#he needed to stray further from god's light

[angelhummel]

opening the floor for discussion alksfjslk but what do you think is (one of) the most tragically underrated song from the show?? for me i'd say 3 by tina sam and joe bc it slaps beyond belief

[hinamie]

i have so much band!au content in the pipeline my brain is Rotting but enjoy these two for now

jjk band!au

[eraenaa]

Chosen Whore

Aemond Targaryen x Celtigar Reader

Synopsis: Whore or more? 

Warnings: Dub-Con, Harsher Aemond, Mature, Possessiveness, 18+, Fingering, P in V Sex, ¿Breeding Kink?, Not Proof Read

Word Count: 4,451

Prequels: Virginal Whore, Prince's Whore

“Will you please stop looking at my breasts?” You requested lowly as you had felt the lone gaze of Prince Aemond on your chest for the past few minutes. You two had been seated across each other in the seating room of his chambers. It was nearing both of your time of retirement, but you two had been preoccupied with the scrolls in your hands. His scrolls were filled with the progress of war and how many men they had left, and yours were filled with orders of the castle and what else was needed by the workers. 

Though your entanglement with the prince began with you as his whore, it then progressed with you being an informal lady of the castle you two resided in the midst of war. You had gone from warming his bed, waiting for him at night when he sought release to the one who oversaw the goings-on in Harrenhall. Your duties were the same as your Lady mother's, tending to the keep and its staff, but your title was anything but. You were still the prince’s whore. Tasked to share his bed and be the reason for his pleasure, no matter if the other’s called you ‘lady,’ you believed you were too low and ruined for such a title. 

“Have they grown?” The prince questioned as he discarded the letter he was reading. You frowned and lowered your gaze to your chest, which was covered in your shift. You turned to the prince and saw him already making his way to you, taking the empty space on the settee you sat upon. You took in a sharp breath as both of his hands unceremoniously took hold of both of your tits, assesing them. “They feel the same…” He muttered, and you could not help but hear a tone of disapproval. “Why should they change?” You questioned and grew conscious. 

You locked eyes with the man who had brought you from the whore house and took you. Moons had passed since he had brought you to the castle in ruins, and it had been moons since you had given up on escaping him. Because whatever you did, you could not be freed of the shackles the prince had placed upon you. Besides, you had nowhere to go. Your father’s home was far from the Riverlands, and even if it were close, the prince had made the letter which stated you rebuked your house’s stance in the war, and you were certain your presence would no longer be welcomed. 

You did not like to focus on the past and what had happened. It only placed a painful throb in your chest and tears in your eyes. Instead, you only tried to focus on the day that is to come— hoping that one day, all of this pain and trial would end. 

“Nothing… I— I thought something had changed,” The prince muttered and slowly removed his hands from your tits. Leaving his mark as your nipples had pebbled and strained through the fabric of what you had worn. You pursed your lips and gave a small no d, not certain what to say. 

“I… uh— the lords had been proposing a feast,” You suddenly say to the prince, trying to bring the subject away from your tits. “What for?” Aemond questioned as he moved his fingers to tuck in a stray lock of your hair. The fire light had illuminated your face so warmly and ethereally that he could not help but stare upon you at the moment instead of returning to his various scrolls. “Well, they wish to celebrate your victory in the god’s eye… they said it shall be good for morale.” You uttered, imparting the wishes of other lords. 

“A feast?” The prince questioned, and you nodded. You hear him hum and use his fingers to caress your cheek. “Do you wish for a feast?” He questioned, his fingers tangling your hair, and he took in a lock and brought it to his nose to smell the scent of you further. “It matters not what I wish for,” You say and fiddled with the scroll in your hands. You watch as the prince raises his brow. “Yes or no, my lady. I shall let you decide.” The prince stated, and once again brought his touch to your skin. 

“I cannot dictate such a thing… it is your approval or denial they seek, not mine.” You said. You watched as the prince’s face threaded closer, his gaze on your lips. “I know. But it is your opinion I seek, my lady.” Aemond stated as he began to place light feathered kisses upon your cheek and neck. You let out a breath, cursing yourself as desire was starting to bloom within even after all the times the prince had his way with you. 

“I… I shall be fine with either, my prince.” You say, out of breath. His lips began to stray closer to yours, but he only placed his kisses on the side of your lips. A hum once again left his lips. “That is still not a definite decision, my lady. Yes or no… the decision is up to you.” Aemond stated and further more placed small kisses on your skin and let his hands roam your frame once more. He did not miss the wya you shuddered at his touch nor the gooseflesh that grew on your skin. 

“The lords might take offence if they are denied.” You stated, “Who cares? If they shall give your trouble, you only to say, my lady, and I’ll gift you with their heads.” You took a sharp breath as the prince whispered in your ear and playfully nipped the lobe. 

“I suppose it… It shall boost morale. The men seemed to be overtried.” You reasoned, feeling a bit of guilt as you had grown concerned for the opposition, but you thought that even if your views did not fully align, they were still men. They still feel. They were still human. And you could not help but feel pity as you see them struggling day to day. “So, a feast then?” The prince asked as he placed another mark on your neck, the one he placed last night still hadn’t faded and thought it needed a companion. To let everyone know you were his. 

“I… I do not know. Could you please just the one to decide?” You asked, the prince’s hands once again on your tits and you pressed your legs togeher to surpress the desire that pooled between them. “No.” The prince said plainly, a smirk on his lips as he saw the blush on your cheeks and the glass in your eyes that often indicated to him that you were filled with desire. 

“Decide, my lady. Yes or no?” Aemond pressed and lowered the sleeve of your shift to expose more of your soft skin. The prince watched as you bit your li through darkened eyes. “Yes or no. My lady? Decide.” He said, growing impatient as he wished to be absolved of the matter that plagued you so he could finally bed you. “Fine. Very well. They shall have their feast.” You connected, unable to bear the wanting bubbling inside you. It was shameful but else is to be expected when you were his whore?

“Good. But you shall not plan it alone. They had exhausted and worked you enough… do not try to deny it. I had seen it plainly.” The prince stated, and before you could protest, he placed his lips upon yours, and what you had wanted to say died on your tongue, and it’s grave the prince’s tongue danced with want. 

You let out a shaky breath as his hand moved from holding your waist down to the hem of your shift and hiked up the skirt. “Always so ready and eager for me, my lady…” The prince hummed as his fingers traced your cunt. You whimpered as you felt him add pressure as his fingertip came into contact with your nubbin, swollen and calling for his attention. 

You could not help but let out a moan, your head tilting back ever so lightly, but the prince was quick to dip forward and kiss your lips, unable to let space grow between the two of you. “You take my finger so well, my lady… I could never understand no matter how many nights I havehad you, your cunt is still so fucking tight.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, heat pooling in your core as he curled his fingers inside you, seeking out that spot that made your legs tremble and made you moan out his name so sweetly. His lips never strayed far, dragging along your jaw, nipping at your throat as he reveled in your whimpers.

Aemond could no longer restrain himself. You cried out in disappointment as he stole his fingers away and took the digits between his lips to taste you, just as he did every single night. You watched through hazy, lust-filled eyes as the prince took you in his arms and carried you to the bed. His movements were fast, desperate as he took off his clothing and positioned himself between your legs. He had a harsh hold on your thighs as he assesed you dripping cunt. 

