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stllmnstr · 3 months

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champagne problems: part one

pairing: jake sim x f reader

genre: enemies to lovers, rich kids au, fake dating au, college au, angst, fluff

part one word count: 15.6k

part one warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, family drama, a fatal case of second son syndrome

soundtrack: boom - dpr live / bad idea! - girl in red / blood on the floor - kuiper / calico - dpr ian / comme de garçons (like the boys) - rina sawayama / lust - chase atlantic

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The second son of a wealthy family, Jake Sim has gotten used to always standing in the shadow of his older brother. From grades to girls to talks of becoming future CEO of the Sim Corporation, he’s no stranger to coming in second place. So when an opportunity arises for Jake to finally have the one thing his brother can’t and best him once and for all, he knows he’d be a fool not to take it.

There are only two problems. The first is that the thing his brother wants so badly isn’t a thing at all. It’s you, semi-estranged daughter of the Sims’ closest and most long-standing business partner.

The second is that Jake Sim can’t fucking stand you.

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PART ONE

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Fingers wrapping around the stem of your wine glass, you sigh. Punctuality may have been a steep order for someone who you suspect is running dangerously low on both common sense and regard for others, but twenty minutes? Really?

Your eyes land on the obnoxiously ornate grandfather clock next to the hostess stand. In a restaurant with ceilings so high you can barely see them and a carefully curated ambience that practically screams old money, it blends right in. It also gives you an updated timeframe on your would-be date’s tardiness.

Scratch that – thirty minutes.

Pulling out your phone, the absence of any new notifications is almost as annoying as whatever threadbare excuse you’re sure your date will offer you when he arrives. Glancing at the door, it remains devoid of any new patrons. Or perhaps rather if he arrives.

You’re running near empty on both pinot noir and patience, and you use the distraction of your phone to make you seem a little less pathetic. As if this entire restaurant isn’t already privy to the fact that you’re actively being stood up.

Well, you think wryly, at least you look good doing it. The off white ensemble you selected for the evening is Chanel, and vintage, at that. Usually you wouldn’t pull out all the stops like this for something as flimsy as a first date, but men like James Sim have an eye for this kind of thing.

Four years your senior, he’s already carving out a name for himself at twenty-five. You suppose it is a little less impressive, though, when the name he was born with already carries a legacy of its own in the business world you usually do your very best to stay out of. Rumor has it he’s already a shoo-in for the next CEO of his father’s company. When nepotism is that blatant, you can’t do much but scoff and raise a glass to it.

Scrambling for something to do to make your wasted time pass a bit quicker, you search up the social media profile of your would-be date. Honestly, you doubt you would learn anything more substantial about him if he actually bothered to show up than you will from scanning over his feed. In your experience, men like that tend to make up for their success on paper by lacking an actual personality and any sort of self-awareness.

Gym selfie. Scroll. Gym selfie from a slightly different angle. Scroll. Dog photo. Pausing, you suppress a small smile. The dog in the picture is pretty cute, if nothing else. Zooming in slightly, your eyes crinkle at the way the dog’s tongue lolls out of its open mouth in a grin. Well, at least he’s got that going for him, you suppose. A cute dog is enough to bump any guy’s ranking up a few points in your book.

If James Sim is nothing but a sum of his social media profile, it’s not like you expected anything else. After all, this is the heir to the Sim Corporation, a golden boy that was born with a crown on his head and a gold spoon in his mouth. Everything he’s earned has been laid out for him in painstakingly placed steps. His entire life has been guided by a heavy hand and the knowledge that he would one day inherit everything that makes his family worth knowing.

You probably wouldn’t be too concerned with showing up to first dates on time, either. Especially since you doubt he’s ever been denied a second.

Tonight is nothing but a blip on a radar, you’re sure. Something for a secretary to schedule and him to notice a day or five late. Maybe if you’re lucky, someone on his team will send a consolatory bouquet once he does realize the mistake. He is still building his reputation, after all, and you could use a fresh set of flowers for your apartment.

With another slightly pitiful sigh and a final swig of wine, your glass is empty and your optimism is shot. A second glance at the clock says that thirty-eight minutes have now elapsed since your scheduled meeting time. And in your opinion, that’s thirty-nine too late for a first date.

Retrieving your coat from the back of your chair, you figure tonight will be remembered as nothing but a waste of a good outfit. Besides, you suppose forty minutes of aimless scrolling is ultimately less painful than the inevitable headache this date surely would have been had he bothered to actually show up.

Suddenly, you frown. You won’t complain if this date never actually happens, but you may end up with a slight problem. Although you haven’t been on the best of terms with your mother in a long time, tonight was meant to be the final bullet point on a list of favors you owe her.

As you pull your coat on, you consider the best way to frame the events of the evening. Lean into the whole ‘getting stood up’ thing in an effort to earn some sympathy points? Lay out the facts in their most basic form, timestamps included? Emphasize the fact that you waited long past the obligatory twenty minutes for him to actually show up? Or leave your message chain as it currently is, tell her nothing at all, and let her assume what she wants?

They’re all equally iffy, you think. Risky in their own regard.

Signing your name at the bottom of the check, you scribble in a generous tip for the waitress who did her best to check on you often without making it obvious that she knew you were expecting company that never arrived, expertly skirting that line between overbearing and empathetic. At least someone will go home happy, you think, adding an extra zero for good measure.

Exiting the restaurant, you decide to make it two people. James Sim may be a hotshot at his father’s company, but you’ll be damned before you let him ruin your evening. Before you order the Uber back to your place, you add an extra stop at your favorite sushi place. Takeout in the comfort of your own home will certainly be easier to enjoy than whatever Michelin-Star concoction you would have ordered here anyway, eaten in small bites between forced conversation topics, awkward pauses, and too long sips of wine.

And an hour later, you’re polishing off the last piece of an absolutely divine rainbow roll, wearing nothing but silk pajamas and a face mask, with old reruns of your favorite show playing on the TV when James Sim finally glances down at the Rolex on his wrist. He’s finally arrived at the tail end of a meeting that’s running so far behind schedule he has half a mind to just walk out of it. He would, too, if his father wouldn’t actually threaten his life for it.

It’s late, James realizes. Stupid late. So late that he won’t have the time or energy to do anything but pass out by the time he gets home, which really sucks, because he was genuinely looking forward to his date tonight–

“Fuck.”

All he can do is curse, even as the shocked faces of a concerning number of top executives turn to look at him all at the same time.

…

Jake Sim is about to fail his econ midterm.

It will be at least a week before grades are released, but he already knows it. He can already feel it in the way the questions start to swim in his mind, making less and less sense the more he turns them over, in the way his gut fills with dread as the minute hand of the clock at the front of the lecture hall ticks closer and closer to the testing time limit.

And it wouldn’t be that bad, if it weren’t his second time repeating this course.

Oh, his father is going to have an absolute field day with this one. Jake can practically hear it now.

“You failed your midterm? After already failing this course twice? You know, James was actually the top scoring student in his economic section. Dr. Jeong still mentions his term paper every time I see him at the university…”

And that’s if he’s in a good mood. Or rather, if things at the company are going well. Jake doesn’t even want to consider the comments he’ll be on the receiving end of if the news of his failure finds his father already agitated.

Exhaling, he gives his exam one final once-over, scanning for completion more than accuracy. His brain is so fried that he knows it’s of little use to him now. For his own sake, the best thing to do at this point is turn his test in and send a silent prayer to whoever might be listening on his way out the door.

Leaving the lecture hall behind him, Jake puts his phone out of airplane mode and frowns at the two notifications that pop up on his screen. The first is a missed call from his brother, and the second is a message from the same sender, requesting that he give him a call when he has the chance.

Considering that it’s neither his birthday nor a major holiday, Jake is more than a little confused. Regardless, he honors the request, pressing his phone to his ear as he begins the walk back to his apartment. Although it’s significantly less spacious than his childhood home, he finds it far more welcoming in more ways than one.

The outgoing call rings once, twice, three times. Jake is about to be annoyed at the missed connection, but his brother answers in the moments just before he’s sent to voicemail.

“Hey, Jake.” Shocking. He actually bothered to check the caller ID.

“Hey.” Jake’s voice is careful, guarded. It’s not like his personal life is of any importance to his older brother, but he’s not in the mood to answer any questions. He won’t give James any reasons to ask. “I saw your message.”

“Right.” Jake can hear the shuffle of other voices, scattered movements coming from the other line. James sounds busy. Just like always. Usually, that would usually mean he’s distracted. But Jake has the odd feeling that he has his brother’s undivided attention when James adds, “I have a favor to ask you.”

Immediately, Jake’s stomach drops. There are very few things in this world that are not within James Sim’s grasp, and even less that are within Jake’s, relatively speaking. Whatever it is, he must be desperate, if he’s willing to enlist the help of his little brother.

“Okay.” Jake’s voice betrays none of his sudden anxieties. “What is it?”

At least James spares him the agony of suspense. “You know ___, right?”

Jake frowns. Sure, he knows of you. Just like he has a vague idea of every one of his family’s business partners and their immediate kin. Particularly the ones that are the same age as him and attend the same university. But it’s not like he’s close with you, not like he’s ever had an actual conversation of any substance with you.

Especially since the minimal interactions the two of you have had did not leave Jake wanting more. The only child of parents whose last name is on the front of the most successful law firm within a thousand mile radius, you strike him as everything he’d expect you to be.

Spoiled. Entitled. Vapid. Out of touch with any version of reality that doesn’t consist of you getting everything you want at the exact moment you want it. He supposes it’s a bit like the pot calling the kettle black, considering his own upbringing, but he’d like to think that he’s earned what he’s been given, at least partially. Especially since most of it has been his brother’s hand-me-downs. And it’s not like his father has ever been in the habit of doing him any favors that don’t come wrapped in criticism, comparison, and disdain.

Although rumor does have it you and your mother haven’t been on speaking terms since you left for university, Jake imagines it’s probably because you wanted to bring the limited edition Versace to campus with you, and she insisted it would be safer at home.

Oh, well. Whatever designer dispute happened between you and your mother is no skin off his back. Jake has his own problems to worry about.

One of them being his brother’s question that still lingers on the other line.

Weighing responses in his head, Jake finally settles on, “I guess.” It’s his best attempt at being noncommittal.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t do anything to dissuade his brother. “Do you have her number by chance? My secretary should have taken it down, but she can’t find it anywhere.”

Jake balks, footsteps faltering. An equally distracted student walking behind him nearly stumbles right into his back. Wordlessly, Jake sends them an apologetic look before clarifying, “Her number? Like, her personal phone number?”

“What other kind of number is there?” And there’s the James that Jake knows. Annoyed at the perceived incompetencies of his younger brother, just as always.

Suddenly, Jake’s patience is running short too. James is the one asking for a favor and still has the gall to be annoyed with him. Typical. Jake’s words are clipped when he says, “No, I don’t have ___’s phone number.”

Jake expects that to be the end of it, but his brother won’t let it go so easily.

“Seriously? Don’t you two go to the same school?”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Right, because I have the entire student body on speed dial.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Jake half expects his brother to just hang up on him. After all, he’s never been able to take what he gets, to swallow what he dishes out.

What Jake does not expect, however, is the way James sounds so tentative when he speaks again. “Well…”

“Well what?” Patience already running thin, it’s all he can do not to snap.

“Do you think you could get it for me?”

Jake must be dreaming. This must be a post-exam punishment, a hallucination brought on by over exerting his brain too far for too long. “Do I think I could get ___’s phone number for you?” he repeats flatly.

“Is there an echo in here?” Asshole. At least he’s consistent.

“Just an echo chamber,” Jake mutters away from the receiver.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Jake stops for a moment to fiddle with his keyring as he walks up the stairs to his apartment. “No, I can’t get her phone number for you.”

“Why not?”

The key won’t line up quite right. Jake tries again, frustration seeping through. “Because I have better things to do than run stupid errands for you. Why don’t you drive here and get it yourself?”

“Trust me, if I thought she’d give it to me, I’d be there in an hour.”

The lock on his door finally clicks open, and Jake all but throws his bag down after kicking off his shoes. “And what the hell makes you think she’d give it to me?”

“Well, you didn’t accidentally stand her up, for one.” James doesn’t sound embarrassed by it. Just matter-of-fact. Like a date is nothing but a business deal. Something to be rescheduled and redone if negotiations go sour the first time around.

It is enough to stir up some of Jake’s curiosity, though. “You went on a date with ___?” He supposes it makes sense. Even if the rumor mill and its rumblings about your rocky relationship with your mother ring true, you’re still your parents’ daughter. Still a perfect match on paper for the future CEO of the Sim Corporation. The king of a company and princess of a law firm. It’s a match made in heaven, he thinks ruefully.

“No, I didn’t. That’s kind of the whole point here.”

“Whatever.” Jake still doesn’t see what the hell he has to do with all this. “Why don’t you just look up her parents’ number in the company database and get it from them?”

Jake can practically feel his brother’s exasperation through the phone. “Right, because that would go over really well. Hi there," he imitates. “I’d like to make your daughter the mother of my future children. Care to pass along her phone number so I can get started on that?”

Jake suppresses a wince. “Jesus. I see why she stood you up.”

“She didn’t. I stood her up,” James clarifies. “On accident.”

Semantics. And not ones that Jake is interested in. “Either way. I’m not getting her number for you.”

“Yeah?” Jake is unsettled by the way there’s still no trace of defeat in his brother’s voice. There’s something almost sinister when he suddenly switches topics. “How are classes going?”

Jake’s lips pull into a taut line, disaster of an econ midterm still fresh on his mind. “Fine.”

“Really? Even econ? Third time’s the charm and all that?” Well, at least his brother can be counted on to consistently be an asshole.

“Why do you care?” The only thing Jake wants to do is end this call and crawl into bed for a well-deserved afternoon nap. Let his subconscious spare him from thoughts of his older brother and econ and you for at least a little bit.

James has other plans. “You must have taken the midterm recently, right?” Jake’s silence is confirmation enough. “You know, the only thing Dr. Jeong weighs more heavily than the midterm is the final paper at the end of the semester.”

A minute ago, Jake thought you were the last thing he wanted to talk about. The sudden shift in direction in this conversation is starting to prove him wrong. If there’s one thing Jake would rather discuss even less than his older brother’s dating life, it’s school. “What does that have to do with a–”

“And I think I still have my copy of the paper that earned me the top score in my entire section.” The smugness is practically palpable. “I might have to do some digging, but I’m sure it’s in my old files somewhere.”

Jake rolls his eyes, wishes the immediate comparison weren’t the first thing to rise to the forefront of his mind. Wishes it didn’t find him so lacking. Wishes it wasn’t narrated in the voice of his disappointed father. “If you’re trying to gloat, it’s n–”

“I’m trying to strike a deal. Jesus, no wonder you’re on track to be a super senior getting a business degree.”

“This is my third year,” Jake defends indignantly.

“And your third attempt at econ, which I passed in my first year.” He sounds like he’s settling a little too well into the CEO role when he proposes, “I’m trying to make it your last attempt.”

Jake would be lying if he said his curiosity weren’t piqued, even just slightly. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, little brother, that my term paper, my notes, all of it, are yours.” It sounds too good to be true. It has to be too good to be true. James is a lot of things, but generous and helpful are very rarely any of them. “As soon as you get me ___’s number.” And there it is.

Jake hangs up without bothering to dignify that with a response and hopes it sends a strong enough signal of his refusal. Then, he falls into his bed face-first with a groan.

And a week later, when his econ midterm results are finally posted, the first thing Jake does is let his head fall on his desk with an alarmingly loud thud that has Jay poking his head in the door to make sure everything’s okay. The second thing he does, a solid twenty minutes later, is send his older brother a text.

Jake [7:21pm]: You better start digging through those old files.

…

All things considered, you’re easier to track down than Jake expects. The university campus is big, and judging from the way he can’t remember ever seeing you in a class, the two of you don’t share a major. But the similarities in your social status mean you’re bound to run in some of the same circles, and Jake is able to use this to his advantage.

Ultimately, it takes very little digging on his part. First, he mentions your name to Jay in the middle of an upper body superset in the university gym. Jay frowns, setting the weights back on the rack.

“That name sounds familiar. I think maybe Heeseung knows her?”

That tidbit takes him to Wednesday night, which always finds Jake in the library at a statistics study group Heeseung also makes a habit of attending. On their way out for the evening, Jake stops him by the door.

“___?” Heeseung pauses for a moment in contemplation. “I’m pretty sure she’s friends with Sunghoon.”

And the third piece of the puzzle proves a bit more difficult to click into place. Sunghoon is harder for Jake to find, at least in a way that comes across naturally. Much like yours, Park Sunghoon is a name Jake hears in passing more than anything. He’s a friend of friends, a mutual acquaintance that Jake has never really had a conversation with and certainly doesn’t know well enough to interrogate for your phone number.

But his most recent midterm score is still looming over his head, and the thought of retaking econ again is so nightmarish it sends a shiver down his spine every time he considers it. At this point, there isn’t much Jake wouldn’t put on the line to pass the damn class. Including his pride, apparently.

So when Jake hears from Jay who hears from Heeseung that Sunghoon will probably be at the party Epsilon Nu Eta is throwing this Friday night, he starts to formulate a plan.

And he starts to regret said plan less than twenty-four hours later when he finds himself on the doorstep of a frat party. A frat party. He can’t remember the last time he came to one of these things. At twenty-one, he already feels geriatric as he tugs self-consciously at the sleeves of the plan black long sleeve he put on for the occasion. Something that will hopefully hide the questionable stains he’ll inevitably leave with.

Entering through the front door with hinges that don’t align quite right, Jake has one mission in mind: find Park Sunghoon. Find him and somehow convince him to pass along your number. There’s a fine line to be walked there, Jake thinks. If he comes across as too eager, it will just be creepy. Nonchalance is the name of the game, but he’s never been good at keeping his cards close to his chest.

For Jake, it’s a tall order, which means the only detour he’ll allow himself is grabbing a cup of lukewarm beer from the kitchen before he sets out looking for Sunghoon. The alcohol is an effort to break the barrier of his inhibitions more than anything. To make what he’s about to do feel a little less painful.

Making his way out of the kitchen, Jake wanders aimlessly for a few minutes. He doesn’t know much about Sunghoon, other than the fact that he competes for your university’s figure skating team and is undeniably handsome. A good-looking figure skater, Jake thinks as he turns down yet another crowded hallway, narrowly avoiding spilling his drink. Where would one of those be hiding?

He spends a few more awkward minutes asking around to no avail. Just when he’s on the verge of saying fuck it and making some sort of sacrifice to the econ gods instead, Jake bumps into the man of the hour on his way to the bathroom.

In the chaos, Jake doesn’t recognize him until it’s almost too late. “Hey,” Jake calls out, bladder all but forgotten for now. He’s trying to fake an air of coolness when he adds, “Sunghoon, right?”

“Yeah.” Jake thanks his lucky stars that Sunghoon must be at least two drinks in, because he doesn’t seem weirded out at all by the sudden question from a near stranger.

“I’m Jake.” He reaches his arm out for a handshake. Blinking, Sunghoon just stares at his outstretched hand as long, awkward moments bleed into each other. Eventually, Jake just lets it fall back to his side. “I’m, uh, in a statistics class with Heeseung.”

“Right on,” Sunghoon nods, still unsure if this conversation has a point to it. Luckily, the pleasant haze clouding his thoughts means he doesn’t mind too much either way.

Jake figures there’s no point in dragging this out by exchanging more pleasantries, and he has the feeling Sunghoon might start forgetting his own name, much less yours, if he lets this continue for too long.

“Listen,” Jake starts, trying to sound as not creepy as possible. “I heard that you know ___ pretty well.”

Sunghoon just shrugs. Jake can’t tell if he’s succeeded. “You could say that.”

“I know this is a strange request, but, uh,” Jake scratches the side of his head, “is there any chance I could get her number? I promise not to do anything weird.” Word vomiting, the extra details are spilling out before he can stop them. “It’s not even for me, actually–”

Sunghoon spares him the rest of a rambling explanation. “Sorry, bud. No can do.”

Jake’s stomach tightens in panic. He really, really just needs your phone number. It has him forgetting his earlier inhibitions, throwing caution to the wind even if he’s making a bit of a fool of himself in the process. “It’s for something important, actually. I’m kind of desperate–”

Sunghoon just puts a consolatory hand on Jake’s shoulder, interrupting his train of thought. “Look, man, it’s nothing against you personally, but I have literally never met you in my life. Besides, if I gave out ___’s number to every random guy that asked, I’m pretty sure she’d shave my head.” Sunghoon leans in close, like he’s about to share a secret. Jake’s nose twists at the scent of alcohol on his breath. “And between you and me, I don’t think I could pull off being bald.”

Jake kind of begs to differ, but that’s neither here nor there. He opens his mouth to plead his case again, but Sunghoon doesn’t even let him get a word out.

“Sorry, man, but I really can’t help you.” Pausing for a moment, he considers. “You said your name was Jacob, though, right?” He doesn’t pause long enough for Jake to correct him. “I could ask her if she’s cool with giving you her number–”

“Whose number are you giving out?” And if Jake thought this conversation wasn’t enough of a train wreck already, trust the timing of your entrance to be more disastrous than divine.

Eyes turning to you and your sudden intrusion on the conversation, Jake’s mind goes blank for a minute. And yeah, he kinda gets why his brother’s so hellbent on having a second chance at your time. Dressed in all black, your hair is loose around your face. Even though it likely costs more than most people’s monthly paycheck, there’s nothing inherently special about what you’re wearing. Still, Jake is finding it exceedingly difficult to look away.

It’s something in your aura, he thinks. In the way you carry yourself. Something that money can’t buy. Something that makes his gaze want to linger.

“___!” Sunghoon grins, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, wobbling slightly. You jostle at the sudden impact, inching away from where the contents of his cup slosh dangerously close to the rim. “What a coincidence. We were just talking about you.”

Your brow creases in confusion. Jake tracks the miniscule movement with parted lips.

“You were?”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon confirms, just at the same moment Jake shakes his head, “No.”

Turning your mildly concerned gaze away from your friend, you glance at Jake for the first time. Brow furrowing further, you cock your head to the side as your lips part in partial recognition. He looks oddly familiar, but you can’t quite place him. “Do I know you?”

“No.” Jake shakes his head again, a little too fervently. “I don’t think we’ve ever met. At least not properly.”

It’s an odd way of putting it. You’re about to ask him to clarify when Sunghoon cuts in, clearing up the confusion for you. “It’s Jacob,” he says, as if that should mean anything to you. Turning back to the boy across from him, he adds, “Jacob Sim, right?”

And that clicks things into place.

“Sim?” you echo, realization dawning on your features.

“Yep,” Sunghoon confirms.

Across from you, Jake says nothing. He doesn’t think he could if he wanted to. In fact, he’s pretty sure his life is flashing before his eyes.

“Sim,” you repeat one final time, jaw ticking in agitation as everything starts to settle. “I do know you.”

“Oh, really?” Sunghoon asks at your side, oblivious to the way your tone betrays obvious animosity. A distaste so palpable Jake can practically feel it radiating off of you. Turning back to Jake, he’s apologetic. “Sorry, Jacob. I guess I could have given you her number, then.” Sunghoon smiles sheepishly, as if he hasn’t just made things a million times worse. “My bad.”

Jake’s eyes widen in horror as he scrambles for some sort of defense, an explanation that will dig him out of this rapidly deepening hole, but you beat him to it.

“My number?” The look you give him has a concerning amount of venom in it. “Seriously? God, why are all you Sim men so obsessed with me?”

“That’s not–”

“First your brother views my LinkedIn profile twenty-three times after standing me up, and now you’re harassing my friends for my phone number?”

“Hold on. I’m not harassing anyone–”

“No,” Sunghoon agrees, nodding diplomatically. “Jacob was perfectly pleasant–”

“It’s Jake, actually.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, just Jake.”

“Sorry,” Sunghoon apologizes. Turning to you, he tries mediating again. “Well, like I said, just Jake was perfectly pleasant–”

“I don’t care how pleasant he is.” Your glare somehow becomes icier. “Leave me alone, and tell your dickhead brother to do the same.” Muttering to yourself more than anything, you add, “The last thing I need right now is you practically stalking me–”

“Stalking you?” Jake flounders, an edge of annoyance creeping into his tone. He’s not surprised to learn that you really do think the world revolves around you, but really? Stalking? “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s not like I’m enjoying this interaction any more than you are.”

You don’t back down, crossing your arms over your chest. The movement has Sunghoon teetering dangerously where he leans on you, but you pay him no mind, attention focused solely on the man in front of you. “Then why do you want my phone number so bad?”

“Like I was trying to say earlier when you wouldn’t let me get a word out sideways,” Jake bites, “it’s not for me. I made a deal with someone, and I told them I’d give them your number.”

Your gaze narrows. “Who?”

“What?”

“Who did you make a deal with?”

Jake hesitates, knowing how the truth will sound. Screw it – a lie would likely be just as damning. Still, it takes him another pregnant pause to eventually admit, “... My brother.”

Scoffing in disbelief, you double down on your ire. “Absolutely not.” Shaking Sunghoon off your shoulder, you turn to leave, dragging him with you. Jake’s eyes close; he can’t bear to watch his last chance at passing this semester leave him in the dust.

So much so that he pleads again, “Wait, ___. Please.” Jake is begging now, and he feels a little pathetic for it. Still, he can’t help the way desperation drives him to continue. “You can block him for all I care. I can’t explain everything, but my life is quite literally in your hands right now. I just need–”

“No.” The single syllable vibrates with finality. “Do I have to spell it for you? N-” you bite, enunciating so sharply Jake thinks you might draw blood. “O. No. I’m not giving my number to you or your flake of a brother or anyone else that so much as looks like they might have the name Sim.”

God, is the only think Jake can think as he miserably watches your retreating figure, Sunghoon stumbling along as you drag him with you. I am so fucked.

…

When Sunghoon finally emerges from your guest bedroom an hour before noon the next day, it’s to ask if you’d be kind enough to spare him some Advil. Even with a bad case of bedhead and the aftermath of overconsumption, he still manages to look good, albeit a little lifeless.

“I’ll do you one better,” you tell him, but reach for the small white bottle anyway, shaking out a few tablets and offering them to your best friend along with a glass of cold water.

“Bagels and coffee?” Sunghoon asks over the rim of his glass, with a little more alertness in his eyes than there was moments before.

