#this year's been a rough one mentally in short bursts so. yeah i am at that point of enforcing rule 1 aka Be Nice and blocking as needed. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

storiesbymads · 3 years

Text

GIVE IT UP ( tyson jost . )

You find yourself at your ex’s house party despite the fact that you’ve pretty much convinced him and yourself that you hate him. Apparently, he’s not that fond of you either. At least, that’s what he wants you to think.

warnings: smut, hate sex, unprotected sex

wc: 2.6k

add yourself to my taglist + masterlist

It was shocking of how quickly the sweet boy who once would’ve done anything to see you smile turned into the man before you that managed to get a rise out of you without even directly speaking to you.

Granted, most of that was your fault. All he’d wanted was a break, a few weeks, maybe a month apart to think things over. You’d been the one to suggest a full breakup.

“Tys-“ you stopped yourself. “Tyson.”

His pacing stalled, the hand that had been furiously running through his curls fell to rest on his hip as he turned to face where you were sitting on the couch. The couch you’d helped him pick out when he’d first moved into this apartment. The one he’d first kissed you on three years ago, though it was a bit more beat up now than it had been then. It was a faded blue in color now.

“What,” he halfway snapped. The tone of his voice caused you to flinch at his words, which almost sent Tyson into a deeper downward spiral had he not been so desperate to get through this evening without you killing each other.

“You know this isn’t working,” you said. “Not like it used to.”

“Then why are you fighting with me about taking a few weeks to figure things out,” he sighed before moving to sit on the matching ottoman in front of you.

“Please don’t make me say it out loud,” you said. Your jaw was trembling as you didn’t know how much longer you could keep looking him in the eye without breaking down.

Tyson’s hands were quick to start rubbing his eyes, almost painfully so as the heels of them dug in.

“You don’t mean it,” he whispered.

“Tyson.”

“I still love you,” he sighed.

“We had a great run, yeah?” you smiled sadly at him as you picked yourself up off the couch. “I’ll be back to get my things in the next week or so.”

And that probably would’ve been the end of it had Andre not been your best friend. He was, and he claimed, the best guy in your life before Tyson and he was going to stay that way after Tyson.

Sure, parties were awkward but it was nothing you couldn’t get through without a couple girl friends and some distance. And a handle of pink whitney.

“You’re kidding!” you gasped as your old college roommate gushed about her new boyfriend and their bedroom antics. “There’s no way you let him do that!”

“Long time no see, sunshine,” a familiar brown haired swede said as he pulled you into his side by the hip. You could tell the drink in his hand was far from his first based on the slur of his words and the way the snapback was situated sideways on his head.

“Hey, Dre,” you said before pecking his cheek quickly and sipping on the drink in your own hand. Contrary to your usual party behavior, you were only about half of the way through your first.

“Yeah, sunshine,” you heard Tyson say from behind you. The smile on your face wiped away into a scowl within seconds. “Long time no see.”

You opted to ignore him, continuing your conversation with your roommate, Savannah, as Andre left your side to join the beer pong game in the corner.

“Aw, c’mon. It’s not my fault you’re desperate enough to come to your ex’s house party,” he mocked as he shuffled his way closer to you.

“Aw, it’s not my fault your other eye’s just begging for a matching shiner,” you cooed. You could feel his breath against your pulse point as he leaned in closer.

“Think you have it in you?” he asked, voice grovely as it dropped an octave. Scoffing, you pushed away from him in search of anyone else to talk to. You couldn’t stand the fact that he was still able to jump start your heart rate after all these years, especially after all the things he’s said to you after you’d broken up.

You shouldn’t even be going to this part. You wouldn’t be had Andre not literally dragged you into his car with a promise that you wouldn’t even see Tyson, let alone have to speak to him.

“You haven’t been out in months, sunshine,” he said as he pulled out of your apartment complex. “We miss you.”

“You missed me,” you sighed, pulling your head up from where it was resting against the cool glass of the window.

“The team misses you,” he said, temporarily taking his hand off the wheel to pinch your hip. The team minus Tyson, you thought.

The party itself was fine for a while. You’d practically attached yourself to Andre’s side, not that he was complaining. He was just glad to have you in a social situation again. You were actually having fun for the first time in a while playing flip cup with some of the guys. Tyson had practically slipped your mind, another first.

Until he decided to, rather harshly, drag you away from the table.

“What are you doing here?” he rushed out as he clicked the lock on the bathroom door.

“Dre- Andre invited me,” you stuttered. The party was still going strong outside the room and you could feel the bass through the floor.

“God, I haven’t seen you in months and you’re here because my teammate invited you?” he scoffed. The shock in his eyes had since shifted to something more of disgust.

“We broke up, Tyson,” you said.

“Exactly! We broke up!” he said, throwing his hand up in the air. Your eyes stayed glued to the lock behind him.

“I didn’t come here to see you,” you said, though it came out more like a whimper. You swore you saw something crack in Tyson’s eyes before his resolve went back up.

“That’s rich, even coming from you.”

“God, you’re such a dick, Jost,” you pushed past him, wiping a tear away before it had the chance to fall as you unlocked the bathroom door.

You hated him. You hated him.

Thankfully the kitchen was empty when you found yourself there. You weren’t looking for anything, your cup was still mostly full.

How was Tyson always able to find you in a crowd? Even when you were actively avoiding him like the plague, he somehow managed to sneak up behind you and send your head into a downward spiral.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing thinking so much at a party,” an unfamiliar voice said from beside you, pulling you from your daze.

“I’m not-“ you cut yourself off. “It’s just…”

“Whoa, don’t burst a blood vessel,” he smiled at you. His comment was awkward at best, but the soft look in his eyes made up for it. He was cute.

“Sorry,” you chuckled. “I’m Y/N.”

“Jason,” he responded, clinking your red cups together in a fake toast.

Jason, you learned, was a bartender at the Star Bar in downtown Denver. Though, that was a temporary job as he worked on his masters in biochemistry. You ended up telling him a story about the time you found yourself being escorted out of said Star Bar from dancing on the bar.

“If you’ll excuse me, I really have to go to the ladie’s room,” you said, starting to walk past him in the now crowded kitchen before turning back to face the blond. “Would you mind holding my drink?”

“Sure,” Jason said, even going as far as putting his own drink down so that he could cover the top of yours fully with his hand. Maybe this party hadn’t gone completely to shit.

The line to the bathroom was nonexistent and you’d managed to finish your business in record time. You checked your appearance in the mirror before clicking the lock on the bathroom door and opening it to see the one person you really wished you hadn’t.

He pushed his way through, slamming the door and locking it behind him.

“What are you doing, Jost? Let me out,” you said.

“You really think you can come here and flirt with some random guy in my kitchen?” he scoffed. With every word he took another half step closer to you until your back was pressed against the far wall.

“What do you mean your kitchen?”

“Did Dre not tell you? Can’t believe this is the fourth time you’ve been here and you didn’t even know who’s apartment it was. I think that’s a little rude, if you ask me,” he cooed. Four times; he was counting. He’d made a mental note every time you’d been sitting on his couch and he’d been too fucked up about it to do anything.

His knee pushed your thighs apart as his hands found solace on the wall beside your head. You felt the sudden urge to spit in his face. Or to let him spit in yours.

This was much more possessive than he’d ever acted when you were together. Granted, he hasn’t acted the same way he’d been when you were together in the year and a half you’d been apart.

“Answer me,” he hummed. “It’s rude isn’t it.”

You tilted your head to the side in response only for Tyson’s thigh to press up further so that it was resting against your core. You took the sudden close proximity between the two of you to gauge the changes in his features. Most obviously was the beard he was sporting now, he’d never been able to accomplish more than a patch here or there while you were dating despite his best efforts. His shoulders were more filled out now, too, and his curls looked longer. He looked more… mature, if that was the word for it.

“Answer me,” he tutted. “Or am I gonna have to fuck it out of you?”

“You’re a lot bolder than I remember, Jost,” you gasped. There was a definite wet spot growing in your underwear at the rasp in his tone.

“You’re just as annoying,” he said before one of his hands found your hip. His mouth came crashing against yours an instant later, a rough mess of teeth clanging together as he popped the button on your jean shorts. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m sure I’ll fuck that out of you, too.”

The comment caused a gasp to slip past your lips as he removed his knee so that he could tug your bottoms to your ankles in one fell swoop. His fingers were quick in replacing the delicious pressure against your clit, circling the nub with the pad of his finger.

“Do you still make those pretty little noises you used to make?” he asked, only to pull a whimper out of you not even a second later when he slipped a finger into your hole.

“You’re still a dick,” you moaned as you dropped your head to rest against his shoulder. You bit down on the cotton of his t-shirt to conceal the whimper of emptiness as Tyson slipped his finger out of you so that he could push the band of his sweatpants down just enough for his cock to slip out.

“Yeah? And you’re about to cum all over it.”

The string of profanities that followed from your part were involuntary.

He pushed into you slowly until he was halfway in before snapping his hips forward in one quick motion so that your pelvic bones were pressed together. You hadn’t felt this full since… Well, since him.

“Fucking-“ he hissed. “I forgot how tight you were.”

His eyebrows furrowed as he started thrusting his hips. You would’ve been able to admire it longer had your eyes not rolled into the back of your head. Your hand slipped down between your bodies to rub your clit only to be swatted away and replaced by Tyson’s a moment later.

His name rolled off your tongue like a chant as you felt your orgasm building with each pump of his hips.

“I’m gonna cum, holy shit,” you said.

“That’s right, baby. Cum all over my cock,” he said. The rhythm of his thrusts was getting sloppier by the second and you could tell he was getting close. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Where do you want it?”

“What?” you asked, head still very hazy from the impending orgasm.

“I can’t cum inside you—shit,” his thrusts slowed. “Where do you want it?”

“I’m on the pill,” you rushed out in hopes that he’d start fucking you again. The thought alone almost had him falling apart.

“Holy shit, ok,” he mumbled before picking up his thrusts once again. It was a step the two of you hadn’t taken before, and he was dying to see his cum drip out of you.

“Fuck, Tys,” the words came out rushed as your high washed over you. Tyson came soon after as ropes of it coated your walls in hot spurts.

Your senses came back to you as you came back down. What the fuck were you doing? Why did you allow yourself to hook up with the ex you were still pretty sure you hated in a bathroom.

“I-I’ve gotta go,” you said, pushing Tyson off, and subsequently out, of you so that you could pull up your shorts and button them.

“Wait, Y/N,” the flustered, blushing Tyson you thought you’d never see again made an appearance as you threw the bathroom door open just as he tucked himself back into his boxers. The fly of his blue jeans was undone as he chased you out of the bathroom, practically begging you to stop as he followed you out the front door.

“Leave me alone, Jost,” you scoffed as you watched him zip his pants out of the corner of your eye.

“There’s no way you’re gonna go back to hating me after that,” he said. You could feel his cum dripping into your panties as he spoke.

“We made our decision last year. We should’ve left it at that,” you shivered in the open exterior of his apartment complex, silently cursing yourself for thinking a jacket would ruin your outfit.

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” a dry chuckle slipped from his lips. “After all of that? After a year and a half of pretending, you can’t admit it?”

“I wasn’t pretending-“

“Like hell you weren’t. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t regret even mentioning the idea of a break between us. What we had doesn‘t just go away,” he took a step towards you. You could still hear the music from inside his place, though it was fainter now and still half-muffled by the various conversations just past the front door.

“We weren’t working out,” you said, though it came out as more of a squeak.

“You and I both know we could’ve worked on it. We were stupid to let what we had go over nothing,” he said. “I miss you.”

Your resolve was breaking more with every word.

“Jost, what if this doesn’t work?” you asked, allowing him to get close enough to take your hand in his. It was quite the contrast to the way he’d been with you not even ten minutes ago.

“Would you stop calling me that?” his features were screwed tight as he asked. “You only call me that when you’re mad at me.”

“Tyson,” you said, only to be greeted with a knowing look in his brown eyes. “Tys.”

“We’re gonna work out,” he said. “We’re gonna work out because…”

“Because?”

“Because I still love you. And I’m not letting you go again,” his voice had lowered to a whisper and it shook and his forehead was dangerously close to resting against yours. Within the span of an hour, he’d transformed back into the shy boy you’d given your heart to three years ago on his blue couch.

“Ok,” you whispered back, closing the distance and resting your foreheads against each other only for Tyson to bridge the gap completely with a tilted head to plant his lips against your own.

tagged @ptersparkers @annedub @corebore123 @damndunner @kiedhara @watermelon05 @sidscrosbyy @thelionkingpw @besthockeyfics @iwantahockeyhimbo @beauvibaby

#tyson jost #tyson jost imagine #tyson jost smut #tyson jost x reader #nhl #nhl imagine #nhl smut #hockey #hockey imagine #hockey smut

341 notes · View notes

skellebonez · 3 years

Note

Could you write 22 “Oh, you’re just grumpy” with Monkie King and a deage MK?

OOOOH coming back to this? Yeah, I am totally up for giving this another go! MK is having a not so great time, nothing warning worthy but I do HC him not being the healthiest kid. Mild spoilers for season 2 episodes 1 and 2.

Oh, you're just grumpy.

"Noooooooo!" MK shouted, stomping his foot on the ground in anger. "I'm not grumpy, I'm mad! You can't let them leave me behind! Take me back! I'm the Monkie Kid! I have to do this myself! I-"

"You are currently physically 4 years old with all the control over your powers of that age," Sun Wukong rebutted with a soft sigh, frowning and wincing at the high pitched angered scream in reaction he received at that. That was... not the best way to go about this... He needed a different tactic.

He knelt down to be at eye level with his now even younger protégé, holding out his hand. When MK stared at it he chanced putting it on his shoulder and continued when MK didn’t shrug it off or start yelling again. “Bud, MK, it’s ok. I know you’re frustrated. You have every right to be! But we just want to make sure you’re safe until we can get you back to normal.”

This was not the kind of trouble the Monkey King expected to happen immediately before... well, put a cork on that for now. But this wasn't the kind of trouble be expected to happen regardless of time frame. How in the world anyone managed to not only curse an object in this way but find a way to slip it on his student was anyone's guess. But the fact of the matter was that MK, the Monkie Kid himself, was now physically 4 years old. Mentally, he was still the same age he was before the curse, personality and memories still completely intact... for the most part, it became clear to them very quickly that being physically a kid again came with more than just a smaller body. It came with the mood swings and heightened emotions of “kid brain” as Mei called it, when MK immediately burst into tears at just the mention of being left behind so Mei and the others could go after the demon. And then he couldn’t figure out why he was crying, whether from frustration or worry or both or why he even started, which lead to more crying out of sheer confusion, which made everyone feel very bad.

They’d managed to calm him down long enough for the Monkey King get him on his cloud and bring him to Flower Fruit Mountain in case the demon attempted to go after him like this, but that was short lived once they actually made landfall.

"But I can do this!" MK continued, pouting and tears of frustration starting to peak at the corners of his eyes once again, albeit calmer frustration. "I-I beat the Spider Queen! I can handle one demon who had to slap a bracelet on me to make me a kid to beat me, even if I'm tiny! I can kick his butt!"

"I know you can, Bud," Wukong said evenly, offering him an understanding smile. "And normally I'd let you go in guns blazing and know you could handle everything no problem now! You've more than proven you can handle stuff even I couldn't. If you were just shrunk I wouldn’t dare think you couldn’t handle this." He reached out a hand, ruffling his hair far more gently that he normally would. But still rough, rough enough to let him know he wasn't going to just treat him like glass now. "But this is a bit different. Remember what I said when Macaque was having you use your full power?” MK scowled for a second before nodding. “Using your powers like this? Could hurt you. And I don’t want to see you get hurt like that. Heck, even I would have trouble controlling my powers and probably get hurt if I was turned into a little kid monkey man, and if this happened to me I would trust you if you told me to stay safe."

"... you would?" MK asked softly, and Wukong nodded. Maybe it was a... bit of a stretch of the truth. Sun Wukong would probably need some convincing too (Great Sage title leading to Great Misjudgement sometimes, the previously mentioned Spider Queen fight a key example), but that's just one more thing he and MK had in common.

"Course I would,” Wukong said, and given said convincing that was the truth. “I trust you, MK, and-AGH!" He may be the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, but nothing prepared him for the barreling rocket that was a 4 year old launching themselves at him to hug him with all the strength of... well, himself!

"I trust you too!" MK yelled right in his ear and oh if he thought his student had a loud yell before. But that only lasted for a second before he pulled back from the hug, body limp and head rested on his shoulder as the energy seemed to sap a bit from him as Wukong stood back up and he held him on his hip instead of setting him down when he saw the bright red rings around his eyes and how tired he seemed already... Tang had mentioned that he knew MK wasn’t exactly the healthiest as a child... "But... I feel bad not doing anything..."

"Then we can do something, that's an easy fix!" Wukong laughed, and his chest warmed as he was reminded of the few children he had helped take care of or play with while on the long journey centuries ago. He was a softie, really. "No training though, I am not going to body slam you when you come up to my knees."

This apparently was the magic joke to make, making MK devolve into a fit of giggles. A testament to how this cursed object affected him, he never would have giggled at that without it. Probably... MK had an odd sense of humor sometimes. But then again, so did he!

"Actually... I think I have just the thing for us to try."

All things considered, Wukong probably should have expected something like this. He did tell MK that he probably didn’t have much control over his powers. And that using his powers was a bad idea. And Tang did warn him he wasn’t a healthy child. The three together were a bad combo when his powers activated with MK’s unconscious reactions to certain things...

“How you feeling, Bud?” Wukong whispered softly, rubbing his back as he laid face down on his couch. He’d barely used his powers at all, just activated his true sight to find ingredients when they were cooking without even thinking about it, but that was enough to make the kid’s head feel like it was splitting open (in symptoms that sounded like a migraine, which... yeah, he felt really bad for him, and the jolt of worry and fear that shot through him surprised him less than he felt it should). “Still bad?”

There were a few of Wukong’s monkeys hanging out on the couch, one in particular was curled up next to MK’s head. Perhaps they were keeping him company while he wasn’t feeling well and nodded off in the process.

“I think I’m ok now,” MK answered, sitting back up and leaning into the Monkey King’s side (he seemed to seek out contact a lot more like this, letting Wukong carry him to the house, leaning on his shoulder when he showed him how to prepare the snacks they were making, now this... it made him wonder just how much physical affection he got as a kid). He looked leagues better than he had just 40 minutes ago, thankfully not nearly as exhausted as he had looked before he laid down. “Headache went away... I dunno, a while ago. But I didn’t wanna get up.��

“Completely understandable,” Wukong nodded in approval, glad that he’d gotten some form of rest. He needed it after everything he had been through. “You feel like getting up now, though? I made us some lunch... dinner... not desert food! Just like I promised.”

“Yeah!” MK exclaimed, immediately jumping off the couch and making his way to the kitchen like a rocket. “How about our snacks, how much longer do they have? Do you think we did ok? Do you think the others are gonna like em!?”

“They still have well over an hour of sitting in the fridge,” Wukong laughed, following him and watching him scramble to sit on one of the chairs at the table. “But I think we did a pretty good job of making annin tofu for the first time. They already look pretty darn delicious.” The almond jelly dish wasn’t as hard as he believed it would be, and using agar even he would be able to enjoy it... once he added some peaches on top, of course! “But that’s for later, for now what do you think of your meal?” MK looked up from his bowl, a spoonful of rice and vegetables already in his mouth. Wukong couldn’t help but laugh. “I think I’ll take that as a job well done.”

The two ate their respective lunches, rice and steamed vegetables for MK and rice and fruits for Wukong, talking about what dishes they could try making together in the future. Being a monkey Wukong had a very limited pallet for what he could (and would, given other circumstances) actually eat, so brainstorming workaround for that was a great way to pass the time before moving back to the couch. They played some, shockingly not Sun Wukong related, games that he had stashed away (and he was very offended by MK’s disbelief that he had media not related to himself in his house, totally offended). The game was one of those ones with a motion controller that you had to move around to play, and MK was having a blast with it.

The monkeys also seemed to be enjoying the show quite a lot.

Before the two knew it the sun had begun to set, MK’s grip on his controller starting to weaken as he sat down on the couch and attempted to keep his eyes open. Even with his rest earlier he was exhausted.

“Did anyone... tell you anything yet?” He asked softly, once again leaning into Wukong’s side with a yawn.

“Not yet,” Wukong admitted, looking at MK’s phone for the fourth time in he hour. “Not since they told me they found out where the demon went. But that probably means they’re focused on catching him! They’re gonna get the guy, I have a good feeling about it.”

“If you say so...” MK mumbled out, the controller slipping from his grasp as he closed his eyes.

“UH.. Bud? MK?” Wukong gently nudged his student, smiling softly when he realized that he’d just fallen asleep. “OK, that game clearly did it’s job a little too well.” He made to stand up, stopping short when something tugged on his clothing. MK had an iron grip on him, holding tight to his side and not looking like he was going to be letting go any time soon.

Well... Wukong didn’t have the heart to make him let go or chance waking him up to move him... so instead he took a hair and poofed up a blanket to lay over top of MK as he made himself comfortable on the side of the couch. It didn’t take long, and it took even less time for the monkeys around the house to curl up around and on top of the duo.

It was nice... Wukong didn’t want to admit it, but he was going to miss this. Not just when MK was changed back to his normal age, but when he had to... “go on vacation”.

He felt bad, lying to his student. His kid, now that he realized he couldn’t keep from admitting that to himself. But he trusted MK, genuinely trusted him in this regard, to keep everyone in the city safe while he was gone and he didn’t want the extra stress of knowing just what Wukong was really doing to weigh him down. He knew how much MK worried, seen how much anxiety he had after Macaque and the fight with the Spider Queen, how hard it would be to keep him from following him into places that were too dangerous for him to traverse without training they hadn’t completed yet.

He... really regretted not training him more in the beginning. Regretted it more than most things he had lately. Maybe if he had he could have explained things to him better. Known that if he did sneakily follow him he would at least be in much less danger.

He couldn’t let himself be too close after this. He’d have to go back to normal, aloof, jokey, “ah you’re fine cool beans good luck bud I believe in you!” Monkey King. For MK’s sake.

As he looked down at the sleeping child curled into his side he had to make himself believe it was for MK’s sake.

Why did that feel like it was a lie?

#monkie kid #lego monkie kid #gen fic #deage fic #mk #qi xiaotian #monkey kid #sun wukong #dad wukong #kinda #SPACER TAG FOR HIDING SPOILERS ALL LOVE TO THE SPACER TAG #oops I made it SAD #are you even surprised?#someone is in denial about the possible consequences of their actions #WUKONG MAKE BETTER CHOICES THIS IS NOT THE WAY TO DO THIS #prompt fill

254 notes · View notes

honeymoonjin · 4 years

Text

𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: fanboy!taehyung x artist!reader

𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 13.7k

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: still bitter about a scandal that ruined your painting career, you’re recommended a getaway by your therapist to a small island off the coast of seoul. expecting a tranquil location to wallow in self-pity, you’re startled when on your first night, you encounter an avid fan of your work. instead of annoying you for an autograph, kim taehyung ends up being the very thing you need to fall in love with art again.

𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: sexually explicit content, reader suffers from poor mental health but nothing serious, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, praise, that’s kinda it, it’s pretty soft tbh

The breeze is light here, broken by the gentle rise of the sand dunes behind you. It runs over your skin like water, a warm current that lasts long after the sun slips below the horizon line.

You sit for hours watching it, the tail of pinks and oranges and ochres that reflect thickly on the top of the water, the shallow crests of low tide. There’s a pull in your heart, a twitch at your fingers. The you a year ago would’ve had her paints out already, an easel with legs precariously shoved in the dry sand. The you a year ago would have been tossing up whether cadmium yellow or cadmium orange would suit the last slip of sun above the water, and whether you should wait til it was gone entirely to save making the decision.

Then again, the you a year ago would never have needed to come here.

The you today just waits, silently, you don’t even know what for. You’d been told this was a getaway. That you just needed some time to recover your muse, or some bullshit like that. But the more time you sit in silence and watch the sky blacken to navy and the stars prick the darkness with dazzling clarity, you think your therapist was wrong. How was this a getaway when all your problems were still festering inside you?

“Oh my god, Y/n L/n?”

You groan and sink back into the sand, head cushioned on the warm piles. Just your fucking luck. “You’ve got the wrong person,” you call out with eyes squeezed shut, praying the stranger will leave you alone. The last thing you needed was a green reporter or psycho fan to spill your location to the rest of the world. You can only imagine the headline. Disgraced painter Y/n L/n found hiding away on a tropical island eight months after she ruined the Met Gala.

“Oh my god, it is you! I’m a massive fan, wow!”

Fuck. At least there was a chance they’d keep quiet. You crack open an eye, staring up at the figure beside you, cast in shadow. From the glint of moonlight, you can see a crown of ruffled hair that’s a faded teal. It reminds you of the impressionist painting of a mountain lake that threw your work into the public eye. Just as faded as the dye on his hair, that time feels worn and aged, like from another life. A reminder of how far you’d fallen. “Look,” you confess lowly to the silhouette, “I just wanna be left alone, I’m not- I’m just here for a break from...everything.”

The figure shifts his weight in the sand, raising an arm to scratch at the back of his neck shyly. “I don’t mean to disturb you,” he apologises. With the slight breeze, his baggy clothes buffet around his lean figure and in the darkness he looks like some vengeful angel, towering over you with the moon behind him. But his voice is so soft, so genuine, so- so warm. Perhaps not vengeful, then, but definitely an angel. “You’re a hero of mine, I wanted to thank you for how much you’ve inspired me, saved me. Gosh, it’s crazy that you’re even here, I-”

“I’m sorry,” you force out, sitting up, wincing as grains of sand work their way down the nape of your neck, “really, I am. But I’m not the person you’re thinking of. Not anymore, at least.” You hate the way your voice rings out so thinly in the night air, nothing like the deep honey of his. You hate the way you sound broken.

He senses it too; he takes a step back, turns towards the dunes. “I should be going, I guess,” he murmurs. “For what it’s worth, I hope I see you around. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

You don’t respond, wrapping your arms around your hunched knees and staring at the silver ocean until you can no longer see him in your peripheral vision.

—

It’s over a week before you see him again. Though you’d never admit it to anyone, you keep an eye out for the boy with the teal hair. There wasn’t enough light that day to make out his face but still, with hardly any people for miles, you hadn’t anticipated he’d be all that difficult to find.

Truth be told, there had been a deep curl of regret and dissatisfaction that took root inside you shortly after you left. He was just trying to be nice, and you could use a friend. Could use someone.

You had asked for privacy when your therapist began recommending a break, a getaway, but you hadn’t expected it to this degree. The place you were staying at was a rundown bungalow just behind the dunes, tucked away in a sliver of land where sand met forest, rising up into hills. The only people you saw were the employees that ran it: a maid that stopped by every day at 1pm, even though you had already made the bed and cleaned up after yourself; an older gentleman that delivered you fresh groceries every couple of days in his ancient-looking four wheel drive; and finally, the electrician you’d had to call out a few nights prior after the power went out.

The mysterious fan hadn’t been dressed like an employee; then again, it was long past the workday when he’d approached you. Mulishly, you find yourself lugging a picnic blanket and a pillow down to the beachfront every evening, monitoring every inch of the coastline that stretches around this edge of the peninsula.

It’s only on the ninth night, when you’re folding up your rough blanket with a disappointed grumble, that a sudden yap catches your attention. You whirl around, toes sinking deeper into the light sand, and gasp as a familiar silhouette approaches, stumbling down a sand dune to your left.

He hasn’t seen you yet; so focused on the tiny fluffball that tugs restlessly at its leash. It’s a lot earlier tonight than the last time you’d seen him, and there’s enough remnants of sunlight in the sky to cast him in a warm golden glow.

He’s in baggy clothes like last time, a long-sleeved white t-shirt with a v in the center, unbuttoned and sagging over the shoulder of the arm that’s getting yanked along, and some tan linen shorts. It’s hard to tell with how he sinks to his ankles in sand with every step, but he’s barefoot, almost sliding down the steep dune more so than walking.

You can’t hear him at this distance, but his lips are moving, parted in a boxy grin as he responds to the constant yipping of the tiny dog at his feet. He’s gorgeous, tanned skin to fit the honey of his voice - the voice you’ve been unable to shake from your head - and the roots of his hair are the colour of brown sugar, lightening into the dyed teal ends, whipping over his cheeks and neck in the seabreeze.

He turns off when he reaches the base, following his dog, who pulls in your direction, short bursts of energy that get cut off by the length of the leash. Your heart jumps, and you find yourself waiting in anticipation, breath caught in your throat.

But the moment he glances up and sees you, he halts in his tracks. Stepping back, his smile falls, bowing his head to you apologetically and pulling on the leash so that the small black-and-tan puppy at his feet turns around with him.

They start walking away from you, and you don't have time to think before you're calling out to him, jogging over with your blanket and pillow forgotten behind you.