You took a sharp intake of breath as you feel him run the tip of his cock along your weeping slit, teasing you. “What do you want, my lady? Just say it, and it shall be yours.” Aemond smirked and watched as you once again struggled to admit what you wanted— what you needed. “Come now, just conceed— just as you had the night before… and before… and before.” Aemond taunted and watched as your brows furrow deeply as the tip of his cock continued to brush agaisnt the pearl of your cunt. 

You let out a hopeless moan. “You— gods, I want you!” You cried in wanting and shame. And in your cries, the prince felt a surge of further pleasure. "You clench around me so sweetly, my lady,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction, his lips hovering just above yours. "Like you never want me to leave.” He smirked as a moan left your lips, and he took that as your agreement. “Perhaps you never do… No matter what act you throw at me, I know perfectly what you want— who you need. And it is me, my lady. It shall always be me.” Aemond gritted as your cunt clenched further, your release coming quickly as he had denied you of pleasure earlier. “You’re never leaving me… you’re mine.” 

You try to shake your head, but the sensation of your peak coming over you had muddled your senses, and all you could do was cling to the prince and let him kiss your lips as he spilled his seed deep inside your cunt. 

“You’re mine. Say it.” Aemond panted as he collapsed atop your frame. Your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat, plump lips parted, and cheeks scarlet. You let out heavy breaths, wanting to deny him with words, but as you stared upon his lilac eyes, you could not help but succumb. “I’m yours.” The prince let out a satisfied hum and kissed your lips once more before reluctantly moving to clean the mess that two of you had made so you could finally acquire much-needed respite.

“My lady… the prince and your meal waits for you in your chambers.” A maid said, as you had been busy overseeing the preparations for the feast. “Could you tell him I shall be there momentarily? He can begin eating; I shall take a moment.” You say, as your attention was caught by the other squires who began to decorate the hall that was still in ruins. You had no idea how a feast could be celebrated here. And you could only pray to each god that it would no longer rain as all the guests would be drenched and your efforts would be wasted. 

“He refuses to eat until you come, my lady,” The maid said, and you let out an aggravated sigh. “Very well, see to it that they hand that banner higher… and do not let any wilted flowers be placed on the vases,” You said, and the maid fervently nodded as you hastily ventured towards the prince’s chambers. 

“I have told you not to bother yourself with the preparations.” Those were the first words that greeted you as you entered the chambers. The prince sat before the various dishes that were untouched as he had waited for you. “You should have begun eating; your food is growing cold, my prince.” You instead said, as you did not wish to entertain the quarrel that the prince was starting to begin. 

“I have called for you, but you had denied me,” Aemond stated, growing angry as you had brushed him off because your concern lay with the preparations. Before, when he asked for your presence, you would be quick to come to his side. “Apologies, my prince. It shall not happen again… it is only that I was assisting them in the pr—“ 

“I have told you that you need not be the one to prepare the feast! You are exhausting yourself!” The prince seethed, and you clutched on tightly at the back of a chair. “I… I am fine, your highness.” You say, though you knew whatever word you uttered would be moot and would not lessen the fiery anger inside the prince. “No, you are not. You should not be tired— it is not good for your countenance nor the babe’s!” 

You sighed and were ready to speak, but as you realized what he said, your lips parted in confusion. “The babe?” You questioned and watched as the prince pursed his lips. “But I am not pregnant, your highness.” You explained and felt your hands grow cold. “Precisely. How could you be pregnant when you constantly exhaust yourself?”

Confusion consumed your system, and you had to take a seat as you tried to figure out what the prince asked of you. “What…. what—“ you try to speak, but your words elude you. “I want an heir.” The prince stated. You looked upon him blankly, not certain if he was intoxicated or if you were deluded with tiredness. “You want an heir…with… me?” You questioned slowly and felt a pool of dread come to your stomach. “Have I not made it quite obvious?” The prince scoffed as he realized that his actions were not taken clearly. 

He had been wondering why, after all these moons, his seed was not taking. He had been impatient to see you swollen with his babe, and that was the reason why he fretted you exhausting yourself. Now he realized that you had no plan to give him the heir he wanted and been using measures to make certain you would not grow with child. 

“But I am in no station to bear you an heir. I am just your whore.” You say and tear slowly trickled in your system as the prince’s hand clenched around his chalice, and he stood to go over where you sat. You watched through apprehension as the prince knelt before where you sat, and his hand cupped your cheek. “You are a lady. A lady who has the blood of old Valyria in her veins. And you, my lady, shall bear my sons and daughters.” The prince stated, his voice uncharacteristically soft. There was certainty in his lone lilac eye that took you aback, and it took everything in you to not beleive it. “No, I— “

Aemond let out a harsh breath, his hold on your cheek growing slightly harsher but not enough to cause discomfort, more so just to assert his power, control, and wanting. “You will not deny me of this. You shall be the mother of my children, and you shall forever be bound to me.” You looked upon the prince, horrified, and quickly stood to acquire space between you two, but as always, he did not let even a single second pass where he was not close to you. “No! Marry a lady— another lady— I—“ You try to protest, but he is quick to speak and cut you off. There is darkness in his eye that you have come to know, and you feel your knees grow weak as you anticipate what he is going to say. 

“I do not think you understand. I have no want for the other ladies. I want you. And you are and will forever be mine. And soon, a child will grow in your belly, and he shall be ours.” He stated, face threading closer to yours. “You will sire a bastard?” You question and hear a sardonic laugh leave his lips, his nose touching your skin, the prince using it to tauntingly trace lines on your cheeks. “No. You shall be the mother of my children… and my lady wife. You have no escape from me now… by the eyes of gods and men, you are completly mine.” 

You shake your head, feeling as tears burn your eyes, but you refuse to let them slip. “No.” You croaked out, and Aemond let out another laugh. “No? It was not a question, my darling. You are mine. And you shall be my wife and bear my heirs.” You shook your head once more. “It’s not as if you shall have any other choice. You forget, I have bought you… You have nowhere to go to but me. Not even your traiterous father’s house will accept you now… nor the line of suitors I heard tell you had, for who would want the prince’s whore? Certainly no one… no one but me.” The prince said menacingly. Doing his best to impart to you that there was no one else but him. It shall only be him in your life. And it shall only be him where you can run to. 

“Now, do not cry, my lady… You would not wish for our babe to be a sad when he is born.” The prince tried to hush you, cupping your cheeks and wiping away your tears with his thumb. “I— I have told you, I am not pregnant.” You say harshly and watched as a smirk rose on his lips. “You are not pregnant yet. But fret not, that shall change soon.” You gasped as the prince intertwined your lips, and you tried to push him away, but whatever resistance you made was not enough. 

“See… you cannot even deny me with your lips— you want this too. Enough with the act. I’m growing overly tired of it. Accept that you are mine.” The prince whispered in your ear as he turned your body so your back faced him. You shut your eyes tightly as you feel his hand cup your tit and the other hike up your skirt. 