“Bagels and coffee,” you confirm. A tried and true hangover cure, if there ever was one. And even though your head is feeling nice and clear, thanks to your trusty two drink limit that has yet to fail you, the local cafe a block from your apartment is very rarely something you turn down.

Thirty minutes later and a change of clothes later, the two of you are trading gossip and stealing bites of each other’s orders when the other person isn’t looking at the table in the back corner of the cafe. Sunghoon is just about to stuff another piece of your bagel in his mouth when he notices yet another notification light up the screen of your phone.

Sunghoon nods towards where it rests on the table, bagel suddenly forgotten. “Is that your mom again?”

“Yep.” Your lips stretch thin. You don’t even need to glance down at your phone to confirm. She’s been blowing up your notifications all weekend. “She’s been on my ass about the upcoming fundraiser event for days now. And reminding me about the utmost importance of bringing an appropriate plus-one.”

Across from you, Sunghoon straightens his shoulders. “I suppose it is about time I bust out the trusty old prom suit again.”

You sigh, sending your half-eaten bagel a forlorn glance. “I wish. She told me if I ever bring you again, I lose half my trust fund.”

“What?” Sunghoon looks affronted. “Why?”

You level him with a look. “Does soap ring a bell?”

Sunghoon splutters in indignation. “That was one time,” he defends. “And anyone would have thought those were edible! They were shaped like candies, and they were on a platter–”

“Soap presentation aside, I don’t think that excuse will work on her.” The dejection in your voice is apparent. “Besides, she’s already made it very clear that you’re explicitly forbidden from attending any future family events as my plus-one.”

“Whatever,” Sunghoon grumbles. “Keep all your stupid inedible soaps.” Pausing for a moment, he realizes that still leaves a giant question hanging in the air. “Who are you gonna bring, then? You know, it kind of is too bad your date with Sim number one didn’t pan out.”

You shrug, pointedly ignoring the way your phone screen lights up yet again. It really is a bit of a shame James turned out to be an unreliable flake. One that still hasn’t bothered to apologize to you or even give any sort of indication that he remembered your scheduled date. Still, you can’t think of anyone that would earn your mother’s approval faster. “I’ll probably just fake a stomach flu.” After all, you’re kind of out of options. “I thought about asking Jungwon, but he’s got stuff going on for his internship that night. A big economics conference or something.”

“Speaking of economics,” Sunghoon leans in conspiratorially. “I think I might have some intel on our new friend from last night.”

“How was economics the segue you went with? We were literally just talking about his older brother.” Giving him a look of disbelief, you add, “And what about that interaction gave you the impression that we’re friends?”

“Whatever,” Sunghoon brushes you off before he continues, “Anyway, I heard from Heeseung who heard from Jay that apparently little Sim is hot garbage at economics. Rumor has it he’s already failed the class twice and is on track to do it again.”

You’re not sure why he’s deemed this information relevant to you, but you’d be lying if you said it weren’t a little amusing.

“Really? Jungwon’s taking it now too, and he said that he sleeps through half the lectures and is still pulling an A.”

Sunghoon rolls his eyes. “Well, we can’t all be prodigies.”

Your lips flatten. “Pretty sure you don’t have to be a prodigy to not fail an entry level course three times.”

“Hey, cut him some slack,” Sunghoon argues. “He’s only failed it twice as of now.”

You scoff, entirely uninterested in the gory details of Jake Sim’s academic failures. “Whatever.”

“Either way,” Sunghoon says, “Jay told Heeseung who told me that’s why he’s so desperate for your number.” Confusion makes itself known on your features. You still don’t see the connection until Sunghoon adds, “Apparently he made some sort of deal with his brother that if he gets him your phone number, he’ll help him pass econ.”

A beat of silence passes between you. The barista at the counter calls out a customer’s name. It’s all you can do to not let your jaw physically drop open, mostly because–

“That is probably the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life.” Glaring at Sunghoon, you can’t believe the theatrics of it all. “How many times have I told you to stop believing everything Heeseung says?”

“Technically, Jay said it,” Sunghoon corrects. “And I don’t know... It kind of makes sense when you think about it.”

You beg to differ. “It absolutely does not. What is this, middle school? Are we passing notes behind the teacher’s back and making our friends ask our crushes if they like us back?” It’s ridiculous. Absolutely, utterly ridiculous.

There is no way. Absolutely no way that James Sim, heir to a multimillion dollar company, is wasting his time giving his little brother an economics cheat sheet in exchange for your phone number.

Sunghoon raises his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I just thought you might be curious.”

And you hate to admit it, but you kind of are. Even though every ounce of logic you’ve accumulated in twenty-one years of life tells you that Heeseung is a notorious gossip whose stories are just as much fiction as reality and your best friend is no better. Even though the whole thing makes absolutely no sense at all.

Even though you repeat it to yourself over and over for the rest of the day, that damn curiosity is still there. Pestering you and disturbing your sleep and leaving you wondering if maybe, just maybe, some things are entirely too ridiculous to be anything but true.

…

On Wednesday night, Jake and Heeseung are in the middle of a particularly brutal probability set when a sudden shadow looms over their favorite corner table on the third floor of the library.

Glancing up, Jake finds Heeseung’s gaze already trained somewhere over his shoulder. Jake can’t quite tell if the look on his face is confusion or terror.

“Mind if I join?” The request comes from behind him, posed in an oddly familiar voice. Heeseung is nodding in agreement before Jake has the chance to so much as turn around and identify the intruder.

All is revealed soon enough, though, when you slide down into the seat next to him, ignoring the way Heeseung scrambles to move his things and make room for you in the seat next to him. Instead, you busy yourself with setting your bag on the floor and pulling out your laptop.

It’s all Jake can do to stare at you blankly. This evening, you’ve traded the all black outfit from the other night’s party for something a bit more casual, something comfortable that blends in better to the background of a university library. The sudden proximity also means that the scent of your perfume is quick to waft over towards him.

Jake does his best to hold his breath before his brain can trick him into thinking he likes it.

“Stop looking at me like that.” A bold request for someone who just hijacked a study session and sat down with no explanation, but Jake wouldn’t expect anything less from you.

“Like what?” The words are out before he gives them permission. Across the table, Heeseung is staring too, but all three of you know the command isn’t for him.

“I don’t know.” Glancing at the battery bar hovering just above empty, you dig around in your bag for a moment for your laptop charger. Jake notes that you still have yet to look at him. Instead, you begin to busy yourself with typing something on your computer. “Just stop it.”

He hopes you can feel the way his eyes burn holes into the side of your head as his blank stare shifts into a glare.

Heeseung glances between the two of you. His outburst is sudden. “Oh! I just remembered.” He hits his head for good measure. The acting is wasted on this audience, though. Neither of you pay him any mind or even bother to glance in his direction. “I have to go, uh…” he trails off, finishing lamely with a rather flat, “somewhere else.”

“Great.” Your eyes don’t leave your screen, fingers still flying on your keyboard. “See you later.”

As Heeseung scrambles to pack up his unfinished statistics homework and high tail it out of the library, the air that has suddenly become stifling, Jake glances down at where your fingers are still moving.

Distractedly, he wonders how you can type so fast with nails that long, how you never seem to need the backspace key. How none of the pastel pink that coats your fingernails seems to be so much as chipped. A projection of perfection, he thinks, down to every last detail.

Moments pass, neither of you saying anything.

You still haven’t looked at him by the time you do eventually break the impasse. “I heard you suck at econ.”

And Jake actually cannot believe you. “Did you seriously hunt me down just to rub it in?”

“Rub it in?” That at least earns him some of your attention, even if it is just a brief, confused glance as your fingers pause in their typing. “It’s not like I’m the reason you can’t pass.”

“Believe it or not, you quite literally are.”

You sigh, removing your hands from your keyboard entirely. Then, before he can blink, you spin your entire body in your chair, eyes, shoulders, and knees all directly trained on him. Jake can’t help the way he flinches back a few inches at the sudden change in pace.

“Look,” you start. He can already tell by the way you wrap the single syllable sound in patronization that he’s not going to appreciate whatever you’re about to say. “I can tell that you’re not used to, like, having conversations with people, but usually what happens is you give someone enough information so that they know what you’re talking about.” He’s right.

And he’s quick to defend himself. “Maybe I could, if you’d let me get three words out without interr–”

But you’ve moved on already. “Is the whole ‘deal with your brother’ thing true?”

Jake lets the silence linger for a moment, looking at you in disbelief. “You literally just proved my point.”

You roll your eyes. “I knew what you were going to say, so I sped things along. Now answer my question.” You lay it out for him again. This time, even more directly. “Did you try to get my number because of some deal you made with your brother?”

He’s not sure why it sounds so ridiculous, narrated back to him in your voice. It’s not like it was a brilliant, foolproof plan to begin with, but the way you present it has him feeling about five inches tall.

“I…”

“It’s a yes or no question.” You really don’t beat around the bush, he thinks.

“Yes, okay?”

Looking behind you, you suddenly lean in a little closer. It’s all Jake can do not to flinch back again. Bringing your hand up to cup your mouth, it’s like you’re about to divulge a terrible secret when you whisper, “You’re that bad at econ?”

Jake just sighs. “Worse, probably.”

Frowning, you pull back a few inches. “Aren’t you a business major? Isn’t econ, like, pretty important for you?” If he were thinking clearly, Jake might wonder how you know that. But that only thing his mind has space for right now is annoyance. At you, at this exchange, at the way you so easily pick through his flaws and seem to have no problem laying them bare at his feet like he doesn't already know them intimately.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I got any say in my major,” Jake counters. He might have more patience for this conversation if he were having it with anyone but you, if you weren’t throwing his own insecurities back in his face with every follow-up question.

At that, something flickers through your eyes. Sympathy, maybe. “Fair enough.” Whatever it is, it’s gone before he can identify it. And it’s not enough to make you pull your punches. “Still though, that’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” Jake doesn’t need the reminder. “Just get a tutor like everyone else.”

The thing is, Jake has thought about it. On more than one occasion. He’s even gotten so far as filling out the university tutor request form. He just could never quite bring himself to complete the ‘Name’ field without all of the potential consequences forcing him to hit backspace.

He might not be his brother, but he’s not stupid enough to think that his family would ever be okay with the Sim name anywhere near a tutor form. He tells you as much. “And listen to my dad tell me how much of a disappointment I am for not being able to even take a class on my own?” Jake laughs humorlessly. “No thanks.”

A beat passes. Two. You’re not done yet, but you at least have the decency to sound a little apologetic, a little tentative when you say, “Not to kick you while you’re down or anything, but I mean, that has to be better than failing twice.”

Jake just shakes his head. “You don’t know my father.”

You shrug but don’t press the matter further. Truth be told, you don’t know his father, but you do know fathers like him. You have one of your own. The third floor of the library doesn’t seem like the place for that conversation, though, even if you’ve already uncovered more than your fair share of each other’s secrets in the last ten minutes. “I guess not.”

…

Your phone is buzzing far too incessantly for a Saturday morning, much less this early on a Saturday morning. Internally, you curse Friday night you, who forgot to switch it into do not disturb before falling asleep. Face still buried in your pillow, you reach around your nightstand blindly with the intention of remedying that particular mistake and enjoying a few more moments of peace.

Before you can make good on your plan, you make the fatal mistake of reading the message preview before silencing your phone. And suddenly, to your neverending annoyance, you’re wide awake.

Mom [7:36 am]: Looking forward to seeing you next Saturday at the fundraiser.

Mom [7:37 am]: I also noticed that you haven’t indicated who you’ll be bringing yet. Please fill out the RSVP form when you have a moment.

Mom [7:45 am]: James Sim hasn’t RSVP’d yet. Are you bringing him? You should invite him if you haven’t already.

Mom [7:53 am]: I also never heard the update after your date a few weeks ago. Hoping no news is good news. I just spoke with his father the other day, and it sounds like he’s doing great things over at their company.

Mom [8:01 am]: I also heard that he volunteered a few summers ago rebuilding turtle habitats. Wow! I think you two would get along very well.

Groaning, you flip your phone back over. That about sums up how well she knows her only daughter, you think ruefully. If she thought wooing you with turtles was a good idea, she must have forgotten that you’ve had a lingering phobia of the freaky little reptiles since your friend from elementary school had a pet turtle that bit your finger when you were at her house.

Besides, you have serious doubts that’s actually how James Sim spent his last summer in university.

If memories from your social media scrolling serve correctly, rebuilding turtle habitats was code for partying on a yacht for a month straight. You don’t care how he spends his free time, but the way he already has your mother wrapped around his stupid finger is enough to annoy any lingering sleepiness out of your system.

Whatever. James Sim’s white lies are the least of your concerns now, and they certainly won’t solve your problems. If anything, you’re starting to regret not telling your mother anything about your failed attempt at a first date with him. Now, trying to explain that disaster of an evening would only sound like an excuse at best and a flimsy lie at worst.

And even if she did believe you, you still have the glaring issue of next Saturday and your lack of a pre-approved plus-one.

With one final groan, you pull your blanket over your face, trying and failing to banish any thoughts of your mother, James Sim, and the certain disaster next weekend will be.

Despite your best efforts, your worries linger. They follow you into Sunday; they start to make you desperate on Monday. With a diminishing handful of days left until the fundraiser, your anxiety only surges.

By the time Wednesday rolls around, you’re so stressed out that you can barely force your eyes to focus on the nearly blank Word document in front of you, all of the legalese and case details you can usually sort through in your sleep jumbling into one incomprehensible blob.

Halfway through your third reread of a paragraph that details the basics of copyright law, it strikes you. The seedling of an idea so utterly ridiculous it just might be your saving grace.

Your mother probably, definitely, couldn’t care less about James Sim’s so-called affinity for wildlife rescue. No, the only thing that makes him an appropriate candidate in her eyes for this Saturday has nothing to do with his personality at all.

It’s his name that she likes. His family name specifically.

In the middle of your favorite cafe, it hits you. The seedling of an idea sprouts roots, begins to bloom.

If one Sim is good enough to be your plus-one, then surely the other one would be too.

And you know exactly where he’ll be tonight. Glancing down at the time on your phone, you force your brain to think. Now, all you need is a plan. A way to convince him. Something he can’t refuse.

Closing the lid of your laptop, you smile. You know exactly what it is he wants.

Before you leave the cafe, you send a quick message to a friend. Set your plan in place so that the details are polished, irrefutable when you present it to him.

And then you set out for the university library.

When you find Jake and Heeseung sitting at the same exact table on the third floor of the library, Heeseung doesn’t even bother to stick around for the customary greetings. Instead, he takes one single look at you before offering another flimsy excuse about having somewhere to be. Or maybe something to do. You can’t remember, and it doesn’t really matter.

After all, the only reason you’re here is because–

“I have a way for you to pass econ.” Sliding into the seat next to Jake, the same one you sat in last time, you don’t waste any time before divulging the reason for your presence.

If Jake is startled, he doesn’t show it. Statistics homework forgotten on the table, the only thing you see on his face is pure, obvious relief as his shoulders relax.

“Thank god.” Reaching for his phone, he unlocks it, tapping and swiping until he’s ready to enter a new contact. “Give me your number, and I’ll–”

You shake your head, interrupting his train of thoughts. The way you smile makes him suddenly uneasy. He thought this was over, but now he’s not so sure. You confirm his fears when you say, “A different way.”

Now Jake just looks exasperated. If you keep up this habit, he’s about to start failing statistics too. Never mind the fact that he got his hopes up for what he is sure will turn out to be a giant pile of nothing. Still, he humors you. “What do you mean, a different way?”

“I mean,” you start, folding your hands across your lap. Jake has the distinct impression that you’re trying your best to be as convincing as possible. If nothing else, it does pique his curiosity. He’s never seen you be anything but annoyed or uninterested. It’s an interesting change of pace.“I have a friend who’s also taking econ right now and hasn’t scored below a 98 on a single assignment.” Jesus, Jake thinks. Must be nice.

And then you drop the bomb on him. “He said he’s more than willing to tutor you. For money, of course.” you specify, moving on so quickly he hardly has the chance to process what you’re saying. “And it’s not like you can’t afford it, but I’ll split the cost with you. For the principle of it all.” There’s a beat of silence as what you’ve just said settles into the air. “Oh,” you add, remembering the most important detail. “And he’ll be discreet. Under the table tutoring, if you will. No chance of word getting back to Daddy Sim.”

You do your best to give him your most trustworthy smile. Jake just stares back at you, mildly horrified.

When he finally speaks again, it’s to say, “... Please, and I mean this with every single bone in my body, please never refer to my father like that again.”

Not even bothering to look sheepish, the only agreement you offer is a mock salute.

Your poor taste in nicknames aside, it does seem like a pretty sweet deal from where Jake is sitting. He cannot fail economics again, and getting a tutor would mean that his brother couldn’t hold his success over his head, couldn’t claim to be the sole reason for it. And a discreet tutor would be even better. Not going through the official university system would mean a much lower chance of his father ever finding out he got some help along the way.

All things considered, and very much to his surprise, Jake is having a hard time seeing any downsides.

He goes through the list again. First, he gets to pass economics. Second, he doesn’t have to deal with his older brother in the process. Third, he gets a tutor that won’t pop up on his father’s radar, and all Jake has to do in return is–

Wait.

“Hold on a minute.” There’s an unmistakable edge of suspicion in Jake’s voice. There’s no way you went out of your way to find him a tutor, to help pay for it, without getting something in return. The wheels in his mind are starting to spin when he asks, “What’s in it for you?”

Next to him, you smile. It’s small, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d think you almost look nervous. “It’s just a small favor, really.” The expression on your face is not reassuring in the slightest. Still, you insist, “It’ll be easy, I promise. Just a few hours of your time at most.”

Jake knows better than to agree without details. And especially to anything you’re proposing. He’s already preparing to kiss his dreams of passing econ goodbye when he asks slowly,“What is it?”

You sigh, pretenses dropping. If you’re going to convince him now, you might as well do it with honesty. “That annual charity fundraiser event my parents throw. Your parents are usually there, I think. I don’t know if you’ve ever gone?”

Jake shrugs, frowning as he tries to remember. He’s not entirely sure either. After a while, fundraisers and events and family obligations all start to blur together. Although the name does ring a bell, albeit a distant, faint one.

“Anyway,” you continue, “my mother is insistent that I bring a date. Someone she considers appropriate company. You know, runs in the same circles and comes from what she would consider a good family.” Jake nods. He does know exactly what you mean. Picking up on his agreement, you add with a twinge of hopefulness, “Like I said, it would be easy. Especially for you, since you’re used to this kind of stuff. I wouldn’t have to train you–”

That has Jake rolling his eyes. “Let me guess. I get a treat for rolling over?”

The ice in your glare is half hearted. “You know what I mean. There are certain…” You weigh your words carefully. “expectations at these things.” Pausing for a moment, you add, “What I’m trying to say is that I don’t think you’ll eat the soap, even if it’s candy shaped and on a platter.”

If you were trying to clarify your point, you did a terrible job. Jake’s brow pulls downwards in confusion. “Is that supposed to be some kind of metaphor?”

“Unfortunately not.” You shake your head, but don’t explain any further. Sunghoon’s mishaps are not the point of this conversation. A mutually beneficial deal is. Which is why you ask him, “So, what do you say? Are you in or not?”

Is he? Jake says nothing, considering. Mentally, he goes through the list of pros and cons. Pros, he thinks. I get to finally pass econ, and I get to do it without my brother. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, gaze tracking the movement as you nervously bite at your lower lip. Also, I get to show up at an event with the girl he’s been trying to get for weeks now.

He’d be lying if that didn't spark a certain warm feeling in his chest, if it didn’t inspire a sudden bout of preemptive vindication. But there are other things to consider.

Cons, he continues internally. I have to spend an entire evening at an event hosted by your family and make them believe you don’t annoy the ever-loving shit out of me.

Weighing his options, Jake has one more question. “How long would it be?” he asks, and you try to stifle a grin, as if he’s already told you yes.

“The event is technically four hours,” you say carefully, “but I’m sure we could manage to sneak out after a solid two and a half.”

Jake nods, thinking it over a moment longer.

“Okay,” he finally breathes, hoping this isn’t some kind of terrible, elaborate trick, that he isn’t about to sign his life away on a dotted line.

For econ, he thinks. For what’s left of his struggling GPA. He can manage a single night at a mind-numbingly boring high society function. Even if it’s with you. “I’m in.”

And it feels a bit strange, he has to admit, as he watches you type your contact information into his contact list. It feels odd to have your number in his phone with no intention of passing it on. To know that he’s the one who will be using it to confirm the details of this Saturday. To know that his brother will be none the wiser and not at all closer to having any kind of access to you.

And if that strange surge of smugness makes another sudden appearance, well, Jake just figures that no one ever has to know about it.

…

Frowning, you give yourself another once over in the full length mirror that sits next to your vanity. A shimmering, pale gold, the evening gown that flows over your figure was hand-selected by you for this very event. For some reason, you’re having a hard time rediscovering the magic you’d felt trying it on in the showroom here in the soft, ambient light of your bedroom.

Objectively, you’re sure you must look good. The compliments the store attendants had given you were more than just customary, and gold has always been your color. Still, a slew of sudden uncertainties simmer in your gut. Is the slight sparkle too garish? Does the gold wash you out? Your worries feel too big for your bedroom, at too stark an opposition with the peaceful ambience as soft, instrumental music plays from your speaker.

But this particular Saturday evening has its ways of making you feel jumbled where you’d typically be steadfast. Insecure where you’d usually find confidence.

It’s true that your mother has always had a critical eye, and especially where you’re concerned. If you were to search deep enough, however, you’d find that she’s not the person you’re most concerned about making a lasting impression on tonight.

With no small effort, you resist the urge to smooth out invisible wrinkles in the bodice of your dress. A nervous habit more than anything, it’s only exacerbated by the way your phone is still devoid of notifications. The clock on your nightstand is a reminder that your date for the evening should be here any minute, should be sending a message as confirmation of his arrival at your apartment. But your phone is still silent, even as the hour of the fundraiser draws nearer and nearer.

Maybe this was a terrible mistake, you think, a new bout of uncertainties beginning to brew. It shouldn't be a surprise, really. Trust him to be just as flakey as his brother, with absolutely no regard for previous commitments or anyone else’s time. It’s just your luck that you get stood up again, this time by the other Sim.

You're in the middle of disguising your fears and distracting yourself by cursing him and his future bloodline when your phone finally pings with an incoming notification. Well, you think, grabbing your coat, feeling a bit ridiculous for the slight overreaction, you’ll have to look into removing generational curses when you have the time.

For now, you settle with pulling on your heels for the evening, ignoring the way you feel a bit wobbly despite the fact that you’ve walked in far worse. Locking your apartment behind you and striking a slightly unsteady pace towards the elevator down the hall, you whisper a silent plea that tonight isn’t as much of a disaster as you’re afraid it could be.

You watch as the numbers on the elevator screen tick lower and lower, a swirling mix of dread and excitement starting to swim in your stomach. When you finally reach the first floor, you’re surprised to see a familiar face waiting for you in the lobby. Something in you softens, albeit just slightly. You’d incorrectly assumed he would just wait for you in the comfort of his car and spent the whole ride down preparing to awkwardly check license plates in the near dark till you found the right one.

An overwhelming sense of self-consciousness returns to you under the brightness of the lobby lights. Unconsciously, you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, wondering how long it will take him to notice you as you begin to walk towards him. You’ve only made it a few steps when it strikes you that he’s already distracted by something else.

Across the lobby, Jake Sim is engaged in a conversation with your doorman. One that looks slightly heated, by your judgment.

As you get closer, their words become more audible.

“Like I just told you,” The exasperation in your date’s voice is apparent. “I’m here to see ___.”

And you really should make your presence known, should step in and divert the brewing argument, especially since you seem to be the subject of it.

But then you look at Jake. Really look at him.

Realistically, you knew he would come well-dressed. That had been a big part of your reason for choosing him. The Sunghoon soap fiasco aside, you already knew Jake Sim wasn’t someone who needed you to put together a PowerPoint presentation on formal event dress code. He didn’t need you to explain the concept of complementary colors or the advantages of getting a suit tailored. Didn’t need you to explain that Converse were not an appropriate show or that no, a bolo tie is not acceptable attire.

Up until now, you were grateful for his pre existing knowledge. It saved you a lot of time and effort that you could use to focus on other things, like getting ready yourself. But it also meant that you were entirely unprepared to see him like this.

Eyes scanning him again, the immaculate fit of his suit is undeniable, as is the way his dark hair is perfectly mussed. It’s styled enough to avoid withering comments from elderly attendees who have the habit of asking how people see with their hair covering their eyes. But it’s also messy in a way that looks intentional, in a way that makes you want to run your fingers through it, tug at it just a little, just to tease.

It’s not just that he’s dressed well, though, despite the fact that he undeniably is.

No, what has you freezing in your footsteps is the fact that Jake looks good.

“And like I just told you, you’re not on her guest list. So I’m sorry, sir.” There is not a single trace of apology in your doorman’s voice. “But I’m afraid I can’t let you up. You’ll have to contact her and ask her to add you to her guest list.” You’re not sure how he manages to do it without losing any professionality, but your doorman makes it very clear that he thinks that will happen just as soon as hell freezes over.

Jake’s shoulders tense in visible frustration. You have to suppress an actual sigh at the way fabric stretches over the muscle there. “Again, I’m not asking you to. Could you please just let her know that I’m here? She’s not answering her messages–”

“How odd.” The sarcasm is unmistakable.

Getting a little desperate, Jake ignores the slight and continues anyway. “And we’re on a bit of a time crunch, so–”

From here, you can see the way his features start to twist in panic. It’s sobering enough to snap you out of your trance.

Cutting in, you make your presence known. “It’s okay,” you tell your doorman first. “I know him.” Then, you turn to Jake, putting on an award-worthy performance of false nonchalance when you explain, “Sorry I didn’t respond to your message. I was just on my way down.”

You watch as some of the tension drains from his features. “That’s alright,” Jake concedes easily. “I just wanted to make sure we weren’t late.”

A funny feeling, a new one, stirs again. Something in you softens. “I appreciate that.”

You can’t help the way you take another look at him. At his suit, his hair, his face. At him, at all of it.

Mistaking your gaze for scrutiny, he asks, a bit self-consciously, “What do you think? Will your mother approve?”

She will. There’s no doubt in your mind. But you’re not looking at him through her eyes when you tell him, “Yeah, you look good. Really good.”