He stops walking, though he doesn't turn, and when you finally come to a stop beside him, he keeps his head down.

"Look, I'm sorry about yesterday," you rush out, slightly out of breath, "I was in a really shitty mood, and I had kinda come here to get away from...everything in the first place. I wasn't expecting a fan, and I reacted badly. I'm sorry."

Even after standing still, you can't seem to catch your breath. You haven't seen him this close, in this much detail, and it makes the air catch in your lungs. His eyes are an intense burnt umber, dancing over your face with an unreadable depth to them. He's taller than you, but not bulky. Though his shoulders are wide, he's lean, with a narrow nose and soft cheeks. The wind plays with the ends of his hair, revealing glimpses of a strong brow. He's beautiful.

"I didn't mean to bother you," he says after a moment, and you almost jump at the timbre of his voice so close to you, "I should be the one apologising. I'll leave you alone, honestly. I can find another place to go for a walk, or go at a different time-"

"Do you walk here a lot at this time?" you interrupt, the euphoria of finally holding a conversation after so long loosening your tongue. "You haven't been back since that night."

He tips his head to the side, shoulder jerking when his dog impatiently tugs at the leash, quiet snuffles and yips of disapproval ignored in the air between you. There's a flicker of something in his eyes - surprise? Amusement? "You were looking for me?"

"I-" Your voice fails you, and you realise how pathetic you must look. Your shoulders sink. "I was... I wanted to apologise," you land on finally.

That strange flicker in his eyes settles into a grateful warmth. "I normally do, yeah, but I had to go back to the mainland to pick up this guy." With a genuine smile, he glances down to the ball of fluff that's now lying over his bare foot. "I stayed there while he got his first lot of vaccinations. You can pat him, if you want."

You can recognise that offer for what it really is; an olive branch. In other words, he's apparently not holding a grudge against you for being an asshole. You smile gratefully, crouching down to pat the tiny animal. "What's his name?"

"Yeontan," he answers cheerily. "he's nine weeks old!"

You coo, chuckling at the soft fur wriggling beneath your fingertips, at the wet nose prodding at your palm for more pats. "Yeontan..." you muse. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

You hear a sheepish laugh from above. "Your, um, your painting of the old barn in Icheon? There's a kennel that's beside it in shadow, but you can just make out the name Yeontan painted on the front. I-" He breaks off awkwardly, falling silent.

Your hand freezes, and you feel yourself slump from a crouch to sitting fully on the sand, still hot from the afternoon sun. Yeontan. A detail you couldn't even remember painting, yet he'd named his dog after it. The dog continues to cover your hands in slobber and stray fur, but you just stare at it blankly.

"I'm sorry," the man winces, tone low with defeat. "You probably think it's stupid. I swear I'm not one of those crazy obsessed fans! There was just..." His voice changes then, closes up to cut off any emotion. "I shouldn't say. Sorry."

Your shoulders slacken. "You don't have to keep apologising," you say softly. After a moment's thought, you push up off the sand to stand up again, grains clinging to the skin that's damp from the dog's affections. The handsome stranger's face is stricken, reluctant as he watches you get up. You miss the boxy smile he'd held when he made his way down the dunes. You wonder if he'll ever smile that way at you. "I wanna hear. What you have to say."

Hand flexing on the leash, he looks down at Yeontan and back up at you, eyes squinted slightly as the sun glares onto his face; a radiant, sharp orange. "One of the reasons I'm such a fan of your work is the emotion you can actually see on the canvas. I don't even know how to explain it, but I feel it. And with the Icheon barn painting - I actually saved up for years to buy the original - there's something so sad and lonely about that kennel, that patch of shadow. The rest of the scene is so bright and open, it feels like a party that the kennel wasn't invited to. I don't know, it's stupid. But I thought if I ever bought a dog, I'd name it Yeontan so that it wouldn't feel so alone." He faces the horizon as he speaks, wincing into the light, and a broken laugh bubbles out of his throat once he's done. "Like I said; it's stupid."

But you don't think it's stupid at all. "Did it work?" you ask instead, nose prickling as tears build behind your eyes. The more he spoke, the more you remember the painting. It was your last work before the Met Gala disaster, and after everything went down in flames, desperate online tabloids went back to it, citing it as a 'cry for help'. You hadn't really painted it like that though, not really. You'd seen that beautifully painted barn in the countryside when you were driving between cities to visit your parents, and was taken by the dilapidated dog kennel tucked just beside it. Painting it wasn't some sort of clue to your nosedive, but more like a solidarity with that kennel, the dog that once lived there. The story that had been forgotten. And to hear this man had seen it, had wanted to ease the suffering just like you had... The emotions inside you, ones that had felt so dull and monochrome, now churn inside you in indecipherable technicolour, too many to count. But you think one of them might just be hope. "Did- did getting Yeontan work?"

He's looking at you now. He stays silent for a moment, the softest smile tugging at your lips, and it takes your breath away, watching the colours of sunset play across his skin while his brown eyes seek yours out intensely. "Yeah, it did," he answers eventually, his voice almost a whisper. It's only once he starts speaking that you realise the two of you have moved closer inwards without realising, so that it would only take a half step forward to be pressed against him. "But I think talking with you has helped more."

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. The whirlpool inside you settles, leaving you feeling lighter than you have in years. You don't know what it is about this man that makes you feel...sane again, but you want more of it. "I think talking with you has helped me too," you confess, voice lilting in uncertainty. "Can... can I see you again? I don't even know your name, but-"

"Taehyung," he answers immediately, and even with the fall of night, the sun well and truly gone, his eyes are bright. "I could come back tomorrow?"

Your toes flex in the sand fighting the urge to jump in relief. "Yes! Yes, I'd like that," you chime, a smile tugging at your lips. "It was nice to meet you, Taehyung."

"The pleasure is all mine."

You sleep well that night. You can’t remember the last time the peaceful rays of sun have woken you so gently, but you certainly aren’t complaining.

You’d spent the past week or so moping in your cabin until late afternoon and then moping on the beach. Only now, after finally meeting the boy again - Taehyung - you realise how much you’ve been wasting your time buried in your own thoughts. Now all you want to do is explore. You’d been told on the ferry over here that the island was only a few hours’ walk around the coastline, and that your cabin, a street of shops and a small village of houses were the only signs of life. No bar to drown your sorrows at. No club for finding faceless strangers to make you forget who you were for a few hours. All your coping vices had been replaced with open stretches of nature in all its colours; the cool grey rocky beaches on the southern shore, the lush greens of the hilly forests, the glinting turquoise of the sea, and open plains of pastel sky for miles and miles.

The walk isn’t particularly intensive, but it’s long, and your feet ache in their sandals by the time you reach the docks again, having marked a full loop around the island. The dock, empty this late in the morning, leads directly to the main street via a cobblestone path that weaves between dunes, flax bushes, fields and a skinny stretch of trees, and you follow it to the center of the island, resting in a small cafe.

There’s no free WiFi here, so you sip at a tall glass of homemade strawberry lemonade and watch the streets through the storefront window. From your seat, you can see the people wander back and forth, the odd few with kids, but almost all are retirement age. Slow-moving couples with walkers and canes, elderly men jangling the keys to their vintage cars (that surely didn’t have much road to drive on), women with age-spotted skin and heavy beaded jewellery.

You can’t work out how Taehyung fits in this picture. It’s almost impossible to picture him walking down the same street as everyone else; his dyed hair, clothes two sizes too big, tall and slender frame hurrying down with a dog leash in one hand and a grocery bag in the other-

Wait.

You straighten up, eyes widening as you watch the man himself pauses to let Yeontan cock his leg on a patch of grass by the intersection. Physically, he’s entirely incongruous with the rest of the villagers, but he looks entirely at home, glancing up to smile in recognition at every figure that passes by him. One goes so far as to reach up and ruffle his hair playfully as she talks, and his face brightens with crinkled eyes and a boxy grin, greeting her warmly.

The same feeling of longing and dissatisfaction stirs you from the other time you saw that smile. You want to be the one that makes him so happy. You frown, unconsciously chewing on the end of the paper straw. It’s too hot in here. There’s not enough ventilation, and with the sun streaming in, the heat just pools inside, sticking to your thighs and arms. That’s why you leave the cafe before finishing your drink. The heat.

The lady has left by the time you cross the street, and you fake a cough noisily as you pass him, eyes cast away but face turned so he’d easily recognise you.

“Y/n!” Your heart warms, keens at the calling of your name, and you turn to him, smiling broadly. Taehyung grins when Yeontan rushes over to greet you too, whole body rocking with the force of his tail wagging. “Fancy seeing you here,” he remarks, and you take in a deep breath of air, feeling lightheaded with his attention back on you.

“I decided to explore a bit,” you answer, eyes dropping down to the supermarket bag in his hands, white plastic taut and digging red lines into his palm with the weight of it. “Retail therapy?”

He laughs goodnaturedly, but there’s a flush of pink high on his cheekbones, standing out beside the strands of green that he’s tucked behind his ears. “It’s actually, uh, something for tonight. I didn’t know if you’d- If you still-” He breaks off his stammering with another laugh, this one more self-conscious, and the pink deepens to red. “I thought you and I could paint together. I bought us some materials just in case you didn’t bring your own.” You fall silent, mouth slack and parted in surprise, so he continues on, lifting up his hand for a moment, bag rustling, then changing his mind and letting it fall again. “There isn’t a proper art supplies store here, so it’s just from the toy store. I know you’re probably used to proper stuff, but a bad worker blames his tools, you know! Not that you would- that you’re a bad-”

“You paint?” you ask finally, ending his nervous rambling.

His whole body slackens a bit, like you’ve cut some tension from him, his head dipping down to break eye contact. “Um. I’m- learning,” he answers with an uncertain wobble to his voice.

You tilt your head to the side with an expectant smile. “That’s really cool. How long have you been studying?”

He swallows, looking up to send you a hesitant smile. “I, um, I studied the instructions on the back of a paint-by-numbers kit in the toy store. Just now.” His voice lifts at the end of each sentence like it’s a question, that same bargaining smile plastered on his face.

You let out a genuine laugh, the first one you’ve had in a while. In too long. “Is that so? I better bow down to the maestro then.”

“Hey!” he whines playfully, shoulders rocking forward like a toddler feeling sorry for himself. “I learnt everything I know so far just from your art. And did you hear that speech I gave you about The Barn at Icheon? That was pretty good, right? You have to admit, that was good.”

His hand, the one loosely holding Yeontan’s lead, reaches out to grasp gently just above your elbow as he speaks, rocking you slightly like he’s pleading for you to agree. You find a constant stream of laughter bubbling out of your throat as he does so, feeling so light in the sunny midday breeze. “Okay, okay, that was good,” you confess, “you get a point for that.”

Once your laughter subsides slowly, you find yourself looking up at him with a residual smile, the same of which is spread on his face, eyes glimmering with something fond. He waits for the air between you to fall silent, tongue slipping out just slightly to wet his lips as you hold his gaze. “Y/n,” he asks softly, your name like molten sugar on his tongue, thumb unconsciously rubbing at the sensitive skin in the crook of your arm, “will you paint with me?”

Though the thought of painting still sours inside your chest, with his skin on your skin and his smile just for you, you feel like you could do anything. There’s only one answer. “Yes, I’ll paint with you, Taehyung.”

Painting with Taehyung is less painting with Taehyung and more staring desolately into the middle distance as Taehyung decides to make the clouds purple, bottom lip sucked between his teeth in focus.

“Don’t overthink it,” he stresses for the millionth time, glancing over at your blank canvas, “I’m not judging you.”

But it’s not about him judging you. If it wasn’t for him, you don’t think a paintbrush would have ever found its way into your hands again, certainly not so soon. It’s just that- you feel an overwhelming burden, a historical pressure of all your mistakes before. If you put brush to canvas now and create a work of art, then was your complete mindblank for the Met Gala all for nothing? Though your therapist advised against it, you had rather become attached to the idea that you’d somehow gotten artistically injured somewhere, and that eventually you’d broken completely, irreparable. It made the constant white void easier. Your first death.

“Happy little accidents,” Taehyung says lightly, dipping heavily into orange and catching a dollop on his wide-leg jeans. Not noticing it, or not caring, he swipes the orange into the canvas in a wonky line down past the horizon line, forming the neck and body of what looks vaguely like a giraffe. “And, um, happy little- happy little trees. If you want we could turn around and face the forest?”

Though a glum cloud is settling in your stomach you flick him a soft smile. “So you watch Bob Ross too? I thought you said you learnt everything from me.”

Using the same brush, he scoops out some black, using a pinkie finger to mix the colours together inside the bristles, a murky brown. “Maybe just a little,” he admits, daubing rough patches onto the giraffe, half of them overlapping the edges of its body. There’s an endearing quality to his carefree worksmanship, and you can’t deny that his painting looks good, wonky lines and all. “But don’t worry, you’ll always be my first,” Taehyung adds, not looking at you but smirking all the same.

The double entendre isn’t missed on you, but still, as you sit on a picnic table right on the edge of the village, blank canvas in front of you, you can’t bring yourself to laugh at it. All you can see is the paint drying on the tip of Taehyung’s finger, the messy pots of basic acrylics, and the warm smile that doesn’t leave his face.

He’s having fun. How long has it been since painting has been fun for you? Annoyed, you grab the clear green plastic brush from the set, dipping it into black. Muscle memory tingles across your knuckles and down the muscles of your wrist, an instinct to hold the brush in a certain way, tap off the excess, but your frustration overrides it, and you take the paintladen brush and smear it directly across the center of the canvas, a gaping maw of glossy shadow that bulges on the lower edges, gravity pulling at the thick stripe. You go completely still once it’s done. Staring.

Taehyung looks over after a moment, watching you carefully. “Is everything alright? If you didn’t want to paint, we didn’t have to-”

“It’s terrible,” you interrupt, a frown marring your face. “I fucked it up.”

“You didn’t,” he chastises softly, pushing his canvas to the side and leaning over your shoulder. “It’s a promising start. Maybe the duck pond is black in your world.”

Your eyes slide lower, unfocused. “Maybe the whole ocean is black in my world,” you murmur.

He’s silent for a moment, unsure what to say. “Then how will the fish see?” he asks in a light tone, bumping your shoulder gently with his, but you just let out a broken sob, tears spilling over your cheeks like they’d been triggered by his contact. Taehyung’s mouth opens in a rounded o, eyes wide, and as the dam breaks, you feel an arm find your back, rubbing soothingly, and long, warm fingers wrap around the hand that holds the brush limply, cradling it. “We can fix it, it’s okay,” he soothes in a kind whisper, “here; it’s that mailbox now, yeah? And behind it is the candy shop-” His voice cuts off while he guides your shaking hand to the green, mixing it with white in the plastic pottle to make a pale pastel. You feel the pressure of the brush in your hand shift as he moves the bristles over the canvas in a roughly rectangular shape, but you’re unseeing, crying tears that sting like turpentine into that black ocean behind your eyelids, letting him move you.

The two of you stay like that for what feels like an eternity, you curled in his embrace as he quietly paints for you, commenting on each step of the process so you know what he’s doing, even with your eyes closed. At one point, your energy leaves you, and you collapse into him, pressing your cheek against the stable warmth of his chest, heartbeat audible through his thin t-shirt. He doesn’t complain, just adjusting his stance to better support you and resting his chin on your head.

“I’m sorry,” you blubber thickly at one point, tasting salt.

“You don’t have to be,” he assures, “just keep breathing. Look; let’s put some trees in, hm? One for you and one for me.”

You open your eyes with a sniffle, feeling your hand lower in his secure hold, and you twist around your head to watch him dip the filthy brush in a green which has already been tainted by white and red in places. Your eyes follow it up again, until he fearlessly swipes in the graceful branches of the fir trees which cover the highest points of the island. You look at the rest of the painting, and a disbelieving giggle bubbles out of you, a smile across your face despite everything.

Unlike the mental image you’d been plotting in your head with the narration, this square of canvas has a line of slightly leaning buildings stacked beside each other tightly, colours smearing on the borders. In the middle of the uneven grey strip of cement down the middle to mark out the road, two trees stand proud, mostly green but with bleeding patches of muddy purple and brown too. Entire drops of paint spatter and run, creating a chaotic but vivid daydream of the end of the street in front of you.

“A lot better in your head, wasn’t it?” Taehyung asks knowingly. You laugh again, the last few tears pressed out of the corners of your wet eyes. “It’s okay,” he replies easily, “it was better in my head too. But the one in our heads is boring, don’t you think? If I wanted to see the street in front of me exactly, I’d just look up. Or take a photo. But nobody can visit this place we’ve painted. It’s just here, brand new because of us. I think I like that more.”

You sit up, wiping your eyes with a tired smile. “There’s no way you learnt all that from me,” you deflect, voice still raw from crying. “But yeah. I think I like this one more too.”

“I’m glad,” he answers softly, letting go of your hand and removing his hand from your back at the same time. You suppress a shiver at the sudden absence of heat. “I’ll let this dry and hang it up right beside The Barn at Icheon.”

You laugh again, sniffing away the last dregs of self-pity. “You better not,” you warn playfully, “as semantically poignant as it is, it’s an awful paintjob.”

When Taehyung smiles, it’s bright and boxy. And it’s just for you.

Time passes, but not like in the real world. Out here on this island, you start counting the passage of time by how many occasions you’d met Taehyung. Then, once you’ve seen him too often to count, you let yourself lose track of time completely, remembering only the moments spent with him like vignettes on a fragile chain.

The two of you always meet in the town or on the beach, speaking about everything and nothing. One day, while waiting beside the blue metal mailbox for Yeontan to pee (though Taehyung still insisted it looked better black) you tell him of the time you accidentally turned all your clothes yellowy-green after accidentally putting an apron in the wash that had an opened sampler of chartruese in the pocket. On a rainy afternoon when you’d gotten caught in the downfall walking through the forest, Taehyung told you, while wringing out rainwater from his rumpled maroon sweater, that he was meant to be studying agricultural sciences on the mainland, but his grandmother was sick and so he bought a place nearby to care for her.

“One good thing about being on the island,” he’d chimed cheerily, dark teal and brown plastered to his cheeks and forehead, “is that property is super cheap here. My grandma paid half and I paid half, and now the one-bedroom I live in is all mine.”

“But isn’t that sad?” you’d questioned, feeling the ground turn to mud beneath your shoes. “Living on the island, I mean? You should be in a big city, partying with your friends, living life. This place is like one massive retirement village.”

Taehyung had just shrugged. “My grandma likes it. And I like living for someone else, you know? Makes me feel good.”

Long after you’d gone home, warming up by the radiator in your beachside bungalow, those words had stuck with you. You wonder if, with all this time he’s been spending with you, he’s starting to live for you, too. You wonder if maybe that’s a bad thing.

But still, time passes in this hazy, episodic way. Money continues to filter out of your bank account each week you stay, but you hadn’t worried about your finances for years now, enough successful exhibits from your productive days keeping a healthy sum.

Though he never pushes as much as last time at the picnic table, Taehyung keeps you creating. Backs of napkins, tourism pamphlets, the kids colouring sets at the local diner. No matter how scrawled or indecipherable, the soft-hearted boy compliments your work all the same, slipping the scraps into his pocket with a joking promise that he’s going to frame them. Somehow, every unthought, unplanned line of ink or lead or pigment that lights the page feels like one less needle buried deep inside your heart, one small salve to ease the burden. You don’t know if Taehyung knows it, but in all the ways that count he’s a better artist than you.

When he’s around you, the world is lusher, more vibrant. Your time alone is grey and muted; a dull beach, an empty bungalow. With him, you feel like the sky is bluer and the trees are greener. The bonfire you sit in front of now casts an intense orange glow on everything around it, including Taehyung’s hands as he deftly impales marshmallows onto a skewer.

It’s cooler at nighttime these days. At some point, you’d both exchanged sandals for sneakers, t-shirts for sweaters. Taehyung seems to fancy heavy cable knits and thick trousers even in mild weather, and you wonder if he’d still wear clothing typical of an elderly gentleman even if he was on the mainland in a modern city instead of around the older generation on the island.

Tonight, you’d tried and failed a traditional Korean barbecue over the open flame. While Taehyung had shoved his cut of pork right into the fire, ending up with a charred outside and raw inner, you’d diligently held yours above the flames, turning and turning until the muscles in your arm screamed and you had to give up and admit perhaps the meat from the local butcher was cut too thick, and that a bonfire was good for nothing more than toasted marshmallows.

“This is where it’s at, this is it,” the young man enthuses confidently, each skewer laden with four or five marshmallows, bunched together, “dessert for dinner. The way it should be.”

You’re content to sit back and let him work excitedly, wrapping the edges of the picnic blanket low over your shoulders and lap. Though Taehyung is always devastatingly handsome, he’s the most gorgeous like this: focused in his element and surrounded by all the colours and textures of nature, a painting come to life. The heat of the flames is curling his hair lightly, making teal ends flick at his temples and the nape of his neck. His hair was growing out steadily, but still he chose not to cut it, and you can’t deny the length suits him.

“There’s more brown than green now,” you mention softly. “Soon it’ll look like dip-dye.”

Taehyung glances back at you over his shoulder with a rougish grin, shuffling around so he faces you fully. “What; is this your way of saying it looks bad?”

“No,” you defend with a pout, reaching for the near-full packet of marshmallows. “I’m just curious if you’re gonna leave it like that.”

Taehyung hums like he doesn’t fully believe you, and he leans over to shove his hand in the packet at the same time that you’re rummaging for the soft sweets, your knuckles brushing together. You shiver at the contact. Somehow, that’s been the first time you’ve shared skin contact since that day at the picnic table. Wide-eyed, you wait til he’s grabbed a bunch and pull your own hand away, empty and white with powder.

“Sorry,” he adds reflexively, but you just shake your head. How are you supposed to tell him that you liked the feeling of his skin on yours? Taehyung pops a pink marshmallow into his left cheek, letting it bulge and slur his speech as he gives you a broad grin. “You could dye it for me! My hair, I mean. Pick a colour.”

Against your will, you smile back, cheeks puffing at the thought. “I have no idea how to dye hair, Tae.”

Something flickers in his eyes when you say that, or maybe it’s the dancing flames reflected in them. He chews quickly, swallowing with a jerk of his jaw, and licks the rest of the white powder off his lips. “I bet it’s a whole lot easier than painting a picture.”

You scoff, but there’s no bite to it. “Oh, so you didn’t want me to paint one of my works on your hair, then? Don’t fancy Jeju Dusk on your scalp?”

Taehyung grins at the name, recognising the title of one of your earlier paintings - one that had been relentlessly criticised for its blending of techniques, something that later became your signature. “That’s my second favorite piece, you know? I have a print of it at home, and I saw the original in the Leeum Museum last year.”

You remember the director of the Leeum fondly. In your beginning years, he’d fought for your works to be shown in some of the frequent exhibitions they held. Even though you’d barely made a name for yourself, and had only recently moved to Seoul, Director Kim Namjoon took you in like a mentee and gave you a job himself as his PA. The experience you’d gotten there, as well as that vital exposure, had kept you business-savvy throughout your career, and once you were in a position to give back, you donated almost all of your original canvases to the museum in his name. Maybe one day you’d return home to Seoul and tell Namjoon of the boy who lived on a faraway island, the boy who taught you to open up again. Would Taehyung still be with you then? Though it hasn’t been long, it’s hard to comprehend a life without Taehyung. All you can visualise is a great absence, a lack. You banish the thought from your mind with a shake of your head, glancing back up to see the boy himself boldly setting a skewer of marshmallows on fire in the orange heat. “I hope that’s your one,” you joke weakly as he puffs out the blue and orange that lick at the blackening lumps.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what my favorite work is?” he asks instead, ignoring your statement.

You stay silent for a moment, observing the way he discards the charred skewer in his lap and delicately toasts the other one, swivelling the base so that each side of the marshmallow stack warms to a golden brown. Once he pulls it out, he hands it to you with an expectant quirk of his brow. You take the stick with a slightly suspicious smile. “What’s your favorite, Taehyung?”

“Your next one,” he answers immediately, gaze locked on yours.

You blame the heat radiating off the bonfire for the warmth in your cheeks as you suppress a smile. “Alright then,” you say decisively.

“Alright what?”

“Alright, I’ll dye your hair for you.”

He grins broadly, eyes crinkling into crescent moons as he starts eating his thoroughly-burnt marshmallows. “Tomorrow,” he announces, melted strings of pink and white pooling in the corner of his lips. “Let’s meet at the convenience store and you can pick the colour.”

You smirk at the way he devours the toasted marshmallows with childish glee. “You’ll regret that when you come out of this with highlighter orange hair.”

He chucks his leftover stick into the grocery bag you brought your supplies in, letting himself collapse backwards onto the heated sand. “I think I could pull it off,” he deflects calmly. “Just you see.”

Breath taken away by the peace on his face as he closes his eyes, your mind works dizzily, desperate to find something to keep him talking, to keep this moment between you alive. “Maybe you could get a job as air traffic control. Or a streetlight. Just you wait; it’ll be orange orange.”

Taehyung’s face warms in a lazy smile as he hums. He looks so peaceful lying there that you’re tempted to join him, but you choose instead to shuffle back from the fire so that you can see his face better. His hair’s splayed out over the sand, and you can see the warm flickers from the bonfire play over his neck, his jaw, and the tip of his nose. Taehyung’s right; orange does suit him. “I had a dream, you know. Last night.”

You feel - with the gentle breeze and the silence of the sea surrounding you - that perhaps you’re in a dream right now. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” his low voice hushes, barely louder than the popping of wood on the fire. “We weren’t on the island, we were in Seoul. Your wing of the Leeum Museum.”

You laugh shallowly, not wanting to make much noise for a reason you couldn’t quite pinprick. “I don’t have a wing at the Leeum.”

“You did in my dream,” he defends resolutely, the beginnings of a boxy smile tugging at his lips. “Anyway, we were in your wing, and I remember being so confused because I didn’t recognise any of them. But you told me they were all new. They were paintings of m-” he cuts himself off a beat too late, lips pressed together.

Your heart falters, a rush of adrenaline that flows to the ends of your fingers and toes. You fight to keeo your voice steady. “Maybe it was a premonition.”

Resting on his stomach, Taehyung’s hands twitch, his fingers twisting together. His smile flattens into a tense line and his eyelids squeeze shut tightly. “I don’t wanna get my hopes up,” he admits quietly after a short pause of thought.

Looking back, you can’t remember your thought process, or where your boldness comes from. Maybe something about the way the moment felt detached from reality, a timeless bubble of the two of you that sat adjacent to your real life, separate from consequence. Maybe it was the brief glimpse of pink as he wets the inner seam of his lips. Maybe you’ve just wanted this for too long to think rationally anymore.

Whatever it is, you swallow past the dryness in your mouth, bend down, and press a kiss to his lips.

Taehyung goes completely still at first. You’re cross-legged on the sand, knees faced to his side, and when you kiss him, it’s on enough of an angle that you feel his nose brushing your cheekbone, and you can feel your hair falling down either side of your face like silken rain. He stays still, though, and you press a little harder, just for a moment, before his lack of response shatters your streak of confidence.

With a minute sigh of regret, you lift off of him, ready to sit up again and apologise profoundly. But before there’s more than a few centimeters of air between you, his hand is suddenly snaking around the nape of your neck, fingers slipping up into your hair as he pulls you back down.

When you collide again with a gasp, his mouth is parted, and his teeth scrape against your bottom lip with his urgency. Losing your balance, you throw your outside arm over him, palm plunging into the sand just beside his head, and let your upper torso rest on his his.

“Taehyung,” you sigh onto his lips, shivering when his free hand rests hotly on your waist, thumb slipping under the hem of your shirt to rub maddenly over the sensitive skin of your stomach. “Oh, Taehyung.”

His lips are sticky with the remains of the toasted marshmallows, and tentatively you seek out that sweetness, kissing deeper, letting your tongue slide over the pinkened skin. He holds you so gently, like you’re made of glass, yet his mouth on yours is pure fire, and your breath comes in little gasps, bursts of oxygen that only fan the flames higher. It takes you a few moments to realise the humming in his throat and the motion of his lips are words, so softly spoken, but once you do you slow your movements to a languid stream to better hear them.

“...so beautiful, I’ve wanted to do this for so long, I must be dreaming…” He speaks with his eyes half-lidded, like he doesn’t want to fully lose sight of you, uttering words between sweet kisses, strong hands cradling you so carefully. He presses his lips against yours one last time and moves his hand from your neck to your face, thumbing tenderly at your cheekbone. “God, I’m so lucky to be by your side,” he gasps. “And when you paint new works and attend exhibits, I’ll still be by your side.”

His words are sweet, but something about them strikes an odd note in your chest, and you pull back slightly, shaking off his hands.

He looks at you with wide eyes and swollen lips which are parted in a confused pout. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s my paintings,” you whisper disbelievingly, “isn’t it? That’s why you think you like me. You like my paintings, and you think it’s somehow the same thing.”

