressed you in and your underwear in one tug. His eyes flicked to your shirt. “Take it off.”

You quickly complied, sitting up just enough to slip the shirt over your head and unhook your bra. His eyes roamed over your body, watching your chest rise and fall with each breath. His hands squeezed your thighs as his lips brushed over your stomach. “Tell me what you want, princess.”

You let out a soft sigh. “You, I want you.”

“Cmon, sweetheart, you can do better than that. Tell me what you want.”

“I want your fingers. And your tongue.” He felt your breathing speed up as his lips moved lower, gliding across your hip bones.

“Much better.” He buried his face between your legs, savoring the whimpers that fell from your mouth. His tongue drew circles around your clit as he slowly slides two fingers inside you, pumping them deeper each time.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathed, legs clamping shut around his head.

He pulled his lips away, drawing a whine from your mouth. “Spread your fuckin’ legs for me or I’ll stop.”

You forced your legs apart, sliding a hand behind each knee to keep yourself from closing them again.

He could tell you were already close by the way your legs were shaking, your breathing heavy. He began pumping his fingers faster, sucking on your clit harshly. “God, baby, already gonna cum for me? How long’s it been since someone’s touched you like this?”

“Too long,” you said softly, feeling the tension build in your stomach. “God, please don’t stop.”

He curled his fingers and felt you arch underneath him, legs shaking violently as your orgasm washed over you.

“Good girl,” he growled as he pulled away from you, making his way back up your body. He sat up, slowly unbuckling his pants, watching your face for your reaction. You were watching him intently, eyes clouded from pleasure.

He pulled his dress pants down just enough to free his dick, a cocky smile crossing his face as your eyes took him in. “You see something you like, baby?”

You nodded quickly, letting out a chorus of soft whimpers, begging him to do something.

Normally, he would force more out of you, teasing your cunt until you had tears in your eyes, but he figured you had already had a long enough day. He’d be nice, just this once.

He lifted one of your legs onto each shoulder, lining his cock up at your entrance before slowing sliding in. He savored the feeling of you pulsing around him, the look of euphoria on your pretty face as you took every damn inch. “So good for me, such a pretty whore, huh?”

Your moans were music to his ears, eyes drinking in the sight of your body bouncing with every stroke.

“God, you look so pretty, full of my cock. Such a good girl.” You cried out, throwing your head back, rolling your hips to meet his. He smiled, the only words falling from your lips were “please,” “fuck,” and moans of his name.

You were his.

He felt your legs shake against his shoulders as you rode out your second orgasm, so cock-drunk you couldn’t even form words. He grabbed your hips, picking up speed before his own euphoria rushed over him, emptying himself deep inside of you.

He stilled, both of you trying to catch your breath, before pulling out and lying down next to you. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, gently pulling you to him and laying your head on his chest.

“Well, Detective,” you said softly. “You have to be the best nurse I’ve ever had.”

He chuckled, shaking his head, and pushing your hair off your forehead. “Dumbass.”

When Xaiver next opened his eyes, all he could see was the outline of a television.

He was painfully aware of each and every puncture in his skin, now soaked in citric acid.

The TV clicked on, a white doll with black hair staring at him through the screen.

“Hello Xaiver. You thought you were done after your little performance in the house? Oh, no.”

“I’d like to play a game.”

#mark hoffman x reader #fanfic #saw #saw franchise #mark hoffman #smut

341 notes · View notes

callmelola111 · 8 months

Text

maniac ♡ e.w. oneshot

✄ - - - - inspo track - - - - maniac

synopsis: lies are spewed and truths are revealed when a precarious friend group joins together once more on the 1 year anniversary of their estranged friends disappearance.

| 𓆣 | pairing & wc: ellie williams x reader. wc: 4.4k

| ❀ | cw: 18+ themes (MDNI), modern au, reader is referred to with she/her pronouns but other than that all descriptors are gender neutral, heavy violence blood and gore, oc deaths, drug use, homophobia (use of the word "dyke" once. i'm a lesbian so don't y'all try to cancel me), heavy language, mentions of reader having anxiety and panic attacks, lots of tension and fighting, ⭑ SMUT ⭑ ... thigh riding (r on e), dom!ellie, sub!reader, fingering (r receiving), pet names (baby, angel, etc.)

a/n: hi lovelies!! long time no see... i know this is a little different from my usual stuff but i honestly really love how it turned out. i spent a good chunk of time planning this out and then even longer writing it so i really hope y'all love it! i want this to be a fresh and exciting read for everyone. if you do end up enjoying the fic, any kind of note is greatly appreciated! ur fave tumblr writers thrive off all y'alls support! anyways, love love love you guys!!! ♡~ lola

To everyone else, it was a summer like any other. But when it came to you and your friends there was something missing this time– someone missing. This absence felt extra heavy as tomorrow would be the 1 year anniversary of August’s disappearance, and the annual camping trip was right on time with it. It had been tradition for as long as you could remember, but its memory was now tainted and left something that used to be so sure, completely up in the air…

✄ - - - - ♡ - - - -

The five of you squeezed into the small 4 person booth at your favorite local diner; Tj’s Eats. In one seat sat Lottie and Reid. The girl’s loose, dark curls gathered at the boy's shoulders as she snuggled into him, still clearly in the honeymoon stage of their relationship. On the other side of the white marbled table sat Xavier and Ellie, with you perched on her lap, of course, as she insisted to everyone that it was “necessity” and “there really, really was no more room”. In all actuality, all it took was an extra chair to fit the five, but she was your girlfriend, and even after years of dating you still couldn’t get enough of each other.