The last part probably wasn’t necessary, but the way he flushes makes it almost worth it. Casting your eyes downward in an effort to hide a smile, you notice a detail that you missed earlier.

Jewelry. Gold jewelry. A handful of rings on his fingers and a delicate bracelet on his left wrist.

Suddenly, his message from last night makes a little more sense.

Jake [9:02 pm]: What color is your dress for tomorrow?

You [9:08 pm]: Gold. Don’t worry about trying to match. A black suit will be just fine.

Now, you’re grateful he didn’t fully listen to you, touched that he even bothered to ask.

Across from you, Jake is suddenly having a bit of a hard time breathing. The earlier near-fiasco with your doorman all but forgotten, you’re still admiring his bracelet as his eyes scan the length of you, throat bobbing by the time his gaze makes its way back up to your face.

“You, uh,” he coughs. “You look nice too.”

“Thank you.” You miss the way his gaze wanders, can’t seem to find a place to land that won’t dust the tops of his cheekbones an even deeper shade of crimson. “I’ve been looking forward to wearing this dress forever.”

And it is a nice dress, Jake thinks, but he’s not sure how to tell you that’s not what he meant.

Eyes finally landing on your feet, or rather, on the stilettos you’re wearing, he frowns. “I had to park kind of far away.” Meeting your gaze, he adds, “Why don’t you wait here? I’ll pull the car around front.”

“Okay.” Something in you melts a bit at his consideration, at the fact that he even noticed. “Thank you.”

And it is nice, you think, to not be beginning the evening with your feet already sore. To have someone pick up on the little things, even if he’s being compensated for it in the form of half-price tutoring.

Sliding into the passenger seat, you try not to sigh like a lovesick schoolgirl when he opens the door for you, when he puts his hand on the back of your seat as he reverses the car out of its parking spot. Get it together, you think. You’ve turned up your nose at far more obvious attempts at wooing you, and it’s not like Jake is here with you out of his own volition. The thought is surprisingly disappointing, as he adjusts the stereo, soft music filling the silence.

The drive passes like that, in a quiet that’s only uncomfortable if you look at it too close. Eventually, the soft melodies filtering through the stereo become a pleasant sort of background noise as you watch the world blur outside the window.

It would be smart, probably, to sort out your story for the evening and put together something coherent for when the two of you are inevitably asked invasive questions, but you can’t bring yourself to be the one to disturb the peace.

So when you arrive at the fundraiser a handful of minutes later, you just have to hope that the image the two of you strike together will be enough to stave off any unwanted questions for the time being.

Again, Jake opens your car door for you, offers a steadying hand as you step out of it. And when he gives you his arm as you enter through the front door of the venue, you take it, wrapping your fingers around his elbow. Pausing just outside the entrance, you watch as he takes a deep breath.

“Ready?” You’re not sure if you’re asking him or yourself.

Jake answers for the both of you. “Let’s do this.”

Walking through the lobby, you hand your jackets to the coat check attendant before entering the ballroom where the fundraiser is held. Despite your general distaste for this evening and everything it entails – you sneak a glance at your partner in crime. Well, mostly everything – you can’t help but admire the space around you.

Decorated immaculately down to every last element, your mother truly doesn’t spare any expense or detail when it comes to throwing parties. And like always, she somehow manages to have a sharp eye on everything and everyone, no matter how chaotic or busy. You’ve hardly taken two steps inside the ballroom when she finds you, approaches you will all the grace of a panther stalking its prey.

Pulling you in for a quick hug, the warm greeting she gives you is more for the benefit of onlookers than for you. And it forces you to remove your hand from Jake’s arm.

Looking over your shoulder, her voice is sickeningly saccharine. “And this must be James,” she beams, making eye contact with the wrong brother. Directing her attention to him, she gushes, “My daughter has told me wonderful things about you.”

Your eyebrows raise in disbelief. Jake stifles a laugh, expertly turns it into a cough.

Really? You think. She did all that digging on James’ so-called turtle philanthropy but never bothered to pull up a picture of the guy? And you mean, standard genetic similarities aside, it’s not like the two of them look that much alike.

“Actually, mom,” you spare him the expense of having to correct her mistake, “this is Jake Sim. James’ brother. We go to school together.”

“Oh,” her eyebrows fall at the slip, no doubt an unforgivable social faux pas in her mind. “You never filled out the RSVP form, sweetie,” she somehow makes the term of endearment sound like a curse, “so I wasn’t sure who you’d be bringing.” Trust her to find a way to make her mistake your fault.

Turning back to your date, she tries to remedy her mistake. “Jake, then.” She offers him a smile so forced you’re surprised her cheeks aren’t aching. Looking back at you, she fishes, “And he’s your…?”

Her dangling bait goes untouched. “He’s my plus-one.” It’s an intentional choice of words on your part. In your mind, it’s a neutral enough term that will hopefully let you navigate the evening without too many rumors or invasive questions about your personal life from people you only speak to out of reluctant obligation.

Jake is less used to the way your mother tends to poke and prod, the way she likes to examine the superficial details of your life with a microscope and make sure she can frame them in a way that will be pleasing for public perception. The way she doesn’t ask about your love life because it’s of any genuine interest to her, but because she wants sole control of the rumor mill’s production.

Next to you, he stiffens, feels as though he’s already failed some kind of test he didn’t know he was taking, wasn’t given any materials to study for.

There’s a lot to be said, probably, about the way you pick up on his discomfort so easily. The way your hand returns to the crook of his elbow wordlessly and gives a single, gentle squeeze. Reassuring him, putting his nerves at ease, as you begin to navigate your way out of this conversation.

“We’d better find our seats,” you tell your mother. The only reason Jake can identify the icy edge hiding in the superficial sweetness of your voice is because he’s been on the receiving end of it. On multiple occasions. Directed at someone else, he finds it almost amusing. “Wouldn't want to miss anything.”

“Of course,” your mother concedes, but there’s an undertone there. Jake can tell that there’s a war being waged here, battles and skirmishes in subtext and stilted pauses. He’s no stranger to the way high society likes to wrap up insults in niceties and skirt around delicate topics, but his own family has never been anything but blunt when it comes to their distaste for him and his choices.

He’s still not entirely sure what he just witnessed, but you’re dragging him by his arm to find your assigned table before he can sort through the offending slights and put on armor that may be of any use to you.

Carefully arranged, the maze of tables is easy enough to navigate. Each seat has a white place card in front of it, embossed with a shimmery golden script that matches your dress and holds the name of the guest who’s been assigned to sit there.

You drag Jake past a flurry of names and attendees he half recognizes, stopping only to grab two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter, handing one to Jake before you continue on your mission. After another minute of searching, you find your name at a table a few rows out from the far wall. Rolling your eyes, you can practically hear your mother’s reasoning: Not too close to the wall. Wouldn’t want people thinking I’m trying to hide her. But certainly not anywhere near the center of the room, in case she falls into that pesky habit of being an awful embarrassment.

Standing behind your chair, your eyes find the place card stationed in front of the seat next to yours at the same time Jake’s do.

“Oh my god.” The exasperation is apparent, even though your words are barely audible where you mutter them under your breath.

Because of course this hasn’t already been enough of a train wreck. Because of course the place card next to yours doesn’t have Jake’s name on it. Nope, embossed in the same shimmery gold is the name of another person entirely.

James Sim.

You turn to your date, apologetic. “God, I’m sorry. I really didn’t fill out the RSVP form, but I didn’t think she’d just assume…”

“It’s okay.” Jake gives you some grace. “Really, it wouldn’t be the first time.” And all things considered, he kind of is in his brother’s seat tonight. Attending an event that’s better suited for the future head of the company than his forgotten younger brother. Accompanying the girl that public opinion surely dictates would be a better match for him.

Still, you frown. Reaching for the small clutch that sits against your hip, you rummage for a moment before pulling out a black permanent marker.

Jake glances at you sideways.Your bag of the evening is tiny, barely even big enough to hold your phone. He’s surprised you managed to fit the marker in there, much less prioritize it enough to bring it with you. “You carry that thing around with you all the time?”

You shrug. “Never know when you’ll need to do some DIY vandalism.”

It would be a lie if he said something in him doesn’t soften, just a bit, when he watches you reach for the place card in front of his seat and put a giant, bold X over his brother’s name.

Your handwriting is no match for the computer-generated script, but Jake still likes the place card a little better when you’re done with it, likes the way his name looks next to yours when you set it back on the table, alterations completed.

“There,” you say, looking entirely too satisfied with your handiwork. “All better.” This time, you slide down into your seat before Jake has the chance to pull it out for you. Turning to him as he tentatively takes the seat next to you, he finds a small frown on your lips. “Wait,” you pause, realization written across your features. “Your brother isn’t coming, right?”

Jake shakes his head. “I mean, I don’t know for sure, but I doubt it. He has no reason to come. My parents are on a business trip, so they won’t be here either. And that also probably means he’s more swamped than usual at the office.”

Nodding, you take a sip of champagne. “Good.” Pausing, your lips quirk. “Although it would be kind of funny if he–”

“I think you’re in my seat.” The sudden interruption is flat, leaves no room for arguments.

Startled, the two of you spin in your chairs.

James Sim, despite his brother’s predictions, is in fact not otherwise occupied at his office. Instead, he stands directly behind his younger sibling, strikes an imposing figure where his shadow blocks the chandelier light behind him and extends over his brother and his altered place card.

Eyes flaming, he looks at where his name has been crossed out. Replaced.

Next to Jake, you remain silent, figure that you’ll let Jake handle this one the way he let you handle your mother. Far be it from you to step in on a family matter.

But then you notice the way Jake shrinks a little in his seat, hides a little further in his brother’s shadow. Reaches for the place card like he wishes he could take it back.

Sliding your gaze back to your least favorite Sim sibling, your voice is even, albeit icy, when you point out the obvious, “It’s not actually. Can’t you read?” Jake’s hand stops in its tracks, falls back to his lap.

A quick look your way is the only indication James even hears you. Instead, he continues his one-sided conversation with his brother, a barely controlled sort of fury crossing over his expression. “Hm,” he muses, glancing between the two of you. “Sure seems like you two are awfully close.” Casting an accusatory glare at Jake, he adds, “That’s funny. I could have sworn you said you barely knew her.”

Her. You’re sitting right there, and you don’t even get a name.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by Jake either. And it turns out to be just what he needs to find his voice. You’re almost proud of the sarcasm he manages to muster when he counters, “Yeah, well, this funny thing happens when you spend time together. You actually get to know each other.” Straightening his spine, there’s an unmistakable edge in his voice when he adds, “You know, when you actually bother to show up, that is.”

You hide a laugh behind your hand, albeit not very well. Glancing at Jake, a feeling swells in your chest that you can only identify as pride. You didn’t know he had it in him.

Reassessing his strategy, James turns to you, forcing a nonchalance that is entirely contradicted by the way his cheeks are rapidly reddening. “Actually, ___,” he tries, acting as if the last thirty seconds faded out of existence at his will. “I was hoping to speak to you about something. I’d love to get you a drink if you–”

“Actually,” Jake cuts in, doubling down. “We already have drinks.” Behind you on the table, the two near full glasses of champagne are undeniable evidence. The laugh that spills out of you this time is impossible to hide. Yeah, you decide, between the two of them, you definitely hate James more. Entirely amused, the only thing you wish you had is a bowl of popcorn as you root for the underdog. Not that he needs it. Much to your satisfaction, he’s been landing his punches well.

The giggle dies on your lips, though, when you feel the warmth of another hand suddenly cover the top of yours where it rests on your thigh. Gaze flaming, James follows the movement. Startled, your eyes fly to Jake. The only view you’re offered is of his profile as he keeps his gaze trained on his brother, the challenge in his features unmistakable.

The only consolation he offers for your sudden shock is a small, reassuring squeeze against your knuckles.

And then he says, “And I’d like to keep my girlfriend right here, actually.” At that, he does finally turn to you, eyes pleading, gaze imploring when he seeks your permission. Even though they’re performative in nature, his words aren’t solely for James’ benefit. “If that’s alright with you, that is.”

Girlfriend.

You were perfectly happy in the role of the observer, but now Jake has dragged you into the spotlight. Even though it pains you, you know you can’t leave him hanging. Not when that would mean a sure victory for his dickhead of a brother.

Girlfriend. The word echoes in your head, has you feeling dizzy.

“Of course,” you return hollowly, barely recognizing the sound of your own voice over the sudden rushing in your ears. “Boyfriend.”

When you smile at him, you make sure it looks sickeningly sweet enough to deter James. Your eyes, however, flash with a warning only Jake can read.

“You’re dating?” James can’t hide his shock, and his outrage is just as obvious.

“Yep,” Jake passes you a panicked look. But you don’t need it, don’t need his convincing. You’ve already dug yourself a deep enough hole. Trying to climb out now would only mean everything crumbles.

“Sure are,” you confirm with a tight smile. Turning back to Jake, you add, “Actually, sweetie, I need to talk to you about, uh…” you scramble for a moment. Finish vaguely with, “that thing.”

“Right.” Jake picks up on the threat in your eyes seamlessly, knows there’s only one acceptable response. “That thing,” he echoes.

“Yeah, so,” you turn back to James, barely acknowledging him as you start to stand. “We’re gonna step out for a minute.”

Jake is all but putty in your hands as you switch the positioning of your grip so that the hand that was resting on yours is now encased firmly between your fingers.

“See you later,” are Jake’s breathless parting words to his brother.

“Hopefully not, though,” you alter.

And then you’re dragging him back through the crowd towards the exit, and it’s all Jake can do to not run into the other guests or knock over the delicately balanced trays of hors d’oeuvres waiters carry throughout the room. He’s at your mercy all the way through the double doors of the ballroom, and you pause only briefly to determine which hallway is less likely to have people in it before deciding on the one to the right, towing him along behind you.

Once you’re far enough away from unwanted eyes and ears, you start wiggling every door knob you come across, growing visibly more frustrated until you finally find an unlocked one. Huffing, you push Jake into the spare storage closet first. Following him in, you close the door behind you.

The sudden change in space puts you in close proximity. Your nose is only a handful of inches away from his when you start laying out accusations.

“What the hell?” With the same hand than just dragged him on a half marathon, you shove at his chest. “Boyfriend?” You have half a mind to grab the broom standing next to you and start whacking him with it.

“I’m sorry!” Jake holds his hands up defensively. He doesn’t miss the way you’re eyeing every cleaning tool around you, no doubt deciding which would make the most effective weapon. “I panicked, okay? I just hate that smug little look he gets on his face–”

“Well you’re about to be seeing ‘that smug little look’ a lot more once he calls your bluff!” you half-shout, trying to convey your anger without alerting anyone to your presence.“The timeline barely lines up to begin with. It’s only been what, a few weeks since I was supposed to go on a date with him? And that’s not to mention the fact that there won’t be anyone to corroborate our story, because we don’t spend any time together, since, y’know, we’re not dating.”

Jake begs to differ. You’ve invaded more than one of his Wednesday night statistics study sessions.

But before he can point this out, you’re continuing. “Which means you’re gonna have to come up with some sort of believable explanation for why we break up after, like, three days.”

“Ugh.” Jake drags an open palm down his face. He hates to admit it, but you do have a point there.

Fingers running through his hair, his sudden stress is apparent. And you’re not trying to send him to an early grave, but would it have killed him to think before he spoke? Consider the consequences of starting the exact kind of rumor you’ve been hoping to dodge all evening? You get that his brother is not exactly an easy person to get along with, but was the short-lived victory really worth the potential fallout?

Across from you, Jake seems to be having the same realizations. A million thoughts whirring through his brain, he’s not sure where to place his focus.

After a moment, he settles on optimism. “Look, I think it will be fine.” The more he thinks about it, the more he convinces himself he believes it. “James has been up to his ass in company stuff since the second he graduated, so it’s not like he has extra time to check up on us or anything.” And even if he did, James would have no way of knowing who to ask. Jake has the sneaking suspicion his older brother couldn’t name a single one of his friends if his life depended on it. He would have no idea who to track down to corroborate your so-called romance.

“We won’t have to do anything,” Jake reasons. “I’ll just mention you in passing for the next few weeks if he happens to ask.” Even that should be simple enough. After all, Jake seriously doubts he will. “And by the time the holidays roll around, I can just say things fizzled naturally.” Easy. Simple. Uncomplicated. Mutual, and your pride and his both remain intact. “No big deal.”

Across from him, you weigh his words. It makes sense, yes, but there’s something starting to swirl in your gut that you don’t like. It feels a little too much like dread, like trepidation. Jake can read all of the uncertainty written across your face when you tell him, “I still don’t like it. My mother and your brother were both here tonight and already got different stories from us. This could get messy really quickly. I mean, what if our families start talking–”

“They won’t.” Jake shakes his head. “Your mom thinks I’m just a plus-one, and when my name comes up in James and my father’s conversations, it isn’t to discuss the ins and outs of my dating life.” Of this, at least, Jake is sure. His father couldn’t care less who he dates, as long as it’s not a liability to him, to the company. “Besides, we're university students.” Jake tries to lighten the mood, clear some of the tension. “Twenty-one and immature and all that.” For a moment, Jake imagines what life would feel like if that’s truly all he was, if that’s the only thing he got to be. No added pressure of a notorious last name and a reputation to maintain. Tucking that thought to the back of his mind, he decides he’ll mourn it later. “A short-lived relationship with a story that doesn’t quite add up is practically a right of passage. Not something to be suspicious of.”

You remain silent for a moment, but your hand doesn’t get any closer to the broom.

“Okay.” Some of the tension seeps out of your shoulders as you turn his reasoning over in your brain, nodding as his logic starts to piece together. “Okay,” you reiterate. You still don’t like it, but he’s right about one thing: it is the best option you have.

After all, there’s no way in hell you’re about to go tell your mother that your plus-one is actually your secret boyfriend, and you hate to admit it, but James’ little smirk is incredibly agitating. And it will all blow over, you’re sure. Like Jake said, James and your mother have no real reason to talk, and if Jake is convinced that his brother won’t be spreading this particular rumor, you’ll just have to believe him for the time being.

Letting him out of the closet first, you only imitate hitting him upside the back of the head once before you catch up to him, linking arms again before reentering the ballroom.

As the evening goes on, your worry starts to subside. Thankfully, every other part of the night goes perfectly to plan, even if you do have to force yourself to laugh a little too hard at one of Jake’s awful jokes when you catch James watching the two of you. The second glass of champagne you down helps, if nothing else.

Exactly as you predicted, after two and a half hours have passed, you and Jake are sneaking out the back exit, tiptoeing to his car as the fourth speaker of the evening continues their droning speech inside the event. Your mother is none the wiser to your early departure, and you hope it’s the first in a series of victories for the evening.

When Jake drops you off just outside the front doors of your apartment building, his smile is almost reassuring enough to put that lingering sense of unease to rest where it still sits in your gut.

Makeup removed, hair washed, and evening gown traded for pajamas, sleep is slow to find you a handful of hours later. Eventually, though, it does, and your rest is undisturbed, dreamless.

…

The next morning, with nothing but the pastel tones of sunrise and the sound of his brewing coffee maker to keep him company, Jake Sim stares at the message on his phone in abject horror.

Mom [7:32 am]: I can’t believe I had to find out from your brother! Family dinner next weekend at our place. Bring your girlfriend. :)

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CONTINUED IN PART 2

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note: thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed. part two still needs some love, and I'm hoping to have it out around this same time next week. I'll announce for sure when I have a release date & time. as always, I love hearing any thoughts/comments/screaming you may have. happy reading!

#enhypen fanfiction #enhypen x reader #enhypen x you #enhypen fic #enhypen ff #enhypen fanfic #enhypen au #enhypen scenarios #enhypen fluff #enhypen angst #jake sim #jake sim x reader #jake sim x you #jake sim scenarios #sim jaeyun #sim jaeyun x reader #sim jaeyun x you

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sbd-laytall · 1 year

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Watching the X-Men movies in chronological order is so disorienting.

In X-Men: First Class, you have found family, a sympathetic antagonist with a thought-out backstory, training montage™️, beautiful messages/themes, fantastic acting, hilarious banter, tear-jerking moments, James McAvoy.

Then, you get to X-Men (2000). Ooh, boy.

#don't get me wrong #I still enjoyed X-Men because it is still pretty good #I'm not saying it's bad or anything #it's like getting your favorite food on your b-day and then getting food that's good but isn't your favorite on your next b-day #does that make any sense #Patrick Stewart was great as Professor X too #and I am definitely not immune to Hugh Jackman's Wolverine #plus James Marsden and Halle Berry were great whenever they each had a minute of screen time #yes I'm salty that I didn't get to see more Cyclops and Storm even if it is supposed to be an ensemble team #Jean was...there #I'm sorry but she barely had a character here which I am so mad about #because it felt like she was just put there as a point of contention between Wolverine and Cyclops which is so fucked up #Rogue's character was clearly mashed up with Jubilee's but I'm not too upset #anyway rant over #x men first class #x men #x men movies #my post

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giuliettagaltieri · 4 months

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Swarm of Bees

Pairing: Fiancé!Gojō x Fiancée!Reader

Chapter Synopsis: Gojō Satoru gets a taste of his own medicine.

Warning: angst, arranged marriage, age gap, hints of dacryphilia, Gojō is a bully at heart.

Word Count: 1596

3 of 9

There are many things that Gojō Satoru hates.

One, the higher ups of the jujutsu society.

Two, when people say “No offense, but…” And proceed to insult him.

Three, people who get in his way.

And four, when he is not getting the attention he deserves.

In the past few years, Gojō has been working as a teacher in the Jujutsu High. He still leaves for missions, it was only expected as he is the strongest sorcerer. But he stays in the school quite often compared to when he was a field sorcerer.

And quite frankly, he expected more visits from a certain someone.

But he never got them anymore.

Shoko would often put out her cigarette to drop her face on her palms whenever Gojō talks about this. And he cannot understand why she does that.

From time to time, he receives gifts from you. But no more letters. Nothing that adds a personal touch from you. Just food. As if you’re sending them so he won’t forget you existed.

But if he were to be asked, forgetting you was impossible as your time to be wedded comes closer and closer.

And now, you are celebrating your 20th naming day.

You turned into a beautiful young lady. Truly worthy of him.

But much to his aggravation, it seems like many took notice of your change too.

Men from different clans were hovering over you.

Greeting you, complimenting you about the simplest of things. It made something inside him itch and it bothered him to no end.

They only liked you now because you turned out to be a well-polished woman. They did not see you with snot on your nose as you wailed after scraping your knee, which he absolutely had no involvement whatsoever or when your face bubbled like a squirrel when you did not get your way.

“You’re pouting.” Shoko comments as she sips on her glass of champagne.

The celebration was at its peak. The musical ensemble was playing a lively tune and gossips and giggles were filling the floral air of your estate house.

And you, the center of the event.

Almost every pair of eyes were on you.

Gone was the shy little lady of your house. You are now a woman who is ready to take her first steps into society. You were like a fresh fruit, ripe for the taking. Had it not been for Gojō’s presence, many insolent men would have asked, no, begged for your hand right then.

Your hair glittered with every turn of your head. Your painted lips curving up to a perfect smile whenever a gentleman compliments you. Yet the innocent smile is always paired with the haughty spark in your eyes as you decline their offer to dance.

It was the fourth time that you declined an offer in the same hour.

And Gojō Satoru cannot stand to watch such blatant disrespect any longer.

Both Shoko and Nanami follow him with their watching eyes as he makes his way to you. Their feet are ready to move as soon as the man makes a fool of himself or starts a fit in the middle of your perfect evening. Or both.

They were at the edge of their seats when Gojō clears his throat to catch your attention. The two of them watch very closely for any sudden movement from any of you.

But like fluid from the most graceful of waterfalls, you rise from your seat, standing on the tip of your toes to lean on Gojō’s chest.

All breaths halted at your action, including the man you were smiling up to. His crystalline blue eyes watching you, almost calculating your every move. But you smile slyly at him as your fingers trace his jaw and your lips find his cheek.

“I am delighted to see you. But I am terribly sorry Gojō-sama, I would have to decline.” Your thumb caresses his cold cheek. “My dance card is full for the evening.”

Like a nymph, you slide away from him to accept the hand of a young man who was waiting for you. And Gojō can only watch as you are being guided to the center of the floor.

And you danced so beautifully.

The itch turned into a burn. And Gojō had to sit the entire evening with such sensation nesting in his chest, almost clawing out into a form of aggression.

Whenever your dance partner spins you or their gloved hands wander closely to your bottom, Gojō has to quell the urge to pummel them to the ground. He did not quite understand the urge to do so. But after having the feeling for the rest of the night, he has come to terms with it. Given up on trying to understand the impulse and just settled with the idea that every man who speaks with you is disrespecting him.

And you.

Oh, he is so cross with you.

How dare you fill in your dance card without reserving even a single dance for him. Have you forgotten that you are betrothed to him? Or do you just fancy the little game you are playing? Acting as if he is not around.

The clock hand tells that the night was no longer young. But you were still being twirled around in the middle of the dance hall. It was your final dance for the evening. And by the slight delay in your steps, he is well aware that you are exhausted from dancing for hours.

By the time the last note travels through the air, Gojō was already on his feet and marching towards you.

You took no notice of course as you were smiling brightly at your dance partner as he bowed to place a kiss on your gloved hand.

But before his lips could touch you, Gojō Satoru unceremoniously grabs you by your midriff and carries you like a mannequin being set up for display.

Your startled squeal catches the attention of every person in the room and they watch as you wrap your arms around your fiancé’s neck in panic.

As the man carries you and disappears behind the doors to your garden, the chatter resumes but now, soft smiles are gracing the lips of every attendee.

They have been granted the front row seats to watch your game of push and pull with the strongest sorcerer. Some of them have been watching ever since before you learned to walk.

It brought them great joy to see the man finally taking an action to claim you as his woman.

You, on the other hand, have your heart beating wildly on your chest.

Have you pushed too far?

Has your act of refusing his offer to dance been too much of a blow to his pride?

When Gojō places you down, you also pull your arms back to your sides. You do not want to meet his eyes. No, not at all.

“Sit.”

You still instinctively look up at him though. “Huh?”

He gestures to the bench behind you. “I said, sit.”

Immediately, you pull at your dress to smoothen the fabric as you sit down. You did not appreciate how the act made you even smaller compared to his full height.

