#Thirty Days of Character Development

[slowdivinqs]

Presentiment

Stalker! Joel Miller x f!reader ( 18+ MDNI )

summary : no one is truly alone in the world, especially not you.

w/c : 12K

warnings : no use of y/n, horror themes and elements DDDNE, stalker behavior, feelings of isolation and depression, existential crisis? Kidnapping, cynical thoughts about life described, abuse, violence against the reader by Joel, old!Joel. slowburn-ish. dub-con?. unprotected PinV. Oral f!receiving. Manhandling. Hunter / prey kink. Twisted daddy kink but no use of the word 'daddy'. Joel popping a viagra. VERY Large age gap ( 35+ years ) . Manipulation. Obsession. Reader’s mother is described as a drug addict. Shitty men, harassment and pervertedness from a co-worker. Murder / death of side characters. Stockholm syndrome. Reader is toxic too. Religious imagery. Can be pixel or pedro Joel. The reader is implied as being thinner due to life long poverty, but her body type is not described or stated.

a/n : This was made for @pedgito's writing challenge and kind of ran away from me. It was such a blast, I've never tried horror or a specifically dark fic and it was sm fun! I’m sure the characters I wrote will stick with me forever. I sat with this fic for a long time before posting, and it's the longest thing I've ever written!! Not sure how I feel about it still. Thank you for letting me participate! Happy birthday ♡

if you don’t like dark themes, listen to the warnings and don’t read the fic.

masterlist

—— ☓ ——

Something feels wrong before your eyes have had the chance to open – a kind of warning, an omen, baked into the morning light stabbing your iris through moth-eaten curtains.

It was the way your body ached as you tried to sit up, stomach screaming for food you just don’t have. Your mother hasn’t been home for a week and you know she’s either run off with some incest-bred asshole who’s promised her a beer or she’s passed out in a crack-house miles away.

Your shift at the diner starts in thirty minutes. 

The men that pass through this town are all the same. 

Truck drivers – men who think all women in the world are there to satisfy their needs. Iagos of the world, the dark underbelly. 

The men that stay in this town are not dissimilar, your days a monotonous blur of wondering when something better will drop into your desperate palms.

There is one man who feels like your only friend in the world. 

Standing at a whopping five foot seven, and still kicking up the diner’s jukebox at eighty three, he makes sun shine out from your soul. You can confidently say that Jerry is the best. 

He usually sits with you the entire day at work, and makes sure to fill your empty time by teaching you to dance to El Toro Rabón, and La Bamba. His rich hands, littered with wrinkles yet full of life, hold yours while he makes you laugh. Clapping as you finish off with an animated twirl and curtsy. 

Jason usually eyes you from the kitchen, rolling his sleazy eyes at the sight of you having so much fun with your elderly best friend. Going back to making greasy burgers and puffing on a cigarette that’s gotten him in trouble with the owner before. 

You never agreed with the sentiment that old people were cute until you met Jerry and his late wife during your first shift at the diner : fourteen years old and composed of an exhaustion that was ill fitting for someone so young. He’d been your first ever customer, seventy seven and still wearing that cowboy hat of his.

The first thing you noticed about him was his mustache, the way he uses wax to curve up the tight white curls into points, how it covered his top lip when he spoke, making him look like a cartoon character –  his oak brown eyes that has gotten increasingly red and yellow around the corners as he’s gotten older. The way his warm skin has developed patches of darkness, yet he still looks the exact same as the photo of him he showed you from thirty years ago : fresh off his racing horse in Mexico, holding the same cowboy hat over his chest that he adorns now, smiling brightly. He kept his hair looser back then, his ringlets looked shiny even in those black and white photographs.

He calls you bumblebee, and you think he’s the first person that’s ever loved you – and he’s the first person you’ve ever loved. He’s your sunshine, a tether to the world past your 18 hour work day. 

Every morning he’s seated in the diner at 8:30 AM with a joke to tell you, stories of his racing days, growing up in Cuajinicuilapa, his time travelling around South America before settling down in this small town near Wyoming. He tells you of his late brother, his views of the world and the people he’s met. He talks of humanity and how love is what is most important in life.

You feed off of the stories he tells you : meeting people from all walks of life under the pretense of coffee, sitting around the same food stand, chatting to strangers who would play guitar on the side of the street for no other purpose than passion. 

You feel the desire for this ideal world thrum in your veins vicariously.

He used to come in with his wife Dolores until she passed two springs ago – he talks of her jewelry often, thinks that you should inherit it : they were never able to have children. You serve his coffee fresh and hot – asking Jason in the back to make his eggs perfect and his toast golden brown. You sit across from him at the counter to play bullshit with him while he eats – he always knows when you’re lying, his cheeky smiles catching you out, and his joy wraps it’s warm arms around you.

Your days are filled with giggles and smiles whenever he comes to see you, and he never leaves without a hug. 

Jerry does not like Jason one bit – eyeing the skinny, pale cook through the serving counter, telling you that a man like that is ‘no good, honey’. You don’t blame him – Jason had tried to coerce you into giving him a blowjob a few weeks before your 18th birthday – but never forced you when you had threatened to go to the sheriff and have them run a much needed background check. Jason has steered clear of you since then, knowing you weren’t shooting empty threats. You never told Jerry about that, but you think he knows regardless. 

He jokes that the forest behind your house has eyes – the kind only the old and the dying could feel. You never found it funny. 

Your clothes were not too crinkled this morning when you pulled them on : giving you a small mercy as did your almost-dry mascara surviving one more day. That hadn’t quelled the uneasiness you’d felt all morning, the whole drive to the diner. All you could think about was seeing your friend, and hoping that he would give you a hug and tell you all those happy stories again.

The second you clock in, and Jason comes back in from his third smoke of the hour, Jerry opens the door to the diner. 

You float over to the counter with a genuine smile, but it flickers when you see the look on his face. 

He talks a lot that day – about his wife, about his old job, even the time a fight broke out in his hometown and his father died, how the horses he looked after got caught in the crossfire : admitting he had hurt the perpetrator afterwards and it haunts him. He tells you everything, even the things he’s told you time and time before – forgetting he ever mentioned it. He’s never forgotten a thing about you, but he talks as though he’s in a hurry, as though he needs to get everything out.

He does not come in the next day or the day after that, and when he doesn’t arrive on the third day you take time off to confirm your fears at the hospital. You do not hear it from a nurse, or a doctor, but from the silence you are met with when you ask for him. That silence, the loneliness that instantly sunk into your bones, shattered your heart into millions of pieces. It is destroying.

You did not come to see him when you could, there was still time to be had, stories to be told. He never saw you make something of yourself, he will never walk you down the aisle like you dreamt he would one day. 

You are all alone in the world. No one to speak to, no one to comfort you. No one to make you think life might not be as meaningless as the whispers of your mind seem to believe. The warmth of him is gone, and you feel as cold and grey as the forest that surrounds this town, as if the sun has gone into eternal hibernation.

You want to bury yourself in your room for hours, to not surface for months and months until your body reflects the rot you feel on the inside. Hollow. Your sunshine is gone. 

You tell yourself Jerry is now with Dolores, and laugh at the fact that your mind even supplied such a deluded thought. You never believed there was something better up there, not for long anyway. 

You still go to his new tombstone, next to his wife’s, and speak to them. They were both religious, crosses carved into the place their names will stay forever, and so you ask any god out there to let them rest peacefully as though they are back in their hometown with their horses and not worry about you. 

That evening you sit on your porch, chain-smoking the packs of cigarettes you had been saving, staring at the stars caged by thick trees. You realize you do not have a purpose. You don’t have a want – can’t have one, there’s not enough money for the luxury of wanting something. You’ll live and die in an 18 hour work day.

Your thoughts are scary and boring at the same time, so you begin to look out at the illuminated forest. The sounds of the night – it scares you as well sometimes, an entire empty forest just outside your door, nothing but rotten wood and locks keeping you safe.

Today you found out you will be alone for the rest of your life, but when you sit out on the porch, flicking your third cigarette – you don’t feel entirely alone at all. You feel as though there is something out here with you, your skin rippling with bumps. 

You blame it on the Grim Reaper licking at your heart today.

The cabin on the other side of the forest you’re staring at now has been vacant since you were born. Never a light, a sound – it haunts you.

The closest you’ve gotten to it was at the ripe age of 8, venturing through the forest to explore. You had come to the front door until the house moaned at you, and the forest went quiet. You can still vividly picture the glance you got of the cabin while you ran all the way home. 

You leave the shadow of the cabin in the dark forest behind, you need to get dressed for your shift. Money waits for no one, not even for the death of your best friend. 

Down the empty highway, not a car in sight – the image of your headlines whirring past the thousands of trees burnt into your retinas from seeing it every single night. Your eyes are puffy and raw from crying, a headache pounding behind them.You pass the single off–ramp road you’ve never been stupid enough to take, the one that winds through the forest, all the way to an open clearing, a small path that can barely fit your sputtering car – leading all the way to the back of your rotting house. You used to play in that clearing as a child, pulling out grass and flowers and making huts out of branches until the day the forest went quiet for a second time – and you knew something was out there with you. 

You had told your mother after running inside, but she pushed you away from the comfort of her arms and told you it was just jackals – you knew it wasn’t, even then. 

It had seemed you knew something was coming your whole life, constantly looking over your shoulder – watching, listening. Sensing all and any kind of movement anytime, wary. You didn’t like the silence, you didn’t like being alone – yet you were singled out, not a soul or sound to comfort you through your isolated existence. 

The gas station is empty as it is every night, you use the time to read. To think, to wonder what it’s all for in the end. If you should run away, leave and never come back. Go and find the ocean, let it swallow you whole.

The sliding doors of the entrance ding as they open. Your eyes flick up so quickly it hurts. A man walks in, and your stomach swoops. Everything falls quiet, and you think of the thing that your mother called the jackals, you think of the forest falling silent : baby birds quieting in the face of danger.  He disappears behind a shelf, a glimpse of a Carhartt jacket that sparks a warmth : a remembrance of your dear friend who is now gone, the once comforting material on someone foreign, scary.

Your breath shallows. You don’t know why. It’s not just the quiet – it’s the kind of quiet that makes your blood congeal. Like the silence before a scream. 

You glance to your side, below the counter, a bat sits for emergencies. You’re not sure why you are panicking the way you are, if it’s the hour, Jerry’s passing, the presentiment you’ve felt all week. 

There is something silent, and something wrong. 

When you look up, you still don’t see him. The light behind you flickers, and you almost want to cry at the fear that’s bubbling up in your throat, your hair is standing on end. Your ears prick at any sound, a fridge door opening and shutting. 

Your body is shutting down on you, your heart crawling up your throat by claws : fighting and fighting for a chance to survive while your body quivers with the force of your instinct to run. Grab the bat, over the counter, out the door to your car. 

You blink, realizing you haven’t been seeing a damn thing, and he’s on the other side of the counter. Looking at you with a blank expression. 

Your heart fizzles and falls back to its place, your hands are shaking. 

“Forgot milk.”  His voice is entirely too flat, disarming and discerning. 

You glance down at his hands, calloused and holding a single jug of full cream milk. He’s waiting for you to scan it. 

“Right, sorry.” You mutter, sliding the milk over the scanner and taking the cash from him before returning the change. He hasn’t looked away from you once, he seems tired and bored : a normal milk run, but you’ve never seen him before. It’s shocking for a town with under five hundred residents. 

He nods his thanks and leaves. The sound of his car sputtering away allows you to finally exhale. 

You cash out and go home soon after that, shaken, like every ounce of fear you’ve felt in your life crashed through you the second he entered the store. An omen, a warning. 

You wake up to a box at your door the next morning. In your sleep-shaken state, you have half the mind to stomp on it, fearful it came from The Man last night. Fortunately, curiosity seemed to be on your side this morning, as upon opening the box you find Denise’s necklaces, bracelets, rings and books. Paintings, antiques, and most importantly - a cowboy hat. Your favorite hat in the entire world. He had left everything of his to you, when he wrote his will you do not know. Maybe Jerry knew what was coming, he always was wise, connected to everything there is in a way you wish you could be.

You cry all morning, through your miserable shift at the diner. You must look like some sort of slug, because Jason asks you if you’re okay, as does the girl from your old english class who came in that morning all the way from New York : in town and visiting her parents. She dyed her hair and found her style. You see the sparkle of the world in her eyes, and your dirty fingers itch to steal it, to run outside with her car keys, assume her role as a real person. You do not feel real at all. 

When you return to your rotting home you watch an old western - Jerry’s favorite - while you wear his cowboy hat, toying with the new jewelry that was sent to you when the police must’ve got around to acting out Jerry’s will. You feel loved and, oh, so lonely at the same time. You are a ghost in your own home, and the appearance reflects it. No real girl would live in a house of mold and quiet, where it is abandoned despite having a resident. 

—-

The Man returns this evening as well, in the moment you were humming the iconic tune from your new favorite movie. Jerry had good taste. The world goes silent, and he grabs a pack of beers before heading to the till. “Marlboro Reds, please.” He has a Texan accent, and you stare at your hands as you give him what he wants. He leaves after that again, your only customer of the night. 

 

The next night, he takes his time browsing the store. You watch him, watch how he languidly moves, scanning the items like his eyes would not eventually land on you. Approaching the counter with his chosen trifle.

 “You don’t get scared workin’ nights?” He asks, and now you know your concerns were not unfounded. 

“No.” you lie, meeting his eye for the second time since the first night. He does not have facial expressions, you realize. Blank, revealing nothing. He is a handsome man. An eerie man. He nods, holding eye contact as he grabs the useless item and goes back to his sputtering truck outside. He looked like he wanted to call you a liar. 

You do not show up for your shift the night after that. Your gut tells you to stay home, to lock your doors and keep your father’s old pistol near you. To close the blinds – sit and listen to every sound of the night. Check under your bed just in case.

You’re late to the diner the next morning, greeted by Jason’s complaining that he had to serve the first customer’s coffee, asking for you to make it up to him. When you peep through the corridor, your heart drops at the only customer in the restaurant. 

The Man has come to the diner. He knows you, he knows where you work – probably where you live. 

Maybe he lives here, maybe it’s all some coincidence. Maybe it’s not what you think. 

You bring him his eggs and bacon, and when you look up to his face he’s already looking at you. He does not move, does not touch his knife or fork. He’s staring at you. 

“Leave me alone.” You say, quiet yet firm, standing over him as he blinks and looks down at his food. Your fear is making you angry, fire spitting in your eyes. He doesn’t answer you, and after two moments of being unable to bear the energy that exudes from him – you walk away, into the back of the kitchen to watch Jason work, peeping through the slits of the serving station to watch The Man eat his food. Your body hair prickles into points.

Jason eyes you, glances at The Man, and raises a faint eyebrow at you. 

“That your daddy?” he asks, staring at the popping bacon. You watch the grease heat and solidify, the sweat sticking on Jason’s skinny yet defined triceps, coated with wiry hair that’s never been tended to. 

“No.” you whisper, tucking your hands under your legs : they are cold, and your skin is overridden with goosebumps, hair standing. You feel as though you’re about to be swallowed, like large claws will pick you up and drop you into a maw of sharp, hungry teeth.

“Why’s he givin’ me the stink eye, then?” Jason grunts, picking at his gold tooth with a grimy finger as he lazily looks over to your thighs, then your face. Raising an eyebrow at how fearful you look, he glances back at The Man. Something like concern flashes across his face, and he lifts his cap to rub over his short, receding hair. It’s the first time his eyes have ever looked soft.

“Dunno.” is all you manage to mutter as you brace a peek to find The Man has looked away.

He’s slow, takes time to eat every piece of food while staring blankly out the window, like he’s watching the world as though he’s never seen it before, unnatural. You want to tell Jason about your all consuming fear that this man is going to hurt you, but his eyes have changed and he makes another comment about how good you look in the plaid dress that happens to be your uniform.  You choose to wait outside of the building instead of enduring the male specimen of your species. It feels like you are alone in a world of monsters.

When you return inside, there’s a fifty dollar tip next to the spotless plate, everything stacked for you to carry. 

You don’t return home that night : you ditch your job at the gas station for a second time,  leaving your car at the diner to book a room at the shitty motel. It feels as though you died the same day Jerry did, maybe you are dreaming : alone in an empty world, your only companion being the monster. Nothing feels real.

You fall asleep to the sound of ugly moans, watching the handle of your door : your heart beating faster than your body can manage. Rocking yourself back and forth, humming a soft tune your father used to play on the guitar when he was sober enough to think. 

You feel as though you are living on borrowed time, as though this opportunity to wait is a mercy.

He is not at the diner the next morning. Neither is Jason, it’s closed up and the lights are shut off – it is Jason’s job to open up and get the stoves burning. You try to call the owner with the small amount of change you have on the payphone, but no one answers. The sound of the dead line ringing in your ears as you look around in a panic. 

You suddenly feel as though you’re back in that patch of forest, surrounded by tall trees and a monster waiting to swallow you whole. Watching. A fear so curdling you fear you’ll throw up over the plastic phone. 

You’re wide awake standing behind the counter of the gas station. Watching the fluorescent lights flicker. You parked your car out back. You’re holding the bat in your right hand under the counter. You are waiting for him to come in. You should have driven far far away, but you have a sinking feeling he would have followed. 

The night is completely quiet. No people, no sounds except for the humming of the fridges. 

You glance at the back door, and the moment your eyes turn away from the sliding doors they ding. Your hair rises and stands violently. Skin alight and blazing as the first footstep echos in the store.

You don’t think about it, your body tells you to run and you do. 

Out the back, to the edge of the concrete until your feet are pounding along the road, bat gripped tightly in your fist. The sound of your own feet are drowned out by the ones behind you, big and stomping. The trees framing your attempt at an escape as they yawn and stretch above - caging you in, suffocating. They grow tall as you sprint, closing like they will eagerly crash down and trap you like a wave from the ocean you’ve never seen.

You push with all your might, and you thank the lord you took track during school, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you run so fast the sound of feet behind you fade. It feels like victory, like being free – your chest blooms from the burn and the success. You think of the gun in your bedside drawer, and turn down the off-road into the woods you’ve never been brave enough to take before. The only sound is the one of your own feet : you’re not stupid enough to look behind you.

The moon lights up the forest floor, you don’t trip over a single root or branch. You’re moving faster than you ever have in your life : your lungs screaming, fear rising in your lungs like bile. You break into the clearing, the one that has always been haunted by Jackals. 

You’re almost home. 

A force heavier than you think you’ve ever felt crashes into you from the side, you’re slammed down into the one patch of grass you often picked, the bat flying out of your hands and rolling to the dirt in front of you.

“Knew you’d run here.” A deep, breathless voice says right into your ear, your hair is pulled as a hand clamps down on your struggling wrists, excited. “Always liked playin’ here, didn’t ya?” he grunts, pulling something out of his pocket. You swing your elbow up, knocking him straight in the jaw. He sways for only a moment, but it’s all you need. You dash forward, crawling away from him before you find your feet, grabbing the bat and smashing it down over The Man’s skull. He groans and stumbles, gripping the back of his head as you trip over your own feet to stumble away. You run towards your rotting home, you can’t think about the fact he knew where you played as a child, all you are thinking about is the gun. 

You don’t even get to the steps of your back porch before he’s tackling you to the ground again and hitting the side of your face hard enough to make you cry, your head fuzzing. Your face stings and your eye throbs. You want to bring your hands to cup over the hurt, hold yourself in an attempt to make it better, but he is holding your hands. He curses at you, spitting vile words for managing to get solid blows at him.

“Come on, darlin’. You think that little gun ‘s gon’ do anythin’? It don’t even got any bullets.” He grunts, you feel zip ties around your wrists, your mind racing as you continue to struggle and kick until his hand is around your throat faster than you can think. “Don’t make me hit that pretty face again, bitch.” 

You go still, and slumped. Trapped in a wolf’s jaws. 

His hand squeezes tighter and tighter as you squeak a protest, until you can’t think anymore and the last of your squirming falls away. 

The first thing you smell when you wake up is smoke, the kind that comes from a fireplace. The first thing you see is rich, dark wood. You’re on a bed and you glance up to see you’re handcuffed there. Your skin isn’t just throbbing – it's raw, the skin bitten where the metal has scraped against you. Your head pounds like it’s been split open, the ache thick and blinding.

You can feel he is somewhere within the room, the twist of your stomach and the lingering presence on the back of your head tells you he is there. A creak of a chair behind you finalizes his presence but you can’t be bothered to do anything besides slump back against the mattress, curling up into a tiny ball. 

He says your name to get your attention, and you don’t attempt to look at him, your skin is already crawling with what you think he wants to do to you. Future years of using and hitting flash through your mind, wishing for the mercy of death.

He walked next to the bed too fast, too silent. A wall of muscle and heat as large as him should not be so quiet.  He is touching your hair, stroking down your cheek. His hand is rough and warm, he smells like a cologne that reminds you of your father. You think you might be sick.

“I was bein’ nice. I waited.” he says softly, pressing down with his pointer finger on the bruise that has molted under your skin, making you wince and shuffle away from him, glancing up at him to find his striking, dark eyes on you. His jaw is bruised where you hit him with your aching elbow, a trickle of dry blood still stuck on a piece of his salt-and-pepper hair. You made a crack in his head – a small trickle of pride filling your veins at the fight. 

It is small lived, and dies out at the next throb of your wrists.

He sighs at this reaction, before walking out of this bedroom and shutting the door behind him. 

You lie there for what feels like hours, only moving when you notice the water and ibuprofen on the bedside table : still in its packaging. Your whole body aches, the last throttles of your adrenaline were beaten out of you with his hands. 

It’s only when you sit up that you notice where you are. The view outside the window is the forest behind the cabin that groaned at you, that haunted you as a child. 

He’s lived here the whole time : he’s been here the whole time. The feeling of impending doom that curdles your skin when he’s been near. The jackals you felt as a child, the forest going quiet. 

It’s been him. It’s always been him.

Your skin feels as though it will turn inside out, every hair on your body standing to a rigid point. The fear feels as though you’re dying. 

You don’t have to look to know he’s silently opened the room again, and you speak.

“You some kind of pedo?” You spit as your head throbs, sitting up on the bed, tugging on the cuffs, rage curdling and bubbling up on your skin – you think of your mother. 

He stops moving at your words, “what?” 

“You’ve been watching me since I was a child.” 

“It wasn’t like that, Jesus.” He grunts, sounding uncomfortable at the idea. You almost want to laugh. In your periphery you see he’s ditched his canvas jacket, wearing a navy flannel that shows you just how large he is - as if you didn’t feel it the night before when he tackled into you so violently, stealing every inch of breath in your lungs.

“Oh, well sorry for assuming some old, sick pig stalking a young girl since she was a child isn’t a fucking pedophile.”

He smacks you over the throbbing patch of your skin, and you finally glare up at him with every bit of ire in your body. It was not any kind of hit, it was the kind that made you feel like dead weight, that knocks all the air out of your body as if you are a puppet with it’s strings cut. 

He’s staring down at you.

“I’m not –  christ, it ain’t like that.” 

“So you’re just going to kidnap and keep me? You’re not going to – to do anything, is that right?” You scoff the words out, holding your hand to your cheek. The ache under your skin feels like it could stay there forever. 

“I don’t want to do anything to you.” He seems to notice the irony of his words when you let your palm drop, face swollen. “I didn’t want to have to hurt you.”

You look out the window and go silent. 

“You didn’t have to hurt me, this was your choice.” You spit, and he looks almost surprised by your words. There’s goosebumps that break out over his skin, and the energy in the room constricts as he backs away from you.

He glances out the same window before handing you a warm bowl of stew, pieces of meat and potato bobbing up from the thick, stock smelling liquid. You stare down at it, and then glare back up at him. 

“Is it poisoned?” You’re not serious, you’re angry.

“If I wanted to kill you I would have done it earlier.” He says it as though it’s as casual as the weather, as though killing something – a person – is as boring as can be. Idle reassurance. 

“You seem to like the waiting game.” You huff, staring at his large, twitching hands. His watch is broken.

He looks like he wants to smile at your quip, eyes crinkling in the corners.

“Eat.” He tells you, closing the bedroom door softly as he leaves you be.

—

You have been here for two weeks, only knowing this due to the little alarm clock next to the bed that he brought you from your house. 

True to his word, he hasn’t touched you – in fact, he’s been taking care of you in ways you have never been before. It’s intimate, and a sick hunger has begun to heat low in your belly alongside the fear. 

You feel as though you’ve been living in a small bubble where time never passes. He watches you at all hours of the day, asking you questions about the men you’ve worked with, if there’s anything from your house you want him to fetch. He tries not to hit you when his anger bubbles up at your persistent silence. He asks you questions about yourself, not ones like favorite colors, but if you think all people in the world are unsavable. 

He looks like he’s hoping you will tell him he can be saved. You do not. 

He makes you eat dinner with him every night, bathes you as well. The first time he tried it, after letting you rot in bed for three days, he had to wrestle you into the bathtub after trying to be nice, held you down while you kicked and splashed and scratched at him until he pressed his fingers over your injured face in an unforgiving manner until your cries went quiet, and you almost fainted from the pain. He made you apologize for making him have to hurt you. 

You swallowed the clawing, raging voice at the back of your throat and did it. When he kissed your forehead and told you it’s okay, a warm sickness swirled in your stomach, nauseating and tentatively delicious all at once.

You have not tried to fight him after that night, scared of what would happen if he were to comfort you. 

He tucks you into bed most evenings, pressing the blanket to cushion you and arranges the pillows. In the first nights, it had scared you : you hadn’t slept a wink, terrified he would slip into bed and his patience would wear thin. Now, it feels like something nice. He tries to tell you happy stories, he usually fails – but it makes you think of Jerry and you feel better regardless, it makes The Man seem more real, like a human rather than a monster. 

He asks you to curl up next to him on the couch so he can read aloud to you, books you’ve heard about in passing but never read : he has a liking for Cormac McCarthy and the Wild West. He bakes cookies for you when you ask him your first question, letting you sit at the table with a glass of milk to enjoy them. You feel warmth radiating from inside of you, spiked with fear – no one has baked cookies for you before. You finish them, and he says he’s proud.

—-

The sinking feeling comes slowly. Seeping into your bones whenever he holds you. It gets worse when you begin to dream of him, a possible reality, one of him holding you and kissing you – telling you you’re lovable, perfect, worthy. Six months have warped your brain, slipping out of your grasp like sand. You wake up to slickness between your legs, a desire to go find him in the kitchen making breakfast and nuzzle under his broad arms, let him squeeze you tight and surround you with his scent. You don’t have to beg him to make you feel loved, he’s always loved you : he’s made that clear. 

You had realized long ago that he is too big for you to fight, he is all consuming and overpowering. The sinking feels like acceptance, and you think it’s close to dying. 

It’s a sunny day when it all hits you. He’s been out for half an hour – at the grocery store a few towns over – the moment he said goodbye you had felt a twist in your stomach. You didn’t want him to go. He hugged you and told you he would be back soon, kissing your cheek when you got teary, his whiskery beard tickling your soft skin. 

You don’t know when the terror began to feel like safety. You only know that when he’s gone, it feels like you’re alone with the jackals instead of how it was when he found you. When he was the monster.

The worst part was you knew why you reacted that way. Sitting in the sunny room, you forced your mind to constantly think of escape routes, of the disgusting actions he had committed, the way he has trapped you in this little house. Your mind adamantly hates The Man, but that large pit, the self that was unloved and uncared for – alone, has already started to need him, to ignore the stupidity in believing he loves you. To latch on like a leech and suck up all of the love and care he has, not caring if it’s real or pure, to see if it’ll make you round and fat with it – satisfied.

 

The hunger for what he has to offer you makes you feel like you might be the true monster in the house : your desperation for what you have never tasted knows no bounds. You think you’d kill for it. You might have been the jackal the whole time, the hole that lived inside you might have turned you ugly from a young age. 

You are scared of your own desperation. 

He bathes you every night – ritualistic and precise. Guides you under the water until you reappear, clean and new to a kiss on your cheek, hands scrubbing you clean. Every time the surface breaks and you come back to him, the forest grows denser : tighter and vast while the home, your home, becomes all the more simple and clear, exactly how it is supposed to be. 

You need him, and you think you love him. What that makes you, you’re not sure and you no longer care. 