“Can someone just say what we’re all thinking, please! I can’t with this tension,” Lottie complained, finally snapping out of the cuddle fest with her red-headed boyfriend.

“What are we all thinking Lottie, huh? Since you know everything,” Xavier retaliated, guising his irritation with a poorly crafted remark.

“Don’t be fucking mean,” she said, kicking him under the table.

“Yeah seriously chill out,” Reid echoed.

“God, enough with this shit, you guys are driving me insane!” Ellie butted in. You, however, paid no mind to this type of bullshit, as fights like this had become a frequent occurrence in your group of friends ever since that godforsaken night. So you continued to down your chocolate shake and drown out the bickering with a light hum. That is, until you were rudely interrupted by Xavier’s insulting words.

“You’re being real fucking quiet over there, Y/n. Do you really have nothing to say? You can’t just tune us out forever. We’re your fucking friends.”

You felt your hands balled into tight fists, “Fine. You want me to say something? I’ll say something–my brother is still missing and if you’re even thinking of going on that stupid fucking trip this year, you can count me out.”

“Not going on that trip isn’t gonna magically bring him back. August is gone and we can’t stop living our lives because of it,” he retorted, going just a tad bit too far. This was the last straw and quickly sent you up and out of your warm place in Ellie’s lap. She grasped at your wrist trying to pull you back into this mess of a friend group, but to no avail.

“Now look what you’ve fucking done!” Ellie yelled at your defense as you disappeared into the bathroom.

✄ - - - - ♡ - - - -

Now face-to-face with your tear-stained cheeks in the mirror, your head fell down between your shoulders, slowly letting the pent up emotions roll off your back. Ever since you lost August, life had become 10 times harder. As much as your younger self would’ve hated to admit it, he was your rock–your annoying brother–but still, your rock. This confession made you feel even worse though, because deep down, there was a part of you that blamed yourself for how things happened. Maybe if you would’ve stopped fighting, or told the truth to the police, or took it easier on the booze and coke that night, August would still be here. There was nothing you could do now though. This was your reality and you had to accept it.

With that you reached into the pocket of Ellie’s varsity jacket that engulfed your figure, hoping to find a tissue to blot away your tears and smeared mascara. Instead, you were met with a small polaroid. You flipped it over to reveal a bewildering picture of Xavier and August from the last night he was seen. Their arms were swung around each other’s necks, both flashing toothy smiles at the camera and you could recall being the one to take this photo. The one thing you didn’t remember is the black sharpie captioning the bottom of the image. It read “don’t believe his lies”. Your head began to race with countless questions and zero answers. The biggest one being, what the fuck was Xavier lying about?

The wet bathroom countertop dug into the palms of your hands as you took a second to decide the best course of action, but all you could come up with was shutting the fuck up and pretending it never happened. You weren’t ready to relive last year all over again. Not yet–not ever. So you paraded back into the dining room, eyes still damp and hands still shaking. Ellie felt your energy immediately and knew it was time to go.

She glanced at you for confirmation and then turned to address the group, “I think it’s time for me and Y/N to head out. Sorry guys.” Xavier shot a look of discontent and Ellie mouthed something along the lines of “I’m sorry, I’ll talk to her I promise”, which seemed to slightly ease the tension he was previously carrying in his shoulders. She then slid out from the booth, slipped her left hand into the pocket of your denim shorts, and ushered you outside to her red convertible.

The drive back was silent but as Ellie’s hand gently stroked the flesh of your thighs and the other steered you knew there was no way she could have anything to do with that polaroid. But you had to find out who did. Just as you were nearing your house though, Ellie’s gentle touch quickly shifted to a handsier approach and it was clear she had other plans for the night.

“Els?” is all you had to say before she quickly pulled over and jumped to the backseat, pulling you along with her. She positioned herself in the middle seat opening up her legs in a dominating stance resembling a manspread. You eagerly climbed atop her lap, placing soft kisses up her veiny neck and extending them to her defining jawline. This was just what you needed to release the tension that had racked up from tonight's events. The moon was hitting your face just right and Ellie felt so lucky to have you in that moment.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful” she murmured, slightly breathless from the overwhelming touch of your lips. You smiled against the crook of her neck and dove into the girl's mouth for a deep and passionate kiss. She returned the exchange with even more fire, graciously slipping her tongue into your entrance. With each second things got messier and your hips got looser, slowly grinding into Ellie’s denim clad thighs. She couldn’t help but chuckle just a little at your desperation, to which you buried your head back into her shoulder, encasing her in your arms for better traction. Ellie’s hands swiftly found the curves of your hips and rocked them back forth to aid you in your journey towards climax. That is until your anxiety got the best of you at the sound of rustling coming from outside the car.

“Ellie?”

“What does it not feel good?” she questioned.

“No, no– It’s just… I swear I just heard something coming from behind the car.”

“I mean… we are parked by the woods. It’s probably just some animal or the wind.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes babe, I’m sure.” she assured you with a firm squeeze to your thigh and you let your worries go. This time Ellie was on top, laying you down across the seats to hover over you alluringly. Your lips found hers once again as she slipped a hand down your shorts and past your panties to meet the slick that had been piling up the whole drive. You let out a strangled moan into Ellie’s mouth as her rough digits met the throbbing bud of nerves. She took that as a sign to speed up the pace and slip in a curved finger to hit that perfect spot. You jerked in pleasure, eyes closed, almost reaching your climax from just those few movements. Ellie felt as your walls tightened around her and knew you were close.

“Look at me baby. I wanna see your eye’s when you cum all over my fingers.” she cooed. You obeyed and parted your lids open to reveal a disturbing image followed by a frightened scream escaping your puffy lips. Ellie jumped back at the clearly non-orgasmic exclamation, letting out a string of concerned “what? What??”’s. All you could do is point your shaky hand towards the message written in the condensation of the back windshield.