Your fingers twiddle with each other to release some of the budding nervousness in your chest.

“I-I am terribly sorry if I upset you, Gojō-sama.” You stammer.

There you are.

A smirk finds itself on Gojō's lips. You haven’t changed one bit. You were only brave when there were other people around but you are the same shy little girl that he knew the moment you were alone.

He kneels before you to look you in the eye. “Upset me? Whatever do you mean, my love?” His tone was dark and dangerous despite him smiling playfully at you.

You wanted to cry.

And his smile widens when your eyes turn glassy just as your lips wobble.

He just watched your suffering, willing yourself to hold back the tears. Just as you thought you'd break, he clicks his tongue and digs through the poof of your gown to take off your sandals.

And as he expected, blisters covered your dainty feet.

“How were you dancing so beautifully with such discomfort.” He says with his voice grim.

You can only watch him as his hands work on healing your wounds.

At times like this, you feel the safest. As if nothing in the world could harm you.

And without much thinking, your hands cup his cheek. And Gojō looks at you with still a tiny frown by his eyebrows.

“Are you upset with me?” You ask with your voice barely above a whisper.

“That depends. Are you done with your ruse?” He cocks an eyebrow and you nod shyly. “Then we’re good.”

“Will you dance with me now?”

When you smile at him so softly, how can he say no?

But to your surprise, the man grabs you by your waist, lifts you up until your now healed feet are stepping on his shoes.

You hastily tried to get off but he tightens his hold on your waist.

“Stay.”

It was a simple command but you find yourself surrendering all that you are to him.

Your hands find themselves resting atop his shoulders and with the echoes of the music spilling to the dim garden, Gojō Satoru makes you feel as if you too were honored throughout heaven and earth, simply because he had you in his arms and he was swaying you to the faintest of melodies.

Where the Blue Roses Grow

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojō x reader #jujutsu kaisen #gojō satoru #gojo fluff #gojo satoru angst #where the blue roses grow #arranged marriage

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katiexpunk · 4 months

Text

Nightmare Before Christmas | Pairing dark!Joel Miller X Fem!Reader

This story is a gift fic for @xdaddysprincessxx as part of the @pedrostories Secret Santa event. You wanted dark and I hope I delivered. Merry Christmas, babe.

Summary: As an escort, you’ve found yourself in some pretty fucked up situations before. Years of experience have taught you to navigate such situations with a combination of tact and assertiveness. Most of the time the men who exude an air of sleaze shrivel back into the corner, embarrassed and limp dicked. Most of the time. Tonight is not one of those times. Rating: 18+ Minors DNI Word Count: ~3.6K Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. Tommy and Joel are not nice guys in this one. Escorting. Non-Con. Guns. Knives. Kidnapping. Spitting. Ropes. Chloroform. Alcohol. Degrading pet names. Joel calls reader kitten. Reader jumps out of moving vehicle. Blood. Rope burns. Unwanted creampie. Conflict on pleasure. Fingering. Explicit/rough penetration. Breeding kink. No major physical descriptions of reader/graphic is for visual purposes only. No specific age gap mentioned. No use of Y/N. No happy ending. Authors Note: Special thank you to @kewwrites for lending me her brain on this one. Additionally, thank you to @toxicanonymity for writing dark content that I had to binge-read to put me in the headspace to even write this lol. And thank you @sydneyinacoma for holding my hand as I wrote this one. Also submitting this as part of @romana-after-dark's Dead Dove December event. Merry Christmas? Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Notifications Extra dark smut below the cut.

As an escort, you’ve found yourself in some pretty fucked up situations before. Years of experience have taught you to navigate such situations with a combination of tact and assertiveness.

Most of the time the men who exude an air of sleaze shrivel back into the corner, embarrassed and limp dicked.

Most of the time.

Tonight is not one of those times.

++++

It’s Christmas Eve, and you’re in the bathroom of your sleek apartment on the twenty-fifth floor in the heart of Los Angeles, preparing for another evening of playing the part of whatever and whoever your client wants you to be.

Sometimes you’re the arm candy, sometimes the new girlfriend, and sometimes you’re just something to look at. It wasn’t always easy, not at first, but the rewards are well worth the endure.

You slept with a handful of your clients early on, only because you needed the money, but now it’s your hard line. You ensure your prospective clients know your rules before you agree to go out with them, and for the most part, they don’t try to cross them. Sure, some try, but all it takes is a quick threat of I’m leaving and they’re happy to fall back in line. You think half of them are convinced that they’re charming enough to make you break the rules, just for them, but none of them ever are.

You stand before the mirror in a chic ensemble that accentuates your curves without revealing too much. Wear something black and don’t make it trashy, his instructions said. You run your fingers through your hair and give it a final touch before fastening a pair of statement earrings that sparkle like the lights on your Christmas tree.

The gentle chime of your phone signals a new message. You pick it up, the screen illuminating your face with a soft glow. Your client for the evening, a successful entrepreneur named Tommy, confirms the details for the evening and informs you that a car will meet you at the agreed-upon location at 8:00 pm sharp.

You check the time and still have another 15 minutes. You meander over to your bar cart, pour yourself a nip of vodka over ice, and sip it while you kill time. You’re not usually nervous, but tonight feels different.

Not before long, you take a deep breath and head out the door.

++++

The night air is crisper than usual for LA this time of year, but you ride with the windows down anyway. Your destination is a trendy rooftop bar where Tommy has chosen to meet. He hasn’t told you the occasion or why he’s hired you, but your best guess is that it’s some swanky holiday party or circle jerk between a bunch of rich people.

The car pulls up to the entrance, and the driver walks around the vehicle to open the door for you. You adjust your dress with sweaty palms as you step out and head into the building.

The rooftop offers a panoramic view of the city. Much to your surprise, nobody is there, except for the waitstaff and a man far from the entrance. Tommy is seated at a corner table, engrossed in the cityscape. You approach with grace, and as Tommy turns to greet you, your eyes lock in silent acknowledgment.

The night unfolds as most of them do.

There’s nothing strange about it. He orders a bottle of Dom, and you share a meal over casual conversation. He tells you that he rented out the entire rooftop because he wanted some privacy. Which isn’t unusual, you figure he might be some high-profile figure, or maybe he’s married, but you’ve come to learn it’s best not to ask.

There’s nothing inherently different about this client than any other.

But for whatever reason, you can’t shake the pit of lead that’s settled in your stomach, and the gnawing little voice inside your head that’s screaming danger.

He touches your bare knee under the table and gives you a dark look, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to rise to stand. The gnawing little voice might as well be an opera singer at this point.

You clear your throat and take your phone out of your purse to check the time. Fuck. You test your luck and try to excuse yourself early anyway.

“Well, this has been lovely, but I –” you start to say, but you’re cut off by his dark eyes.

“Nuh-uh, you’re mine for another two hours, doll,” he says in a raspy low voice.

You watch as he slips a few $100 bills on the table. As he silently rises to stand, you catch a glimpse of the handgun that’s fastened on his hip beneath his suit jacket. Your pulse quickens at the sight.

You follow him to the elevator, and he presses the lobby. Standing next to you, you realize how much bigger than you he is. He’s broad and built, he looks like he could rip a phonebook in half with his bare hands.

Stay cool, stay cool, stay cool.

On the ride down, you feel him snake one hand behind you and he hikes the hem of your dress up and runs his cold fingers up the back of your thigh and over the curves of your ass.

“Tommy, I don’t sleep with my clients. Please stop,” you ask, your voice firm.

He turns to face you and cages you against the elevator wall. He’s so close, you feel his hot breath on your lips. Your eyes glance over at the screen above the numbers, and you still have another 15 floors to go until you’re at the lobby. Your stomach drops.

“You’ll do whatever I ask you to tonight, doll,” Tommy rasps, his voice cold. A shiver runs down your spine as you feel a hard metal pressed up against your ribs – the gun. “Do you understand?” he asks, not questioning.

Tears well up in the corners of your eyes, and your adrenaline courses through you like an F1 car. When you don’t respond, he presses the barrel of the gun harder into your ribs. Ow. “Better answer me now, Doll, or this isn’t gonna be fun for you,” he threatens. You manage to rasp out a shaky “I understand.”

Just as you do, the elevator signals that you’re in the lobby and the doors open. He steps back from you and you slump down the wall for a moment, utterly terrified. He nudges his head toward the exit and walks closely behind you, the gun now positioned on your lower back. There’s a dark suburban waiting at the entrance of the building.

You slip into the vehicle, the cool black leather cold on the backs of your legs, and he follows in behind you. There are three other men in the car, two in the front, and one in the far back. They’re all dressed in dark colors, most of them covered in tattoos, and you’re willing to bet that all of them are armed.

“Ooo, she’s a pretty one. We’re gonna have fun with her,” the one in the back says in a heavy voice.

“Fuck you,” you yell back, spitting on him. It lands on his face, and a terrifying look crosses it.

He wipes the spit from his eye before he grabs the gun from his side and holds it firm against your temple. Your breathing catches in your throat and your heart freezes mid-beat.

“You better behave you little cunt, or I’ll make it hurt more than I’m already going to,” he rasps and you let your eyes go glossy as you stare out the window, silent. He removes the gun from your head and sinks back into the seat.

As they drive off, you consider your options. You could fight them, you think, but that probably wouldn’t end well for you. You consider trying to grab the handgun from Tommy, but he’s so much bigger than you, that probably wouldn’t end well for you either; plus you’re not even sure you’d know how to shoot it. You could grab your phone and try to call 9-1-1, but Tommy would notice you rummaging through your purse for it.

As they’re driving, you notice that they failed to lock the doors. You’ve never kidnapped anyone, but even you know that’s a rookie mistake. You watch the road blur behind a road of tears, and then it dawns on you – your only option is to jump. You clear the tears from your eyes, set on your escape plan, and wait for the perfect moment.

Once the car is at a reasonable speed, or so you guess, you don’t know how fast you’re going, and there seems to be no car directly behind you, you close your eyes and take a deep breath. You swiftly pull the door handle, and do your best imitation of a duck-and-roll.

You hit the pavement with a loud thud, and roll a few times, completely fucking up the skin on your knees and palms. Giving yourself no time to think, running on pure adrenaline, you stand up, abandon your heels, and make a run for it.

“FUCK!” Tommy yells, “God damn it, man, turn around, we gotta go get her!” he yells to the driver.

You have no idea where you are or where you can go, but you allow your legs to propel you forward.

Don’t stop, just run.

You look over your shoulder and see the suburban making a U-turn, and you assess your options once again. You see a Taxi idling in the distance. You don’t think, you just pound on the glass for a quick second before opening the door and slipping into the vehicle.

You’re panting, out of breath, and borderline hyperventilating. You scream “DRIVE, DRIVE, DRIVE.” The Taxi driver looks back at you, eyes wide, noticing the blood that’s dripping down your legs in thick streams.

“Did you hear me!? Drive, please they’re going to find me,” you scream. He turns his head back to the windshield, pulls the lever into gear, and hits the gas. The back wheels of the taxi spin out in the gravel as he deftly pulls out into the road ahead.

With your breathing still erratic, you look behind you through the rearview mirror and are pleased to find that nobody is following you.

Holy shit. You escaped.

You sit back normally in your seat and hold one hand on your heart, and the other on your stomach. You assess your hands and legs, noticing you’re covered in blood and gravel. You go to reach for your purse, but shit, you must have lost it when you jumped.

“What the hell was that about?” the taxi driver says in a raspy low tone, looking at you through the rearview mirror. You don’t respond, your hearing still muffled and ringing from the adrenaline.

He drives for a few minutes and then turns into a dark alley.

“Wh – what are you doing?” you ask, keyed up, running on fear. Your hand instinctually finds the door handle, like you might need to jump again. He unbuckles his seat belt and whips around to face you, the leather of his seat squeaking a little as he does.

He’s big, you can tell he has broad shoulders and thick biceps. Salt and pepper curls grace his head, and he has a scruffy beard to match. There’s a deep line between his eyebrows and a rugged handsomeness to him.

“You haven’t told me where you want to go, and you’re not listening to me. ‘M not driving you anywhere until you tell me what the fuck that was about. And ‘sides, you’re bleeding. Can’t have you getting blood all over the back of my car,” he says.

He turns back around and opens the driver's side door.

“Where are you going?” you ask, voice shaky. What the hell?

“‘M grabbing the damn first aid kit out of the trunk,” he retorts, a tinge of annoyance to his voice. You’re not sure why he’s being so rude in the first place. You hear the trunk pop open, the sound of ruffling like he’s grabbing something, and then the sound of the trunk slamming shut.

He rounds around to your passenger side door and opens it.

“Look I’m fine, I don’t need you to –” he shuts you up with a thick rag pressed firm against your face.

You swear you see him smirk before your vision blurs and fades to black.

++++

The air in the dimly lit basement hangs heavy with dampness, and a faint odor of mildew lingers in the stale atmosphere. As your consciousness slowly returns, you realize you’re standing and tied up against a support beam in the middle of the room.

Your wrists are bound with coarse ropes above your head in a tight knot, causing them to lose circulation. You try to wiggle yourself free, but your body is pinned firmly against the wood by ropes that also extend across your legs. You try to scream, but there’s no point. A thick strip of duct tape covers your lips, muffling even your loudest of efforts to cry out.

You frantically observe the room around you. It’s illuminated by a single flickering light bulb overhead, the walls are concrete that have been stained with age. The only audible sounds are what you assume are footsteps in the house up above. You try and wiggle yourself free, but it only exhausts you.

You float in and out of consciousness. As your eyes fall closed, you hope that when you wake up you’ll find that this was all just one big fucked up dream. A nightmare before Christmas.

++++

You awake to the sensation of cool metal on your cheek. You groggily come to, and once your vision clears, you see the face of a man – the taxi driver. Your eyes bug out and you whimper beneath the duct tape.

“Shh, shh, hush kitten,” he coos, running the flat blade of the knife over your soft cheek. “You’re okay, ‘m gonna take real good care of you, I promise.”

Hot tears well in the corners of your eyes, your eyes now bloodshot. You whimper something that sounds like a muffled “please,” under the tape and you see his pupils dilate. A devilish smirk crosses his face.

“Oh my kitten has manners, does she,” he rasps, dragging the knife down the razor edge of your jaw, over your sternum, and down the valley of your breasts. “Say it again for me,” he says. You’re a full-blown factory of tears at this point, and you muffle out another masked please. You tug on the ropes and stare back at your captor.

You flinch as he uses the knife and cuts your dress down the middle. Your perky tits spill out of the tight fabric, and he looks at them with hungry eyes. He sheaths the knife and uses his thick hands to rip the rest of the fabric off of you until you’re completely bare before him, minus the thin scrap of your underwear.

“Well shit, baby. Look at you,” he takes a step back and admires your body, bringing his hand to palm at the growing bulge in his pants.

You turn your head so you don’t have to look at him, trying to focus on something, anything but him. You hear the clanking of his metal belt unbuckling, and the faint sound of his zipper coming down. He drags his pants and underwear off of his body, and stands before you, fully hard, his large cock throbbing and red. He looks down at it and spits.

Massaging his length in one hand, he stares at you and tells you, “Look at me, kitten.”

You don’t.

A deep growl escapes his chest, and he steps closer to you. Still massaging his cock with one hand, he uses the other and grips your jaw tightly, smushing your cheeks together, forcing you to look at him. “There she is, my pretty girl, that’s better,” he taunts.

“See what you do to me?” He says, nodding down to his cock, his jaw slack. “This is what you’re gonna get for tempting me,” he darkly adds. He continues to work at his cock; to him, you may look like you’re watching him, but you’re doing your best to blur your vision, to think about anything else.

His hand leaves his cock and comes to rest on your chest with his palm flat. He trails it over your breast and cups the weight of it, rolling your nipple to a stiff peak between his index finger and thumb.

“If you promise you’ll be a good little kitten for me, I’ll make this feel good for you,” he says. All you can do is whimper and cry as he uses you.

He drags his flat palm down your body, over your tummy, and cups your pussy over your underwear, feeling the warm heat of it. He growls and hooks his fingers under the fabric until the tips of them are nudged into your slit, near your hole. He dips the tip of his middle finger into your cunt, and you flinch.

“Good little kitten, already wet for me,” he says, and then plunges the length of it inside of you. You gasp, and he smiles. He drags the length of his finger, now covered in your slick, up the seam of your pussy until it lands on your clit. He begins to draw tight circles there, and you can’t help but moan at the sensation of it.

A low growl reverberates through his chest as he works at you, his dark eyes trained on your face. You try to suppress the need to come, and he can tell. “Filthy little girl, pretending you don’t want to come for me. Go on, baby. I know you want it,” he says darkly, coaxing you closer and closer to your orgasm.

He alternates between fucking his fingers into you and rubbing your clit. You don’t want to come, but you can’t stop it. Can’t fight it. As much as you hate it, you’re at his mercy. You’re scared to admit what it might mean if you were to come under circumstances like this, but you’re so tired, you just want to feel something good. “Be a good little slut for me, kitten. Come on my fingers, know you want to,” he says, and shit. Your vision goes white, and for the first time tonight, you don’t feel anything except pleasure.

He collects the slick that’s formed as a result of your orgasm and uses it to coat his hard cock. He watches you and admires the fucked out look on your face.

“Gonna free your legs now, kitten. Don’t go getting any ideas or I’ll find another way to use my knife other than cuttin’ these ropes, got it?” he rasps. He ducks down, pulls the knife from his back pocket, and uses it to saw the ropes until you’re free before once again tucking it away.

He drags your now-soiled panties down and off your legs. You know he’s going to fuck you. And as fucked up as it is, and as much as you don’t want it, there’s a little tug at your low navel, a thread of arousal that tells you otherwise.

He uses his hands to grab your hips and he tugs at them until your back is slightly arched against the beam. Your wrists hurt, the harsh rope burning your skin, but it pales in comparison to the thick stretch of him in your cunt.

He fills you in one thrust, giving you no time to adjust to the size of him. He holds you up, your legs wrapped firmly against his core, and he fucks into you. He fucks you hard, his thick cock punching against your cervix with nearly every thrust. You whimper from the intensity of it.

“That noise…keep making it,” he begs, his voice wrecked. You fight your hardest to stay silent after hearing that. “Need to know, kitten – are you on birth control? IUD? Anything?” he asks, and you think if you tell him the truth, maybe he won’t come inside of you. Stupid, stupid mistake. You shake your head “No,” and he groans.

His hips slow and stutter. “Fuck, fuck – yeaaaahhhh, kitten. Fuck, you’re mine,” he pauses with himself buried to the hilt deep inside of you as he pumps his seed deep inside of you.

“So good for me, kitten. You’re so good,” he says, caressing your cheek with his thumb, still inches deep inside of you. He rips the duct tape off your lips in one swoop, the tearing sensation causes your eyes to water. He plants a soft kiss on your lips, before biting your bottom lip hard enough to bleed.

“Taste good, too,” he adds, licking your blood off of his lips.

He pulls out, leaving you completely wrecked, and his cum smears all over your thighs.

“Names Joel by the way,” he says, his voice impossibly dark, “just thought you might wanna know the name of the man who’s gonna make you a mother.”

END

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#pedrostories #pedrostoriesgift23 #dark joel miller #dead dove do not eat #dark tommy miller #deaddovedecember2023 #joel miller smut #joel miller x female reader #dark smut #tw noncon #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader

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ethereal-night-fairy · 8 days

Text

To the Edge of Chaos

Prologue

Pirate!Gaz x Female Reader (of mixed Arab decent)

A murder accusation and the death of a beloved father. Those where the events that led you to take refuge in this seedy tavern. Scared and left completely alone for the first time ever, you try you're best to evade watchful eyes. Easier said than done when handsome pirates were in the vicinity.

Warnings: MDNI, Crude language, talks of beheadimg and murder.

To the Edge of Chaos

Masterlist

Words: 1.1k

“Did you hear!?,” The man next to you whispered. He must be a local if he's comfortable gossiping in a tavern like this. The smell of cheap alcohol was making you nauseous but this was the only safe place you could find for the time being.

“Everyone's heard by this stage,” the bar keep whispered back. “The city guards have been preventing people from talking about it since they announced the passing of the King. I heard they're going to behead her without trial.”

“I don't believe it for a second! Our princess would never do something like that!”

“Keep your voice down! They have ears all over the city,” the bar keep warned. But the bar was rowdy despite the news of the king's passing circulating. It felt like the city was celebrating, apart from a select few that is. You didn't realise how insignificant the royal family was in this part of the city. Though granted, the ports were often run by pirates these days despite the naval guard trying to stake their claim over the area.

You wonder where everything went wrong. It wasn't long ago that you were dressing as a servant boy to explore the city scape. Even though you should have been studying, should have been performing your royal duties. It seems that your selfishness has come to bite you in the ass. Had it not been for your uncle you would be on the road to your demise right about now. You've only narrowly escaped death for the time being. No one knows how you'll fare tomorrow.

That's how you found yourself in one of the few places the city guards couldn't reach you. The loyalty of the people here lay with the outlaws, the reject, the outcasts. An ideal place to find a temporary identity or a completely new one if one wanted. The bar buzzed with joy as the people guzzled their cheap rum and brandy. It tasted nothing like the refined wines you were raised on. Not that you had the luxury of being picky anymore. But at least you could enjoy the sweetness during these trying times.

“The king loved his daughter, why would she have any reason to kill him?” The drunk patron drawled on despite the looks he was getting from the other patrons. The royal family really wasn't popular here. You scan your area staying on high alert, you couldn't have anyone mistaking you for someone who was supposed to be locked up and awaiting her death. You suppose sneaking out did pay off in this instance. You were so used to acting like a boy that it wasn't hard mimicking the mannerisms of the people around you. That and the disguise was good enough to fool the drunk for now. You just needed to get your hands on a more convincing ensemble if you wanted to survive.

“Aye nae one cares that wee bastard is dead, Never done nae good for the people like us! And his daughter too! Never even seen 'er face in public! Always hiding away in 'er big castle too full of 'erself tae care about 'er people dying in the slums!” A drunk man with an odd haircut shouts. Pirates. You watch the men around him laugh as they encourage him to keep going. The whole situation made you uneasy. Your reputation was horrible amongst the poor it seems. Or anyone for that matter. You were very much aware of the hate you received because of your mothers heritage. Despite her still being foreign royalty.

“Good thing we'll finally see 'er head come off! Good riddance!” You flinch as the man continues his rant stumbling as he tries to reach the bar for more alcohol. But someone from his group grabs him by the back of the neck before he can reach where you were sitting. Damn you wouldn't want to mess with his friend.

He was built like an oak tree. Not to mention his terrifying mask. You wouldn't be surprised if they called him the grim reaper. You remind yourself to keep away from those two. It's not long before the drunk man is hauled off outside while he airs out his lungs towards the person who was holding him like a pup. You watch as his crew boo and jeer the big man as he drags out the other to sober up.

Your eyes naturally drift back to the rowdy crowd who seemed at home in the tavern. Many women excitedly draped themselves on the arms of the most handsome or the ones that looked like they had money. You couldn't blame them. They were quite handsome you'll admit, and who didn't like money? You could use some right now.

One man in particular caught your eye. His laugh was akin to the warmth of the setting sun. Your hand absently caresses the necklace around your neck. The thought of him caressing skin no man has touched made your head spin with forbidden thoughts. Ones you desperately had to push down. Your necklace hums with magic concealing your feminine features, essentially presenting you as a boy to anyone.

You continue your not so discrete exploration of the handsome man's toned body. He would have make a nice personal gaurd. It stirs something in your heart but you push it down as soon as it surfaces. Now wasn't the time!

His dark sun kissed skin glowed under the light of their lanterns while multiple women tried and failed to monopolize his attention. Though you knew for a fact he enjoyed the commotion they were making for him. You could see it on his smug face and mischievous kohl covered eyes. They looked like pools of honey from where you sat. Stop it idiot! You need to focus!

It seemed the bearded man sitting next to him was also enjoying the attention he was receiving. They exchanged cigars as they continued to enjoy their drinks while the woman fawned for their undivided attention.

You study them for a bit before making up your mind. They'd do nicely. You needed money, and they looked like they had plenty to spare. You're sure they wouldn't mind a few coins missing. Though it was your first time stealing, it couldn't be that hard could it? A little flirting here, a little touching there and you'll have a couple coins in your purse in no time. You glance at your necklace debating if it was a good option to remove the enchantment for a short time. The people were all drunk anyway and it wasn't like anyone would recognise you here. You just needed to get one of them alone somehow. But how?

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halfvalid · 7 months

Text

the blade daughter, pt. 2

ABOUT

pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3

alternate title: dracule mihawk cures your daddy issues!

rating: mature

characters: live action!roronoa zoro | fem!reader | live action!dracule mihawk | live action!straw hat ensemble

pairing: live action!roronoa zoro x fem!reader

word count: 23.6k total | 8k this part

description: after joining the straw hats on board the going merry, you're confused as to what to do with your life from now—and you can't help but get closer to zoro.

tags: mihawk's daughter!reader, female reader, canon-typical violence, cursing, no use of 'y/n', pet names per mihawk ('dear', 'darling', 'sweetheart', 'little hawk'), emotional hurt/comfort, slow burn, patching of wounds

author’s note: second chapter! i hope you like it <3 out of the three this one's probably my favorite personally, i really like the wound-stitching scene & i think it's one of the best scenes ive ever written. i'm suchhh a slut for the patching up of wounds trope.

You rose before the sun, careful to pack your belongings all in one sack. Considering the very little amount you’d brought, it was a relatively easy task—leaving the sloop would be fine, too, as you paid for the slip for a few months longer at least. Your father had so many ships across so many seas it hardly mattered much anymore.

You double-checked that you had all of your things before shutting down and leaving the sloop, consulting some of the dock men to transfer a boat lift under the berth. You moved carefully across the east port, making quick time as you returned to the Straw Hats’ ship in slip fifty-two.

There were apparent signs of life when you reached the ship, even with the sky cast over in dark hues of navy. All of the dead bodies had been removed, for one, and dock men were loading barrels up on the deck while Sanji watched over them. His expression brightened as his gaze fell across you.

“Lady Dracule!” he called out, slipping off from the barrel on which he’d been perched to meet you at the pier. You gave him an unimpressed look.

“I have a name, you know.”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware of that,” Sanji answered, a lopsided grin pulling up the side of his face. You rolled his eyes and introduced yourself, which only prompted a brighter smile and a steady pat of his hand on your back. “A fine name, for a fine woman.”