“You are mine. Say it, my lady. Stop lying to yourself. I know fully well that you are in want of me as well.” The prince whispered as he felt your body respond so eagerly to him. Your skin was riddled with gooseflesh, and the bodice of your gown could not hide the way your nipples strained through the fabric. “Enough with your self-deprecation… you are the only who considers yourself a whore.” 

“But it is true. You have made me your whore.” You spat as you tried to appear stoic and seem unaffected by the prince’s touch. But with how warmth pooled between your legs, it was growing harder to conceal it. You hated yourself as your body and mind could never conincide, your bodily whims always made the final decision as it could never resist the prince and the pleasure he offered. 

“Aye, I have. You are my whore in my chambers, when it is just the two of us. And you play the part so well… but outside? When we are in the eyes of the smallfolk? You are a lady… my lady. Now, enough of this— succumb to me, as you have done before. Be my whore, my wife, the mother of my children— be mine.” 

You let out a yelp as the prince suddenly took hold of your frame and carried you to the bed. Making good on his desires to have you bear his children. “No— Please—“ You cried as he began to rip apart your gown, the prince now far gone as his mind was conquered with the thought of you swollen with his child. His cold, calloused hands roamed your body, mapping every curve, desperate to claim every inch of you.

"You are mine," he rasped, his breath fanning your skin. "And tonight, I will make certain of it.” He promised, but in his mind, you were his the moment he had saw and claimed your maidenhead in the whore house. It was only you that he waited upon to accept the truth that you were his. 

Your gown was no match for his impatience—fingers tearing at the laces, fabric parting beneath his rough hands as he stripped you bare before him. Aemond's gaze darkened as he drank in the sight of you, his hunger sharpened to a lethal edge. "You will take me," he said, voice laced with possession. "And you will bear my children, my darling. I will see you round with my seed, swollen with my heir."

His words sent heat through you, a mixture of anticipation and something primal. His lips found yours again, his tongue sweeping past your lips as he stole every sensible thought in your mind. The night stretched long, filled with his whispers, his praises, and his oaths that you were his as he sought to imprint himself upon you, not just in this moment but for both of your futures—one where he would see you full with his heir, bound to him forever. And gods help you, but at this moment, when his cock filled you and his fingers played with taut buds of your tits and your mind was consumed by the image of him pleasuring you, you wanted it just as desperately as he did.

“Why me?” You could not help but ask as you lay on the prince’s chest. His fingers running through your hair, his little ritual to aid you both in sleep. “What?” He asked quietly after a moment. “Why me? Why could you not just claim another? Why could you not set me free?” You asked, voice heavy both with sleep and emotion. 

“It is simply because I want you. You need not wonder why or question my decision— I want you, my lady… I have never wanted— needed anything more that I have wanted and needed you.” You stared blankly upon the pale skin of the prince that you lay upon—letting him continiously run his fingers through your hair. Your mind did not wish to believe his words. Regretting asking him the question because it paled with further confusion and strain in your mind. 

“I will never be free, will I?” You asked, a tear sliding out of your eye. “Never. You shall forever be by my side, my lady.” Aemond swore, ignoring the tear he felt that left your eye for he believed that in time you shall fully accept him and your station. 

You sat quietly in the great hall of Harrenhall. Riverlords gathered and celebrated the victory of the prince and his faction. You sat at the great table, your prayers heard as the unceasing rain finally ceased for the night and not made your efforts moot. You tilted your head upward, the stars shining upon the hall, stars you had not seen for so long finally revealed themselves on the night a where an announcement you still could not comprehend was to be uttered. 

You feel the prince take hold of your hand under the table, squeezing the apandage and urging you to look upon him. You did so reluctantly and were quietly shocked to see serenity and perhaps even joy in his usual cold lilac gaze. 

“I have just received word,” He whispered, and you stayed silent as you waited for him to impart to you what he had learned. “My brother… he has succumbed to his injuries.” Your eyes widened at the news, but mostly because there was not an ounce of sadness nor concern in him. “I— are you to tell them?” You asked, glancing towards the guests who were none the wiser of the turmoil happening in the capitol. 

“No. This is our night. Let them know of it after, but tonight. We, my lady— my future queen shall be all that matters.” He murmured, and you feel your stomach pit with something that was not dread. 

Before you could speak once more, the prince stood, and you watched as the hall turned silent as all palced thier attention to the prince who now was to be king. “Welcome all! As many know, we are here to celebrate our victory not only here in the Riverlands but the whole of Westoros.” The prince began, letting a rare smile slip his lips as he had come to realize that all that he wanted since he was a child was finally in his grasp. The crown, adoration of the kingdom, and most importantly, you. Someone that was his. A woman who shall be his queen and the mother of his children. 

“But tonight, we shall as well celebrate my marriage with Lady Celtigar!” You feel time freeze as the hall is rendered to stony silence at the prince’s words. When Aemond made you stand, his smile grew as the hall burst into cheers. No matter how much you sold to yourself as a whore— someone who was lowly, you were still well recieved by they noble houses and smallfolk as though you were not completly sold in the green’s faction, you still showed compassion and empathy towards those who faught in the war. Aemond wagdered that they would have no trouble in accepting you as queen.

“To Prince Aemond and Lady Celtigar!” You hear someone shout through the cheers and claps. The prince once again took your hand and moved it to his lips to place a kiss on your knuckles. You stared into his eye, and for the first time since you had met him in the whore house, you finally started to believe that your place was by his side. For the first time, you felt that you were more than the prince’s whore.

[loverindeepspace]

Blissful Moments // Sylus x Reader

Fluff fluff and more fluff! It's Sylus's turn to be loved on, so here ya go! Concept: You visit Sylus at the base, only to find him asleep. Tags: Tooth-rotting fluff, very soft Sylus, gn reader Word Count: 1084 Masterlist

Pulling up to the mansion, you check your phone once again. No replies. 

It wasn’t odd not to hear from Sylus for brief periods of time, so you really shouldn’t feel as disappointed as you do when the texts you sent don’t even show a read notification. He was a busy man, you fully understand but the pang of concern settled through you. He has been more busy as of late, meetings and auctions filling up his days, ones he wouldn’t tell you too much about. 

God I hope he’s not hurt. I’m gonna kill him myself if he’s hurt and hasn’t said anything.

With a sigh, you open the door and walk into the Onychinus base. It was quiet, the large lobby showed no signs of anyone, darkness had already filled the space from the night settling in. You keep walking, searching for Sylus, or even the twins, anyone that can point you towards the man you’re searching for. You don’t see anyone as you wander the halls, eventually settling on searching the areas he frequents. You start off with his office, knocking lightly, only to be met with more silence. You peak in. Empty.

Next you wander to his bedroom, the large doors closed in front of you. Another knock sounds, and yet again, no response. You were a bit hesitant to open this door, Sylus liked his privacy, and while you knew you were the exception to that rule, you still paused before you popped your head in. No one in sight. 

Maybe he’s out? I’ll just wait here for when he’s back. You thought, making your way to the living room to put your bag down. The silence was deafening, empty, and it made you miss Sylus so much more. It’s been a while since you last saw him, a few weeks at least, and while you still talked over the phone often, it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t enough. You missed his warmth, his arms around you, the gentle kisses and, goddammit, even his teasing, not that you’d ever admit that to him. That’s why you were here, under the guise of getting information that was unavailable to you through the… less shady channels. You want to see him.