“I know about last summer…” Ellie read out, voice as shaky as your extremities. Both of your fight or flight responses were triggered; you choosing flight and her of course choosing fight. The door to the cherry red car flung open and Ellie climbed over and out of her seat to trail the perimeter. You cowered down, eye’s filled with tears as Ellie recklessly yelled out to whoever wrote the message.

“Hello? Anybody out there?”, she kicked at the rocks in frustration, “Seriously who the fuck are you? This isnt fucking funny!”

“Ellie, will you please just get back in the car? They’re gone!” you pleaded. She eventually returned from her fit and came to console you. You were a mess and you were scared.

“Hey, hey, it’s probably some prank. Let’s just take a breath, babe. In and out. Nice and slow.” she coached and you followed.

“But- what if it’s not though… what if this isn’t the first time something like this has happened…”

“Wha-what do you mean?” she asked.

You pulled out the polaroid and handed it to Ellie, “I- I found this in your jacket.”

“Y/n I swear I didn't put that there. I have no idea where it came from. Please, please believe me.”

“I do, I do. But that means someone else put it there, and they probably wrote that message too.”

Her head fell into her hands as she let out a sigh, “Fuck. We’re so fucked.”

“So what do we do?”

“We go on that camping trip and keep our mouths shut till we know more.”

“Seriously? What is camping gonna help? I already said I’m not going!” you yelled.

“Like hell you are! You’re insane if you think staying in the same town with the psycho freak who's borderline blackmailing us is gonna solve shit! If we’re in the woods they can’t get to us.” Ellie argued, face turning red with insistence.

“Fuck. I guess you’re kinda right. I’ll go.”

“Thank you.”

“Will you sleep over tonight though? I’m scared Els. I don’t even wanna think about being alone after tonight.”

She gave you a kiss on the forehead, “Of course I’ll stay the night. We’re in this together, okay?”

“Okay.”

✄ - - - - ♡ - - - -

The next morning Reid came barreling over in his beat up white van. He haphazardly whipped into the driveway of your two story home that looked straight out of suburbia. Ellie stood at the top of the concrete hill holding your pink duffle and her navy blue one on the dip of her shoulder. Xavier swung open the sliding door and the both of you climbed in as you were practically slapped in the face with the smell of old bong water and way too many Little Trees air fresheners that somehow made the smell worse.

“Fuckk Reid, you’ve gotta get rid of this kidnapper van.” Ellie remarked, holding her nose and pretending to gag a couple times.

“Fuck off Ellie, you should be thanking me for driving you bums around.”

She just rolled her eyes, “Righttt… Right…”

The van quickly took to the road again, heading straight for the forest where it all happened just 1 year ago.

“It’s too quiet in here. Can we please put on some music?” Lottie asked about 30 minutes into the drive.

“Yeah sure. I have a few tapes in the console right there if you wanna put one in.” Reid gestured to the compartment on the passenger side and Lottie reached in, pulling out the first tape she could find. It was in a small plastic case with no writing or cover to indicate what it was, but it sparked an intrigue, so she popped it into the car's sound system anyways. To Lottie and everyone else’s surprise, music didn’t start playing. All that came through the speakers was a muffled recording of two voices arguing.

“Shut the fuck up August you’re just jealous!”

“You’re gonna regret this Reid.”

“Are you threatening me right now?”

“You’re the one who-”

Before the tape could finish Reid ripped it out of the player, slamming it into the dashboard and destroying the possible evidence.

“How the fuck did you get this Lottie?! Where’d you find this, seriously?” he screamed as his frantic girlfriend tried to explain.

“It was just in the console I swear!”

“Don’t fucking lie to me! I’ve never seen that tape, let alone put it in my car!”

Tears welled in her eyes, “I’m not lying Reid!”

The bickering continued as you, Ellie, and Xavier sat in the back, jaws dropped in utter shock. You felt yourself shutting down at this new found information. Did Reid have something to do with August disappearing? What were they even fighting about? Suddenly breathing felt impossible and the world went silent as panic set it. You only snapped back to Earth when you heard the sound of Ellie screaming.

“FUCK REID LOOK OUT!” It was too late though and the thud of a full size deer flipping over the hood is what finally shut everyone up.

“Oh my god…” you shuddered at the smear of thick crimson blood across the dirty windshield. It didn’t matter if it was an animal, Reid had just taken a life and you were basically an accomplice. Your heart broke and the pit of your stomach swirled with sickness thinking of the likely decapitated body splattered just behind the van. Ellie wrapped you in her arms, as if to shield you from the horror of not only the poor deer, but the realization that any one of your friends could be the reason your brother was missing.

Xavier finally broke the jarring lull in speech, “I- I think we should take a pit stop.”

“Yeah…” Ellie agreed.

✄ - - - - ♡ - - - -

A few miles down the road was a small gas station where Reid pulled over for everyone to recollect themselves. Lottie scrubbed mindlessly at the deer carnage with the murky gas station water and squeegee she found beside the gas pump. Xavier paced in the parking lot like he was off one but it was the pure anxiety and adrenaline that had him tweaking so much. Reid on the other hand was still stuck at the wheel, slouching in the driver's seat, and not making a single move since he put the van into park. Even his deep green eyes remained motionless, they seemed to be locked onto absolutely nothing, just staring into the void. Everyone was a fucking mess. The only people who seemed to be somewhat on this planet still were you and Ellie.

“I think I might gouge my eye’s out if I don’t eat some Swedish Fish and drink a Yerb as soon as possible.” you professed, walking inside the little convenience store with a ring of a bell.