He frowns, shuffling back to sit up, further apart from you than you’d been all night. “No,” he says automatically, “I like you, I just… I think you’re talented, and I want to help you-”

“It’s not your place to help me,” you snap back, and Taehyung flinches. “I’m not some- some out-of-order printer that just needs some TLC to start pumping out pages again. You’re a fan, Taehyung, not a fucking therapist.”

He lets those words sit in the air until they sour, staring at you with eyes shiny and lips trembling. “I know that,” he says, voice cracking, “I know that. I just- Just because you had issues with the Met Gala exhibit doesn’t mean you have to run away and hide, you know?”

Your mouth falls open. “I… I didn’t have issues with the Met Gala, okay, Taehyung? I blanked. Every time I tried to paint something for the exhibit, it sucked. I hated it. And then, eventually, I stopped being able to paint anything at all. It was like I just- I just couldn’t. And the Director kept calling, but I couldn’t answer him because I was so fucking humiliated, and you get the day of the Met and the walls are empty because Y/n L/n is a fucking failure. So it’s not- You can’t fix me, Taehyung. I’m just broken.”

The fire spits, crackles, as it smoulders down, nothing more than hot coals that barely light the surroundings. Taehyung, face slowly darkening to shadow, doesn’t say anything. Just sits. Waits.

You sniff, looking down at your hands. “My point is, Tae-” and you scoff at yourself for using a nickname at a time like this, “You shouldn’t like me. I have nothing to give you anymore.”

Sand sticks to your bare legs when you stand, but you make no attempt to brush it off. Though it’s nearly complete darkness, you see Taehyung’s hair shift as he tips his head up to watch you. Rather than speak back, he waits in the pitch black of the extinguished bonfire and lets you go.

Later, in the unforgiving silence of your bungalow, you find yourself gravitating not towards your bed but towards your suitcase, to the small wooden chest of travel paints you had brought never expecting to use.

It’s easier to paint than to think on your regrets and mistakes, and so you let your mind go black, your palette filling with shades of brown, ochre and beige, as well as a single swatch of teal.

The entire next day sees you in a sleep-deprived fervour, the entire main room of your bungalow cleared out and transformed into a makeshift studio, paintings drying on emptied bookshelves, sheets of old newspaper covering the carpet covered in stray spots of colour, the kitchen bench housing your mismatched array of paints and tools.

After finishing your first painting, you’d collapsed onto your bed as the sun began to rise, too exhausted to wash the dried paint off your hands and brow. But it only took a few moments of rest before you felt yourself sinking into a glum quicksand, sucked in by all the emotions swirling in your chest. Suffocated by the sole image of Taehyung, sitting alone on the sand in the dark as you walked away.

So, you’d gotten up, fed the itch in your hands and picked up a brush once more, and let yourself be taken by the mindless haze of work, of colours and angles and perspectives, starting to paint the knuckles on one canvas while you waited for the eyes to dry on another.

Just after 10am, your housekeeper had knocked on the door, and you’d had to play sick so that she wouldn’t come inside. If they kept your deposit or charged you damages for a stray lick of paint on some surface, what did it matter?

You threw yourself so intensely into these paintings, that weren’t art so much as sighs of relief, or buoys in a churning sea. It was all too easy to let your mind latch onto the task of mixing colours, of choosing techniques, of mastering proportions. Normally, you’d work in front of a landscape, or take a photo and paint it later, wanting to get things right, but Taehyung comes to mind with startling clarity.

Soon, your bungalow fills with artworks - some painted on newspaper, or pages of a book when you run out of canvases. Vistas of those moments with him like clustered vignettes: his eyes with orange glints reflected in them from that night with the bonfire; his hands wringing his sodden sweater the day you got caught in the rain; a boxy smile, the first time he ever grinned at you like that; and finally, just as your hands begin to shake too much to hold the brush steady, a lone silhouette walking down a dune, tiny dog tugging at the leash in his hand. The memories flow in reverse, like some sort of undoing, a wish to go back in time and do things right, to be better for him, to do right by him.

When you set the brush down one final time, fingers trembling with exhaustion, it’s nearly midnight. You realise with a dull pang that you’d forgotten to go down to the township to buy Taehyung hair dye. You realise he probably wouldn’t have come down either.

Your face is stiff in places where swipes of paint have dried, and your hair is tangled, thrown up a half-hearted ponytail that keeps threatening to slip, but as you stare around the chaos of the room, at the fevered paintings of him, only him, always him, your heart knows what to do. Whether you like it or not, you can’t go back in time and start new, start fresh. But you can go forward, and you know exactly where your feet will take you.

Well, maybe not exactly, because you’ve never been to Taehyung’s house. But shoving on some sneakers and wrappin yourself up in a jacket, you figure you can find it. The island’s population was barely fifty, and all the houses were in the same sleepy neighborhood behind the main street.

It’s after knocking on exactly twenty-six doors that you realise maybe you should just ask if the stranger knew Taehyung’s address, rather than leaving when somebody unfamiliar answered the door. Shivering, even with the thick padded jacket you’re bundled in, you decide that the next house better be the last. If they didn’t know where Tae was, you could just come back and pick up where you left off tomorrow.

The street is so silent that your sneaker soles on the gravel fill the void entirely, amplified in the chilled night air. As you went on, and the moon passed the center of the sky, less and less people even opened their doors, some that did scolding you for waking them at such an hour. You’d feel bad, only your mind’s entirely locked on one single person.

The next house you reach is small, like most of them, but looks particularly well-groomed compared to most. A gleaming white postbox with the number 13B rests beside the driveway and footpath, both of which are bordered by lush, freshly-mowed grass, almost black in the darkness. Like a beacon, a single lamplight shines white-yellow above the front door, and your eyes ache with the warm brightness as you knock.

After fifteen or so seconds, you hear muffled movement inside, and straighten your back expectantly, mentally running through your speech. A light turns on behind lacy curtains to the left, and eventually a blurred silhouette approaches in the foyer, unlocking the door.

You put on your most sympathetic smile and take in a breath when it cracks, revealing an older woman in mismatching winter pyjamas. “I’m so sorry to wake you, ma’am, but I was wondering if you knew a boy called-” As your eyes search the old woman’s face, you freeze. You know those eyes. “K-Kim Taehyung?” you finish, blinking widely at the woman who somehow looks so familiar.

Rather than grumble about the time or huff, she smiles broadly, lips tugging up in a boxy smile. “Well, of course, he’s my grandson!” The smile drops, brows furrowing in concern. “Is he alright?”

You suck in a breath through your teeth, eyes widening. “I- oh my goodness, I’ve heard so much about you,” you gush, her eyes crinkling fondly at your words. “Sorry, uh- yes, Taehyung is okay, I just-” You stop yourself, trying to steady your racing heart. “Mrs. Kim, you probably don’t even know me, but I did something bad and I need to make it right with him and I just… I think I’m in love with your grandson.” The moment you finish, something in your heart settles at the sound of the words lingering in the air.

She takes her time to reply, letting the words sink into her with a thoughtful sigh. “Darling, am I right in assuming your name is Y/n?”

You swallow quickly. “Yes, that’s right.”

She nods with a fond smile, a glimmer in her eye. “Then I think there’s something you should come see.”

“Inside?” After she waves you in and guides you to slip off your shoes and step into some house slippers instead, you find yourself awkwardly following her down a homely, perfumed hallway. “By the way, I’m so sorry for waking you.”

She waves it off before you even finish your sentence, sending you a kind wink. “No bother to me, lovie. I’m just glad you didn’t wake the dog.”

“The dog?” you mumble to yourself, before halting suddenly as Mrs. Kim pauses in front of a door, hand resting on the glass knob.

“My grandson’s been visiting me more lately, you see,” she explains, turning the knob to reveal a room in complete darkness, nothing inside visible. “He had so much to tell me and so much to do, became as hyper as a boy on Christmas morning! He told me not to go in here, but I couldn’t help myself.”

You step inside on her indication, breath caught in your throat as your eyes struggle to adjust. “I don’t understand…”

“Lovie, don’t worry about whatever went wrong with you two. You love him and… Maybe I’m just a hopeless romantic, but it’s clear he loves you too.” And with that, she flicks the light on and the room comes into focus.

A barn. That’s the first thing you see. A painting of a bright, sprawling barn with a tiny dilapidated kennel in its shadow, wobbly letters spelling out YEONTAN. On the wall directly across from the door rests the original painting of The Barn at Icheon, close to a meter wide and half a metre high. The question of why he’d keep this prized possession of his in a random room barely bigger than a closet dies on your tongue as you turn, seeing the other walls.

A sketch of a bird you’d seen and wanted to show him, clumsily sketched on the back of a receipt with a pen from the lady at the grocery store checkout; a smudged map of your old neighborhood in Seoul that he’d made you draw on a napkin when you were explaining to him how far away the art supply store was; a tourism pamphlet that you and Taehyung had found on a park bench, drawing little Bigfoot silhouettes on the pictures of mountains and mermaids on the beaches. Every one of these thoughtless scrawls, careless scribbles and hurried drawings are here, each one framed or mounted like in a gallery, in order of the time they were made. You turn around slowly, barely noticing Taehyung’s grandmother in the doorway, giving you a knowing look. Finally, on the last wall, the trail of pieces disappear with a final creation, a canvas.

Feeling tears gather in your eyes, you look at the black smear of a mailbox, the wonky shops, the two tall trees incongruously planted in the middle of the street. And, in the bottom right corner painted meticulously in teal, the same teal as his hair, Y/n and Taehyung.

You let out a sob, turning back to Mrs. Kim. “Thank you for showing me this,” you make out in a voice thickened with tears, “but I really need to see him. Can you please give me his address?”

With a look of warm empathy, she steps forward to clasp your shoulders gently, maternally. “He told me about what happened, luvie. He doesn’t blame you.”

Trembling, you wipe the wetness from your cheeks and sniff. “He should,” you admit sullenly, “he’s too good for me. He’s been nothing but kind and patient and caring and all I’ve done is let him down.” Something occurs to you, and you frown in confusion. “Wait… Did he stop by and tell you?”

Her hands squeeze your upper arms comfortingly before dropping them and stepping back. “Oh honey,” she coos, and your heart stops as she steps aside out of the doorway, letting another, taller figure enter the room.

“Taehyung,” you whisper in shock, but before you can even comprehend his presence, his arms are around you, pulling you against his chest in a tight hug. You feel thick layers of pressure and worry evaporate off of you with a single moment, lungs filling with the familiar scent of him, body relaxing with his chin resting on your head and his arms cradling you. For what feels like a small eternity, you let yourself be fully enveloped in him, an indescribable catharsis of finally being in his arms once more. As your tears dry on the soft flanelette of his pyjama shirt and your fingers clutch at his back, you feel a thought transform into a certainty. “I love you, Taehyung,” you confess quietly, and his whole body shudders with a sob, arms tightening around you even more.

“I love you so much,” he confesses lowly, chest rumbling against your ear as he speaks. “And please don’t ever call yourself broken. You’re not. I didn’t love the art, I loved you. Because the art is a part of you Y/n, whether it’s perfect or not.”

“Tae,” you breathe shakily, his name the only word on your lips.

A soft voice comes from the hallway, Taehyung’s grandmother quietly excusing herself to “leave the two lovebirds alone.” You barely notice, lost in the way Taehyung gently rocks you back and forth in his arms, soothing you.

“I missed you,” you hear Taehyung whisper into your hair, nuzzling his nose gently.

Though you shiver at the feeling, you let out a teary laugh. “I saw you a day ago.”

“But it wasn’t the same then,” he insists softly, and a slow breath escapes you weakly. “It’s okay; you’re here now. You-” he breaks off to swallow, and when he speaks again his voice is much quieter, paper thin. “You won’t walk away again, will you?”

You answer by tipping your head up to look him in the eyes warmly, rising onto the tips of your toes so that you can reach his mouth, pressing a kiss against it tenderly. “Never,” you answer surely, “I promise.”

When he smiles, it’s beautiful - that big, boxy grin you saw that day on the dunes, that day you agreed to paint with him, and so many times since. But it never fails to make you melt, lips automatically returning the gesture. “Now,” he announces with a bemused lilt in his voice. “As much as I love this makeout session in my grandma’s closet, it is 2am. Shall we go get some rest?”

Sleep comes quickly once you have Taehyung’s arm around you and your face in the crook of his neck, and you let it take you, knowing you’ll have time to savor the feeling of sleeping beside him for many days to come.

You take him home the next day.

He hadn’t ever been to the bungalow before, but now there was something you desperately wanted him to see. You hadn’t cleaned up before you’d suddenly began roaming the streets of the island, and as he stares around at the chaos, you kind of wish you had. “It’s pretty messy, but…”

“No,” he deflects, mouth parted and eyes wide in wonder, “don’t apologise, this is- wow.” He steps further into the room, stepping over discarded paint tubes, dried canvases and uncleaned brushes. He takes a moment to take in each work. Every single one of them a snapshot of him. “How- When did you do all this?”

You bite your lip, loitering in the entryway. “From when I got back that night until I decided to come looking for you.”

He furrows his brow, fingers gently skimming the top edge of the painting that rests on the easel in the center of the room, the first one you’d painted. His teal growouts, his uneven eyes, the moles dotted so intricately on his face. Your Tae. “You haven’t been able to pick up a brush in months, and then...all this?”

“This was easy,” you say with a shake of your head, “it was easy because it was you.”

He turns, then, glancing at you over his shoulder with eyes brimming with affection. “You really love me.”

A disbelieving grin stretches across your lips. “The midnight confession didn’t make it clear enough?”

“It’s not that, I- I can read it,” he explains, stepping back over to you. “The Barn at Icheon is filled with loneliness, and a lot of your other works talk about fear or curiosity or patience. But this is all love. And it’s me.”

“It’s you,” you confirm with a soft smile, “I love you, Taehyung. So much.”

His eyes light up, then, a cheeky glimmer as his hand reaches out, gripping your elbow and giving it a playful shake. “If I’m your mojo then, you should paint something else today,” he bargains, “I wanna see your genius in action. The black mailbox sadly doesn’t qualify.”

Your mouth drops open in mock outrage, shoving his chest with a whine. “That’s not fair! You said you liked it better black.” Looking around at the disaster zone of the bungalow, you sigh. “I also don’t think I have any paintable surfaces left. I missed the housekeeper so I’ll probably get a fine as it is.”

“Use me, then.”

“Haven’t I painted you enough?” you fire back, but Taehyung just shakes his head emphatically.

“Paint on me. Here,” he says, and his hands leave yours in order to find the hem of his shirt, peeling his shirt off and tossing it into a far end of the room. “A big old waterfall, right down the middle. Rock pool at the bottom.”

“Stop it!” You blush fiercely, hands coming up to cover your cheeks as your eyes feast on his chest, the smooth planes and taut skin, a beautiful golden bronze. “Taehyung…”

For the first time, he doesn't press further. Instead, his shoulders sag, teasing facade slipping. "I'm sorry, you don't have to. I'll stop."

Inexplicably, you find yourself wanting to prove you aren't fragile anymore, unbroken just as he'd insisted you were last night. "I can do it," you protest, stepping away from him to fossick for some usable brushes. "Lie down, then."

Taehyung freezes. "Uh. Yeah, yeah, okay, gimme one sec, I'll just-" With the enthusiasm of a boy having his first kiss, Taehyung hunkers down on the newspaper-covered carpet, shuffling some tools and tubes and palettes out of the way. He looks beautiful like that, chest rising and falling shakily with anticipation, warm brown eyes widened on you. "You don't have to paint a waterfall, you know," he assures hurriedly. "Whatever you do will be perfect."

Heart leaping at his words, you feel a streak of confidence deep inside you, and instead of sitting beside him, you straddle his hips with a newly-filled palette in one hand and a brush in the other. "I want you to guess," you announce from above him, eying his chest and wondering how the colours might fill the space. "Guess what I'm painting. It'll be fun!"

Taehyung's throat bobs with a harsh swallow, nodding quickly. "O-okay, yeah, let's do that," he agrees weakly.

You smile warmly, and begin dipping into a forest green, coating the tips of the bristles. Bending down, you mark a single point of green on the top of his chest, just below his collarbone. The moment the cool paint touches his skin, Taehyung shudders, eyes falling shut. "Okay?" you check. He nods again, chest heaving, and so you continue tracking colour, gradual swoops downwards. Each drag of the brush makes Taehyung's breath catch, and you watch as goosebumps break out on his bare arms.

"Feels nice," he mumbles, lips barely moving like he didn't even intend to speak.

Your lip twitches, but still you focus, topping up the brush whenever the lines became too spotty. After trailing down to just above the level of his belly button, you raise the brush again, starting a new form on the other side of his chest, this one smaller. "Any idea what it is?" you question, but Taehyung just sighs airily.

Once you're finished with the forest green, you wipe your brush off on the edge of your palette and go for a deeper shade, pressing in shadows under each swipe of green. It's once you're working on the bottom half of the second structure that you begin to feel a hardness between your legs, the point where you're straddling him. Shocked, you look up, but Taehyung's covered his eyes with the back of his hand, face turned to the side with reddened cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he croaks out once he feels you stop. "Didn't mean to."

With a fond smile, you lean down, careful not to smudge the wet paint, and gently kiss the corner of his mouth. His fingers twitch and his lips part in surprise, but he otherwise stays still. "It's okay," you soothe, "if it's any consolation, I feel the same way right now."

Like a switch is flipped, Taehyung lifts his hand and tucks his chin, looking down at where the two of you are pressed together, then back up at your face. "Seriously?"

You laugh warmly. "Taehyung, I love you and you're currently lying beneath me, half-naked, writhing every time the brush touches you. Of course I'm turned on."

His cheeks flush hotter and he bites his lip. "You can- you can keep going. Keep painting."

Obediently continuing to fill in the shadow across his stomach, you grin. "Still no guesses on what I'm painting? I'm almost done, you know."

He cranes his neck down further, but the angle prevents him from seeing much. "Some-something green? I'll be honest with you, my focus really isn't-fuck!"

You suppress a laugh as he shudders, hands reaching out to clutch at your pants. Having finished the shadow, you'd mixed a paler green to add some light points on the tops, and one of those swipes had just happened to land across the top of one of his nipples, already stiff from arousal. You continue dipping colour here and there, smirking at the paint that covers the dark brown of his right nipple.

"You tease," Taehyung complains with furrowed brows. "Fuck, that felt good. Please tell me you need to paint the other one too."

You hum in mock thought, transferring your brush to the hand with the palette so that you can reach out, swiping a thumb over the sensitive flesh. Taehyung's whole body jerks, his hips beginning to grind under you, the dull friction pulling a pleasured sigh from your lips that's blessedly drowned by his drawn-out moan. "Why the pout, Tae? This was your idea."

"Next time I'm holding the paintbrush," he promises, hips moving slowly beneath you, eyes lidded as they focus on you, "then you won't be so cocky."

His words send a hot rush of arousal through you, and you rock your hips unconsciously, swallowing a moan. "Next time," you repeat breathily, "but for now I'm almost done."

It only takes a few more touches of pale green, followed by two vertical strokes of brown, before you're putting your tools aside, and standing up off of him.

Taehyung groans in complaint when your hips leave him, his casual grey sweatpants tented and a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. "Where are you going?"

"Come see," you guide, tugging at his hand. "I have a mirror in my room."

He gets up, palming himself with a pout before following you down the hall, pulled along by your interlocked hands. Once in front of the mirror, Taehyung lifts his eyebrows at just how wrecked he looks. Bottom lip swollen from biting at it, hair mussed and sticking up, and a burst of green slowly drying on his torso. "It's...trees?"

"It's us," you explain softly, "like that painting we did together the first time." From beside him, you reach around to gently tap each figure, two tall fir trees, the one on his right taller than the one on his left. "One for you and one for me."

Before you can pull your arm back, his hand comes up to flatten yours against his chest, hands going cold where the paint is still wet in places.

"Tae, you'll smudge it."

"Y/n," he said slowly, head turning to look at you, eyes brimming with affection, "will you let me make love to you?"

Your breath catches, and rather than trusting your voice, you nod wordlessly.

With a deep exhale, he bends down and joins your lips with his, a hand coming up to bury itself in your hair, keeping you close. His lips are hot against yours, passionate and wanting, and your stomach warms with desire. Clumsily, your fingers find the hem of your shirt, lifting it as far as you can before you have to break apart from him, flinging it away once it clears your head.

"The bed?" Taehyung pants in the moments his mouth is free, and you nod, shucking off your jeans before getting onto the mattress in just your bra and panties. "God, you're beautiful," he chants, "how did I get so lucky?"

He slips out of his sweatpants and joins you sitting on the edge, but your eyes linger on his face, the way his eyes soften and crinkle when they meet yours. "I'm the lucky one," you reply simply.

You shiver when a large palm runs up your bare thigh, warm and grounding. "Can I go down on your first?" he asks with a pleading gaze.

You laugh weakly. "I'm definitely the lucky one." In confirmation, you lie yourself back, scooting so your head rests on the pillows.

Hand now having slid down your leg to rest over your ankle, he wraps his fingers around and lifts it off the bed delicately, your knee crooking and legs parting. Smoothly, he slips himself in the gap, lying on his stomach and letting your raised leg rest on his shoulders. With eyes heavy on you, he leans forward slowly and licks a strip over your clothed pussy, a dull kiss of friction across your clit. You groan, head lolling back, and he takes it as his initiative to continue, sucking at the juices that have dampened your panties until the whole crotch is wet, your thighs shaking slightly with your increased sensitivity.

"Tae, please," you breath out, "I wan' more."

A finger slips below the hem of your panties, just over your hipbone. "Should we take these off?" You nod with a needy whimper, lifting your hips to give him easier access.

He sits up to slide them down your legs, calmly spreading your thighs again when you get the self-conscious urge to close them. With only your bra on, you feel so vulnerable, but rather than scaring you, you feel at peace, so happy to be having this moment with Taehyung.

When he shuffles back into place again, he takes his time, his warm breath tickling your inner thighs. At your needy wiggle of your hips, he chuckles and rubs soothingly at the top of your leg where it's crooked over his shoulder, finally dipping his head again to lick at you.

He starts out maddeningly light, the very tip of his tongue flicking slowly over your clit, tentatively venturing out to dip between your folds. You reach out for his hand, needing something to anchor you, and he smiles against you as he interlocks your fingers, keeping you grounded.

"So good, Tae," you encourage, moaning openly when his tongue trails lower and dips between your folds, over your entrance. "Fuck, so good."

Rather than answer verbally, Taehyung doubles his efforts and begins to speed up, lapping at your core and suckling your clit.

Every breath is a moan or a whimper, overtaken by pleasure, but you let yourself drown in it, letting Taehyung eat you out like a man starved. With one hand on your upper thigh and one entwined with yours, he's got no fingers free to play with you, but expertly he brings you to your peak with just his tongue, thrusting it inside you as his nose nudges at your clit.

When you feel your orgasm quickly approaching, your moans heighten and your back begins to arch, hips grinding against him desperately. Taehyung chuckles, the sound vibrating against you and making you shudder, and his hand slips high to press against your waist instead, holding you in place for him. Your thighs tense around him, praises and curses and his name spilling from your lips incoherently.

It's one last nibble at your clit, pulling it into his mouth and dragging his tongue over it, your vision whites out with the force of your orgasm, jerking beneath him and crying out wantonly, overcome with pleasure. He works you through it diligently, groaning as you come down from your high with weak shivers, his tongue never ceasing until you push at his head from oversensitivity.

He lets your leg down carefully, kissing his way up your bare stomach, the swells of your breasts and your throat until his lips are on yours and you can taste yourself on him, feel the ends of his hair tickling against your cheeks.

"That was incredible, Tae," you pant out, feeling boneless beneath him as he takes charge of the kiss, tugging at your lips and licking into your mouth. "I need you," he gasps, and you moan throatily when his clothed crotch grinds against your bare core, the fabric of his underwear catching on your sensitive clit. He's hard, probably painfully so, and all you want is to feel him inside you.

Desperate, your fingers slip behind you, arching your back so that you can deftly release the clasp of your bra, pulling it off hastily before reaching for his underwear. "I need you too, Tae," you plea, "please hurry."

His fingers, slightly cool from the air, slide down your stomach and between your thighs, making you jump as he slips two inside, thrusting them slowly. You're still sensitive, and his mouth falls to your ear, hushing you and pressing encouraging kisses to your temple as you whimper. "Doing so well for me," he praises, "just gotta make sure you're ready, okay?"

"O-okay," you make out, sucking in a breath when he pulls out and presses a third finger inside you, picking up his pace. Gradually, the prickling overstimulation warms into pleasure again, and you rock your hips to seek more friction, free hand coming up to wrap around his neck and shoulders, holding him close.

With no bra on, your full chest is flat against his, and as the paint dries it drags over your nipples, making you arch your back, seeking out the friction.

The warmth between your legs tightens with the extra stimulation, and your breath begins to catch, feeling another orgasm oncoming.

"Close?" Taehyung murmurs in your ear as he widens the gaps between his fingers inside you, scissoring to stretch you even more. You nod hastily, moans getting stuck in your throat, pushed out with every gasped breath. Taehyung hums in response, and you whimper when you feel his fingers slipping out of you completely. Before you can protest, the blunt head of his cock slips between your sopping folds, Taehyung running it up and down to coat himself in your slick.

"Fuck, yes, please Tae, I'm ready," you babble, legs lifting to wrap around his hips, attempting to pull him in closer.

He chuckles, but it's cut off prematurely by a hissed breath of pleasure as he lines up and begins to sink his length into you, a delicious feeling of fullness after his fingers left you so empty. Taehyung enters you slowly, letting you adjust, and you feel completely enveloped by him; his voice in your ear, his hand in yours, his cock inside you.

"Need you, Tae," you whine once he stills, bottomed out, "please move."

"Are you ready?" You wiggle your hips with a groaned yes, arm tightening around him as he pulls back. He stops when just his head still rests inside you, pauses for a moment with a moan as you clench around him, and then plunges back in with one slick thrust.

You cry out, satisfied smile stretching tiredly across your face as he finally begins a steady rhythm, favoring deeper thrusts that make your toes curl. "Yes, Tae, so good!"

"God, you're still so tight," he groans throatily, "so good for me."

On the edge before, you find yourself close after only a few minutes, and you tell him with a shaky breath. Taehyung lets out a relieved exhale as he continues to thrust into you. "Thank fuck," he huffs out, panting a word at a time, "I'm not gonna last, you drive me crazy."

You press your head against his, nuzzling at it as you unwrap your arm from around his shoulders, instead seeking out your clit for the needed friction to push you over the edge. The added stimulation has you clenching, and Taehyung swears desperately, his pace picking up but shuddering as he gets close.

The two of you pant loudly into the otherwise silent room, filling each others' ears with whimpered moans and slurred praises, until you finally catch the tip of your peak, and with one final drag of his cock inside you, you're falling apart, not suddenly and violently like the first time, but rather a slow, hot wave of pleasure that works its way out from your core, down to your toes and fingertips, clenching tightly around Taehyung until he curses and spills inside you, shuddering through his release.

"I love you so much," you whisper once you come down from your high, a contented exhaustion seeping into your bones.

"I love you too," Taehyung says with a final press of his lips on your temple.

---

"This one's gorgeous. I love the broad lines on the ocean compared to the texture of rocks on the shore. This is at the island, you say?"

You hum in confirmation, smiling at your old friend. "You should see, it, Joonie. There's this little cluster of houses and shops right in the middle but the rest is just open nature. Forests, beaches, everything in the middle. I go there every year."

Kim Namjoon, Director at the Leeum Museum in Seoul and avid nature buff, takes one last look at the landscape canvas and grins. "Ah, twist my arm..." You follow him as he moves down the line of mounted canvases, stopping at a familiar portrait. He furrows his brows and cocks his head. "I feel like I've seen this guy before, something about the face... He didn't have green in his hair though, I must be confused."

You laugh at your friend, spying a shock of red through the swathes of people. "You have seen him before," you explain, catching the figure's eye, "you would have seen him here tonight."

In front of you, Namjoon raises his brows. "Oh, really? Who is he, then?"

Over Namjoon's shoulder, you watch Taehyung approach, turning heads with his scarlet dye. He gives you a wink, and you grin back. "He's my husband."

3K notes · View notes

searchingwardrobes · 3 years

Text

It’s Been . . . a DAY 1/3

Yeah, I've got WIPs, but yeah, this came to me. My oldest, years ago, had to pee really bad and NO ONE would let me use their bathroom. An insurance office, of all places, took pity on me, and my kid proceeded to pee on their bathroom floor. I burst into tears, and the woman there hugged me and told me how her kids peed in all kinds of places when they were potty training. The people were so nice, they refused to let me clean it up. I've never forgotten that act of kindness, and I likely never will. So that's the inspiration for this story which will have three parts.