“Sanji, stop flirting with the crew.” You glanced up to see Nami, one hip cocked to the side with her hand on her waist, staring down with an exasperated glint in her eye. “Welcome aboard the Going Merry. Sorry I was a little grouchy last night. I don’t like having my sleep interrupted.” She leaned down to offer you her hand, and you took it, climbing aboard the ship.

“The Going Merry?”

“Fits it, don’t you think?” Sanji asked from behind you. Nami eyed him again, volume dropping as she tilted her head towards yours.

“He’ll quit with the sweet talk eventually. I’ll give you a tour once we’ve cast off. We’re just waiting for Zoro to get back from town, and then we’re all set.” She turned to bark out another few orders to Sanji— “Finish up with the crates already!”

“Anything you want, madam,” Sanji said with a little bow. Nami let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Luffy already prepared a room for you. I’ll show you to it.” She led you below deck, back towards the ship’s aft. There was a collection of rooms all crammed together, one beside the other. “These are the women’s quarters. Men’s’ are all the way at the front of the ship.” She nodded behind her. “You get this one here. Sorry, it’s small.”

She opened the door to the very last room, and you stepped inside, surveying your surroundings. It wasn’t much; the cabin barely scraped by as a room, consisting of only a wardrobe, a hanging bed, and a small table and chair stuck in the corner. A round window at the very edge of the room revealed the water just a mere few feet below.

“It’ll do fine, thank you,” you said. Your room back at home was far more ornate, but you’d never been picky.

“You can sleep for a few more hours,” Nami said, lingering by the cabin mouth. “Come find me when you’re ready for a tour. We should be setting off in a few moments, if Zoro’s back.”

You gave her a smile, and she left, the patter of her footsteps dying off as she walked further and further away.

It didn’t take you long to get arranged, and afterwards, you gingerly sat down on the bed, the rope tied to the ceiling causing it to sway under you. You were still uncertain about boarding the ship, but you couldn't exactly return to your sloop now. And it wasn’t the worst idea in the world, you tried to convince yourself.

You felt the ship start moving just a few moments later, and you stood up, walking across the rocking ship to get up to the deck. You were making fast time, Loguetown’s silhouette rapidly getting swallowed in the gulp of the horizon.

Nami was bickering with Zoro and Luffy when you found her. “What even took you so long? We were due to leave a half-hour ago.”

“I was getting new swords,” Zoro said calmly. Nami eyed him, then yanked something out of his hand. A wallet, it looked like, stuffed with bills of berry. “You can’t be mad at me. I spent less than half of your budget.”

“They scammed you,” Nami scoffed, eyeing the katanas at Zoro’s hip. Zoro simply shrugged. “A sword for free? It’s probably made of plastic.”

Zoro snorted. “I’d be able to tell.”

Nami cast him a look, gaze unimpressed under the line of her eyelashes. “You can’t tell the difference between a ship mast and a tree.”

“Yeah, but I know swords.”

“Oh, hey!” Luffy, who’d seemed tuned out of his crewmates’ conversation, said as he spotted you. “Glad to see you here. Officially part of the crew.”

“Oh, well…” you hesitated. “Not so sure if I’ll be joining you forever.” Luffy looked confused by that, but not particularly offended—Nami and Zoro had turned to watch you, too, argument dying on trembling legs. “Right now the plan is to help you get to the Grand Line. From there you can drop me home. And then we’ll part ways.”

“If you change your mind…” Luffy trailed off, then patted you on the shoulder. “Nami, were you going to show her around?”

“I was, but I’ve got some mapping to do.” Nami glanced over at Zoro. “Hey. Make yourself useful.”

“I hate you,” Zoro muttered. He brushed past you, just barely motioning with his head for you to follow. “Afterdeck.”

You stepped into the small space. It was easily the most secluded place on the ship deck, decorated with three young tangerine trees in white boxy planters. “I like your trees.”

“They’re Nami’s trees.” Zoro gestured with his head again, and you followed him. The tour was brief; Zoro didn’t have much to say, generally just showing you a room before telling you what it was and departing for the next area.

You were about halfway through the tour when Zoro spoke again, the words abrupt in his throat. He spat them out rather than spoke them, and you got the impression he’d been mulling over talking for a while— “You ever beat your dad in combat?”

You snorted. “No.”

Zoro didn’t look at you, opting instead to push through the next doorway and gesture vaguely around him to show you the surroundings. “Gotten close?”

“Never.” You shrugged. “He taught me the basics, but I wasn’t the best student. He’d try to be strict and everything, but… sword fighting isn’t really my thing. You’re probably better than me.”

Zoro gazed at you skeptically. “He taught you.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you—” He paused, mouth open for a moment before resuming his sentence. He didn’t sound particularly hesitant, but the pause had you stifling a smile anyway, knowing he was at least a little bit flustered. “We should train together.”

“Was that a question?”

“Not really.” Zoro’s lip quirked, one side of his mouth tugging upwards in an odd semblance of a smile. He didn’t seem the type to smile often, though, so it didn’t look out of ordinary on his face. “Have you seen enough of the ship yet, or do you want me to show you the bilge too?”

“I’m good, thanks,” you answered primly. “Now did you want to fight me or not?”

Zoro actually smiled at that.

You decided to train on the main deck, in an area wide enough to not bump into anyone else. You shed your jacket, pulling Hiru out of its scabbard. Zoro winced as the sun hit the silver blade, reflecting a blinding gleam off its surface. “That a stylistic choice?”

“I polish things when I get anxious,” you answered. “So not really.”

“Right.” Zoro untied a black bandana from where it was fixed on his bicep, fingers working fluidly against the knot. Once he got it untied, he wrapped it around his head, tying it carefully around his head. Afterwards, he slid one of his swords out of its scabbard, holding it with his fingers to follow with the other. “How low should my expectations be?”

“I don’t know, you tell me,” you answered. Zoro let a soft sound out through his mouth, but he said no more, transferring one sword to each hand. He moved carefully, arms arching over his head to lower to each of his sides. You lifted Hiru up, more casual in your movements than Zoro was.

You paid more attention to Zoro than the actual fight when you started moving. You figured you’d have time to genuinely practice later—you hadn’t kept a close eye on the swordsman in the battle against the pirate hunters, and your curiosity was eating at you. Zoro was all angles when he fought, elbows lifted and limbs pin-straight. That wasn’t to say there was no flexibility in his movements, though—he dodged your oncoming attacks easily, sidestepping with a light twist of the torso so your blade cut air instead of flesh.

Just a few seconds in you could tell Zoro was far, far better than you. You parried one of his attacks, gasp ripping from your throat as you just barely managed to block off a slash from his katana with Hiru. He spun towards you, careful not to actually cut as his blade came for the throat. You managed to dodge just in time, moving backwards with a quick patter of your feet against the wooden deck.

There was barely anything skewed in his motions, you were soon to realize. He was perfect in every sense of the word. Your styles were vastly different, of course—Zoro mainly relied on his blades, and his physicality was carefully practiced, no curves or bends apparent in the straight lines and slants of his body. In comparison, you were much more slippery, focusing mainly on your agility to carry you throughout a fight rather than your strength.

“Your elbow,” Zoro said. You barely managed to respond, letting out a grunt of effort as you blocked Zoro’s oncoming attack.

“Hm?”

Zoro’s katana came from the left. He used the other one to knock your arm up, nearly gentle in his movements, and you were reminded of how Mihawk used to train you—stopping mid-fight to reposition your limbs, using his sword to carefully push your hands in the right places. “You’re dropping it.”

“I don’t care much for angles,” you answered, ducking under Zoro’s incoming blade and sliding off to the side instead of trying to shove against it. Zoro seemed startled by that, struck off-balance as he stumbled, turning to face you.

You jerked your sword towards him, one leg coming up to shove against his torso whilst doing so. You managed to knock him fully off-balance then, and he staggered against his feet, teetering precariously backwards. “Your center of gravity is screwed.”

“You dad kept flinging me around the pier,” Zoro said. You raised your brows, the phrase nonsensical to your ears. But it did sound like Mihawk. “It run in the family?”

“Very funny.” You dodged another slash of Zoro’s swords. “The only thing I picked up well in our lessons was about keeping balance.”

“And dodging, apparently.” You snickered at that, parrying another one of Zoro’s attacks—but it was getting harder and harder, what with the immense strength of his body you simply couldn’t keep up with. As flexible as you were, you weren’t quick enough this time, and Zoro swept you off your feet so you fell to the ground, wind bursting out of your chest all in one rush. Hiru clattered a few feet away, your fingers unfolding from their grip and letting it move freely.

Zoro slid his swords back in their sheaths, letting them close with a satisfying click. “You fight too defensively.”

You lay there for a moment, trying to gather air back into your lungs. “Never found a point in attacking others, really.” You got up, straightening your shirt before bending over to pick Hiru up from the floor. “Good fight.”

“Yeah,” Zoro said, but his voice was weak, tapering off to blend in with the wind. He had an uncertain look on his face, big brown eyes all fuzzy around the edges, like there was some cloudlike film covering him from seeing properly. You frowned at him.

“Is that because I’m worse or better than you expected?” you asked, gesturing vaguely up at his expression. Zoro blinked, the fog over his eyes clearing as he glanced down to meet your gaze. You waited expectantly, but he didn’t say anything. “Zoro?” you prompted.

“Sorry,” Zoro said. “I’m—I’m going to go to my cabin.”

You watched him leave, growing more quizzical by the second. Well, you’d gotten what you’d come there for, anyway. Roronoa Zoro was a great swordsman. And he certainly had the potential to be the greatest in the world, too—a realization that shook you a little, heart trembling from where it was fixed in your chest cavity. You swallowed hard, mind replaying the firm motions of his body from the fight. He’d been confident, sure of himself. You had even forgotten he still hosted Yoru’s slash along his torso from just a week or so prior, he’d been so… perfect.

“He’s good, huh?”

You startled, turning to see Usopp sitting atop a pile of crates like a king on a throne. He was picking at his fingernails. “Zoro,” he clarified. “Best swordsman in the East Blue.”

“Yeah,” you said, glancing over at where Zoro had left. “He is.”

Usopp eyed you for a moment. “Your shell phone is ringing.”

You startled, patting down your figure before finally unearthing your phone from where it was tucked safely away in your pocket. You opened it, pushing the den den mushi in your ear as it vibrated, little mouth making soft rumbling sounds to catch your attention. Usopp clearly didn’t know a thing about privacy, though, because he kept watching even as you picked up— “Hello?”

“Back home yet, darling?” Mihawk asked over the line, and you relaxed, your entire body going slack with comfort as you heard the familiar low hum of your father’s voice. “I figured you’d go back as quickly as possible.”

“No, actually,” you said. “Luffy roped me into coming aboard his ship.”

You could practically see Mihawk’s brows lift up in surprise. “You joined the Straw Hat pirate’s crew?”

“No. They’re bringing me home. I’m helping them get to the Grand Line,” you corrected. Mihawk hummed, the sound a crackle of monotony through the den den mushi’s mouth.

“And why, pray tell, would you do that?”

You chewed at your bottom lip, glancing off the side of the Going Merry to the East Blue. The sun had risen fully, fixing itself in a warm beam in the sky. “I was curious about Roronoa Zoro. You never told me why you left him alive. Or why you let Luffy go.” You could still feel Usopp’s gaze on you while you spoke, and you just knew he’d be telling the rest of his crew this after your conversation finished. “So I wanted to figure out your reasoning.”

“Ah,” Mihawk said. “Has he healed from Yoru’s wound yet?”

“It’s not like I tore off his shirt to check, dad,” you muttered. Mihawk barked out a laugh, and you startled at the sound before settling down again. “He walks fine. I saw bandages.”

Mihawk seemed pleased by that. “Wonderful. He’s a hardy one. You should fight him.”

“Already did,” you answered. “He beat me.”

Mihawk considered that for a moment. “Eh, I saw that coming.”

You scoffed. “You have no faith in me. Where are you now?”

“South Blue, still,” Mihawk replied. “Are you at least enjoying yourself there? It’ll be good for you to make friends, sweetheart. You don’t get much social interaction other than me and the villagers, after all.”

“I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to get a ride home,” you said insistently, but your voice was weak, and Mihawk clearly didn’t believe you. Your mind wandered back to Zoro—the firm muscle of his body, the hushed tone he spoke in, and you found your face pinkening. “One of them—one of them wants to kill you. That’s his entire life’s purpose. To murder you.”

“I think you’re being a tad bit broad, darling,” Mihawk said with a click of his tongue. “You seem rather enamored with this particular young swordsman. Something to say?”

“I—” your words fumbled in your mouth, and you were certain you were entirely pink now, the sun’s glowing rays only making your face warmer than it was rapidly turning. “Stop. I’m hanging up now.”

Mihawk’s voice was tastefully dry when he responded. “I’m sure.”

“Shut up, old man,” you grumbled.

“Right. Remember the rule, dear,” Mihawk trilled, and despite his voice being as monotone as ever, you could still identify the undertones of it—laced with syrupy mocking, all teasing and dramatic. “No dating unless he can beat you in combat!”

You actually did hang up this time, practically tearing the den den mushi out of your ear. You huffed out an irritated breath, rubbing a circle into the shell of your snail as an apology just a moment later. “Sorry,” you murmured. “My dad’s a bitch.”

The snail just let out a little grumble in response. You tucked it back into its case and snapped the phone shut.

“Aw, we’re not allowed to say hi?” You spun around at the new voice, glaring upon seeing Sanji and Luffy having joined Usopp in his eavesdropping. Sanji bore a gigantic grin on his face. “Sounded like an interesting conversation.”

“None of you know what boundaries are,” you muttered, but it was light-hearted.

You didn’t see Zoro until suppertime, a fact that rang odd in your head. It seemed like he’d completely evaporated from the ship, disappearing around every corner as you spent the rest of the day getting to know the rest of the crew better. Something had happened, but you weren’t exactly sure what—and you weren’t exactly sure if you were close enough to him to even ask, yet.

Sanji had cooked up a dinner so fine you doubted it could even quality as ship food. From your time traveling with your father, rations on-board hadn’t been much of anything—a few scraps of bread or dried meat, old apples, perhaps some fish if you were lucky. Mihawk hadn’t the biggest priority on eating well, but the Straw Hat crew seemed to have the exact opposite opinion. You were served a bowl of miso soup along with a bowl of rice, and dishes of tofu and oyster sauce stir-fried vegetables were carefully laid out all across the table.

“Bon appétit,” Sanji said, taking a half-bow before slipping into the last seat around the table. “I hope it’s to your liking. Yours especially, Lady Dracule.” He gave you a little wink at that. You just stared at him.

“I thought I told you my name.”

“Well, you did, but I thought Lady Dracule had a nice ring to it.”

“It doesn’t,” you said. Nami stifled a snort, the hand not holding her chopsticks coming up to cover her mouth. Sanji didn’t look the slightest bit dissuaded. You turned your attention on Zoro, who hadn’t spoken a word throughout the whole meal. He was rather studiously focused on his bowl, eyes picking apart the grains of rice like they’d reveal the world’s greatest secrets.

Carefully, you leaned towards Nami, voice coming out in a hushed whisper. “Is he okay?”

“He gets like that sometimes,” Nami answered, her words drowned out by Usopp and Luffy’s cheerful conversation. “Nobody can crack him except for Luffy. I’d just leave him be.”

“You don’t know why?”

Nami just shrugged. “Hell, we’re all depressed sometimes. Not within my rights to question him.”

You nodded, but your gaze didn’t move away from Zoro’s figure. There was a particular squeezing sensation deep in your chest—a little flip-flop thing, a sort of panging you couldn’t quite place. He glanced up, dark eyes meeting yours for just a fraction of a second. But he didn’t flinch away. He just returned your gaze, strong and unblinking.

To your surprise, Zoro was the first to look away, craning his neck to study his bowl again and continuing on like your extended bout of eye contact hadn’t even happened. You watched him, dumbstruck, until Nami nudged you in the shoulder. The rest of the group’s idle chatter had died down, and Usopp and Sanji were staring at you, low murmurs falling out of their mouths. You cleared your throat, finally dropping your gaze from the green-haired swordsman and attempting to ignore the fact everyone had caught you staring.

You didn’t do much of anything after supper—you just returned to your cabin, carefully walking across the creaking boards of the ship. Luffy assigned you mid watch, so you had a few hours to sleep before waking up at midnight to look out for any enemies.

You couldn’t find yourself falling asleep even after you’d slipped into bed. You’d changed, a loose blouse light against your skin, black silk shorts grazing your thighs. It was cold out, so you shrugged on a robe as you headed out into the darkness of the Going Merry. You emerged out on the deck, taking in a breath of the night air as you glanced to see who had the night watch.

Just your luck. It was Zoro.

He seemed tranquil, lounging across a hammock with his white sword—the Wado Ichimonji—cradled in his arms. In the dim light you couldn’t see if his eyes were open or closed, but as you got closer, he cracked one of them open, a gleam reflecting off his right iris. “Hi,” you said, moving over to the side of the ship to watch the waves on the water.

Zoro didn’t deign to respond, so you just stood there, watching the sea lap at the side of the ship until eventually the hour struck twelve. Zoro left soundlessly. You stayed awake all throughout your watch until Usopp came to relieve you of your duties.

Zoro was avoiding you.

A few days had passed since you first boarded the Going Merry. They hadn’t been of much interest—just days of practicing with your sword and chatting with the crew, for the most part. You helped around the ship, completing various tasks apparently none of the members knew or cared enough to do. You were just emerging from the bilge, having done basic maintenance to ensure everything was working properly, when you bumped into him. The man was apparently taking a nap, though you couldn’t figure out why the storage area was a very good place to sleep. Still, he seemed comfortable enough, long body splayed along a grouping of crates.

“Hi,” you said, for what seemed like the hundredth time over a few days. Zoro just averted his gaze and let out a little grunt in response. You stared at him for a moment. The realization had dawned on you ever since the first day, but it was growing more and more apparent, and you were baffled as to what you’d done to incur the silent treatment.

“Hi,” you repeated, more purposefully this time.

“Hey,” Zoro said, though the word was clearly bitter in his mouth. You propped your hands on your hips and stared down at him.

“You’re avoiding me.”

Zoro closed his eyes, expression not even changing. “You’re not that special.”

“Ever since we fought that one time, you’ve been ignoring me,” you barreled on, entirely ignoring his quip. Zoro cocked a brow, eyes still closed, and you glared down at it. “I’d like to know why.”

“Why do you care? We’re not friends.”

“Isn’t it natural to want to know why someone is mad at you?” you demanded, perplexed. Zoro sighed then, shifting around on his boxes.

“I’m not mad at you.” You heaved out a sigh even more irritated than Zoro’s. Your experience in the realm of dealing with close-lipped men’s personal issues was, unfortunately, rather well-seasoned. You’d had to coax situations out of your father, one hand pressed against Yoru’s hilt to prevent Mihawk from lashing out his frustrations rather than explaining them. But that didn’t mean you were all too fond of it.

“Okay, well, why else would you be ignoring me then?”

Zoro’s response was annoyingly frank. “It’s not really any of your business.”

You pursed your lips, trying to suppress the irritated noise that threatened to burst from your throat. “I don’t like being on bad terms with people,” you started. “If I did something to piss you off, I’d very much like it if you—”

The floor slipped out from underneath you before you could finish your sentence. You fell with a graceless clatter, lurching forward into the stack of crates Zoro was leaning on, words dying on your tongue. The entire boat trembled, quivering from side to side as if the ocean waves had suddenly propelled a thousand more ripples at its surface.

Zoro sat immediately up, one hand pushing you off of him as he scrambled off the crates. “What was that?”

“I don’t—” Just a moment after regaining your balance, there was another dull thud and a row of quivers. You remained steady this time, glancing carefully around you before you and Zoro were both hurrying up towards the ship deck. The Going Merry was in chaos when you emerged, Nami at the helm while Sanji was firing up a cannon beside her.

“What’s going on?” you demanded, the tails of your coat lapping around your calves as you hurried up besides Luffy.

“Pirates,” Luffy said grimly, nodding towards a ship that was quickly gaining on you. “They blew through the stern railing. Do any of you recognize the jolly roger?”

You glanced up, taking in the billowing sail boasting a pure-white jolly roger with a top hat and mustache. “Nope. These things are getting more and more ridiculous,” you muttered.

“Yeah,” Luffy agreed, affronted. “Ours is way better.”

You turned your gaze up at the Straw Hat crew’s aforementioned jolly roger. “...No comment.”

“We can’t outrun them!” Nami shouted from her place at the helm. Sanji had successfully nailed a cannonball into the railing of the oncoming ship, but they had a dozen more men. “I’m going to try to get closer. Best chance we have is one-on-one combat.” She turned to fix the small grouping with a glare. “Don’t just stand there. Get to it!”

You launched into action, hurrying to climb up the rigging to get a better view as Nami veered hard to starboard. The enemy ship had dropped their cannons, and you could see them preparing to board the Merry, grabbing onto loose ropes of rigging. “They’re going to swing over,” you reported, watching as the ship tilted in your direction, gaining on you. “I see maybe two or three dozen men.”

You hesitated, glancing around at the rather stationary crew around you. Your lip tugged between your teeth, and you stood there for a moment, unspoken words heavy on your tongue. You could see the captain yelling out orders on the ship across from you, and you turned abruptly, fixing Sanji with a look.

“Sanji, trade with Usopp. I want you to nail a cannon at their port stern.”

“W—What? Me?” Usopp stuttered. You nodded.

“I want Sanji on the frontlines. That should be close enough now.” You gazed out at the rapidly thinning gap between the two ships. One final cannonball whizzed towards, and you ducked, watching as it just brushed the side of the Merry. The ship rocked, and you tightened your grip on the rigging, satisfied to see it’d barely left a mark.

“They’re coming over,” Sanji reported, and you nodded, sliding Hiru out from your scabbard as enemy pirates started swinging over on ropes. Luffy was the first to react, an arching, rubbery limb catching one of them midair and yanking them down into the ocean. Boots thudded on the ground as the enemy pirates landed aboard the Going Merry.

“Time for a fight,” Zoro murmured, barely audible from your left. You jumped down from the rigging, sword coming down to crash against one of the enemy pirates. He reacted slowly, pistol cocking towards your chest—but you just brushed it to the side with Hiru, cutting it straight out his hand and following up with a flurry of sword thrusts.

Besides you, you saw Sanji sliding into battle, spinning on his palms to deliver a mean right hook to someone’s jawbone. An audible crack pierced the air, and you winced, breezing backwards on your feet as two pirates closed in on you.

Luffy seemed to have engaged in a one-on-one with the enemy captain, who was easily identifiable due to the gigantic top hat perched upon his head. He had thick black hair tied neatly back in a ponytail, and a mustache and beard to match. A thick cutlass was tightened in one fist, thrusted towards Luffy—but every sweep was dodged with unbelievable bends of the torso.

You turned your attention away, whipping your sword at the pirates that surrounded you. Hiru clashed with their blades, gleaming silver scraping against theirs. You leaned forward, and the blade before you broke with the pressure, sword snapping under Hiru’s will.

The sword dropped out of the pirate’s hand, and you took the opportunity to pull your leg up, kicking him squarely in the jaw. The other lunged for you, and your fist dug into their torso, hands gripping tight to their belt. You bent over, twisting into his body to push him over your shoulder in a sweeping throw.

He fell to the floor all in one, and you landed a kick to his chest just to ensure he wouldn’t get up again. Another man—bigger, this time, probably half your width and inches taller—gunned for you.

You sidestepped him easily, agility tilting in your favor as you escaped his grasp. It was harder to take this one down—while you could dodge him well enough, and parry his oncoming attacks, he was simply too strong to compete with. Strength isn’t everything, little hawk, Mihawk would always tell you. Everyone has a weakness. Get them off balance. Use your points.

The man delivered a stinging left hook to your torso, and you gasped. He took the opportunity to grab onto your wrist, grip so tight you couldn’t move your hand. Hiru clattered out from between your fingers. You directed a hit with your elbow towards the pirate’s sternum, but it was oddly-placed, and he just sneered down at you.

One of his large fists rose to thud against your skull, and you braced for impact, but the blow never landed. A warm squishing sound of a sword against skin made your entire body shudder, and you turned to stare as your assailant’s head slid cleanly off of his neck.

Zoro was behind him when his body collapsed, sword slick with blood as he spun it lazily around in a hand. “Careful,” he said.

You gaped up at him for merely a second more before you realized your jaw was ajar. You flushed, bending over to fish Hiru up from the floor. “I was fine.”

Zoro just thrust his sword cleanly into the torso of an incoming pirate, eyes not breaking away from yours. He slid it out with a sickening sound, flicking the blood off the blade with a motion of his hand. “A thank you might be nice.”

“Behind you,” you said instead, but Zoro was already reacting. You watched him, an incurable sigh perched on the tip of your tongue. He was good. He was really, really good, and you didn’t know how to feel about it. “Is that most of them?”

“I think—” Zoro cut himself off, glancing over his shoulder as you both hear the familiar yell of Luffy’s voice screaming out one of his final moves. You both watched, soundless, as his foot smashed into the top hat pirate’s face, flinging him all the way across the water straight into the mast of his own ship. Only mere seconds later did the mast crack, the wooden pole falling down in a glorious, wooden heap.

“...Yeah, we’re fine.” Zoro said. He leaned down, grabbing the shirt of one of the fallen pirates to wipe his blade with before sliding it back in its scabbard. “Let’s get out of here.”

“On it.” Nami snapped her bo staff closed—when she’d jumped down into the battle, you were unsure, but she was already returning to her place at the helm. “Toss these bodies off our boat, would you, Zoro?”

“Right.” Zoro bent over, easily picking up the fallen pirate and chucking the corpse overboard without another thought. You watched him the entire time, the strain of his biceps against his skin forming solid ridges up his arms.

“I can clean your swords,” you said, words a bit too late out of your mouth. Zoro glanced up, brow creased. “While you’re doing that.”

Zoro looked uncertain, but he unstrapped the scabbards from his hip, handing the twin katanas to you. You took them, glancing over his figure again. He moved with difficulty, and while you’d originally thought that was because of the bodies’ weight, you now saw the real reason. Lines of crimson were seeping through his shirt, a pool by the left side of his lower abdomen the biggest injured site. You took an involuntary step forward. “You’re hurt.”