He goes out months later, telling you he needs to get food and soap, baby - he leaves the window open and the door unlocked : he knows you will not leave. He says he’s going to grab soap, but he is carrying a prescription slip with a little baggie, what he’s actually going to get remains a mystery to you. 

The nightmare you had in the middle of winter had shifted something deep in your foundations – the fear that licked up your spine at the thought of being alone – the much lesser, flickering fear that your body had instinctually looked for him in his room, the dull scream your mind let out at the way you climbed into his bed, burrowing under his large, comforting arms until your brain went quiet and he pulled you closer. Those dull screams of fear and resistance from a lifetime ago have been washed away from his hands, and now a need so gravitational has birthed in its place. You want him.

Dusk comes softly in the weeks after taking residence in his bed. He still has not touched you, and you are beginning to feel ire towards his morality. A wrongness in the way he tries to be right. The cabin is warm with firelight, the smell of smoke wrapping around you like a blanket, similarly to his flannel that stretches over your skin. He jostles open the door slowly, grocery bags lining his fingers in a way that is dangerously domestic – his hair is tousled. His eyes catch onto the fabric, and he pauses.

“You’re in my shirt.” He states, but you know it’s a question. Your eyes search for the little baggie he had, wondering what he put in there. 

You close the book he gave you to read, the cover sliding across your fingertips, “It smells like you.”

Something in his expression shifts. You think it might be guilt. Or pride. Or both, layered on top of each other until they’re indecipherable. He sets the bags down and moves to you, slow and steady – crouching to your level in front of the couch. 

“You missed me?” He asked, eyes wild and dilated, hands skirting over your exposed thighs. Up and down. 

You look away, unable to meet the gaze that is burning into you, to admit how far you’ve gone to his face. Yet your head nods, eyes flicking to his as your chin wobbles, bottom lip jutting out before tightening in a grimace. He wipes a tear from your eye.

“’s okay to miss me, I’m the only one who’s here f’you, darlin’.” He cups your cheek, rubbing the skin there. You meet his eyes this time, close them before you’re leaning in, resting your head on his shoulder as he sits next to you, guiding you onto his lap and telling you it's okay, and it’s natural, baby and finally I love you, don’t cry sweet girl.

You’re tired of the tears, of the fight. Tired of the empty woods and the silence – the loneliness that lives in your bones. You’re tired of running from the thing that makes you feel whole and real.

You wonder if Jerry ever saw this coming, and if he did – why didn’t he ever warn you something so soul destroying would be waiting to swallow you? Why didn’t he tell you the most human monster in the world would be the only one to see you without the shiny idealism behind cataracts? You feel guilty for admitting that The Man knows you better than Jerry ever did. The Man knows you are not made of sunshine and flowers, he sees the hole carved in your stomach that makes you so achingly hungry, and shows his own back. 

— 

You noticed the loose floorboard on the second day, and now you pry it open. While you care for The Man, you are acting on instinct.

He had shouted at you this morning while you were still curled in his arms, gotten rotten and angry, called you a stupid bitch when you had asked him to come with him to the store, wanting to see the world again. 

You were hopeful he would trust you, that he would prove you are, in fact, not living in a cage. 

He had stormed off, and for the first time in eight months he had locked the door on his way out, shoving a small plastic bag in his pocket. 

Spiders crawl out from the floorboard, and you jump back, standing on the couch while you throw The Man’s shoes at them, you wish he was here so he could take care of it, could laugh softly at your fear and hold you in his arms – away from the floor – to protect you. 

You remind yourself you do not know his name and that you’re trapped here, a jarring reminder of the way you have settled.

You need something to prove he was a real, living man before his life revolved around you. You need to rebel against him, like a petulant, scared child because of his rudeness this morning. 

Once you feel safe enough, you roll up the sleeve of the lacy undershirt he gave you and stick your hand inside. Searching for some sort of ocular truth amongst the bones of his own rotted cabin.

A pair of old boots with a ‘J’ engraved in the sole is the first thing you pull out. An army knife next, then a bunch of guns and weapons. 

No matter how strange it is to find guns and knives buried in someone’s house, for The Man it’s quite boring.

You pull out a shoe box next, placing it next to you on the floor before blowing the dust off of the top. It doesn’t help much. From the amount of grime, it looks as though you are the first person to touch this box in years.

The lid sticks to the rest of the compartment from cobwebs, but you discard the thing anyway, desperate and careless.

 

A photo is the first thing you find, old and yellowed.

A little girl.

At first you are fearful she is a victim, until you see the photo of The Man - much younger - holding her in the hospital. Your stomach curdles, and it feels like rotting, eating itself from the inside. 

A daughter. 

Your heart swoops low, pensive. You think of the room he keeps locked, the warm light that streams under the gap of the door - reflecting something pink inside. The way you would watch the beams dance on the floor like a whole soul was trapped inside there, wilting as the sun set.

Her birth certificate is the second thing you find. 

  Sarah Miller : 1983 / 03 / 18   

  City of origin : Arlington, Texas. 

  Father  : Joel Miller  

A name, a life, a whole world buried in the foundations. 

You gawk at the fact that The Man – Joel – is 60 years old. 

Her missing poster is what you find next. Bile rises like acid on your tongue, a smiling, happy girl plastered with information about her last whereabouts, the pink shirt she was wearing and how tall she had gotten. She went missing on your third birthday. Your head swims. You drop the documents back into their casket with trembling hands and weak knees.

 Stupid, stupid girl – why did you have to look?

The last thing you find is a golden tooth, familiar in its grime and dullness. You can imagine a sleazy tongue gliding over it in irritation. Jason’s golden tooth. You drop it immediately and slam the loose floorboard shut, burying what was meant to stay that way once more. 

The room looks as though nothing has changed, yet everything inside of yourself is different. A storm of fog and clarity, adrenaline pumping for running and the desire to stay still.

You throw up outside the living room window.

Everything feels like a blur after that, grabbing your boots he stuffed away - a coat and a knife from his kitchen.

Run, just run. Don’t look back. Get away, fast fast fast. 

You climb out of the bedroom window and run all the way to where you left your car the night he caught you, cold wind whipping past your face and sending a burn through your nose. Your feet pound along the ground like the whole world is weighing you down, like every stone is hoping to trip you and let you fall, to cut your knees open and stop you. 

You eventually arrive at the gas station.

You're stunned that the place is closed and rotted, not a single soul in sight.

Your lungs are burning, you feel woozy, and you let out a pathetic cry when you see he has slashed your tires. 

Stopping at the rough concrete of the shop, you attempt to open the back door, only to spot a poster plastered on the side of the wall. 

A missing poster. Your missing poster, with not a single person in the world to care for its presence besides a man who you ran away from, who would tear it down and remove you from an existence that is not with him, that would try to come find you to bring you back.

You decide to keep running in the opposite direction of his home. A large part of you is screaming at you to run to the Sheriff’s office and tell them what happened, that Joel will find you if you try anything else, but a shamefully large part - a sick part of you does not want to run away from him. He has cared for you - he has watched you all your life, and you know – regardless of purity or morality – he loves you. All that is left for you without him is a town that would freeze in time if you were to vanish, fake in its existence, a facade for the life you were always meant to live.

To your horror, the twist in your chest tells you that you love him too, it’s a surety now.

You think of the soft kisses he pressed to your hair, the way you got used to him telling you of things he liked about you, that he only would have known from watching. The way he told you he too liked Jerry, and liked the movie you watched after his passing. He let you watch it every night for a month, and began to quote the lines with you in an exaggerated version of his accent to make you giggle.

He saw you, he has always seen you. He loves you and wants you and needs you enough to take you for himself. 

You have stopped running, standing still for a moment before slowly turning around, feet shaking in your soul’s indecision. Torn and trembling. The forest is completely silent, yet this time you feel all too real – too alive. 

Your mind is not what it used to be. The shake of your hands comes from the part of you that is pleading for you to run, to see the clear manipulation : the rose coloured glasses that have been forced over your eyes. The other part – the part that you are starting to believe is the truth of who you are – wants to run back to the cabin before he sees you ever left, to cup his devastatingly handsome face and let him take what has always been his, to be made a real person.

It is consuming, this primal want.

A twig snaps.

You don’t need to turn around to know he his standing close behind you. 

You clench your fists and turn around, fear curdling and boiling in your belly, making your knees weak and shaky. 

The look on his face clears your rational thought once again, and you quickly attempt to scramble away from the monster. He looks absolutely, impossibly, livid. 

You do not know why you ever thought you could run, why you thought he would not find you, that he would let you go. 

You burst into tears the second he has you against the forest floor once more. The ground ripping the skin from your cheek as you fall, crushed under him once again – worse this time : you knew better.

“Why’d you do it, angel?” He says softly, entirely contrasting from the way his arm is curled around your head, large biceps restricting your breath. 

“I-I was scared.” You cry, trying to stop the hiccuping of your lungs to keep the breath you have. 

“I know baby, I know.” He soothes, deep voice right next to your ear, his mostly salt and slightly pepper beard tickling the skin. “You made me so scared, sweet girl. Thought you cared ‘bout me.” he whispers. You do not know if the tightening of his arms was intentional, or if he is so upset at the idea you could hate him that he is consumed with it. 

“I’m s-sorry,” You gasp, clawing at his arm, “I do care, ‘s why I–”

He raises his hand quickly, yet it hangs in the air for a moment. Hesitation, guilt – trembling like he’s stuck. You see something raw flicker in his eyes before it’s gone and he’s striking the ground next to your face, barely missing you – a last second decision. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me.” Desperate, angry, scared.

You need to placate him before he does something stupid.

“I turned back– I was going to go back home I promise, please.” you cry, looking into his eyes. You loathe the fact that your words aren’t lies, that the care he sees reflected in them is real. You want him, you need him.

He watches you silently, frowning. Waiting to see what you have to say to him. 

“I snooped, I’m sorry. I was angry about this morning and I saw– I saw Jason’s tooth and–” 

The sound that leaves him is punched from deep within his chest.  

He is silent for a long time. Pulling away from you. 

You do not breathe, scared – the back of your neck is bared to him. Your life depends on his reaction. 

“You saw my girl.” 

You tremble in his slackening grasp. He seems to be staggering for a moment, unprepared and assaulted by the memories you have brought back. His hands grip tighter and tighter. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to – I didn’t know.” you whisper, tears streaming out of your eyes as you look up at the setting sun, these must be your last moments. Your body trembles and your hiccuping noises are ugly. You wish you could take this all back to before. 

“You ain’t supposed t’see what’s down there.” he’s lifting his hands off of you, and you think the scariest thing about this moment is how human he finally seems. Like you are the one seeing him after all this time. You stay down, turning to look into his eyes – all you can see is grief.  “You know what it’s like to be lonely, that’s why you were brought to me, baby.” His hands wrap around your neck again, and you shriek a small protest, scrambling. Your nails crack and bleed as they attempt to rip yourself away from him by holding onto the ground and pulling.

You feel drops against the back of your neck, and fear lurches in your stomach at the fact that he’s crying. “She would have hated me, she was so good.” His hands are constricting, crushing. You choke and gasp for breath. “But I ain’t got her anymore. I got you. And God help me, I need you, sweet girl.” 

“I’m sorry.” you whisper again, looking into his sad eyes with your teary ones. 

“I know.” He says softly, and you whimper as his hand comes to your face. He rubs the skin for a few moments, letting himself breathe and feel you. It feels like an eternity, lying under him, trapped.

“I’m goin’ to give you a choice, sweet girl. I ain’t given you one before.” His voice builds up as he says it, like the memory of his daughter drives him to formulate a plan – a way to somehow fix everything he’d done. Your heart stops as he slides off of you, picking you up with him and holding you, the tips of your boots brushing the ground. He stares at you seriously, and he looks so different from the monster, like he’s trying his best to do the right thing after all this time, pretending it’ll take everything back. 

“I’m goin’ to let you run, sweet girl. You can choose to go to the sheriff– or, or steal my truck, do what you want.” He swallows thickly, eyes wild. “I’ll let you go, I should let you go.” He whispers almost to himself. “But if you choose t’go back home…I won’t let you leave me again, baby.” He smooths his hand over your hair after setting you down. “You’ll be mine, honey. And I’ll be yours, we can be fair and make this right. I’ll take you, and I’ll tell you everythin’.” 

You thought your heart was going to rip out of your chest. Everything is primal, it’s all desperate and ugly and raw. He lets go of you, taking a few difficult, staggered, paces back. His fists are clenched tightly at his sides. 

“Go,” he nods slowly, like he’s trying to assure himself this is the right thing to do. “If you run now, I won’t stop you, I swear.” his voice breaks like he’s not sure of it himself — scared of what he’s capable of yet consumed with need. His eyes are soft and round, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen. You are scared, but more importantly you are tired.

For the first time someone has loved every rotten bit of you – so desperately they leave morality behind. How could you run away from this? 

You hesitate, stagnant and unsure. Your heart and your brain have gotten so tired from fighting it feels they have turned off all together, what happens now is primal – instinctual, you feel out of your own body, vaguely aware of the blood pulsing through you. 

You turn around and run swiftly down the road, scrambling over a few loose stones. You glance back at him once, surrounded by the trees, watching you like a dead man watches water. Your heart lurches. He looks heart broken, shattered and as alone as you’ve always felt, like this is the last time he’ll ever see you. 

Silly old man, you think. 

You were always going to run back to his cabin. 

You’ve got no need to disappear into nothing for the sake of rightness when everything you’ve ever wanted lives in the warm, wooden walls of his — your — home. 

He underestimated just how hungry, how broken and corrupt you are. 

You know now that you love him, and you know that you have always been just as much of a monster as he is. Rotten and broken and impure, tainted and shattered. 

You have always been his match. 

Your boots carry you home like you weigh nothing, light as air as ribbons of your past fears and wishes string and rip behind you. A flurry of ideas and thoughts until there is nothing except for yourself standing in that same flowery spot with plucked grass and no-more- monsters. 

  You bask in the silence of the forest. You have since lost track of the hurt, the burn of fear rising in your throat. You think of gold teeth and little girls and bright, wrinkled eyes surrounded by rich, dark skin – before your thoughts fall silent too.

You are under water. By the time you see his cabin : dim with no lights on as it always was until he found you – your mind is somewhere else, hollow and empty and replaced with something molten in your stomach. An ache, gnawing away at your belly. 

You don’t knock, you let the stairs creak as you silently open the door. 

  He had not followed you, true to his word. The house is just as you’d left it. 

You feel settled, clam and composed as you slowly begin to strip. Boots at the door, jacket in the living room. A trail made from your scarf leading to shorts and small socks. At the side of Joel’s bed, a lacy undershirt and bra. 

  You have already started to drift off by the time the cabin door opens. Two shuffles of feet before they stop short. 

He takes time to make a fire, the sound of crackling wood creating a comforting blanket to your sleepy state, in and out of the haze, yet aware. 

You are silent and waiting, your breath fanning softly as your eyes struggle to stay open. Somewhere deep, your heart throbs – the last fizzling jump of fear before it dies and fades away for good. You hear the opening of a small, plastic bag somewhere in the kitchen, little taps of what sounds like a pill falling against the counter top– a gulp of water a few seconds later. 

The mattress dips as he climbs into bed behind you. 

His callouses catch on your skin roughly as he traces the side of your face, bare chest pressing against your lower back while he buries his face between your shoulder blades. 

You let your eyes flutter shut as he places open-mouthed kisses up your spine, wet and shaky. His hands grip your hips like you’ll turn to smoke if he doesn’t hold on. His beard tickles your shoulder as he continues, cradling you against him as if he is trying to stitch himself back together again, to become real and whole.

You let him. 

He is shaking when you turn to face him. Neither of you speak, words unnecessary in the softness and stillness of the night : no need for words when there are only two people in the world who are so entwined already. 

His palm cups your face, turning you to look at him, thumb stroking over the corner of your mouth like a prayer. You whisper his name to him for the first time, a shaky breath escapes him as he whispers yours back. A small ruffle of the familiar duvet as you turn to face him, his warm palm cups over your tit – your pounding heart – as you turn to face him. Eyes shining as they meet yours. He looks so human.

He presses his nose against your own before his chapped lips finally meet yours in hesitation, like he’s trying to confirm that you’re really here next to him, that he hasn’t lost the only thing he has. 

It’s soft for only a moment before you both let the hunger take over – hot and wet, lips moving faster and faster as his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. They part without hesitation, taking the warm wetness of it inside your mouth and sucking gently, rolling over the other’s until your tastes are the same. 

  You gasp as his hands – rough and trembling – slide down your body, tracing every feature he studied from afar that is now finally his to touch. His mouth nudges along your jaw, nipping at the skin before he’s burying his face in your neck and inhaling. 

When you whisper his name softly, he shudders like you’re the first person to ever truly call for him. 

Your hand glides down to his stomach, running through the silvery hair that coats it desperately, trying to ground yourself to him. To pull him impossibly closer like you want to merge your bodies into one, consuming. 

His hands are everywhere as he groans into your mouth, surrounding you completely. One grips your hair, pulling back gently to bare your throat to him as the other runs down your breasts, pulling and squeezing your nipples into tight points, breath panting from the intensity. He paints your neck with bites, blooms where he’s sucked and tugged on your skin until his mark has been made – groaning as he licks over the skin, like he’s trying to infuse you into his bones. Your skin tastes like his surrender, like the salt of his prayers. It’s not forgiveness he asks for – but belonging, trying to carve a place for himself in the crook of your neck. 

Your fingers slip under the band of his boxers, searching for that rigid warmth that’ll complete you, retreating slightly on a shaky gasp as his hot, wet mouth envelopes your nipple, pulling and licking. 

He’s on top of you within seconds, hands splaying across your shoulder blades as he shows equal treatment to each breast, arching you against him. His heavy sighs travel across your skin as he exhales. Groin slotted against the warmth of yours, he lets your hands tangle in his hair as he moves Southwards, kissing as he goes.

You whine a protest, whimpering for him to join the two of you together, and he answers your previous curiosities in a deep rumble, “Gotta give it time to work, sweet girl. I ain’t young no more.” 

You let your head fall back against the pillows, a spark of electricity running through you at the reminder of his age, wetness seeping out into the gusset of your panties as you try to close your legs – an attempt at alleviating some of the heat that’s been building there. 

He grunts at this, large hands gripping your soft thighs as he plants them wide and flat against the mattress, “Easy, darlin’ – gon’ take care of you now.” He rumbles against your lower stomach, right over your womb as he reaches up to pinch your tit, prompting you to look down at him between your thighs. Those eyes you once used to fear with such intensity now only make more slickness spill into the cotton that conceals you. 

“Want you t’look at me while I taste this pretty little cunt for the first time.” He whispers on a kiss against your mound, dragging your panties down by latching his teeth onto the little bow adorning the front and pulling. You moan softly at the sight, hands fisting the sheets next to your head as his broad, muscular shoulders keep your legs spread wide, baring your warm pussy for his taking. 

  His eyes meet yours as his breath falters at the first glide of his tongue through your cunt, breaking off into a deep groan as he tastes you. A small cry of his name leaves your lips at the new sensation, hands immediately going to tangle in his soft hair. His tongue is ravenous, licking up every ounce of arousal as his eyes stay on yours, only dropping down when your head falls back once more. 

He sucks your clit into his mouth, beard tickling and stimulating you – sending head through your bones. His lips tug on your bundle of nerves, pulling so deliciously your hips cant up onto his face, letting your wetness coat his beard until it’s soaked.

He lets go of your throbbing bud with a pop, licking his lips as he lets his mouth glide lower. 

“Taste so fuckin’ perfect, my angel.” He groans as his tongue digs over your hole, an obscene sound of him slurping up all you’ve given him echoes through the humid room, and your moan of approval follows soon after. His nose digs into your clit as he pushes his tongue inside you, letting it glide into your gummy walls as you clench around him. His moans of approval course through you, heat rising blindly through your bones as you cry out for him, hips bucking as he presses against your lower stomach with a large palm. The rough material of his watch-strap scratching your tummy as his brows furrow, focused on eating you alive. The smacking sounds of his lips against your wetness make your eyes roll as he digs his tongue inside. His hand moves lower, skirting against your entrance before he’s pulling his tongue out with a slick pop, replacing it with his fingers as he sucks on your clit once more. 

“Joel I-I’m gonna…” You trail off into a high pitched gasp, body trying to twist away from him as his thick fingers curl, pads of them bruising a spot inside of you that makes wetness gush out onto his wrist. 

  “Cum f’me, sweet girl, look at me.” He grunts, waiting until your eyes meet his to suck on your clit harshly, tongue running against the underside as he spreads and lifts his fingers to press against your gummy walls.

Your first orgasm crashes into you when you realize he’s humping the bed, his hot tongue desperately lapping up the slick that gushes from your spasming hole. He moans at the taste, making sure to drink it all down before he’s pushing up the bed – capturing your mouth in a wanting kiss as his thick hardness leaks against your leg.

His pill must’ve worked.

“Joel.” You whisper against his lips, nails dragging down the muscles in his back as you try to paw his underwear off with your foot, cunt clenching around nothing, desperate to grip and coat his cock in your slickness.

He offers his body to you in a way that feels holy, the glide of him through your messy folds makes a sound so perfect leave his mouth you feel as though you’ve gone to heaven. 

“I’ve got you.” He whispers against your lips, the hand that is not cupping your face is notching his fat, drooling tip at your entrance. “I’ve got you, baby.” 

The first time he pushes into you, it’s gentle. A broken sound rips from him like he can’t bear it, face strained as he takes his bottom lip between his teeth, watching his cock sink into you at a sinfully slow speed. Only when your nails sink into the skin of his back does he look into your eyes, seeing his own want, need, obsession painted in your irises.

He rocks into you like he’s trying to carve a home for himself inside your body, bringing your hand up to cup at his face while you lose yourself to the delicious stretch of him – cunt gripping him so tightly he can barely leave. You were always meant to be wrecked by hand like his – hands that tremble, hands that destroy, hands that worship. 

His moans fan across your lips, shaky as they exit. He’s slow, letting you feel every inch of him, every vein, as he glides into your soaking cunt. His eyes have rolled, but you lean up to bite your own mark into his neck, pussy clenching as he moans raw and deep at the bright red mark you suck into his skin. 

He watches you now, staring into your eyes. You want him to see the hungry, ugly, ruined thing he’s made. You want him to love it. 

And when he leans down to kiss you like this night has changed him forever, you know he loves you. He is searching for his salvation in your body. 

You anchor yourself to him like the earth is shaking, moaning a soft gasp as his forehead pressed against yours. Reveling in the feeling of his sac slapping against your backside, the sounds of lewd smacks and wetness – his own moans and whispered words of praise floating around you as the sheer size of him swallows you whole. He fucks you like he’s praying at an alter and you devour him whole. In the darkness, there is no difference between love and need, no line between hunger and worship.

Every thrust feels like a prayer, a confession, like he’s spilling the truth of himself into you on every plunge, letting you see every crack of his soul, the ugliness through the pounding of his hips against yours. Rocking together, bound by the loneliness and hunger and something older than love.

You cry under him, silent and open as he digs into you, so big and taking that your body can hardly bear it. He kisses every tear like an apology, licking up the salt as he coos above you, kissing the tip of your nose as he lets the heavy weight of his cock sit and twitch inside you for a moment, pubic hair sticky from your arousal as it grinds against your clit. He buries his face against your neck as he begins thrusting shakily again, and you know he’s crying too.

“I love you.” He whispers against your skin, broken and raw as he shakily moves his hips, eyes flitting to you, hopeful and soul-crushingly vulnerable.

Your breath is shaking, heat coursing through you at the glide of his cock against that place, tailor made for him. Your eyes falter, fluttering as the last of your tears stream down your cheeks, clenching around him so tightly. Every shared breath tastes like forgiveness neither of you have earned.

“I love you too.” You whisper, shattered. Body light as a feather as you let yourself fall. 

His breath hitches as he comes inside of you, unprepared for it – hot pulses of his seed spurting quickly, flooding you as he sobs out moans against your skin, gripping your hips so tightly you think you’ll break. You follow immediately, arching into him as his arms wrap around you, pulling you impossibly closer to him as you ride out the waves of your pleasure together, knowing it is so much more than this. You are no longer a scared bunny, alone in the world, and he is no longer a jackal hunting you down — you are only two humans, connected in a way that ascends your lives : cosmic. 

It’s not just sex, it’s not just lust – it’s your whole life that has led up to this, to him. Two people who are too broken to live, yet too stubborn to die.

He’s made you his. 

You’ve made him yours.

And lying in his arms, letting his hand rub up and down your back, you know neither of you stood a chance.

-------

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed please reblog and comment, it's great encouragement for writers ♡

extra presentiment lore if you’re interested after reading ;)

[itsbenedict]

so in an effort to be slightly less out-of-touch, i went and watched all of Skibidi Toilet the other day. (at present, the whole series is about the length of a feature film, so this wasn't too big a lift.)

what surprised me is just... how totally normal it was. like, it's not at all difficult to describe. people big it up as this incomprehensible thing that's emblematic of a generation gap, but it's. not.

the plot is: there's toilets with human heads in them that go "skibidi dom dom dom yes yes, skibidi dabbadul neef neef". they can move despite a lack of ambulatory appendages. this is wacky and unsettling, but the chief question is: Do They Win In A Fight Against Some Robots With Cameras For Heads?

it's an action movie about a war against an alien invasion. that's it. less than the first thirty seconds of it are anarchic GMod YTP insanity- it develops a plot almost immediately. the plot is paper-thin and conveyed almost entirely without dialogue, existing to set up giant robot fights and zombie apocalypse jumpscares.

who are these factions? why are they fighting? you aren't failing to get it because the kids these days are on some totally different psychic wavelength. the show simply does not give a shit about this question. here are some bad guys! here are some good guys! they're going to do explosions and punches at each other for roughly two minutes until the perspective camera is abruptly destroyed in the crossfire somehow.

it is a remarkably competently-shot action movie. the fight scenes are weighty and satisfying and have lots of exciting little twists and turns as the two sides pull increasingly bigger weapons and gadgets out of their asses. the production gets more elaborate over time, and it's a pretty stellar example of what machinima is capable of. genuinely good at the things it's trying to do.

it does kinda fall down a little later, as it attempts to develop Characters and Deepest Lore after kind of not caring about that for most of its runtime. the decision to have "dialogue" almost exclusively in the form of incomprehensible heavily-filtered backwards speech with no subtitles is probably rewarding for die-hard Skibidi-heads who have the time on their hands to mess with the audio and uncover all the hidden messages, but it means you are not going to understand anything anyone is saying on a normal watch.

the action suffers from this decision a little bit towards the end, as for reasons that completely fail to come across, the toilets appear to have broken into their own factions and start fighting each other and forming various alliances, which disrupts the simplicity of the setup and makes it hard to determine who's winning a fight at any given time. a giant scary toilet man just exploded! was that bad, or good? listen, don't worry about it. all you need to know is that these things are going to keep happening until DaFuqBoom gets bored.

it's like a... 7/10, shallow but enjoyable. easy to see why kids like it. not going to give you any deeper insights into the Kids These Days, but there's worse ways to spend a couple hours.

(the most confusing thing to me is how something this straightforward got a reputation for crossing some sort of rubicon of cultural alienation. did everyone born in the 20th century who talks about this show just watch eighteen seconds of it and give up???)

[lurker2773]

Characterization for the Hex if the Operator were sent back instead of the Drifter

I like to think about what 1999 could have been if the Lotus sent the Operator back to follow Entrati and not the Drifter. I know it makes the most sense from a character development standpoint to send Drifter, but the Operator is a much more experienced and capable (lorewise) warframe combatant with countless years of practice under their belt - it'd have been equally pragmatic to send the Starchild to 1999 to make sure whatever needs to get done in there happens and have the drifter get trained up and acclimated to the Origin system where there are other tenno to rely on to make up for inexperience and general rookie-ness.

So instead of the Hex getting a grown-ass person with magic void powers from the future, they'd get to have a war veteran trauma child - bonus points if that child is nonverbal or refuses to speak directly to them, and the Hex have to interact with them through the KIM.

And also, consider that most players from a gameplay standpoint habitually keep their Operators cloaked to prevent them from getting shot once they leave their 'frames to do whatever - canonically, the Operator and Drifter don't have a time limit on cloak, I don't think. The Hex are basically never even going to see the kid, and that could be more terrifying. Imagine seeing a puppet version of what you could be, dangling from the strings of some invisible, intangible thing with superpowers and magic lasers coming out of their hands.