Summary: Emma Swan bursts into Killian's life in spectacular fashion - when her three year old pees on his office floor. Nevertheless, Killian is mesmerized by this tenacious woman. Perhaps fate will let them cross paths again . . .

Rated: G

Words: Just shy of 2k

Also on Ao3

Tagging the usuals: @kmomof4 @snowbellewells @whimsicallyenchantedrose @xhookswenchx @teamhook @let-it-raines @winterbythesea @spartanguard @shireness-says @superchocovian @thesschesthair @resident-of-storybrooke @vvbooklady1256 @hookedonapirate @ultraluckycatnd @hollyethecurious @welllpthisishappening @wellhellotragic @bethacaciakay @optomisticgirl @lfh1226-linda @ilovemesomekillianjones @ekr032-blog-blog @itsfabianadocarmo @profdanglaisstuff @thisonesatellite (sorry if I forgot anyone - I am really tired right now!)

Chapter One:

“Can we use your bathroom, please?”

Jones & Jones Accounting Firm isn’t your stereotypical lifeless, silent establishment, just as the Jones brothers don’t look like your stereotypical accountants. Nevertheless, the frazzled blonde bursts in upon a moment of intense concentration. It’s tax season, after all. Killian takes in said blonde, her hair a wild disarray and tension in her shoulders. She’s clearly not having the best day. A squirming three year old grips her hand, doing what Liam and Elsa always call “the potty dance.”

All four employees of Jones & Jones (it technically should be Jones, Jones, & Jones, but Elsa said that was far too pretentious) hurriedly assure the woman, “yes, yes, of course,” leaping to their feet, hovering, oozing politeness, and pointing to the end of the hall to the facilities. The woman practically weeps in relief.

“Pee pee now, Mama!” the child cries, and his mother scoops him up, holding him out in front of her as she races for the toilet. It’s another maneuver Killian is familiar with thanks to Liam and Elsa - or his nephew, to be more specific.

The blonde - he really wants to know her name - sets the boy down in front of the toilet. In her haste she doesn’t even bother to shut the door.

It’s too late.

Before she can even get the child’s pants down, a yellow puddle is spreading at his feet.

“I’m so sorry,” she gasps to the adults still unhelpfully hovering.

Then she starts ugly crying. Somehow, Killian knows this is out of character for her.

The boy begins to cry in earnest too. Liam and Elsa race off, most likely to take care of this, as the only two adults at Jones & Jones with kids. Ariel, who knows nothing about personal space and has never met a stranger, puts a comforting arm around the blonde.

“It’s okay, lass,” Killian assures, “really.”

“How can it be okay? We burst in here and peed on your floor!”

Killian bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling or pointing out that only the lad did the actual peeing.

Liam appears with a roll of paper towels and a mop. “Accidents happen,” he tells the young mother cheerfully. “Potty training?”

“Yes!” the woman practically wails. “He’s three, so I know we should be done -“

“Ours is three too,” Elsa interrupts as she pushes a stack of clothes into her arms, “and he still has accidents. Which is why I have a spare set of clothes in my desk drawer.”

“Oh, spare clothes,” the woman mutters, shuffling through the massive bag slung over one shoulder. “Shit, he peed on those yesterday.”

He continues to sob as Liam lifts him out of his yellow puddle.

“So take these,” Elsa insists once again. “My name is Elsa, by the way.”

“Emma,” the blonde answers with a trembling chin as she takes the clothes, “and I never fall apart like this with strangers.” She chuckles sardonically. “Hell, I don’t do it with people I do know, but we’ve just had the worst time. Henry said he had to go, but every shop on this street said no when I begged for a bathroom. I was trying to buy him a pair of shoes. I mean, who the hell opens a kids’ thrift store and doesn’t put in a public bathroom?”

Killian once again bites his lip at the heat in her voice. He believes her when she insists that she rarely falls apart. She’s feisty and tough as nails - no question.

“Well,” Liam says, stuffing the wastebasket with sodden paper towels, “I’ve gotten most of it so you can change your lad out of his wet things. I’ll mop up when you’re done.”

Emma looks at each of them in turn, her eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. “Why are you all being so nice?”

It’s clear from the way she says it that kindness has been rare in her life. It makes Killian wonder about the boy’s father. She isn’t wearing a ring, but that doesn’t mean the man isn’t around. Whoever he is, he’s done nothing to ease that look of mistrust in her eyes.

“Because it’s clear you’re having a rough day,” Killian tells her gently, “and we’ve all been there.”

“Some of us literally,” quips Liam, and Elsa laughs.

“Your office was the sixth place I tried,” Emma whispers. “I never would have asked to use a bathroom in a business office if I wasn’t desperate.”

The boy - Henry - is still sniffling. “Was I a bad boy, Mama?”

“Oh baby, no,” Emma croons, falling to her knees before her son. “Even a big person might have had an accident holding it as long as you had to.”

Her soft voice melts the little boy, and he collapses wearily into his mother’s arms for comfort. Emma obliges, heedless of the child’s smelly dampness. She’s a good mother, that’s clear. The businesses on this street however? Killian clenches his jaw as he mentally ticks them off: the thrift store Emma had mentioned, a sporting goods store, a ladies boutique, a children’s book store, a jewelry store, and then Jones & Jones. Every single one had no reason to deny the desperate mother and child an exception to their “employees only” restrooms.

“Next time, love,” Killian says to the resilient mother before him, “you just stride right back to the bathroom no matter what they say.”

“Yeah,” Ariel agrees, anger flashing in her eyes, “I understand why they might not want a public bathroom, but surely they could see it was an emergency.”

“You just tell them it’s either let you use their bathroom or your kid’s gonna pee right on their floor,” Elsa grumbles. She’s clearly pissed - pun completely intended - or she wouldn’t have spoken with such poor diction.

Emma laughs, her face more at ease than it has been since she arrived. “I’ll remember that next time. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“And potty training is definitely a desperate time,” Liam commiserates.

They leave Emma and Henry alone then so she can change his clothes. When mother and son exit the bathroom, they both look much calmer.

“I can’t say thank you enough,” Emma tells them. “I’ll come back by tomorrow to return the clothes.”

Elsa waves away her offer. “No worries. Those are pretty worse for wear. Ian won’t miss them, I promise.”

“Ian Jones, I’m guessing?” Emma asks. “That’s a nice name.”

“It’s a nickname, actually,” Liam tells her from where he’s mopping the bathroom. “He’s named after this git of a brother, over here.”

“Oi, but you did name him after me, didn’t you?” Killian shoots back.

“Nickname, huh?” Emma asks with a tilt of her head and a teasing smile. “Short for . . . ?”

“Killian.” Is it just his imagination, or is she flirting with him? “Killian Jones.”

He extends his hand, and she takes it.

“Emma Swan.”

A last name! His heart soars. “It suits you.”

Emma’s smile brightens even as she rolls her eyes. No, it isn’t his imagination - she is flirting. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Only the ones with kids who pee in my office.”

She tilts her head back and lets out a full-throated laugh. It does something to his heart - makes it expand or something equally cheesy. Her cheeks are pink as she looks at him while tugging at the ends of her hair.

“So . . . um, I still feel kind of bad about that.” Her nose wrinkles, and he notices the light dusting of freckles there.

“Well, you could make it up to us by staying and having dinner. It will be here any minute: sub sandwiches and practically a whole salad bar. Ariel always orders way too much.”

“It’s better than running low!” the redhead snaps indignantly.

His smile wavers as he watches a shadow pass over Emma’s face, dimming her eyes. It’s as if he’s watched a wall fall back into place. She shuffles her feet, and ducks her head. Henry meets her gaze, popping a thumb into his mouth.

“I . . . um, think this is a Happy Meal kinda night - right kid?”

“Yay!” Henry cheers, bounding up and down in that jerky way toddlers always have. “Ticken nuggets!”

“Chicken nuggets,” Emma corrects.

“Dat’s what I say,” Henry retorts with a frown.

Killian catches the boys gaze and winks at him. The boy giggles before popping his thumb back in his mouth. Then Killian regards Emma again, weighing the risk of his next question, but he has to know.

“His father is expecting dinner too, perhaps?”

Emma’s eyes narrow, and it’s clear he’s made a serious tactical error. “He certainly isn’t expecting it from me, wherever the hell he is.”

Killian ducks his head. “Apologies, lass.”

Emma sucks in a breath, then lets it out slowly. When she speaks again, it’s with measured calm.

“I thank all of you again, but we really need to go.”

They all talk over one another assuring Emma that it was no trouble at all, but she practically dashes out the door. When it closes, sadness sweeps over Killian at the thought that he’ll probably never see her again.

“Well, you sure mucked that up, little brother.”

Killian glowers at Liam. “Shut it.”

“Leave him alone, babe,” Elsa admonishes gently. “He had to find some way to make sure he wasn’t flirting with a woman who was already taken.”

“You think she was flirting?” Killian asks.

Ariel snorts. “Please. For a minute there, she was practically melting at your feet.”

Killian groans as he runs a hand over his face. “You’re right Liam. I mucked it up.”

“I don’t think so,” Elsa muses, her gaze drifting to the door Emma Swan had just exited. “I think her walls flew back up before you probed about Henry’s dad.”

Killian sinks dejectedly into his desk chair. “And now I’ll probably never see her again.”

“So what?” Liam shoves the mop back into the broom closet before heading back to his own desk. “You only talked to her for like ten minutes.”

“There was an instant connection, though.” Ariel clasps her hands together and practically swoons.

“And you never know,” adds Elsa, “the two of you may cross paths again.”

Killian frowns as he stares at the spreadsheets on his computer screen. He hasn’t been immediately affected by a woman in this manner since Milah. Liam’s right - it’s foolish to read much into their brief meeting.

Yet he can’t help hoping that he’ll see Emma Swan again.

#cs #cs ff #captain swan #modern au #first meeting #mommy!emma #single mom emma #little henry #fluff #humor

60 notes · View notes

yourdeepestfathoms · 3 years

Text

for anyone curious, my newest book is about the Salem Witch Trials! it’s at the point of view of Mary Warren and how she went through trials, ultimately ending in her downward spiral into madness as the trials deteriorate her mental health. it’s called Servant of Evil.

here’s the first segment of the first chapter!

— — —

She was gathering crops the first day she caught wind of the hysteria.

It was late January and sunny, the last warm day in what would soon feel like forever. The sickle in her hand was wickedly sharp and gleaming in pale yellow light, and the stalks of the corn she was cutting away were rough and sharp beneath calloused fingers. Already, the skin on her hands was shredded, oozing ruby droplets of blood and staining bright green stems. Her legs ached from crouching in the dirt, muscles locked up and tense. Somewhere beyond the pillars of corn stretched out before her, she could hear her master’s children talking in high-pitched voices, dogs barking, and horses neighing. Even closer than that, however, she could hear heavy footsteps tramping through the field, and she knew the owner of this land would not enjoy such galumphing through his crops. But she also knew that the one who appeared through the stalks wouldn’t care much for the fiery point of John Proctor’s scorn.

“Something weirdish is going on in Salem.”

Without looking up, Mary Warren answered the unexpected visitor, “Something is always going on in Salem.”

That much was true, at least right now. Salem was a town of rich trade and sea salt, characterized by a sparkling harbor that was bested only by Boston’s and a habit of fighting with itself. For years, Salem had been split between two forces: the nobles up in Salem Town and the farmers down in Salem Village. The two territories were never not fighting with each other; they were always mad about something the other did, and it was easy to lose track of who hated who and for what reason. Salem Village didn’t like the control Salem Town held over it, while Salem Town was annoyed by Salem Village thinking it was its own settlement, but they all detested the British church, which was mutual. Salem Town often pulled men from Salem Village to be a part of the national guard, which made Salem Village nervous because then they would have nobody to protect them, and Indian attacks were a regular fear throughout the civilization. Aside from its harbor, the other thing Salem had to owe to its popularity was its unfortunate position in front of frequent ambushes. And if it didn’t suffer ambushes first-hand, then it suffered ambushes through the survivors of such raids, many of which populated the city and would soon help with the grisly events that turned the community over on its head.

But the only other thing Salem Village and Salem Town could agree on was that the Indians were an issue. Unfortunately, that was where agreements ended and arguments began- Salem Town wanted more men to train, promising protection; Salem Village refusing, saying they knew how Salem Town lied, and if they didn’t, then they only saved them because of their bountiful trade and not because they were their people. It wouldn’t be long until the yelling broke out, testaments from the Bible were quoted, and grown men argued like two children fighting over who was their parents’ favorite kid.

However, Salem as a whole had fallen silent recently. Things were peaceful. It was as though a grace period were opening up before them all--or, perhaps, it was actually ending.

Except for right now, in the Proctor corn field, of course. Because her visitor would only bring silence if she were dead, and she had proved to be too slippery for death’s fingers three times over after surviving several Indian attacks throughout her young life.

“This is different.”

Wiping a sagging green sleeve over her damp brow, Mary looked up and squinted through sweat and sun to look at none other than the Putnam’s maid, Mercy Lewis.

Mercy was a fine example of everything the Puritans didn’t want. Despite her name’s sake, she was stubborn, brash, and spitfire, though she was smart enough to never act in such a way in front of the church. And she was, indeed, smart. She was more clever than a fox, easily outwitting several situations despite the minimal education women had in their lifetime. The only thing she was merciful to was her younger cousin, Ann Putnam Jr. Her parents were better off naming her Big, Loud, and Vulgar.

Mercy was nineteen-years-old, two years older than Mary, and built like a small bear. She was short, compact, and sinewy, her muscles and joints well-honed from rough maid work. Her temper was black and her teeth were sharp. Her curly dark brown hair was tucked up in her blindingly white bonnet, and she was dressed in a nondescript dress of purple. Storm cloud grey eyes bore down on Mary with bright amusement.

The two of them met three years ago in Elizabeth Proctor’s tavern. Mary had been struggling to wipe away a sticky stain on one of the tables; Mercy was looking for fresh meat. They both were in the right place at the right time.

Mary hadn’t heard her come in. It was as though the shadows of the tavern itself had unfolded the sixteen-year-old before her because she was suddenly there, towering over the front of the table, and Mary ended up spilling the bowl of soapy water she was using all over herself upon noticing her.

“My, are you jumpy,” the strange girl had observed, peering over the edge of the table. She didn’t offer Mary her help or even an apology. Mary didn’t ask for one. “Were your parents murdered by savages, too?”

“What?”

“Ooo, no, then. Got it.”

Mary blinked up at her for a moment, then carefully got up out of the sudsy puddle and retrieved a dry rag to clean up the newest mess. The entire time, the strange girl watched her as she dripped droplets and beads of white soap from the bottom of her old lavender dress.

“Can I help you?” Mary asked as she got back down on her hands and knees to clean the floor.

“Oh, no,” the strange girl answered. “I just came to say hello. Introduce myself. You work for the Proctor’s, yeah?”

“Yes,” Mary nodded.

“Interesting, interesting. I work for the Putnam’s. Thomas is my cousin, actually.”

Mary nodded again. She looked back down at the puddle, trying to focus on that. The girl didn’t move.

“Mercy.”

Mary looked back up again. She blinked. The strange girl blinked back. Was this a game?

“Pity.”

The girl stared at her for a moment, then burst into loud laughter that seemed to shake the walls. Mary was startled; she had never heard anyone laugh so hard in her entire life. Especially in a town as strict as Sakem.

“No, that’s my name,” the girl said after calming down. “My name is Mercy. Mercy Lewis.”

“Oh,” Mary’s ears heated up. “Right. Your parents were feeling pretty creative, weren’t they?”

Another bout of laughter. “Yes. Yes, they were.” She squinted at her. “And you are?”

“Mary. Mary Warren.”

“Well, Mary ‘Pity’ Warren, I think we are going to be very good friends.”

And she was right.

Mercy, as menacing as she could be, made life in Salem a lot more bearable, especially when Proctor’s whip frequently began lapping at Mary’s bare back. Together, they formed a cohort of sorts, sneaking away into the woods with other village girls, hiding away from the Lord’s watchful eyes to discuss the most sinful of things.

And today, Mercy wanted to carry on with their long-running traditions.

“Different in what way?” Mary asked.

Mercy rolled her eyes. She kicked a cloud of dust at Mary, and Mary sputtered, nearly falling backwards into the corn.

“Different-different,” Mercy answered. “Something is wrong with Abigail. Betty, too, I hear. We’re gonna go up to the Reverend’s house and see them. They’re ill, you know?”

“No,” Mary shook her head. “Mister Proctor didn’t tell me anything. They’re sick?”

“Yeah. Real sick. Ain’t wakin’ up. The Reverend has been throwin’ a huge fit over them.” Mercy explained, “I’m surprised you never heard him howlin’!” Then, doing a horrible imitation of Reverend Samuel Parris’s voice, she wailed, “Oh Betty, Betty! Wake, my sweet daughter! Wake! Why won’t you wake?!”

She clung to Mary’s arm dramatically. “God! God! Why have you forsaken me?! What have you struck my little girls with?!”

Mary couldn’t help but giggle softly. Still, her mind was made up on the whole ordeal.

“Tell them my pardons and prayers,” she said, grabbing the fallen sickle. “My master said I gotta tend to the crops. Then I can go to town. But I am not spendin’ my free time meddlin’ in someone else’s affairs.”

Mercy groaned loudly and snatched the sickle away from Mary, making her yelp.

“Live a little, will ya? Let’s go see poor Abby and Betty!” Mercy urged. “To Hell with your master right now. You can’t let him lead you around by a leash all the time. Deal with the consequences later. Let’s go!”

Mary stared into the older girl’s eyes and then sighed, giving in. She stood up- Mercy was taller than her, as she always had been. “Lead on, Mercy.”

Mercy brightened.

Together, the two of them snuck out of the Proctor property, careful as to not get caught by one of the many children roaming the plantation.

Technically, the Proctor’s had eighteen children, though four were dead and eleven were brought forth by two different women, both of which had also passed over the seasons. The only living child of John Proctor’s first wife, Martha Giddens, was Benjamin, a tall, lanky man who could never seem to grow a beard, yet had hair down to his shoulders. He was thirty-three and didn’t talk to Mary very often, but when he did, he greatly critiqued her work in the field. That farm was his pride and joy, and it was a challenge to not roll her eyes when he would go on about the importance of their crops and proper plant care.

Elizabeth II was the second oldest at twenty-nine, and helped Elizabeth Proctor run the tavern with her other siblings: Martha IV, twenty-six (the first two Martha’s had died when they were both infants, along with the woman they were named after); Mary II, twenty-five; John II, twenty-four; Mary III, twenty-three; and Thorndike, twenty. Why Proctor decided to have TWO daughters named Mary was beyond Mary herself, but it wasn’t uncommon for things to become confusing when their name was shouted for whatever reason.

Elizabeth Proctor’s children stayed on the farm, helping clean and take care of the livestock: William, eighteen; Sarah fifteen; Samuel, seven; Elisha, five; Abigail, three; and Joseph, one. Mercy often made jokes that Elizabeth had obviously been the one to name the kids, as they were actually creative and not repeating several times over.

But with so many watchmen on the property, Mary was surprised about how easy it was to slip away unseen.

The road was loose and crunched loudly beneath their footfalls. Mercy kept kicking a rock, and Mary watched it bounce across the ground.

“So, what’s wrong with Betty and Abby?” Mary asked.

Mercy smirked widely.

“There be witches about, Mary.”

#servant of evil #lizzie’s dumb book #my writing #original story #salem witch trials #mary warren #mercy lewis

28 notes · View notes

kienava · 3 years

Text

~~i stayed up til 4 am and wrote beauyasha and i regret nothing~~

When the Nein return to the tower, Beau finally has a chance to read Yasha's poem.

Awkward conversation ensues in a room full of flowers.

_______

how do i wake my spirit cold? [AO3 link]

It had taken Beau a solid three reads to convince herself that this poem was actually real, not just something that her cold-snapped brain had imagined for a fleeting sense of warmth. She’d gone from staring at the words blankly to reading slowly, scrutinizing the angles of each letter, and on her seventh read she’d discovered that it was impossible to tear her eyes off the piece of parchment in her hands. This was now the eighteenth time in a row she’d scanned over these four lines, though she’d long since memorized their contents. At this point, she was less reading a poem and more gazing at a painting. Its beautiful simplicity hit all at once, like a thin blade between the ribs.

Many months ago, Beau might have guessed that Yasha’s handwriting would resemble her intimidating appearance, or maybe even her fighting style: sharp and strong, rough strokes and firm lines. Now, the slight, slanted script on the page came as no surprise, not when Beau had all but reached out and touched the soft edges hidden under layers of rage and anguish - and shawls. Yasha was big on shawls.

Eventually, Beau knew, she would have to put this piece of paper down and stop reading, but her hands and eyes had yet to consider that idea for themselves.

Her breath stayed steady despite her sparking nerves, years of practice kicking in to steady her. After she folded that piece of parchment up, what could she possibly do? Sleep? Not a gods-damned chance. The tower was safe and still, much unlike the thumping in her chest. As skilled as she’d become at controlling her lungs and diaphragm, the ability to keep her heart calm eluded her.

She knew it was a symptom of something that she’d avoided addressing for as long as possible, a creature that would longer allow itself to be pushed off and locked up. Beau had done her best to drown it alive when she’d learned why Yasha pressed her own heart between the pages of a book to desiccate along with torn petals and broken thorns. Loving dead flowers left little room to tend a new garden.

For all Beau’s attempts to do otherwise, she kept coming back to this, perennially doomed to weather the most apocalyptic storms.

In an effort to inspire some new consideration besides poetry, Beau let the paper flutter onto her desk and took to the fighting post. She’d been curious to see how adaptable the tower’s contents really were, and she’d asked Caleb for a variety of weighted staves to train with in this rendition. She grabbed the heaviest one from its mount on the wall. Maybe if she exhausted herself by whaling on the fighting post, she’d be able to fall asleep sometime in the next several hours.

As soon as she started swinging, it was clear that her plan would be fruitless. Her muscles could go on autopilot and run through routines she knew deep in her bones, and she’d built up too much stamina fighting gnolls and ghosts and undead sea monsters to tire herself to the point of genuine exhaustion.

Despite all of her mediation training, she couldn’t shut her brain off. She’d been in research mode for weeks now, mind racing constantly to piece together theories that somehow sounded less and less wild the more their group trekked on. Even while sparring with this helpless post, she exerted more effort willing herself not to sit back down at her desk and scour between the grains of the paper Yasha had given her for clarity and truth.

She made a last-ditch effort at meditating, sitting in the middle of the room with her legs crossed, counting her inhales and exhales. It was the first technique Dairon had taught her, the simplest form of breathwork. The goal was not to control or influence the breath, but to build awareness of one’s natural pace without judgment. At the time, Beau laughed at the possibility that she could go a second without judging (herself or others). But she'd changed so much since then.

She felt herself smile, recalling a conversation from what felt like ages ago.

Thank you for not judging me, Beau.

Have you seen me? Who am I to fucking judge?

I’ve seen you. I’ve seen you a lot.

Was that it? Was that the moment that the harmless flirting had developed its own sense of gravity? That Beau had suddenly found herself tongue-tied during their most superficial conversations, yet secretly hoping for even the briefest moment alone together?

Without intention, her breath had started to line up with the endearingly crooked meter of the poem repeating infinitely in her mind. She inhaled through one line, then emptied her lungs by the end of the next.

Each time she ran through that short stanza again, more questions frayed out like a string splitting endlessly. None of the answers she sought could be found in the library. She’d only need to go one floor down, not two.

All distractions exhausted, Beau considered knocking on someone else’s door instead of seeking the one stamped with lilacs, but she couldn’t come up with a good reason to do so. Veth and Caleb would be together, huddled in front of a cozy fire and having one of those intense conversations meant only for them. Caduceus usually went to sleep early anyway, and he’d eaten a whopping dinner. No way he’d still be up. Fjord had taken up his own meditation practice, and far be it from Beau to interrupt that. Jester - well, that was just a bad idea. If Beau mentioned the poem (and there was very little chance she’d be able to talk about anything else), Jester might just drag her down to Yasha’s room and throw her through right the door.

If Yasha could be brave, so could Beau. In fights, that was the very thing that pushed her to go as hard as she did. She knew that Yasha would be there to pull her out of a giant lobster claw if her risks didn’t pay off. They had each other's backs, always.

Would that still be the case when neither of them held a weapon in their hands?

Only one way to find out.

Beau opened and closed her own door as quietly as possible. Jester had some kind of sixth sense when it came to Beau’s interactions with Yasha, and Beau really didn’t want to explain anything when she wasn’t even entirely sure what was going on herself. She whispered the command word to the lift and sank slowly to the next floor down. She was careful to keep her knock quiet, though it probably wouldn’t wake Caduceus. No promises that Jester wouldn’t somehow hear it, no matter how thick Caleb claimed the walls were.

There was a long beat before Beau heard footsteps. Her stomach flipped - had she woken Yasha up? Normally she relied on some burst of brash confidence to start a conversation, and it had already taken her nearly an hour to build up the courage to step into the hallway and onto the lift. This was too different from the casual check-ins and mid-battle flirting that had happened more often in recent weeks, and Beau forgot every normal greeting she knew when the lilac-emblazoned door swung open.

She only had one thought: “Yasha.”

“Goodnight, Beau,” Yasha said. Quickly, she added, “Not goodnight like ‘goodbye, you should leave.’ Goodnight as in good morning. Like a greeting, I mean.”

“Ha, yeah. Goodnight, I guess,” Beau replied with a little wave. This was going about as badly as possible. “Sorry, did I wake you up?”

“No, no, no. I was just - well, I cannot read Zemnian, but those books Caleb gave us have very nice covers.”

“Yeah, they’re cool,” Beau said. She had an opening here. Might as well take it. “Speaking of reading...”

Yasha raised her eyebrows.

Beau tried to swallow the dryness in her mouth. It didn’t work. “I checked out your poem.”

“Oh, you did?” Yasha asked.

“You sound surprised.”

“Maybe a little.”

Beau wasn’t sure where to go with that, and all she could come up with was a stilted laugh.

Yasha joined in with her own quiet chuckle. The way she bit her lip, lost in thought, made it clear that she was just as much at a loss for words.

This was a bad idea. Beau hadn’t been thinking straight, obviously, when she’d come down here with a million questions and no plan for how to ask them.

“Okay,” Beau said, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. “I guess I’m gonna--”

“Do you want to come in?”

Beau blinked. “What? I mean, sure. Yeah.”

Yasha stepped back from the door to open it wider, and Beau stepped inside the flower-laden room for the first time since Caleb’s magical mansion tour.

The door settled shut behind them, and they were left standing in the middle of the bright, colorful blossoms.

“So,” Yasha started. She didn’t go on.

“Nice plants,” Beau commented, nearly smacking herself across the face for it.

Fortunately, Yasha smiled at that. “Caleb really thought of everything for this place.”

Beau’s mind flashed to the mirror mounted above her bed, and for the first time in many years she had to remind herself to breathe. She was more than getting ahead of herself.

“Anyway,” Yasha said, drawing out the end of the word a little more than normal, “what brings you down to the fifth floor?”

“Ah, just got lost on my way to the kitchen, thought I’d swing by,” Beau tried.

Every time Yasha let out even a small laugh, Beau counted it as a win.

The most concrete question burning in Beau’s skull was rooted in something ugly and frightened. She asked it anyway. “So did Jester put you up to that?”

“It was her idea, yes,” Yasha admitted.

“Oh,” Beau said, not quite catching her voice from cracking.

“I shouldn’t have said that. She only helped because I asked.”

“So it was your idea?”

“Not quite. I don’t think. Not the poem thing, specifically. I told her I wanted to...do something, for you, and that is what she suggested.”

Beau fought against the urge to convince herself that those words could mean anything other than what she wanted to hear. She’d been jumping through flaming mental hoops for weeks, maybe months, trying to talk herself out of this. And then Yasha had the pleasant audacity to write her a poem.

“No one’s ever done that before. For me,” Beau reiterated. She held her hands up. “Hey, I’m no expert, but I thought it was dope.”

“No, you didn’t,” Yasha dismissed.

“No, I did.”

“You did?”

“Yeah.”

Yasha busied herself by stroking the petal of a nearby flower with her thumb, a small smile creeping in.

“Why’d you write it?” Beau asked.

Yasha’s fingers stilled. Her gaze stayed fixed on the flower in her hand, and her slight smile grew.

“Do you have a favorite flower, Beau?”

There was the answer Beau wanted to give, and then there was the truth. In the dense quiet, the latter won out. “Not really. Kinda wish I did. Do you?”

“I think...” Yasha gently plucked the flower from its stem. “I think they are all my favorite.”

“Really?”

Yasha nodded, cradling the flower in her palm.

It was, quite possibly, the happiest Beau had ever seen her. She suddenly wished that she knew the name of this plant, of every plant in the room. If something could bring Yasha such tranquil joy, it was worth knowing.

“The ones in this room are from all over. I’ve never even heard of some of them,” Yasha said.