“I think I need a fucking cigarette.” Ellie said in a joking tone, but candidly, these past few days had her seriously considering picking the old habit back up.

“I think everybody does. I’m tired of shit like this happening and then everyone shoving it under the rug cause we’re all still ashamed about last year. I mean, I know I am, but we have to talk about it eventually.”

“You’re right, but even if we did, what is there to say? We were all so fucked up the whole night’s just a blurry mess. Like, did you see Reid's face when that tape came on? It looked like he was hearing the conversation for the first time just like the rest of us.”

“This sucks Ellie” you groaned as you opened up the glass door to retrieve your drink. Ellie approached from behind, slithering her hands from your sides to your naval and giving you a squeeze.

She planted a soft kiss to the top of your head, “This does suck, but I love you and we’re gonna be alright. You gonna be okay for the rest of the drive?” She flipped you around to face her and you gave an assuring nod in response. Ellie always knew just what to say to ease that panicky feeling that was constantly bubbling up in your chest. The girl then took your hand and led you to the counter where a gruff looking cashier checked you out. He slowly scanned each item at an agonizing pace; Hot fries, Swedish Fish, a Yerba Mate, Chex Mix, and a Fanta Orange.

“Total is $13.78” he mumbled as Ellie swiped her card and you gathered up the snacks. The clerk's eyes seemed to get meaner and meaner each second you waited for your receipt– until he finally cracked. “You know you’re going to hell for what you did.”

Ellie backed away, “Excuse me?” Had he overheard something? Did he know about August? Who the fuck was this guy?

“I don’t need any dykes shoving their sins all in my face in my own damn store!” he grunted. Oh, he’s just homophobic. Right. That was y’alls que to get back on the road and out of the middle of nowhere immediately.

✄ - - - - ♡ - - - -

After an excruciatingly mute hour stuck in the “kidnapper van” you finally arrived at the forest where you’d be spending the night. The silence looked to have eased some of the tension though as conversation grew a little more lax around the campfire.

“Yo Lottie do you have the bud? We should roll up.” Xavier suggested. You nodded fervently in agreement, a joint was exactly what you needed. Lottie seemed to have made up with Reid as she was hanging all over him not hearing a word Xavier said.

With a few calls of her name she finally looked up, “Huh?”

“The weed Lottie.” Ellie said.

“Yeah it’s in a little pouch in my tent if someone wants to grab it.” Xavier got up from his spot on a mossy log and ventured into the purple tent hitched by a tree. In just 30 seconds flat he came storming back out, face completely red and a beaded bracelet dangling from his right fist.

“What the fuck is this Lottie!? How do you have this?”

She pulled back from her steamy kiss with Reid to answer, “Oh my god what Xavier? You’re being sooo goddamn annoying today.”

“Could you maybe stop grinding on your boyfriend for 5 fucking seconds and look at what I found in your bag?!” he yelled back. After a closer look the small beads began to look eerily familiar. This wasn’t just any bracelet, this was August’s bracelet. The one he had on the last night he was seen, and all of the sudden Lottie’s loud mouth seemed to shut right up.

“I- I- Xavier believe me I didn’t put that there.”

His voice broke with pain and fury, “Oh really?? Then who did ‘Miss innocent’?”

“I don’t fucking know but it wasn’t me!”

“Fuck you!” he screamed, dashing off into the dark woods. Everyone tried to yell at him to come back but it was no use. He was too angry to listen to anyone but himself.

That being said, hypervigilant Reid stood up to follow, “I’m gonna go find him guys. He shouldn’t be out there alone. Not after…” His voice trailed off but everyone knew exactly what he was alluding to.

“I really didn’t put that there you know” Lottie said.

You and Ellie shared a glance, “We know.”

A puzzled look spread across her face, “what do you mean you know?”

“We think someone’s orchestrating all this,” Ellie said.

“Like blackmail?”

You nodded, “exactly like blackmail. It’s happened to me and Ellie too. Once with a lost polaroid photo and another time with a message written on her car.” You then pulled out the photo to show to Lottie.

She read it aloud, “Don’t believe his lies? Like… Xavier?” Ellie twiddled with her fingers, looking down at the dirt before saying what you and Lottie were both thinking.

“I mean, I don’t want to point fingers because this is a fucked up situation, but how have we all been framed except him?”

Lottie smoothed back the sweaty bangs stuck to her temples, “Fuckkkk. He probably had the bracelet from the start too, he seemed sooo damn eager to go dig through my shit.”

“So, what do we do?” you asked.

Xavier suddenly appeared out of thin air, “What do we do about what?” Lottie practically jumped out of her spot.

“Fuck Xavier you scared me. Wait… Wh- where’s Reid?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, he left to look for you.”

“I never saw him.”

Lottie began to scream and call for her missing boyfriend and without a second thought went straight for the forest like an idiot.

“Lottie fuck come back!” Ellie yelled out. It wasn’t long before she was running right back to you though. A blood curdling scream dampening any sounds of nature and sending a parade of chills up everyone’s backs.

“IT’S REID Y/N! IT’S REID! HE- HE- HE’S DEAD!” Lottie collapsed into your arms dry heaving from the overwhelming amount of tears, pain, and betrayal. “IT WAS YOU! IT WAS FUCKING YOU XAVIER!” You and Ellie worked to hold her back as he denied every claim.

“Lottie you’re acting fucking crazy! I didn’t do shit!”

“Even if you didn’t, you're not helping! But to me, it looks like you have guilty written all over you!” Ellie spat back.