Imagine mid mission Arthur turns to look at the weird and mysterious time-travelling entity and just sees a collapsed Baruuk on it's knees or frozen completely still in a weird position before it suddenly zooms about thirty meters away midair and starts straightening itself back out again in ways that joints shouldn't move in before slamming into the ground and rushing headlong into a crowd of Scaldra to 'build melee combo,' whatever the hell the demon child means by that.

Here's the meat of the post, though - the Hex (and newcomers like Flare and Kaya) can play the Context(TM) game like they do with Drifter through KIM and slowly piece together that this is a magical child soldier with a bodycount larger than all the people they've ever collectively laid eyes on, and then react in interesting ways that would lend interesting characterization.

Eleanor and Arthur would be horrified, probably, and Arthur might start talking down to the Operator because it's 'just some kid' who's clearly in over their head. Most of it's concern, but I think some small amount would be bruised pride - how could some kid be better at killing than a trained soldier?

Aoi would be heartbroken at the revelation that their new ally is a child soldier - how could anyone let that happen to them? How sick do you have to be to make children kill whoever the government pointed at with techno-organic corpses?

And Quincy would definitely be fucked up in the head for a few days after he figures it out - that could open up some opportunities for more characterization given his soft spot for kids. Would he try to keep up his aloof act, like he does with the Drifter, or immediately discard it to try and comfort a child that has already made peace with their ridiculous capacity for murder?

Amir might do something similar to Arthur, but more patronizing than hostile - he means well, but this is a kid. If Amir himself feels out of his depth in the current situation and he's an adult, then surely a child would feel even worse than he does about killing a person.

I think Lettie would be the most chill of the original Hex, though. She's jaded enough that she'd be concerned, but would probably decide that it's not really any of her business - especially considering just how talented the Operator is at mass homicide.

Velimir and Minerva could also be really interesting. On the one hand, they could see little bits of Rusalka in the Operator, but that could also lead to coddling or 'replacement goldfish'-like behavior not unlike how I imagine Amir's reaction would have been.

Flare would have been the first to know. One wayward comment from Lizzie calling the Operator demon-child or something of the like, and they'd have put it together pretty quickly after that.

Kaya would just be glad there's someone else who understands being underestimated by older people just because they're younger.

[original-szajnie]

Klonnie Weekend Day 1: Forced Proximity

Bonnie Bennett knew this flight was going to be a mistake the moment her gate changed three times in under fifteen minutes.

Now, as she stood just inside the plane’s narrow entrance—shoulder bumped by a harried flight attendant, suitcase wheel dragging like a limp limb—she caught sight of 12B and froze.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

There he was. Reclined like the world owed him something. Which, knowing him, he probably believed it did.

Klaus Mikaelson.

Neat black button-up. Ridiculously tailored coat folded on his lap. Glass of sparkling water already in hand, as if this were his private cabin and not a commercial flight full of crying toddlers and stale air. He looked… amused.

“Witch.” His tone was pleasant in the way of someone who fully intended to enjoy watching you suffer. “What a surprise.”

Bonnie blinked. Looked at her boarding pass. Then at him. Then back at the pass.

No. No no no. The universe would not do this to her.

“Don’t you have a private jet or something?”

His expression remained unchanged, but an amused slant curved his mouth. He opened a book on his lap. “Or something,” he replied.

Bonnie turned. She wasn’t even subtle about it. She waved down the flight attendant. “Hi—yeah—there’s been a mistake. I can’t sit here. This seat’s taken by Satan.”

“I’m afraid this flight is full, ma’am,” the attendant said in that dead-eyed voice only retail and aviation could inspire. “If you could just take your seat so we can begin the safety demonstration—”

Bonnie was still standing. Still glaring. Still calculating how much magic it would take to teleport herself out of this hell-tube of recycled air and supernatural smugness.

Klaus didn’t even look up from whatever overpriced history book he was pretending to read. “There’s always your broom,” he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.

Her jaw twitched.

Bonnie Bennett did not slap people on airplanes. It was probably a federal offense. Probably.

With a tight smile (that promised murder), she shoved her bag into the overhead bin—aggressively, on purpose—and dropped into the seat beside him with all the grace of a guillotine.

Not looking at him. Not talking to him. Just existing beside him like they hadn’t attempted to kill each other multiple times.

“This is fine,” she muttered to herself. “I’m fine.”

Bonnie buckled in with unnecessary force.

Click. Yank. Set.

Klaus didn’t say a word. Just continued flipping a page every thirty seconds, clearly for show. She could feel the amusement radiating off him like heat. Of course he found this funny. Of course the universe thought this was character development.

The flight attendant began the safety demonstration. Klaus didn’t look up.

Bonnie, on the other hand, was suddenly very invested in the proper operation of a seatbelt.

“…in the unlikely event of a water landing—”

She swallowed. Hard.

Ocean crossings were always the worst.

Her fingers drummed lightly against the armrest. Not panicked. Not yet. Just… present. Just trying not to imagine a freefall.

She popped in her earbuds. Music on, volume high. Not loud enough to block everything—nothing ever was—but it gave her something else to focus on.

She could feel him watching her. Briefly. A flicker in her peripheral vision.

But he didn’t say a word.

The engines whined, the cabin rattled. The nose tipped up, pressed her back against the seat. She closed her eyes. Focused on breathing.

Klaus shifted beside her. Not a fidget—he didn’t fidget—but a subtle shift, like he was cataloging everything. Or maybe bracing for her to hex the oxygen masks.

Then the plane leveled out.

The seatbelt sign chimed off. People began talking, moving, laughing again. She exhaled through her nose.

It was fine. She was fine.

“You’re tense.”

She opened her eyes, barely tilting her head toward him. “I’m sitting next to a homicidal psychopath.”

He didn’t rise to the bait. Just looked at her for a moment longer than necessary.

“Let me guess—big, bad Bonnie Bennett prefers portals?”

She narrowed her eyes. “At least portals don’t shake.”

He leaned back, ever so slightly. “Mm. Shame. I never figured turbulence might be more powerful than you.”

She stared.

He smiled.

She turned away, muttering under her breath, “If we hit a sudden drop, I hope your ego cushions the fall.”

Fifteen minutes later, the drink cart rattled down the aisle like salvation on wheels.

Bonnie sat up straighter the moment she heard the squeaky roll of those little plastic tires. She yanked her earbuds out—not gently—and threw a look at the approaching flight attendant like a woman parched in the desert.

Klaus raised a brow. “Thirsty, love?”

“I’m being proactive,” she muttered. Then before he could speak again, a warning: “Don’t start.”

The attendant stopped beside them. “What can I get you?”

“Vodka. Two, please.” Bonnie held up two fingers, just in case.

The woman blinked. “A double?”

Bonnie smiled sweetly. “No, two bottles.”

Beside her, Klaus huffed a laugh under his breath.

“And for you, sir?”

Klaus offered his best impression of a civilized man. “Nothing for me, love, thank you.”

“Of course you’re abstaining,” Bonnie muttered as she unwrapped the world’s tiniest bottle like it owed her something.

He angled his head. “Some of us manage our existential dread with grace.”

She downed the first vodka mini-bottle like it was NyQuil. No chaser. Just burned it down.

“Some of us don’t have a hybrid metabolism,” she countered, opening the second bottle immediately.

The attendant, wisely, moved on.

Klaus said nothing for a beat. Then, with an almost amused curiosity: “Are you actually afraid of flying?”

Bonnie didn’t answer right away. Just sipped. Stared out the window like the endless blue of the ocean might offer a better conversation partner.

“It’s not flying… it’s the part where we drop out of the sky,” she said finally, voice low and edged with that rare thing he almost never got: honesty.

He didn’t smile this time. “Point taken.”

They resumed their mutual silence.

The cabin settled into its mid-flight lull. Lights dimmed. Window shades half-lowered. The couple across the aisle was snoring in unison. Klaus thumbed his book—not that he’d read more than five pages—while Bonnie stared out the window, jaw clenched so tightly her molars ached.

She hadn’t spoken since drink service — just drank her vodka, crossed her arms, and tried to pretend the sky wasn’t breathing weird around them.

Then came the shift.

The plane rocked, not violently, but enough that her empty plastic cup slid an inch along the tray table. Her hand shot out instinctively to stop it.

“Relax, love,” Klaus murmured beside her. “It’s just a little turbulence.”

She didn’t respond. Just focused on keeping her shoulders from rising too high.

A second tremor passed through the plane, stronger than the last. The overhead bins creaked. Someone let out a nervous laugh three rows back.

Bonnie’s fingers curled into her armrest.

Klaus cast her a sidelong glance. He was smiling. Barely. But it was there.

“Surely you’ve faced down worse things than a bit of weather.” His tone was low. Amused. Dangerously close to smug.

She glared at him. “That was the woods. On the ground. Not in a metal tube over the ocean.”

He chuckled, quiet, indulgent, like he couldn’t decide what was more entertaining: the storm, or her.

Then the plane dropped.

It was sudden and sharp, like the floor vanished. A collective gasp rose through the cabin—someone shouted, another screamed, a baby cried—and Bonnie…Bonnie clutched his arm.

Not lightly. She grabbed him, fingers digging in deep enough to bruise. Her breathing turned fast, shallow. One heartbeat away from cracking.

Klaus stiffened.

The amusement drained from his face in a breath.

He turned toward her, fully now. No smirk. No arrogance.

Just immediate focus.

“Bonnie,” he said, quiet but firm. “Look at me.”

She didn’t. Her eyes were locked on the back of the seat in front of her like she could burn a hole through it.

Given who she was, she probably could.

Another lurch. She flinched again.

“Bonnie,” he repeated, his hand rising—slow, deliberate—to cover hers. His palm was steady, anchoring.

She finally looked up, eyes wide and wrong.

That was fear.

Real fear.

Not frustration, not anger. Not even her usual simmering disdain for him.

This was her body betraying her. This was survival panic.

And Klaus, well, Klaus knew that feeling too well.

“Breathe in,” he said softly. “Through your nose.”

She tried. Failed.

Tried again.

He nodded at her. “Good. In. Hold it. That’s it.”

The plane shuddered, but she didn’t flinch this time. His hand tightened slightly over hers—just enough to say ‘you’re not alone’.

He could feel her magic humming under her skin, wild and scattered. Like a hive of bees. Not dangerous, not yet. But if she lost control…

“You’re fine,” he said. Low. Reassuring. Real. “The plane’s not crashing.”

“How do you know?” she managed to whisper.

“Because I’m on it,” he replied, with absolute certainty.

That startled something close to a breathless laugh out of her. She let her head fall back against the seat.

The plane dipped and shuddered for another ten minutes.

Her grip didn’t ease.

And Klaus didn’t move once.

After what felt like forever to Bonnie, the turbulence passed.

The plane steadied.

The engines hummed their usual white noise, the overhead bins stayed shut, and the flight attendants resumed pretending they weren’t two seconds from pressing the panic button.

Bonnie exhaled—finally. Slow. Unsteady.

Her fingers were still curled around Klaus’s arm, knuckles pale against his coat. She blinked, realized it, and drew back like she’d touched fire.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t comment.

Didn’t smirk or raise a smug eyebrow or say something infuriating like ‘Was that so bad?’

He just sat there. Quiet. Steady.

Bonnie shifted in her seat, brushing her hands against her jeans like it might scrub the moment off her skin. She reached blindly for her water bottle, took a too-long sip, then stared ahead as if the seatback TV held the secrets of the universe.

“I’m fine,” she said eventually when she could still feel his eyes on her. Her voice was rough. A little hoarse.

Klaus finally looked away from her. “I know.”

That was it. No teasing. No pity.

Just fact.

And somehow, that comforted her more than anything else.

She let out a breath—this time less shaky—and sank lower into her seat.

Silence stretched between them again. But it was different now. Not cold. Not sharp. Something slower. Easier.

Bonnie folded her arms, pulled her hood up, and let her eyes drift shut.

She didn’t mean to fall asleep.

But she did.

Two bottles of vodka and an adrenaline rush would do that to you.

And Klaus? He didn’t move the entire time. Not even when she drifted sideways and her head found its way onto the curve of his shoulder.

Her breathing had evened out, arms tucked beneath her hoodie like she was hiding from the world.

Or maybe just from herself.

Klaus didn’t look directly at her, but he didn’t stop watching either.

Not in the obvious way. Not like she’d accuse him of. Just enough to note the faint twitch of her fingers as she slipped deeper into rest. The way her foot was still tapped faintly, like her body hadn’t quite gotten the message that the danger had passed.

She had been afraid. Genuinely.

And it shouldn’t have rattled him.

He knew that she could do impossible things. Snap necks with a thought. Tear open prison worlds. He’d watched her bleed and burn and rise again, over and over.

But this? A plane. A little turbulence. Something she couldn’t control?

That was the kind of fear that lived under the skin. Quiet. Deep-rooted. The kind that didn’t scream—it whispered.

The insidious kind of fear there was no defense against, and he found himself wanting to take it from her.

Even now, her head had drifted slightly to the side, resting on his shoulder. Close enough that if he breathed too deeply, her curls would stir against his sleeve.

He didn’t move.

Wouldn’t dare.

Because then she may wake and feel it again.

Instead, he returned to his book and stared at the same sentence for forty-five minutes.

Eventually, the captain’s voice crackled overhead, muffled by static and disinterest. Something about beginning their descent, local time, seatbacks upright.

Bonnie stirred.

Her brow twitched first, then her fingers, curling slightly as if remembering the shape of fear. Then her eyes opened, lashes fluttering before she blinked fully awake.

Still on the plane.

Still next to him.

Still alive.

For a second, she didn’t move. Just… assessed. The weight in her chest had dulled. The vodka was gone, the panic had passed, and her skin no longer felt two seconds from splitting open.

Then she caught the way her body had drifted—closer to his than she remembered.

Her spine straightened fast.

Klaus didn’t react.

Didn’t glance at her.

Didn’t so much as twitch.

Which, of course, made her feel even more watched.

She cleared her throat. Pushed a hand through her hair. “Did I drool?” she asked dryly, chin lifting just a little.

“Not even a snore,” he said, perfectly even.

She looked at him. He was staring out the window now, all serenity and civility like she hadn’t clutched his arm like a drowning woman a few hours ago.

It was… oddly generous.

A beat of silence passed. The kind that hummed with everything unsaid.

Then the plane gave a tiny lurch.

Not a drop. Not even a wobble. Just a mild nudge of turbulence as they descended through a bank of clouds.

Bonnie’s hand twitched, a reflex. Her fingers lifted slightly from her lap like they remembered the motion. Remembered reaching for him.

But she didn’t reach.

She breathed through it.

She kept her hands in her lap.

And Klaus? He saw it. She didn’t need to look to know.

He said nothing, but there was the faintest curve to his mouth now. Something… proud.

The plane dipped lower. The seatbelt light flared on.

She rolled her shoulders, re-snapping. “Tell me we’re almost there.”

“Landing gear’s down,” he told her, glancing toward the wing. “You’ll be kissing solid ground in under ten minutes.”

“Better than kissing some other things,” Bonnie muttered.

And Klaus—just barely—smiled.

The wheels hit tarmac with a dull thunk.

Bonnie let out the breath she’d been holding. Not a shaky one. Not this time. Just… measured. Intentional.

Klaus shifted in his seat, casual and composed as ever, coat folded neatly over one arm. If he was waiting for her to say something—acknowledge something—he didn’t show it.

Which was almost worse.

The seatbelt light blinked off. Everyone scrambled like the plane was sinking, but Bonnie took her time. She stood only when she was ready, tugging her carry-on from the overhead bin with a practiced yank.

Klaus stood behind her. Close, but not touching.

The jet bridge air was stale and humid. The terminal was louder than she would have liked. Too many voices, too many announcements. Too many fluorescent lights after the half-dark cocoon of the plane.

Still, she moved through it like nothing had happened.

Then—

“Bonnie.”

His voice stopped her just short of the exit.

She turned.

Klaus stood a few feet behind her, an expression on his face she didn’t quite recognize. Like he was weighing something in his head and had decided—just barely—to say it aloud.

“Have you ever seen the Belladonna Gallery? The one with the lost Rossetti?”

Her brow lifted. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Mm. It’s on loan to the museum here. Only for the next month.”

Bonnie crossed her arms, but felt her lips twitch. “That’s subtle,” she said. “Is this your idea of a post-panic pick-up line?”

His own mouth quirked. “Hardly. Consider it an educational opportunity. If you’re up for it.”

“You’re really gonna pretend this isn’t you asking me on a date?”

“I’m not pretending anything.” A pause.”You were brave up there.”

“I’m always brave,” she countered. Then, hardly believing the next words out of her own mouth, continued, “Which is why I’m accepting this not-date you’re pitching.” She turned, pulling her suitcase behind her, hair bouncing slightly across her shoulders as she moved, but she didn’t rush.

Klaus huffed, but fell into step beside her. “The Death of Breuze Sans Pitié has hardly ever been seen in public outside of the 1850’s…” he began.

Bonnie slanted him a look. “I’m going to at least need dinner and wine, too, if I have to actually listen to this.”

Klaus laughed.

And Bonnie, despite herself, decided she liked that sound.

[yuujispinkhair]

Cold Case, Hot Detective

When the police declare the mysterious disappearance of your husband a cold case, you hire a private detective to discover the truth. Shiu Kong says he is the best man for this job, and admittedly, he is not just excellent at investigating cold cases but also at heating things up when his discoveries lead to you looking for comfort in his arms.

Pairing: Shiu Kong x Reader (female) Genre: smut + fluff Word Count: 3.5k Warnings: 18+ smut, fingering, praise, mentions of masturbation, smoking, sharing a cigarette. A bit of forbidden romance trope, reader develops a crush on Shiu during the investigation but only acts on it after discovering her husband left her. All characters are of age. This story is 18+ Minors don't interact.

You stop in front of the small private detective agency, eyeing it warily. It looks exactly like you imagined a place like this to look like. As if you are in some film noir. A small office on a shady side street crammed between a takeout shop and a dry cleaner's. But the small room you step into a moment later is surprisingly clean and tidy. Just like the man greeting you with a raised eyebrow.

Shiu Kong was recommended to you by a close friend. Apparently, he is the best at finding lost things and people. He sits behind his polished desk, a neatly stacked pile of case files in front of him, looking much more handsome and posh than you imagined a man in his line of work to be.

He is wearing an immaculate-looking black suit with a white dress shirt and a black tie. His short hair is styled in an attractive modern way. If you had to guess his age, you would say he is in his late thirties. A pair of intelligent-looking, narrowed dark eyes meet yours across the room. His lips are wrapped around a half-smoked cigarette, explaining the smell of smoke you could already sense before entering his small office. In here, your nose also picks up another scent. An expensive, fresh, and masculine smell, probably his aftershave. Sexy.

You smile politely at him, introducing yourself and explaining your concern shortly. You tell him about your husband, who disappeared without a trace six months ago. About the police telling you they found no new leads and would stop investigating. Declaring the disappearance a cold case and telling you with a pitiful look that sometimes people just leave and don't want to be found.

Mr. Kong watches you interestedly, taking a slow drag from his cigarette as you finish your story. He blows out the smoke and straightens up in his chair, looking amused when he says,

"Ah, I see. You want me to do the police's job."

You feel your face heat up and quickly scramble to explain that no, of course, you trust the police to do their job right... It's just that... But he interrupts you politely,

"Please, don't worry. It is my job to do things like these. No shame about it at all. The police tends to drop cases like these too easily. However, I have certain connections that allow me a better assessment of the situation. So, let me summarize it. Basically, we have a typical case of "Honey, I'm getting some cigarettes," only for the husband to never be seen again. Is that correct?"

His gaze is intense, brown eyes with gray flecks, looking at you as if he is trying to read your mind. A detective's gaze. You avert your eyes, feeling shame flood your veins once again. It's embarrassing to admit it out loud. But he is right. Your husband just left one day and never came back. No signs of a crime, no indication that something happened to him.

You nod as you watch his long elegant fingers tap his cigarette on the glass ashtray standing on his desk,

"Yes, that is correct."

"Then you came to the right man. I am experienced, thorough, and discreet. If someone can find your missing husband, it is me."

He smiles reassuringly at you and points at the wall behind him that is lined with thank you letters from former clients. You nod and smile gratefully at him.

You leave his office half an hour later with a copy of a signed contract in your pocket and a good feeling in your gut. Yes, Shiu Kong seems like the best man for this job. Experienced and professional.

And, as a small voice in your head whispers to you, it also doesn't hurt that he is incredibly charming and sexy. A true gentleman. A private detective that could have stepped out of a noir romance novel. Tall, dark, and handsome.

You are back in his office two days later, delivering the additional documents he requested. He smokes his obligatory cigarette, going through the case file with you and explaining which steps he plans to take.

You nod gratefully at him,

"Thank you so much, Mr. Kong."

A smile plays around his lips,

"Please call me Shiu."

Your pulse flutters at that, but it gets even worse when his narrow warm brown eyes look at you inquiringly,

"Let me ask you something: Why do you want to find your husband? Is it out of love? Or is it because you need him to provide for you? Or is it for revenge?"

It catches you by surprise, and you squirm in your seat,

"Um...is this relevant to the case?"

He laughs, low and soft, his eyes glittering amusedly as he shakes his head,

"No, I am just curious. It comes with the job. I am constantly confronted with people's dark side and their deepest secrets. That makes you develop a certain curiosity, I guess. You don't have to answer."

But before you can think twice, you find yourself confessing everything to him, all the things that were obvious to everyone around you but no one ever dared say out loud, not even you. You don't know what it is about this man that makes you spill all your darkest secrets, all the things you are ashamed of.

"It's a marriage of convenience. I was young and needed the money, and he liked having a young wife he could parade around and who depends on him."

You cringe at those words, sounding like the biggest cliche. But Shiu just chuckles good-naturedly,

"Please, don't be ashamed. It makes perfect sense. A lot of marriages exist for that reason."

He winks at you, making your heart skip a beat at how attractive he looks. He leans closer, looking deeply into your eyes when he continues,

"I already suspected something along those lines. A guy like him could never pull a woman like you otherwise."

You feel your heart flutter at his words. At the apparent flirty nature of his comment and the way his gaze trails slowly over your body. You know you should be offended. You know you should get up and leave. You should tell him his behavior isn't very professional.

But you don't. Instead, you can't help but feel flattered at his comment.

When you leave an hour later, he accompanies you to the door with a hand on the small of your back, gently steering you toward the exit. You can smell the cigarette smoke on his clothes and his sexy aftershave. You even imagine you can feel his body heat when he is standing so close to you, his body just shy of pressing against yours.

You lift your head to look up at his handsome face, noticing how tall he is and how incredibly attractive he looks in his fine suit and the confident little smirk on his face.

He opens the door for you like a true gentleman, telling you to get home safely.

Shiu keeps you updated about his investigations at all times.

He calls you in the evening when you are already in bed, apologizing for the late call, making you feel strangely flustered because you are only wearing a flimsy lacy nightdress, and his low voice sounds almost seductive over the phone. It makes you picture sitting on his lap while he trails kisses over the low neckline of your nightdress, the stubble of his thin mustache scratching lightly over your sensitive skin.

You feel guilty for the sound of his name falling from your lips when you come undone on your fingers a while later, hiding your burning face in your pillows.

You should get him out of your mind. You really should. But it's hard when he is so charming and caring. When he is the first person in over six months who really takes you seriously and is willing to help you.

You meet him in a fancy restaurant for lunch, where he shows you pictures of a surveillance camera of a casino, clearly showing your husband. Shiu tells you about his contacts in dubious places. Tells you about illegal gambling, the Yakuza, and big money. When your eyes widen in worry, his hand lands on yours, his thumb caressing your wrist soothingly.

He insists on driving you home, making your pulse flutter nervously because he looks so sexy next to you, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting casually on the open window, a cigarette between his fingers.

You can't remember the last time someone gave you butterflies just from driving in a car with them. You don't know why this man makes you feel like a teenager on your first date.

But when he turns his head to look at you and offers you a small smile, you can't deny how attracted you are to him. How much you want him, even if it is wrong.

He parks his car in front of your apartment and walks over to the passenger side to hold the door open for you and offer you a strong arm. Does he know that he makes your knees go weak with this? Does he know his charming smile and politeness make you feel light-headed?

You don't know what's gotten into you when you step closer to press your body against his side and kiss his cheek, muttering a thank you before you quickly walk to the entrance of your apartment complex, practically fleeing the scene with your heels clacking loudly on the pavement and not daring to look back.

You lie awake in bed for hours that night, haunted by a sexy grin and the smell of cigarette smoke.

Unbidden, the same thoughts repeat in your head over and over again: What if Shiu finds your husband? What then? Do you even want him to come back? Wouldn't it be better if he just stayed missing?

A week later, you find yourself once again in Shiu's private detective agency, wringing your hands in your lap as you listen to him explain gently how your husband won a lot of money in one of his illegal gambling events, how he booked two plane tickets afterward, leaving the country with a young woman on his arm, with no intention of returning.

You feel nauseous. Part of you wished your husband wouldn't come back, but you can't help but feel crushed anyway. Hurt, anger, and worry wash over you.

Hurt that your husband just replaced you. That you weren't enough. Maybe not young enough anymore? Not attractive enough? Anger that he just left without a single word. Why didn't he just file for divorce if he didn't want you anymore? Worry how you will fare now. You are dependent on your husband's money. What will happen to you now? You need to get a divorce to make sure you get alimony. But the thought of everything you must do for this overwhelms you. You feel tears gather in your eyes.

Shiu stops in the middle of his report, grayish-brown eyes watching you worriedly. His voice is gentle when he asks,

"Are you ok?"

Your lips tremble, and you shake your head, unable to form any words. The first tears run down your cheeks. You can see Shiu's handsome face soften as he looks at you.

He reaches across the desk to cup your cheek and gently wipes your tears away. His hand is soft and warm, feeling so comforting on your skin. It's a touch so gentle that you instinctively lean into it, so starved for affection. It has been years since someone touched you like this.

Shiu looks deeply into your eyes, watching you closely, his voice soft like a caress,

"Please don't be sad, sweetheart. That man didn't deserve you."

More tears well up in your eyes, not even because of your husband's betrayal but because Shiu is so nice to you. And a moment later, you are out of your chair and practically fling yourself at Shiu. He catches you, his arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you onto his lap.

He smells so good when you bury your face in his shoulder and cry into his suit jacket. His arms feel so comforting around your body, holding you securely and gently, one hand slowly caressing your back. His low voice is gentle and soothing when he murmurs,

"Please don't cry, sweetheart. Tell me what I can do for you. Tell me what I can do to make it better."

Your voice doesn't sound like your own when you say,

"Just make it go away, please. Make me feel good, please. I just... I just want to be held and feel...feel loved."

You cringe at how dumb you sound. So naive. So pathetic. Begging this guy, your business partner, for affection or sex, or whatever it is you want.

But Shiu doesn't laugh. He doesn't mock you or turn you down. Instead, his hand that was rubbing soothing circles on your back is suddenly on your thigh, warm fingers sprawling over your skin.

The touch of his skin on yours is like an electric jolt, buzzing through your body, making your pulse race and your head spin. Rekindling a fire in you that you never thought you would feel again. It has been years since someone's touch did this to you. And you know you need more of it. You need more of this sexy man who was so nice to you all those weeks.

You press yourself against him, your right hand coming up to run up his neck and into his hair, lips breathing a soft "more" against the side of his neck.

Shiu's warm hand caresses your inner thigh, slowly moving higher. Your breath hitches in your throat, but you open your legs for him, showing him this is what you want.

"Shiu..."

"Yes, let me take care of you, darling."

His voice sounds husky as his warm fingers slip under your skirt. You whine when those fingers reach your panties and brush over them, making your pussy twitch with a need you haven't felt in years. Shiu's thumb finds your clit and teases it lovingly, rubbing it slowy through the thin fabric, making your legs open sluttily as a shaky moan falls from your lips.

You bury your burning face in his suit jacket, inhaling his sexy scent, cigarette smoke, and expensive aftershave, clinging desperately to him. And he keeps massaging your swollen clit through your now wet panties, sending you higher and higher, head spinning and heart racing.

"You like that, sweetheart?"

You are putty in his hands, nodding wildly and sobbing an embarrassed,

"Y...yes...Shiu."