“Caleb probably read about a thousand botany books just for this.”

“Probably,” Yasha laughed.

“Come on. You’ve gotta have a favorite,” Beau pushed, in the back of her mind hoping that she could use the information for future reference.

Yasha shook her head. “My book...I was keeping it for Zuala at first, but I think I am also keeping it for myself now. I want to remember the places that I’ve been and the things that happened there. Because those things have brought me here, and I am very happy about that, even if some of what happened was...not so happy. I would not be here, with all of you, without every single one of those flowers.”

She held her hand out, presenting the plucked flower. Beau stared at the five long, carefree, white petals, tinged with a sunshiny yellow at the tips. Slowly, she reached out and was surprised to find the petals were rich and soft like velvet. She couldn’t recall ever seeing it before - maybe it was from Xhorhas.

“And,” Yasha met Beau’s eyes, “finding new favorite flowers to add to my book does not mean I forget the old ones.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Beau agreed.

“This one reminds me a lot of you, actually,” Yasha said, almost whispering to herself.

Beau felt her heart skip. She’d never been given a poem before, and she’d certainly been compared to something so delicate and precious. She wracked her brain for something witty to say, but she’d never been very good at that around Yasha. “It does?” she choked out.

“It grows in the desert,” Yasha explained. “It's very stubborn and strong. We called it Sunsbane. Even with very little water, it survives the hottest days. The buds stay closed for many years, but the plant stays strong. The roots grow deeper than you’d ever guess just from looking at it above the surface. It can take a long time, but when the nights get cool enough, the flowers finally bloom.” She paused, sweeping her hair behind her ear. “You probably didn’t come here to hear so much about plants, though.”

Beau could very well have been in the desert herself at the moment - her mouth went dry again, and she felt like it was about a thousand degrees in that room.

Untrusting of her own ability to form words after that, she lifted the flower from Yasha’s hand, then reached up and tucked its short stem back where Yasha had fixed her hair.

“Hey,” Beau managed.

“Mhm?”

“You can tell me about plants anytime, alright?”

“Alright,” Yasha returned. “Okay.”

Beau retreated a step, realizing how close they’d been standing. “White’s kinda more your color, though. Plus, the yellow really...your eyes, it - works. Looks nice. Um, goodnight.”

There was a strange look on Yasha’s face, like she was thinking too hard.

“What?” Beau risked asking.

“Just that...I didn’t answer your question yet. About the poem.”

“Oh. Yeah. It’s cool, honestly--”

“Beau.” Yasha said her name so softly that Beau had no choice but to stop protesting.

Yasha took the flower from behind her ear and clutched it to her chest. “You should know that I like this flower very much.”

So much of Beau’s old self - the person who’d just tried to leave again - wanted to bolt for the door, but her new self locked down and stood her ground. Inhale, exhale. “I think it likes you, too,” she said weakly.

Yasha waved her hand, still holding onto the flower. “Jester said some things, and I - well, I don’t know. I didn’t think I should hear them from someone else in case they weren’t true or--”

“They are,” Beau jumped in. “I don’t know what she said, exactly, but I can guess.”

“How do you mean?”

“Like I tried not to for a while. And then that became more impossible than it already was. Just like Sunsbane, I guess. Deep roots, you know?”

“I’m sorry,” Yasha said suddenly. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting. Not that I - I wasn’t expecting anything. You’ve surprised me in a lot of ways, is all.”

Beau couldn’t handle the guilt on Yasha’s face. It wasn’t her fault, everything that had happened to her, to them. Beau would’ve waited a thousand days in the desert if it meant letting Yasha heal and find herself.

The gap between them had shrunk again, somehow, but it was more unbearable than ever. It felt like every time they got closer by half, always lessening the space but never quite meeting. But Beau was very good at breaking things, and, for once, she could break something for good. Her palm met Yasha’s cheek, fingertips curling around a small braid hanging loosely.

“You said those flowers are pretty damn patient, right?” Beau said.

Yasha nodded almost imperceptibly, like she was afraid Beau’s hand would pull back.

“Then I think you have nothing to apologize for.”

“Still.”

“Well,” with much less confidence than she’d hoped for, Beau asked, “you gonna kiss me or what?”

Yasha’s eyes closed for a moment, her expression neutral save for the slight crease between her brows and the subtle part of her lips. When her eyes opened again, her gaze was angled down slightly, plotting a trajectory that Beau had hardly dared to dream of.

“You’re sure?” Yasha said softly.

Beau’s answer was no more than a breath of a laugh.

Yasha went on. “I just want to make sure that you are sure. I’m very sure, at this point, but that doesn’t mean that you have to be--”

Beau cut her off as gently as possible.

For a moment, Beau’s mind went blissfully blank.

Then it hit her. She was kissing Yasha.

It started soft - not tentative, but quiet.

And then, miracle of miracles, Yasha was kissing her back, and she was much less patient. She was lightning and thunder striking at once, a storm raw and deafening in its power. Beau wondered when her knees would give out under the sheer weight of it - until solid arms circled around her waist and pulled her in.

Desperate to hold onto something, Beau’s fingers wound into Yasha’s hair. Her other hand was trapped just below Yasha’s collarbone, grasping tighter until blunt nails scraped past a cloth edge and found skin.

Maybe Beau did have a favorite flower, after all.

***

#beauyasha #beauyasha fic #beauyasha fluff #i haven't really written for them but i decided to fix that #my writing

59 notes · View notes

nayutai · 4 years

Text

Baby Don’t Move

⇢ Pairing Yunho x Female OC | Office Worker AU

⇢ Word Count 6.010

⇢ Warnings Yunho has a filthy mouth and a huge dick, oral sex (female receiving), rough sex, cursing (in general), aaaand I think that’s it

⇢ Summary Naima Yancey is ambitious and determined so her promotion at DevTech comes as no surprise to anyone. What should be a joyous moment for her is tainted. The promotion comes with a real office, more money, and a higher status, but it also comes with close proximity to the office golden boy Yunho. He gets under her skin in a way no one ever has, but she’s determined not to let this oversized menace ruin this opportunity for her. Turns out, Yunho would rather ruin her instead.

The muted ding of the elevator sounds much too joyful to Naima. Her transfer to the accounts receivable department should be marked by the sound of a death rattle or a dying elephant. A twinkling little ding only makes her even more pissed off. She glances down at the contents of the box nestled in her arms to see the brand new name plate she’d been given for her new office.

Naima Yancey

Receivables Supervisor

The youngest supervisor in DevTech history according to HR. She guesses that anyone else in her position would be excited about the transfer she’s mentally griping about. It’s not every day that someone like her gets unexpectedly promoted to a supervisory position. Naima has only been with the company for three years and apparently she’d made the most of that time. She pauses next to a sea of cubicles to scan the numbers above the offices on either side of the employees rapidly typing away at their stations. Only a few of them even bother to give her a second glance and for that Naima is incredibly grateful. She finally spots her destination, hiking the cardboard box she’s unloaded her desk into a little higher on her hip. She takes half of a step and immediately regrets every life choice that led her to this point.

“Well look who we have here. Are you lost, Ravioli?” Naima grits her teeth at that god awful nickname, swallowing the scathing retort that’s burning her throat. The deep baritone voice sounding off somewhere over her left shoulder is the cause of every ounce of the work stress she carries in her shoulders like a boulder.

Yunho Jeong. Beholder of an unfair amount of undeserved beauty and the victim in Naima’s most murderous dreams.

“You were in the staff meeting when they announced my promotion, Yunho.” She deadpans. Her skin is starting to itch from the prolonged exposure to the man in front of her. The smirk that is practically permanently etched on his face does nothing but piss her even more. She wants to smack him until it disappears.

“I’m just messing with you, Ravioli. You know that. Welcome to Receivables.” He shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans as he starts backing away. “Try not to fuck it up!” Naima can feel the thick cardboard of her box bending to the forceful clench of her fists. The weight of of nearly fifty pairs of eyes keeps the scathing remark she wants to make from bubbling up.

Fucking Yunho. Naima hasn’t even been in Receivables for an hour and she’s already doubting if the extra money is worth the headache. Okay, who is she kidding? The extra money is definitely worth it. Getting ahead of her bills had felt like the pipe dream of a wistful millennial before it had become an unexpected reality just last week. No way she lets some oversized preteen bully ruin this for her.

Naima is almost done putting her things into her new desk when the sound of an office door loudly closing disturbs her concentration. She looks up to see the source of the noise is none other than Yunho himself. All of the offices on this floor conveniently have floor to ceiling windows next to the door which allows people directly across from each other to see into the other person’s office. Naima is absolutely horrified at the implications of this as Yunho stares her down with a satisfied smirk. It’s obvious now that he slammed his door on purpose to get her attention.

“This is the worst day of my life.” Naima mumbles to herself as she does her best to ignore Yunho’s gaze burning into her forehead.

IT arrives a few tense minutes later to set up her docking station and get her started on the training modules for her new job duties. She’s taking notes on how to perform certain functions in the billing system when she receives a chat notification from her work husband Knox Rivers back in her old department.

KR: Hey wifey how’s the swanky new digs?

NY: My office is DIRECTLY across from Yunho’s office

NY: I can literally see every move he makes and he can see mine

KR: Dreamville? My treat

Naima immediately perks up at the mention of the bar down the street that has become a favorite amongst their group of friends. It’s going to take a lot to make her feel good about working in such close proximity with Satan’s hardest working demon, but a free round of drinks is a great start.

NY: I’ll meet you downstairs at 5:30

Naima nearly bursts into tears when she steps off of the elevator and spots Knox leaning seated in the lobby playing a game on his phone. She’s always thought that he looked like Thor with his long hair and athletic build and right now a superhero is exactly what she needs. A giggle bubbles up from Naima’s throat at the red stain that creeps down Knox’s throat when she sneaks up on him to kiss his cheek.

“Come on, big guy. There’s a Blue Magic with my name on it and I intend to collect my due.” Naimah declares, clapping Knox on his broad shoulders.

“Lead the way, my lady.” He holds the door open like the gentleman he is with a dramatic flourish. Naima’s heart twinges a little. She misses the days when talking to him in person required her to lean back in her chair as opposed to taking an elevator ride.

A few other people from the office are already at Dreamville when Naima and Knox arrive. They’re quickly swept up in familiar gossip and more drinks than anyone has a right to consume on a Tuesday evening. She’s engaged in a dangerous game of darts with a new employee named Xavier when a horribly familiar voice rings out above all the noise in the bar. Her head whips in the direction the voice came from, but the dart flies from her fingers anyway nearly taking some poor girl’s eye out. She yells out an apology but apparently her almost victim has had a little too much to drink herself and simply waves her off.

“Nice aim, Ravioli. An inch to the left and you would’ve scored a perfect murder.” Yunho taunts. Naima crosses her arms across her chest in indignation. Her eyes watch him intently and therefore don’t miss the way his gaze drops to get a look at her cleavage. His jaw ticks and she wants nothing more than to comment on that but Xavier interrupts by extending his hand in Yunho’s direction as he introduces himself.

“Naima, you ready to leave? I was about to call an Uber.” Knox materializes out of nowhere, phone in hand and Naima’s eyes nearly pop out of her head when she sees that it’s nearing eleven. She hadn’t realized that they’d been there for so long.

“See you tomorrow, Ravioli. Later, Knox.” She’d almost forgotten that Yunho was still here. He winks at her before he turns to walk away and, despite the fact that he can no longer see her, Naima flips him off.

Naima is still fuming nineteen minutes later when the Uber arrives. She successfully dodges Knox’s first few questions about why she’s so mad, but he eventually wears her down. She’d forgotten that Knox becomes a wannabe psychologist that likes to talk about people’s feelings after he’s had a few drinks.

“What do you have against him? You’re probably the only person at the whole company that doesn’t get along with him.” Naima rolls her eyes skyward. Yunho the golden boy is apparently loved by everyone and it makes her seethe even more. She wracks her brain for someone at the company that she can add to her side and thankfully comes up with a name.

“Fake news! Saia in purchasing called him a douche nozzle last week and I am inclined to agree.” Naima is quite pleased with herself as she settles back into the plush seating of the SUV. Her satisfaction is short lived.

“Saia doesn’t count.” Knox counters quickly. “Yunho dated her younger sister and it ended badly so that just leaves you.”

“The night before my first day at DevTech, my friends from back home came to town to celebrate and we went to this super fancy restaurant.” The red light at the intersection bathes them both in its glow which is ironic in Naima’s opinion.

She regales Knox with the store of how her friend Keyanna had bought her a ravioli entree to go so that she could have her favorite food on her first day. Yunho had snuck up on her when she was in the break room, startling her to the point that she ended up dropping a ravioli on her white button up. Of course the evil bastard had laughed about it till he could barely stand. She’d had to walk around for the rest of the day with the sauce stain on her shirt and Yunho has called her Ravioli every day since then.

“That…” Knox pauses to piece his thoughts together. “okay, yeah, I can’t say I’d be too fond of him either after that.” He admits.

“See? He’s an asshole and I hope he steps on a lego every day for the rest of his miserable life.” Their Uber driver, who had remained silent aside from the quick hello when they’d gotten in her car, snorts at the curse Naima speaks into Yunho’s life.

“You know he teases you because he probably wants to fuck you right? Men aren’t as evolved as people would like to believe.” Knox points out. Naima withdraws from him as if he just told her to go fuck herself.

“If he thinks that being an asshole will grant him access to my pearly gates then he’s a bigger idiot than I thought he was.” She and the driver exchange a high five when she chimes in with her agreement. Naima makes a mental note to make sure that Knox tips her good for being an intellectual.

A wave of exhaustion washes over Naima when their apartment complex comes into view. Thoughts of a hot shower and her fluffy pillows makes the time required to drive to their part of the complex feel like an eternity. She bids the friendly Uber driver a safe and prosperous night before all but running towards her building with a wave to Knox tossed carelessly over her shoulder as he makes his way to the building directly across from hers.

“Morning, Killer.” Yunho is way too chipper this morning especially since Naima has already had to suffer through elevator chatter about how he won a drinking contest last night. It doesn’t help that now he’s bringing up her almost homicide.

“Don’t you have something else to do? Like your job?” Yunho pretends to recoil from her remark as he follows Naima to her office. She wishes she could just haul off and smack him but that wouldn’t bode well for her professional career.

He props himself up against the wall next to her office and it’s as she unlocking her door that she registers just how close he is to her. A small shift of her weight to her right foot would push her up against his chest. Her mind drifts back to what Knox had said last night. She side eyes him cautiously before turning fully to face him head on. If anyone were to ask, Naima would blame what she does next on residual alcohol still inhibiting her rational thought.

“Do you want to have sex with me?” Yunho blinks several times in shock but he recovers quickly. He flips around to take stock of the people still filtering into the office to see if anyone is within ear shot and is seemingly satisfied by the lack of people around them.

“I never pegged you to have an exhibition kink, Ravioli.” She curses herself at the way the low timbre of his voice resonates deep in her gut. The greasy smile on his face however, makes her want to puke.

“My kinks are none of your business. I’m just trying to prove a point. Now answer the question.”

“I can only imagine what that point is, but yes, I would absolutely love to ravish you.” He leans in even closer so that she can smell the minty scent of his toothpaste when he whispers in her ear. His closeness doesn’t make her recoil in the way that she thought it would and the reasoning behind that is definitely not something she’s willing to explore.

The second she gets her laptop booted up she’s tapping out a message to Knox.

NY: Lunch on me today. We need to talk.

KR: I’m all yours at 12:30

Naima is still pondering her conversation with Knox when she steps off of the elevator to go back to her office after lunch. He seems to think that the best way to get Yunho off her back is to fuck him. According to Knox and his personal knowledge of “guy logic”, that will get her out of Yunho’s system and his annoying behavior will cease. Naima isn’t so sure about that. She’s so far inside her own head that she doesn’t even hear someone calling her name until they tap her on her shoulder. Of course, it’s Yunho. Luck is just not on her side today.

“Ravioli, you should consider getting your ears checked. I called you four times.”

“And you should consider that maybe I just don’t want to talk to you.” She replies. He makes himself comfortable in her office as she drops her purse into one of the desk drawers to jump back into her work.

“Oh, don’t be that way, Ravioli. I thought we were past this animosity thing since you practically propositioned me in the hallway.” He looks so smug as he recalls her blunder from earlier. God he’s so infuriating. Naima adds this to her running list of why men should be removed from Earth. She says nothing, choosing to simply point towards her office door. Thankfully, he’s not too dense that he can’t take a hint and returns to his own office space.

She’s settled into a steady pace with her work when her computer pings with a message. The prospect of clearing out her dashboard and possibly being able to leave early is too sweet to break her stride. Two more subsequent pings from effectively breaks her concentration.

YJ: hey

YJ: you look so cute when you’re concentrating

YJ: don’t ignore me I’m sensitive 😭

She looks through the glass into Yunho’s office to see him already staring directly at her. His head being propped up on his hands suggests that he’s been doing it for a while. He blows a kiss in her which she returns with a middle finger. She raises her computer monitors so that he’s no longer able to see her face.

Next order of business: buying blinds

Naima groans out loud when her computer pings with yet another message. At this rate she’s going to have to stay late to get everything done. She halfway expects the new message to be another annoying attempt at conversation from Yunho but thankfully this one is from someone that she actually doesn’t mind talking to.

KR: hey did you hear that Yaya bought a new house?

NY: yeah she just texted me that she’s having a bbq this weekend to celebrate the closing

KR: you going? 👀

NY: don’t ask me a stupid question like that of course I’m going

KR: lmao okay so we can split an uber then

KR: wanna leave at like 3?

NY: yeah that’s fine with me!

Naima is so happy for Saturday to finally roll around that she could cry. Yaya had told her a few things on the menu on Wednesday and her mouth has been watering ever since. Her husband is a chef at some fancy restaurant so she knows that this will be the best food she’s had in a while.

Knox and Naima are both slack-jawed at the absolute grandeur of Yaya’s house as their Uber driver comes to a stop in the center of the horseshoe shaped driveway. She’d neglected to mention that her new house is actually a castle. Naima frowns when she spots Yunho’s flashy Mercedes amongst the cars already parked in the driveway, but she’s determined to have a good time despite his presence. They follow the sound of music and splashing to the backyard to see a majority of the DevTech staff in the backyard. They’re quick to strip down to their bathing suits to join in on the chicken fight in the pool.

Naima has just sent Alexis from marketing flying off of Xavier’s shoulders when Yaya announces that it’s time to eat. It’s a race to get out of the pool as everyone is hustling for a good spot in line. Naima is cursing the god awful heaviness that plagues her every time she steps out of a pool when she hears a low whistle from behind her. It’s Yunho and his eyes are trained directly on her ass. Big surprise there.

“Yellow is definitely your color, Ravioli.” He produces a large, fluffy towel seemingly out of nowhere, offering it to her. She’s hesitant to accept it but a quick glance towards the now empty table that had once held an assload of towels changes her mind.

“I think I would look just as good on you.” Yunho smiles as if he’s just hit her with the best pick up line known to man. He’s gotten quite brazen with his flirtatious attempts ever since he’d exposed his sexual intentions on Monday.

“You talk a big game but everyone knows that overly confident men are just…” Naimah trails off with a pointed look at the front of Yunho’s jeans as she takes a sip of her lemonade. “overcompensating.”

Yunho pokes at the inside of his cheek with his tongue as he considers the woman in front of him with amusement. He revels in the way she swallows nervously when he closes the gap between them. Every breath she takes causes her barely covered chest to graze against his but, to her credit, she doesn’t back away. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but being this close to Yunho is making her blood run hot. She chooses to blame it on her primitive instincts and not actual attraction, but even she knows that’s a lie.

“Didn’t your parents teach you not to speak on things you know nothing about, Ravioli?” She can’t decide what she’s more mad at, the nickname or the insinuation that this asshole just said she’s wrong. She’s not.

“Didn’t your parents teach you not to lie?” She bristles. Yunho’s sarcastic little grin only grows in response to her anger. It’s like he gets off on making her want to wring his neck.

“Admit it, Ravioli. You want this just as much as I do.” Naima gasps when Yunho suddenly wraps an arm around her wait, jerking her to him. He leans down so that he’s speaking directly into her ear and in that moment, Naima knows she’s a goner. All these months of resisting him and he’s about to break her by whispering in her ear. She wants to scream bloody murder. “All you have to do is say the word and I’ll take you higher than you’ve ever been.”

“Prove it.” Naima feels like she’s put the final nail in her own coffin. Yunho has successfully worn her down. She can’t see his face, but she doesn’t have to to know that he’s smiling like he’s just won the lottery.

“Let’s go, Ravioli.” Naima expects Knox to be disappointed to see her leaving with Yunho when she waves at him to say bye, but instead he wiggles his eyebrows at her suggestively. She makes a mental note to yell at him for that later.

The ride to Yunho’s apartment is entirely too short. Naima’s shoulders are wrought with tension as she follows him up the stairs. Part of her wants to turn and run, but a much larger part is telling her to stay to see this through. Yunho has spoken quite highly of his sexual prowess and she’s more curious than not on just how much of it is true.

Yunho is on her the second she toes off her shoes by the door. One of his large hands firmly holds her jaw in place while he ravages her mouth with his own. Naima clings to his shirt to both hold him to her and ground herself in the moment. She feels lightheaded but it’s not from lack of oxygen. He uses his grip on her jaw to pry her mouth open, furthering his claim on her. The hand not covering her jaw skims across the skin above her shorts before deftly undoing the button. Her lips chase his when Yunho pulls away but he avoids her advances.

“Your lips taste so sweet. I want to taste all of you.” Naima shivers at the roughness of his voice. His normal baritone is a lot to deal with but this is downright sinful. He roughly hauls her off her feet into his arms, causing a fresh wave of arousal to flood her panties.

She busies herself with leaving marks along the column of his neck, loving the way she can feel his gruff moans vibrating against her lips. The smack of Yunho’s hand hitting the wall to steady himself when she grinds her hips against his startles her into.

“Jesus fuck, you’re killing me, baby girl.” Naima smiles mischievously, letting her lips linger on his skin. Something about the pet name he called her makes the heat simmering in her belly grow even hotter. He tosses her on his oversized bed once he collects himself enough to finally make it to his bedroom. She watches him curiously as he turns to dig around in his nightstand. His hand reappears with several foil packets in his grip which he promptly drops onto the mattress for later use.

Clothes fly haphazardly as Yunho hastily strips them down till nothing but his boxers remain in place. He smirks when he notices Naima’s playful grin drop when she takes in the size of the bulge he’s sporting. His large hands grip her hips, flipping her onto her stomach and rustling her around to a more favorable position. Finally satisfied with the way her face is pressed into the expensive Egyptian cotton of his bed sheets, Yunho buries his face in her dripping cunt from behind. He groans at his first taste of her and her answering whine is nothing but appreciative at the way it vibrates against her.

Naima yelps when Yunho’s large palms suddenly land on her ass with a resounding smack. He soothes the sting with tender caresses against her flesh. His tongue never leaves her entrance as he continues to coax a seemingly endless stream of arousal from her. She has the sheets in a death grip, moving her hips as if to separate herself from Yunho’s lethal tongue but wherever she goes his face simply follows. The slurping sounds of him feasting on her are absolutely obscene but she’s way too far gone to be embarrassed. She doubts that she would be able to form a coherent sentence of protest even if she wasn’t.

“You’re so fucking wet. I could drown in this pretty pussy.” Naima keens at his filthy words, squirming restlessly as the pleasure builds and builds within her.

It’s no surprise when she tumbles over the edge with a strangled shout, but she’d expected for him to release her once he’d made her come. Much to her surprise, Yunho doesn’t seem to have any plans of stopping. He tongues her through her orgasm, sucking gently on her clit as he thrusts two fingers into her still spasming entrance. Her knees buckle immediately from the sharp pang of oversensitivity. Yunho pulls his fingers from her long enough to land another harsh smack to her ass while his other holds her hips in place. The discomfort bleeds into pleasure until she’s racing headfirst into a second orgasm.

“That’s it, baby. Let go. Give it all to me.” Naima swears she’s on the verge of blacking out when Yunho finally releases her. She collapses against the mattress when he relinquishes his grip on her, trembling from head to toe. His chest is warm against the sweat-slicked skin of her back when he covers his body with his own. He leaves chaste kisses along her shoulder as he loops an arm around her torso.

“Don’t tap out on me now, love. There’s still more fun to be had.” Yunho grinds his cock against her ass, smiling against her skin when he feels her shudder in his hold.

He pulls himself up on his knees, dragging Naima’s tired frame with him. He makes quick work of removing his boxers and rolling on one of the condoms he’d grabbed earlier. She jerks when the head of his latex covered cock bumps against her sensitive clit as he covers himself in the slick still leaking from her cunt. Yunho watches the back of her head like a hawk as he slowly presses himself against her entrance. He swears quite creatively at the way her muscles lock down on him.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Yunho!” Naima drops her head to rest on her arms, doing her best to relax. He reaches underneath her to rub circles into her clits and succeeds in pushing forwards a few more inches.

His breath catches in his throat when she pulls her hips before pushing back against him to sink down a little further on his thick length. They work together until he’s finally seated balls deep inside her. Yunho’s eyes roll back in his head at the tight squeeze of her perfect cunt. He’s been inside quite a few women in his day, but this feels almost like uncharted territory. He hisses when she flexes around him involuntarily, tightening even further though he didn’t think that was even possible.

“I’m going to wreck this pussy, baby.” He punctuates his statement by withdrawing till only the tip remains, pushing back in with a purposeful thrust of his hips. Naima nearly chokes on the pitiful whine that claws its way out of her throat. “You’re gonna feel me in here for days.”

To his credit, he tries to keep his pace even and not too fast. He really does. His fingers are probably bruising her skin from how tightly he’s gripping her hips but it’s the only thing keeping him grounded and sane at this point.

“You call this wrecking me? I could’ve done this at home with my Rabbit.” Naima can admit that Yunho’s dick was a hard pill to swallow at first, but she’s thoroughly adjusted and in need of more. Judging by the way his hips still she’s about to get just what she was aiming for. She gasps when he grabs a fistful of her hair, yanking her upright so that he can whisper in her ear.

“Didn’t I tell you to watch that pretty little mouth of yours?” He practically growls in her ear as he grinds against her cervix. The pain mixes with the pleasure in a way that’s starting to make her lightheaded.

“No, you didn’t.” She responds breathily. Her fingernails dig into his thighs painfully but Yunho doesn’t care even a little bit.

“Well, I should’ve.” He shoves her back towards the mattress not giving her even a few seconds to get her bearings before he’s rearing back to slam back into her tight heat.

She shouts his name, squirming in his iron grip but he shows her no mercy. The time for that has past. Yunho’s hips piston in out of her at a furious pace. His gaze is fixated on the way her pussy creams on his dick with every thrust. His chest rumbles in protest when manages to pull away from him enough for his cock to fall out of her.

“Don’t run from me, Naima. You wanted this dick and now you got it.” She keens at the sound of her real name coming out of his mouth. The way his husky tone wraps around the syllables should be illegal. He fists the sheets next to her head with one hand as he uses the other to reposition her hips to allow him to slide back inside. His legs straddle both of hers, giving him the leverage he needs to fuck her into the mattress.

Naima’s fingernails are leaving crescent shaped marks in Yunho’s wrists as she holds on for dear life. She’s never been so thoroughly fucked in all her life. He’s reaching spots inside her that she didn’t even know existed until now. She’s on the verge of tears when he slows his frantic pace. He lowers himself so that his larger frame dwarfs hers once more. His arms looped under hers to hold her close to him. Yunho resumes his movements, opting for a much more relaxed cadence. The purposeful grind of his hips is just as overwhelming if not more so after the intensity from before.

“This is my pussy now.” Yunho grunts into her ear. He sucks marks into every inch of skin that his lips can reach. “No one will ever fuck you this good. Never fuck you this deep. You’re all mine.”

Naima bites down hard on a pillow that she must have grabbed at some point as she clenches around him hard. It dawns on her vaguely that Yunho hasn’t touched her clit once. She’s about to come from penetration alone. A feat she’s never been able to accomplish. The very Earth feels like it’s opened up beneath her when the orgasm that had been flirting with her senses finally washes over her. She feels him grow impossibly harder inside her as he reaches his own end. Black spots dance across her vision when the throbbing sensation of him filling the condom triggers a smaller, biting orgasm.

She’s surprised that she manages to stay conscious if only barely. Her surprise only grows when she feels a warm towel gently wiping between her legs. Her shock reaches a fever pitch when Yunho’s fingers start working into her calf muscles. She chooses to stay silent out of fear that he might stop if caught being nice.

“You done pretending to be asleep? Or did I actually fuck you stupid?” She can practically hear the smile in his voice as his fingers climb higher to her thighs. So much for peacefully enjoying this massage.

“I like you better when you don’t speak.” His amused laughter brings a smile to her own face despite her attempts to tamp it down. She shivers when he places a chaste kiss on the swell of her ass before going back to his ministrations on her legs. Knox is never going to let her hear the end of this once he finds out.