“I can treat them later,” Zoro said dismissively. “Gotta clean up the Merry first.”

“No, mosshead, the lady is right,” Sanji said. You startled, not having noticed him slip up beside you. “Usopp and I can manage with waste control, eh?” He winked. “Go clean up.”

Zoro glared at him, the look dripping with malice, but he didn’t argue past that. “Fine,” he said, chucking another body—this one alive—off the side of the ship before straightening. You heard the hitch in his breath as he spoke, along with the near-imperceptible wince of his face. “You good, Luffy?”

“A little hungry,” Luffy responded truthfully. He was still watching the other ship. Fire had started aboard it, and soft billows of black smoke drifted in the air. “Can you cook something up later, Sanji?”

“Got it,” Sanji said. “Tell your first mate to patch up his wound before he bleeds out all over our beautiful deck.”

“The deck isn’t beautiful, it’s got blood and guts all over it,” Zoro muttered.

“Well, have a little respect and don’t add to the mess.” Sanji fixed him with a stern look. Zoro bared his teeth at him in a grimace, extracting a sharp little laugh out of your throat. His eyes brushed over yours, a glimmer of surprise dancing in his irises, before he ducked inside.

“Why are you following me?” Zoro asked flatly, as you entered the cabin he’d gone into. You’d hastened to keep up with him, only a few steps behind before finding the room he’d gone into. Zoro had propped himself up on the hanging bed, loosening the ties of his wrap shirt to expose his bare chest.

“I was wondering if you needed any help with your wounds.” You deposited Zoro’s swords, along with Hiru, on the table in the room, moving closer to him to survey the scene. “If you wanted it.”

Zoro’s gaze met yours, and he said nothing for a moment. “First aid kit’s over there,” he finally said, nodding to the table. You moved towards it, opening up the small box to expose supplies of bandages, needles, stitch string, and disinfectant inside. You carried the box over to the bed, sanitizing your hands before carefully parting the folds of Zoro’s shirt. The cloth stuck to skin, coagulating blood making the shirt peel rather than move. Now that his entire torso was bared, though, you could fully inspect his wounds. There were still bandages from Yoru’s cut, all dirtied up now from his other injuries—you’d have to take them off and re-dress them, so he’d be in the bed for thirty minutes at least.

You turned your attention to the cut by Zoro’s abdomen, deciding it was the most important thing to focus on. The cut wasn’t too deep, but it was gushing a steady flow of blood, and you picked up a towel to press against the wound. “Hold,” you instructed, and Zoro’s fingers brushed against yours as he took a hold of the cloth. “Thanks. I’ve got to take your bandages off, then I’ll clean and dress all the wounds. That one down there might need stitches.”

“How do you know how to do this?” Zoro asked, watching as you unwrapped the previous bandages from around his chest. You were careful to touch his skin as little as possible, distracting yourself with the blood and gauze.

“My dad,” you answered. You’d spent too many late nights patching up a wound Mihawk had brushed off as unimportant, only to wind up bleeding out on your couch. Zoro raised a brow.

“Dracule Mihawk gets injured?”

“Of course he does,” you said with a huff. “Don’t be stupid. He’s a man, just like the rest of you.” The gash from Yoru had fully scabbed over, revealing a long, trembling crust of dark ochre. You finished peeling off all the bandages, and cast them to the side.

“You know a lot.”

“Jack of all trades, master of none,” you quipped. You moved away from the desk to fill a bucket with warm water, dipping a cloth into it and squeezing out the excess. You dabbed around Yoru’s scab with the cloth, careful not to break the shell while still cleaning it of any extra gunk. Then you focused on flushing out the other wounds, wiping across his skin and getting all the little nicks on his chest and arms. Zoro didn’t say a word, but you could feel his eyes boring into your skull, watching you with a hardened intensity that made your insides churn.

You nudged his hand away, examining the big cut. The rag he was holding had filled up with blood, white cotton dyed red and sodden with liquid. Thankfully, the bleeding seemed to have lessened. You wiped up all the last of it with your towel, swiping it against the pills of blood that had caught along the waistband of his trousers. Zoro hissed as you came into contact with the wound. “Sorry,” you murmured.

“Why are you apologizing?”

You frowned at that. “Because it hurt?”

“I thought you were mad at me,” Zoro said stiffly. You raised your brows. “Since… you thought I was annoyed at you, or whatever.”

“Just because you feel a certain kind of way towards me doesn’t mean I reciprocate the same feelings,” you answered, setting aside your towel after deciding everything had been cleaned out well enough. You picked up another cloth, dabbing this one with some alcohol to disinfect the wound. “This is going to sting,” you warned.

Zoro’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding against each other as you flushed out the wound. His torso clenched, and your eyes fell across his exposed midriff, watching the tight skin that was seemingly sculpted into muscles. You glanced away just a moment later, a dusting of warmth brushing over your cheeks. “On that topic,” you hastened to say, trying to distract yourself from the half-naked man in front of you, “Why were you avoiding me?”

Zoro let out a sigh, the sound stuttered as he clenched his jaw again when you brushed your towel against his wound. You waited, taking out a fresh cloth to dab at the other nicks on his body. You examined the wound near his left side again. “Stitches.”

“Great,” Zoro muttered. You ignored him, searching in the kit for some needle and thread. “Can you take the stitches out from your dad’s yet?”

“Ha ha. You’re going to need those for a few more weeks,” you said, without even looking at the scab to check. “Ask me again later. Yoru cuts are deadly.”

Zoro let his eyes flutter closed. “It’s a great sword.”

“Yeah, it is,” you said. You paused from where you were threading the needle, glancing up at Zoro’s face now that you knew he couldn’t catch you staring. He looked so peaceful in this state, eyelashes splayed along his cheeks, dark umber freckles that you hadn’t noticed before splattered across his face. There were dozens of them, skin sun-worn and bearing the marks as proof—constellations of dark brown stars, so similar to his warm, glowing skin it was easy to miss. A five-o’-clock shadow traced around his mouth, and at his left ear, his golden earrings gleamed bright.

“I don’t feel anything,” Zoro said, and you snapped out of your reverie, fingers fumbling to finish threading your needle.

“Patience is a virtue, you know,” you hissed. Zoro snorted.

“Yeah, one I don’t have.” You rolled your eyes, tying off the string and bending down to examine the cut again. It wasn’t too wide—maybe five or six stitches at most. You gave Zoro no warning except for the light brush of your fingers against the wound, and he hissed again.

You glanced up. “Do you want something to bite on?”

“I’m not a toddler,” Zoro sneered. You mouthed his words mockingly, though you didn’t actually speak them, not wanting him to catch you doing such an immature action. You fixed your gaze back on the wound, free hand resting flat against Zoro’s abdomen to steady you—his skin was warm under your palm, and you expected him to say something, but to your surprise, he didn’t even flinch.

The first puncture came carefully. Zoro hissed, the sound of a low rumble in his throat as you felt his abdomen clench under your palm. You forced yourself to continue, pulling the thread fully through the skin before moving onto the other side of the wound. You did it again, carefully to keep the string untangled as it ran through Zoro’s flesh.

“It wasn’t because I was mad at you,” Zoro said abruptly, and you paused, glancing up to look at Zoro’s face. His eyes were still closed, brows contorted tight and mouth bared down into a grimace. “Don’t stop. I wasn’t avoiding you because I was angry. Or because of anything you did.”

“Why, then?” you asked, lowering your head to continue with your stitches. Zoro took in a sharp breath at the next one, the edges of a scream cutting into his breath but not fully escaping from his throat. You were rubbing a comforting circle into his stomach before you could stop yourself—muscle memory from patching up your dad’s wounds. You swallowed hard, but didn’t stop the motions—Zoro didn’t seem offended by them.

His voice was raggedy when he spoke again. “Fighting against you. It reminded me of—my friend, from back then. I told you about her.”

Your lips pursed, but you didn’t stall your actions, running the thread through the hole you’d pricked. “The one you made the promise to?”

“Yeah,” Zoro said, the word falling out all in one breath. You fixed the string tight along the wound, fingers splayed across his stomach warning him for the next puncture. He continued speaking despite it, and your needle hovered over his skin. “We were training together—fuck.”

“Sorry,” you said again, still running your thread through his skin as he heaved out a long, ragged groan from low in his throat.

“We were training together,” he repeated. “Haven’t done that in a while with a girl. So it—” His voice tapered off in another breathy groan. “Reminded me of her. I got bitchy.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” you said. You were getting close to the end of the wound now, but your actions slowed, just to keep him talking—the words came out all harsh and hesitant, and you got the feeling speaking about his past was a laborious task. Might as well let him have the safety of avoiding your eyes like this while he spoke. “Do I look like her or something?”

Zoro huffed out a laugh. “Ha. No.”

“Okay,” you said. You pierced his skin again—he took this one better, muscles clenching as he sucked in hard. You waited until you finished the stitch to speak again. “Are you going to keep avoiding me?”

“No,” Zoro said. His words pierced the air, weighed heavy with a gasp of pain and a hiss, but it still rang sharp in your ears. He eased out a breath, long and soft. “It was unfair. Can’t help it sometimes, that’s all.”

“That’s fine,” you answered carefully. You threaded one last stitch, both of you mute as you tightened the wound closed with the suture and tied it off. You snipped the string with a pocketknife, using another damp towel to clean up any of the excess blood. “I’m going to dress everything with bandages now. Almost done.”

“Okay,” Zoro said. You reorganized your supplies, tucking away your stitching things to replace with bandages and dressing pads. You washed your hands again, then returned to bend over Zoro’s torso. When you did, you were surprised to see Zoro’s eyes had opened, soft brown irises boring into yours. You swallowed, feeling the burn of his gaze into your skin as you stared at the skin of his midsection.

“I’ll do the big one first, then everything else,” you said carefully. You worked in silence, pressing a dressing pad along the wound and tying it off with some gauze to fix it in place. You moved around his body, bandaging up any cuts you deemed worthy until you finally were left with Yoru’s cut.

It stretched the entire expanse of his torso, from shoulder to hip. It’d been well done, the cut deep but not deep enough to kill as long as someone was fast enough with treatment. You recognized the shape of the cut, the very tip of it thin before Yoru’s mouth caught the skin with the center of his blade. “He did it like this on purpose?” Zoro asked.

“Yeah,” you said. “He’s methodical with most things.” You wrapped gauze around the scab, tightening it up and then finally tying it off by his hip. “I’d keep that on for a few days before replacing it. Keep dressing it for another two weeks or so. It’ll probably start swelling soon, so I can help you drain whatever fluid develops.”

“I’ll let you know,” Zoro said. He was still watching you with those big brown eyes, and a soft shiver traced down your spine. “Thank you.”

“Thank you for saving me from that pirate earlier,” you said. You surveyed him again, though you were careful not to meet his eyes. A long silence filled the space, heavy with something you couldn’t quite place. You ducked your head, busying yourself with putting away the first aid kit. The words fell from your mouth before you could stop them— “I like your earrings.”

“Oh,” Zoro said. Nothing else.

You were pretty sure you liked more than the earrings. You liked the way he fought, even if it scared you sometimes—even if you knew one day he’d probably be able to beat your father. You liked his face; those big brown eyes, soulless at times but holding the world in those glistening irises at others. Those freckles, adorned with the entire galaxy, stars and planets and constellations dotting his cheeks like a mural of life. The way he talked, soft-spoken but utterly real, voice low in his throat, words disturbingly honest.

You didn’t say so, though. You stuck with the earrings, because those were safer.

pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3

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#opla zoro #opla roronoa zoro #opla #roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #roronoa zoro x you #reader insert #x reader #one piece live action #one piece netflix #one piece live action x you #one piece live action x reader #opla fanfic #opla fanfiction #dracule mihawk #opla zoro x reader #kiki writes!

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syoddeye · 2 months

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spoils

poly 141....sort of x reader 1.2k words lightly edited cw: kidnapping, non-consensual touching not my most creative title, apologies 2024/04/01 Update: This series is now Poly141! x transmasc!Reader.

"You'll be joining us tonight."

A decree, not an invitation. Not something to be refused or challenged, like the man who proclaimed it.

When you emerge from the forced bath, freshly washed and groomed by the hands of insistent strangers, your clothes are gone. The ones they left are ridiculous. Nothing you would ever wear. The material, the fastenings, the embellishments - impractical, flimsy, made to be torn away. You note the many warnings that comprise the ensemble.

Unwieldy, draping fabric. It skims the floor, requiring you to hitch it up to walk steady.

No footwear. Difficult to run on gravel and dirt on bare feet, should you make it that far.

Layers of noisy, dangling necklaces and bracelets. Might as well wear a bell with a collar.

Mute, placid faces escort you to the dining hall. A silence falls over the crowded table, stretching from one end of the grand space to the other. Your reception is mixed. Uncertainty, hatred, disinterest - unbridled want, being the most disturbing.

A man near the head of the table, hair cut into a mohawk, menaces you with a grin you feel scraping against your ribs. Across from him, another man, the one who found you, is more surreptitious with his interest, smirking, hiding teeth no doubt as sharp as his companion's.

A hand at your back nudges. You take measured steps toward him, helming the table with a pleased, smug smile. Your skin still sings from earlier, your first escape attempt, radiating with each inch you cross.

As you draw nearer, you falter. There is no chair left for you. Your eyes flick up, finally meeting his, and your stomach churns with realization. His eyes crease in amusement, and he leans back to pat a thigh.

The expectation is unmistakable, and it is nearly enough to send you screaming and shrieking from the room despite the futility.

A silent order, degrading and humiliating.

Swallowing hard, you lift your chin to continue your slow march, but the sudden movement of the mohawked man makes you jerk to the side, giving an even wider berth to the row of men. He turns in his seat to rake his eyes up your figure, licking his lip when he makes it to your face. The masked man beside him reaches over, grabs the lech by the neck, and corrects him, muttering some scolding.

You hesitate in front of your intended seat. The blue eyes of your captor are too blithesome for the circumstances. Though, he has reason to celebrate. You turn and reluctantly sit, barely putting weight on his limb, only for a broad hand to pull you further onto the meat of his thigh, settling you by snaking an arm to belt you in place.

Dozens of witnesses watch you wince and hiss as he adjusts you again, closer to the table. The hand of the arm bracing you slips into an open slit of the clothes you wear, one you hadn't known existed, and digs into your plush thigh. His hand is cold and makes you shiver.

You know he feels your trembling and twitching with your back to his chest as you register every one of his subtle movements. His excitement.

With a gesture, dinner and conversation resume. For most of the table, it was as if you weren't even there.

"Pour for us," John purrs into your ear, nosing your temple as he grabbed a short glass, indicating a decanter within reach.

It takes effort to calm your shaking hand. Leaning forward slightly, unable to avoid pushing your bottom against John's leg firmly, you lift the decanter and ignore the quiet groan behind you. The man who scruffed his associate watches like a hawk.

The meal proceeds. John's focus returns to some discussion with the man who found you – Kyle, you learn – regarding some operation or directive. When you shift, seeking comfort for your abused skin, John's grip pulses meanly.

"Eat," He whispers when you don't touch the food. There's only one plate in front of you, and you assumed it was for John. But at his command, you take a fork and eat. Each bite is a mechanical function, each swallow from fear instead of hunger.

Eventually, John plucks a piece of food off the shared plate and offers it directly to your lips. He tests you with a bit of bread first, pushing it firmly to your closed mouth when it refuses to open, then presses it to your tongue. It's awkward and uncomfortable, his fingers lingering, hooking over your bottom lip. You set the fork down after he feeds you three times. It sickens you, the relief you feel when you squeeze his arm when you hit your limit, full and finished, and he stops.

"So well behaved now," John muses aloud. "Just needed a little care and a meal." Quiet laughter rumbles in crude agreement among the men closest to him. "To think we almost ransomed you. Too pretty a thing to give back, I think."

You lift your face, chest tightening, and find three sets of eyes staring back. One at a time, they slip past you to John. His head ducks, mouth pressing to your cheek. "S'pose I ought to share the spoils…What about Kyle? He usually keeps his hands to himself."

Kyle's eyes narrow and his fingers curl tight around his glass.

"Could give MacTavish a turn. He leaves teeth marks though."

The man with the mohawk simpers, nose flaring. He sets a thick arm on the table and leans toward you, fork in hand.

A frightened whimper crawls up your throat, and without thinking, you press back into John, whose hand squeezes your thigh. You feel his chuckle before you hear it.

"No? Too scary? Simon's not much better…"

The last man, a beast in black, sits as still as a statue. However, his eyes, two black pits, bore into you, and the fabric of his mask shifts when you don't immediately look away.

John's hand slides out of your clothes to your waist, seemingly preparing you to transfer to Simon, and you scramble, grabbing at his arm, protest caught in your mouth.

"No?" John rumbles with feigned surprise, the return of his rapacious grip underscoring it. His hand glides down to the curve of your ass. "Want to stay with me, pet?"

You are not about to give him the satisfaction of an answer, even if it's obvious. You fix your eyes to the plate of scraps, afraid to look at the rest of the table that, like you, has gone silent.

John kisses the crown of your head. "Quiet thing. We'll go upstairs soon, and I'll make up for earlier." He taps the side of your thigh hard enough to agitate the sore flesh.

You bite back your dissent. No point.

The meal resumes with dessert, and you lick the cream from his finger, suffering his whispered praises. His subordinates openly stare. You can't say for certain if any of them are more palatable than another, but you can't bring yourself to regret your 'choice'.

After all, the devil you know is better than the ones you don't.

#poly 141 #kind of #if you squint #x reader #poly 141 x reader #poly 141 x you #x gn reader #john price x reader #john price x you #price x you #price x reader #how was reader kidnapped? found? taken? rescued?#where are they??#how well does reader know price??#i simply want to write unsettling things

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ivystoryweaver · 11 months

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With You part 3

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Summary: Jake Lockley has finally met you. What does he think of you, and will he, or Marc, give you any answers?

Pairings: Marc Spector x reader, Jake Lockley x reader (implied Steven Grant x reader). Gender neutral reader. No use of Y/N. Reader is engaged to Marc and Steven.

Word Count: 3k

Warnings/notables: Angst, comfort, references to drinking and alcoholism but it doesn’t happen here, sex but the language is not explicit and no gender-specific body parts mentioned, nightmare, brief crying, cursing, assumptions, longing, feeling inadequate, Khonshu is mean here yall, somebody hug marc spector. Let me know if I missed a warning. Probably inaccurate DID, based on the show.

Dividers by saradika

PREVIOUSLY, on “With You”...

Jake could live without Marc and Steven knowing about him. He’d lived that way all this time, but you were something else. He hadn’t wanted to meet you like this. He had screwed up, and now you were only worried about Marc. He was worried too, honestly.

Now you would never want to know him.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Jake decided, by which he was effectively deciding to do nothing. He may be able to eliminate the vilest creatures under night’s shadow, but trying to explain to you that he was the reason your fiancé obliterated his sobriety...

Jake didn’t fear anything. In fact, as the streets of London descended from depraved men to monstrous supernatural threats, he relished his role as Khonshu’s vengeful fist. Someone had to do it, and Jake was suited to the task.

A creature of the night, he savored the quiet, cool leather interior of his car as much as the dingy London air whipping through his white cape. And the more challenging his vicious foes, the more Jake reveled in it. He protected people. That was his sole purpose.

Including Marc and Steven.

So the fact that he somehow missed Marc tossing back a bottle of whiskey and upsetting you in the process, well - if he couldn’t protect you and his alters, then he had no reason to exist.

So, time for bed. He would fade into darkness and you would get back who you really wanted.

Reaching to scoop up each item of clothing he had discarded, with none of this explained aloud to you, he turned to flee.

“Wait,” you pleaded, blocking his pathway out of the bedroom, your hands reaching out to push back gently against the pile in his arms. His gaze fell on yours - open, yet unreadable. Not menacing, but not to be bothered. His eyes didn’t flicker away like Marc’s. He stared you down, waiting.

“Just wait a second, Jake,” you found yourself whispering, a bit transfixed. “Where do you usually sleep?”

Lips parting in anticipation, your heart did some clichéd somersaulting as he tore his eyes from yours and nodded to your bed.

“You sleep with me?” You clarified, dumbfounded.

Dark eyes flickered momentarily down to your mouth. His tongue swiped over the fullness of his bottom lip before dragging it between his teeth.

“I sleep with you.”

The rich timbre of his voice electrified you.

“Only so you can wake up with them.”

Air rushed out of you in a mildly dramatic exhale. What was this man doing to you?

“Please,” you whispered, unsure of what you were even asking him. Mostly, you didn’t want to be without them. You had waited all night, terrified. “Don’t go. I was so worried.”

Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Jake nodded once. He knew what you needed, and it wasn’t him.

Ten minutes later, after what was, for you, an unbearable silence, Jake climbed into bed with you. Having washed up and making his well-fitting ensemble disappear somehow (where did he keep his clothes?), he decided on Steven’s soft pajamas. The sleeves sagged adorably, covering his hands, but Jake’s fingers didn’t fidget like his alter’s.

How many times had he done this? Pretended to be them? And were you okay with it? Was it even really your business? It was his body too.

The lights remained off from before, allowing you the cover of darkness to ease under the blankets, as if acting in a play.

If Marc were with you, he would pull your back against his chest, folding you close until either your body relaxed, or until his lips breathed salacious words on your ear while his hand slipped between your legs. Either that, or he would bury his face in your tummy, the way he had done that morning. That, too, often ended up with him between your legs.

For Steven, it was the crook of your neck, latched on to you like a koala. After years of sleeping poorly, or trying his damndest to stay awake and not “sleepwalk”, nothing soothed him more than your soft skin and reassuring arms. He marvelously discovered that, with you, he had no trouble falling asleep at all. For Steven, the mornings were when he needed you most. The two of you would race to the bathroom, playfully fighting over who would freshen up first before tumbling back into bed, where he would be sure to end up between your legs.

But here, now, Jake was a statue.

You were Marc and Steven’s whole world. Jake knew he had fucked up enough for one week. There was no way he was moving one millimeter in this bed. Hopefully, the warm surge in this heart would settle to the soothing sound of your breathing. That was his balm - you were his anchor. After the cracking of bones and the wailing of night’s creatures deafening his ears - the gentle rise and fall of your chest in the night was his lullaby.

But he didn’t dare touch you. You weren’t his.

Sometimes you attached yourself to him the night, or maybe he only dreamed that you did. He was never him when sleep ended.

Feeling the tension rolling off you, the urge to somehow alleviate your worries taunted him. But he was certain he didn’t even possess the ability to soothe, only to punish.

So he said nothing. He did nothing. He waited for sleep.

“Jake...” As you turned to him, your sweet voice crawled up his neck, intoxicating him utterly. “Would it be okay if I held your hand?”

The memory of your smooth skin was seared into his memory from the featherlight kiss he’d given your knuckles. He didn’t even hesitate to grasp for you in the dark, tangling his fingers with yours.

Pressing your face to the soft fabric covering his shoulder, you, undeniably realistic you, accepted this real moment. You wanted answers. You wanted a lot of things. He gave you his hand. You took what was here, now.

“I’m glad to know you, Jake,” you whispered, your heavy eyes sliding closed, despite everything. Squeezing his fingers, and swiping your thumb softly along his, you added, “I hope you’ll come back to me soon.”

You woke up to a mess of chocolate curls buried in your stomach.

Marc.

Your sweet, tormented angel.

There was a slight chance it wasn’t Marc, but the familiar whimpers of a nightmare gave him away even more than tummy cuddles.

“Shhh,” you soothed, raking your fingernails through his messy waves. “I’ve got you.”

He squeezed you, murmuring, “No,” brokenly before whimpering again. His nightmares weren’t flailing arms and shouts like in films. They were this: soft, pleading mumbles and anguished pleas.

With a sudden change in his breath, he was awake, eyes darting wildly as he climbed his way up your body, hands checking you frantically.

“Right here, baby,” you murmured, eyes soft and full of love. He looked so broken, you wanted to cry, while desire simultaneously ripped up your spine. Whatever this man of yours needed, you were going to give him, likely, to your great pleasure and benefit. Win-win.

“You’re here,” he repeated, gathering you in his strong arms as the weight of his body crushed you in the most delicious way. “I dreamed you were gone. You left, or...or someone took you away from me.”

“Never,” you uttered with conviction, pressing your lips to the corner of his jaw, opening your mouth to breathe hotly before kissing a trail to his ear. “I’ll never let that happen. I’ll burn down the whole world first.”

A choked sob erupted from his chest as he whispered your name. Fusing his lips with yours, his fingers gripped your jaw desperately as if he feared you would quite literally slip through them.

Responding to the press of his body like a partner in a well-rehearsed dance, your legs fell open, ready to feel the heat of him consuming you. His mouth hadn’t left yours, but his thick fingers dragged (his) t-shirt up your torso and over your head.

Only then, when your lips parted, did his dark, desperate gaze lock onto yours. “Need you,” he groaned, his voice tinged with the slight beg you associated with Steven.

Surging forward, you met his furious kiss with equal hunger, pushing under his soft pajamas, pulling, dragging until your naked limbs were tangled, pressing and pulling in desperate passion.

“You’re mine,” he growled, deep inside you, claiming you, as if you had any doubt or desire to be apart from him. “He can’t h-have you. I won’t let him.”

You were oddly turned on by the idea that maybe he sounded jealous of Jake, who had merely held your hand in the dark.

He didn’t mean Jake.

In fact, he wasn’t even aware you’d held an audience with his mysterious alter.

No, he meant the twisted, deceitful, formidable Egyptian god of the moon, to whom he remained enslaved. The one who took you away in his dream.

The things Marc was doing to your body - you could barely think straight. Your back arched in pleasure, your fingers clawing at the sculpted muscles of his back, desperate to somehow bring him even closer to you.

“I’m yours,” you gasped, realizing with the deep moan that followed, that you didn’t really have control over your voice at this point.

“Mine,” he repeated, as you drowned in him, and he in you.

After a long, hot shower together, filled with salacious kisses and some very naughty handiwork, the two of you finally made it to the kitchen. Just like in bed, you danced around one another with practiced ease, as if perfectly executing the blocking of a play. Your hand reached for the coffee grounds, while he readied the filter. He found the bread while you produced his favorite jam.

Shoulders rubbed and soft smiles were exchanged, eyes longingly dancing, locking and flittering away to the tasks at hand.