“Fuck you guys! This isn’t fucking funny! I didn’t do it! Please, is this some kind of-” His words were cut short along with his head by the swing of a large machete right through his neck, sending a spray of fresh blood into the air and across your face. It took a solid 15 seconds before any of you could even let out a scream, but when you did, it was pure terror.

“RUN! JUST RUN!” you yelled. Ellie grabbed your wrist in one hand and Lottie’s in the other, sprinting away with little discretion. A hooded figure trailed close behind, dirt and rocks flying into the air upon each kick of their sneakers. Air caught in your lungs with no release, all you could do was put one foot in front of the other which was a struggle in itself.

Lottie got brave though and took one single look behind her following immediate regret. A rock caught her pink converse just right, throwing her across the dirty ground and setting her feet back from the rest. And as this hooded figure caught up, the moon casting its light through the trees and across his face, it all began to make sense.

Lottie struggled backwards through the dirt with a scream, “IT’S AUGUST! IT’S FUCKING AUGUST!” Ellie halted in an attempt to pull the fallen girl back up and running but she was frozen in disbelief, in horror, in complete and utter fear. There was no choice but to leave her there and as the both of you turned to run, all you needed to hear was her earth shattering shriek to know exactly what happened.

Tears streamed down your face, “Els, Ellie I- I can’t.”

“Yes you can. Just keep running baby please.” And you did for another couple feet until fate had other plans. A hunting trap violently swept you up into a tree, encasing you in a thick net.

“ELLIE HELP!” you screamed. She pulled and pulled at the rope creating lacerations across her palms and fingers but to no avail.

“Do you trust me Y/n?”

Through tears and strings of snot you shook your head, “Yes Ellie, I trust you.” Your girlfriend then took off, leaving you dangling in the air with no protection. It was just you and August now. And with a single swipe of his weapon you tumbled to the ground, twisting your ankle at the fall.

He gave a sinister smile, “hello sister.” You scrambled in the opposite direction, hands grasping at the soil below but never getting far with your limp foot.

“August please. You don’t have to do this. It’s me! It’s Y/n!”

“STOP IT! You’re not gonna change my mind about this. I’ve waited long enough!” Your heart beats from your chest. What the fuck were you going to do to survive this?

“We’re fucking family August! I’m your sister. You’re my little brother!”

“‘Family’, ‘little brother’,” he mocked, “you haven’t changed a bit.”

“Wha- what do you mean?”

“I’m not living in your shadow anymore Y/n. I’m done being the sidekick to you and all of your stupid friends!”

“They’re your friends too!”

He began inching closer and closer, “No they fucking aren’t! Friends don’t do what you guys did to me. Lying to the police, seriously? Acting like you had no idea what happened? I disappeared and none of you even gave a fuck till the cops started asking questions!”

“That’s not true August,” you broke down into tears once more, “I missed you every fucking day!”

“Clearly not enough.” He slowly lifted his arms, gripping the bloody machete with both hands. There was no escaping at this point. You just clenched your eye’s shut and braced for the end.

“NOOO!” The sound of a gunshot rang through your ears and instead of the feeling of cold metal slicing through you, you were met with the warm embrace of your girlfriend. You broke.

“Ellie. Oh my god Ellie.”

“I’m right here baby. Never leaving. I promise.” She just held you and held you, rocking back and forth till your breaths got less shaky.

“H-How?”

“A cabin. I found an empty cabin with a shotgun hanging right on the wall.”

“God, I love you.” Ellie smoothed back your hair and gave you a kiss.

“I love you too, angel.”

✄ - - - - ♡ - - - -

After that night things were never the same. It was just you and Ellie now. But together you would heal. Somehow, despite all the pain and loss, there was a glimmer of hope. Deep down you both knew things would be okay. And they were.

✄ - - - - masterlist - - - - ♡

taglist...

@endureher @gold-dustwomxn @alexpritch @4rt3m1ss @robinismywifee @sophlovesbooks @97cityy

(taglist is for all callmelola111 works, if you'd like to be removed just kindly lmk)

314 notes · View notes

etherealily · 4 days

Text

𝕓𝕦𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕗𝕝𝕚𝕖𝕤 // 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗰𝗸 𝗼𝗱𝗮𝗶𝗿.

Finnick Odair + fem!reader, brother's best friend (ahhh!), you don't get it, i love this man

Warning: Cuss words .

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : Finnick makes quite an impression.

"Hey, what's up, man, if you could just pack up- oh."

You don't even have to turn to know just who in the hell was standing in front of the window of your family's bakery. And this is the one day you decide not to care about how frosting-splattered your apron is, how flour-smeared your hands are. So your brother wasn't lying. He really was all buddy-buddy with Finnick fucking Odair. And this was the one Thursday you decide to actually fill in for him.

"Uh, be right out, sir."

Sir? Sir? Did you really just call him Sir? Well, I mean, yeah, he's a customer, but still... sir? That's too fake. He's going to wig out, he's going to-

"Of course. Take your time. I'm in no rush."

-Be uncharacteristically patient. Hm. Weird. Odd.

Quickly patting off the flour on your hands and watching the flakes fall onto the counter, you wipe your palms roughly on your apron, turning around.

His eyes are fucking ethereal. It's everything you can do to not immediately think of how you would go about replicating the sea-green of them into a frosting colour, or something. However, you decide, it'd be very hard, seeing as there were a kaleidoscope of other hues in there, a tinge of gold, here and there, like flecks of stardust, for one.

The muscles at the front of his arms - across his chest, as he stands - clench, as though he's tightening them. And then you realise : he's waiting.

"So sorry for the wait. How can I help you?"

"Who are you?"

What ?

"Excuse me?"