She’s about to go insane. Naima’s stomach has growled twelve times in as many minutes and if she doesn’t eat something soon there will be fatal consequences. She checks her phone once more to check Knox’s location and nearly cries when it says that he’s arrived at DevTech. Just a few minutes stands between her and hot bacon, egg, and cheese croissant and an extra large caramel macchiato.

The sight of Knox navigating the sea of cubicles with her breakfast in hand may as well be the second coming of Christ. She throws her arms around her neck the second he steps into her office. He pretends to be disgusted when she pecks him on his cheek repeatedly. Knox takes a seat in one of the leather chairs in front of her desk to talk before he goes back downstairs to work. Their conversation when Yunho suddenly burst through the door.

“What the hell are you doing?” Naima is appalled at the way he’s just invited himself into her office without even having the decency to knock first.

“I should be asking you that. I asked you for the Murchison report fifteen minutes ago but I guess you were too busy with your little boy toy here to actually do your fucking job.” Knox stands, mouth fixed to defend her, but she holds up her hand to stop him.

“Knox, can you excuse us please?” Naima says sweetly. Her tone is sweet and even, but there’s a hard edge to it that tells Knox she’ll be able to handle Yunho’s temper tantrum just fine.

Naima wraps her sandwich up as she motions for Yunho to have a seat in the chair Knox has just vacated. She shrugs her shoulders when he refuses, crossing her modest office to lock the door and close the blinds she’d installed.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you, Jeong? Did you fall and hit your head? How dare you come to my office and insinuate that I’m not doing my job?.” He can tell that she’s working hard to keep from yelling at him but her words feel like a slap in the face either way.

“Look, I just need the Murchison report so that I can finish some paper-” Naima doesn’t even let him finish his sentence. She has no patience for him and his bullshit.

“Cut the bullshit, Yunho. The Murchison report wouldn’t be useful for anything other than end of year reporting which we are eight months away from so what the fuck do you actually want from me?” She’s seething. DevTech has a super relaxed company culture but HR still wouldn’t take too kindly to her punching another employee in the throat.

“Why didn’t you text me back yesterday?” Naima is taken aback. She remembers receiving a few texts from him on Sunday — how he got her number she doesn’t know — but it wasn’t anything that she felt warranted a response.

“Why would you want me to?”

The more they talk, the more Naima realizes that they went into that bedroom with very different ideas of what was going to happen afterwards. She’d intended for it to be a one time thing for him to try and prove her wrong which he’d succeeded in doing. Nothing more, nothing less. Obviously, Yunho had other ideas that went far beyond the four walls of his bedroom.

“This is new territory for me. I’ve never been jealous over women because I can get a new one in five minutes. I’ve never had a problem in that category.”

“Get to the point, Yunho.” She’s quickly growing bored of this conversation and she’s ready for it to be over.

“The point is that I want to see where this goes. Are you down for that?”

“No, you’re an asshole.”

“I mean, yeah, that’s true, but I’m cute and I’ll eat you out till you cry so what’s it gonna be?” He looks so hopeful that part of Naima wants to reject him again just to mess with him, but she’s not totally heartless. She decides to make him a deal.

“I’ll give you one week and then we’ll go from there now about this eating out business…” She trails off, looking at him suggestively.

“Come home with me after work and I’ll give you what you want and more.” The mischievous grin on his face promises another day of limping around and Naima is excited to say the least.

“You’ve got a deal. Now get out of my office.” She deadpans as she starts to unwrap the breakfast sandwich she hadn’t been able to finish earlier. He catches her off guard when he swoops in to steal a kiss from her lips as his “parting gift”.

“Later, Ravioli.”

She touches her fingers to her lips as she watches him walk back to his own office through her open door. It’s going to be an interesting week.

#ksmutclub #yunho smut #ateez smut #yunho x black oc #ateez x black oc #this is borderline pwp #plot where?#ateez fanfic #yunho fanfic #ateez yunho

91 notes · View notes

talesfromthesnogbox · 4 years

Text

Stuck Here With you

Rating: M (Rating for explicit conversations about sex)

Words: 3,586

Summary: Richie and Eddie are stuck quarantining themselves together... what could possibly go wrong? OR based on this tweet: "@cjkasulke: APPARENTLY you have all just been *waiting* for this moment to confess your love to your roommates, so many of you live with people you have been silently in love with for y e a r s"

Notes: This is so stupid. Yes, I wrote a quarantine fic. Yes, this whole thing is a serious matter and I am an adult who's working from home and it all sucks, and there are people dying all over the world, and I do care, but I just thought people needed a little bit of a laugh, ya know? Anyways, this is wildly out of character and not good in general, but drop a comment if you like it, or if you think I'm a horrible person, whateves.

AO3

*~*~*~*~*

Richie woke from his catnap with a startled jump as he heard the front door slam shut.

“Jesus Eds, is it 6:30 already? Did I sleep all day?” He asked with a laugh.

“No asshole, it’s noon.” Eddie slammed his briefcase on the breakfast bar and worked his tie open. “This pandemic bullshit has gotten out of control.”

“Is that why you’re home right now…”

“Yes! Jared that fucking lunatic went off and brought some girl home last weekend and now he’s got a fever, so we were all sent home, and I’m stuck in isolation.”

Eddie was pissed, but Richie could see through his thinly veiled layer of anger; there was fear.

“Oh. Do you hang around Jared a lot at work?”

He sighed. “No, no I don’t, but it’s just a precaution until he can get tested properly.”

“That’s good then, right?”

It was good. After seven full days, Eddie finally emerged from his room with a cheery smile. “Jared’s in the clear, turns out he just picked up some STD, and I get to go back into work tomorrow.” He plopped down on the couch.

“That’s great Eds, but I hate to break it to you…” Richie pointed towards the TV where the headline read “California officially shut down”.

The first few days felt like any weekend would. They had extra groceries delivered, they binged some true crime documentary on Netflix, they had a group Skype session with the Losers, they did pretty much anything that took their minds off the current situation. But then the fifth day hit.

It was only 7am when Richie dragged himself out of bed for a coffee. Sure it was early, and he had nowhere to be, but time meant nothing anymore.

Usually Richie’s clamoring about the kitchen woke Eddie up. The first few nights that Eddie moved in after Derry were rough; turns out, Eddie was a pretty light sleeper, and Richie was loud. But today, there was no Eddie in sight.

He continued on his way, pouring himself a bowl of cereal when he saw it through the window to his backyard… and promptly spilled milk all over the counter.

On the bright side, Richie had found Eddie. The only downfall was he’d found him in a pair of tiny running shorts and a tank top doing squats on his deck.

“Fuck!” Richie swore, grabbing a tea towel to clean up the mess he’d made.

“Richie?” Eddie stopped his squats and ran into the house. “What the fuck happened dickwad?”

“N-nothing, nothing happened, it’s just early and I lost my grip.”

Eddie rolled his eyes.

“So um… what’s happening in the backyard there, Jillian Michaels?” Richie giggled.

“Fuck off. I usually go to the gym before work, but now that the gym’s closed, I had to improvise.”

“Ahh, I see, trying to pick up the new future Mrs. K with…” with thighs I want to wear as earmuffs and that tight ass? He was glad there was an entire counter between them to hide the fact that he was currently at half-mast.

Eddie gave him a strange look and shook his head. “Shut the fuck up. I’m a divorced 40-year-old living with his best friend, I don’t think I’m going to be picking someone up that easily at the gym. Besides, Santa Monica women aren’t really my type…”

“Oh? Well when this is all over, I know a few places we can go pick up chicks. West Hollywood, Beverly Hills, hell even Studio City. Name your type Eds, we’ll find her.”

“Aren’t you gay? How do you know so much about picking up women?”

“Closet case my boy.” Richie winked and took a bite of his cereal. “I’m as good of an actor as I am a comedian.”

“No wonder there were never any articles about how much of a playboy you were then.” Eddie said straight-faced, walking back out to finish his work out.

“Eds gets off a good one!”

*~*~*~*~*

After that eventful morning, Richie tried his hardest to stay in bed until after Eddie’s morning routine was done. One almost-embarrassing situation in his pants was enough to last a lifetime around his best friend of however-many years, he did not need it to escalate from there.

As the days passed on, the two of them found ways to entertain themselves. Eddie took to reading on the deck in the mild April weather, and Richie decided to pick up his guitar again for the first time in years.

He was a little rusty, but after a few hours of practice, it was like riding a bike, and before he knew it, he was back playing the tune he’d spent hours playing as a teenager.

Richie hummed along to the tune of “Eddie My Love” as his fingers formed the familiar chords with ease. He didn’t even realize Eddie walking in from the backyard, a stunned look on his face.

“Rich?” He jumped, startled at the sound of the other man.

“Hey Eds, sorry was I being loud?”

“N-no.” He shook his head. “I didn’t know you played.”

Richie chuckled. “Yeah, I picked it up in high school after Went agreed to teach me a bit. I was in a band in college, but we kinda sucked.”

Eddie scoffed. “You don’t suck, that tune is lovely. What is it?”

Richie’s face felt hot all the sudden. “Uhh, I can’t really remember the name, just something I used to play a bunch. It’s an oldie my mom really liked.”

“Can you teach me?”

His eyes widened. “Y-yeah, here, come sit.” He moved more away from the body and more towards the neck of his acoustic, allowing Eddie to sit nestled between his folded legs. “Okay, um so you hold it like this, and your fingers go here.” Richie curled Eddie’s fingers around the neck of the guitar, placing them in the correct spots on the frets. “So we start with a G chord.” His other arm snaked around Eddie’s shoulder to show him how to strum the chord.

Eddie shivered, completely engulfed by his best friend, noticing for the first time how much he loved his arms being wrapped around him like this.

“Then we move to an E minor.” Richie shifted Eddie’s fingers again and strummed. “Then A minor, and up to D.”

Eddie moved his fingers, pliant beneath Richie’s big hand. His heart beat fast, and he could feel Richie’s breath warm on his shoulder as he played.

For a moment, Eddie could convince himself that Richie felt the same way about him, but only for a moment. They were best friends, and just because Richie was gay, it didn’t mean he was interested in Eddie, no matter how hard he wished that he was. He would never have Richie, but he’d always have this moment.

*~*~*~*~*

“Alright, that’s it. We’re getting drunk.” Richie pulled out a rather large bottle of vodka and a few other spirits. “I’m mixing you up a quarantini.”

“A what now?”

“Quarantini, Eds. We’re getting shitfaced.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Rich, there’s no way in hell I’d—” he paused. Maybe this was the perfect way to come on to Richie. Lowered inhibitions were a great excuse to do something potentially stupid, and if it all went sour, he could blame it on the alcohol. “You know what, fuck it. Mix me a quarantini.”

“That’s the spirit!” He mixed the drinks and dragged Eddie over to the couch. “Alright, we’re indulging tonight. I want not a peep from you. I never got to do any of this gay shit before, and now is the perfect excuse to start a new series. We’re watching RuPaul’s Drag Race.”

Eddie nodded his head. “Drag racing, okay cool, I like cars.”

Richie burst out laughing. “No asshole, drag race… like drag queens.” He popped on a random season and hit play.

Four episodes and many quarantinis later, both Eddie and Richie were yelling at the TV.

“How could they send April home, she’s like the hottest one there!” Eddie put his hands up.

“Right? Look at how hot he is ugh I just wanna…” Eddie glanced over at Richie with a smirk. “Shut up.”

“No, no, I see it.” He pulled out his phone, April’s instagram profile already loaded. “The scruff is driving me mental.”

Richie chuckled. “Eds, that sounds kinda gay.”

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock.” Eddie said, face heating up. “Um, surprise?”

“Oh… shit dude, yeah, um, congratulations. Thanks for telling me.” Richie brought his friend into a tight hug, the alcohol running through his system making him feel a little light headed.

“Thanks for being cool about it.” Eddie mumbled, pulling away a bit, but still resting within Richie’s grasp.

“Hey man, I get it… I’m a closet case too.” He laughed.

The two were silent for a moment, content in each other’s grasp, until Eddie couldn’t handle the silence anymore. “Come on, next episode. I hope Laganja gets booted, I can’t stand her.”

Many episodes and quarantinis later, Eddie was fully shitfaced.

“Come on, bedtime for Eds.”

Eddie giggled. “Yeah Rich, take me to bed.” He waggled his eyebrows in a way that made Richie’s heart stutter.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough from you.” Richie deposited Eddie onto the bed, helping him with his shirt, when Eddie pulled him down hard.

“Oops, sorry Rich.” He giggled. “’s not my fault, you’re trying to get me out of my clothessss.”

“You’re wearing jeans, I can’t let you go to bed in jeans Eddie. What kind of asshole wears jeans in quarantine.” Richie giggles, undoing Eddie’s zip and pulling his jeans down his hairless legs. Fuck, his legs are amazing. “Eds, do you wax?” Richie giggled, rubbing a hand up his thigh.

“Pffftt, we’re in isolation shithead, I haven’t been to my wax girl in weeks.”

A jubilant laugh bubbled from Richie’s chest. “Shit, I’ve learned more about you tonight than I have in all the years I’ve known you. You really are a twunk.”

“A what now?”

Richie planted himself down on the bed beside Eddie. “Twunk, hunky twink.”

A look of realization dawned on Eddie. “Ohhhh, that makes a lot of sense. The dude at the checkout told me I was a twunk when I went to buy those underwear without the butt.”

Richie’s brain went blank. “Eddie, do you wear thongs?”

“No asshole, the other thing without the butt. Jock something, I can’t remember.”

“A jockstrap? Eddie are you trying to kill me right now?”

“Shut the fuck up asshole! They’re good for working out in. And they don’t give me lines in my nice suit pants.” Richie was speechless. “So if I’m a twunk, what are you?”

“I—I—I think it’s time for bed.”

“Oh.” Eddie said sounding dejected. “O-or we could just hang out?”

Richie was at an impasse. He knew they were walking a thin line right now, and he shouldn’t stay, but he wanted to see where this would take him, he didn’t want to leave Eddie’s side.

“I think I could hang out for a bit.”

Their “hanging out” didn’t last very long. Within ten minutes, the two men were out cold.

Richie woke up first the next morning and left the soundly sleeping Eddie to go make a pot of coffee. His head was pounding, and as much as he knew the bright sunlight was going to burn his eyes, the fresh air couldn’t hurt.

He’d never been more thankful for his manager who also happened to be a fantastic decorator. The outdoor couch may have seemed stupid to him when he first bought the place, but at times like this, it was a great choice. He could relax, and look out towards the ocean, and forget everything that happened the night before.

That is until Eddie decided to join him.

Richie’s breath left his lungs once he got a good look at his friend. It was like a blast from the past seeing him in a pair of tiny red running shorts, much like those he wore when he was a kid, but now… now they were so much more. Richie’s mouth watered when his eyes caught a good look at how Eddie’s ass filled out the shorts. A large tank top donned his torso, one that Richie had been gifted, and definitely not been too comfortable wearing himself judging by how low cut the arm holes were. He looked hot, not that he wasn’t always attracted to Eddie, but this felt like something had changed, a sexual awakening of sorts, and Richie would never look at his friend the same way.

“Fuck, I don’t think I’ve ever been so hungover.” Eddie complained as he sat beside Richie. “That stupid drink went down like water.”

“Yeah man I hear you, I feel like shit.”

“I had fun though, it’s been a long time since I’ve had that much fun.”

Richie looked over to him. “No regrets about spilling your guts then?”

Eddie winced. “Okay, maybe you didn’t have to hear about what kind of underwear I prefer.”

Richie burst out laughing. “No, I definitely appreciated that tidbit of information, Eds. I’m proud that my twunk theory was right.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck me yourself you coward.” Richie mumbled to himself.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“N-nothing.” He said, darting inside. “Going to work on my new show, I’ll see you in a bit.”

Richie had to get out of there. Last night was a lot, sure, but something felt different today. Seeing Eddie in his boxer briefs felt almost safer than whatever the hell he was wearing today. It’s almost like… almost like he’d purposely dressed up for Richie, and it was killing him. He didn’t know how much more he could take before he combusted.

Unfortunately for Richie, this new look seemed to be Eddie’s new uniform. Richie could tell that now Eddie was out to him, he felt more comfortable being himself, but Richie hated every second of it.

He dreaded seeing Eddie in the morning, dreaded knowing what fresh hell lay beyond his bedroom door in the form of a 5’9 firey bundle of sex personified.

Nearly a month into their quarantine, it was finally warm enough for Richie to sit out by the pool. He donned the brightest swim trunks he could find and rubbed his pale skin down with sunscreen, soaking up some vitamin D.

He’d been out there for just under an hour when he heard (and felt) a splash from the pool where Eddie jumped in.

“Okay, I take back everything bad I ever said about you having a pool when the ocean is right there. The pool is definitely more relaxing than the beach.”

Richie giggled. “I told you, asshole.”

“Oh, and I totally figured out what you are now. If I’m a twunk, you’re an otter.”

“A what now?” Richie removed his sunglasses and moved to sit on the edge of the pool.

“An otter.” Eddie rested his elbows on Richie’s thighs as his calves framed his torso. “At least that’s what I think. It’s like a softer bear. You’re not quite as big and not enough hair to be a bear, and you’re still too thin to be a cub, so you’re an otter.”

“I understood exactly none of what you said except for ‘bear’. I met a bear on Grindr just before Derry that made me realize I like being the bigger body in bed.” Richie winked saucily.

“So you’re a top then Trashmouth?”

Richie’s brows rose into his hairline. “I—I—we are not talking about this right now, not when you’re this close to my dick.”

“Oh come on, you used to talk about your dick all the time.”

“Yeah, I was a closeted kid who’s balls hadn’t dropped yet, obviously I wanted to come off as heterosexual as I could.”

Eddie laughed. “Okay, good point.”

The two sat in the same position for a few minutes, exchanging no words between them. It felt intimate, it felt like Eddie was flirting with him, but he’d never been good at picking up signs. Could Eddie want this too?

“I am though.” He said quietly, finally breaking the silence.

“You’re what?”

Richie’s heart thudded in his chest. “A top, I guess. I don’t mind bottoming, I like it, but I guess I just…”

Eddie grinned. “You like being in charge?”

“No, fuck no.” Richie laughed.

“Really? Huh, okay.” Eddie nodded, mostly to himself.

“Hey, what the fuck does that mean?”

“Nothing, nothing at all Tozier.” Eddie pushed off of Richie’s legs and floated on his back towards the inflatable lounger.

*~*~*~*~*

The week that followed was agonizing. All Eddie wore was those stupid shorts and a variation of t-shirt/tank-top/fucking crop top, and it was driving Richie mental. He felt like a teenager again, he’d never had so many hard-ons in one week in his life.

It was only a matter of time before Richie snapped.

Richie was descending the stairs from his room one fateful morning and groaned rather loudly when he saw what was waiting for him.

The shorts seemed shorter, tighter on his ass (damn all those squats he does) and his already short shirt seemed to rise up, showing the lovely dimples on his lower back as he reached for a bowl from a high shelf.

“Hey Rich, can you help me… what’s wrong?”

He huffed out a laugh. “What’s wrong? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Wh—did I do something?”

Richie stared at Eddie in disbelief. “Did you… did you do someth—the shorts man, what’s with the shorts!”

“The shorts? I always wear the shorts.”

“I fucking know you always wear the shorts, that’s the problem!” Richie’s stomach rolled. He thought he was going to throw up, he’d never been this candid about his feelings in his life.

“You have a problem with the way I dress? Fuck you, dude.”

“Fuck me yourself you coward!”

Both men fell silent. The tension could be cut with a knife, it was so thick between them.

“Richie?”

“Fuck man, I’m sorry I freaked out on you like that, I just don’t know if I can take this anymore. We’ve been cooped up for a month and I swear I’ve done more jacking off in the last month than I ever did as a teenager.” As good as it felt to spill his guts, he definitely thought he was going to pass out any second.

“I—I don’t…”

“The worst part is, it’s not even just that I’m horny. It’s you! Shit man, I’ve been dreaming of you since we were fucking teenagers. And now… now here you are looking like a goddamn… a goddamn what’s the word… a goddamn snack, telling me shit about the sexy underwear you buy, and asking me if I’m a top. Eddie, I don’t know if you’re flirting with me or not, but Jesus fucking Christ, it’s taking every single fiber of my willpower to not rip your clothes off right now.”

Eddie held back a smile. “Wait, I’m sorry, what? You couldn’t tell I was flirting with you? Are you fucking blind? Actually don’t answer that, I know you’re fucking blind.”

Richie was sure he was gonna get a nosebleed any second. “S-so you were flirting with me?”

Eddie laughed out loud. “Yes you idiot! Literally since the moment I got here, I have been flirting with you. You didn’t get the hint that I have feelings for you?”

“What the fuck, no man! Like you said, I’m fucking blind. I thought you were straight until a few weeks ago!”

Eddie moved to lean against the island, closer to Richie. “You dumbass, I tried so hard the night I came out to you, why do you think I told you about what fucking underwear I wear?”

“I don’t know man, I’m not good at this shit.”

“Clearly!”

Richie cast his eyes down. “S-so, so you really like me?”

Eddie reached for his hand and interlaced their fingers. He pulled Richie closer to him, so he was pinned between Richie and the island. “I love you, dickwad.”

Richie huffed out a laugh. “I love you too.” He blinked rapidly, looking up towards the light. “Oh god, why am I crying.”

“Get over here you big baby.” Eddie detangled his fingers from Richie’s and brought his hand up to the other man’s cheek, bringing him in for a kiss. It was sweet, it was chaste, it was everything Richie wanted from Eddie when they were younger.

But he wasn’t a teenager, and he wanted more.

He dove forward, tongue clashing with Eddie’s. It was hot, it was toe curling good. He snaked his other hand down Eddie’s side, curling around his hip and moving to squeeze his ass. Eddie groaned and ground himself into Richie’s thigh.

“Fuck.” Richie said pulling away. “Fuck, how are you so hot? We’re fucking forty man.”

“Me? Dude, look at you. Your arms… your chest…” Eddie snaked his hand under Richie’s shirt, scratching at the smattering of hair on his pecs.

“Jesus man, I’m not gonna last… fuck… bedroom?”

“Bedroom.”

*~*~*~*~*

The two men finally emerged from Richie’s bedroom for dinner later on with kiss bruised lips and satisfaction plastered on their faces.

“Anything good on?” Eddie asked as Richie turned on the TV. “Rich?”

Richie laughed. “You better come see this.”

“QUARANTINE LIFTED” The headline read as news anchors happily recounted the fall in new cases, and the rise in recoveries.

“You’re fucking joking.”

#reddie #reddie fic #Richie x Eddie #it fic #yup this is so stupid #yet here I am posting it #my writing

42 notes · View notes

etherealwaifgoddess · 4 years

Text

Maybe I Am? - Chpt.4

Characters: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Summary: Steve frets over his growing interest Bucky and decides to take things to the ~next level~. Master list HERE.

Content Warning: Some truly fantastic blow jobs. Steve being neurotic about what this means for him.

Word Count: 3.5k

Author’s Note: Hello lovelies! I’m really excited so many of you are enjoying this fic so far. I don’t know why, but I just got super invested in these characters from the start even though it’s one of my shorter fics. I was literally screeching to my best friend on daily basis while writing this LOL. So thank you for all the sweet feedback and likes and reblogs. Ya’ll make my day! XOXO - Ash

Chapter Four

They fell into a rhythm faster than either one had really expected. They text periodically throughout their days, just silly things they’d found or something about their day they wanted to laugh about or bemoan together. Thanks to Steve being able to adjust his schedule and Bucky working a basic 9-5, they were able to meet up on Friday nights for a date night and typically one other weeknight when they were both free. Sundays became their farmers market day, when they could wander around the busy market in the warm summer sun and drink entirely too many iced coffees. Despite the routine, labels were never used or brought up. Neither man quite sure how to define what they were doing. They were happy with their little routine, neither of them looking to shake things up, but there had been a few times where after weeks of second base, they both wondered when it might be time for more. Steve was terrified of finding his limit and wasn’t willing to risk what they had. Bucky was terrified of pushing Steve too fast and had bitten his tongue a few times when in the heat of the moment he had almost begged to taste Steve’s cock.

It had been over a month of swapping hand jobs and what Steve had learned was called frottage, thank you Google. Steve figured if he didn’t try to mix things up soon he’d never really know where his limit lied. And with how quickly his feelings for Bucky were developing he needed to start figuring things out fast. He was going to be in a world of pain if and when he reached the limit of what he was sexually interested in. Steve had been in rough shape when Peggy left him but the idea of leaving Bucky seemed a thousand times worse already.

Steve finally gathered the nerve to turn on his privacy mode search and look up tips on blow jobs. What he got was a horrific amount of bad porn and women's magazine articles. Most were absolute trash but he did find a few good tips. Though in the end, Steve figured he’d just have to assume what felt good being done to him would most likely feel good for Bucky. As long as he didn’t puke the second it was in his mouth, he was going to consider whatever happened progress. The idea didn’t seem too terrible in theory but Steve’s nerves were still running wild.

They were curled up on Steve’s sofa, Bucky tracing the lines of Steve’s muscles along his chest and stomach. The movie had ended a few minutes before but neither man was willing to move just yet. Steve took a breath and decided it was do or die time. Bucky deserved someone who wasn’t trapped on second base forever. “Hey, Buck.” Steve said quietly, waiting for Bucky to look up at him, “Would it be okay if I sucked your dick? I think I could.”

Bucky took a moment to replay Steve’s words in his head. Nope, still sounded the same. What in the actual fuck?! “Steve, honey, you don’t have to do that if you’re not ready.” Bucky assured him, “I’m so happy with you, with us. Don’t feel like you have to do this unless you really want to.”

Steve sighed, half tempted to take the way out Bucky had offered him. “No, I want to. I do. I just… I’m worried. What happens if I don’t like doing it? If I can’t do it.”

“Then you can’t, Stevie. It’s not the end of the world. It’s not like I’d ever expect it from you. Hell, my ex probably only did it twice in the year we were together.”

“What?” that caught Steve’s attention, “Why?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, “Not all gay guys enjoy sucking cock. And Brock was an asshole, so who knows the real reason. I don’t really believe what he used to say. He, uh, he said a lot of things just to be hurtful.”

“I’m sorry, baby.” Steve kissed Bucky softly, wondering how bad his ex really was. He never really talked about it and Steve worried it was worse than Bucky let on. “I do want to try it with you though. You don’t have to reciprocate or anything, I just need to know if I can do this. For me. I’m still trying to figure things out and I need to know.”

“Okay, we can try. And for the record,” he added with a smirk, “I love giving head.”

The sound Steve made at Bucky’s declaration was barely more than a high pitched whine and Bucky cackled like Satan himself with delight.

“Come here you.” Steve cajoled him, pulling Bucky close to resume their kisses. Steve waited until Bucky was making the soft little moans he’d come to know so well. The sign that he was getting impatient and needy for Steve to get him off. Steve loved how easy it was to bring him to that point. Steve pulled back, giving Bucky’s still clothed dick a squeeze before he slipped down onto the floor between Bucky’s legs. Resting on his knees, he helped Bucky get his pants and underwear off, another pair of those silky boxers Bucky seemed to favor that made Steve want to rut up against the silky material like a madman. They had done that once a few weeks earlier. Steve had been completely naked and Bucky in only his silky boxers, they had rutted against one another through the fabric until both their orgasms had snuck up on them before they could help themselves. It had been a little embarrassing but mostly wonderful.

Steve teased Bucky’s shaft a little, trying to work up his courage now that he was down there. Bucky’s hair was blessedly well trimmed and Steve realized he probably should have afforded the same courtesy for Bucky. He made a mental note to take care of that before the next time. If there would be a next time. A small bead of precome formed on the tip and Steve jumped on the opportunity. Leaning forward Steve lapped at the drip of liquid, waiting to see if he could get past the taste. He’d never minded going down on women but he worried a man would be just too different. To his surprise, it wasn’t awful. Not exactly something he would crave, but the bitter tang on his tongue was manageable. Encouraged, Steve braced his palms on Bucky’s hips and tentatively lowered his mouth around Bucky’s dick.

Bucky wanted to weep at the sight of Steve licking the little bead of precome off the tip of his cock. His beautiful blonde adonis settled so easily between his legs was a sight to behold. When Steve took the head into his mouth Bucky fought to stay still, letting Steve take his time and figure things out. Though much to his delight Steve figured it out pretty quickly. He barely got half the way down Bucky’s shaft with the first few eager bobs of his head but it was enough to have Bucky trembling beneath him. Steve looked up through his impossibly long lashes and Bucky about lost it. He threaded his fingers through Steve’s thick blonde hair, giving him a soft smile of adoration. Steve resumed his tentative sucking, testing how far down he could go comfortably, too afraid of gagging himself and ruining the moment. The more he bobbed the more confident he grew, carefully hollowing his cheeks to increase the suction around Bucky’s dick. He started lapping his tongue along the underside too, reveling in the way Bucky completely lost his composure when he did that.