“Thank you,” he finally said, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple, “for this morning.”

You almost teased him for thanking you for what you two did quite regularly in bed, but you knew what he meant. Whatever anchor he’d needed this morning, you were it.

Still, you were a cheeky one, as Steven frequently reminded you... “I should be thanking you, baby,” you innocently purred. “That thing you did...when you turned me over, holy shit--”

“Okay, okay,” he laughed out, motioning for you to get back to breakfast, as if he would ever actually order you about. “You and your dirty mind, I swear to god.”

You laughed out delightedly. “That’s rich, Mr. Spector.”

One of his dark eyebrows shot up. “Call me ‘Mr. Spector’ again and I’ll take you right back in there,” he playfully warned.

Tempting.

The toast popped up to interrupt the two of you, giving Marc’s thoughts just enough time to drift back to much more serious matters. He wanted to be with you all day today. He knew Steven had class at uni and you had work - he didn’t care. He needed you to know things.

“Hey, um...” he started, before you could make another quip about Mr. Spector or the bedroom, “I...I meant to tell you...” reaching up to rub the back of his neck, he swallowed nervously. “I--there’s another bottle. In the flat.”

Bracing his hands on the countertop, his head dropped. It was hard to look at you when he thought he might disappoint you. “I wasn’t trying to hide it, I just...that night, I...”

Reaching over, you laid your hand over his, there on the counter’s edge. “Thank you for letting me know. Do you want to tell me where it is?”

His eyes darted over to yours and he swallowed hard. “The low shelf, down by the edge of that old table I haven’t fixed yet.”

Ah yes, the ��don’t throw it out, I can fix it’ project that was cluttering your living room. Steven collected books; Marc collected abandoned, broken things...

“Hm,” you hummed thoughtfully, “Steven’s reading chair is right there. He’s going to figure this out, you know.”

“I know,” Marc quickly responded. “I think I wanted him to. Or you. I don’t know...” He didn’t wait for any sympathy. There was too much to tell you before he completely train wrecked his entire life.

“Something happened,” he pressed on, determined. Then he told you. Head bowed, hands gripping the counter, he explained.

You remained completely still at first, but you noticed that the more you acted normal, the easier it was for him to talk. So you finished the coffee, slathered the toast with jam, and walked everything to the tiny table at the kitchen’s edge, where the two of you loved to share your favorite meal almost every single day.

He had fronted a few days ago. It was dark, cold. He was outside, in an unlit, ominously quiet alley. He didn’t know where he was. Steven wasn’t there with him. He reached for his phone and shook with horror at the white bandage-looking material wrapped around his hands. Realizing his face was covered with a mask, he started to panic when the fabric quickly receded, leaving him gasping.

His body was covered in Moon Knight’s mummified wrap.

“No, no, no, no,” he cried, forgetting, for a moment, that he could simply will the suit away, and clawing at the material instead.

Then he heard it. Him.

“Marc Spector,” the booming voice of Khonshu splintered through his mind, wracking his body with terror.

“No, NO,” Marc shouted, climbing to his feet and pressing his palms into his forehead. “You’re gone. I don’t belong to you anymore!”

He ran, clinging to control of the body, determined not to allow Khonshu anywhere near Steven. Or you.

The old god’s skeletal form appeared on various rooftops, following and taunting Marc, his voice eerie and all consuming, as if the bird were nearly shouting into his ear.

“Run away if you can. This body doesn’t belong to you,” the voice taunted.

“Leave me alone!” Marc shouted, but it came out as more of a whimper, like trying to scream for help in a dream. “We had a deal!” He halted, banging his fists against his head as if it would make the ancient being simply evaporate.

But the spiteful deity scoffed, turning his bony back as if done with the conversation. Turning his menacing beak back toward the puny one in control of his avatar, he replied, “Lockley is mine, and so are you.”

Then he vanished.

Just the relief of the god disappearing urged Marc’s legs forward, stumbling through angry tears until he reached your home. You were at work. He paced the flat, tugging his hands through his hair, desperate to keep Steven in the dark.

“It can’t be,” he gasped, over and over again, trying to convince himself. “We’re free. We made a deal. We’re free.” This overwhelm would normally bring Steven to the front, but Marc held on, pacing himself to exhaustion. He was asleep on the couch by the time you came home.

You woke up to Steven. And while you worked your next shift, he bought the whiskey.

He waited another day to drink it.

“I thought maybe...I wondered if I had completely lost my mind,” he uttered, finishing his story, now seated at the kitchen table.

Easing off your chair, you knelt in front of your fiancé, setting your palms gently on his thighs.

“Don’t say that.”

“No, I mean really,” he went on, his hands covering your own, grasping at your fingers. “I thought...what if all this time, Khonshu was in my head? Like...part of me.”

“Like another alter?” you questioned, peering up at him.

“Maybe. I started wondering about all of this Moon Knight bullshit--if it even really happened. And, now there’s this Lockley...” Trailing off he sighed, defeated.

Okay, progress was happening. Might as well get it all out in the open.

“I met him, you know,” you carefully admitted, smoothing your thumb over his as you waited for his reaction. “Lockley.”

“Shit,” he rasped, gripping your hands desperately. “He was here, with you? What did he say?”

“Not much,” you admitted. “His name is Jake. Jake Lockley. He was here last night.”

“Here in the flat?”

“Yes. Late last night. He came in through the bedroom window like Spider-Man or something. We talked for a minute, he told me his name and then we went to bed. I didn’t really find out that much about him.”

Releasing your fingers, Marc sat up straight in his kitchen chair, his eyes darkening possessively. “He went to bed with you?”

Hm. You could have worded that better. “Marc, I--”

“Did he touch you?” His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck straining as his dark eyes burned turbulently.

“It wasn’t like that,” you protested, quickly climbing up off the ground to stand in front of him. Caressing his face tenderly, you shook your head. “I wanted to talk to him - to see what the hell is going on. He seemed worried about you drinking.”

“You talked to him about that?” Marc pushed off his chair then, pacing across the kitchen and back. “I haven’t even talked to him yet.”

Fair enough.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, it just came out,” you confessed, giving him a little space, while pushing down your urge to grab him. “Jake was about to leave, and I wanted some answers. I wanted you all here with me. He came home so late, Marc, and your phone was dead. I was so fucking scared...”

Your breath hitched as tears clouded your eyes. “You’ve been so upset, and the drinking... Steven doesn’t have any idea what’s going on and then this Jake uses the damn window in the middle of the night and I thought he was going to leave, and go back out in the night, with no phone. I wanted you here, Marc, so...so I asked him to stay. I asked him if he knew what was going on, or why you had been drinking--”

“Okay, baby, okay,” he conceded, reaching for your shoulders to bring you close. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”

The two of you held one another in the middle of your drafty little kitchen, the shared answers between you only raising more questions.

“I think you should talk to Steven,” you suggested gently, “if you feel ready.”

Resting his forehead against yours, he rubbed your back soothingly. “Yeah. And maybe...maybe Jake too.”

tags requested @rivalriotrenegade @wordacadabra

#with you fic #moon knight fic #moon knight fanfiction #moon knight fanfic #marc spector x reader #jake lockley x reader #marc spector x you #jake lockley x you #marc spector x gn!reader #jake lockley x gn!reader #steven grant x reader #marc spector #jake lockley #steven grant #moon knight #mcu #oscar isaac fic #read the warnings

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oepionie · 1 year

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JAZZ NIGHT. draconia & ashengrotto

Sypnosis: Monstro Lounge was hosting a new event! "Jazz Night" where the ramshackle prefect herself was rumoured to perform. Boys flocked to the lounge in droves, eager to hear her sing. Though, it seems that her performance has touched a special someone.

Character/s: Azul Ashengrotto, Malleus Draconia x Fem! Lounge Singer! Reader

Tags: Fluff! Established relationship, Lilia plays the guitar, Azul is so in love with you he nearly faints, The tweels bully tease shy Azul, Malleus holds so much love for you awee, Bitter Sebek, A bit of possessive Mal?

Word Count: 1.5k+ | 💌Masterlist

Tonight, Monstro Lounge was jam-packed with customers. They were all scurrying around the place like lost guppies while looking for open tables.

Warm, vibrant lights illuminated the aquariums, filled with all types of unique vibrant fish. The massive tanks encircled a sizable stage which was outfitted with magnificent decorations and a live band.

A unique promotional night was being hosted. "Jazz Night," a special occasion that the prefect of Ramshackle introduced.

Though the strange 'earth' event wasn't what really drew the massive crowds in. Their curiosity was focused on something else. It was the fact that the prefect herself was going to be performing.

Once that news got out, people practically stormed the lounge, nearly shattering the glass doors and windows down. It was a whole tsunami of students willing to spend their entire life savings just to hear the girl sing. Azul was swimming in money, the happiest he'd ever been in his life.

It took an hour but with everyone finally settled down, the lights dimmed and the live band started playing. All that was left was for the star of the show to come out.

A.A| AZUL ASHENGROTTO:

The velvet folds of red drape curtains parted and you cautiously stepped out, clutching the long skirt of your dress securely in your hands. You were dressed to the nines in a dazzling purple evening gown paired with matching shell earrings; the costly ensemble entirely paid for by Azul.

The crowd cheered as you took your seat up front the stage, blinding spotlight illuminating your form. Amidst the crowd of teenage boys, you scoured the area for a certain trio of mer-men.

Azul was seated in the far back with both Jade and Floyd beside him. He was tense and frozen stiff; much like the stash of popsicles Floyd kept hidden deep in Octavinelle's fridge.

You noticed how his face was dusted in a pink flush as both Floyd and Jade whispered in his ear, identical devilish grins plastered onto their faces. Azul burned a deeper red with each passing comment, eventually taking solace in burying his face into his hands.

'They're toying with him again…' You sighed at their antics, a wistful smile on your face.

So caught up with watching the trio, you nearly missed the drummer's cue for you to begin. You took a deep breath and adjusted the microphone to your liking. The crowd appeared to blend together, packed with the eager faces of boys looking directly at you.

Fluttering your lashes, you cast a glance at Azul, smiling, as you slid your fingers up the microphone stand. "You had plenty money in nineteen-forty-one. You lost it all, and then where'd you run? Why don't you do right like some other men do?"

The octo-mer knew he got embarrassingly soft around you. Even now, the only reaction he can muster in response to your singing is awe.

"You sittin' down wondering what it's all about. If you ain't got no money, they will put you out." The aquarium lights cast a delicate lilac glow on your skin, accentuating your delicate features. Lovely honeyed singing overflowing from your glossy red lips.

Azul's voice was caught in his throat, almost as if you had a tight grip on his neck, wringing it firmly to constrain his breathing and leave him gasping for air like a fish out of water. His head swirls as he shakily exhales, feeling so lightheaded, he was on the verge of passing out.

"If you had prepared 20 years ago, you wouldn't be wandering now from door to door. Why don't you do right? Like some other men do~?" There was a sickeningly sweet smile on your face as you sneaked glances towards him, fixing him with the affectionate gaze he always felt undeserving of.

"Heh heh, her choice of song seems to be intentional." Jade noted, a smirk on his face as he examined Azul's dazed state.

"Eugh, Jade- He's so down bad." Floyd squinted his eyes, slowly digging his finger into the flesh of Azul's cheek. The octo-mer had no reaction.

He continued to poke his boss' cheek, but there was still no response. Azul stayed still, a sappy, cheesy look on his face that made Floyd gag.

"Why don't you do right? Like some other men…do~?" You sang, drawing out the final words as the song came to an end.

Your face was flushed with delight as the audience applauded, a mix of shouts and whistles ringing out through the entire lounge.

Azul, who is only dimly aware of the scorching hot blush on his skin, knows that these feelings will linger with him throughout the day and into the night. Still, he went on, slack-jawedly looking at you in a lovesick stupor.

M.D | MALLEUS DRACONIA:

One of the guitarists on stage was none other than the old bat from Diasomnia. Earning his spot after he twisted Azul's arm into letting him join the performance. There was no way Lilia was going to pass up an opportunity like this.

He peered around the room for a certain dragon, scouring the crowds of people squeezed into the cafe. As soon as he spotted Malleus, he grinned wryly. "Oh, Malleus dear, you're going to love this."

Lilia could never forget the look of astonishment on Malleus' face when Azul handed him the invitation, he looked like a golden retriever being presented with a bone; it was adorable.

The fae was ecstatic to be invited to an important occasion, given how uncommon it was for anybody to contact him. The added notion that he would be able to witness you perform made him practically tremble in excitement.

"There are a lot more people here than I thought." Malleus muttered, examining the invitation in his palm.

"It seems that they're curious to hear the human's voice, young master!" Sebek exclaimed, arms crossed across his chest as he smirked. "I doubt their singing could reach your standards!"

"Don't be mean Sebek…" Silver drawled, slumping against the plush sofa, fervently fighting to stay awake. His eyes flitted over to the stage, seeing the lights dim as a spotlight appeared. "Oh? Is it starting?"

Malleus jerked his head up to see you emerge from the velvet curtains, dressed in a body-hugging black evening gown. He glowed with pride when he saw the necklace he gifted you proudly sitting atop your neck, its green gem glimmering beneath the lounge's lavender lights.

Once you neared the front of the stage, you eagerly waved at him, and he chuckled before returning the gesture. After eyeing your interactions, Lilia struck a few notes on his guitar, the rest of the band following suit.

"Stars shining bright above you. Night breezes seem to whisper 'I love you'~" Malleus beams as you turn to him and smile, seeing the way his eyes crinkle in mirth while missing the way Sebek rolls his eyes at the loving gesture.

"Birds singin' in the sycamore trees. Dream a little dream of me. Say 'Night-ie night' and kiss me. Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me." You sang, eyes fluttering close before you opened them to peek at Malleus.

"While I'm alone and blue as can be, dream a little dream of me~" Honey-saccharine, sweet yearning, driven by his affections for you, pours from Malleus' eyes.

In truth, his gaze was overwhelming, the amount of love he was able to convey in a single glance astounded you. It's the kind of love that you wished to cherish for all eternity—one that is as exquisitely as sweet and lovely as the fresh roses in a garden.

"Stars fading but I linger on, dear. Still craving your kiss." Malleus finds himself longing for your undivided affection and your entrancing voice. He's fed up with the crowds surrounding you and wishes to be alone in your company, to experience the pleasure of being the only one who can hear your voice.

Still, he allows you to continue your little performance, loving the way you looked so carefree as you swayed to the beat of the music, losing yourself in the song.

"But in your dreams, whatever they be…dream a little dream of me~"

"I'm going to bash someone's head in." Floyd snarled, plopping down onto a bar stool. He's been shoving people down chairs for the past 5 hours but they still kept on coming.

"Azul~! Why is the entire school here?! No way I'm gonna serve all these people!" He whined, smashing his face down the bar table and banging his fists.

"I already told you. It's because of our new event." Azul said, bringing out his laptop and displaying a document outlining the night's financial numbers.

"Incredible—! I increased the price by 20 times what we normally charge, and people keep coming! I didn't expect the prefect to bring in this much profit!" Azul exclaimed as he typed furiously on his laptop, a giddy smile on his face. Floyd lifted his head off the counter and gawked at the octopus.

"There are more coming?!"

A/N: This was a request! Likes and Reblogs are greatly appreciated and really motivating on my end!

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nanabrainrot · 9 months

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Leg Lock [Pervert!Miguel]

Miguel isn’t convinced you’re as adept in as many martial arts as you say; he says you can only prove it with a spar.

Warning! NSFW content ahead. DUBIOUS CONSENT - reader is oblivious the way he’s wrestling is to cop a feel and that he cums on himself :/ what a freak

Pervert!Miguel x F!Oblivious!Reader

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You were none the wiser. Your spidey senses just didn’t pick up on the ways of men - you were no mind reader. The definition of book smart but not street smart. It’s unbelievable you accepted his personal “challenge” to spar and no less showed up in this ensemble: the smallest compression shorts that was barely even the size of boyshorts and a form fitting tank with a v that dipped dangerously low to the stretch of skin between your tits.

The fact he turned up the air conditioner and had the fan looming above on full blast only served to sweeten the sight by making your nipples pebble against the polyester mix. If he put enough friction across your chest, if you were sensitive you’d surely moan or at least give him a choked gasp; something to jack off to later.

“You ready to eat your words, Miguel?” you huffed seriously. The comical difference between you two was shown in the shadow cast by the fluorescent overhead light in the spinning fan: he was standing hands on his hips and stone-faced at one end of the personal training room and you at the other, bouncing on the balls of your feet with hands already stiff in front like a boxer. It didn’t help it looked like a yippy chihuahua hounding a rottweiler for a fight.

“Just try to at least land a hit -“

You lunged forward, shin flying up to try and meet his neck only to be blocked by his forearm. His eyes widen at your fast pace, but narrow as he meets your onslaught of moves with defenses. The little wraps around your fists do graze his skin as you batter at him with a flurry of fists like a boxer, though your kicks definitely reminded him of capoeira. The speed of it had to be from mixed martial arts and speedboxing while your grace and precision was karate inspired. And he could tell you did jiu jitsu by the way you tried to get him in a leg lock, jumping up to wrap your legs around his waist and use your arms to push at his neck hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

You had to have known that move would have put you in this position: back pressed hard to the mat with no way out. You were incredibly skilled, surprising him with the flurry of fists and kicks fast enough to put him in a position where he could only really use defense but definitely underestimated what he was willing to do to best you.

Miguel had a black belt in jiu jitsu, teaching classes at the dojo Gabby went to back in Nueva York, hard pressed to raise a girl who could handle her own. If you hadn’t overestimated yourself and started off using so much energy, you wouldn’t be panting like this.

Your brows knit, face tense with focus as you gauged your next move but his mind was anywhere but this spar: his cock was against your groin. The sorry excuse of shorts left nothing to the imagination only confirmed that under it was nothing but your bare puffy cunt as his knees drove into the mat to set you in place under him, your wrists pinned under his. “You didn’t land a hit. Too big of an ego can get you -“

A hard impact of your feet hitting his pecs and sending him back from the surprise as you rolled back in a tuck and jumped to your feet back in a boxing stance. Flyaways stuck out from your messy hair from being pinned to the mat as your chest heaved, bouncing on the balls of your feet.

“Can get me what?” you snorted in between short breaths.

“Get you -“ Miguel lunged forward, his legs long and strong enough to dart behind you to grab you by the waist and drag you to the floor, “-killed.”

Whines and grunts of struggle left you as you tried to get out of the compromising position: Miguel had you in a nelson on the floor, big hot palms of his hands on your neck and arm pinning back your biceps as you tried to grab at his wrists to apply enough force to get him to have a looser grip.

Too focused is a bad thing, sometimes. The fabric of your volleyball compression shorts that were more like panties rode up as your ass grinded against his groin - cock hard and twitching in his sweatpants as your feet struggled to get enough friction with the mat to be able to do a backbend or tuck and roll to use your flexibility. Dozens of possible routes flit in your mind and zero of them acknowledged you were basically being dry humped by Miguel: his grunts from the friction mistakes for grunts of effort. In reality, you were easy to restrain but the issue was your agility and speed compared to his strength - a given granted his strength based workout regimen versus yours, which focused on flexibility.

“If powers were allowed, I’d have had you pinned in the first minute,” you panted, lip twitching in focus as you continued to roll your hips against his as you struggled to find footing to be able to utilize your flexibility and roll over him. He must be smart, you think (stupidly), as his legs suddenly push against the mat and have him standing: yet you hang there in a full nelson. “That’s not funny, Miguel!” you hissed, as his forearms settled under your thighs during the shift and the palms secured at your neck still. The size difference suddenly made you realize why spars had size and weight classes; but there were no weight classes with the villains and anomalies you regularly encountered, he chastisted as he offered a spar with you.

If you had your powers allowed, you would’ve had him against the ceiling by now. But you shook on it. God, you wish you had a weaker sense of integrity and just said fuck it and blasted him with your power to get out of this humiliating debacle. The only thing left in reach was his fingers.

Your hands fly to the fingers locked behind your neck keeping you mid air as you resorted to a dirty trick: scratching with nails. A low hiss emits as he drops you and loses footing, landing on top of you: groin to ass. The dirty trick leaves him huffing with anger as he suddenly has you in a head lock, your hands batting at him pathetically. You just wanted to tap out, he could tell, but he just needed one thing: to have his way.

His hips roll into your pussy, feigning it as trying to keep you pinned by shifting weight from knee to knee in a side-to-side motion and lurched forward sometimes. The fact you kept bucking your hips to get out of the pin only helped him along; the warmth of your pussy would have been nicer, but next spar. Knowing your competitive nature, you would go along with a naked wrestling competition if it meant coming out on top.

But he’s on top right now, his hot breath fanning your ear as you mewl and bat at the thick forearnms around your neck pinning you. “F-fine…!” you whine out, borderline pornographic in your pleading, “you win!”

His hips roll again, with you still bucking your hips back into him. “Say it again.” He knew your whiny nature, the way when you wanted your way you would do anything: most missions consisted of you pleading and begging to see the sights on other dimensions or stop by food stalls like you were on vacation. He fucking spoiled you but even bratty bitches need discipline.

“You win!”

“Louder!”

“You win, Miguel!”

A hot pant. Fuck, the way you were whining and bucking in this position was getting him close. A few more words and he’d surely cum, wearing the dark sweatpants and a long baggy tee that loomed over where the wet spot would be specifically with this in mind. No powers put you in a disadvantage, the height and mass difference would never let you win. A spar was just a reason to hump you as you stupidly wriggled and cried out. One more sentence, then he’ll cum, cum and stop. The urge will leave and he can go back to being sated and content without distraction; he was too busy to keep entertaining this disgusting fantasy of fucking you every day and night. Just one more sentence to freedom.

A hot puff of air in your ear before a deep raspy voice hisses, “Now tell me I’m big and strong and I’ll let you go.” Your eyes widen as you look in confusion at the mat, his face behind you as you chest was still glued to the mat thanks to his weight.

“T-tell you what?”

“Say ‘you’re too big and strong for me, Miguel.’” A roll of the hips.

“No! I can still win!” you buck back harder, hips shifting hard between his groin and the mat to try and get out. Your nails sink into his forearms but he doesn’t move. You can’t get out until you say it. It’s a shameful dawn of emotion that wounds your pride. But you can get stronger, spar with him more, until you can beat him - powers or no powers.

“Say it and you can go.” The wriggling winds down as time stretches, you finally going limp and panting on the mat with his weight still crushing you.

A gulp.

Softer than a whisper, “You’re so big and strong, Miguel…”

The cum spurts into his briefs, inevitably ruining them and leaving a wet spot in the pants. You’re too tired, limp, to feel his clothed dick twitch against your pussy through the shorts.

You don’t even feel happy when he clumbers off you; in your universe you were a master of the arts and your powers only enhanced this great feat. Yet, you still lost to your boss. You want a rematch.

No.

You need a rematch.

He clumbers away, slow heavy footfalls and low panting breaths as he strides to the exit of the personal training room. Sitting back on your heels still panting but back to him as he walked away you find enough energy to ask: “Same time next week, Miguel?”

You’ll win. You’ll run a million miles, do a thousand crunches, and eat your weight - no, Miguel’s weight in protein and come out victorious next week as you always do. Just because he’s a man it didn’t mean you had no chance: it only meant you had to work harder.

Quiet. He’s panting though, you hear it, but the strain in his voice isn’t just from the spar: “Same time next week.”

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hope yall likedd feel free to leave requests or anything in my inbox! its p empty rn - I have a hobie fic coming next <3

#nana writes spiderverse #nana writes #miguel x y/n #miguel x reader #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara x you #miguel o’hara x y/n #miguel o’hara x reader smut #miguel o’hara x you smut #miguel o’hara x y/n smut

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gingernut1314 · 2 months

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Songbird Pt. 9

Buggy x F!Reader

Summary: Buggy pulls you from your girl's night only for you to find your captain's emotions running wild.

Warnings: fluff, angst, smut (drunk sex, misuse of Devil Fruit powers, oral f.receiving, slight restriction, p in v, biting), use of Y/N

Word Count: 6.0K

A/N: Heyyyyy guys!! Back with some of the main story!! Sorry it took....a while 😬. I hope you all enjoy!!! 🩷🩷🩷

Requested by: @srgtjamesbarnes

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Girls night.

You hadn’t had a proper girl’s night since you were very little with your mom. Those nights where it was just the two of you played a card game together whenever she had a day off from work, which had been far and few in between.

You had no siblings to account for and, though Nami had been a good friend, she had been too worried about Arlong and her family to truly be able to relax and have fun. Understandably so.

So when Esmeralda and the other girls aboard the Big Top told you of their tradition, which took place whenever they made dock and the boys went to some crummy bar to drink, you were ecstatic.

You helped them gather supplies of cheeses, meats, grapes, and copious amounts of alcohol and you all huddled together in your shared quarters, gramophone playing the latest songs Esmeralda had collected that day.

So far, Emi had shown off her sword-swallowing skills, Seqii and her Aerial Ensemble had done shots standing upside down in a pyramid, you had sung three silly drinking shanties, and Esmeralda had cried about her horse-turned-cat food.

You now sat in a circle on the ground, shoving the remaining meats and cheeses into your faces, talking about anything and everything that happened within the varying relationships amongst the crew.

“Cabaji made me scrub the deck two times. Two!” Seqii complained, her drink sloshing around dangerously in her cup as she turned towards Emi, who was equally as off-balanced as her friend. “Can’t you swallow his sword, Emi? Make him loosen up a bit.”

“I swallow his sword every godsdamn night and --hic-- he still makes me re-tie lines even though they were perfect--hic--before.” Emi hiccupped, downing the rest of her drink. “Just how the guy is. Commanding. Just how --hic-- I like ‘em.” Seqii gave a dramatic roll of her eyes, loudly disagreeing with that statement.

“What about nice? Gentle?” Esmeralda slurred horrendously from where she sat next to you, one arm looped through yours while her other hugged the skittish contortionist, whose head lay in her lap. Emi and Seqii both booed her, making the ex-equestrian huff.

“The difference between you and --hic-- the rest of us is you like like Mohji.” Emi hiccuped, spurring Esmeralda to pull from your hold, flabbergasted.

“He’s nice to me and he loves me. Sorrrryyyy.” She all but shouted, making Emi and Seqii laugh like a pack of hyenas. Esmeralda snatched the bottle of wine Seqii had just picked up in something like payment and the aerial performer let her with a wide grin. “I’m not the only one who like likes who we are with. Y/N like, likes the Captain.”