Your hips buck uncontrollably, and you push against his hand almost desperately, rubbing yourself against his thumb, craving his touch, needy for more, jerking when his thumb prods your little sensitive bud so good that your whole body feels on fire.

His voice is gentle, laced with desire when he says,

"Look at me. Let me see your pretty face. Please don't hide from me. I want to see how you like what I'm doing to you."

Something about his tone, the mix of gentleness and dominance, makes your toes curl, and you do as he says, lifting your face off his shoulder and looking straight at him.

Letting him see your face, letting him see the need in your eyes, letting him see the obscene way your mouth opens as a loud moan falls from your lips when he rubs more slow circles around your clit, filling the small office room with the wet sound of your arousal.

It sounds naughty. It feels forbidden what the two of you are doing. But it's the hottest thing you have ever experienced. Sitting on this sexy man's lap in his office, with his hand under your skirt, his fingers caressing you through your panties, bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

And suddenly, you find yourself being bold, letting go of your former shame. You reach down to grab the silky fabric of your panties and pull them to the side, exposing yourself to Shiu, whining his name when he grins at you and gently flicks his thumb over your clit again, this time skin on skin, spreading your cream over your puffy needy bud, massaging it thoroughly. You buck against his thumb as if you are in heat, nails digging into his back as you chase after what you know will be a mind-blowing orgasm.

All thoughts of your husband's betrayal have left your mind when Shiu pampers your pussy like that, so loving, so good, taking care of you in a way you have never known in your marriage.

His middle finger teases your creamy hole, slipping in and out slowly, just the fingertip, until you mewl loudly and push onto his finger needily, begging him for more.

And he gives it to you. Warm gray-brown eyes watch you intently as he pushes his finger deep into your wet heat, making you gasp loudly and spread your legs even wider. You ride his finger unashamedly, moaning shakily when Shiu rubs against that sweet spot inside you.

A second finger joins the first one, making you cry out in pleasure. Your eyes close as you give yourself completely to him, letting his strong arms hold you while he fucks you with his middle finger and ring finger, and his thumb caresses your clit.

Your needy moans and the wet sounds of your pussy getting fucked fill the small office, and Shiu's lips trail soft kisses over the side of your neck, murmuring against your skin in that sexy low voice,

"Hmm, yes, like that, sweet thing. Let go, baby. Just let go and cum all over me."

It's his words that make you tumble over the edge, crying out shakily as your orgasm washes over you, strong and deep, your cunt clenching around Shiu's fingers, your juices flowing down his long fingers and his wrist.

He fucks you through it, his fingers gently massaging the spot inside you that makes you see stars, rubbing every last wave of orgasm out of you while whispering sexy encouragements to you,

"Yes, you're such a good girl. Cumming so sweetly for me. Yeah, my sweet thing, just like that."

You collapse bonelessly against him, sobbing and whining from the overwhelming feeling of cumming so hard. And Shiu slowly lets his fingers slip out of you, but his thumb stays pressed against your swollen clit, massaging it tenderly, making your body twitch from the overstimulation.

It's you who grabs his handsome face with both hands and pulls him into a passionate kiss, licking hungrily into his mouth, tasting whiskey and cigarettes and chewing gum on his tongue, moaning into his mouth while he keeps playing with your sensitive clit, and your pussy pulses hotly with the aftershocks of the orgasm he gifted to you.

He kisses you like you haven't been kissed in years, tongue flicking tenderly against yours, deep and slow, his lips moving firmly but gently against yours, making your head spin and your heart race. His thumb rubs a few times more over your clit before he lets go and pulls your panties neatly into place again.

His lips remain close enough to brush against yours when he whispers huskily,

"See, you don't need your loser of a husband. I can take very good care of you, too, darling."

"You have already taken better care of me today than he has in all those years of our marriage."

Shiu raises an eyebrow, a handsome smirk lighting up his face,

"Oh, is that so? Well, in that case, you'll be surprised what else I can do for you. Will you give me a chance to show you?"

His gray-brown eyes observe you carefully. You smile and nod, filled with joy that he wants to see you again, that he wants more than just a short fling.

"Of course. I would love for you to show me everything you can do for me."

Shiu laughs softly and lets go of your thigh to reach behind you and grab his cigarette pack from his desk. He brings one cigarette to his lips, lighting it while he looks at you,

"So my new case will be to mend your broken heart and take proper care of you. It's a pro bono case, of course."

He exhales the cigarette smoke slowly into your face, never averting his gaze as he watches you through the smoke with a grin on his handsome face. Does he know how fast your heart is beating when you imagine what your life with him will be like?

A smile spreads over your face as you reach out and steal the cigarette from his mouth and slowly bring it to your lips. You take a long drag, grinning when you return the favor and blow the smoke into Shiu's face.

"You are hired, Detective Kong."

AAAHHHH I REALLY WROTE SOMETHING FOR HIM!!!

When I read that Shiu used to be a detective, I immediately pictured him as one of those cool private investigators, and yeah, I HAD to write him in that role. Thank you so much to @blueparadis for encouraging me to write this! I had a lot of fun, and I am happy to contribute to the love for this man!

I listened to Taylor Swift's "Reputation" album on repeat while writing this story, and I think the vibe and the lyrics of those songs fit Shiu and this story very well. My heart was definitely beating faster :)

I hope you enjoyed this sexy little story! Please let me know what you think. Comments and reblogs would be very sweet.

[dadupbuck]

April bookmarks wrap up!

First post with the new username! (Used to be evanbuckleyrecs)

Here are all the 911 fics I bookmarked in April :) the order is from most recently read to the beginning of the month

If you're the author or any of these fics, let me know and I'll add a tag :) however tumblr keeps removing tags in my posts randomly

WARNING: some summaries may have spoilers for 8b. In the 'tag' part I'm putting when fics take place or were published. If you're avoiding spoilers, check that before reading the summary!

Don't let the tide rush over and wash us away by writerforlife

Buddie, Buddie & Chris | rated M | 23,8K | 3 chapters | 2022, post s5 | angst, buck breakdown, ptsd, happy ending

* TW frequent mention of canon past suicide attempt (Maddie) and suicidal thoughts

Buck develops a relationship with the ocean, avoids talking about the day Eddie was shot, realizes he might be in love, and drives.

Order may vary.

(a fic for the "Buck is going to break all the way down in season 6" truthers)

Can't leave me alone by 42hrb

Buddie | rated E | 3,3k | roommates, minor spoilers until 8x14, first time, accidental voyeurism, fluff and smut |

“There wasn’t a line at the DMV, it was a miracle. I —” The words die on Eddie’s lips as he takes in the scene in front of him, his eyes go wide and his mouth drops open, a flush spreads over his cheeks.

Buck must look a fucking sight and he knows it, his face hot with a mix of shame and arousal. He can’t look at Eddie, not when he’s still got a fucking dildo buried in his ass. Not when his cock is fucking leaking against his stomach. Not when looking at Eddie might be what sends him tipping over the edge, so Buck carefully looks at the wall behind him instead. “Y-you’re not supposed to be home yet."

“The DMV didn’t have a line,” Eddie says again, taking a step into the room instead of turning around like Buck is expecting him too. If Eddie leaves Buck can take the dildo out of his ass and they can maybe pretend this never happened, or at the very least ignore it for 6 to 12 months, until it’s funny to joke about.

Face the burnin' heat by EiraLloyd @unlifeira

Buddie | rated T | 2k | post 8x15 | funeral, tommy kinard bashing, pre-relationship Buddie, grief/mourning

* Warning: main character death

At Bobby's funeral, Buck witnesses Eddie punching Tommy right after Tommy says something particularly hurtful. Buck knows there has to be more to this than just anger—and it turns out, he's right.

Forever is the sweetest con by @becausebuckley

Buddie, Buck & Ravi | Rated E | 37,8K | post s8a | marriage of convenience, friends to husbands, practice kissing, sharing a bed, cuddling, wedding rings, family reunions, humor

“Buck,” Eddie says, a small smile curving at the edge of his mouth, “wanna get married? For our honeymoon, we’ll scam your parents out of some money and make Ravi’s accountant do our taxes.”

“Well,” Buck says drily, “that sounds like an offer I can’t refuse.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says, in his very best – meaning very bad – impression of Buck when he gets his hands on a clipboard. “What was that?”

“Yes, Eddie,” Buck says, putting on an air of suffering despite the butterflies making themselves at home in his stomach. Man, whoever Eddie ends up proposing to for realsies is gonna be so lucky. “I’ll marry you.”

or: buck is invited to a family reunion and realises that there's a good chunk of money waiting for him. there’s one issue, though: he has to be married to claim it, and right now, he’s painfully single. it’s a good thing he has such a great best friend in eddie, right?

What a View by maybeamystery

Buddie | rated G | 3k | 2022 | hurt buck, temporary loss of vision, didn't know they were dating, idiots in love, misunderstanding, migraines, holding hands

They’re coming back from a late call for a shift that was supposed to end at two-thirty but didn’t, and Buck has been keeping a close eye on the time. He’s a busy guy with things to do and places to be. One minute he’s glancing at his phone for the two hundredth time in the last thirty minutes, and the next, the whole world goes blurry and out of focus.

I can't believe my eyes (I must be seeing blind) by calvingseason

Buddie | rated T | 5,9k | 2022 | crack treated seriously, gay disaster buck, glasses, getting together, idiots in love

Buck never thought he had this kink. He’s like, pretty convinced he knows everything there is to know about his own likes and dislikes and attractions and whatnot, but this? This fucking weird fantasy that’s playing in his head like he’s the subject of a strange student-teacher love affair? Buck’s going to Google the highest bridge in Los Angeles and jump off. Because it’s fucking glasses that are doing it for him. Glasses.

or, eddie gets glasses. buck is normal about it.

Allergic to love by notetonote

Buddie | rated G | 4,5k | 8x05 Masks | Tommy bashing, bucktommy break up, protective Eddie, hurt Buck, allergic reactions, soft Eddie, fix it fic, oblivious Buck, oblivious Eddie, Eddie takes care of Buck

“What’s going on? Did I miss something, or–” Tommy starts, chuckling lightly.

“Yeah actually, I think you did.” Eddie’s voice carries across the loft, shutting up Tommy immediately. It’s much more accusatory and pointed than before, not a hint of wariness to it. Eddie takes his time as he stalks back over into the open plan kitchen and dining room area, shaking the bottle in front of him as he does.

“Ibuprofen.”

Tommy looks between the bottle and Eddie’s stoic face, still completely clueless. “Yeah? That’s what it says on the label.”

Buck hardly hears Tommy say this to Eddie, the word Ibuprofen echoing around the walls of his mind. Oh, God.

— — —

Or

When Buck wakes up with boils on his face, he calls Eddie to check it out. It is when Eddie finds out that Tommy gave Buck ibuprofen, one of the medications that can trigger Buck’s allergy to naproxen, that hell breaks loose.

Eddie Diaz vs the Buck's Boyfriend Agenda by songbvrd

Buddie | rated M | 23,4k | post s7 | tommy bashing, pining, not actually unrequited love, unhinged Eddie, jealous Eddie, Eddie goes to therapy, gay Eddie, 118 as family

* warning: infidelity (not buck/buddie)

“Asked me if I was the Chinese food delivery guy on my first day.” Chim contributed in a whisper, like he was afraid Buck might wake up and hear. Maybe he felt disloyal admitting it now. It was no secret to anyone paying attention how much Chim loved Buck, even if he often pretended to be exasperated with him.

Hen nodded solemnly. “One of the many people who wouldn’t even acknowledge me when I started.”

It was news to Eddie, and apparently Ravi too, but not Cap, who resolutely stared down at the table in front of him, shaking his head.

“Oh, so he fucking sucks.” Ravi contributed casually, never one to pull punches with his thoughts.

No one responded, but the agreement was in the air.

OR -

Eddie starts gathering information about why no one trusts Tommy. As he grows to hate their relationship more, he learns more about himself and what he wants.

I'll show you mine (will you show me yours?) By @becausebuckley

Buddie | rated E | 5,7k | 2024 | getting together, phone sex, nude photos, dirty talk

“What if... what if he's right, Eddie? What if my nudes really do look weird and everyone’s just been too polite to say anything? Cause, like, I used to send them a lot, you know? Before we met, when I was still Buck 1.0? What if I’ve been sharing really bad pictures with everyone? Shit, what if my dick really does look weird?”

“Buck, your dick doesn’t look weird,” Eddie says.

“See, but here’s the thing, I wouldn’t know,” Buck stresses. “Like, I used to sext with women, you know? I haven’t seen that many hard dicks. Maybe there’s something super wrong with mine, and I’ve gone all my life going ooh, look at me, I call myself Firehose, my dick is so cool and big and stuff, and everyone was just making fun of me behind my back!”

or: when buck feels insecure about his nudes, he asks eddie for help. for 911 kinktober day 27: non-penetrative sex!

I'm Going To Try My Best To Figure It Out For Myself by @aspecbuddie

Buck & Hen, Buddie (background) | post 8x11 | feelings realization (sort of), pre relationship Buddie, Buck loves Eddie

After ten minutes of silence, ten minutes of thinking about the thing he’s trying not to think about, Buck cracks.

“Anyone ever think you were in love with Athena?”

He’s still staring straight ahead, but in his peripheral, he sees Hen’s head jerk in his direction.

“What the hell?!”

-

or; Buck talks to Hen after that conversation with Tommy

He's Got Stars In His Eyes by @gaydadeddie

Buddie | rated E | 3,8k | post 8x11 | Eddie's silver star, freak4freak buddie, jealousy, possessive Eddie, smut, religious guilt

Eddie wants Buck to wear his Silver Star, which would be cool and normal, except Eddie's a freak.

I touch myself, I dream by Excalipurr

Buddie | rated E | 28k | 3 Chapters | post 8x08 | freak4freak Buddie, Eddie moves to Texas, pining Eddie, Jealous Eddie, texting, possessive Eddie, Eddie needs a hug, character study, light angst, unhinged Eddie, catholic guilt, religious trauma, first kiss

The text he receives is simple.

you took my LAFD t-shirt, man

Hm

Are you sure?

pretty sure

Attached there is a picture. In it, Buck stands in front of his bathroom mirror with a t-shirt two sizes too small, his birthmark eyebrow raised in an I told you so expression. Eddie is oddly impressed by the size of Buck’s biceps and chest straining hard against the frail-looking material, like he’s about to burst out of it. And he’s also a little mesmerized by the way the fabric fails to fully cover the bottom area of his waist, his stomach just slightly peeking out, happy trail going down like an invitation.

or: Eddie accidentally takes Buck's LAFD t-shirt to El Paso.

Rodeo queen by okanus

Buddie | rated E | 15,6k | 2024 | sexual tension, flirting, first kiss, halloween, cowboy hats, getting together, first time, possessive eddie

“What’s the saying again? Save a horse…hm, y’know, I don't quite remember the rest of it.” Eddie can’t help the smile curving up the corner of his mouth.

“You’re an asshole,” Buck says, scowling. The tips of his ears are pink.

“Come on, Buck,” Eddie murmurs, something white-hot and hungry snaking through him at Buck’s faltering gaze, at the way Buck reaches up to tug at his suit collar. “Save a horse…I know you can do it.”

“Ride a cowboy,” Buck says finally, his voice husky like Eddie’s never heard it before.

Sunday morning, got me looking crazy by @lovesicktaxi

Buddie | rated G | 10,9k | pre s8x06 | tommy bashing, pre-relationship Buddie, getting together, sweet Eddie, oblivious Buck, feelings realization, crack, ADHD Buck, good sibling Maddie, soft Buddie, overwhelmed Buck

Buck spirals on a Sunday morning over his boyfriend, his best friend, a Tiktok, and what it means to show up for others.

And his laundry is still not dry.

Paint on your face by paleredheadinascifi

Buddie | rated T | 4,9k | AU, getting together, fluff, different first meeting, adorable Chris, teacher Buck, meet cute

“Yeah. Craziest thing. My kid comes home a few weeks ago with a birthmark on his eyebrow. Looks suspiciously like a smudge of paint, but he assures me it’s a birthmark.”

“Ah,” Buck cringes. "Mr Diaz - -"

"Eddie."

Or, if you ask Christopher, that smudge on his eyebrow is a birthmark. If you ask Eddie, his kid won't stop painting on his face and he has no idea why.

Wanna see your body on mine (and collide) by @becausebuckley

Buddie | Rated E | 4,6k | first time, established relationship, top eddie, bottom buck

They fit perfectly together, Buck can’t help but think. It’s like they’re two puzzle pieces that have been reunited, like they were always meant to collide like this.

or: buddie sleep together for the first time. for the 911 kinktober prompt first time!

Promises to Keep by @catmomjudy

Buddie, Eddie & Bobby, Eddie & Chris | rated T | 4,6k | post 8x15 | main character death, pre relationship Buddie, Bobby ships Buddie

* Warning: main character death

Eddie gets a strange and disturbing text, followed by a phone call from a worrying source.

And through it all, he realizes that being a man means more than sucking it up in a sucky house in sucky El Paso.

Because he made a promise, and he's going to keep it.

All the quiet nights by @becausebuckley

Buddie | rated T | 3,8k | mild hurt/comfort, sharing a bed, bathing/washing, fluff, getting together, forehead kissing, cuddling, eddie takes care of buck, hair washing

“You don’t have to do that,” Buck says, averting his eyes as Eddie’s fingers begin working at his belt. “It’s just my wrist.”

“Just- just let me take care of you,” Eddie says. It’s a question, but it comes out somewhere between a statement and a plea. “Please.”

or: eddie takes care of buck.

Stay Right Here (Life's Not the Same Without You) by amACEinglyordinary

Buddie | rated G | 2,2k | post 8a | getting together, mutual pining, fluff, cuddling, couch theory

Eddie and Chris come back home from Texas. Buck is slightly panicking about the discovery of his feelings for Eddie. Eddie is suspiciously tactile, even for him. Chris is used to their antics.

My wishes come true (whenever I'm with you) by @becausebuckley

Buddie | rated T | 3,6k | sharing a bed, getting together, cuddling, first kiss

“Yeah, I get that,” he says softly. “It’s been a while for me too. But it’s kind of nice, isn’t it? Having someone there?”

“It is,” Eddie says. “I- I always liked that. It feels safer.”

“I feel safer, too.”

or: buck and eddie have to share a bed in a hotel. for flufftober day 31, make a wish!

I'll give you my clothes (because you already have my heart) by @becausebuckley

Buddie | rated T | 5,5k | fluff, 5+1, sharing clothes, first kiss

“Sure thing, bud,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. “Till then, put this on, will you?”

He lobs a bundle of fabric at Buck. Buck scrambles to catch it, then unfolds it to find a blue button-up, the version of their uniform that Eddie usually prefers.

He holds it out in front of him. On the label in the back of the neck, he sees Diaz written in Eddie’s spiky handwriting.

“I figured you wouldn’t have any spares left,” Eddie explains, “and the ones in that pile tend to run smaller, cause B-shift always forgets to do the laundry and we never have any larger sizes left because of them. This should still fit you, I think.”

or: five times buck wears eddie's clothes, and one time he wears his own.

Not so crazy (not tonight) by @becausebuckley

Buddie | rated T | 1,7k | post 8x11 | feelings realization, getting together, phone calls, love confessions

Because of all people, the most likely one to know who Buck is in love with is Eddie himself.

It’s just what they do. Years ago, they’d promised to have each other’s backs, and since then, they’ve been like this. Buck knows Eddie, and Eddie knows Buck, and somewhere along the way, they became BuckandEddie and they haven’t looked back since.

or: buck tells eddie about maddie's question. eddie has some thoughts about it.

Teach me how to dance with you by @becausebuckley

Buddie | Rated M | 5,2k | slow dancing, getting together, horny Buck, first kiss, competent Eddie, fluff and humor, oblivious Buck

“Okay, come here,” Eddie says, dropping the sponge and dish he was cleaning into the soapy water with a splash. He’s tugging on Buck’s elbow, then, the wetness from his fingers seeping into Buck’s clothes and all the way through to his skin.

“Uh, what?” Buck brings out, but he’s helpless to do anything but follow Eddie’s lead and let go of the tea towel.

“We’re dancing,” Eddie says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Or: Eddie teaches Buck to dance.

Keeping it quiet by @bellabrady

Buddie | rated G | 3,2k | love confessions, getting together, humor, idiots in love, first kiss

He can’t handle standing next to Eddie for however long it takes to clean the engine, he just can’t. He’s going to lose it. And he’s going to lose Eddie, too, because he’ll inevitably either kiss him or confess his undying love. He can’t even guarantee he won’t just drop down on one knee and propose.

“Oh, yeah, I’ll be right there, Bobby!” Buck yells before dropping his rag into the bucket and taking off towards the loft, leaving Eddie standing there dumbfounded.

“Buck, no one was calling for you!” he shouts, exasperated. Buck ignores him and bounds up the stairs.

Or: Buck realizes he's in love with Eddie shortly before a 24 hour shift. Out of fear of accidentally confessing his love, Buck tries to avoid him at all costs. If only Eddie wasn't so derermined to talk to him.

Bring me to your altar (drop me to my knees) by justhockey

Buddie | rated E | 5,5k | s8 | jealous Eddie, possessive Eddie, love confessions, first kiss, first time, fluff and smut, getting together, friends to lovers, religious imagery and symbolism

Eddie takes a breath, and he pushes down on Buck’s shoulders until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. Then Eddie drops to his knees between Buck’s thighs, like he’s ready to pray.

Back in El Paso, Eddie got used to Sunday mornings in church. It was surprisingly easy to fall back into the rhythm of it, even though Eddie has been beating out of sync for his entire life. He still doesn’t believe - not in god, or sin, or hell. He does believe in heaven, though. Thinks he’s found it right here, in Buck.

Because nothing - no god, or church, or prayer - has ever felt as holy as this.

His Father(s) by xompeii

Eddie & Chris | rated G | 1,3k | post 8x12 | family, fluff, coda, feelings realization, Chris has 2 dads

“I’m sorry, so you’re saying Chris has two fathers?” The redheaded woman from earlier says. It’s not in a bad way, it’s more confused than anything else.

“No, I’m his father. Ramon is his grandfather,” Eddie is pretty calm about this. Somehow he still feels the need to add, “There would be nothing wrong if he did, but it’s just me.”

Or - After Chris and Eddie talk at the Chess Tournament, they keep talking.

Chasing butterflies by rizcriz

Buddie | rated T | 5,7k | post 8a | feelings realization, Eddie in El Paso, coming out

How long have you been in love with her?

Is sitting in the air as they laugh, turning to each other like they’ve done something, and dropping the subject entirely in favor of grilling Grant on his upcoming wedding.

How long have you been in love with her?

Is sitting in the air as he blindly grabs for his beer, dragging it to his mouth and downing what’s left in the bottle in one desperate gulp.

How long have you been in love with her?

Is rewording itself, reworking itself, translating itself until it fits;

How long have you been in love with him?

--

Or, Eddie's in El Paso and suddenly everything makes sense.

Wherever you go, that's where I am by spiritsontheroof

Buddie | rated T | 4,7k | post 8x13/8x14 (alternate 8x15) | getting together, mutual pining, holding hands, moving in together, tenderness, first kiss, sharing a bed, non sexual intimacy

Ravi follows Buck’s line of sight and jerks his head in Hen and Karen’s direction. “You ever wish you had that?”

“Had what?” Buck asks. “A wife?”

“Yeah, I guess. Or,” Ravi shrugs, twisting the shock blanket he’s supposed to be wrapped in between his hands. “Just someone to go home to.”

Buck rubs at his sternum as a sudden sharp pain shoots through it. “Yeah."

--

OR, Buck gets someone to go home to.

You're taking me out of the ordinary by wafflesofdoom

Buddie | rated G | 1,8k | post 8x13 | first kiss, getting together

“Ballroom kind of requires a partner,” Eddie pointed out, and for a second, his words hung heavy in the air between them, a metaphor so heavy-handed that it almost made Eddie cringe – he’d gone so long, without a partner, a real one who was all in, and then he’d met Buck, and he’d found the perfect partner, in the other man.

Buck gestured vaguely at himself. “I’ll be your partner.”

Your hands, my hips by farfromthstars

Buddie | rated E | 1,6k | post 8x12 | feelings realization, Introspection, phone calls, pre relationship Buddie

Eddie draws in a sharp breath and, all of a sudden, realizes that he’s hard, or getting there at least. He glances at his phone screen again, at Buck’s peaceful face, still fast asleep, and hits the red button in a panicked daze.

He must’ve gotten his wires crossed somehow, maybe he dreamt something or he’s just– pent up, or whatever, and then the thought of Buck’s chest, and his thighs–

He must’ve gotten his wires crossed somehow, maybe he dreamt something or he’s just– pent up, or whatever, and then the thought of Buck’s chest, and his thighs–

~

eddie wakes up with buck still on facetime. he's not normal about it.

Ooff that was long 😅 it took me hours to make this post

[gazorninplat]

As much as I love Disco Elysium, I think I was not prepared for Sacred and Terrible Air. Of course, I was expecting to know more about the world of Elysium as a whole, and Robert Kurvitz is a very good writer, but the thesis of the novel (and how it makes its points) flash-banged me.

Disco Elysium this is not, and it wasn’t supposed to be, but I think I can understand better now what the team at ZA/UM was getting at with this specific setting, and these specific narrative angles. Kinda messy, because it’s been a week since I finished it, but here are some things I’d like to highlight: 

1. The pedophilia. I surely wasn’t expecting this to be such a central theme of the novel, but a lot of its main points revolve around it. The most interesting use of this, as a narrative device, is how the girlfriend of Jesper basically accuses him of being a pedophile because he cannot relate to the adults around him. He’s still obsessed with a girl he met when he was 13 years old, and fetishizes a scrunchie he stole from her bag two decades ago. Yeah, I guess Jesper, well into his thirties, is still in love with a 13 year old girl. His girlfriend is almost half his age, and they started dating when she was 15 years old and a lingerie model (!). Zigi mentions how pedophilia was a bougie disease, and well… That idea went right into my thought cabinet (I call it “Bougie Babies for Sale).

Still processing it.

Now, let’s go back to the rest of the main characters. With all this in mind, a pedophilic overtone covers their interest in these four missing girls, but Jasper is the only one who acts on it, sort of. Khan remains in a sort of arrested development (he still uses a shirt he had when he was 13), foregoing normal adult relationships, and Tereesz joins the police as an investigator with the idea of still finding them some day (essentially letting these eternally prepubescent girls define his entire existence), leading him to a very dark path. I wonder if the brutality they afford to the “actual” pedophiles in the story (Vidkun Hird and the Linoleum Salesman) comes from the realization that they are not that different?

2. Obviously, though, this fetishization of the Lund sisters is also a fetishization of the past. The novel states it in the first few pages; they disappeared twenty years ago, in a time that most conservative people remember as the “good old days”. Basically their version of the American Fifties. Now, being obsessed with the past is a running theme in both SaTA and DE, but the angle here is different.

I already said it: the past is not remembered, is fetishized with an almost sexual yearning by a lot of the male characters of the book. They want to be consumed by it (and lucky them! It will) and do nothing more than serve it. It reminds me of a poem by Yamil Nardil Sadek, which, translated to the best of my ability, goes like: 

She awaits me

sitting on the bed,

wearing leather,

and armed to the teeth,

the Memory.

Yeah, that sums up Sacred and Terrible Air pretty well. Everyone is being consumed by the past, bite by bite, and enjoying it. Vidkun Hird, by the mythologized version of his tribe’s history; Sarjan Ambartsumjan, by a miniature ship model that requires constant, devoted thought or else it will disappear, the three main characters by the memory of that summer with the Lund girls. Even the Linoleum Salesman is being haunted and consumed, of sorts, by his sickness and dementia that only sometimes let him take a peek of the past. Beyond that, there are very few characters that do not spend time being followed by relentless ghosts. Literally, in the case of Zigi. Which brings me to…

3. The Pale. It was a really cool concept in Disco Elysium, and it’s an existential nightmare in Sacred and Terrible Air. It always was, really. But here it lets you take a look into it in a way that’s applicable in real life. The Pale is a metaphor for many things, but actually for a single one: A world where our current Capitalist reality facilitates both apathy and yearning for better days, often idealized in our collective pasts.