There was something powerful being able to bring Bucky to a babbling mess with a few swipes of his tongue. Giving head was nothing like Steve had feared it would be. It was better than he could have expected and he found that the things he’d always loved about going down on a woman, he loved about going down on Bucky. The trembling thighs bracketing his head, the deep earthy scent of being at someone’s core, the trust it took for someone to let him do this, even the way curly short hairs tickled his nose when he pressed in deep. Steve felt himself getting worked up as he continued and he reached down for a moment to push his growing erection down with the heel of his hand. He wondered briefly if maybe next time he could multitask enough to get himself off while going down on Bucky. Because there was damn well going to be a next time at this rate.

Bucky knew he wasn’t going to last as long as he’d wanted to as soon as Steve started experimenting with his tongue. He wanted to give Steve as much warning as he could but all that he could come up with was filthy praise. “God, Stevie,” he panted out, half delirious, “That’s so good, honey. God just like that, yeah. Oh god you’re so good at that. Driving me wild, honey.”

Steve made a muffled happy noise at the praise and the vibrations in his throat went straight to Bucky’s dick. He keened, trying to hold back his eminent release. “Stevie.” he pleaded, “Stevie wait. I’m gonna. Shit honey, I can’t… I’m gonna.”

Steve was undeterred knowing what was, quite literally, coming next. He took Bucky in as deep as he could, figuring that would be easiest, and gave one last burst of intense suction until Bucky was coming down his throat, hot and fast. It was startling but after he got past the initial shock it was over before he could really mind. Steve pulled back once Bucky finished, settling back to sit on his heels with a smug grin on his face. Bucky, on the other hand, looked positively wrecked.

“Jesus God, honey.” Bucky finally rasped out in disbelief. “That was…” he shook his head, “That was perfection.”

“I did okay?” Steve forced himself to ask, needing to ensure he really had done an at least passable job. He was still a little breathless, his dick half chubbed in his pants and growing as he took in Bucky’s post orgasmic glow.

“Better than okay. You were amazing.” Bucky reached out and took both of Steve’s hands in his, needing to ensure he was alright. “Are you okay though? Really? That wasn’t too much or anything? You really didn’t have to swallow.”

“It was fine,” Steve answered truthfully, “I loved seeing you so blissed out like that, knowing I was the one making you feel that way. And swallowing was over before I could really process it, so no big deal.”

“You are one in a fucking million, Steve Rogers.” Bucky shifted forward so he could kiss his man, so overwhelmed with affection for him. He pulled him up after a few heated kisses, wanting to feel those solid muscles crowding him in. Bucky raised an eyebrow as Steve leaned himself up and onto Bucky. “Um,” he tried not to chuckle, “It seems like someone really did enjoy himself.”

Steve blushed lightly, hiding his face in the curve of Bucky’s neck, “Mhm. I, uh, I enjoyed it quite a bit.”

At that Bucky did let out a short cackle, raining kisses down on Steve’s blushing face, “You’re a fucking gem. God, I…” Bucky cut himself off with a sharp cough. “A real fucking gem, honey.” He added somewhat lamely.

Steve was oblivious to Bucky’s misstep, practically preening under the affection and praise, still teetering on the edge of full arousal. He would have been more than happy to continue skirting that edge, Bucky’s hand rubbing against him lightly while they necked like teenagers. But Bucky was not going to pass up the opportunity to get Steve’s cock in his mouth at last. He wasn’t exaggerating when he’d bragged he loved sucking cock. He truly did. Every part of it, too. And because of his enthusiasm he’d had plenty of practice over the years. Bucky was thankful for that practice, too, because even after the newness of Steve had started to wear off, he was still convinced Steve had the absolute most beautiful cock he’d ever seen. It was like going from the minors to the big leagues, he mused happily.

“Hey, honey.” he crooned in between kisses, “Can I return the favor?”

“Hm?” Steve murmured, confused.

“I’ve been dying to get your cock in my mouth for weeks. Please? Let me return the favor?”

Steve’s choked off moan was answer enough but he forced out his words, “Yeah. God, yeah, Buck. But only if you want to.”

“Oh I want to. Believe me. I’d have to be crazy not to want you.”

Steve huffed a light laugh as Bucky drug the waistband of his pants and boxer briefs down, moving himself down the length of Steve’s body in the process. He was fully hard and the head slapped against the hard V shaped plane of his lower stomach, leaving a trail of precome where it landed.

Bucky had his mouth around the head of Steve’s cock seconds after tossing his clothes to the side. He wasn’t about to waste any time and he wanted to make sure this was a blow job Steve would never forget. He pulled out all his best tricks, alternating suction and speed, letting his hands knead at Steve’s balls while his mouth deep throated him like a champ, even running his nails along Steve’s inner thighs while dragging just the slightest hint of bottom teeth along the underside of his cock. Steve was barely coherent after the last one and Bucky wondered if anyone had ever played with Steve’s ass before. His whole body shook fiercely when Bucky’s hands would glance over his taint and brush over the curve of his ass right behind it. Bucky was tempted, so tempted, and while he was still worried about freaking Steve out, if he played his cards right Steve was in for one hell of a treat.

Bucky started his exploration slow, keeping his mouth busy with a steady holding pattern of torture. Enough that Steve was still making those gorgeous little noises in the back of his throat, but not enough that he was in danger of coming. It gave him enough time to sneak his index finger along Steve’s taint and then slip between his ass cheeks for a quick flick.

Steve’s whole body jerked when the pad of Bucky’s finger ghosted over his surprisingly sensitive hole. It was unexpected but felt too good for him to object. Steve knew if he spoke up Bucky would stop, but in the heat of the moment he wanted to ride it out to see where things went. He trusted Bucky wouldn’t push him too hard too fast, so he just focused on trying to stay in his seat and not choking the poor beautiful man between his legs with an unintended thrust.

Bucky wanted to cheer at Steve’s reaction and it emboldened him to keep exploring. He let the tip of his finger flutter against Steve’s hole as he continued to suck his shaft down as deep as he comfortably could. He cupped Steve’s balls with his other hand, adding that sensation to the mix as well with stellar results.

“Shit,” Steve keened, “Buck, baby, shitshitshit. I’m gonna…”

Bucky just nodded as he bobbed his head, fully aware of where Steve was at and what he needed to do to take him over the edge. Pressing firmly with the tip of his finger he pushed ever so slightly into Steve’s hole, not enough to breach that tight ring of muscle inside but enough to be felt. Steve was writhing and then Bucky wiggled his finger, just gently, while hollowing out his cheeks and giving Steve’s balls a squeeze.

Steve shattered.

It was too much all at once and he came with a broken sob as his body shook almost violently. He had no control over his limbs or his voice as great sobbing moans broke free from his chest. His body trembled even after his orgasm began to fade and Bucky clamored up onto the sofa next to him. Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve from the side, tugging him close and holding on to him tightly. It took a long minute for Steve to compose himself and for the world to really come back into to focus for him. But when he finally did, it was to Bucky holding him, rubbing soothing circles on his back with one hand, and whispering sweet nonsense in his ear. Steve couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so protected and cherished. Tears prickled at his eyes and he didn’t dare speak until he was certain he could trust his voice.

Bucky noticed as Steve became more aware of himself, but he pretended to ignore the little tears that welled in the corners of the other man’s eyes. Steve sniffed harshly, letting out a long woosh of a breath. “That was….” he trailed off, at a loss for adequate words.

Bucky grinned and pressed a kiss to Steve’s cheek, cuddling in a little. “Told ya I love giving head.”

“You’re like the fucking king of it. My knees are still all tingly.”

“Aww, honey. It wasn’t too much, was it? I know we didn’t talk about ass play yet but I figured a little tease wouldn’t hurt.”

“I’m glad we didn’t.” Steve admitted quietly, “I probably would have psyched myself out of it. And it was… okay? Good?”

“Thank you, for trusting me like that. We should talk about it, though. Figure out what you’re willing to try, and go at a pace you’re comfortable with. It can be so good, honey, you got no idea.”

“Oh, I got a little bit of an idea.” Steve laughed.

Bucky chuckled with him, “Yeah, I guess you did. I won’t rush you though, promise. We can take as long as you need.”

“I don’t-” Steve started and stopped with a frown, “I don’t know how long that’ll be, Buck. I’m sorry. I want to be better for you but I’m still a little scared.”

Bucky’s heart was bursting at Steve’s admission. “I know, and it’s okay. We’ll go at your pace. And I’m not asking you to bottom for me. I prefer that myself, actually.”

Steve groaned a little imagining Bucky coming apart underneath him while he fucked the smaller man into the mattress. He was getting ahead of himself but it was a damn nice image. “We’ll get there.” Steve promised to him, as much as to himself.

They stayed curled up for a little longer until the air conditioning proved too strong and they both pulled their pants back up over goosebumped legs. Bucky begged off after that, to both of their disappointments. It was late and reasonably they both needed sleep but still, Bucky knew it wouldn’t be long until one of them cracked and they started spending the night together.

Steve looked around his apartment after Bucky headed out, painfully aware of how empty and silent it was. Part of him wished he’d asked Bucky to stay. Not that he could have, he didn’t have overnight stuff with him, but Steve hated going to bed alone after such a nice evening. That had been the hardest part of adapting to life post-Peggy, sleeping alone again. She had never been much of a cuddler, much to Steve’s disappointment, but she at least warmed the other side of his too big bed.

As Steve curled up in still too big bed, he worried that things with Bucky were all going to be over in a blink. That things were destined to become just a distant memory of the time Steve had tried something different for a while. His heart ached thinking about it. But what was the alternative? He and Bucky actually made it work? He would come out as gay? Bi? To all his friends and coworkers? Explain that no he hadn’t lost his mind, it really just took him thirty years of life to realize he liked men. Would he and Bucky slowly merge their things until they were practically living together? Would his early class day alarm drive Bucky crazy three days a week? Would he bring flowers home after exasperating Bucky over something silly like forgetting to fold his clothes or leaving dishes in the sink? Would Bucky save him a warm plate of dinner on the nights he had to work late? Steve’s mind swam with possibilities he’d never really let himself consider before. He knew it was foolish to dream, that this was a nice fantasy but he’d soon have to get back to real life, as much as it pained him. Still, despite the warnings he gave himself, Steve drifted off to sleep with the dreams of early morning cuddles and quiet late night conversations in his mind.

#steve rogers #bucky barnes #stucky #stucky fanfic #stucky fanfiction #idiots in love #lots of smut

12 notes · View notes

eddie-boii · 5 years

Text

Never Let You Go (part 1/14)

Fic info: Both Eddie and Stan live because I do what I want. Multichapter.

Rating: Teen and up (may change).

Pairings: Richie Tozier and Eddie Kaspbrak, Beverly Marsh and Ben Hanscom.

Ao3 link: here

Summary: The Losers prepare for a wedding.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14

Richie was settling for a quiet night in. He’d been invited to a premiere of some horror movie but, after the shit he’d seen, he found them kind of bland. No amount of fancy editing and special effects could scare him when he’d faced the real thing. And besides, red carpets and chatting cordially with interviewers and smiling for cameras while dressed in an uncomfortable suit all required far more effort than he was willing to give. He was more than content with staying home in a ratty old t-shirt and boxer shorts, a can of beer in hand as he watched reruns of old nineties sitcoms. But his classy evening was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Bev?” said Rich after he’d hastily tugged on some pants and opened the door.

“Hi, Rich. Sorry to just turn up like this...” Beverly gave him a tight smile, her eyes glancing up only briefly before moving to focus on the floor, and Richie frowned because something was obviously up.

“You okay?”

“I-” she started but broke off, swallowing. “Um… can I come in?”

“Oh shit,” said Richie abruptly, realising they were still hovering in the doorway. “Yeah, yeah, of course.” He ushered her inside towards the living room, then quickly removed some empty beer cans and piles of clean laundry he had yet to put away so she had space to sit down. He sat beside her on the couch and she faced him, her legs pulled up as she leaned into the soft backrest of the couch. “What’s up?”

Beverly swallowed. “Um, something happened between me and Ben…”

“Oh shit,” said Richie eloquently. He’d thought she and Ben would last forever; the guy doted on her completely and they were perfect together. “Shit, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I-” She frowned then looked up at him finally. “Rich, do you remember when we were kids and we said if we were both single by fourty we’d marry each other?”

Richie blanched. He had not been expecting that. “Um…” he said, face bright red as he looked anywhere but at Beverly. “I mean… Well, yeah, but... I- I’d had my heart set on being married to Eddie’s mom by now and -” Shit. How do you tell your best friend you’re actually super gay and have been hiding it from her for years coz you’re a damn coward?

“Richie,” Beverly said softly. She was still looking at him tenderly and reached over to take his hand. “Rich, will you -”

Shit shit shit.

“- be my man of honour.”

Richie blinked. He gaped. Then Beverly pulled a ring out of her jacket pocket and slipped it onto her ring finger, wiggling the impressive diamond in front of Richie’s face.

“Ben proposed,” she said, her facade finally cracking to make way for a grin.

“You- you-” Richie stared at her and then leapt to his feet. “YOU ASSHOLE!” he exclaimed as Beverly burst into a fit of laughter, her whole body shaking and her hand clamped over her mouth in a meagre attempt to stifle the sound. “YOU FUCKER! YOU CAN’T JUST DO THAT TO A GUY! I WAS MENTALLY PLANNING TO JUMP ON A PLANE TO BERMUDA AND LIVE OUT THE REST OF MY LIFE AS A HERMIT!”

Beverly had tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she gasped out finally. “I-” More laughter - “I couldn't resist. Your face…” She pointed at him before dissolving into more giggles. “Fuck, my cheeks are cramping.”

Richie slumped back down beside her and glared at her, which was a mighty feat as he was trying not to laugh too. “You are such a dick,” he said, then tugged her towards him in a tight hug. “Congratulations, you fucking asshole, of course I’ll be your man of honour. Jesus Christ.”

Beverly just buried her face in his shoulder until her laughter finally died down. It took quite a while and when she finally pulled back, smile apparently fixed permanently to her face, she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Do I get to wear a beautiful flowing dress?” he asked her, framing his face in his hands and giving her his best girly grin.

“You can wear whatever you like, babe,” she told him, then she gave a pointed look at his current attire. “As long as it’s not that.”

“Rude,” said Richie, feigning offence. “I am a fashion icon. So do I get to come help you pick a dress? Write the wedding invites? Uh… I don’t know what else happens at weddings.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’ll have Stanley to help you,” she told him.

“I thought people only had the one man-slash-maid of honour?” said Richie.

“Fuck traditions,” shrugged Beverly. “And no offence, but I do not trust you with organising a wedding.”

“That’s fair,” said Richie who could barely organise his own life. “So when’s the special day?”

“January sometime,” Beverly replied. “We’ll have a little ceremony with just the Losers, then a bigger one with family and colleagues and everything.” She smiled, her eyes twinkling like she could already envision the day.

Richie couldn’t help but smile too. “Sounds perfect,” he said, honest and sincere for once.

Beverly pulled him into another hug then stood. “I’d better be off,” she said. “There’s so much shit to do, you have no idea. I’ll let you get back to your-” She glanced around at the six-pack of beers, the TV, and the general mess - “busy schedule,” she finished.

“Do I detect a hint of judgement?” Richie said, raising an eyebrow as he walked her to the door.

“None at all,” said Beverly, smiling innocently. “See you later, babe.”

“Farewell, honey-bun,” said Richie with a wink and Beverly rolled her eyes before making her exit.

Richie returned to his well-worn spot on the couch with a grin still plastered on his face. He hadn’t been to a wedding in years, and definitely not one for people he actually cared about. One where he’d be surrounded by the people he loved most in the world.

Halfway through another sitcom episode, he pulled out his phone and shot a text to Ben:

[8:57] Richie: Congratulations hot stuff how much did you fork out for that ring?

A reply arrived only a few minutes later full of heart and sparkle emojis that Ben was overly fond of using.

[9:01] Handsome Haystack: I can’t believe she said yes!!!!! And ok it was a lot but still less than she’s worth

[9:02] Richie: Thanks gonna go vomit now brb

[9:02] Handsome Haystack: You’re just jealous

[9:04] Richie: Well how can I not be? It’s not my fault you’re so stinking hot now!! Bev better watch out

There were a good few splurges of keyboard smashes before another text came through:

[9:09] Handsome Haystack: Oh Rich you know you've only gotta ask ;)

Richie snorted.

[9:10] Richie: Hi Bev you got back quick

[9:10] Handsome Haystack: Ben was waiting down the street :)

[9:12] Richie: Give him a smooch from me

Another round of keyboard smashes, then:

[9:15] Handsome Haystack: So Bev says hi

[9:16] Richie: Did she give you that smooch?

[9:16] Handsome Haystack: She did

Richie could imagine the crimson blush spread across Ben’s face and grinned.

[9:18] Richie: Soooo who are you picking as best man? Shame I can’t do both

[9:19] Handsome Haystack: Eddie and Mike

[9:19] Handsome Haystack: We have other plans for Bill

[9:20] Handsome Haystack: And uhh just so you know

[9:20] Richie: What?

[9:23] Handsome Haystack: It’s a tradition for the maid of honour to dance with the best man

[9:23] Handsome Haystack: Man of honour in this case of course

Richie blanched. He’d have to dance with Eddie… Or Mike, of course, but… Well, if he had to choose...

[9:28] Richie: What happened to Bev saying fuck tradition??

[9:28] Handsome Haystack: She’s very insistent on this one

“That sneaky little-” Richie muttered under his breath, picking up his can of beer for strength.

[9:29] Handsome Haystack: And you’ll also be walking down the aisle together

This was almost to much for Richie’s system and he started choking on the beer he’d just taken a sip of.

[9:30] Richie: Do I have to???

[9:30] Handsome Haystack: For the bride :)

Richie swore under his breath.

[9:34] Richie: Fine.

[9:34] Handsome Haystack: Love you! xoxo

Richie grunted and turned off his phone, then turned it back on again to send a begrudging ‘Love you too’. He went back to staring at the TV but didn’t take any of it in.

He’d have to dance. With Eddie.

Walk down the wedding aisle. With Eddie.

He hadn’t even let himself dream of such things.

He ran a hand down his face, his stubble rough on his palm, and groaned. Then he grabbed another beer and decided he’d deal with this in the morning after he’d drunk every can he had. * Next

#it chapter 2 #benverly #reddie #richie tozier #beverly marsh #ben hanscom #eddie kaspbrak #fic #fanfic #writing #it 2017 #fluff #fix it #EB writes #more to come at some point uwu

66 notes · View notes

atinykidult · 5 years

Text

His Stupidly Tall Self - Kim Mingyu

[fluff full-length] - 2247 words

[summary] - highschool!au, his pov, song inspiration I Don’t Care by Ed Sheeran/Justin Bieber (doesn’t really connect to the story, but the key and beat suits its pace), featuring some of SVT, super fluffy

[author’s note] I’m trying a playful style - I hope you like it! Also, I typed “look” intending this to be under 500 words... so, uh, yeah. That happened. Also, I know the reader is assumed to be short — tbh, as a short girl, it was my default. Super sorry, my tall friends! I love you and hope you still can enjoy this? The reader’s height isn’t that prominent.

[thanks for reading! your support means the world to me, always!]

Look.

Being the tallest boy in class had its perks; Mingyu wouldn’t argue with that. In fact, his height was how he first talked to Y/N. Shorter than him, his crush had asked him for help reaching a basket of supplies on a too-tall shelf.

He’d remembered feeling awed, wondering if this was some alternate universe where everything was cliche and perfect and just right.

Even two years after that first contact, he could vividly recall the flush that had run through his entire top half when you’d met his eyes. Smiled. And told him that you appreciated him.

Yes, you’d said it jokingly.

Yes, it wasn’t that deep.

But Mingyu had nurtured that exchange like a gardener fussing over their, well, garden. (So he wasn’t that great with metaphors.)

But he was great with pine trees...

Or, rather... You know...

Pining.

Yipee.

Back to his height.

Although it certainly brought him some perks, it generally caused him more pain than help. Physical pain, in that he spent too many trips down the stairs a little faster than intended... with a little less foot-to-step contact than desired, too. (Sometimes this would happen when he planned to travel up rather than down, too. Thinking about that, his ribs throbbed in sympathy.)

And emotional pain, too.

Exhibit A: When he let his friends — a terrible, thirteen man group which eternally abused Mingyu with jokes about his height and personality in general (really, Mingyu didn’t know why he kept sitting with them for lunch) — choose his Freshman-year Halloween outfit. A giraffe. Really.

Exhibit B: When Mingyu had magically been paired up with you during Sophomore year for an English assignment... Only for you to hesitantly ask him if you could request to change partners, because there was this new kid, and your mom was friends with the parents, and you had the same interests... Of course, Mingyu agreed, falling in love with you slightly more. (The stupid, lovable compassion! he later moaned as he vented to Jeonghan.) And at a larger distance. (Okay, so height wasn’t really in the equation here, except for the fact that you were the same height as your partner, which really hurt his heart when you performed a reenactment of Titanic’s pose and he knew, knew he would be a better Jack).

(So he needed to vent about it, years later. Problem?)

Exhibit C: When against all odds, Mingyu and you ended up at the same table for some school function where there happened to be a dance floor. He’d found enough courage to ask you to dance the last slow jam with him, and nearly screeched when you easily agreed. As he led you to the floor, he decided that he would have lived a full life as long as he didn’t step on your toes during the four minutes — he’d die kiss-less and dateless, true... but he’d die fulfilled.

He didn’t step on your toes, and he felt like this could, just maybe, if he was lucky, just possibly could turn romantic (Ed Sheeran worked miracles) —

Then you burst out giggling.

“It’s just!” You heaved a breath. “It’s just that!” Mingyu’s eyes nearly fell out of their sockets as you gripped his forearms for support. “You’re so tall — I feel like I’m dancing with your bowtie more than you!”

Well.

He had felt like crying.

His twelve abusers had found the entire event hilarious, but Mingyu most certainly disagreed.

The next time he ran into you, you’d casually caught his wrist as he began to walk away from what had been a stilted, though perfectly lovely, exchange. (He’d moved past the teasing and near-crying, heading back to school with his best foot forward. [Neither foot was the best foot, but that was beside the point.])

“Hey, Mingyu,” you had said, somewhat redundantly because your hand on his wrist said plenty.

Mingyu was nearly sweating (read: sweating buckets) and feeling very impressed by your hand-eye coordination (read: Mingyu’s arms were too long and ever-changing for him to romantically slam you against a wall, casually catch your hair in his fingers, or anything actually useful for his life, such as, in this case, catching his wrist and staring up at him with thoughtful eyes).

Yeah. His blood pressure was in a rough place.

“Are you listening?” you’d asked.

“Uh,” was all he could say, eyes dropping to your lips as though he could look back into the last few minutes to understand your speech. “I am so, so sorry.”

“Exactly.” At this moment, he doubted his entire existence. What did that mean? Was it sass? Anger? Disgust? Rejection? “That is exactly what I’m telling you: I am very sorry for not being a kind person when we danced. I thought you’d find my shortness funny — but Seungkwan told me how it really made you feel.”

Sincerity!!! it dawned on him.

“I didn’t mean to laugh at you. In fact, I think your height is very attractive.”

His voice was hoarse the next day from screaming into his pillow.

Emotional and physical pain all in one (yipee!) thanks to his height.

“I’m confessing to her today,” Mingyu told his reflection. “Today. Before three. I’m doing it. For real.”

He ran his hand over his carefully selected shirt, looking for wrinkles, and reassessed his appearance for the thousandth time.

Senior year.

Exhibit D wouldn’t get to happen (really, though, he’d passed Z long, long ago).

At lunch, his now smaller group was all support and gentle teasing. Now one of the hyungs, Mingyu received much less abuse. (He repeated that with enthusiasm whenever Vernon or Seungkwan, or both, stumbled into the spotlight instead.)

“Just... be romantic,” Vernon suggested.

“What does that even mean?” scoffed Seungkwan. He sat up straighter, mimicking their self-important History teacher. “Go for genuine. All the girls like how you’re a human puppy. Exploit that.”

“Maybe have flowers?” offered Chan.

“We’re at school, our dear maknae.” Seungkwan squinted at the rest of his table, disappointment dripping in his tone. “We don’t want ‘Gyu suspended before he can confess. You’d think I’m the only reasonable one.”

Minghao raised an eyebrow at that, although he wisely kept quiet.

The silence stretched out until Vernon piped up again.

“Be poetic, hyung. You aren’t bad at speaking unless you’re nervous. So, just... Don’t be nervous and pour out your feels, y’know?”

Seungkwan beamed at Vernon.

“Finally someone else contributes useful advice.”

You’re kind.

You’re beautiful.

I’ve loved you since you asked me to get a basket down for you.

All too generic, and even creepy.

You, a highly attractive person, called me attractive, which really means the world to me.

You can do it all — laugh recklessly and fix any damage right after.

I think you actually complimented my giraffe costume way back? It’s blurry, but I think that happened. As a gangly freshman, that meant a ton.

Mingyu banged his head on his desk, only to realize he was sitting in math class and... now everyone was looking at him. He loved that. Totally.

No! No! No! he was screeching internally.

“The brain’s just struggling a little bit,” he was saying externally. “You know how with laptops, how you just slam it shut and it usually works after that? Just...”

From in front of him, you had turned around to watch him, looking at him dare-he-say... fondly?

“Um,” he choked. He looked away from your lips, curved upwards, and met the teacher’s amused but tired eyes. “Sorry. Reboot complete. Loading... and good. I’m back.”

Hearing you laugh, he melted into his seat with a wide, satisfied grin.

Embarrassment aside, he’d do that all over again if you’d watch him like that again.

Then a note slid onto his desk.

Are you saying you’re as smart as a computer? ;)

His brain needed to shut down and restart after staring at your handwritten wink face.

NOOO! he furiously scribbled back. I’m just I I would never imagine to be so intelligent.

As he waited for your response, if he would get one, he winced at his wording. That alone was judge-worthy.

Don’t sell yourself short. Sell yourself worth your full, lovely height!!! xD

You’re someone who makes me feel like I’m worth something, he writes in tiny letters — a draft and guide for himself to use very, very soon. You’re the type of person I’d want with me, stranded on an island. You’d say something funny, then meaningful, then sweet, then magic us off the island because you’re amazing like that. I take that back, because I don’t want to expect the impossible from you as your boyfriend. I’d want you with me, and I hope you’d want me with you, too.

When I’m with you, I don’t care that I’m 187 cm of hopeless energy. All I care about is making you smile because I’m already smiling. Although, I take that back, too, because whenever we’re near each other, my friends have told me that we both smile a lot.

So I change this to, when I’m with you, I know we make each other happy. And I want you to be mine. And I would die if you’d let me be yours. I want to just do life with you — the ordinary, domestic things, the cute dates, the casual ones, the couple’s outfits, the whatever you picture as us being us (just... in love).

So, Y/N Y/L/N, be mine?

By the time he asked you to wait for him after school, he had already internalized a neater version of what was essentially his love letter to you.

As he snuck up behind you, covered your eyes and cheesily asked, “Guess who?” he’d been mentally reciting the first sentence of the second paragraph.

While you rattled off a list of idols and turned around to beam at him, his mind echoed unhelpfully, You’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful.

“So what’s up?” you asked.

He inhaled deeply and dove in.

“You’re someone who I —”

WAY OFF, KIM MINGYU, he thought, mentally hearing Seungkwan tsk sadly.

You’re beautiful.

I don’t care if the height difference is weird and makes slow dancing awkward. I can get a bowtie with my face on it, if it helps.

I want you to be mine.

He took another deep breath, thankful that you hadn’t tried to speak. (In fact, your heart was racing as you watched him chew on his lip and cast glances at you like a driver might steal glances at the sunset on a commute home.)

Mingyu let the flood out:

“I want you to don’t care if you’re beautiful, mine!!!”

As he blurted the last word, Mingyu decided that he truly, really, unequivocally wanted to die. Right then and there, satisfied or not, kiss-less or not.

Just... let it be immediate.

Humiliation followed his stupidly tall self everywhere, so why not let it rest with him in the grave?

Just end it all.

“Hey, I’m getting worried about your health over here,” he distantly heard you laugh. Laughs weren’t elegant things, but he swore that if he could see it, it would be all his favorite colors mixed in a perfect arrangement.

“Can you at least open your eyes?”

Your voice was soft this time, and he complied. (He hadn’t realized he’d squeezed them shut to begin with.)

“I like you, too,” you murmured.

His stomach? Electrocuted.

His eyes? Eternally lost in yours like a cat in a newly found box.

His heart? Approximately the same heat as one of those 200,000 K stars.

His cheeks? Gently covered by a certain pair of hands.

“Can you please look at me?”

Mingyu realized that he’d been vacantly staring over your head.