As you cross the threshold of the living room, the sight makes you stop in your tracks. And what a sight it was. On the armchair by the fireplace, there sits the man you were looking for, eyes closed, reading glasses slightly askew, a slight furrow in his brow. His silver hair is slightly messy, a book lay abandoned on his lap. 

You can’t help but smile softly, your heart swelling with fondness. Even the big bad Onychinus leader could look gentle while he slept. You scan him for any signs of injury, satisfied when you don’t see anything.

Quickly depositing your bag and coat on the sofa, you grab the blanket settled on the backrest, carefully covering Sylus’s sleeping figure, removing the glasses before laying a light kiss on his forehead, soothing out the ever present furrow playing on his brow. 

Standing back up to move away, you feel a tug on your hand, pulling you back down towards him. The tug was hard enough for you to lose your balance, falling onto Sylus’s lap, feeling thick arms pull you further against his chest. A gruff voice sounds above you, “Looks like a stray kitten snuck in while I wasn’t looking, going straight for a sneak attack.” 

Crimson eyes squint open, a teasing glint playing across them, lips tilting up into a smirk. He looks… tired. His eyes are decorated with dark circles, an almost weariness evident in his features.

“Don’t you have a bed to sleep in? You’re gonna do your back in, sleeping like this.” You poke his cheek with your finger, rolling your eyes at the gentle teasing.

“And miss out on this special treatment?”

With a fond sigh, you sit up to face him, an unimpressed look pointed at him. 

“You really should get some rest Sy, you look like you need it.” You caress his cheek with your hand, your thumb running under his eye. His eyes close as he nuzzles his face into your hand, placing a soft kiss on your palm. You feel him relaxing into you, a rare moment of vulnerability that only you are allowed to see. You move closer to him, laying a gentle kiss on his lips. His lips are smooth as they glide slowly against your own, a breath leaving him, arms bringing you even closer if that was even possible. 

Pulling away, you litter small kisses across his face, on his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, and eventually leaving another peck on his lips. His eyes never left you as you move in on your attack, warmth shining through them, a small smile on his face. 

“You’re being incredibly docile tonight.” Your voice is light, an amused tone shining through.

“I’m just letting you have your turn before I get my revenge.” 

“How assumptious that I’ll let you get any form of ‘revenge’.” 

“Oh? Kitten, you know I like a challenge.” Immediately the tables are turned on you, as he surges forward nuzzling into your neck, leaving quick nips and kisses across your collar bones leading all the way up to your ear, fingers dancing across your sides. You try to squirm away but the hold on you is like a vice keeping you in place.

“Stop! Sylus! It tickles!” Giggles spill out of your lips as you keep up your attempts to escape.

He doesn’t relent, huffing laughs into your neck, which only tickles you further. 

“Okay! Okay! I surrender!” You laugh, pushing his face away from your neck. He stops his ministrations as he pulls you close once again. You lean into his chest, catching your breath. Silence settles around you, filled with contentment that seeps into the both of you. 

“You know, I like having you here.” He says softly, after some time has passed.

“On your lap? I’m fully aware.” 

“Yes, that. But also here, at the base. It makes me happy to have you here with me.” You don’t know how to respond, it’s rare to hear anything like this from Sylus, but the words fill you with a kind of warmth, swelling in your heart. You snuggle in further, nuzzling against his neck and leaving a soft kiss there. 

“I missed you, Sy.” You sigh.

“I missed you too, Kitten.”

[thexsilentxwordsmith]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader

Simon desperately eating you out after a rough day.

***

The door slammed shut, making you jump and bump against the edge of the counter that you stood at before the sink, finishing up a few stray dishes that had been left from the night before. You turned to see Simon standing there in the doorway, stiff as a goddamn board with only his eyes clocking the room to find you and locking on to your form like a beast ready to pounce.

"Pants off...now," he demanded, his voice metered and firm as he removed the mask covering his features.

"Well, hello to you too," you chuckled as you crossed your arms over your chest, but he was not in a picking mood. "What's up?"

He took a calming breath; it wasn't your fault his mood had been soured today and he didn't need to upset the only person that could turn this all around. "It's been a fuckin' day, luv. Need something to take the edge off before I send someone to the goddamn morgue. So, again, pants off…please."

This wasn't the first time you'd encountered this specific Simon before; his short, gruff sentences were an obvious indication that he has had an absolutely rotten fucking day and was completely over it already. And because this wasn't your first time you knew what he wanted…

…what he needed to let all that stress go.

Slowly you undid the button of your pants, pulling down the zipper before slipping your hands inside the waistband and sliding your jeans down off your legs. Once you removed them from around your ankles you tossed them to the side and stood there in your panties and tank top, waiting for him to give you your next instruction. Like a flash he moved in and was now on top of you, enveloping you entirely with his hulking form as it fit against your curves until your backside was being indented by the edge of the countertop.

Hot, hungry lips scrambled to aggressively connect with your own, fighting for dominance as the back and forth of the dance continued with each passing second. He let himself go to become consumed by you, unable to find a pause to take a breath as he all but devoured you whole until there was nothing left in his mind but you.

Those large hands with their thick, rough digits pawed desperately at the warm, soft skin of your bare hips, grasping as much meat between them that they could hold. All those curves, all the smooth, voluptuous flesh ready to be caressed, it was enough to drive him insane; how fucking lucky he was to have it all at his disposal now to help cure his bad day?

God you were a fucking feast and he was starving.

The connection between your lips was broken sloppily and with haste, a sting of spittle connecting your lips sparkling in the light as he pulled away. Simon hurriedly grabbed the hem of your tank top and ripped it up and over your head, letting your breasts drop and jiggle with the reverb as they were set from their cage.

"Fuck," he groaned under his breath with a sharp inhale through his teeth as he latched those lips back on to your own. "That's a sight that could do me in."

On the move he leaned his tall head lower as those raw lips began to explore further down along the curve of your neck, the line of your shoulder, and finally coming to those beautiful breasts which he immediately sucked into his mouth. The suction was intense as he used the very tip of his tongue to circle those perky rosebuds until he felt them stiffen against the roof of his mouth and your body twitch from the tingly feeling it gave off that shot up your spine.

Whatever you were doing before this felt like a distant memory as his attention grew your arousal so that your body responded in kind to him just the way he wanted. He switched sides on your chest, not wanting the first breasts twin on the other side to get left out. Simon only moved on after your hips began to grind against the bulge growing at the front of his pants.

His lips continued down the line of your body as he knelt to the ground before you, ready to put everything into worshiping that sweet pussy he loved so goddamn much. Over your sternum and stomach all the way down to your pelvis his lips caressed until they reached a roadblock covering those last few inches to his destination. That was quickly dealt with as his fingers wrapped around the waistband of your panties to slide them down your thighs, letting his lips keep going all the way to the mound of your sex; only then did he pause.

"Spread," he demanded again as his hands tapped at your inner thighs, his message being short and sweet and to the point. "I'm fuckin' endin' this day on a high note. I'm not stopping' till I'm on the goddamn verge of death by suffocation, so don't ya even try to move, luv."