My favorite scene, one that was incredibly puzzling but so obvious in retrospect, is a beautiful speech by the ghost (?) of Ignus Nilsen to Zigi. I will just paste it here:

“I said terrible things, yes! I stood on a white horse, in a blizzard, and gave speeches. In the mountains, on the construction site… I swung my sword, with silver sunbeams on the hilt. And all around me fluttered white flags, crests of crowned horns made with silver thread, a pentagon between the prongs of the horns, the branches raised to heaven. Everyone who came here with me became happy, Zigi! Communism is powerful! Believe in Communism, it’s a burst of enthusiasm! I promise! It’s beautiful when you believe in a person, but without it…!”

“Without it, there is nothing.”

“Nothing. It was a blizzard, but it was bright, it was morning. Communism is white, it sparkles! Communism is the morning, it is a jubilation!” 

The Pale begins to recede dangerously around the entroponaut.

The fucking Pale recedes with talk of Communism! At first it might appear a little heavy handed (yeah, Communism, by itself, could save the world). But then I got into how Communism could be a solution to the antipathy and chronic nostalgia that sustain Capitalism, and then it hit me. Nilsen, a literal ghost from the past, is talking about a future that could have been. That he wanted to accomplish. That people, probably, can still achieve. The Pale is not eternal, it can be pushed back. Because the Pale seems to subsist on the past, it abhors any talk of the future. A better future. That’s how we solve things, and for a central thesis, is not bad at all.

With that being said, and because I’m just rambling here while pretending I’m working, there are also some things that I just didn’t understand, but maybe it was because of the translation. The original novel is written in a very poetic style, and some of that is still here, but I still need to untangle…

1. The Man. It is said that the day the Lund girls disappeared, they were joined by a mysterious Man that nobody seemed to remember correctly. A character even suspects that she was remembering wrong. Now, the Pale erases people and memories retroactively, so maybe it had something to do with it, but… Who was that? Is there any theory about that Man, or I just missed something? Some scenes and narrations were tough to parse for me (my primary language is not English).

2. Was Malin Lund pregnant? That flash with the fetus was sudden and weird.

3. What was the significance of the three meat piroshkis? They mention that it was unusual that the girls bought them (and if you do the math, you can realize early on that they were not planning to get back home. That purchase didn’t leave them enough money for the bus fare back), but that’s it. Were they for the Man? Also, the narration mentions that Lund girls’ picnic basket contained “the kind of things girls like to eat”, so maybe they were planning to see the boys and bring them the kind of things boys eat? I’m overthinking that? The chapter actually titled “Three Meat Piroshkis” just left me even more confused.

4. I don’t understand how Khan’s pen works at all. The one he brought to the school reunion. That was the part I re-read the most. Anyway, even with that, I loved Sacred and Terrible Air. Definitely one of the most enthralling reads I had, with or without the background of Disco Elysium. I’d still like an official translation that could potentially solve the issues I had, but for now, a Top 10 Book for me.

Go for it now.

[thecheshireprincess]

Writing prompt that came to mind was how would Chishiya take care of his pretty girl if she had a bad day cause I know he’d cheer you up

Bad Day

Chishiya x Reader (No pronouns mentioned)

Summary: Your best friend does what he knows to help you feel better after a bad day.

Content Warning: Possibly curse words; this is literally just fluff. Very tame for Talia, please be proud.

AO3 Link

A/N: This is part one of two stories that I wrote for @potato-vagina's request; I wanted to show some fun character development with Chishiya pre and post-Borderland. Though you aren't necessarily his "pretty girl" here, you will be.

Find part two here! Proof of Life is a drabble that belongs somewhere between the two parts ❤️

"Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong."

That's Murphy's Law - a somber addage that you don't typically allow yourself to subscribe to. Usually, you're too positive of a person for that kind of thing. Today, however, you wish to find whoever Murphy is and curse him out for the shit day you were currently experiencing.

You'd overslept your alarm by thirty minutes, smacking your head off the bedside lamp in your rush to get up and ready. A piece of toast had burnt your hand, you missed the first two trains to get across the city to your nine AM class, and now you were caught in the rain without your umbrella; the item in question without a doubt still leaning forgotten next to the front door.

A shiver wracks through your body as you huddle under the small shelter of the bus stop, rain pelting heavily against the metal overhead. The bus is usually your absolute last choice for transportation, but right now it's the only thing that may still get you to your class on time. Surely your day has to turn around from here, right? You believe in the power of optimism - maybe if you can just focus your mind onto more positive things, the things around you will improve. Right.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot your bus approaching down the street and rush out of your temporary shelter to flag it down a little madly. You would not be missing the bus too. The driver blessedly pulls over to the side to let you on, but not without first splashing into a massive puddle you hadn't seen before; sending a wave of freezing cold, dirty rain water cascading over your form.

Perfect, just perfect. Now you will be miserable, cold, and wet for the rest of the day. And isn't that just what you needed? Forget the power of optimism. Today is a bad day.

With just three minutes to spare, you finally make it into the sprawling lecture hall, most of your classmates already seated and chattering happily amongst themselves. You toss your bag haphazardly down on the floor beside your seat, flopping into the stiff wooden chair with a long sigh. At least you had gotten your body to class - whether your mind would be capable of focusing on any material was a different question entirely.

Your blonde best friend turns to look at you from the seat next to yours, a smirk growing on his smug face as he takes in your soaked appearance. He raises an eyebrow quizzically, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the laminate table in front of him. Before he can get even a single snide comment out of his mouth, you put a trembling hand up. "Don't. Not today, I'm not in the mood," you mumble in warning, knowing exactly where this conversation would be heading if you didn't nip it in the bud.

Chishiya raises his hands in dramatic mock surrender, blinking slowly at you instead, waiting for you to continue. You always continued.

"I'm having the worst day ever," you lament, rubbing aggressively at your eyes with the heels of your hands and leaning back precariously in your rickety chair; not caring if it suddenly decides to break. That would just be your luck today. He nods, eyes narrowing as he continues to study you. "Seems like it," he deadpans, still tapping, still staring. Making no move to question you further or offer his condolences.

Realistically, you know better than to expect Chishiya to try to comfort you, especially over a series of events so trivial. Though he's been your best friend since starting medical school a few years ago, you don't dare assume he feels more for you than tolerance. That's just who he is, and you'd long ago accepted that from him. Most of all, he is not the sympathetic type.

So when your friend begins calmly packing up the notebooks and pens that had been laid out neatly in front of him, your jaw drops in surprise. Class hadn't even begun yet, let alone finished - where was he going? Your confused eyes rake over his careful movements as he packs up his school bag, willing your brain to catch up with him. Chishiya was always five steps ahead of you, and this time you didn't want him to leave you behind.

"Come with me," he mutters simply, leaving no room for arguing; the man standing from his seat and turning to leave the room. You scramble after him in shock, carelessly looping the strap of your bag over your arm. "Chishiya! We're skipping class? We shouldn't!" you whisper yell as to not attract attention to yourselves sneaking out the back.

He snorts before responding, continuing his smooth walk down the hallway to the exit. "You definitely shouldn't, you need the lecture more than me," he says derisively, not bothering to look back at you, "but one day won't hurt. Probably." You shoot him a glare for his comment, but you can't bring yourself to disagree. This was your worst class, after all, everyone knew that.

Chishiya hesitates a moment before opening the heavy glass door to the outside, looking back at you briefly as if considering something. He sighs, shrugging his beloved jacket off and holding it out to you without another word. Your jaw nearly hits the floor at this display of Chishiya caring about something other than himself, but choose not to comment for fear that it would break the illusion. You hurriedly wrap the soft jacket around you, the man's warmth soaking quickly into your chilled bones. "Thank you," you whisper, almost so quietly you aren't sure he even heard you; but the man nods once and proceeds to exit the building.

You continue your journey together in familiar silence - Chishiya isn't much of a talker even on a good day, and you're still hardly in the mood to beg for conversation from him. So you just follow him. You think you'd follow him to the end of the Earth if he asked you to.

An art museum. Chishiya had brought you to an art museum. To make you feel better? You weren't sure.

The blonde leads you masterfully through various sculptures and paintings, obviously having an exhibit in mind in the large, brightly lit space. When he stops you in front of a painting, you look at him in curiosity. Nearly disbelief. "The Mona Lisa?" you inquire, watching as Chishiya looks up at it almost reverantly, barely breathing.

After a brief moment of silence, he lets out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. "There's really only been one thing in my life that has ever incited curiosity in me . . ." he begins, tone hushed but steady, "For some reason, the first time I laid eyes upon this painting, I couldn't look away. Still can't," he says with another sharp breath out, something akin to a chuckle for the man. His eyes never once leave the painting to look at you or anywhere else.

"I just wanted someone to understand me back then. I didn't think I'd ever have that from an actual person." He tilts his head now at the painting, as if he were looking at something completely different than he remembered. A comfortable silence blankets over the two of you as your breaths and hearts sync.

You turn to study your friend, seeing him through a different lens in this place - his safe place. His safe place, where he felt understood for the first and maybe only time in his life. His safe place, that he was sharing with you to help you feel better on a bad day. You feel your breath catch in your throat at the realization, that maybe. Just maybe. Chishiya did like you beyond just tolerating your presence. Because why would a man like him ever bother to tolerate a person if he didn't need to? I didn't think I'd ever have that from an actual person. Did he mean . . .?

He leads you to sit on a marbled bench in front of the painting, a place you guessed he'd probably spent a lot of time in his life. You could almost see the ghost of younger Chishiya in the room, searching for something among the colorful strokes of paint. You hope he found it. A wave of calm rushes over you sitting here in the quiet gallery, surrounded by nothing and no one except Chishiya and the Mona Lisa. The small pains of your morning begin to easily melt from your mind, a pleasant warmth radiating through your body despite your clothes and hair still being damp.

Suddenly, things click into place. You get it. Chishiya wasn't expecting to make your day better by showing you the Mona Lisa. He was making your day better by sharing a piece of himself with you. Because you get him. You sigh contentedly, a tiny grin on your face, letting your focus drop briefly into your lap to consider your next move.

After a few more moments of easy silence and introspection, you finally make a bold decision. "Thank you for understanding what I needed today," you whisper, laying your head gingerly against his shoulder with a smile as you follow his gaze back up to study the painting.

You don't see it, but the corners of Chishiya's lips quirk up slightly as his heart skips a beat in his chest. His now enigmatic smile rivals even that of the one he'd studied for years.

Mutual understanding. With you.

♤ ♡ ◇ ♧

Part Two

Masterlist

Everything Tag List: @potato-vagina @28361573 @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ghostly-xxo @monkey4lifer @trinibadgyal @izzybizzyk

Chishiya Tag List: @kimsrie @jjkxxy

As always, please don't hesitate to let me know if you want to be added to (or removed from) any of my tag lists! You can specify if there's a character you like or if you want to see everything. Also, my asks and messages are open, PLEASE reach out, I would literally die to interact with you; ily guys endlessly 💕✨️

[jenn2sec]

English vers.

Based On My Dreams Series (GD LINE):

❝ Too Dry? ❞

Main Line (part 1)

start - friday21022025

couple - Kwon Ji Yong (G-Dragon) x fem!reader

chapters summary - what if you chose to tease gdragon then? would things have been different?!

note - chaotic, bad words, side characters, time branch if you choose to say something playful with GD, funny, alcohol, drunk, bar, kissing, teasing, age gap

caption section - after reviewing and organizing more ideas for the plot, i decided to officially develop the Based On My Dreams Series into a long fanfic combined with many story lines depending on your choices (follow the Quantum Multiverse Theory). y/n is in the late twenties and about to enter their thirties, a third-year student majoring in film scriptwriting.

We’re always open to feedback and ideas to make the story better!

Don't forget to read the Main Line (part 1) first!!

You quickly let yourself soak in the atmosphere while waiting for your best friend, who was busy flirting with the bartender (and ordering more drinks for both of you). The tension in your body gradually melted away, your shoulders feeling lighter by the second. It was hard to believe this trip was already working wonders—on just the first day.

Then, out of nowhere, a cold liquid spilled down the back of your neck, soaking your entire back. A sharp shiver ran up your spine, triggering an instant wave of shock and discomfort that shot straight to your brain, making you yelp. Luckily, the bar was noisy enough to drown out your outburst.

Spinning around, you searched for the culprit—and found yourself facing a guy dressed in a breezy, casual outfit. His face was undeniably Korean, but he wasn’t bad-looking at all. In fact, when combined with his overall aura, he looked…pretty cool!

His expression, however, was hilarious. Though the dim lighting made it hard to see clearly, his wide eyes, hand-over-mouth reaction, and panicked mumbling made it obvious he was apologizing and checking if you were okay.

You were in too good of a mood to get mad. You were about to say something, but then you spotted your best friend scanning the crowd for you. With no time to linger, you flashed the guy a quick grin, leaned in slightly, and said a few words before slipping through the dancing crowd to rejoin your friend.

"You think I'm too dry, huh? It's fine tho, thanks for the baptism! Amen!"

You take a few steps before instinctively turning your head, wanting to catch his reaction—whether to acknowledge him with a look or just to see if he found your joke funny. But your hair and the bustling crowd block your view, and before you know it, the music drowns out your curiosity.

"Thanks," you say out of habit as you accept your drink from your best friend, quickly following up with a more intentional question, "So? Has the bartender fallen for you yet, girl?"

Your best friend, after a few drinks, is a completely different person from the shy girl who fumbles her native language when placing an order at a new restaurant. With enough alcohol, she’s fearless—every good-looking guy is fair game for her teasing, and she makes them blush effortlessly. The confidence you had earlier when cracking a joke with the guy who “baptized” you with Chivas? That energy was all borrowed from her.

Messing with strangers with harmless little quips? Not a bad feeling at all.

Your friend says something about the bartender, but before long, the conversation halts as both of you rush to the dance floor the moment the DJ transitions into a K-pop remix.

It’s been far too long since you last let yourself taste a night like this. The drinks start as a few cocktails but quickly escalate to each of you holding a full bottle of imported liquor, dancing and sipping away. The music hits deeper when your body is tipsy. You even find yourself openly dancing with random guys and girls—still relatively tame behavior compared to your best friend, who has probably ended up in some dark corner making out with the bartender by now.

The nausea starts creeping up from your chest to your throat. You down the last of your drink, cheerfully settle the bill, and head toward the restroom in search of your friend.

You bump into someone, but you're too unsteady to hold your balance. Just as you're about to fall forward, a strong arm catches you—one hand securely holding your waist, the other steadying your back.

"너! (You!)" The voice exclaims.

It takes you a second to register. You can’t quite recall the face, but the tattoo on his forearm jogs your memory. Your eyes widen, and with a drunken grin, you straighten up and shout:

"AMEN!"

He immediately bursts into laughter, doubling over as he clutches his face, leaning against the wall, unable to stop.

Satisfied that your joke hit its mark, you smirk, looking ridiculously triumphant.

"Yeah, I apologize for that incident," he finally manages between chuckles, switching to English instead of the frantic Korean apologies from earlier.

"Huh?!" You pretend not to hear him over the music, though you definitely did.

He leans in to repeat himself, and you nod along, squinting like an old lady, before teasing,

"It’s fine, but hey, cool guy—" You pause. He instinctively tilts his head closer, waiting for the rest of your sentence.

Then, in a hushed whisper, just loud enough for him alone to hear, you say:

"Do I look less dry now? Juicy enough yet?"

A bold, playful challenge. You didn’t exactly plan on flirting so soon after a breakup, but hey—it’s a foreign guy, so what’s there to lose?

He laughs again, but softer this time. Maybe out of shyness. Or maybe he finds you intriguing?

His smile seems oddly familiar. More importantly, it’s incredibly cute. And combined with the alcohol coursing through you, it’s also..kind of sexy.

You have a thing for watching people’s mouths when they smile. There’s something undeniably attractive about it. And this guy? He already exudes main-character energy, even with that slightly dorky grin.

"Yes, you do," he finally responds—again, leaning in just enough that his lips barely graze the shell of your ear.

A shiver runs down your spine, similar to when the cold liquor was poured down your back earlier. But this time, you like it.

You turn to face him, eyes slightly squinting from your smile, your cheekbones lifting just enough—your grin is not as wide as when you’re joking, but subtly inviting. A silent green light.

Your faces are close. He doesn't pull away. His eyes search yours, gauging your intent. But you? You’re not looking at his eyes. You’re fixated on the corner of his lips, still faintly curled upward.

The DJ let the beat drops.

And in that split second, your gazes finally lock—caught red-handed in mutual attraction.

No time to think.

Your lips crash into each other, reckless and unhesitating, like neither of you care whether the other wanted it or not.

The kiss is strangely familiar. As if you've done this a hundred times before. Your heads tilt instinctively, in perfect sync.

Your bodies press against each other with no space in between. He pushes you gently against the hallway wall.

Both of you kept pushing and pulling, kissing fervently while your hands explored each other slowly and deliberately. Your arms draped over his neck, fingers brushing through the hair at his nape and tracing the curve of his ear before sliding down to his neck, shoulders, chest, and waist.

Unconsciously, you traced and familiarized yourself with his body, your eyes tightly shut.

Unlike you—whose hands had already wandered to his hips—he simply cradled your back and caressed your nape. His slender, cool fingers felt like chilled liquor, gliding up and down the back of your neck in a teasing manner, occasionally pulling your head closer to deepen the kiss. His other hand rested gently at your lower back, pressing your bodies even tighter together—his every movement refined in contrast to your own.

You couldn’t breathe, yet you didn’t want to stop. Awkwardly, you switched between breathing through your nose and mouth, trying to prolong the kiss so there was no pause between you two—a determination that made him chuckle quietly in amusement.

Oh, and he had facial hair—not long, but just enough for it to graze your skin as you kissed. But he was careful, making sure it wouldn’t bother you too much. Not that you minded, because you were far too lost in this kiss to care about a few bristles.

He was an insanely good kisser!

You never understood how couples could shamelessly make out in public, but right now, you're no different. Lost in it, eyes shut tight, surrendering to a kiss from a total stranger—someone you just met, someone whose face you still don’t fully remember.

But deep down, you know that alcohol doesn’t make you lose control. It just gives you an excuse to embrace your most primal instincts.

And the tight, coiling sensation in your stomach? That’s the most honest part of you right now.

You wake up in an unfamiliar room.

A cold wave of panic surges through your chest.

Did you…?

“Hey, Y/n, hurry up and shower! I’m taking you to my workplace today. I started working part-time at this cute little café since I don’t have morning classes anymore. Oh, you can use my clothes, we have a same size right?”

Your best friend steps out of the bathroom, towel-drying her short hair.

Relief washes over you.

Your shoulders, once tense, suddenly feel as light as a feather.

You flop back onto the bed, stretching lazily as you groan, “Good morninggg!!”

Your friend laughs, snapping her towel at your butt.

“Hurry up, we’re getting hangover soup first!”

_____

F i x a r a w S o f t e n

friday21022025

02:40

︾︾︾︾︾︾︾

to speed things up and because my english isn’t really that good, i decided to use a translation tool to help with the language switch.

did yall like it?

hope you all understand and enjoy ♡

[reztaezm]

ℭ𝔞𝔱𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔢, 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐲. 𝑨 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒚 𝒃𝒚 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑺𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒉𝒘𝒂.

・・・・・・・・・・

𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚂𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚑𝚠𝚊 𝚡 𝙾𝙲 (𝙵𝚎𝚖!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛)

𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜: smut; masturbation (m) + detailed fantasies, oral (f - receiving), impulsive initiation, unprotected sex (pls use protection), mutual loss of virginity, desire and obsession, internal conflicts, scholastic themes, pining, denial, character development (?)

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: Park Seonghwa, as an academic freak, and Y/n as an anomaly.

𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜: 5k+, plot bearing

۶ৎ

“Swallow your pride, or get swallowed by it.”

But such words are simply too lowly for him to acknowledge. He is grace, by definition. He dwells on the faint chatters —not even whispered— of his jealous peers. Only gold was allowed to touch his fair skin. The tokens which told everyone that surrounded him. He is an example of best.

Detached, he is indeed. But many believe that he is just way too caught up and stuck in that huge head of his. No one's ever taken a peek, but they all shared one opinion. It must be his ego driving his sanity.

Unfortunately for the tellers of the tattletales, Seonghwa lacks something everyone else has too much of.

“Do you not care?” It wasn't his fault.

It's not his fault that for some reason, some random girl still found him an ounce likable. Everybody despised him, and why shouldn't she. Why wouldn't she?

He stared at her meticulously crafted letter that he was subjected to holding approximately seven minutes. ‘Her handwriting is pretty, at least…’ — this was the only thought he had. He couldn't feel anything besides pity, especially for the thought, and the sickening shimmery designs on the letter — he thought it was unnecessary. He thought everything was unnecessary, even her feelings.

He didn't reply to her, and instead handed the letter back to her. There wasn't a single muscle on his face that moved despite the sight of the girl’s eyes watering.

People were watching, and that day, he was painted a monster. Not only cold, but unremorseful, without a doubt.

Still, he had no care to spare for their opinions. He does not attend university for such senseless things.

Amidst the rise of gossip, all he hears is rolling ball of his pen as it glides against the fine and pricey paper of his leather journal. His scrupulous writing only deserves quality materials after all.

He was hated by the population of the studious, but they do not reach his level anyways. But he was treasured by his professors, and the university itself. And why not? He is the standard for the image the institution wishes to uphold. And they believe he had it all in him to maintain this perfection — holding the highest GPA, no set-backs, no distractions, no immodest hobbies or sidelines.

It was, at that point, hard for him to mess things up. It would take a tragedy, a catastrophe to break down what has been built of him. Though, said catastrophes come in many forms he knew. And everyone has their own criteria of what falls under what’s considered a catastrophe.

He had noted this to be the greatest anomaly of his life. Never did he think it would be possible for a girl to check every box in that criteria.

Number one: sudden and unexpected.

No one was ever late to Mrs. Chang’s Epistemology. Students could barely stomach her glare whenever her lectures would be interrupted by the click of the door as it opened and closed.

A daring soul went thirty-five minutes into the lecture. But to everyone’s surprise, the late-comer was a sight for sore eyes.

Seonghwa's first instinct was to quietly scoff at such irresponsibility, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. For the first time in his life, he is amongst the crowd, and this girl — whoever she may be, is the show.

What was a stopper for many was Mrs. Chang’s reaction, which was none. She could care less about the beautiful late-comer, or the whispers that came after said late-comer had gone inside the lecture hall.

The nameless girl would find herself a seat, far into the back.

Smart. Seonghwa had thought it was a smart move. Because it would be such great disrespect to the professor if they all had their necks twisted looking back to see the late-comer. And so he thought she was smart, getting rid of such nosey eyes.

And he was no nosey-eyed dirtbag, and he had the right to look. He was distracted, and it was new to him.

He dreaded the fact that he wasn't able to be mentally present at the latter half of Mrs. Chang’s lecture. And distracted? He had never been in the proceedings of his studies. It's such a shame for him. But nobody knows yet. Nobody had noticed.

Nobody knows how he had stared at her side profile, and how his eyes traced the point from the top of her head, down to her lips. Her lips are where he found it hard to avert his gaze. As if every rule of ethics had exited his brain, he was looking as if they were in an art exhibition, she was an exclusive piece.

He thought it was such a cliché. This was just another girl. Yet, she remains as the only problem he couldn't solve as of late.

After Mrs. Chang’s lecture, he thought it would've ended there. This marks another first for him — he had thought wrong, for the first time.

Because number two, catastrophes are disastrous.

Seonghwa could convince himself that peace only comes in the library, in a space at a more hidden area which he marked as his sanctuary. It was a deserted corner. No chairs, no tables or whatnot, but it was peaceful. The carpeted floor was spacious enough for him, and any noise coming from the other students occupying the library were drowned out from where he sat.

Imagine his confusion when one particular noise seeped through. A soft humming of a girl. He thought she wouldn't see him, and so he didn't call her off for the noise alone. He brought his eyes back on the book he had been reading, but his focus was on the possibilities.

The humming minimized with every second he could count. But at the twentieth, he could hear it right next to his ear…

“Hell!”

The girl was taken aback by his reaction. She didn't know him yet, and she found his hostility unreasonable.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked him whilst looking into that indifferent gaze of his. “Are you mad?”

He scoffed at her, but fell to a pause once taking in her full image. Of course he would be mad… if it wasn't her. He knew it would be best to respond and not seem like an idiot that could only stare. After having cleared his throat, he manages to utter a reply to her. “No.”

“I’m Y/n.”

His brows furrowed at the suddenness of her introduction. He didn't ask for her name, neither did he look like he was curious. Or maybe he did.

“I’m Seongh-”

“Park Seonghwa.”

She was shaking his world, unknowingly, but he couldn't do a thing about it. He was curious as to how she knew of his name- “Your nameplate.”

He gulped and almost lost his breath when she knelt on the ground where he sat and leant forward. She was way too close for his comfort, but no matter how much he thought of stopping her and pushing her away, his hands remained locked to his sides.

She had only reached for his crooked nameplate, fixing how it was pinned on his blazer.

“There, that's better, huh?” as if he was paying attention to his nameplate at all.

When she had shifted her eyes from his blazer to his face, she what met with the unexpected. He’s staring at her, in a way that would be abnormal for those who knew him. But she didn't. It was her first time interacting with this man.

“Are you okay?”

And it was his first time as well. His first time not having any self-control.

He knew he could get things done timely, but he never knew he was capable of doing something within a second, like having his hand at the back of her head, and his lips pressed against hers. His other hand was right above her hip, and he was tempted to let it wander lower.

Until she pulled away.

In that situation, it was only human to be conflicted, perplexed, or terrified even.

As it turns out, she isn't any of those. To which Seonghwa ticks box number three: catastrophes cause great damage.

He was no longer in the right headspace. Never did he envision such a scene.

He was finally holding her by the hip, because she had leaned in to kiss him again, more intensely. Seonghwa had only read it in books, or seen it in movies, but his lips led their kiss as if he had done this a dozen times over. She could feel herself being pulled closer by his inexperienced hands, and so she moved closer.

How close she was would’ve drawn the line if not for how Seonghwa was devouring her mouth. She couldn't help the small whimper that escaped her as his tongue delved deeper. His hair became her handle, and her thighs clenched around his hips. He doesn't know why, but the way she tugged on the strands of his hair wrapped around her fingers shot blood straight into his cock. She felt it. She felt him hardening below her clothed core. The sensations were foreign for both parties, and it was their hormones that drove their next actions.

Seonghwa broke the kiss, wanting to catch his breath and check on his sanity for a moment. But his cock was aching, so much so that it throbbed when he saw the look on her face. She looked high, in the most beautiful way possible. Her eyelids lie low, lips parted slightly, and skin tinted with a hint of red and warmth.

He couldn't help his hands from sliding down her soft thighs, squeezing on it with a force that made her whimper again. Oh how he loved the sound. His fingers sneaked past the end of her skirt, and underneath, slowly trailing up till he felt the fabric of her panties. He let out a low hum deep in his chest at the feel of the fabric, it was ordinary, but knowing what was underneath made him want to forget who he was.

His hand shifted to her front, using the pads of two of his fingers to feel the wetness that had formed over the fabric. His other hand remained on her thigh as if to hold her in place as he conducted his experiment, rubbing a circle on her soaking clit. She could feel it all too well since her slick had thinned the fabric for how wet it had become, and it was nothing but overwhelming pleasure.

She had her head slumped over his shoulder, and he could hear her attempts of suppressing her soft whimpers. She sounded helpless, even though he knew she was liking it as much as he was, if not more. He wanted to hear more and every sound possible for him to draw from her prey-like mouth.

He had already felt it. The tips of his fingers caught a glimpse of her soft and sensitive flesh beneath her panties when they had slipped past it. But their moment was put to an abrupt stop.

He heard it first — the footsteps were soft against the carpeted floor, but he had been way too familiar with the sound, and weight of whoever’s presence that came with it.

He hadn't taken his hands off of her, but he told her to, “Stand up.”

Which she did. Because she felt it too. If she wasn't coming, someone else was.

Her legs were slightly wobbly as she stood, but she was able to find composure and hastily pulled down on her skirt that had ridden up, then reached up her head to pat down her hair, which was incomparable to the mess that was on top of Seonghwa's head. He ran his hand over his hair, brush through it with his fingers. He knew he couldn't bring it back to its old and uniform style, but he didn't sweat it.

The two froze when they saw the librarian pass by, seemingly busy with her work. And thank God she was, because if not, she would've seen the tall tent on Seonghwa's trousers.