"Not interrogating you.", he informs you, raising a hand to cut you short. The fucking audacity . "Never seen you before."

"Well, you're seeing me now."

"How do I know you're not just someone stealing from the store?", he inquires, in mock concern. His eyebrows raise just slightly, playfully, even, as he trains his eyes on yours.

Does he also think about how he can replicate the colours in other people's eyes, or is he normal?

"Uh, I've got a key , for one.", you retort, jiggling the keys that you've shoved deep into your apron's pocket.

He shrugs, interlocking his fingers tightly as he cracks his knuckles, tilting his head. "Could be stolen."

"I'm the owner's daughter, Y/N ?"

"Insufficient proof of that.", he shoots back, teeth grazing ever so slightly on his bottom lip as he battles a smirk. "C'mon, do better than that. I'm this close to calling the Peacekeepers, y'know?"

"I can bake a cake?", you suggest, unsure why you're even going along with this.

Oh right, because he's Finnick Odair.

"So can I.", he replies, now resting his elbow down on the windowsill of that godforsaken window your family sold their goods from. You'd always thought it was cute, but now, with the lack of a counter between the two of you, like the normal bakeries, you were resenting the idea. "You're not really selling your identity, you know?"

"I'm literally baking a cake right now.", you exclaim, pointing at your clothes and the oven in which a hopefully delicious cake was rising. "What kind of pathetic thief would help the store they're stealing from?"

"You could be trying to blend in."

"Okay, look, I don't care what you think, Sir. I'm the owner of this place, so you either get your goods or go."

"Good.", he chuckles, softly, although his tone turns slightly, seamlessly more serious. "That's good. That's the response you give, you got that?"

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. "What?"

"If someone ever makes you doubt who you are, if someone ever...", he swallows, licking his lips for a moment, looking away before continuing, "... ever forces an identity on you. I don't care what you think, I know who I am . That's what you say."

"You came all the way here, did all that, just to... teach me a life lesson?"

"You don't like it? Come on, that was a cool segue, you gotta admit.", he asks, clearly shoving whatever else he was feeling into the back burner as he snickers.

"Threatening to call the Peacekeepers on me? Oh, yeah, that's very cool ."

"Hey, I managed to get your name, didn't I? Doubt you'd have let me get that far any other way."

Not true. You'd have given him your name. Hell, you'd have given up your last name for him, had he asked normally.

"And what do you need my name for?"

"I don't know.", he shrugs, palpably pushing any dirty responses he might've had away. "Maybe I just want to know?"

"You must have a reason."

"You know what, yeah, usually, I have a reason for everything.", he replies, giving you the charming smile you've seen on television almost a thousand times. "But this time, I don't."

That was so infuriatingly expected. Of course Finnick Odair couldn't have just fucking asked for your name like a normal person.

"Do you at least have a reason as to why you're at my store?"

"Your family's store, sweetie, and yeah, I do.", he says, pointing at a tray of half-a-dozen shimmery blue cupcakes with the number '4' frosted boastfully onto them. "Pack those up for me, will you? My order."

"Insufficient proof of that.", you reply, crossing your arms and mirroring his position from when he'd said those words. "Unless you've got a receipt, which we don't give to urgent orders so there's no chance you could have one , I don't see how you're walking away from here with them."

He laughs, heartily, nodding as though impressed. "Funny. Look, let's not make this more complicated than it should be, yeah? You're a pissed off, whiny little girl who can't take a joke, and I'm Finnick Odair. Just give me the cupcakes."

You scoff, audibly scoff at that. The nerve of him. "I'm not a little girl."

"Your brother tells me you cry when you see butterflies? Like... full-on bawl?"

You'd fucking murder your brother the next time you saw him, that was for sure.

"They're ethereal, and very rare."

"They're insects.", he reasons, shaking his head as he rests his head on his palm, tilting his head and gazing at you condescendingly, like you really were a child.

"Shut up."

He snorts, softly. "Give me the damn cupcakes, sweetie."

"Or what, you'll seduce me into giving them to you?"

His face falls, for a moment, his grin faltering. Then, with a sigh that was an infuriating mix of amused, disappointed and enigmatic, he nods. "That's what I'm known for, right? I could do it, you know? Really effectively, too."

"That wouldn't work on me."

"Give me the damn cupcakes, Y/N."

"How do I know you've paid for them?"

"You'll have to take my word for it. It's called trust, ever heard of it?"

"It's called not being a pompous asshole, ever heard of it?"

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you turn your back to him, bringing the tray over to the window sill. "Brought your own bag?"

He nods, a slightly triumphant smile - that you choose to ignore, thank you very much - on his face as he hands it to you, then nodding to the bag. "It's all the rage in the Capitol, you know?"

"Oh, I know. I see the Capitol freaks with it all the time on TV.", you mutter, gently bringing out each cupcake and placing them in each indent in the box you'd brought out. "Any embellishments you want before I put them in the bag?"

"Like a bow or something?"

"Yeah, like a bow, a card, some extra sprinkles taped to the box.", you shrug, feigning nonchalance. The urge to draw him was getting way too strong, and it was the most peculiar feeling ever - one you'd never felt before. Capturing him, in a way the cameras he was always swarmed by never could, that would be perfect.

"Yeah, card would be nice."

"What would you like on it?", you ask, sliding a card over from the cardboard box overflowing with them, as you click open a pen.

He raises a brow. "Do you have good handwriting?"

You tsk, shoving the pen in his face. "Here, you do it, then."

He giggles, mischief swirling in his eyes as he takes the pen from you. "Probably best." He clears his throat, dramatically, giving you a matter-of-fact look before he begins writing. "Dear President Snow, wishing you a Happy Reaping Day, with a delicacy from District Four- uh, what do you call these, sweetie?"