You widened your stance with the guidance of his hands until there was enough space to allow his face to fit between them. Hands back on your hips, holding them as handlebars so that he could incline his face against your cunt he dove in.

Your petals were so warm, so silky, and it felt good on his mouth as he kissed that other lovely set of lips a few times, sighing as he was finally able to relax in his favorite place.

"Here we go, baby," Simon breathed into you as he extended his tongue and drug it over the slit between your legs until he had split you open, rubbing the muscle through the small accumulation of your juices to coat his tongue.

Goddamn were you sweet tonight. "Mmmm mmmm," his deep, garbled hum vibrated deliciously on your clit as the taste of you filled Simon's mouth and tingled on his taste buds.

…And then he began to move the pad of his tongue…

Over and over his tongue engaged your core. "Fuck, Simon," his name fell from your lips as his tongue began to make you writhe against his face.

"Again," he said in that gruff growl as he pulled from your for only a second.

You knew exactly what he meant for you to do. "Simon," his name was beautifully moaned from you once more as he focused all his efforts on that small bead of nerve endings at the top innermost part of your cunt.

The sound of your soft, breathy voice calling out to him made the previously enraged Lieutenant fucking crack at the seams and any trace of that rage-inducing day was suddenly completely gone; replaced by a fire to make good on his promise to desperately lap at you for as long as it took until his skin was infused with your scent and he was fully satisfied.

He moved up even tighter against your core, locking on so that even as you bucked there was no chance he would fall off until he was good and fucking ready to let you go. Shit he was pushing you to the limit of what you could take, your body aching wildly as his strike hit precise and deliberate every time until you were right at the cusp of your pleasure. God, his pace was relentless.

Overwhelmed with the intense gathering of warmth in your belly, your toes began to curl together over top of the floor as you scrambled to keep your breathing steady through the growing euphoria. How were you supposed to force yourself to intake air when all your functioning had been redirected straight to that pleasure sensor in your brain?

That thought had little time to gain traction as that feeling of impending pleasure had reached its peak.

Suddenly you were spilling violently, crying out as you tried to move him from you, but Simon was in this till the end. He kept at it until you had ridden it out to completion and finally settled, your heavy panting becoming softer and more drawn out.

You thought that that was it; the finale had been reached and all was good right? You could not have been more wrong. A wet flash of a smirk crossed his lips as he stood back up before you.

Without even a verbal warning his hands were suddenly digging into your sides as he picked you up and threw you over his shoulder, carrying you out of the kitchen and into the bedroom where he sat you on the surface of the bed. Reaching with one of his hands over his shoulders he gripped the fabric of his shirt in his grasp and pulled until it came off over the top of his head, throwing the useless article to the floor before stalking towards the bed.

"On ya knees baby," he grunted as he hurriedly laid down on his back beside you further up towards the head of the bed. "Over my face. Now."

Simon pulled at your arm until you moved, his need to be smothered between your thighs causing him to rush. Grabbing on to the headboard for leverage you knelt over his head.

Your petals glistened with the sticky cum and saliva mixture he had just created as he ate his first course, but there was still plenty to get lost in and he was more than ready to dive back into it.

Greedy hands rubbed up and down the smooth skin of your thighs. "Sit," he commanded and you bent your legs until you were just above his nose, but that wasn't good enough; he didn't need you being gentle, he needed you to give him what he wanted - to let him drown in you.

"No hoverin', I said sit," he hissed as he quickly moved his hands to your hips and wrenched them down so that you had no choice but to lower yourself until your pussy was completely flush against his face like a chair.

His breath hitched not just from the instant lack of available oxygen, but because the feeling of being completely enveloped by your pussy was akin to being high; he was on cloud fucking nine just suffocating against you.

The headboard thumped against the wall from your arms shaking as full contact was made again along your core after just having come. The tears stung your eyes, your over-stimulated clit so sensitive it almost hurt. His grip on your hips didn't let up, keeping the pressure tight so that there was no chance of escape, even though you wriggled in search to ease up a little.

There was still some fight left in you; that simply wouldn't fucking do as it meant he hadn't finished the job and he was anything but thorough. Simon needed you completely spent and too exhausted to even move a goddamn inch.

"I-I can't…I can't," you pleaded with him as you squirmed over top of his stark features like anything you said would persuade him to give up.

You could hear his voice in your head, you knew what he'd say if he could talk at that moment. "Oh yes you can sweetheart. You're gonna fuckin' take it all for me."

I mean look at that big boy, he could eat and that meant all types of meals, you included most of all.

As if a nonverbal response to your mewling, his tongue picked up in speed, stroking wildly against your clit with reckless abandonment. Your fingernails were digging into the wood of the headboard, thighs vibrating against Simon's ears as each movement of that deadly appendage brought you closer and closer to your second harsh release.

"Bastard," you whined.

He gave your hips a hard squeeze. Call me what you like baby, he thought, you're still gonna fuckin' come as many times as I want.

So warm, so wet, so soft, gasping for air... He was in heaven.

Unconsciously your hips began rocking along with the thrusts of his tongue, riding him just as he worked and that familiar feeling in your stomach returned. Seconds passed…or was it minutes? Hours? Time seemed to pass differently when he was eating you out.

All of a sudden you stopped rocking, pressing your pussy as hard as you could against his face, and with a few more hard strokes you cried out as you came violently, slamming into the headboard as your thighs clamped down around Simon's ears.

"S-s-shit…" you whimpered as you ground out the last drop of your ecstasy until Simon tapped your thigh to be set free.

Legs shaking, chest heaving, eyes glazed over, cheeks flushed bright red, you fell down on the bed beside him, unable to move a muscle save for your head. Turning your face towards him you were met with a very happy and content man gazing back at you with those fiery auburn eyes, face absolutely drenched from eyebrows to chin in a thin layer of your cum.

He reached out to you, his palm cupping over the entirety of your cheek. "You did so fuckin' good for me sweetheart," he praised, thumb rubbing over the supple skin there. "So fuckin' good that I think ya deserve a break…but I don't think I'm finished quite yet."

"Oh?" you questioned back through heavy breaths, eyes wide. More?

He chuckled in that deep vibrato as he rolled over to kiss your forehead. "Well… ya see… it was a really fuckin' bad day."

You hadn't planned on dying today, but if Simon got his way he would be setting up your funeral later tonight, but there were worse ways to go…right?

[kaciidubs]

Are You Still Watching?

✧ Summary: It was meant to be a sweet gesture to treat you to a surprise at-home date - what a shame that the pajamas that were supposed to be covering your bodies were now on the floor. ✧  ✧ Word Count: 1.8k ✧ Warnings: Smut, fluff, light humor, slight Dom/Sub dynamics, daddy kink, spitroasting, slight choking ✧  ✧ Female! Reader [No use of Y/N] | You/Your pronouns ✧  ✧ Additional Tags: Reader is referred to as Good Girl, Baby, Pup, Slut, Seungmin is referred to as Minnie, Chris is referred to as Daddy, Baby ✧ Stray Kids Masterlist ✧ General Masterlist

You’d appreciated the effort they put in on the surprise date night; the living room decorated with small tea light candles as the coffee table held an array of your combined favorite snacks. They’d even treated you to your favorite restaurant for take out - and by they, you really meant Chris, seeing as he would rather be struck by lightning than have you or Seungmin pay for anything (though, recently, he has been getting better at letting you both exercise your independence).