He still hadn't calmed himself. Even now that he had his head shot down and stared on the floor, all he could think of was the supple skin of her legs, and her weight on top of him. And she was just so pliable with his touch that he wanted to see her turn into mush in his hands.

But reality echoed in his ears when he felt the vibration of his phone. She was still standing there, probably waiting for him to say something. Something soon turned into nothing, as for the next minute, he was already heading out of the library.

Because fourthly. She had caused him personal ruin.

He had missed a class, again, for the first time. This was a loss that caused him frustration, but only less than he’d hoped. It would take a tragedy before one declares themself ‘screwed’, however, this one bump in his strict and once rigid schedule was enough for him to conclude otherwise.

He sat on a bench of an open hall, open to the eyes of onlookers. He wasn't usually sitting on these dirty seats, looking flawed and out of his mind.

Such a rare sight it was — his eyes shut, head thrown back, brows drawn upward. He was quite visibly dealing with a dilemma, one that boggles his mind beyond his comprehension which was once impossible. He had no hypothesis as to what had gone wrong with him.

It's his first confrontation with fear. Is it solely her existence that had pushed him this far? And could it be any more specific… like the way she looked at him when he touched her? Or the sound of her voice when she spoke, or when she was being pleasured by his hands? Or was it… the figure he couldn't see beneath her sweater, but couldn't help but picture in his mind?

She was such an aberration, unwilling introducing him to his worst and best firsts. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to despise her. He has yet to figure it out, because he didn't believe that beauty was capable of such destruction.

But… maybe hers is the weakness he's been waiting to discover. Now he’s at number five in the checklist. The catastrophe that is she, is destructive.

He would go on a few days without any direct encounters with her, which was deep down disappointing, for him. He thought he'd eventually find a way to live with it, to see his days in campus without ever feeling her delicate skin, her fingers entangled and pulling on his well conditioned hair, or the viscous slick that he wished had coated his fingers so that he could give her a taste — such thoughts had become the inevitable for him and had led him to do things he used to never spare a thought on. An innocent mind, these days, could only be that of a child — which Seonghwa obviously wasn't. Though, he was never to be someone who's perverted, even when he's in the peace of his own room, all alone.

It was merely a whisper in his conscience but in the quiet of his alone time, it shifted into a loud ringing in his ear.

The dim and warm light of the lamp on his nightstand would only add to the height of the temperature — not of his room, but rather, his body. When left alone with his thoughts, without a book for his restless eyes, or his journal and pen for the downpour of his thoughts, all that’s left for him to shake off the feeling, was to close his eyes, and lean back against the headboard of his bed. His hand slips underneath his blanket, and down his crotch. With only a vision of her face, his cock was already straining his pajama pants. A hiss fell from his lips when he palmed himself. He only used to imagine being a rocket scientist, or the most influential politician, fantasies past current reality, but this new fantasy of his held the highest possibility and is the closest to his reality.

He has yet to feel everything, but he could imagine vividly. The heat of her cunt engulfing his hard length — he knew well that his hand wrapped firmly around his erection would never be enough to simulate the feeling, but he must bear with it. His hips rocked in an upward motion against his hand, going rather slow, but purposeful. His head was leant back over the wood of the headboard, and his eyes were shut tight as he continued to fuck into his hand, with the mental image of her figure above him, thighs trembling, nails digging deeper into his shoulders the more she took his cock as he held her in place by the handles of her hips.

He sped up the pace and intensity of his thrusts wanting to reach euphoria, with only a vision, and the reference of a memory. He wonders if with the tightness and warmth of her cunt, he’d finish quicker. He wondered how it felt for his cock to be strangled by her pretty little hole — he wanted to see the flesh, to feel it clenching and fluttering around his fingers, around his dick, and to taste every drop of her arousal he could draw out from her.

And there it was again, the ringing in his ear. He could feel his blanket sticking to his tip because of his cum. But imagination could only carry one’s desires to its limit, imagine his disappointment when his hand continued to stroke his softening cock and he’d open his eyes, only to be met with emptiness.

A muttered curse leaves his lips at the mess he has created beneath his blanket. It’s a filthy deed, and very unlikely of him. And now, the guilt of having masturbated with the thought of an unknowing girl — maybe he’d be more at ease if she had thought of him too, and suffered from her desires with the likes of him. But would he still be sane if he’d hope for such an instance? And what if she hated him now? What if her feelings in relation to him were a complete opposite of his? — every statement he had formulated in his mind had their possible positives and negatives. However, he only tends to be realistic. Based on what he could infer from the nature of humans, the answers to his questions would more likely lean towards the negative.

Who was he to her anyways? Besides that, everyone already sees him to be a quiet narcissist. For the most part, he was certain that the slander that surrounds his character floating around campus would be enough for her to deduce him into a perverted jerk. For the latter part, there’s a small spark of hope that she’d pose deaf against such assertions.

But everything is just his intelligent guess, his inferences. And in that one class he shared with you, he hoped you weren’t trying to avoid him, or implicitly push him away.

His conscience would eat him up everytime he caught a glimpse of her grace, one he once had and flaunted. Now he was unkempt. Stuck in a storm that chose to only burden him.

“Seonghwa,”

A short, yet evocative gasp escapes him. The voice that haunts his dreams, either asleep or awake, whether it be daylight or the dark of night, was now calling for him. And it’s no longer fantasy.

The halls have been emptied, seemingly for the reason that most have classes in that hour. Even him, yet, he wasn’t in a lecture. There he stood amidst the secluded hallway, and in front of him was the embodiment of his temptations.

“Are you avoiding me? After that?” He understood what ‘that’ was referring to too, but he couldn’t quite interpret how upset she seemed into any reasoning.

“No-” “I don’t understand you.”

No one does, not even himself. “Y/n… please listen.”

He had never said ‘please’, not for anyone. She doesn’t verbally reply, but the look in her eyes was enough to tell him to speak before she loses the point of waiting.

“I didn’t- I don’t want to force you into anything.” She found his explanation, and the slight hesitancy in his speech to be ridiculous to some degree, and he saw it from the wrinkles that appeared on her face in reaction to his statement.

“I was waiting for you, because I didn’t know what to do with myself either.”

Seonghwa doesn’t know what yearning was supposed to sound like, but it seems like this was another first for him. He’s been masking his own feelings to be violated by her influence, but after witnessing her disposition towards their situation, maybe they were one with what they felt.

“I missed you.” he finally admits, to her surprise.

Words were lost in the air, and she took one step forward, before he was driven to seize her with quick steps.

He held her as if she was his possession, wasting not a second to take claim of her lips afterwards. And it was at that moment that his hypotheses were proven wrong. She had, not even a thought, no signs of apathy or resistance. She clutched onto his neatly ironed shirt, pulling him closer, even if there was no longer room to be closer.

His hand on the back of her shoulder slowly slid down, tracing the curve of her back, down to her rear which he began to firmly knead with his hand. He caught the soft moan he had induced from her with his mouth, swallowing the sounds that were a product of his touch.

Everything seemed premeditated by fate. The door he had pushed against, was the door to an empty and a very much deserted room home to whatever insignificant articles the campus could no longer make use of. It wasn’t locked, much to their luck. The ease of twisting the knob bought him enough time to have the both of them inside, and the door closed not a second after.

He sits her down on a nearby desk, pushing off the papers and pins with his hands before spreading her thighs open, and taking the space in between for himself. His hands hold the underside of her thighs, bringing her closer against him, and hooking her legs over his hips. All the while his lips began to wander past hers. His tongue tastes her skin, drawing a streak over her jaw and down his neck. He didn’t know it yet at that moment, but he bites into a more receptive part of her skin that elicited a breathy whimper from her, a sweet sound that sent waves of arousal that made his cock stand.

He continued to nip and nibble on her sweet and supple skin as he pressed himself against her center, letting her feel his erection tenting his trousers. Her hands reached down, aiming to undo his pants, but he suddenly descended, impetuously unfastening the confinement that was her pants. He hooks his fingers on the hem of the fabric, slowly stripping it off of her. He couldn’t resist any longer. He had no care if he came off as too eager. He’s been waiting in silent torment to finally taste and feel her essence on his tongue.

His hands lifted her thighs and placed them on his shoulders, and as he leaned in, his hands found her hips like he’s always known them. His tongue that thirsted for her taste licks over her arousal, still with the barrier of her panties — though said barrier was almost senseless. She could feel the weight and the heat of his tongue to a blissful extent that her fingers were once again bound to his hair. Her arm supported her weight as she leaned back, body arched to a beautiful curve as Seonghwa continued to lap on her clit over her panties. He, at the next minute, was pulling down on her panties, leaving it to fall to her ankles as he sought for her pureness of her core.

He tightens his grip on her hips as he tastes her directly for the first time. His eyes closed as she filled his senses with her taste, her scent, the feeling of her delicate flesh against his tongue. He couldn't help the deep rumble in his chest as he ingested her slick, the sound sending subtle vibrations that heightened her pleasure, causing her to pull harder on his hair, and for him to groan softly against her clit which he began to encircle with his tongue. His grasp on her hips were firm as his lips latched onto her bud, shifting between licking and sucking on her flesh. He could hear her muffled moans — she had covered her mouth in an attempt to not make too much noise. But then his tongue sneaked lower, pressing against her dripping hole. He pushes in his tongue, hooking his arms around her thighs as he keeps her in place. His cock throbbed when he felt her gummy walls on his tongue. The continuous ministrations of his mouth had her gasping for hair.

His cock only aches more when he glances up, seeing her head tilted back, exposing the smooth skin of her neck, with some of the muscles now being defined by the stretch as his tongue continued to penetrate her. And he could’ve sworn he almost came when he felt her clenching around his tongue.

“Seong-S-Seonghwa…” her quiet whimpering and her hands continuous and light pats on top of his head was enough to tell him that she was cumming.

But not yet. Seonghwa rises from the ground, leaving her core empty and throbbing. But her longing was soon resolved when he began to unbuckle his belt. Unable to resist the temptation, she reaches for his fly, undoing his pants in a brisk motion then tugging it down.

There was a slight tremble in her legs once her cock sprung free, slightly curved upward, standing tall at a decent length that had evoked her impending anxiety, tip prominent and already leaking with precum. She wanted badly to taste him as well, but he was — quite literally — the bigger person between the two of them. He leans forward, holding up her thighs and opening her wider for him. He keeps her other thigh elevated while his free hand aligned his cock to her entrance. His hips pushed forward subtly, making his tip press against her clit. He buried his face in her neck when he began to let out sounds beyond his control when he began to rub his tip against her slit.

Y/n holds onto his flexed bicep, giving it a light squeeze as her dainty voice whispers his name. “Seonghwa…”

“Yes, baby?” the new name, the feeling of his tip rubbing against her, it made sense how she’d lose her words by then.

But just as she was about to tell him to take it further, to put it in even with the worry of it breaking her at the back of her mind, she finds herself gasping for air once hit with a sharp stinging as she began to get filled by his heavy cock.

He was right. This was incomparable to the work of his hand. She was ecstacy personified.

He felt her hand pulling harshly on her shirt, and he looked down, seeing the thin layer of water over her gentle eyes. A sight so fragile. His temptation holding its true form right before him.

He places a soft and tender kiss on her forehead as he begins to move. He was addicted in an instant. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before. Her tight cunt sheathing his hard length over and over again was now a drug to him. He’s in heaven, holding her tightly and closely against the slow rocking of his hips, slow enough for her to feel every inch of his cock as he fills her over, and over again. The soft mewls that sounded from her melodic voice only drove him to move faster, but it pushed him further to reaching the edge.

He was so close, and the sight of her taking his cock fully below him, and the feeling of her walls fluttering around his length had him completely dazed, and dangerously near.

But then she came before him, pulsating and hugging his cock tight at release. His hands held her thighs with a bruising grip, and he was sure that had been the loudest he’s ever been, and it was a moan of her name. His body convulsed like hers, and his cum shot into her cervix, causing their fluids to mix inside of her.

The room fell into quiet gasps as they caught them fighting to catch their breath. He also didn't pull away once he's found stability in his breathing, like what she’d expect him to do. But she never thought he'd act like this. The nature of it all is rather… domestic.

His arms wrapped around her, holding her closely against him. His lips brushed against her cheek, meeting her lips. But the kiss was gentle, and slow. Truly, he was savouring it. Was it just the feeling?... Or was it her? Whatever the means of his actions were, she indulged in it.

This time, he really just lost a care for the tattle-mouths, his image, the papers, the numbers — they were all lost and thrown down the drain.

At this moment, his hypothalamus acts dominantly. He doesn't know what he's feeling, because he lacks the experience to define it. But his heart was beating in a pattern he couldn't recognize. It was strong, and he could hear it in his ears. At the same time, it wasn't painful nor overwhelming. It was oddly comforting.

He’s never thought of it, but it just felt right. He reached for her hand, and surely, it was a perfect fit in his grasp. As if they were molded for each other — which was too far of a stretch, but it's all just a theory.

・・・・・・・・・・

[dustandthought]

CHARLES and MOLLY lovelovelove❤️❤️❤️

Charles and Molly: The Love That Could Have Been

Why not fantasize a little? They could have been the perfect couple. I truly believe that, and here’s why:

1. Compatibility of Characters. Molly is a woman who can be dramatic, but only because she critically lacks attention and understanding. When she loves, she loves with all her heart, completely and forever. Charles is patient, calm, but deep inside, he desperately needs to belong to someone. He has never known love and longs for it, but he considers himself unworthy of it. Their souls are like mirrors, reflecting each other’s loneliness but capable of filling it with light.

2. Matching Expectations. Both lack love, but neither of them is the type to start romances just for fun. If they love, they love with devotion and without hesitation. They are introverts who would be content with just each other, away from prying eyes and unnecessary words. Their love would be quiet, like an autumn forest, yet strong, like the roots of an ancient oak.

3. How Their Relationship Could Have Developed. It would have started with small acts of kindness from Charles. He would have helped Molly with something insignificant, without giving it much thought. Once, twice, three times… But she would have noticed. And she would have realized that he was the only one who didn’t give her advice, didn’t judge her—he just did things for her. For her alone.

Of course, Molly is a bit arrogant. At first, she would have taken his kindness for granted, but deep inside, it would have made her feel warm. After all, no one else even noticed her. And then, one day, she would have quietly thanked him, surprising even herself. Charles would have nodded, but something inside him would have shifted—not because of her words, but because of the way her voice sounded at that moment.

She would smile at him, call him sweet. Charles would be puzzled, thrown off balance. This was new to him—such attention from a woman, especially one from a different world. His heart would beat just a little faster every time she walked past, leaving behind a faint trace of perfume and the warmth of her gaze on his back.

Time passed. He helped her, she fell more and more in love. She barely hid it. And that scared him the most. This new, unknown, dangerous feeling.

He would have run away. Said something harsh, rejected her. Left everyone behind.

She would have suffered from love because she had finally found someone who saw her, who was kind to her—not out of politeness, but genuinely. And he would have suffered even more because he was afraid, because he didn’t know how, because he didn’t believe he was worthy.

And then, one day, he would have found her poem in the saddle of his horse. The one she had written for him. The one she had secretly placed there, never expecting him to read it.

Charles cried. How foolish he had been. Every line written by her hand struck his heart, like raindrops breaking against stone.

And he rushed to her.

He stood before her, silently, tears in his eyes. She looked at him, disbelieving. — I’m sorry. If you’ll allow me… If I still have a chance… I will do everything to be worthy of you.

She didn’t answer. She just grabbed his face in her hands and began to cover him with kisses.

Molly is not a housewife. But Charles wouldn’t care. He had taken care of himself for thirty years; he wouldn’t have complained about a bad dinner—he would have just cooked it himself.

And she, blinded by love, would have followed him to the ends of the earth. She had been willing to live in the wilderness for Dutch, who never loved her. For Charles, she would have done anything.

The tantrums would have disappeared—because they had been born from a lack of attention. And Charles would never have let her feel alone.

And she would never have let him believe he was born only to suffer, kissing his tired shoulders every night.

This could have been their story. Warm, real, about two hearts that found each other in a world full of loss.

✨ Breaking news! Charles Smith is now on MOESCAPE! ✨

I've written him as canon-compliant as possible. Enjoy your conversations, my dear ones! 💋❤️

🔗 Meet Charles on MOESCAPE

[jeneveuxrein]

needy (BLACKPINK Rosé)

word count: 3.3K

(i'm a bit rusty, lol)

You hear an exaggerated sigh behind you. You ignore it, choosing instead to smirk at your screen as your team continues with its quest. 

Your online friends would call you a complete idiot for not doing what you should be doing versus what you’re actually doing. 

It wasn’t intentional. 

At least on your end, it wasn’t. 

Well, to an extent. 

You shouldn’t be focused on finding this stupid shield Jungkook read about from a gaming article with this new update. 

You should, however, give all of your attention to the woman laying on your bed. 

But it’s not that simple. 

See, the thing is, when you meet someone as famous as Park Chaeyoung, or Rosé, or your favorite Rosie or Chaeng, there are rules you’ve established to make this relationship work.

Rule number one: no one can know unless it’s disclosed to her company. Privacy and all that, not only for her, but for you as well. 

Rule number two: you specifically aren’t allowed to date anyone else. The rule applies to her because you are officially together, like boyfriend-girlfriend kind of together, but she likes having so-called power over you. 

Rule number three: if you’re in each other’s presence, undivided attention is a must. Time is precious for the both of you after all. She has a hectic schedule that takes her all over the world while your line of work has you constantly troubleshooting to make sure everything runs smoothly. 

So it was a surprise when Rosie showed up at your apartment a little before midnight without a heads up. She knew what you were doing this evening, but you hadn’t heard from her since morning. You, being you, figured she had an event or a rehearsal or something that kept her occupied. Not that you weren’t involved in her life, but her schedule constantly changed. It was hard for you to keep up. 

Rosie lets out another exaggerated sigh that it actually distracts you, causing your character to die in this part of the quest. 

“Dude seriously?” Jungkook’s voice is in your headphones, chuckling. “You of all people dying to that?” 

“Shut up,” Is all you say, swiveling your chair around to your girlfriend dressed in more comfortable clothes than what she arrived in—your clothes specifically. She has a habit of rummaging through your drawers. Not that you minded, she looks hot in whatever she wears. There was just something about her wearing your clothes that had you feeling some type of way. You mute your mic, double checking it is in fact muted before asking, “Everything alright?” 

“I’m over and my boyfriend won’t spend time with me,” Rosie huffs out, crossing her arms. 

“If I knew you were coming over, I wouldn’t have logged on,” You roll your eyes, glancing at the screen to thirty seconds left before you respawned. 

“I called,” Rosie glares. Someone else might’ve folded under her gaze, but it doesn’t intimidate you. 

“And my phone was in the living room,” You say, slightly apologetic, but the respawn sound plays that has you turning back to the screen. 

“Yeah yeah, play your stupid game,” Rosie mutters, which you hear loud and clear while the rest of the guys talk about their day. 

See, meeting Rosie was pure chance, a deal of the hand you weren’t expecting. Your gaming company drove the development of her group’s mobile game and when it was time to launch, the members of BLACKPINK were there.

At the time, you were just one of the developers since you had more of a managerial role and took it last minute. You were overseeing the game’s development more than anything, giving your two cents as needed, but were hands off for the most part. 

According to Rosie, as she told you during your first date, you were indifferent to meeting them as opposed to everyone else on the team who brought merch for them to sign. She noticed you before the other three girls did, and made sure she personally introduced herself to you. 

Rosie’s beautiful. You’re not blind. You get the appeal. You guessed it was that you treated them like normal people instead of idols that had most of your coworkers swooning in their presence.  

She’s also clingy, not that you minded. She’s slowly told you about her past relationships–lies, cheating, using her. It left wounds of insecurity that have made her feel unsure of who she could trust her heart with. 

One drunken night after spending it at Jennie’s, tangled in your sheets, Rosie told you she felt safe with you. 

Though, as of this moment, you sense the irritation rolling off of her. 

“What the fuck?” The controller falls into your lap when you see Rosie suddenly beside you. 

“You good over there?” Tae asks. 

“Yeah, I just gotta mute myself for a sec, my girlfriend’s calling me,” You mute the mic again, grabbing the controller before turning to Rosie. “What?” 

“I’m bored,” Rosie states simply. 

“And you want to watch me play?” 

“Can I?” You raise an eyebrow, knowing her too well that she’s up to something. 

“Did you want me to grab you a-” Rosie doesn’t let you finish, opting to sit in your lap. “Okay fine, no funny business.” 

Rosie shrugs, settling comfortably against you as you unmute yourself, “Sorry.”

“Are you in trouble?” Jungkook jokes. Your friends know of your girlfriend, but you have yet to give any information on her. Again, privacy and all that. 

“No, she’s just being needy,” That earns you a slap on the arm and a glare.

Your friends laugh, which Rosie hears, slapping your thigh this time. You squeeze her body with your arms before resting your chin on her shoulder as you continue playing. 

Time goes by, Rosie starts squirming in your hold. She was never one to sit still. You let go and she tilts her head back onto your shoulder before she relaxes against your chest. It’s nice being with her like this. She comes over often, but not often enough. 

You haven’t seen her in almost two weeks. The group just finished their last leg of their tour before their encore performances begin. They have a show in France in a couple weeks, which you’ll be joining them. She asked if you wanted to go with them to the states so you could visit your mother in San Francisco. You had to check with your boss, but it was likely you’d be going as well. 

Rosie mutes your mic, “Are you almost done?” 

“Not really,” She sighs against your body. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Rosie pouts, but she does something you were expecting. She slightly rolls her hips. It’s subtle, but it’s enough. 

“Chaeng,” You deadpan, eyes still focused on the screen. 

“What?” There it is. The tilt in her voice, that if it was anybody else, they’d fall for her feigned innocence. 

But it wasn’t anybody else. It was you. 

“Don’t,” Rosie rolls her hips against you again, this time, perfectly against your cock. “Chaeng.” 

“I’m just trying to get comfortable, you’re not exactly ergonomic,” Rosie shrugs, rocking her hips against you once again. 

Your cock stirs at the movement. You take a deep breath, refocusing yourself as your team continues the quest. 

Tae asks you a question, forcing you to reach around Rosie to unmute yourself. “Yeah I’ll check that.” 

When you mute once again, Rosie asks, “How quiet can you be?”

“What?” The question catches you off guard because Rosie’s standing up and unmutes you. She turns to smirk and drops to her knees in between your legs. Your eyes widen, shocked at her boldness. You’re about to say something when she holds a finger to her lips. 

“Fuck,” You groan into the mic when Rosie slips her hand underneath your sweats, wrapping her hand around your half-hard cock. 

“What happened?” You barely hear someone ask. 

“Nothing,” You grit out, eyes watching Rosie push your sweats down just enough to free your cock. You let out a hiss as the cool air of your apartment hits your skin. “I’m good.” 

She starts off slow, moving a loose fist up and down your length as the blood in your body rushes south. By the time you’re fully erect, she lets go, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. 

Rosie’s face lights up, and you know that look. It spells trouble with a capital T, and when she stands up in between your legs, pulling her (your) boxers down, you have a clear picture of what’s going to come next. 

It was meant to be a joke when you mentioned it on FaceTime while they were touring in Australia. You had this fantasy of her keeping your cock warm while you gamed. She asked if you actually wanted that, knowing how much you took gaming with your friends seriously. You shrugged, off-handedly commenting that you thought it would be hot. 

You didn’t go into much detail of how you envisioned it. It was just a fantasy, but when Rosie turns around, her shapely bottom waving in your face, this was so much better than what you imagined. 

Rosie mutes you again, her face slightly turned to you, “Still want to play your game?” 

It’s a challenge. A very dangerous one that you don’t know the outcome of, but you’d bet everything to find out. Even if that meant you have to fuck Rosie against your desk for being this needy. 

“Yeah,” Your voice comes out hoarse, hardly recognizable in your ears. 

“Fine.” One hand rests on your desk as the other reaches for your cock, angling it as she takes all of you in one smooth move. 

“Jesus Chaeng,” You nearly drop your controller as one hand shoots to her hip, gripping tightly as her walls squeeze around your cock. It knocks the wind out of you, feeling just how wet and warm she is.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Rosie slightly pants, leaning on your desk as you feel her walls stretch to accommodate your size.

“I don’t know,” You pathetically moan out as she sits up straight against your chest. 

“Keep playing,” Rosie unmutes you before slowly rocking her hips. 

You don’t know how the fuck you were supposed to focus when she feels so fucking good wrapped around you, but you push through. 

You tune in to what your friends are talking about, ignoring the small mewls Rosie lets out as her hips move in a circle on top of you. You try to be engaged, commenting here and there, but it’s hard to care what they’re saying. 

You close your eyes, dropping your head against the chair when Rosie lifts her hips along your length before dropping her weight against you. 

“Fuck,” You mutter, but it’s loud enough for your friends to hear. They ask if everything’s alright and you immediately snap back to the screen as Rosie repeats the movement again and again and again. “Yeah, I’m fine,” You grit out after she lands on a particularly hard thrust, walls tightening as she takes a breath. 

You’d give yourself a pat on a back for how far you’ve made it. The amount of self-control you have when it comes to your girlfriend is usually very low. You don’t need much convincing when it comes to having sex, but you want to hold out as much as possible to see where it takes you. 

It’s not everyday Rosie uses your cock to fuck herself. She has, but that’s usually on a bed or in your car, where she has your full, undivided attention.

Rosie brings your hands against her lower stomach, resting the controller against her as she undulates her hips. Any vibration from the game has her body reacting, which by default, you reap the benefits. 

Rosie reaches forward, the mic turning off once again, “I’m going to cum,” She moans out. 

You didn’t think she’d get there that fast, but it is hot to get fucked while your friends are oblivious to what’s going on. She loves performing for thousands of people at a time, but you know her favorite performances are for you and you alone. 

“Go ahead baby,” You murmur, eyes watching where you’re connected, her hips hypnotizing you as they move. “Make yourself cum since you couldn’t wait for me.” 

The words set her off as her body quivers, shaking on your lap as her orgasm hits. Her head snaps back and she holds onto the arm rests as she tries to shut her thighs at the pressure inside her body. The only obstacle is your hands and controller dropping, keeping her spread open as you feel a sudden wetness cover your sweats. 

“Did you just squirt baby?” Your lips ghost over her skin, sweetly kissing her behind the ear. 

“No,” Rosie mumbles weakly, resting her head on your shoulder as she catches her breath. 

“No? Then why are my clothes soaked?” You thrust up from your chair, knocking the wind out of her as she lets out a filthy moan. 

“You came,” She moans as you rock up again, enjoying the sensation. 

You click your tongue, shaking your head as you decide you can’t hold back any longer. Keeping her on top of you, her walls snug and hot, you unmute for the last time, “Ayo, I gotta go.”

Rosie tries to stand, but your arms around her keep her still, filled. 

“Dude what? We’re nowhere near done,” Jungkook whines and you roll your eyes. 

“I realized I didn’t finish something. I can pass on the shield. I’ll log on again sometime this weekend,” You say curtly without giving them a chance to respond, quickly exiting the program before tossing your controller on the desk. 

You stand, easily taking your girlfriend with you as you push her forward, folding her against your desk as she rests on her elbows, back perfectly arched, keeping your bodies connected. 

“Baby,” Rosie whines, your cock still nestled deep inside her.

“Jesus fuck Chaeng,” You pull your hips back, looking at your cock covered in her slick. “You’re a fucking menace.” 

You snap your hips forward, groaning as your cock fills her.

“How else was I supposed to get your attention?” Rosie moans, pushing her ass towards you to take you even deeper. “You chose a game over me.” 

Your hands grip her waist, stopping any movement from her as you just breathe since both of you know what’s coming next. You lean forward, kissing her head, “Don’t act like that. You know you still have all of my attention.” 

You draw your hips backwards, but before you thrust, Rosie speaks, “Then fuck me like I do.”

Never one to not obey Rosie, you do just that. 

You thrust into her experimentally, getting your bearings before you completely lose it since it has been two weeks too long and the amount of dirty texts and pictures you’ve exchanged is never enough. 

“Baby please,” Rosie begs, head slightly turning before nodding. 

The control snaps and you’re thrusting wildly, her hips slamming against the desk, before she could react. 

One of the best parts, aside from you care deeply for and can genuinely share your thoughts and feelings with, is that Rosie always welcomes being fucked hard. Sure you’ve had sex at a much tamer, slower pace, which is just as great, but it’s the best when it’s been a while and the only thing either of you could focus on is tearing each other apart together. 