Your own laughter was cut short as your heart nearly stopped in your chest. All eyes around the room snapped to you to see if what Esmeralda said was true.

That warm, fluttery feeling rushed around in your chest at the mention of your captain. A feeling you had been struggling to get back under wraps, but nothing you did ever could lessen the happy feeling.

The thought of his smile had that feeling soaring. The thought of his sea-glass eyes and his bad jokes and the gifts he would shower upon you--

You gave an elongated, scoffing pfftt with a dismissive arching motion of your hand…and then another and another.

“Shit. She more than like likes him.” Seqii said, her grin turning shit-eating.

“I like no man. Men are gross. Ew.” You hissed, wobbling a bit as Esmeralda all but crashed into you on her way to flop on her back.

“Ughhhh--you’re in denial.” Seqii continued, grabbing the wine bottle back from Esmeralda before she could spill it all over the floor.

“It’s no --hic--fun.” Emi popcorned in, snagging the bottle from her friend and taking a long swing.

“You know what is fun?” Seqii asked, fixing you with a mischievous smirk. “Telling us about how good in bed he is.” You felt your face flush at the statement, a few girls giggling and gasping around the room. Others egged you on, all but begging you to tell them.

“That’s priv--” You started, only to be cut off by Esmeralda popping back up with a near-matching mischievous grin.

“How big is he?” Your mouth fell open at her bluntness, but the woman only laughed away like it was no big deal. “Tell me when to stop, okay!” She said excitedly, placing her hands together before gradually pulling them apart. “Tell me when to stop--tell--there's no way--Y/N! Tell me when to stop!”

“I’m not--” Again, you were cut off by a loud burp from Seqii who had regained the wine bottle back from Emi.

“Who cares --hic-- how big he is. I need to know if his dick can --hic-- chop off like the rest of his body.” Emi hiccuped, her question earning a collective eagerness to know from the gathered group.

“Pleaseeee!” Esmeralda begged, latching onto your arm and shaking you. “I’ve told everyone about me and Mohji--”

“You and Mohji’s sex life is vanilla.” Emi started, making Esmeralda gasp.

“It is not vanil--”

“I want the juicy --hic-- details. Tell us, come on!” Emi finished, everyone quieting down again to watch you, waiting for any snippet you might give up.

You thought about it for a second. Thoughts that were fogged and blurred from all the drinks you’d had. Loose thoughts that had you thinking of all the dirty things Buggy did to you and you did to him.

Had his dick ever detached during your escapades?

“I don’t know.” You slurred on a shrug, earning a collective groan from the group. “I’ll ask geezzzz. But Buggy does this thing where he detaches his--” A loud thump sounded at the door, cutting off your story and earning yet another groan from a few of the girls.

Another thump sounded and you thought it reminded you of a body getting slammed into a wall. A body that kept fumbling back a bit before attempting to knock once more.

“Shit--the fucking boys are back,” Seqii grumbled as another thump sounded through the room. She grumbled some more as she stood, wobbly navigating her way through the collection of bodies sprawled over the floor. The door was flung open, letting in a chilled breeze that rose goosebumps to your skin.

Standing there, looking just as drunk and disheveled as the rest of the group, was Buggy in all his Buggy glory. His make-up smeared over his skin, his smile wide and bright, and his hat sitting a-skewed on his head, hanging on by some miracle.

“Captian Buggy!” The girls all cheered at his appearance. Buggy grinned widely as he dug his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

“Girls! My loyal crew!” He cheered right back, pulling his hands from his pockets and into the air, wiggling his fingers in his excitement as confetti in a rainbow of color rained down onto the floor. You giggled with Esmeralda as more cheering filled the room.

“How’s your night going? Hope I’m not interpreting.” He said, a few of his words coming out elongated and awkward, but no one truly seemed to notice or care because you were all giggling, wobbling, drunk messes.

“You could never --hic-- interpret captain! Come in!” Emi said, her tone shifting the slightest bit to be more kind towards her captain. “Y/N was just telling us--” You shot her a warning glare that only seemed to amuse her. “How much she likes it here!”

“Oh was she? Heh. Good.” He said, stumbling into the room, Seqii shutting the door behind him. Those green-blue eyes found you and filled with that softness you had spotted here and there in them. A look that spoke to the same feeling thrashing about in your chest, wishing to meet it.

“Baby--ugh I mean Songbird--Y/N,” He finally got out. You’re name felt strange spilling from his lips, but you loved it just as you did hearing the nicknames he conquered up for you.

A few girls around the room gave giddy little laughs at the nicknames, which you shot them their own warning glares for.

“I always love to hear feedback from the crew. ‘Specially from you newbies. Helps me know what’s workin’ and what’s-” he gave a little burp in the back of his throat as he came to a wobbly stop next to you. “-what’s not.” He stammered on, waving his hands around as if to emphasize what he was saying, confetti that had stuck to his gloved hands falling into your crossed lap.

You huffed with a roll of your eyes as you pulled yourself up, bumping into his leg as your wonky vision threw you off balance. Strong, gloved hands grabbed you under your arms and helped hoist you up, making your face burn.

“Are the others back?” Esmeralda asked hopefully, sitting herself right-side up.

“Only lil ol’ me. Sorry, Es.” Buggy said, a hand falling away from your body only for the last to stay glued to your back. You leaned into his touch, loving the feel of his warmth, a warmth strong enough to seep through the white fabric of his glove and your shirt.

“Captian, before you drag our glorious singing songbird off, could we hear one more song?” Emi asked, raising the last wine bottle. “We still have this whole bottle left,”

“Sure. No skin off my nose.” Buggy said, turning to look your way with a shrug.

The room went deadly quiet at his words.

Breaths were held and prayers were muttered.

They were words that, under any circumstance would have gotten someone mamined--killed.

But as he looked at you, all that flashed in his eyes was that softness which had never once left them since his arrival. He looked--at ease, almost.

It was probably just all the alcohol he had drank that night.

Probably all the alcohol you had been drinking, making you see things.

“Heh. Nose.” He said, bopping your nose. You watched his grin grow wider--a grin that sparked your own to cross your lips. “Sing the one ‘bout that bottle of rum that’s hard to open.”

“Aye, aye Captain.” You said, giving him a little salute, which he wobbly gave back.

You instructed everyone who wished to participate to form a circle, snatching the bottle of wine from Seqii before you hopped into the middle, starting the fun and upbeat shanty about a crew of pirates who find a mysterious bottle of rum floating in the sea. A bottle whose cork was too tough for the captain to open, so it was passed around and around the crew, trying desperately to find someone who could open it.

Once the first verse was sung, setting the disastrous scene for your own crew, you passed the wine bottle to Buggy as you began singing the chorus. A chorus that spurred your captain to pass it to Emi who passed it to Esmeralda and around and around the circle of the bottle went. You followed it, skipping and hopping and dancing away as your crew joined you in singing the chorus.

You froze as the chorus ended, the bottle landing in Buggy’s hands on a last pass from Seqii. He winked your way, making your mouth run dry as he raised the bottle to his painted lips.

You almost forgot all about the silly little song you were singing as you watched him, but found the will in your foggy brain to sing the second verse. Buggy chugged and chugged, his throat working with each swallow of the liquid. It had your alcohol-flushed body burning up that much more.

The girls gave another round of cheers as Buggy detached his head and hands so that the rest of his body could do a twirling dance to the music you provided.

When the verse came to an end, his head and hands popped back into place and he quickly passed it to Emi who passed it to Esmeralda and so on and so on as you sang the chorus once more.

Several verses later, the bottle ran dry with a hiccupping hoot of triumph from Emi, who held the bottle high as you finished the song.

You gave a flashy bow as the girls and your captain cheered for you, blowing kisses here and there around the circle. Buggy detached a hand to pretend to catch one high up, holding it carefully in his palm as he put it in his coat pocket.

“Thank you, thank you! I’ll see you all bright and early tomorrow morning!” A groan spilled from a few of the girl's lips at the thought of what tomorrow held in store for them. Mainly; all the chores to be done that Cabaji, no matter how hungover, was sure to have to get done.

You looped your arm through Buggy’s and let him lead you out of the room, which you took one more look over your shoulder to look at your friends in their varying states of drunkenness.

“Ask him!” Emi mouthed your way as Seqii did the simple magic trick where one pretended like they were pulling their thumb from its joint…but she had positioned her hands at her crotch with a grin so wide it almost spilled off her cheeks.

You shook your head at their silliness and persistence to know of your private endeavors…but it had piqued your interest if not in the slightest.

The hall was chilled compared to the body-filled room you had both just been in, which erupted in more laughter as you shut the door behind you. A chill that Buggy’s body, instantly wrapped around yours, shielded you from.

He placed a big old, smacking, wet kiss on your cheek, making your heart flutter like some caged butterfly.

“That was so fucking sexy, songbird.” He said, words still coming out warped from all the alcohol he had drank against your temple.

“Oh yeah? You liked my little jig?” You murmured back, turning your face to steal a glance at those eyes you couldn’t look in long enough.

“Hell yeah. Got me all hot and bothered.” His lips kissed your temple, then your cheek, before latching them onto your neck. You hooked your fingers over the back of his neck and pulled him in closer, savoring the tingling sensations that shot over your skin at his sloppy affections

“Should I do another one?” In hardly the blink of an eye, Buggy grabbed hold of your hand and in a quick, sharp movement that had you wobbly all over again, spun you around and away from him.

“Please do another one.” He begged, eyes eating up your body as you fought to regain your steady footing.

“Aye, aye captain.” You laughed before starting to sing an upbeat shanty as you spun and moved your body to the phantom beat down the hall and around the corner towards the stairs. Buggy followed after you, joining you in song and grabbing hold of your hands here and there to give you a little spin.

When the song came to a close, Buggy gave a loud hoot that echoed back at him and mixed with your laughter. He was quick to scoop you up into his arms, lips finding yours in a sloppy kiss that had your alcohol-fuzzed brain going near blank.

“Sing again for me, songbird.” He asked against your lips. You kissed him again before pulling away, Buggy giving a little whine to let you know you had pulled away all too quickly. “Did you eat dinner?” Buggy rolled his eyes, his arms snaking around your waist once more.

“Baby--”

“Baby.” You insisted, wrapping an arm around his neck. “I’ll sing for you while you eat? How does that sound?” Light lit up Buggy’s eyes as he nodded several times at this, making his face, in your drunken state, go all fuzzy.

“I should really promote you to be my negotiator. You’re--” He gave another burp in the back of his throat that you crinkled your nose at in disgust. “Soooo good at it.”

“Only for you, Captain.” Buggy’s grin widened and he leaned down to claim your lips in another sloppy kiss, but you were quick to place a finger over his puckered lips. “Food first.” Buggy groaned dramatically, grabbing hold of your wrist to pull your finger from his lips.

“Fine.” He gruffed, all but dragging you to the kitchen so that he could eat and get on with kissing you.

The kitchen had been left in a state of disarray thanks to you and the girls ransacking its stores as soon as the kitchen staff left for the night. Kitchen staff you knew would set Cabaji on you all to clean it all up in the morning.

Buggy gave a groaning oof as he flopped himself onto one of the stools sitting before the island, plunking his forehead against the wood. You chuckled at him and opened the fridge.

“Why’d you come back so early, baby?” You asked, rummaging around for the leftovers you had saved from the diner you and the girls had gone to dinner at.

“I’m too old to keep up with the others anymore. Got tired.” He grumbled making you roll your eyes.

“Oh is that right? Then we should head to bed after this? Get my old man his full eight hours of beauty sleep?” You teased, grabbing your leftovers up.

Even in your alcohol-fuzzed state, Buggy having yet to snap something back at you was strange.

Turning around, fridge door shutting softly behind you, you found Buggy’s face buried in his hands, shoulders quivering.

Crying.

Buggy was crying.

It had panic and concern shoot through your chest rapidly, your leftovers abandoned as you rushed to his side.

“Buggy? What’s wrong, baby?” You asked, smoothing your hands over his back and arm to try and get him to look at you. To comfort and console him. “D-did I say something to upset you? I’m sorry, baby, you know I don’t think you’re old--”

“I missed you.” He moaned out. His words--they more than shocked you.

He had missed you. He had missed you so much he had left the bar early and was now crying about it.

It was…sweet. And doing nothing for that warm, fluttering feeling invading your every sense.

“You--you missed me?” You asked, gently grabbing hold of his hands to pull them away from his face. His make-up was done for, smudged so bad it had all but blended into his skin. His watery blue-green eyes looked up at you, only overflowing with more tears as he nodded.

“Baby I missed so much.” He whined, grabbing for your shirt weakly as if it was his anchor in the raging storm that was his emotions. “They can’t sing like you--they don’t know half the lyrics.” Tears continued to spill down his cheeks as he pulled you closer. “And--and I just--missed you.”

You smiled kindly at him, cupping his face with your hands and wiping away each tear that escaped his eyes.

“I’m here now. And I still owe you a song.” More tears fell from his eyes despite your attempt at comfort, his face falling against your chest as a sob shook his shoulders.

You were trying not to laugh--not to let that giddy feeling escape your chest through a silly giggle at your captain's confession. At the discovery that Buggy was a drunk crier.

You pulled his hat off his head, placing it on the island counter before going about taking his bandana off so that you could brush your fingers over his blue hair, which he had put in a singular braid.

“Fucking gods I missed you.” He sobbed again, burying his face deeper. “You’re--you’re just so beautiful and too kind to me.”

Beautiful. He was calling you beautiful.

Your heart was beginning to race with that feeling. With that overwhelming swell of that naggingly warm emotion.

A swell that the alcohol in your system was threatening to spill.

To spill the three words you had been struggling to hold at bay. Words that were just on the tip of your tongue--words that began to form and fal--

“And--And your tits are so soft and round and I missed them so much.” And that feeling was swapped with utter annoyance.

“Really?” You asked, placing your hands on his shoulders to try and shove him away, but his grip on you was iron-like.

“What? It’s true!” He moaned out mournfully as he nuzzled his face between them. You huffed, feeling just the tiniest bit hurt in that moment when you had thought you were getting a sweet, tender confession from your captain.

“You just missed my tits? Is that all you missed?” You snapped, Buggy’s face pulled from your breast so he could show you all that sadness welling in his soul.

“No.” He whined, resting his cheek again on your breasts. “I missed your ass too.”

“Jackass.” You grumped, yanking yourself away from the clown who gave another pitiful moan.

“Baby--” Buggy started, grabbing at your arms and hips to try and keep you close. You fought not to give in and fall back into his arms, especially when a wave of fresh tears were rolling down his red and blue smudged cheeks.

“I don’t think you deserve a song now, since you only missed my body” You huffed, crossing your arms and turning your head away from him.

Buggy moaned yet again, his head flopping onto the kitchen island once more and falling off. His shoulder drooped and his arms fell off, chop-chopped into pieces on the floor. It was a pile of chop-chopped limbs that continued to grow the longer you stayed away.

“Noooooo. I missed your voice.” He cried, his gloved hands inching their way up onto the island surface. “I missed you being mean to me and I mi-missed you takin’ care of me even when I don’t deserve it.” Those chopped hands continued to cross the wooden surface towards you like some strange spider. Fingers that brushed against your arm in a weak attempt to pull you back.

“I don’t deserve you--you’re too good for me. I’m a shitty shitty fool and you’re a perfect dove who's too bright for me.”

And now you felt like the asshole. Because none of that was true. Because Buggy was perfect for you in every way. He was more than you deserved. He was better to you than any person you had had a semblance of a relationship with had ever been before.

You didn’t deserve him.

“Buggy. No. That’s not true.” You started, going right back over to the chopped-up pile he had become. Buggy was quick to pull himself back together and was pulling you eagerly into his orbit once more.

“It is.” He cried, knuckles no doubt going white under his gloves at the tight he was holding onto your shirt. “I’m the East Blue’s biggest loser. The biggest in all the Blue Seas. You deserve someone who is better. Someone like that fucking shit-for-brains swordsman or shitty blond pretty boy.” You shook your head, gently pulling his fingers from your shirt to hold his hands tight.

“I don’t want them. I’ve never wanted them. I’ve only ever wanted you.” Buggy shook his head and you took his chin in a gentle scoop, keeping those sad eyes on you. “And I don’t think you're a fool. Not one bit.” Doubt and self-hatred continued to bubble in Buggy's watery eyes. Emotions you never ever wanted to see shining in them. Emotions you had put there.

It had your heart beating painfully in your chest. Had your hands sweating and blood running cold.

You were making him cry. You are a burden to him.

“I--I don’t deserve you.” Buggy scoffed at this, disbelief thankfully lessening those hurting feelings in his eyes. “I don’t. Before I met you--I was nothing. No one. Just an empty vessel floating around on some godsforsaken ship. A husk trapped in a cave. And now--now you make me feel--full. Like a real person. You make me feel so--so happy.”

“But you would be happier with--”

“I wouldn’t. I know I wouldn’t because I wasn’t.” Buggy’s bottom lip quivered in warning of another body-shaking sob. You couldn’t--wouldn’t see him upset. Upset over something you had foolishly started.

“I lo--” Your words lodged themselves in your throat. Words that had been threatening to spill from your mouth from the moment you had caught him singing your song to the night air all those weeks ago. Words your heart and soul begged to speak but your mind caged--bulling them away in fear. Fear of him rejecting such words. Words that were more than just words.

Words that sobered you right up, letting every last bit of panic flood your chest now that the dulling fog had vanished.

Buggy’s own breath hitched in his throat. That warm look you had spied in his eyes more and more often flashing through their watery depths. A warm look that was overpowered by those hurting feelings you had been trying to save him from.

“You are special to me.” You managed to croak out. Your heart was beating faster. So fast you were sure it was bruising itself against your ribs, making it hard to breathe. “And--and I want to be here. With you. And I don’t want you to feel that way. Not with me. Because--because you’re too special to me.” More tears fell from Buggy’s eyes and your panic gripped at your heart tighter.

Had you only made it worse? Had you said too--

A hand grabbed hold of your jaw, pulling you against Buggy’s smudged lips. Lips that kissed you soft and sweet.

He kissed you slowly. A slowness that spoke louder than any words he could have possibly said in that moment. A kiss that had your eyes sparking with tears right alongside his own.

You grabbed him closer, pressing your body against his as much as the stool would allow. But it was nowhere near close enough. It would never be close enough.

Your hands moved over his braided hair, down his stubble-lined jaw, and neck. Hands you moved under his coat to try and shrug it off his shoulder so you could feel his warm skin against yours. He chop-chopped his arms from his shoulders to let the coat slip off more easily. Arms that were instantly around you once reattached, hands finding their way under your shirt.

The kiss grew more hungry--needy, but that passion never once fled. A passion that burned through your heart, which struggled to keep the balance between your fluttering feelings towards this clown, and your darkened ones.

You felt the muscles in his arms work against your hands as he grabbed you up in them, laying you out on top of the kitchen island.

Random bottles and bits of trash you and the girls had littered it with clattered to the ground, but it hardly mattered. Not when Buggy was trailing a wet line of kisses over your jaw and neck and the swell of your breasts. Not when he pulled your shirt up to continue to leave opened-mouthed kisses along your stomach.

You breathed his name as he began to tug your brightly patterned pajama pants over and off your legs.

Those sloppy kisses attacked your calves and thighs--lips that turned biting every so often and had your body sparking, mind fogging in utter lustful need.

“F-fuck, Songbird,” Buggy spoke around a mouthful of flesh. “Always so ready for me.” You gave a shuddery gasp as a detached hand came to rest over your pelvic bone, thumb running over the thin fabric that still covered your dripping core.

“Always, captain.” You moaned out, reaching to feel over his cheek and jaw. Those damned fingers passing over your clit, sending a jolting shock through your near-burning body. “P-please--baby, I need you, please.” You begged.

“Let me taste first, baby. Please let me taste you.” He begged right back, his kisses growing ever closer to your weeping pussy. You whimpered but nodded at his request. A whimper that turned sharp and whiny when those wet kisses were placed over your covered core. Buggy moaned against you, tongue creating a dampened patch on your underwear right above your entrance.

“B-Buggy--please.” You moaned out, hips starting to ground against his mouth, fingers, and nose to create more and more beautiful mind-numbing frustration. Buggy cursed, that detached hand pulling away from your covered clit to start pulling your underwear down.

They didn’t get very far over your thighs when Buggy’s tongue ran through your folds. You cried out his name, underwear restricting your legs from opening further for him and all but clamping down around his head.

You couldn’t find the strength within yourself to stop rotating your hips against his mouth--to try to stop chasing your high long enough to loosen your grip on his head or make sure your underwear wasn’t choking him out.

But those chop-chop abilities handled all your worries.

His head detached from his neck, freeing your legs from their awkwardly folded position and allowing his hand to finally yank your underwear from your legs, giving you the freedom to hook them over his shoulders, granting him full access to your needy pussy.

His head popped back into place just as his tongue dipped into your fluttering core, lapping up every last bit of your ever-growing arousal in sinful slurps.

Your fingers wove their way into his hair, messing up that braid, as your hips ground against his mouth near frantically as that build deep within you began to wind. That detached hand crawled over your stomach and found home once more over your pelvic bone so that it could rub circle after circle into your clit, winding that coil ever tighter.

You moaned Buggy’s name like a prayer as he continued to fuck you on his tongue. As his own moans vibrated through you and set into motion that snapping release within you.

A release that tingled through your arching spine and sent that white buzz flooding through your thighs and core, which constricted around Buggy’s tongue.

You fell back against the counter, sweat making your skin stick to it and chest heaving up in down to catch your breath. Your fingers mused through Buggy’s hair, your thighs twitching and whimpering gasps falling from your mouth as Buggy’s tongue remained buried deep within you, licking up every last bit of your finish.

“B-Buggy,” You moaned, yanking weakly at his hair. “Ne-need you in me. Please.” Buggy mummed in acknowledgment, sending pleasure-filled vibrations through your sensitive core. You bit your lip as he continued to eat you out--as his fingers continued to rub mind-numbing circles into your clit that had your hips and legs twitching as if to try and get away from the persistent assault of your sensitive body.

“Buggy.” You whimpered, yanking at his hair just the sharpest bit tighter. He pulled from your core then, but not without trailing his drooling tongue back through your folds one last time. You wiggled your hips against the burning feeling that shot through you.

“M’kay, baby.” He murmured, kissing back up your exposed stomach to find your lips once more. The feel and taste of spit and your release had your mind spinning all over again. Had you hooking your legs together around his waist, pressing his hardened cock against your reignited arousal.

You moved to fidget with his belt buckle, spurring that detached hand to help you loosen it as well as yank his pants and stripped boxers down far enough to let his cock spring free, it tapping against your sensitive clit. Buggy hissed at the feel of your slick against the reddened tip of him.

You scooted closer, your ass all but hanging off the edge of the kitchen island so that Buggy’s cock lay flush against your throbbing folds. His lips left yours, resting his forehead on your collarbone so that he could watch as he split you open on his cock, that little whimper of his you loved spilling from his lips with every inch inwards.

You cradled the back of his neck as your walls flexed and adjusted for him, that shimmering pleasure starting that coil deep within yourself up once more.

“Fuck, songbird.” He groaned lowly as he bottomed out, his lips kissing the valley between your breasts. “So good--always feel so good.” Your lips kissed the bit of his forehead you could reach with a stratified hum. “A-always so good for me. A-always take care of me.” He mumbled, pulling himself out to his red-flushed tip before quickly thrusting back into you, pulling a gasp from your lips.

That shimmer turned into a pleasant buzz with each snap of his hips against your own. A buzz that built with each pass of sticky, warm skin, burning lips, and biting teeth.

Buggy’s sea-glass eyes found your own once more and you’re breath hitched at the warm emotions swirling within them. Emotions that stayed, not chased away by doubt or fear.

“I-I--you’re special to me, songbird. You--you make me happy. Happier than I’ve been in years.” Tears pricked at your eyes. Tears you fought against but ultimately lost to. Buggy kissed them away, his thrusts slow and circling to keep you closer.

“I--I think--” He hesitated, his breath huffing against your cheeks as he continued those shallow thrusts. Thrusts that allowed his cock to hit every last nerve ending within you, starting that white buzz you knew meant the coming of your second release of the night. “I--I missed bein’ ‘round you and it had only been a couple of hours. Fuck--you’re so godsdamn special to me it hurts, songbird.”

You huffed against the rise of emotions flashing through you. Emotions that only swelled that much more when he nuzzled his nose against yours. When he purposely brought attention yet again to his nose. His nose he protected against insult with rage and violence--but he was letting you near it--feel it.

He pulled away to look into your eyes again and you found tears were pricking at his own eyes once more.

Slowly, as to give him more than enough time to pull away, you leaned in to place a small kiss to that nose of his--a nose that complemented him and one you loved. Buggy blinked, those tears rolling down his cheeks. You smiled at him through your pants, wiping his tears away.

Your lips found his once more in a slow, open-mouthed kiss that brought you two that much closer.

That white buzz zapped through your thighs and spine and toes as it shot through down your core once more, Buggy’s name moaned into his mouth.

He moaned your own name into your mouth, cock twitching and balls pulling tight before spilling ribbons of hot come deep within you.

You both fell slumped against each other, taking in each other's air as heavy panting filled the air.

“I’m…I’m sorry for cryin’,” Buggy mumbled as he pet over the bits of your exposed skin he could get at. You placed a kiss to his neck, fingers messing with his braid.

“It’s okay, baby. Crying just means you had a good night.” Buggy gave that funky laugh of his, kissing your cheek as he made to look into your eyes once more. His smile, so bright and wide, nearly took your breath away.

“You’re right. I did.” His lips claimed yours in a kiss just as sweet as the words he had uttered to you moments ago.

“Hey…Buggy?” You asked once you had fully caught your breath.

“Yeah, songbird?”

“I was just wondering…what all can you chop off?” Buggy blinked at you in thought, not truly understanding your motives.

“Well--everything, I guess. Why--” Buggy cut himself off when he spied the mischievous smirk pulling at your lips. You clenched your tired walls around his softened cock in way of question. “Fuck, songbird.” He cursed, his pupils slowly growing larger in lust.

“Can it?” Buggy leaned so close that the tip of your nose touched his. It had your heart fluttering all over again.

“Want to find out?” He asked with a smirk to match your own.

“Yes, Captain."

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