However, your favorite detail of the whole night was the way they basically transformed the couch into a sea of blankets and pillows - Seungmin making sure to include your favorite fluffy blanket to be shared between the three of you - which only made it more shameful to note that it was currently crumpled on the floor with pajamas that should’ve been covering your bodies.

“C’mon, you can take more than that, can’t you?”

You made a sound of indigence, eyebrows pinching as the pressure on the back of your head increased just a bit.

“Minnie, don’t - ah, fuck - don’t force her, give her a second.”

As usual, Chris’s caring tone added a lighter caress to Seungmin’s bite, though those sweet words could only do so much as his hips twitched up, unintentionally pushing more of his length past your lips.

Seungmin scoffed, a humored, lighthearted sound as his eyes narrowed, “You do realize, she’s the one who told me I could do this, right? She likes it, you know she does - don’t act like you don’t like it either, hyung.”

Punctuating his point, he pressed further against the back of your head and you dropped your jaw to allow Chris’s cock to slide along your tongue and prod at the back of your throat, before letting his grip pull you back up for a little reprieve.

“Bub wants to be used like a little slut - are you going to deny her that?”

You keened at his words, flicking your tongue around the head of Chris’s cock for further coaxing - you were okay with it, more than okay, and seeing your enthusiasm served to whittle him down more.

“G-Gonna be a good girl f’me and take it?”

Your head shifted slightly, a nod, as much as you could give with Seungmin’s hold on you remaining firm and secure.

That was all he needed to see as he spread his legs just a bit more, planting his feet before thrusting his hips up; his dick easily finding its way down your throat from the way Seungmin kept your head at the perfect level.

The living room soon filled with the sounds of your choked moans, wet slurps, and breathless groans as Chris fucked your mouth with ease; one arm laid along the back of the couch while the other braced against the cushions to aid in the leverage he needed.

“God, fuck, look at you,” he hissed, cocking his head in order to catch the way your cheek puffed up and hollowed out with each stroke, the shine of saliva bubbling at the corner of your lips sending his mind into a frenzy. “Pretty little thing letting daddy use your mouth like this - wouldn’t have it any other way, hm?”

Replying in kind, you dipped your head lower, working past the resulting gag on the following thrust with nothing but pure determination and need.

“Fuck.” Both men spoke in unison, a sound filled with equal parts desperation and fascination.

The sloppy sounds of Chris’s cock leaving and entering your mouth bounced off the walls of the living room more frequently, his pace growing faster as he began to chase the hints of his impending orgasm.

“‘M gonna come soon,” he gasped out, lidded eyes trained on the way your head rocked and bobbed, but stayed relatively in the same position Seungmin held you in, “be good and swallow it all, okay, baby? J-Just a little longer- shit.”

You tightened your lips around his girth, determined to hold everything he gave you, and like clockwork his dick twitched against your tongue followed by the bitterness of his seed filling your mouth.

He came with staggered breaths, his stomach heaving with each wave that coursed through him until his body fell lax against the couch.

The grip on the back of your head vanished, though another presence made itself known underneath your chin, slowly pulling you away from the softening cock between your lips - Chris hissing from the determined suction you kept to take the remnants of his orgasm with you.

Turning your head towards him, your eyes met his lust fogged ones, pupils blown and a considerable glow emanating from his body.

“Show daddy.”

He watched as the muscles in your throat subtly shifted before you parted your lips, tongue lolling out to show the inside of your mouth void of his cum.

“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing his thumb against your tongue.

Your lips eagerly wrapped around the digit, holding his strong gaze as you sucked on it daringly - priding yourself on the way his tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowing at your boldness.

However, your little show was cut short as you felt a pair of hands dragging you back by your hips, blindly following the lead as your legs were guided up and over the arm of the couch, planting your feet firmly on the hardwood while your hips rested against the cushioned arm.

“Alright, alright, I’m here too.” Seungmin mumbled, though his cadence expressed a playful annoyance than anything else as he ran his hands along the curve of your ass, “Channie hyung shouldn’t have all the fun - this was my idea.”

There wasn’t enough time to counteract with a statement of your own as you felt the blunt tip of his cock nudge against your pussy, sliding through your arousal with a gentle rock of his hips.

“Seungmin, please.”

He gave a light huff, but you could practically see the amused smirk undoubtedly on his lips, “So needy, pup.”

However, you could argue that he was needier as he gripped your hip tighter, his other hand supporting the base of his dick as he began to slowly push past your walls - a hiss of satisfaction falling from his lips in the process.

Your head fell forward, a low moan floating through your parted lips; though, it didn’t last long as a finger hooked underneath your chin and gently lifted your head back up.

“Feels good, doesn’t he, baby?”

Lust fogged eyes locked with darkened ones, a familiar hunger lingering in his irises that had your pussy clenching as a result.

You felt yourself getting lost in his hypnotizing stare, sinking deeper and deeper into the pool of desire until a thrust jolted you forward - breaking you from your reverie with a choked out moan.

Then came another, then another, then another, until you were steadily rocking against the arm of the couch as Seungmin fucked you as he pleased; hard and thorough with a hand gripping your hip while the other remained steady at the back of your neck.

“Jesus, she’s so wet,” he groaned, lidded eyes locked on the curve of your ass, “bet she’s been turned on since we started this whole ‘date’.”

“Yeah? You think so?” A low chuckle left Chris as he took in your lust fogged expression, “She’s probably been waiting for one of us to put our hands on her ever since we got to the couch, spoiled little thing.”

A slap rang through the air, your yelp of pain melting into a needy whine while Seungmin’s hand massaged the cheek of your ass.

“Needy little slut,” squeezing the flesh, he hummed, “it’s cute, though - probably means we’re doing something right.”

Your breath caught at their words, an addictive mix of embarrassment and arousal flowing through your veins like molten lava - stomach twisting and walls clenching that only served to intensify Seungmin’s precise thrusts.

“Oh, she liked that.” His hand slid around your hip and between your legs, a deft finger easily finding purchase on your neglected clit, “Did you like it enough to come for me, pup? I can feel you clenching, I know you’re close - come for me.”

A larger hand made its presence known around your neck with a firm grasp, not enough to cut off your airflow, yet still present enough to have your eyelids fluttering and lips parting in a small ‘o’.

“Go ahead,” Chris cooed in a velvety tone, gently squeezing his fingers against the column of your neck, “come for Minnie, baby - come so he can fill you up just how you like, yeah?”

The mere thought of his orgasm had yours slamming into you faster than you could comprehend - your legs nearly buckling as you gripped the couch cushion, while a staccato of moans floated past your lips.

“Seung- Baby- A-Ah- Fuck!”

Seungmin mirrored your curse with one of his own, forced through gritted teeth as his finger continued to slide against your clit, drawing out your orgasm as long as he could until his body tensed - grunting out a small “‘M c-coming-” before pressing his hips flush to yours.

Chris’s hand slowly left your neck, granting you the ability to let it fall forward and relieve some tension off your shoulders; the sound of heavy footsteps walking out of the living room keying you into what he set off to do next.