"Cupcakes?"

"Something cooler." He narrows his eyes at you, tapping the pen on the counter.

"Cupcakes from the Bakery Around The Corner? Seriously, this is District Four, we're not the Capitol - we don't have fancy icing and a quirky little name for each of our orders."

"Yeah, but he does this thing where each year, you have to bring a new delicacy from your District.", he mutters, a slight scoff present in his voice. "Reaping Day special. So I need a cool name."

Interesting. That almost sounded like resentment, from the Golden Boy to the President.

"I'm flattered you consider my cupcakes delicacies."

"Okay, look, your cupcakes are good, delicious, even, but they're not delicacies.", he reminds, keeping the stream of insults you were throwing at each other going. "I just need to give him something other than seafood this year, apparently."

"Well, that's stupid. We're the fishing district."

"Like he gives a flying fuck. What Coriolanus Snow wants, Coriolanus Snow gets."

You snort, covering your mouth. "That's his name?"

"What, did you think it was President ?", he asks, still not looking up from the card as he spins the pen around between his fingers - both calloused and delicate, preserved and wild.

"No, I thought it'd be something more normal."

He tsks. "Seriously, come up with a name for these things."

"They're for you , so call them Odairs, or something, I don't know. Should stroke your ego, too, so it's a win-win."

"These are supposed to be delicacies. Like, a form of pride among our people. I can't name them after me, no matter how awesome that would be.", he adds, with a slight grin.

"Whores from District Four.", you chuckle, shaking your head. "Call them that."

"Why, 'cause I'm the 'Whore from Four' ?", he asks, smirking. "That's a no-no word, you know?"

"Yeah, well, my patience is thinning with you, Odair."

He snickers, softly, chewing the inside of his cheek, still staring at the card. "You know what, fuck it. Whores it is."

"Really? Just go with no card."

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "No, a card is expected.", he sighs, spinning the pen around. "I should just call them whores. But, you know, spelt with an 'h'. What's he gonna do, ask around the District 4 marketplace for 'hores'?"

You laugh. "Hey, if that works...", you salute him, nodding. He writes with soft, almost enchanting strokes, and then signs his name.

"Thanks, Y/N.", he adds, after you finish taping the note precisely to the centre of the box's lid, before gently lowering it into his Capitol bag. "If this works, I'm paying you extra."

"If President Snow comes around asking for my District-famous 'hores', I'll pay you extra."

══════════════════ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ══════════════════

The muffled rush of the waterfall, and the feathery tufts of grass you were laying on almost help you enjoy life , for once, and help you forget that Reaping Day is tomorrow. Almost.

"You know you're not supposed to be out here, right, sugar?"

And then suddenly, the 4 o'clock sun isn't the thing that's blinding your senses.

It's him, instead.

Towering over you, almost gleaming hair threatening to spill over and disrupt the calm in the pool of his eyes, he tilts his head mockingly.

"I know."

He gapes in mock scandal. "Aren't you the little rebel?", he muses, raising a brow in amusement before offering you his hand.

You grab it, and he hauls you up with admirable ease. "Your cupcakes were a hit, sweetie. Absolute hit.", he informs, with the twinkly grin that comes with being Finnick Odair.

His mildly calloused hand still grips yours tightly.

"I see. You're welcome."

He shrugs, nodding. "Yeah, I suppose you deserve the thanks."

The silence sweeps past you, the only sounds embossed in both of your hushed breaths, in the gentle songs of birds, the faint roar of the waterfall, and suddenly, his voice, smooth as a wave embracing the shore.

"Come on."

"Where?"

"Trust me."

When Finnick Odair asks you to trust him, you do. Rule number one of the rule book of... well, life.

"If you take me to some Capitol party-"

"Don't worry, sweetheart, I promise, the last place I'm ever taking you is the Capitol. In fact, it can be said I'm doing the exact opposite."

You raise a brow. "What, you're taking me in the opposite direction? As far away from the Capitol as possible?"

His eyes dart around, above, behind and beside you, before they finally land on yours, and he nods, slowly, hesitantly. "Yeah, exactly.", he muses, his words drawn out as if he was unsure of them, too.

Bad sign.

"You're taking me out the borders?", you hiss, lowering your voice and glaring sharply at him. "That's illegal, Golden Boy."

"Don't call me that. Not here, in District 4."

You scoff. The audacity running through his veins was insufferable. "I'll call you whatever I damn want to. You trying to get me killed or turned into an Avox?"

"I'm trying to show you something!", he snaps, using his tense grasp on your hand to draw you closer, so that your foreheads were borderline touching. See, this was bad, this was bad, this was-

"Just let me!", he continues, his voice almost pleading. "You think I don't know it's Reaping Day tomorrow? That you could get picked to go die in the Games?"

"No, you're just the one helping us go die."

"You shut up.", he hisses, a finger in your face. "Don't say things you know nothing about. I'm a mentor."

"Did you even try with the tributes from last year? Or the year before that? Because I heard that-"

"What you heard is fucking-", he cuts himself short, taking a deep breath. "Please. Just follow me. For the love of God.", he orders, gently tugging you along.

Not like you even wanted to pull away - this was Finnick Odair.

"What is it you love most about District 4?"

"What?"

"District 4. What is it you love most about it?"

"It's home.", you shrug. "What else is there?"

"Yeah, but I mean, with time, any place is home. Have you never wanted to leave, to explore?"

It's times like these you realize your parents' bakery isn't that important- you'd sell the whole thing to figure out what was going on in that angelic head of his. His words lilting through your senses like sea-breeze.