“Yeah — uh, sure.”

He felt a tingle run through him when he found you nearly chest to chest with him, your hands slowly leading his face closer to yours.

“Mingyu, I’m going to kiss you, because I like you very, very much, too. And because you’re someone who makes me feel like I’m worth something, too.” Mingyu’s heart soared as you said this, eyes staring into his, blush on your cheeks. “But I’ll need you to lean down for me.”

As he complied, eyes drifting closed, he realized three things:

A. Without his height, he wouldn’t have this perfect, oh so perfect, view of your face — even the slightest change in either of your heights would be an indescribable loss.

B. Sure, he was gangly and uncoordinated, but he still got the beautiful girl who liked him as much as he liked her.

As he pulled away from the soft brush of lips, straightening and checking his pockets, he blurted C out loud.

“You found my rough draft, didn’t you?”

The brightest, most carefree grin spread over your features, and Mingyu felt himself fall deeper in love as you nodded like it weren’t a big deal.

Balanced on your toes, you slung your arms around his like you were about to slow dance. He smiled softly; you smiled right back at him.

“When I picture us just being us, but in love... I picture this,” you told him.

Then another playful grin spread over your features. “And by ‘this,’ I mean all 187 cm of you being a cutie.” Mingyu felt his cheeks heat up, but you weren’t finished. “Also, as I’m now yours, it’s good to finally know the exact height! It’ll help with the couple’s outfits!”

#kim mingyu #imagines #Seventeen #seventeen mingyu #svt #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #scenarios #kpop #fluff

113 notes · View notes

portalford · 5 years

Text

Nothing to Stop Us Now

AO3

“If I see one more purple mosquito thing, I’m gonna fling myself out of this tree,” says Stan, scratching furiously at a souvenir from one of the aforementioned pests. He’s pretty sure he killed that one, and that helps a little.

Just a little. It still itches like the blazes.

“That would be regrettable,” says Ford, not looking up from his sketchbook.

“You sound real regrettable,” Stan mutters. He gives up on the bug bite in favor of better entertainment: baiting Ford. “This is your fault.”

Ford, unlike the bugs, doesn’t bite. “If I remember correctly,” he says, in a tone heavily implying that he’s never forgotten a thing in his life (which is absolutely untrue) and still without looking up from his damn drawing, “I was perfectly happy to stay in my study and had no comments about ‘stretching my legs’.”

“Don’t quote me at me,” Stan snaps. “You needed to get outta that dusty closet anyway.”

Ford finally takes his eyes off his page, but it’s only to lean out for a better look over the branch he’s sitting on, far enough that Stan is tempted to yank him back before the idiot falls. “It’s fortunate that it isn’t able to climb trees, at least,” he says, going right back to his drawing.

‘Fortunate’ is not a word Stan would apply to any part of this situation. It’s hot, he’s thirsty, he scraped his arm climbing this tree, the branch he’s on is too skinny for his butt, and there’s two rows of sharp, slobbery teeth about ten feet below his ankles.

Ford, predictably, has ignored these and every other grievance Stan has tried to air over the past five minutes, so Stan just snorts.

Ford ignores that, too. He just says, “Watch out for the seedpods—my research indicated that these pods release a smell similar to hydrogen sulfide if they’re crushed. Probably to deter predators,” he adds, mostly to himself.

“Hydrogen what?”

“Rotten eggs, Stanley,” Ford says solemnly, before getting sucked back into his drawing.

And yeah, Stan’s feeling pretty petulant right now, but he’s not gonna make this experience worse. He scoots over a little, just to be safe. Now he’s sitting on a really knobby, more wobbly, part of the branch. Fantastic.

Stan’s pretty much over his fear of heights these days, but he’s definitely got a normal, healthy, self-preservational fear of falling. Especially when it’s a long drop and a short stop to being a devil dog’s lunch.

Said devil dog is still staring at him with all three of its ugly yellow eyes, tongue lolling hungrily over ugly yellow teeth.

Ford, who wouldn’t know things like ‘normal’ or ‘healthy’ or ‘self-preservational’ if they bit him with all the teeth in the world, teeters out over thin air again. He’s higher up and to the left, on a branch that looks even thinner and more uncomfortable than Stan’s, but he hasn’t said anything about it. Stan doubts he’s even noticed. “I wonder if there are more of them. Surely they would have heard the racket and come looking?”

“Ford, I will literally give you a dollar to shut up,” Stan says.

That, of all things, gets Ford’s attention. “Really?”

“…Would you go for fifty cents?”

“No, I was just shocked that you were offering to part with money for any reason.”

“Yeah? Well I was shocked that you were offering to shut up for any reason.”

Ford flashes a smile, sharp and challenging. Stan’s about to meet him with another insult when the devil dog, apparently unable to handle not being the center of attention for ten seconds, rears up on the tree trunk and makes a noise like a stuck pig.

Stan makes good and sure he’s got a solid grip on the branch before screaming back.

The thing squeals louder and lunges, jaws snapping shut just below Stan’s boots. Stan promptly pulls his feet up on the branch. These are new boots, and if they get chewed to pieces before he’s even broken them in—

His perch shivers and bounces as Ford scrambles to his feet above him. “Stanford for the love of God and money sit down.”

Ford does not sit down, choosing instead to hang halfway off the branch, talking all the while about “cross-species” and “evolutionary advantages” and other stuff Stan doesn’t bother to follow.

Instead, he finds himself a long twig and swats Ford’s leg with it, hard.

Ford cuts off, glaring. “What was that for?”

Stan pokes him again. “I know you’re super excited about this dog thing, but I am tired and sweaty and almost lost a chunk of my leg climbing this tree that I’d really like to keep and please sit down.”

Ford sits, and he even has the grace to look somewhat contrite. He promptly ruins this by saying, “iI’s not a dog, Stanley, it’s—”

“Sixer, I literally could not care less.” There’s a moment of silence while Stan nurses his physical bug-related injuries and Ford nurses his mental Stan-related injuries. Stan sighs. “Sorry. Rough day.” It’s more explanation than excuse, but it’s the best he’s got right now.

The devil dog yips. Stan almost wishes he was a bit lower, just so he could try to kick it in the face.

“It’s fine, Stanley.” Ford leans over to put a hand on his shoulder. Stan doesn’t waste his breath telling him to stay put, because the last six warnings have made no impact whatsoever, and it’s kinda nice anyway. “This creature is fascinating, but there are plenty of of other anomalies that can be studied without resorting to hiding in a tree. Besides,” he adds, sitting back and waggling his sketchbook, “I finished my drawing.”

Stan rolls his eyes, but he can feel a smile coming on in spite of himself. Ford has always been the most uniquely frustrating person Stan’s ever known—and Stan has known a lot of frustrating people, himself included—but there’s a kind of oblivious honesty to his frustrating-ness that Stan hasn’t found anywhere else, did without for thirty years, and would really like to never be without again, regardless of how much Ford pisses him off at times.

“Well, as long as you got your drawing.” Stan looks at the devil dog. The devil dog looks back. It feels really unfair that it’s got three eyes to stare with, but that’s life for you. “What do you wanna do about this?”

“I would suggest running for it, but that didn’t prove especially effective the first time we tried.” Ford considers the monster below. It hisses at him. “Also, it’s ready for us now.”

“It’s gonna take us time to get down this tree, too,” Stan says. He really doesn’t want to lose these boots. Or that chunk of his leg. Or anything else, really.

“Hm.” Ford stands up. “If I can jump on it, I think it would stay stunned long enough for us to get a head start back to the Stan O’ War."

“Okay, hold up,” Stan interrupts, loud enough to make the dog squeal. He ignores it. “I’m heavier’n you—if anyone’s gonna jump, shouldn’t it be me?”

“An additional nine feet should give me enough velocity to match your weight on impact,” Ford says, like this is a reasonable thing to be talking about. The way he’s eyeing the branch over his head is worrying Stan; he decides to nip this whole thing in the bud before Ford gets really into it.

“Yeah, no. Way too many ‘should-be’s’ in that plan, bro. I want to get out of this with all my bits attached.” Redirect, redirect, redirect— “How about we throw sticks at it?” Fantastic plan, Stan. That’s gonna win awards for sure.

Somehow, it does. Ford brightens like Stan said something genuinely smart and impressive. “Stanley, that’s brilliant!”

“Throwin’ sticks?”

“What? No, not sticks.” Ford reaches up for one of the fist-sized green pods from the foliage around them. “These.”

The last fifteen awful minutes are suddenly worth it, and better. Stan knows he’s grinning like a moron and he doesn’t care. “We’re gonna stink bomb this dog?”

“We are.” Ford’s got that crazy glint in his eye that Stan recognizes from their wilder childhood escapades, and he doesn’t even correct Stan about the dog thing. He hefts the pod in his hand. “How’s your throwing arm?”

Stan puffs out his chest, brandishing a stinkpod of his own. “You’re lookin’ at the reigning dart champion of Joe Shmoe’s Bar and Grill.”

“That was forty-odd years ago, and you cheated.”

“Still won!”

Ford rolls his eyes.

The best way to shut the critics up is with a practical demonstration, so—

Stan lets it fly.

It hits the dog square in its ugly face and bursts.

“Moses that’s bad.” Between the dog’s shrieking, the awful smell, and the shakiness of his seat, Stan’s not sure if he’s riled up or terrified.

Probably both.

“Impressive throw, though,” Ford says, lining up a headshot of his own.

Thirty seconds and about half that many stinkpods later, the devil dog is but a distant memory. Or would be, if not for the lingering stench and fading squealing of its flight.

“That’s right!” Stan shouts, high enough on adrenaline and the choking smell that he doesn’t feel any kind of worry when he leans out over nothing. “Tell your friends!”

“Here’s to hoping he has no friends,” Ford replies, flinging his last stinkpod into the woods. His mostly-level voice does nothing to hide the fact that he’s practically vibrating where he stands.

“Hell yeah,” Stan says, fervent.

It takes him a minute to get down, what with his legs being almost numb from sitting on that useless skinny branch for so long. Ford has an easier time, probably on account of his near-constant jittering and jumping around.

“So I’m all for coming back here with my knuckledusters,” Stan says, after a moment where they both just sort of stand there staring at each other across burst and battered stinkpod shells, “but can we do it tomorrow?”

“That might be for the best,” Ford says, lifting his arm over his face and wrinkling his nose. “I’m going to try that new odor remover I’ve been working on,” and Stan didn’t know about that but he’s not even a little surprised, “because I like this coat.”

“You might wanna use that stink cleaner on yourself too, Sixer,” Stan says as they’re walking back down the beach. “You smell like a skunk’s nightmares.”

“You could use a bath yourself, Stanley,” Ford replies, and trips him into a tide pool.

Stan yanks him in after, and he’s laughing all the way down.

#gravity falls #gravity falls fanfiction #stanford pines #stanley pines #my writing #IT'S BEEN FIFTY YEARS #i've missed these characters so much but i wasn't feelin anything i tried to write #not sure i'm feelin this either but i'm on vacation so if i don't write now i never will

134 notes · View notes

team-free-will-oneshots · 5 years

Text

Way Too Good

Title: Way Too Good (part three of the Buried Secrets series) Request: Hello! Can I request something kind of long? Reader notices Dean struggling(barely sleep, self deprecation) and uses witchcraft to help him. But he finds and is angry enough to kick her out. - anon, + one from @witch-of-letters that i won’t write here cos spoilers Summary: Feeling better about himself than ever, Dean finally shares his feelings for you. Everything seems to fall into place, and neither of you has ever been happier. Nothing could ruin that... right? Pairing: Dean x Reader, background Sam x Reader (fem pronouns) Warnings: almost smut ! things are heading that way but then they stop, also angst at the end but the rest is fluff. and some swearing Word Count: 3,500ish

note; here’s part three ! all i can say is OOF and sorry ?? enjoy ;)

Part One | Part Two

Sam was still in the kitchen when Dean approached you. Though you’d finally found yourself free of your headaches for the longest stretch of time in years, things seemed way too good - you were just waiting for the other shoe to drop. When Dean sat down across from you, wringing his hands nervously, you were sure this was it. There was no reason he’d ever look so downright terrified if everything was as a-ok as he’d been acting.

“Hey…” he said, swallowing thickly. You paused, placing aside the scroll you were translating and offering a tentative smile.

“Hey… you okay?” you asked, and Dean chuckled, nodding.

“Oh, yeah. I’m great,” he muttered, and your brows creased in concern. He looked up. “No, really - that sounded sarcastic, I didn’t- I’m just nervous,” he stammered. You tucked your hair behind your ear and reached over to touch his hand lightly. His skin was warm and rough, sending shivers up your arm at the proximity. You tried not to show how fast he made your heart race.

“Well… don’t be,” you said with a slight smile. “I don’t bite… hard,” you added with a wink, and that drew a laugh.

“Actually, uh… I was wondering if I could make you dinner tonight,” he said lightly, tone so casual you didn’t at first realise what he was asking.

“I thought it was Sam’s turn to make dinner tonight,” you said in confusion. Dean shook his head.

“No… well yeah, it is, but... I mean… dammit, Y/N, I’m trying to ask you out,” he blurted. You froze, eyes wide as he waited anxiously for your response. Your mouth fell open as you blinked a few times, scrambling to find the right words but coming up empty.

“O-oh!” you exclaimed eventually. “Really?”

Dean ran his hand over the back of his neck, looking like he wanted nothing more than the ground to swallow him whole. “Well… yeah. Look, maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Let’s just forge-”

“I’d love to!” you burst out. “I-I mean- yeah, I’d love to have dinner with you,” you finished shyly. Dean’s eyes lit up, and he grinned.

“Great! Awesome! I’d, uh, I’d say I’ll pick you up at seven, but… we kind of already live together,” he said awkwardly, and you half-heartedly bit back an amused smile.

“Is that you telling me to be ready at seven?” you asked, stomach churning with butterflies as you struggled to keep from smiling like an utter maniac. Dean nodded.

“Yeah, pretty much,” he replied, seeming just as thrilled as you were. You realised your hand was still resting over his, and you drew it back, pulling the scroll you’d been looking at back over.

“I look forward to it,” you said, before mentally beating yourself up for how formal you sounded. You paired it with another smile, and Dean ducked his head, eyes doing that little squinty thing you’d noticed he does when he’s happy and that you found absolutely adorable.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he said, tapping on the desk lightly as he nodded to the scroll. You nodded, and as soon as Dean left the room you found yourself shaking like a leaf with anticipation. Your stomach was churning with butterflies, you felt lightheaded and dizzy with excitement, and the very blood in your veins seemed to tingle. You felt like a giddy teenage girl about to go on a date for the first time, but you couldn’t find it within yourself to care how ridiculous you were acting, even if it was about something as simple as dinner. You’d cared for Dean for god knew how long, but you’d always dismissed it for fear of disrupting the wonderful bond the two of you already shared. The fact that he cared about you enough to make the first move… You bit your lower lip to restrain your too-wide smile.

Eventually, you forced yourself to take a deep breath. As the buzzing in your head slowly subsided, you got back to work. Dinner or not, Amara was still out there, and you still didn’t have a way of stopping her.

Maybe not everything was perfect.

---

“She said yes!” Dean hissed as he ran into Sam in the corridor. Sam chuckled, folding his arms over his chest.

“It’s dinner, Dean - it’s not like you proposed,” he teased lightly, pushing down the tightening in his chest. Great - he was officially doomed to be a third wheel for the rest of his life to the woman he loved, and his goddamn brother. Wonderful.

“Lighten up, Sammy,” Dean said, elbowing his brother good-naturedly, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“It’s Sam,” he corrected halfheartedly, keeping his expression bright until Dean had left. The moment he was alone, he sighed, running his fingers through his hair as his jaw hung loose. He trudged to the kitchen, fixing two sandwiches before joining you in the library.

“Hey,” he greeted, putting on a good face. “Here, I made you lunch.” He slid the sandwich-laden plate towards you. He could tell you were struggling not to burst with anticipation, and the sight sent a warm feeling flooding through his veins. He’d never seen you this excited before.

“Hey!” you said quickly, the word coming in a short, sharp burst that made Sam’s lips curve in amusement. “Thanks!”

“Someone’s happy,” he observed, raising his eyebrows questioningly. “You realise the value of a great sleep, too?”

You laughed, a sound like windchimes that was so contagious Sam couldn’t have kept a straight face even if he’d wanted to.

“Something like that,” you murmured, lips tight as you tried - and failed - to restrain another smile. “Dean actually asked me out,” you informed him, and Sam’s happy expression froze, almost unnervingly joyful.

“Yeah, he mentioned, actually. That’s great!” His tone fell flat, but you were too excited to notice.

“Yeah! God, you must think I’m acting so stupid, I’m acting like a goddamn school girl but… I dunno. It’s been a while since I’ve been on a date with someone, and the fact that it’s Dean, it just… it just fits, y’know?” you blabbered, expression softening. “And it’s like… I dunno, everything feels way too good right now, and it’s like I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop. So… so I’m just letting myself enjoy it all. While it lasts,” you confessed. Sam nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah, no, I get it,” he assured you, and you nodded to yourself as you took a bite of the sandwich, looking back over your work. Though you seemed studious at first glance, Sam could feel your knee bouncing under the table, and as much as he wanted to resent the whole situation, he couldn’t bring himself to. You were happy - ecstatic, even. And his brother was just as pleased. As much as it hurt, he’d dealt with far worse pain, and it was worth it if it meant the two people he was closest to finally found happiness, even if it was in one another. They deserved that much, after all they’d been through.

Sam cleared his throat. “Right. Well, good luck, if I don’t see you before your ‘date’,” he teased, and you beamed, nodding.

“Thanks. Seeya, Sammy.”

Though his eyes were sad, his smile was warm. “Seeya.”

---

You threw yet another flannel onto your bed, huffing as you realised your closet was now empty. The Winchesters had certainly left their mark on you - it didn’t seem like you owned anything other than jeans and flannels, and you didn’t feel either of those were appropriate for tonight. You slammed your wardrobe shut in frustration, collapsing back onto your bed, extra soft with the added fabric strewn over its surface.

Rolling onto your stomach, you rummaged through the mess until you found your phone, shooting a text to the one best friend who could help you at this moment.

Sam - I need your help!!!

A few moments later, a light tapping sounded from your door.

“Y/N? You okay?” Sam’s concerned voice queried.

“Come in!” you called in exasperation, and as the door creaked open, you bit back a laugh when you saw Sam’s gun in his hand. He glanced from you to it, and sheepishly tucked it away, running his fingers awkwardly through his hair.

“Not that kind of help?” he realised, and you sighed, shaking your head. You let it fall back in defeat.

“I have nothing to wear. What do I do?”

Sam frowned. “Uh- am I really the best person to be asking?” he asked slowly, and you shot him a look.

“Well I can’t ask Dean, and you’re my other best friend, and best friends help other best friends work out a date outfit, so square up,” you demanded, and Sam shook his head in bemusement.

“Look, you’ve got tons of stuff!” he said, gesturing to the bed piled high with clothing. You sighed in exasperation.

“This is all flannel!” you exclaimed, and he looked at you expectantly.

“Yeah. And?”

“And I can’t wear that on a date!”

“Why not?” he challenged, and you stammered, struggling to find a response.

“Because- because- it’s not fancy?” you sputtered, your statement reading as a question as opposed to a defense. Sam raised an eyebrow.

“Are you going to a fancy restaurant?” he asked, and you shook your head slowly.

“Well, no, but-”

“But what? You don’t need to hide behind a nice dress and jewellery, Y/N,” he said, making a space for himself on the side of the bed and taking a seat. “It’s Dean - he doesn’t care about any of that stuff. He asked you out because he likes you, he wouldn’t want you to act like someone you’re not.”

You managed a small smile at his words. “Yeah. You’re right. Thanks, Sammy. You always know the right thing to say,” you told him, and he suppressed a smile.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “You good?”

“I’m good,” you confirmed, and with one last tight-lipped smile, Sam left.

---

By seven, you were ready. You kept it simple - you’d put a little effort into your hair, and you might have slipped on some of your nicer lingerie, but aside from that, you’d dressed as though it were any other day. That said, it didn’t stop Dean from grinning when you appeared in the bunker’s main gathering room.

The lights were dimmed, and Dean had managed to scrounge up a tablecloth that he’d draped over the long wooden table, which was now laden with silverware and two plates of pasta, still steaming.

“Hey, you look- you look great,” Dean got out, and you bit back a grin.

“So do you,” you told him. When the two of you sat down and began to eat, beers in hand, the conversation began to flow. It was all too easy to forget you were on a date - it felt so comfortable, so natural, that it felt like things had always been this way.

You put your empty bottle on the table, feeling the alcohol loosen you up, a comfortable buzz that dulled what few nerves you had left. You declined when Dean offered you another, and raised an eyebrow in surprise when he didn’t fetch another for himself. Your hex bag must have been working - Dean was as happy as you’d ever seen him, and to your amazement, he wasn’t using alcohol as a crutch. Things really did seem way too good to be true.

When you finished, you insisted on helping clean up - Dean washed while you dried, and the easy banter continued until Dean shot you a cheeky expression, tossing a handful of soap suds at you. Your mouth fell open, and you shot him a look of mock offence before reaching in the soapy water and chucking a fistful of bubbles at the eldest Winchester.

Your laughter and squeals rang throughout the bunker as the two of you engaged in the most vicious duel of the twenty-first century. Within fifteen minutes, you were both sopping wet, the warm water quickly growing cold as it settled on your damp clothes. You wrung out your shirt with one hand, still laughing as you tossed another fistful of lukewarm water at your date - the basin was devoid of bubbles now, having run out long ago.

Dean managed to duck and avoid it, and when he stood back up again, the two of you were almost chest to chest, both grinning breathlessly. Dean’s hand found your waist, his eyes softening as they met yours before darting down to your lips and back up again, so quickly you almost missed it. You were close enough to feel his shaky breaths as your heaving chest mirrored his own. And suddenly Dean was leaning in close, one hand threading through your damp hair and the other pulling you closer by the hip as he pressed his mouth against yours.

As cliche as it sounded, the moment he kissed you, the rest of the world ceased to exist. And though it was new and exciting and passionate, and made your head spin and your skin tingle, the kiss felt unexplainably familiar and soothing - like your whole life had been leading up to this moment, and finally, you were home. There was only you and him, his lips firm and soft as they explored yours, the scent of dishwashing liquid melding with the cologne he’d dabbed on his neck. You smiled against his lips, hand fisting in his shirt as he pressed you back against the countertop, deepening the kiss as his tongue sought yours. It was only a few moments until his lips began to travel down your neck, and between kisses, he managed to gasp;

“Your room or mine?”

You thought back to your own bed, still overflowing with clothes as your wardrobe remained empty. You dragged his mouth back to your own.

“Yours,” you murmured into the kiss, and he grinned, his fingers intertwined with yours as he led you back to his room. Though you only glanced at it a moment, it was almost unrecognisable compared to the room you had seen the night prior - almost impeccably clean, not a hair out of place. But the moment the door fell shut Dean was pressing you up against it, and the state of his bedroom was the last thing on your mind. You hummed as you stepped into him, wrists locking behind his neck as his mouth found yours once more.

His arms supported your legs as he lifted you up, not breaking the kiss as he moved the two of you to his bed, where he was quick to climb atop of you. He busied both hands with clumsily unbuttoning his shirt, somehow managing to keep his balance as he kept his mouth pressed firmly against yours.

The bed creaked with the movement, and suddenly, there was the distinct sound of something hitting the floor.

The two of you paused, exchanging puzzled looks, and Dean ceased his unbuttoning to spare a glance over the edge of the bed. He stiffened, and the mood dissipated as quickly as it arose.

Dean climbed off you, face hard as he reached over the side of the bed and held up the hex bag. Your hex bag. You froze, breath hitching in your throat.

“What the hell?” Dean muttered. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was to come - you knew you had to come clean. It certainly wasn’t the most opportune time, but of course, you weren’t sure there would ever be a right time to tell Dean that you were one of the “monsters” he’d spent his life hunting. You cleared your throat, and Dean looked over to you.

“Um… actually, I-I put that there,” you stammered, and Dean’s eyebrows shot to his hairline.

“You what?” he demanded, voice taking on a hard tone. Your lip was trembling, and you bit it so hard you could taste blood. Pushing yourself into a sitting position, you drew your knees to your chest, folding in against yourself in a futile effort to shield yourself from his wrathful gaze.

“Y/N. What do you mean you put this there?” he asked, tone falling flat. You exhaled slowly.

“I… um… look, there’s no easy way to say this, Dean. I’m- I’m a witch.” His eyes widened and he got up, taking a step back from you. You closed your eyes, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady, refusing to show how much that tiny action had hurt you. “I noticed how upset you’d been and I- I was worried about you! You were drinking away your problems, not sleeping, your room was a total mess, and- and you wouldn’t talk to anyone about it, so- so I put together something that would help. It- it’s not dark magic, Dean! It’s just- I was born with these- these powers, so… I figured if I could use them to help you, I… should,” you finished tentatively.

When you glanced up, Dean’s expression was blank.

“Get out.”

---

Dean kept his face hard as he clutched the hex bag so tightly his nails began to dig into his palm, drawing blood from the warm flesh. He gritted his teeth and ignored the pain as Y/N’s eyes widened in shock.

“W-what?” she whispered. Dean clenched his jaw, throwing the hex bag on the floor, where it promptly fell apart. Y/N suddenly pressed her hand to her skull, wincing like someone had hit her. As the dried herbs scattered over the wood, Dean froze at the sudden emotional onslaught as he felt his good mood literally draining away. The sullen heaviness he’d grown so accustomed to washed over him, only to be quickly burned away by his fury.

“Get out!” he shouted. “You’ve been lying to me, to Sam, to everyone this whole time and you think I’m gonna let you stay here?” he demanded. “How the fuck am I supposed to believe that this was about helping me, Y/N? I didn’t ask for your help, I don’t want your help, I want you to get the fuck out!” he roared, his rage overwhelming the hint of guilt that flared in his chest when he saw the tears in her eyes.

“Dean, I…” she murmured tearfully, shakily getting to her feet. He shook his head.

“I don’t wanna fucking hear it,” he hissed. “Get out. I can’t- god, I can’t even look at you!” he yelled in disgust. He watched as she nodded timidly, shoving open his bedroom door and leaving as quickly as she could without running.

Sam passed her as she left, brows creased in confusion as he stormed into the room.

“What the hell just happened?” he demanded, and Dean scoffed, nodding towards the hex bag on the floor as he ran his hands over his face.

“She’s been lying to us, Sam. She’s been a filthy witch this whole time and she put that fucking thing under my bed-”

“So you kicked her out?” Sam demanded in outrage. Dean nodded, expression steely, and Sam shot him a furious glare. “News flash, Dean - not all witches are bad! And sure, maybe she should’ve told us, but- did you even ask what it was for?”

Dean licked his lips. “She- she said it was supposed to help me, but- but I can’t trust a word that comes out of her mouth, Sam!”

“Are you even hearing yourself?” Sam yelled. “It’s Y/N! She’s had our back ever since we met her! I can’t believe you’d just-”

“She lied to us, Sam!”

Sam scoffed. “Oh, and you’ve always been so truthful,” he spat sarcastically. Dean gritted his teeth.

“This is different-”

“Like hell it is, Dean!” Sam countered, fists clenched and jaw tight. He shook his head. “I can’t believe you,” he muttered, spinning on his heel and storming out of the room. Dean grabbed his shoulder.

“Sammy, wait-”

Sam shook him off violently. “It’s Sam,” he said coldly. Dean’s hand fell as he watched his brother go, calling her name as he went. When his voice had faded into the distance, Dean set his jaw and stomped to the kitchen.

I did the right thing, he tried to convince himself. It was way too good, anyways. She probably didn’t even feel the same. It was probably all just some huge manipulation because- because why the fuck would she choose me?

Maybe she really was helping, a small voice suggested, but Dean shook it away. No. I can’t be helped, his thoughts whispered. As his rage slowly died, it was replaced only with a familiar, sinking feeling. That was good - it didn’t feel good, but at least it was something he knew how to deal with.

He reached for the liquor.

__________

Read part four here!

Buried Secrets Tags: @clarinette07 @demonsofhunting @carryon-doctor-lock @coupleofgoons @colie87

Forever Tags: @babygirloreo @calaofnoldor @lmpala97 @sebastianshoe @81mysteriouslyme @castieliswatchingoverme @spnlovr73

Dean tags: @polina-93 @justagirlinafandomworld @coupleofgoons

Sam tags: @sammys-dimpless

If you want to be added to any of my tag lists just let me know !

#supernatural #supernatural imagine #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #sam winchester x reader #supernatural x reader #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester fanfiction #sam winchester imagine #sam winchester fanfiction #dean winchester one shot #sam winchester one shot #spn #spn fanfiction #spn imagine #reader insert #spn reader insert #supernatural reader insert #buried secrets series

174 notes · View notes