A pair of lips pressed to your shoulder blade, followed by another kiss to the junction near the base of your neck, leading you to let out a soft giggle.

“I’m okay, Minnie.”

“Even after what I said…?”

His voice was right next to your ear, soft and a tad meek - you couldn’t help but nudge the side of his head with your own, “Baby, you calling me a slut barely breaks the surface of what I can get Channie to call me if I push hard enough - I’m perfectly fine with being your ‘needy slut’ if that’s what you need in the moment.”

He made a sound that could only be described as bashful embarrassment, choosing to respond by leaning forward to peck your cheek before pulling away at the sound of footsteps once more.

After a quick - gentle and careful - wipe down with a washcloth provided by Chris, a few bathroom trips, and a refresh on snacks, the three of you settled back onto the couch like before - sans pajamas.

“So,” Chris hummed, rotating the remote in his hand, “are we still watching this, or…?”

You held back your laugh as best you could with Seungmin laid on top of you, eyes already closed and determined to stay that way. “Keep it on as background noise?”

Nodding, he selected ‘keep watching’ before tossing the remote to the coffee table and tugging you closer against his side.

✧. ┊Tagged lovelies: @having-an-internal-crisis-rn, @midnightfrog625, @anyhow-everything, @bangchanbabygirlx, @sweetracha, @nightimescapes, @caitlyn98s, @ch4nn13luv, @ihrtlix, @jeonjungkookenthusiast1997, @maximumkillshot, @y-ur--i, @acker-night, @dreamescapeswriting, @specialstay, @s00buwu, @tinyelfperson, @jj-stay, @katsukis1wife, @inlovewithmusician, @keen-li, @armystay89, @main-character0, @vampcharxter, @ddyskz, @prettymiye0n, @bbgnyx, @bahng-chrizz, @milknhoneyracha, @hann1bee, @palindrome969, @newhope8, @kpopsstuffs, @starquokka, @wolfs-howling, @laylasbunbunny, @4-chan-inpadella, @butterflydemons, @kimahreummm, @ta3baee, @snowy-violet, @bethanysnow

✧. ┊If your username is in bold italics that means tumblr won't let me tag you. If you’d like to be added to the taglist, fill out this form!

[wannaeatramyeon]

The Crew Heads with Reader: The Keeper

G/N. This is dumb. (Jake Kim, Eli Jang, Johan Seong, Samuel Seo). Masterlists

Same storyline: Bro Code | Dinner | Shopping | Television | Gacha | Board Games | Suits

If you turn left at the traffic lights, then continue on the path for another mile, you'll arrive at a block of apartments.

The facade is a little dated, the area unremarkable though safe. To the right is a sleepy high street, and the other side are more residential buildings.

It's peculiar in how unpeculiar it is. There's nothing that stands out-

Hold on.

That's not entirely true.

Dig further below the surface, past the stuttering lights of the convenience stores, the ajummas nattering on the sidewalk, the mom and pop diners favoured by the locals and you'll find that, in fact, the area is deeply peculiar and odd.

Maybe everything was built where ley lines connect.

It's a magnet for gangsters, congregating in groups and hanging around menacingly. Frequented often by freakishly strong people, whose monstrous strength strikes fear into the heart of many.

Yet here, they just loom quietly in the shadows, causing no harm and presence intimidating enough that there is very little crime committed under their watchful eye.

That's because what is known about this particular place to a specific and violent subset of people, is that it's neutral territory.

Peaceful territory.

No blood can be spilled. No gang fights. No violence.

Unless it's committed by yourself, of course. It's the number one unwritten rule amongst all the other unwritten rules.

(As agreed to and acknowledged by all parties. Thank you for your cooperation.)

When one of the men stretches your patience too thin and you want to slap them upside the head, then surely it's your god given right.

Not that you would but no-one could or would blame you.

.

.

Maybe oddest of all, however, is the collection of strays you have acquired.

One by one, they have come across your path and fallen for your questionable, awkward charm. Found you during their time of need, whether that is looking for someone who listens and empathizes, tells them to cut the crap, or can simply make them smile.

Managed to begrudgingly strike up a makeshift sort of truce with the other men, if only for your sake.

And you, well.

You're known as The Keeper.

.

.

For most who hear about The Keeper, it conjures up terrifying images of a beast of a man. Muscle-bound and able to snap necks without blinking an eye.

The Keeper is actually none of these things. Although you don't mind the rumours that swirl about you.

What The Keeper is, is very very bored and yawning, you scratch your left asscheek as you wait for your strays to select their lunch.

.

.

Look-

You don't get paid from your job for another two weeks and you really can't expect Sammy to foot the bill for everything.

He goes above and beyond to give you the best of the best, but if it was up to him, would give the other three straggler-ons nothing and tell them to fuck off.

It's only because of you that he reluctantly ignores the way Johan sneaks dog treats into shopping trips, Eli adding cute little dresses, and Jake an extra something or other for a member of Big Deal.

(Not that Samuel minds too much about the latter though he would rather shit in his hands and clap than admit it outloud.)

He pays for it all with little complaint - actually no, that's not right. He complains a lot and holds it over their heads (but not yours) at every opportunity.

But he pays.

So today's lunch is your treat.

Even if your meagre bank balance only stretches to four ramens and maybe a sad drink to share between all of you. It's the thought that counts, ok.

.

.

"Yenna has a cream for that," Eli says, clocking your itchy butt, "you want to borrow it?"

You shake your head no and tell him thanks anyway.

"Your hair looks good," you add with a smile, ruffling his blonde wolfcut mullet with the hand that was on your ass a second ago.

Eli doesn't notice, or decides not to comment, instead runs his own fingers through his hair self consciously and clutches his ramen (Carbonara Buldak - a rare spicy treat when he doesn't have to share with Yenna) tighter.

"You think so? I thought it might be too light."

"You could pull anything off."

You force the smile to remain on your face, not that you're bitterly jealous or anything.

"Thanks!"

.

.

"Buldak?" A familiar voice sneers and you both sigh and turn your head to the duo still standing in front of the display.

"What's wrong with Buldak?" Jake responds, frowning.

"Nothing." Samuel reaches pointedly for the 2x Spicy packet.

Jake's eyes narrow. 'Nothing, if you're a pussy' was silently insinuated by Sammy and heard loud and clear by Jake.

He replaces his Spicy Chicken Buldak and matches his choice to Samuel's.

"This might be too mild," Samuel adds nonchalantly, grabbing the 3x Spicy instead and wanting to one-up that bastard even with something as juvenile as this.

"You win. Hope your asshole burns, asshole." Jake gives him a playful smirk, returning the Buldak for a Shin Ramyun.

Samuel raises his eyebrows in surprise at Jake's choice. His face turns proud and victorious. "I'll be fine."

As Jake walks away, Samuel glances nervously at his own noodles.

.

.

"That jjajangmen smells good," you comment besides Johan, both cooking your ramen on the machine in the store.

On instinct, he moves closer, defensively, protecting his own food, shielding it from hungry eyes-

Then clarity hits. It's you.

"Wanna share?" He offers, willing all the survival instincts he has honed from the last couple years to be quiet.