“Missed you so much,” Rosie whines, doing what she can to meet your thrusts. It isn’t much since you’re practically nailing her against the furniture. 

“Missed you too baby,” You groan as her walls start to clamp down to keep you inside. 

One hand lets go of her waist, raising it slightly before your palm makes contact with her ass cheek. She lets out a moan, pressing her face into her arms, slightly embarrassed by how her body reacts to the pain. You watch her skin slowly turn red, spurring you on even more. 

You feel your peaks coming soon just based on how much easier it is. Her pussy’s slickness lets you slide in and out with ease, but there’s another thing that Rosie loves and it’s how vocal you can get. 

Praise is all around her, but the praise she adores the most is when you tell her yourself. 

Your hand grips her waist again before you let your thoughts fall freely from your mouth. 

Fuck you feel so good baby. 

Couldn’t wait for me huh? Needed my cock so badly.

You look so pretty, letting me fuck this pussy.

You were so hot taking me while I played. 

Bounce on my cock next time, let my friends hear what a good little slut you are. 

Rosie screams as her orgasm rips through her body taking you with her. Your hips stutter into her and your vision goes white as you hit your climax. You couldn’t pull out since she was doing everything to keep you in. 

“Holy shit,” She moans out, back tensing as you feel her release over your cock, making a filthy mess as you paint her insides with your cum. 

You immediately wrap your arms around her stomach, pulling her into your chest as you groan out the remainder of your orgasm. 

It takes you a minute, but you collapse on your chair, the wheels slightly rolling backwards while Rosie falls flat on top of your desk. 

The sight of your girlfriend, fucked out, panting, has you questioning why you didn’t give your attention in the first place. You feel a second wind coming as the smallest bit of cum dribbles out in between her lower lips. 

“Can you go again?” You ask after a few minutes, staring as more of your cum falls out. You almost reach out to push it back in, but you spare her the overstimulation.

Rosie stands straight before turning to you. She bends to kiss you softly on the lips, sitting on your lap, and circling her arms around your neck. 

“Quick nap?” Rosie offers, peppering kisses over your jawline, which of course, immediately gets you worked up. 

“Fine,” You pout like a petulant child. 

You swoop your arms underneath her body, making sure you have a strong grip before standing. You literally have BLACKPINK’s lead singer in your arms, and any physical damage to her would automatically fall on you. 

Rosie giggles as she holds on, telling you not to drop her or the girls would come after you. You roll your eyes, knowing it’s an empty—sort of. The only member you’re actually scared of is Jisoo, while the other two are like the little sisters you never wanted. 

Once you gently lay your girlfriend down, you reach for the bottoms she was wearing, tossing it to her. You change into a different pair of sweats, noticing how much of a mess was actually made before joining her back in bed. 

“Hi,” You whisper, a small smile tugging at your lips as you stare at your girlfriend. You still couldn’t believe she chose you to date out of everyone else.

“Hi yourself,” Rosie smiles, burying her face into your chest. “I missed you.” It comes out soft, shy even, because feelings are still hard for her to put into words. 

“I missed you too,” You bring your lips to her forehead. 

There’s something else you want to tell her, something you’ve been holding in for a couple months at this point. You want to say it now, but when you hear light snores, you know it’s not the time. 

You say it anyway, “I love you.” 

--

--

--

[seokmthw]

the good side | kim jiwoong

⇢ pairing: jiwoong x reader

⇢ warnings: harry potter au, slytherin!jiwoong, hufflepuff!reader, fluff, angst, mentions of blood, all characters are adults, implied afab reader but still gender neutral terms, pretty hot & heavy makeout scene, mentions of sex (nothing explicitly written out, but i'd prefer minors not interact), jiwoong's personality is inspired by draco malfoy

⇢ synopsis: a slytherin and a hufflepuff are an unlikely pairing, but somehow you found each other into the late hours of the night, keeping each other company and developing feelings you eventually have to face.

⇢ word count: 5k

⇢ note: my harry potter hyperfixation is coming back and this is entirely self indulgent, but i hope you all enjoy too!

i.

there was an excited buzz filling up the great hall as you stood by its entrance with the other batch of anxious first years, awaiting to go in and be sorted. you weren't sure where you would end up, but you really didn't care – so long as you got along with your classmates and you were able to find friends that were genuine. you twiddled with the sleeves of your robes, feeling your heart lurch in your chest as the large doors finally opened with a loud squeak, announcing your arrival to the hundreds of other hogwarts students inside.

all eyes were on your group as you walked down the aisle and up to the front, where the stool was sat just up a few stairs and professor mcgonagall was holding the sorting hat in all of its tattered glory. you made small talk with a girl you'd slowly become friends with as you watched the first person clumsily clamber up the stairs and have the hat placed on its head.

your eyes kept scanning the area surround you, and you'd locked gazes with kim jiwoong, who had made his presence known and commanded the attention of everyone on the train earlier that day. you'd heard a lot about him from the whispering voices, about how he was incredibly hateful and always barking orders to people around him, but didn't care to listen to other people’s perceptions of him. his eyes bore into yours, but it didn't feel scary, as other people had described him – he was almost unreadable. you offered him a small, genuine smile, and you swore you saw him flash one back at you, but it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced with his usual scowl as he was called up to be sorted.

you watched as he sat down, and the sorting hat was placed on his head for less than thirty seconds before it was bellowing out “slytherin!” and a look of pride had washed over the dark haired boy before he went and sat down with the table of older students who were cheering for him.

you watched as people continued to be called and sorted, anxiously awaiting for your name. and soon, there it was, and you were leaving your friend behind and nervously sitting down on the stool. professor mcgonagall smiled at you, her eyes turning into crescents before she set the hat atop your head. it almost felt like all the voices around you were drowned out, and you could only hear the hat as he got lost in thought, announcing everything to the rest of the crowd in front of you.

“hmm, you're a tough one, my friend. i can sense your courage and bravery, your willingness to stand up not only for yourself but for the people you love…” his voice trailed off as he thought some more, the table of gryffindors growing antsy with anticipation for you to be sorted into their house.

“ah! but wait, i can feel something deeper. you're gentle and kind, loyal to your friends, and you have a pure heart. one that shouldn't be tinkered around with. this feeling is growing stronger within me, and i think i have made my decision.”

he grew silent for a moment and it felt like the chatter of the room had gone away completely. every second that passed by was agonizing and you wanted so badly to just be off that stool and away from the burning eyes of the student body.

finally, he bellowed, “you'll be best in hufflepuff!”

a roar of cheers erupted from the students dressed in yellow and black and they graciously welcomed you to their table. amongst the sea of people, you caught the gaze of jiwoong once again, this time a knowing look on his face.

almost as if he'd known this is where you'd be.

ii.

your time at hogwarts felt like they were flying by – you were in a constant state of honing your magic skills, studying for exams and finding the time for recreational activities. before you knew it, you were in your fifth year, and you were under the tyranny of dolores umbridge and her constant nitpicking at each and every little thing the student body did.

it was exhausting.

you found yourself sneaking out of the castle late at night after finishing your studies, careful not to get caught, and sitting by the black lake, watching as the stars glittered beautifully in the sky and moon reflected off the still water before you. it was peaceful, and you found solace in getting away from the hustle and bustle you'd been surrounded by for so long.

which is where you were tonight, where it was chilly, and you were wrapped up in a cardigan and sighing in contentedness, your breath clouding before you as you did so. you closed your eyes, relishing in the feeling you had, until a cool, quiet voice drew you away from your thoughts and back into the present.

“i didnt think you would be one to sneak out of the castle.”

you opened your eyes to be greeted with the sight of jiwoong in front of you, one of your eyebrows quirking up in confusion, “i suppose this is why we shouldn't always judge people based upon our first impressions of them.”

jiwoong gave you a curt nod, motioning at the spot on the ground next to you, “care if i join you?”

“not at all,” was your reply.

you kept your eyes trained on the lake, feeling the chill in the air fight to cut through your cardigan and to your skin beneath it. there was an oddly comfortable silence between the two of you, both just taking in your surroundings and letting the stress of the first few months of fifth year wash away from you.

but the silence didn't last for long because jiwoong was opening his mouth again, asking you, “i’ve seen you come out here a lot, why? what's so special about it?”

you turned to look at him, taking note of how attractive he actually was up close. his dark hair was parted in the middle, exposing just enough of his forehead, the moonlight was caught in it almost perfectly. his slender nose and sharp features really stood out to you amongst the darkness, and you studied him for a moment before you finally said, “it's just nice to have a break from all the ruckus and commotion every once in a while,” you met your eyes with his now, “i could ask you the same.”

“i-” he began, but he shook his head, his intense stare now focused on the frost-covered ground below the both of you, “nevermind, it's stupid.”

you were sure what overcame you, but you reached out to him, resting a hand in his knee as you said, “nothing you feel is ever stupid, you know.”

at your words, jiwoong’s gaze softened, and you felt like he was showing you a side of him nobody else has seen before. he seemed to be fighting something internally, and finally, his shoulders slumped in defeat as he quietly said, “sometimes it's nice to not have to put on a front, not always uphold this reputation i've built for myself.”

“i get it,” you offered him a genuine smile. you began to stand up, shaking a few blades of grass from your pants. you looked at jiwoong once again, who was still sat in his spot, and said, “if you ever feel like you need a break from it all, you're always welcome to join me out here. there will never be any judgement.”

“thank you, y/n,” his words were sincere.

you gave a small smile to him, nodding in acknowledgment, “goodnight, jiwoong.”

–––––

jiwoong had taken you up on your offer more than you ever anticipated, and the both of you found yourselves enjoying the company. you'd fallen into comfortable conversation, and you'd finally gotten to know more about him, and to say you were starting to develop feelings for him was an understatement.

you couldn't help but feel giddy after every late evening spent with him, feeling a blush creep onto your cheeks whenever you finally made it back to your dorm and recounted each night in your head. beneath the surface that was kim jiwoong was someone who was kind and caring, always thoughtful. at least, that's the side of him that he showed to you.

this evening was different, though – you'd arrived later after serving a detention issued by umbridge earlier in the day. you stumbled down the small slope that led to your little tucked away spot, blood trickling down the length of your fingers and tears blurring your vision as you attempted to find him amidst the cloak of darkness the night had to offer.

jiwoong's usually large smile was soon replaced with a frown, a look of concern washing over his features upon seeing the state you were in, and anger dancing in his eyes the moment he took notice of your crimson coated hand. he reached out, helping you sit down, and trying his best to get you to look at him, but to no avail. you were so ashamed to be sat in front of him like this, and you almost wished you didn't even come to sit with him.

he didn't pry, though. instead, he sat there with you, the only thing filling the silence being the faint chirp of the crickets and your sniffles as you continued to cry. he reached out, grabbing your hand with his gently, and you felt your heart flutter at the gesture. he wiped away the blood with the sleeve of his robe, revealing a sentence etched deeply into your flesh.

i will not talk back.

this is when he finally broke the silence, his voice quiet, but frustration and anger laced in each and every word he spoke, “what the hell did that woman do to you?”

“made me write dozens of sentences with my own blood,” you laughed scornfully, wiping away at the tears that continued to stream down your face with your unoccupied hand.

“she's lucky i don't hex her,” he stated, which earned a quiet chuckle from you, “i mean it, y/n, i don't understand how someone can be this cruel to you.”

“just the way the world works, i suppose.”

you finally looked up at him, your glossy eyes nearly making the slytherin’s heart break right then and there. if there was anything he never wanted to see again, it was you crying. he reached out and swiped his thumb beneath your eyes, collecting the fresh tears that had just fallen. the look on his face was tender, and you felt your stomach doing backflips the longer his hand lingered on your face. but it was gone all too soon, and he looked you up and down, taking notice of your lack of robes on a night as cold as that one.

he slipped his overcoat off and draped it around your shoulders, ignoring all of your protests and securing you in the warmth that lingered inside of it. the fabric smelled so good, of expensive cologne, and you closed your eyes, quietly thanking him for such a kind gesture. you sat next to each other now, the silence comfortable but you felt yourself longing for his touch again.

you decided to be bold, to make a move, and rested your head on his shoulder. you didn't feel him tense up like you thought he might, the feeling in the air didn't change.

instead, he rested his head atop yours, gazes cast out to look at the moon as it glistened on the water.

iii.

your fifth year had come and gone, umbridge was finally out of hogwarts, and your feelings for jiwoong grew stronger by the day. your nights were spent getting cozier, sometimes his arm laid around your shoulder, other times your head in his lap, and occasionally your fingers intertwined with each other.

you'd delved into the conversation of how you didn't really acknowledge one another aside from sparing a few glances outside of these stolen moments at night, and you'd spent a great deal of time promising jiwoong you understood how much his reputation meant to him and that you were okay with how things were now.

since your sixth year was just starting, many of your classmates were our mingling and not returning until the very last possible moment, so jiwoong had mustered up the courage to invite you spend time with him in the slytherin dorm, which you'd accepted almost too eagerly. but your friends had peeved you greatly before you left, and you needed to get it off your chest. so there you were, sat on his bed, ranting to him about how some of your friends had made fun of you for not kissing anyone yet.

“i mean, i know it makes me a loser, but i don't just going around kissing people that mean nothing to me,” you stated, though you were growing more and more upset by the second.

jiwoong sat and listened quietly as you continued, his fingers tracing shapes on your back and a soft smile delicately tugging at the corners of his lips. once you finally stopped talking, you felt your cheeks heat up, surely fire engine red by now, and bashfully smiled, “sorry, i got a little carried away.”

“nothing to apologize for,” he softly responded, “and for the record, not having been kissed doesn't make you a loser.”

“i don't know, it feels like everyone around me has, my friends, strangers in the hall, hell, even you,” you replied.

jiwoong chuckled, his fingers still continuing their pattern, “actually, i haven't.”

your eyes widened at his confession and you began profusely apologizing, “i shouldn't have assumed, i’m so sorry. i just know you have a lot of friends and i figured -”

“y/n, it's alright,” jiwoong cut you off, amused with how flustered you had gotten. you were frustrated with yourself.

maybe it was because your friends had really gotten under your skin. maybe it was because you were sitting in jiwoong’s bed, surrounded by his smell, grazed with his touch. maybe it was because your feelings for him had grown impossibly big. you weren't sure, but you did know that you were embarrassed beyond belief.

a silence fell amongst you, and while you would normally welcome it, you couldn't help but feel like there was tension. not bad tension, though. you couldn't quite pinpoint it.

jiwoong parted his lips to speak, “you know, y/n, i think we might be able to help each other out in this situation.”

“please don't feel like you have to do that because i'm upset about it, i’ll be okay, really,” your eyes were as wide as saucers and you were fighting the urge to just get up and run back to your dorm, but you didn't.

instead, jiwoong reached his hand out to cup your cheek, his gaze almost unreadable, as he said, “i want to. if you'll let me, of course.”

you nodded, feeling your breath hitch in your throat as he inched closer, tilting his head as he closed the distance between the two of you, sealing your lips in a gentle, relieving kiss. he was warm and soft and so perfect. you snaked your arms around his neck, which granted him access to kiss you deeper, his hands finding purchase on your waist.

he finally pulled back, a grin immediately visible, and he asked, “how was that?”

you giggled, “perfect, you're perfect.”

he kissed you again, this time with a little more intent behind it, and molded your lips together. his tongue swiped at your bottom lip, begging for access, and you granted that to him, allowing him to explore your mouth. he shifted his weight, laying you down onto the mattress, your head resting on his silk covered pillows and arms still around his neck.

he kept one hand on your waist while the other propped him up as he hovered over you, the same smile on his face as he leaned down, hot breath fanning onto your ear as he mumbled, “you're the perfect one.”

his lips met with the tender skin of your neck, leaving gentle, but intentional kisses in a spot that made your head spin. your hands gripped the hair at the base of his neck and he chuckled, the vibration blooming as he worked his way to your jaw and back up to your lips, fingers toying with the hem of your shirt.

you pulled away from him, feeling slightly panicked, but he remained as calm as ever, smooth voice saying, “we don't have to do anything you don't want to.”

“it's not that, i just, i haven't…” you didn't go on to finish your sentence, because he knew what you were alluding to, and you felt relief wash over you as he whispered, “me either.”

the rest was a blur, your clothes coming off piece by piece and the soft kisses he left scattered about your body causing electricity to flow through your veins in a way you never thought it could. he was impossibly gentle, his touches feather light and his words sweet as he mumbled how beautiful you were against your skin. he kissed you through it all, making you feel so special and so cared for, and made sure your comfort was a priority.

now you were curled up into his side, one of his shirts engulfing your frame and your cheek pressed against the bare skin of his chest, listening to his heartbeat and steady breathing as the two of you laid there, basking in each other for what felt like ages. the sun was beginning to set and students would be coming in from curfew soon, so you reluctantly put your clothes back on allowed him to walk you out of the his dorm, through the common room, and back into the usual hustle and bustle of hogwarts.

“see you tomorrow?” you asked, the hopeful glint in your eyes difficult for him to miss. there was something unreadable in his expression, but it was gone as quickly as it came, and his usual soft smile he reserved for you was back.

“of course."

iv.

running late for potions was not something on your morning agenda, but here you were, sprinting through the halls in a futile attempt to make it on time. overslept and managed to get ready at a speed you never have, but since you'd started making your way there class had started. sure, it wasn't long, but it wasn't the start you wanted for your first day back at classes since having the summer off.

but your mind had been in a haze since your previous night with jiwoong and you were up late overanalyzing the look on his face that you briefly caught. you finally managed to convince yourself it was nothing, but it was mere hours before you were supposed to be awake when you finally dozed off.

you grateful to see the door to the potions classroom and even more thankful to see at least two other students hanging their heads as you walked into the room behind them. you got a scolding from professor slughorn, but you were lucky enough to scrape by without having any points taken from your house.

you slid into the first empty seat you saw, trying to tune into the lecture about the polyjuice potion, but you found yourself scanning the faces of your classmates to try and find the one you wanted, finally finding him at his potion station just a few away from you. he looked up, almost as if he could feel your gaze burning into him, and locked eyes with you all for a brief moment before he quickly turned away, cracking a joke with one of his friends.

you both did talk about the whole bit acknowledging each other that much, but you had never seen him turn away so quickly; he always at least shot a smile your way.

you blinked in confusion, but shook your head to yourself as you turned the page in your book to the recipe you needed, getting to work upon professor slughorn’s command. you somehow managed to get it perfectly on the first try, despite your mind being fuzzy, but you hoped that maybe you could talk to him later that evening about it. he was always receptive.

but your typical nightly escapade came and jiwoong was nowhere to be found. he hadn't missed a day since he first came and sat with you. your hand furiously wiped at the tears prickling at your eyes as you made your way back into the castle, heart lurching in your chest at the thought of having to go to bed without talking to him.

the next few days passed by exactly the same; he refused to look at you, avoided you in the halls, and never met you in your spot by the lake. your confused heart couldn't take much more of it, and against your better judgement one morning, you followed him amongst the sea of students when he was walking alone and grabbed his wrist, pulling him off into a secluded corridor.

he was caught off guard, but his expression turned from one of surprise to one of guilt. you did what you could to keep your voice steady, but you knew it was a matter of time before you snapped.

“why are you avoiding me?”

the silence hung thick in the air between the two of you, and jiwoong’s eyes softened when he saw the mournful expression you adorned. his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, desperate to get the words out. his expression hardened a little bit as he said his next words, “i just have my reputation to think about.”

“you've got to be joking,” you scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest, “that hasn't stopped you from meeting me every night for the past year, and it certainly didn't keep you from kissing me or making your way into my pants.”

jiwoong’s face contorted into a scowl, and his words were harsh, “you just don't understand.”

you were taken aback; in all the time you've known him, from the very first day you saw him at the ceremony, he hasn't so much as given you that scowl, let alone spoken to you in such a tone. regret flashed across his face, but you were quick to the punch, “you know, jiwoong, i think i understand perfectly,” your voice was quivering now as you desperately tried to keep the lump in your throat down and the tears from spilling onto your cheeks, “you're just like people say they are.”

and with that, you stormed off from him, tears clouding your vision and the sob you'd held back ripping from your lungs, earning confused looks from the students you passed by, leaving jiwoong in your wake.

he never wanted to see you cry like you did after your detention with umbridge, but here he was, and he was the cause of it.

v.

the following weeks consisted of avoiding jiwoong at all possible costs. you sat at the tables furthest from him in the classes you shared, sat at your house table in the great hall with your back facing slytherin entirely, and not even bothering to go to the lake, because you'd seen him there waiting for you, likely to try and fix the damage he had caused. but he made himself clear, and you were going to stick to that.

you were sat now in defense against the dark arts, cracking jokes with your friends in a futile attempt to feel better, and the room grew quiet when professor snape waltzed in, his usual intolerance for the chatter evident. he soon at the front of the room, voice deep and stern, as he began the lesson, “you all are in your sixth year now, and i suspect you've learnt enough in this class to be able to hold your own in a duel.”

an excited buzz filled the room; dueling was prohibited around school grounds, so this was an exciting thing to hear him say. he looked around the room once again, as if he was analyzing each student and their abilities. finally, he said, “i want y/n and jiwoong up to the front. an unlikely pairing, but both adept and skilled in this class.”

you could feel your heart sink at hearing jiwoong’s name called with yours, but you refused to let it affect you. instead, you would show him just how hurt you were, just how much his actions affected you.

jiwoong stood up hesitantly, watching you march down to the center of the room where professor snape had conjured up boundaries, and stood waiting. he reluctantly followed suit, standing across from you as professor snape went over the rules.

“wands at the ready!”

once given the cue to duel, jiwoong's expression became that of stone; you couldn't tell what he was thinking, or how he was feeling, but you couldn't find it in yourself to care. instead, you casted spells at each other relentlessly, the students surrounding you erupting in cheers at how exciting the duel was getting.

you could tell he was getting lost in thought, because he wasn't dodging as well as he could have and he was hardly sending anything back. the rest of the slytherin students began booing at him, yelling for him to get it together, and it seemed to fuel him, but it was too late.

“expelliarmus!” you shouted, knocking his wand across the room and sending his body to the ground with a thud. your chest was rising and falling rapidly as you caught your breath, wand still pointed at him, and anger glimmering in your eyes as you stared at him.

he was at a loss, and hung his head in shame as snape announced you as the winner of the duel.

––––

you don't know what, but later in the day you felt compelled to go to your spot by the lake. you'd only seen jiwoong there at night, so you were hoping to catch a break at some point in the place you missed so much. you were grateful to see it empty, and plopped down with your things as you basked in the sunlight beaming down on you.

you breathed in deeply, appreciating the fresh air after such an eventful day. but a voice drew you out, a very familiar one, and you could feel your chest begin to tighten, “i thought i might find you out here.”

you opened your eyes and looked up, catching sight of jiwoong, his hair disheveled and the bags under his eyes unmistakable. you felt a pang of sadness, but still said, “what do you want?”

“to talk, y/n,” the tone of his voice was desperate, pleading, “please.”

there was sincerity in his expression and you found yourself motioning for him to sit. you were silent, because you had nothing to say to him quite yet. you didn't even know what to say. so instead, you stared at him and took him in again, trying so desperately not to let yourself fall and crash, but it was no use.

you turned and looked at the lake so he couldn't see you already crying, but he knew you were. he reached out and touched your leg, and when you didn't shove him away, he inched a little bit closer to you.

“y/n, i am so sorry, truly i am.” his apology hung in the air and you let it sink in, but you weren't sure you were ready to accept it. you needed to let him know just how badly he broke your heart, and if he showed he cared, you'd let him back in.

between your sniffles, you inquired, “why? why did you ignore me? after that night i thought things were going to change, i mean they felt different, jiwoong i though that maybe -” you cut yourself off to prevent any words you didn't want spewing out, “never mind, it's stupid anyway.”

jiwoong took your hand in his, giving you an encouraging squeeze, “please just say it.”

“i just,” you sighed, choosing your words carefully, slowly turning head back toward him to meet his eyes, “i thought that after something like that, maybe you liked me in the way i like you. but then you just started ignoring me and not meeting me at night and i just started overth-”

jiwoong pressed a chaste kiss to your lips, the sparkle in his eyes as he smiled at you luring you into him, urging you to kiss him again, but you didn't, because he was already talking, “i wouldn't have kissed you or slept with you if i didn't have the most intense feelings for you.”

“then why?”

“because i’m not used to feeling like this for someone, and it scared me to no end,” his confession was barely above a whisper, and there were tears welling up in his eyes, “but i really, really like you, y/n. a lot. the reputation excuse was just because i was scared to admit this out loud.”

“oh, jiwoong, you never have to be scared with me, not ever,” your actions reflected his from the night of your detention, reaching out to cup his face, and striking away his tears. he nuzzled into your hand, looking appreciative that you seemed to understand, like you always did. he leaned forward, kissing you again, the saltiness of both of your tears mixing in with it, but it made it all that much better.

because everything was okay, and you had each other back.

[anon-sect]

Pic source: Tumblr account @7ef6

Miles, Terry and Will had been roommates for at least several years. One thing they had in common, was that all three were big fans of the Dragonball Z universe and avid players of Xenoverse 2. As all three were highly competitive, they were all trying to prove who was the best at the game.

Terry came up with a bet that the one who loses first in a free for all has to be socks for one of the other two for thirty days. The one who beats both opponents gets to wear the one that lost first. Miles and Will agreed to the conditions as well. Terry only made that the bet, because he played the game a little more than the others and thought he would definitely win.

Terry found himself the first one being defeated while using Majin Buu. Miles and Will paused the game to gloat a little since Terry was the one who made the bet. Terry placed his TF Phone down for one of them to pick up once the winner was decided.

Will end up winning their fatal three-way fight using his favorite character, Vegeta, super Saiyan blue form. Terry wanted to back out initially, but a bet was a bet. He had to see it through despite that he was predicting that he would be using his device on one of them.

Will picked up the device and made the settings. "It's only for a month. I am sure you can survive my feet for that long." He spoke laughing while he flashed it at Terry. Terry vanished and in his place on the couch was a brand-new pair of white socks. He picked up the socks and tried them on his bare feet. "These new socks feel great." He said to Miles, not even acknowledging Terry. Terry was a pair of socks for the next thirty days. There was no need to acknowledge his socks. "He or it really feels that good?" Miles asked. He too decided to not acknowledge the sock's former form. "Yup, I think I will wear my new socks every day. I really want to see if this pair can survive my feet without getting a hole in them for the next thirty days. Normally, I have a hole in my sock after two weeks. Maybe this pair might be different." He laughed as both he and Miles started up another game.

Terry instantly knew his bet was a terrible idea. Will's feet had a slight odor to them, but not horribly bad yet. He was just an object on his roommate's feet. The fact that neither of them acknowledged him made his new existence feel even worse. Yet hearing that his socks has a hole in it after two weeks scared him. If he develops a hole, it would be nearly impossible to transform him back to normal. He would be forever trapped as a pair of socks. He mentally pleaded for Will to turn him back to normal before a hole could even develop, but he was a pair of socks with no voice or even movement. The only motion he would get is by his owner's feet. He just hoped that he would be durable enough to serve the thirty days.

THIRTY DAYS LATER....

Will had put his new socks through so much. He literally wore him every day. He wore his new socks to the gym, and every workout session. He wore him to work and just simply hanging out. He slept with his new socks on. The only time he didn't wear them was to bathe, jerk off in them on occasion or as a cum rag. A tiny hole had developed on the sixteenth day of wearing his socks, but they were his possession for thirty days and he was going to keep true to the bet. When it was finally day 30, he took off his socks. He found Terry's human setting and flashed the socks, but nothing happened. He tried it again, yet still nothing happened. He asked Miles what the problem could be, but he didn't know either. They found the manual in Terry's room. There was a warning. If you become clothing, make sure you don't get torn or ruined or you might be forever trapped as that object. Transforming back to human might be impossible. Looking at the large hole in one of the socks, Will realized that Terry was forever trapped this way. He put the socks back on. He felt slightly sorry for what his feet had done to his former roommate, but he did say that socks usually don't survive his feet unharmed. This seemed to be true for even human transformed socks. He decided he would keep his new socks. If they get torn too bad, he could always keep them as his favorite cum rag.