"I'm exploring as much as I can right now."

He pauses for a moment, turning around. Dimples. "I'm glad I can be your guide, then."

Shut the fuck up, freak of nature. Stop with your beautiful words.

You almost say that. You don't, though.

"Okay, can you jump for me?"

"Jump?", you ask, looking over his shoulder at the huge gap between the part of the rock you were on, and the one you were supposed to go to. "No way."

"Come on, you can do it.", he says, leaping over the humongous gap as if he were playing hopscotch. "I'll catch you."

That's not the part you're worried about. The part you're worried about is you chickening out in front of the Finnick Odair. The interviews he would go through.

'Oh, yes, Hunger Games or not, tragic deaths have always been part of my everyday. Just the other week, a girl I knew slipped near a waterfall and plummeted to her death. Tragic. But I got over it because I'm Finnick Odair. I'm hot. And rich. And did I mention, hot?'

The entire nation wouldn't mourn you. It'd mourn the fact that poor Darling Finnick Odair had to watch you die.

"I don't know about this, Odair."

"Trust me."

That's the second time this man had asked you to trust him tonight. Rule of life.

"I swear, it'll be worth it. Take a leap of faith. Literally."

You grimace, pursing your lips. Your eyes move-

"Don't!", he yells, suddenly, waving his hand from across the abyss so your eyes land on it. "DON'T look down. Just look at me. Leap to me."

Reach for his eyes. Those pools of moss green and cerulean blue that make you want to embrace and destroy the planet for being able to create something so perfect.

It takes a couple of seconds for you to convince yourself he'll catch you. It's an excuse to look at his muscles, yeah, but still, he's strong enough. He'll catch you.

I won't die in front of Finnick Odair.

And you leap.

Instantly, your feet slip on the wet rock on the other side, and you grip onto Finnick's shoulders as he wraps his arms around you.

"Toldja."

"Shut up. I almost died."

"So dramatic.", he chuckles, gently letting go of you as he leads you further behind the waterfall, the tufts of grass on which you lay now faintly visible through the gushing water between you and them.

"There's a tiny cave kind of thing here. Look."

You squint, kneeling down in front of the entrance.

"Don't be shy. Come in."

You crouch down, taking his hand as he leads you further into the cave, walking gingerly until you see a tiny pool, illuminated by a golden ray of sunlight spilling through from a crack in the stone above.

Good god.

And around it, as though crafted for you, placed for your perusal, were hordes of glass-blue butterflies, fragile, delicate, and oh-so-ethereal, twirling around each other, bathed in all directions by the beam of light, which flowed through their transparent wings.

Finnick Odair, marry me.

"So?", he asks, breath gently brushing your ear. "What do you think?" The eagerness in his eyes was obvious, as though he were a child showing you the scribbles he'd just made.

"I..."

"I thought, y'know, I mean, I get excited about the ocean, so there's no reason for you not to get excited about butterflies."

"How did you find this place?", you ask, breathless.

"That's a secret."

Your eyes are transfixed onto the flapping of wings, the distribution of gold, the surreality of it all. It's almost godly. It's so breathtaking, you genuinely need to sit down. He sits with you.

"Are you scared for tomorrow?"

"That's a secret."

He smiles, softly, though the sadness in his expression is palpable and inevitable. It irks you. The way he is supposed to be, according to you, is spinning around the shoreline, laughing as he dances with the waves, sand on his hands and knees, a tan kissing his skin. That's how he must remain, and that is how you will draw him, if you ever get to.

After a tiny while, though, he leans back, against the rock behind him, eyes still trained on your awe as you watch the butterflies glide around blissfully, before looking out, at the curtain of water flowing and concealing the entrance of this little slice of paradise he'd found for you.

"You know, you could just stay here till tomorrow. You don't even have to go to Reaping Day."

"Oh, yeah, because that's smart. I'll be arrested."

"Then just don't go back."

"Leave my family to get punished?"

"Please tell me you didn't need tesserae."

"Well, before you, barely anyone from our District won, and if they did, they most definitely didn't share."

He groans, running his hands over his face. "So it's not even a fair chance."

You shake your head. "It's fine, though." Has been for five years.

He scoffs, borderline laughing at you, derisively. "Please elaborate."

"If you managed to find the one tiny place on earth where butterflies still thrive, and it happened to be here, by the waterfall I spent my whole life admiring, then, there's a chance I won't be reaped."

"You're extraordinary. Genuinely. Phenomenal. Splendid. Fabulous. Amazing." Was that awe in his voice? Awe at... you? What you just said?

"Are you buttering me up because I might be picked to die tomorrow?"

"I'm buttering you up because you're incredible."

Drawing him isn't enough.

Sonnets, prose, stories, love songs, ballads.

Those would be enough.

"If I get reaped, you better mentor me good."

"If you get reaped, you'll win. I'll get you sponsors, I'll train you so that you'll be an absolute force to reckon with."

The promises are beautiful and fragile and absolutely ludicrous. But that would be the name of his biography.

"If I survive, we're coming here every day."

It's like you've already resigned yourself to the fact that you were going to get chosen.

"You're a Career. You'll be fine."

"Who are you trying to convince?"

Silence suddenly enters the cave.

"We should go."

Both of you say it, both of you agree, and both of you get up.

"Thank you, Finnick."

His name tastes oddly sweet coming out of your mouth. However, the next moment shows that his lips taste even sweeter.

His fucking dimples.

"C'mon. I think this time, leaping will be easier."

What he means by that, you don't know.

Not like you want to, not immediately. Spending your whole life trying to figure him out seemed like a solid career plan.

You leap again.

61 notes · View notes