Terry's mind was completely gone by the end of the 30 days. He tried to hold on, but once the hole started to develop, it started to unravel his mind. He lost all sense of free will in his mind. He was just a dumb sock slave serving his master's feet. His only pleasure was being worn by his master. He even forgets that he was once human. He loved being used and worn by his Master Will, even though his existence was one of pain every time being worn and sometime reek of foul foot odor. As long as his master was fine using him, he loved his life of being just socks.

Will was completely unaware of his feet had done a number to his roommate over the course of the 30 days. HIs feet had completely destroyed his mind and turned his former roommate into a dumb sock slave. Even if he could transform him back, Terry would be down at his feet begging to be close to him. Now his fate was sealed, to forever be owned by his former roommate as just an object on his feet.

[silentsneezes]

MLM jay/vik sickfic! it’s around 2k words, there are brief mentions of mess/spray but nothing excessive

i appreciate any feedback or comments! it’s my first time writing these characters, so if they’re out of character at all please lmk- i won’t take any offense to it :)

there are no spoilers, it’s set sometime in act 1

anyways, i hope someone enjoys:

Between their time in the lab and their developing “partnership”, Jayce and Viktor spend a significant amount of their time together. Being in such close proximity with one another means noticing the little details. Details which are admittedly insignificant, but still catch Viktor’s attention. He’s become accustomed to their unspoken but persistent routine in the lab: Jayce arrives around 8 AM, hangs up his coat, exchanges pleasantries with Viktor, and begins his work.

But today was different. Viktor didn’t hear the same habitual click of the coat rack as Jayce deposited his jacket, nor did he receive his “good morning Viktor” upon Jayce’s entry.

‘Unusual, yes, but people can have bad days’ Viktor reasons, biting his tongue as Jayce sits wordlessly at his desk.

After a painstakingly unproductive hour of work, Viktor grows tired of stealing glances at Jayce. It’s been taking every ounce of patience for him not to say something as his clearly sick partner tries not to pass out at his desk. Viktor’s fingers tap soundlessly along his workspace as he watches Jayce’s head stoop down with fatigue.

“Rough night?” Viktor breaks the silence, offering Jayce a sympathetic expression. Jayce’s posture straightens a little, and he shakes his head dismissively, “Jusd behind on sleeb.”

Viktor only nods in response, taking note of the congested, nasally quality of Jayce’s voice.

Viktor turns back to his journal, but his mind remains on his lab partner. His attempts to focus only become more futile as he hears a quiet sniffle behind him.

Unable to help himself, Viktor chances a look back at Jayce, swallowing as he catches the sick man rubbing his nose with a knuckle roughly.

The next thirty minutes pass in a quiet, but tense haze. Neither man completes any work, both preoccupied over Jayce’s illness: Jayce is too busy trying not to cough or sniffle too loudly, and Viktor is too busy trying not to fawn over his sick companion.

Viktor shifts in his seat as he hears a quiet, but distinct “hh-“ from Jayce. He tenses, his ears straining as he watches Jayce from the corner of his eye.

“hehh-“

Viktor purses his lips as Jayce’s breath hitches again, his expression hazy.

“hhHZZDSCHhew!” Jayce doubles over as a wet sneeze tears through him. His cupped hands do a poor job of muffling the sound, but they do manage to catch the spray.

Viktor’s heart hammers in his chest, his stomach swirling with arousal as Jayce lowers his hands from his face.

“Excuse mbe,” Jayce murmurs politely, snapping Viktor out of his haze.

Viktor’s slim fingers fish into his vest pocket, retrieving a silk handkerchief, “it seems like you need this more than I do,” he comments as he moves across the lab, leaning against his crutch for support as offers the handkerchief to Jayce. The silk almost looks illuminated in Viktor’s hands, his slim fingers holding the fabric with indescribable ease.

Jayce hesitates before accepting the handkerchief; realistically, it’s only a matter of time before he’ll need it. “Thanks.” Jayce can’t help but feel a flicker of disappointment as Viktor lowers his hand, wishing it had remained outstretched– he misses the closeness already.

“Don’t mention it,” Viktor dismisses lightly. His eyes linger on Jayce’s face, meeting his gaze in an uncomfortable silence.

Jayce breaks first, sighing and admitting “Look… I don’t wand you gedding sigk-”

Jayce pauses, the word “sicker” lingering on his tongue with a bitter sting. Viktor notices his falter, letting out a quiet sigh and pinching the bridge of his nose. Neither of them need to say anything, they both know the stress Jayce feels over Viktor’s health, the responsibility he feels to take care of and protect his loved ones.

“For once in your life, rest, and stop worrying over someone else,” Viktor says, a softness to his voice intermixed with the hurt from Jayce’s unsaid quip, “Besides, I’m better equipped to handle undercity illnesses than you are.”

Jayce rubs his nose roughly with a knuckle as an itch blooms in his sinuses, “no need to rub it in.”

Viktor grins, “even ill, you feel the need to bicker,” he taunts lightly, placing a gentle hand on Jayce’s shoulder. He watches as Jayce’s eyebrows knit together, his shoulders tensing as he draws in a desperate, “hhH-“ before pitching to the side, “hhHG’ZZSXhh!”

Viktor’s stomach pools with heat as he watches the spray settle on Jayce’s forearm.

“Bless you,” Viktor murmurs, his accent thicker as he forces himself to speak through his arousal. He tries to focus on anything but the sound of Jayce’s sneeze, which plays on repeat in his mind.

Jayce buries his nose in the handkerchief, giving it a soft but productive blow.

“I assume you haven’t taken anything for this… cold of yours” Viktor questions as he takes the seat next to Jayce. It doesn’t take a genius to notice the strain it takes for Viktor to lower himself into the seat, his legs shaking with painful instability.

Jayce places a hand on Viktor’s knee, his gaze softening as he rubs his thumb along Viktor’s pant leg gently.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Viktor prompts, his heartbeat quickening as the touch of Jayce’s warmth settles against his knee.

“No, I haven’t taken anything,” Jayce admits with a huff, earning a slight smirk from Viktor.

“You know, your ego won’t suffice in fighting illness. You need medicine too.”

“Ha-ha,” Jayce enunciates sarcastically as he rolls his eyes. A slight smile tugs at his lips; he may feel like shit, but it's easy to feel content in Viktor’s presence.

—-

Over the next few hours, it becomes increasingly evident that Jayce is no match for undercity illnesses. After treading carefully around the subject for a painfully long time, Viktor finally pushes Jayce to admit how shitty he feels; although the admission is more credited to Jayce’s rising fever than Viktor’s prompting— his feverish haze has left him uncharacteristically docile and clumsy.

Jayce has always had a gentler side hidden beneath the councilmember persona he created. Although at the moment, ‘pathetic’ might be a more accurate adjective to describe the sick man. His skin is coated with a thin sheen of sweat, his clothes sticking to his uncomfortably hot body. His nose is raw and red after hours of being pestered.

The once soft handkerchief is stuffed in Jayce’s jacket pocket, sodden and overused. Viktor sits beside Jayce at his desk, cautiously resting a hand on the small of the sick man’s back.

“You should rest,” Viktor prompts simply, his fingers trailing little circles along Jayce’s back.

“We need to figure out how to control the hex core,” Jayce mutters in response, his head in his hands as he tries to think coherently, which is proving to be impossible in his feverish state.

“And we will, in time,” Viktor assures him as he gently massages Jayce’s shoulders with a hand, his fingers pressing into the knots with ease. A smile tugs at his lips as he manages to elicit a soft, contented breath from Jayce.

Viktor freezes as he feels Jayce’s shoulders tense with a sudden, “hh-“. His hand remains on Jayce’s back, feeling his body shudder slightly as his breath hitches, “I’m ghhh-gonna- sn-hheh-“

Viktor’s chest tightens with arousal, his stomach filling with heat as Jayce’s voice intermixes with the desperate hitching.

In his fever haze and busy with the pretense of not sneezing directly on Viktor, Jayce completely forgets about the handkerchief in his pocket. He snaps to the side, spraying the air with a harsh, “hhHRZSXCHhew!”

A moment passes before a second sneeze follows, spraying Jayce’s hand as it hovers halfheartedly in front of his nose, “hhHDTSZCHh!”

Viktor swallows, his arousal only heightening as Jayce sniffles liquidly, mumbling, “bless me.”

Viktor’s mind reels as he tries to formulate a coherent thought, his brain short circuiting as Jayce blesses himself. After a moment, he clears his throat, “the handkerchief might prove more sanitary than your hand,” comes out of his mouth without second thought.

Jayce’s cheeks flush pink, suddenly realizing how disgusted Viktor must be with him, “Right, sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Viktor dismisses quickly, his eyes trained on Jayce’s nose as he presses the silk handkerchief to his septum.

The silk’s contact with Jayce’s nose seems to be a mistake, only bothering the itchy appendage further. With the handkerchief held haphazardly under his nose, Jayce snaps forwards, “hhDT’GDSXHchew!”

Viktor swallows as he feels Jayce’s shoulders shudder with the expulsion, his fingers still tracing gentle patterns along his sick partner’s back, “Bless you.”

“Thangks,” Jayce mumbles, his voice thick with congestion.

“You need to rest, Jayce,” Viktor tries again, although part of him longs for Jayce to stay in the lab. An admittedly selfish longing, yes, but he can’t ignore the persistent, adamant desire to be in Jayce’s company while he’s ill.

“I’ve dealt with worse, and our problems aren’t going to solve themselves,” Jayce says in response, his voice catching in his throat with a phlegmy crackle. He swallows, trying to keep any semblance of control he can as his body revolts against him.

“Stubborn,” Viktor tuts, his hand resting on Jayce’s shoulder again. Jayce’s lips curl into a slight smile at Viktor’s taunt, his glassy eyes doing their best to focus on Viktor’s face, “you’re one to talk.”

Viktor is about to reply when Jayce holds up a finger as a silent ‘hold on’, his face contorting into an itchy expression as he takes in a desperate “hhHHh-“

Jayce tucks his nose into his shoulder, his upper body shuddering forwards with the force of the sneeze, “hhHZZDXCHhh!”

Viktor blinks, his heart racing as he mutters a quick, “gezhuentiet.”

Jayce keeps his head tucked against his shoulder for a moment before he straightens up, his movements slowed. His ears ring as the beginnings of a headache bloom behind his eyes.

Viktor sighs, rubbing his thumb along Jayce’s shoulder gently as he says, “understanding your body's needs is an essential skill in succeeding as a counselor. You can’t help anyone if you can barely function.”

Jayce looks at Viktor with a tired expression, “‘barely function’ is a bit overdramatic, no?” he murmurs lightly, offering Viktor a little smile, “but you’re right.”

“I am?” Viktor speaks without intending to, shocked that he finally made progress in breaking down Jayce’s walls. His blunder earns a smile from Jayce, “you are. I’m not helping by sitting here and exposing you to whatever it is I have.”

“So you agree to rest?” Viktor asks, his eyes scanning Jayce’s face for any idiosyncrasies that might suggest he’s lying.

“Yes,” Jayce admits, running a hand through his hair before reaching down to rub his nose. Viktor smiles, feeling an odd sense of pride at having persuaded Jayce to take a break.

“Good.” Viktor stands, propping himself upright with his crutch before holding a hand out for Jayce, “Come on.”

Jayce’s haze lingers on Viktor’s outstretched hand, a rush of warmth blooming in his chest at the affectionate gesture. He stands up with the assistance of Viktor’s hand, though he avoids putting too much of his weight on Viktor.

Viktor starts leading Jayce towards the exit, but Jayce steers himself towards the cot in the corner of the lab instead.

“Jayce-“ Viktor starts, but he’s interrupted before he can get too far.

“I want to stay here,” Jayce says, and Viktor finds himself unable to argue. Even glassy and feverish, Jayce’s eyes always implore Viktor to listen to him, however foolish he might be.

Viktor doesn’t have the time to reply as Jayce plants himself on the cot, slipping off his shoes. After a moment of hesitation, Viktor leans forwards to pull the blanket over Jayce’s torso. It’s small and frayed, but it suffices.

It’s not long before Jayce’s congested snores sound through the lab, reminding Viktor of the sick man’s presence. To some, it might be irritating, but Viktor rather enjoys the sound as he works.

sorry for any grammatical or spelling errors i might’ve missed in my editing!

i hope i did jay/vik justice. if anyone has prompts, suggestions, comments or whatever feel free to reach out to me!

[hwashotcheeto]

𝑩𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑭𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅'𝒔 𝑴𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 (1)

Best Friend's Mother Masterlist

Chapter: One

Milf!Park Seonghwa X gn!reader

Summary: You finally meet Wooyoung's father, and he isn't who you were expecting at all.

WC: 3.3k

CW: Mostly more plot/character development, but suggestive at the end (teasing, flirting). Wooyoung is a brat (no one is surprised), Seonghwa uses pet names on the reader (darling, dear, (little) doll)

AN: Ahhh, here we go, first official chapter! There's no smut just yet BUT the next chapter will be, promise! I hope you enjoy!

Tag List: @hyunjinsjeans

You let out a huge sigh of relief as you submitted your final assignment for the semester. You flopped back onto your bed and laughed in relief, feeling your pulsing headache beginning to ebb away. 

The last day of the semester came way faster than you were prepared for. And you weren’t nearly as stressed as your normally would’ve been. 

Maybe because tonight, you and Wooyoung were leaving to go visit his dad. 

Wooyoung told you the next day after you asked that his father responded with an “enthusiastic yes,” and couldn’t wait to meet you. The last week of the semester flew by after that, and now you were here. 

You checked your phone, and you had thirty minutes before you had to meet up with Wooyoung before you started the drive back to his dad’s house. Thankfully, you’d packed most of your things the night before, so you spent your time double and triple checking everything, and collecting everything else you might need. 

And before you knew it, Wooyoung was texting you. 

Heyyyyy

I’m parked outside your dorm, I finished early

Did that essay kill you? 

Come onnnnn, we gotta go sooooooon

You ignored his texts until you were leaving the dorm. You got outside with your bags, being met with the early Winter weather. Cold air, a little bit of snow on the ground. Par for the course for northern November weather. 

Wooyoung got out of the car and helped you with your bags. “Did you bring your whole closet?” He asked as he put them into his trunk. 

“I had to, this is all I have.” 

“Oh, right. Well, you can borrow some of mine if you run out while we’re there.” 

You were going to be with Wooyoung and his dad, and maybe other family, until classes started again in January. A whole month away really was a small vacation, and you were ecstatic to be away from this building with your best friend. 

“Thanks, Wooyoung,” you said softly, hoping you wouldn’t have to bother him with borrowing his clothes. He smiled and motioned for you two to get in the car. 

And then you were off. It wasn’t a long trip, about a forty minute drive, but it felt way shorter to you. You were both incredibly relieved to be away from school, but also incredibly excited for what this Winter Break would hold. 

Your heart was pounding as Wooyoung entered his home town. He hadn’t told you much about where he grew up or where his dad lived, so when Wooyoung drove into a rich suburban neighborhood and pulled into the driveway of an extravagant house you were floored. 

The house was a minimalist, modern aesthetic. The colors were sharp and contrasted starkly, the windows were clear and clean, there wasn’t a speck of dirt anywhere.

“You didn’t tell me your dad was loaded,” you joked as Wooyoung turned off the car. But when you looked at him, he was nervous. You couldn’t really fathom why Wooyoung was nervous to be home, unless he himself didn’t want to see his father. 

But if Wooyoung didn’t want to see him, why did he bring you along? It didn’t make sense. 

“I need to tell you something about my dad before we go inside,” he started, looking down at his hands in his lap, fidgeting with them. You couldn’t help the numerous ridiculous thoughts that filled your head, trying to predict whatever Wooyoung was about to say. 

“My dad…” He was already hesitating and trailing off. Warning bells were going off inside your head. Wooyoung thought for a long while, before you could see him mentally make the decision to just rip the bandaid off. “My dad isn’t a masculine man. He prefers to dress like a woman.” 

And you sat stunned for a few seconds as to why your best friend thought this would be an issue for you. 

“Wooyoung, I’m sorry, but do you know me?” You asked. He looked up at you, and along with nervousness, guilt started creeping into his eyes. “I don’t care how your dad wants to dress or act, as long as he’s not an asshole.” 

You saw Wooyoung’s whole body relax, melting back into the car seat. He laughed softly. “Yeah, I don’t know why I was so nervous. I just didn’t want you to be surprised when we went inside to see him.” 

You nodded, and smiled encouragingly. He smiled back, and you both went to get out of the car. 

As you two were grabbing your respective bags, Wooyoung said “ah,” remembering something. “By the way, he prefers being called ‘mom’.”

“Are you sure your dad doesn’t have something to confess?” You said, half joking. Wooyoung laughed and shook his head. 

“No, no, it’s not like that. Believe me, I asked a couple years ago. He likes being a man, he just also likes looking feminine.” 

And then the nervous excitement bubbled up inside you as you both walked up the driveway, then the sidewalk, then the stairs to the front door. You could feel the mix of emotions clawing at your body from the inside out as Wooyoung struggled to grab the correct key. 

The excitement of meeting your best friend’s dad, along with the nervousness of wanting to impress him was making your stomach churn. But not in a way where you felt sick, your body just didn’t know how to calm down from everything. 

Wooyoung finally got the key out and unlocked the door. Your heart felt like it was going to burst out of your chest and run away. 

You walked inside and were greeted to the inside of the house reflecting the outside. Modern, stark, clean, but with tasteful decorations scattered throughout. Some paintings, statues, plants, decorative lights. 

But all of that was second to the gorgeous man in front of you. 

Wooyoung’s father-or, mother, as he preferred-was sitting on a large, plush couch to the left of the door, watching a movie. He looked over the couch and smiled at the two of you. You forgot to smile back, because you were staring in awe of how someone could be this beautiful. 

You didn’t hear what he was saying as he stood up to greet you two, because you got a full view of him and all the air left you. 

He was wearing a long sleeved sparkly sweater dress that stretched down to his knees, with sheer tights underneath. His black hair was fluffy and fell freely around his perfect face, reaching down to his jawline. 

Oh, his eyes and smile made your knees weak. You could feel nervous tremors run up and down your thighs. 

What might’ve surprised you the most was his hourglass figure. He had tits, hips, and a tiny waist. 

Oh, what a Winter Break this was about to be. 

“Hey!” Wooyoung called, and you suddenly remembered you weren’t in a dream. Both men were looking at you, Wooyoung slightly annoyed, and his mother amused. “Eomma, this is my friend. This is my mom, Seonghwa.” 

“It’s wonderful to meet you,” Seonghwa said, holding out his hand. You took his hand and tried to give the best handshake you could. His grip was firm, but delicate. Your eyes flicked down to look at his hands, and to your surprise, even his hands were feminine. 

“Thank you, it’s good to meet you too,” you babbled out, struggling to make sure your voice didn’t waver. Seonghwa smiled warmly as he pulled back, and he turned to Wooyoung to hug him tightly. Wooyoung struggled to return the hug with his bags on his arms, but he still managed to make it work. 

“Did you go out?” Wooyoung asked Seonghwa as he pulled back, looking over his mother’s outfit. “You’re all dressed up.” 

“No, but my son and his friend visiting me is reason enough to dress up.” 

You swear you could feel your head starting to get light. Wooyoung glanced at you, then back at his mother. 

“Okay, well, I’m gonna go unpack.” Wooyoung looked at you before continuing. “There’s a guest room close to mine, I’ll show you.” You nodded, and you two started for the stairs. 

“Don’t be too long!” Seonghwa called, “Dinner will be ready soon!” 

You felt your heart stutter at the mention of a home cooked meal for the first time since you couldn’t remember when. 

Wooyoung brought you down the hallway, turned to the right, and stopped at the end. “This room on the far end is the master room. Belongs to my mom, obviously.” Wooyoung waved his arms around to express his point, then motioned to the door on the left side of the hall, the one he was in front of. “This one is the guest room, and the one on the other side by the corner is mine.” He pointed to the door all the way down the hall. 

You nodded, your eyes betraying you and drifting to Seonghwa’s bedroom door. The forbidden room, your brain was telling you. You had no reason to go in there, but the idea of going beyond it- 

“Okay, dude, I can see that you were checking out my mom, okay?” Wooyoung blurts, making you whip your head back to him. You’d hoped you didn’t look as obvious as you felt, and your worst fear came true. 

If Wooyoung saw it, so did Seonghwa, and the mortification slowly took over your body as you felt your face burn hot. 

Your first instinct was to apologize, but you stopped yourself. All possible words left you, and you just stared at Wooyoung with fear and embarrassment all over your face. Wooyoung sighed and shook his head. 

“We’ll talk about this later, go unpack your stuff. Wait until I come get you.” And with that, he walked off to his room and disappeared into it. 

You didn’t even get to appreciate the gorgeous room you got to stay in, because you were too consumed with guilt to properly look over it. It was large, lavish, and comfortable, but you felt awful as you started unpacking. 

You were drooling all over your best friend’s mom the second you walked in the door. You couldn’t help yourself from feeling awful the entire time you put your luggage away. 

You jumped a whole foot in the air when you heard a knock on the door. The door creaked open and Wooyoung peeked inside. You were just finishing up as he came into the room, and you felt simultaneous relief and dread. 

Before you could stop it, words began tumbling out of your mouth. “Look Woo, I’m sorry, I know it was insanely disrespectful of me to act that way in front of your mom, I should’ve acted better and I-” 

“Woah, slow down,” Wooyoung said, holding his hands up. You stopped and swallowed back the rest of the words you thought of saying. You realized then that Wooyoung didn’t look upset anymore. In fact, he looked resigned. “I’m not mad. I think I was just protective.” He looked away for a second before he looked back at you. “I didn’t want you to think of my mom as some kind of porn character.”

“No, never!” You immediately blurted. 

“I know you’re not like that, and I’m sorry I snapped at you.” You could see in Wooyoung’s eyes, he felt remorseful. You found it a little weird, because he was justified in being upset. “People have done it in the past, he thinks he found a partner, and it turns out they liked the idea of having him as a personal porn star object, nothing more.”

The fact that such a revelation didn’t surprise you made you doubly upset. 

“So, I guess, what I’m saying is,” he started, and then sighed again. “I mean, if you fuck, just don’t tell me about it.” 

The bluntness of his request makes you choke, and you can feel your face instantly burn hot. Wooyoung finally breaks and laughs, and his laugh makes you laugh. 

You really were lucky to have an amazing friend. Not because he just gave you permission to fuck his mom, but that you could have proper conversations about issues and settle them like the adults you were. 

Then again, you both clearly still acted like teenagers, but it was like a wise man once said: There’s a time and place for everything. 

The three of you were sitting around the small dining table in the kitchen, enjoying the dinner Seonghwa had made for you all. Despite saying that it was a “small” table, there was still tons of space left over. You could fit much more food and people at this “small” dining table with how much space there was. 

The food was delicious. Half because Seonghwa was clearly a skilled cook, and half because you hadn’t eaten anything made with love in so long. The fact that it was made with love and care put into it made it taste stellar. 

“So,” Seonghwa started, looking over at you. “Why are you spending your break with us?” 

You expected this question. You’d rehearsed it a million times over. 

“I don’t talk to my parents, and the rest of my family already has plans this year.” It was the truth, but it didn’t give away too much information. Seonghwa gave you a sympathetic look with a slight pout. He must’ve realized you didn’t wanna talk about it more than that, because he didn’t push for you to explain more. 

“Well, I’m happy to have you.” You smiled and said a soft “thank you” before taking another bite of food. “You’re welcome.” 

You expected Wooyoung to be rolling his eyes with every look you gave Seonghwa, and to be annoyed with how permanently flushed your cheeks were. But to your surprise, he was giving you little smirks the entire meal, and giggling silently when your voice wavered as you spoke to Seonghwa. 

It’s like you two never really grew up. Two little kids giggling at each other from across the table, almost reminiscent of teasing your friends about their crush at lunch time. 

The big difference here is that your fucking crush is your best friend’s mom. 

And yet despite how obvious you two must’ve been, Seonghwa never commented on anything you two did. It was as if he hadn’t noticed a thing. 

You survived the rest of dinner, with light talk about how you and Wooyoung met, how school was going, your major, and more about you as a person. 

Seonghwa began to clean up when you all were done eating, but you grabbed your dishes and brought them to the sink. 

“What are you doing?” Seonghwa asked as you began to rinse off your utensils. He looked genuinely stunned, and you couldn’t understand why. 

“Cleaning?” 

“You don’t have to do that.” Seonghwa took the dishes from you. Not forcefully, but gently removing them from your hands. “I know, it’s polite to help, but I don’t mind cleaning. I actually like it.” 

“But you cooked. It’s the least I can do,” you argued. Seonghwa looked at you for a moment, then smiled. You felt your stomach flip over, and smiled back to cover it up. 

“Thank you, dear. That’s sweet of you.” 

The name shouldn’t have made you as flustered as it did. 

You spent the next few hours with Wooyoung and Seonghwa, continuing to talk, having some movies as background noise. As you sat with them, you observed their dynamic, and learned more about both of them in the process. 

Your irrational theories about Wooyoung being averse to Seonghwa couldn’t be more wrong. He was relaxed, comfortable, and he clearly loved his mom. Wooyoung was cuddled up to Seonghwa towards the end of your conversation, his head basically on Seonghwa’s chest and his arms around him. 

After the final movie, all three of you decided it was time to head to sleep. You said your good nights and went to your separate rooms. 

But despite the comfortable bed, the wonderful room, and the hospitality of Seonghwa, you couldn’t sleep. 

You looked at your phone, you shifted around, you tried walking around, but you didn’t feel tired. You were getting frustrated after a couple hours. 

You decided to go get a drink of water. Maybe it would calm you, or walking around would take your mind off trying to sleep. 

You quietly made your way out of your room and down the hallway, using the light from your phone to guide you. As you passed Wooyoung’s room, you heard him softly snoring. 

You got into the kitchen and carefully navigated to the cabinets. Seonghwa and Wooyoung both had shown you where to find cups in case a need like this arose during your visit. You didn’t expect to need it the night of, but here you were. 

You found a glass and got your water. It didn’t make you feel any better, but it did feel nice. 

“Can’t sleep, darling?” 

Your whole body jumped as you whirled around to look for the owner of the sound. You knew it was Seonghwa before you saw him, but you still weren’t prepared to see him in the archway, leaning against the wall, in a long black silk robe with flowers all over it. 

You shouldn’t have been fixated on the fact that his robe was open enough for you to see the line that ran down his chest, and the slight ridge of each side. 

He laughed softly before he spoke. “I’m sorry for startling you.” 

His voice was deeper than it was before. Smoother, almost. Like chocolate sauce. 

“It’s okay, I know you didn’t mean it,” you mumbled, trying to keep your eyes on his face. That ended up not working out as his eyes made you feel small, and you looked to focus on your glass instead of him. 

But what you didn’t know yet was that Seonghwa didn’t like to be ignored. You looked at him when he spoke to you. It was a rule like any other. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and you listen to Seonghwa. 

He walked over to you and grabbed your chin, turning your head to look up at him. Your mind went blank and your stomach churned inside you like a washing machine. A smirk pulled the corners of his mouth up as your cheeks turned red yet again. 

“There we are,” he cooed softly, his voice hardly more than a rumble in his throat. 

“Seonghwa, what are you doing?” You said, your voice wavering on every word. Amusement sparkled in his eyes as he moved even closer, his hand moving to the back of your neck. 

“Don’t tell me I was hallucinating the looks you gave me since you showed up. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you checking me out the entire time?” 

Of course not, you knew there was a strong possibility he knew everything. He was at least over double your age, he was no stranger to all of this. 

“I just didn’t think you’d do anything.” You began to stutter more as you struggled to pick the right words. You could see it clearly, in his big dark eyes, that he was enjoying watching you fight to stay composed. 

“And why wouldn’t I? You’re a cute little doll, how could I resist?” 

Your heart gave one massive beat you could feel throughout your whole body. The air in your lungs was sucked out. Your head felt light. You didn’t feel like you remembered how to stand. 

Seonghwa laughed again, and his eyes shifted to something more hungry. More primal. “Come, little doll,” he said, pulling you even closer until you were pressed up against his chest. “Won’t you stay with me for the night?” 

How could you answer with anything besides “yes”?

Thank you for reading! Please reblog if you enjoyed! 💜

This is a work of fiction written by me. This does not represent the idol(s) in any way. Any re-upload is not allowed and will be reported.