"Nah, I'm good." You bump goodnaturedly into Johan as thanks and rest your head on his shoulder, waiting for the food to finish.

He shrugs and averts his gaze. "You're the one that paid," he mutters by way of explanation.

You see through his deflection and notice his ears turn crimson.

.

.

The five of you are a sight to behold.

Slurping noisily on noodles; Samuel bright red, beads of sweat down his neck as he tries to choke down his ramen, Jake and Eli chuckling together at that poor pathetic moron, Johan growing restless as his was finished a good while ago but nevertheless finding Samuel a source of entertainment too.

All sitting side by side, taking up the window seats that provide a perfect people-watching view.

The roads are almost bustling at this hour and the buzz of the streets spill into the store.

"That's The Keeper," A small group of men whisper to each other, bowing in respect to you as they pass through the entrance.

You smile back pleasantly, hiding your confusion. They must just be friendly.

.

.

Mid-mouthful, you spy a blonde walking on the other side of the road.

He's hard to miss, with a spring in his step and whistling. His suit is equal parts expensive, impeccably tailored, and tasteless.

Your eyes connect.

Goo Kim gives you a cheery wave, a loud, joyous 'HEY!' and calls out your name.

You wave back and his grin grows when he spots your companions.

His arm moves even more erratically and he cackles, the loud hyena shriek heard despite the distance and through the glass, when the Crew Heads grumble and flip Goo off.

[f0ofishies]

You were the little sister of Julian Loki. And you were also deaf, not that it mattered anyway. You've been using a hearing aid to help with that. Being Loki's sibling, you've also grown to love football. He'd teach you how to kick, pass, and even score against him. Notably, you also look similar to him– some may think you're twins.

Being a part of PXG, too, just like your brother came as a surprise. You were the only woman there who could actually keep up with more teenage boys. So, when fans found your interactions with other players, they couldn't help but fantasize if you were at least into some of them.

So when your big brother, Loki, was scrolling through his phone. He sat, watching a ship edit between you and the other guys, others have fantasized. Immediately springing up to action, yelling out your name. "Tell me what's the meaning of this..?!"

Itoshi Rin

You were lazily chatting up with Rin in a call. Occasionally, you two have been decent friends, even with how awkward this man is. Your eyes finally widened, the way your brother was yelling must've been important. Feeling atleast a groan coming up, you've quickly signed to him like you do in sign language.

Loki was immediately a bit fired up, the usual calm brother you know was a bit annoyed. "You're talking with Rin again?" The way he said it felt like it was something personal, and spoken in french too. "Yeah? is that alright?–"

"Not really, I just needed a talk with you." A talk? Now, this was serious, none of you were going to have a siblings quarrel even.. You were just so confused until he pulled out his phone.

"Look at this..!" The phone illuminated to show some tiktok edit going viral– even Rin from the camera could see it if he squinted. As you watched in anticipation– you realized it was an edit with both you and Rin. Then, let out a small gasp, Rin was even more alarmed now.

"Oh my God, bro..??" You let out a small voice after the edit ended, and it started replaying. "So, are you two keeping something from me?" He finally let out the question in English.

"Absolutely not!"

Charles Chevalier

He usually visited you and your brother quite often, considering how him and Loki had been training him to be his own passer. It's a bit weird, but you didn't mind not being at the field much anyway. Charles was a weird guy to, he's lounging on the sofa like a kid.

Loki didn't understand why he was even here, hanging out with them on an off day. But he decided to just scroll his phone. When you finally reached the living room, Loki was already scolding Charles for God knows how long. Charles just hummed closing his ears with his palms.

"Big bro?" His mouth immediately shut up at the sound of your voice. "Oi..! Your brother has been scolding me..!" Charles quickly whipped to your direction as Loki let out a small sigh. Straying past your brother quickly, over to your side.

Loki looked absolutely disappointed at Charles. "Did you know that these people like the edits of you two?" Now that made you confused. You were just grabbing a cup of tea, and now your brother was talking nonsense. "These people are thinking you both are dating!"

Then the phone's brightness casted onto your eyes, even glaring the light on you. Eyes widening infact– as the video played. It's a really lovey dovey song on that too, "Brother what are you on about!"

"Are you sure he's getting too close–" "I'm sure!"

Isagi Yoichi

Now you've only met him through the match between PXG and Bastard Munchen. Exchanging phone numbers, and you've grown to actually appreciate him. So, in a day off, you eventually met up with Isagi. No, what you both didn't know is that some fans recognized you, and it's gone viral.

Loki was just scrolling through his feed for the day, and his thumb stopped on a certain post. It was pictures of you and Isagi displayed on a thread. Investigating further, he found an edit of you two. Even the PXG boys asked Loki on the matter–

Let's just say you came home, with an investigating Loki. Your brother had never usually been this invasive in your space. Not when he's literally right by your shoulder as you had a call session with Isagi.

"Uhm, big bro..?" Your voice low, his head finally tilted downwards to meet your level. You heard his loud voice booming across the house already. "You and that Isagi.. are you guys together?" Certainly, you could hear Isagi coughing.

Even the other voices perked up in Isagi's end. Looks like the Bastard Munchen's dorm was alive and up to hear onto Isagi. "No?–" You were immediately questioned and even showed the evidence on Loki's phone. "Brother, we're just friends?" Loki's mouth pressed to a flat line.

"I swear– we have nothing like that."

[safination]

The Wrong Competitor

|Masterlist| Ao3| NOW WITH A PART 2: |The Actual Competitor| Pairings: Alastor x wife!Reader. Platonic! Vox & Reader Tags: fem!Reader, AFAB, Established Relationship, , Alastor is in hell for a reason, Reader is in hell for a reason, being a simp for your partner, husband! Alastor. demon! Alastor, drinking,flirting

Vox approaches with a steady and confident smile. There are two drinks secured around one hand. The other reaches out for a handshake. Alastor takes a step forward, using his body as a barrier. “Just a friendly one,” Vox says, a charming smile on his screen. “It would be a shame to ruin the Princess’ evening. The music is lively and the food and drinks are delicious.” Alastor’s eyes twitch from underneath the mask as he sees you reaching out. Well, that won’t do. He takes the handshake intended for you, shaking Vox’s hand with a firmer grip than needed. You’re determined to enjoy yourself and Alastor prides himself on being a husband. So, he won’t cause a scene—not today at least. The handshakes last longer than handshakes should last. Vox slides his eyes towards you, a smug smile displayed on the screen of his lips. You tighten your hold around Alastor’s arm, leaning to his bicep to hide your scowl. TLDR: The Hazbin Hotel decides to hold a masquerade party. Despite his better judgment, Alastor invites his wife even if he’s aware of Vox’s attendance, who’s keen on competing with Alastor for his wife’s attention….If only Alastor knew how much you and Vox would gag at the idea of him flirting with you. It’s not his wife’s attention that Vox competes for. It’s not even Alastor who he’s competing with. Actually… Alastor isn’t part of the competition.

Have a little brainrot of mine. Lol just pure on crack of the silliest shit. Tell me what you guys think because I found this so fucking hilarious that I had to write it down. Anyway, have my heavily unedited brain rot. I tried a different writing voice today instead of my usual third person-second person pronoun pov, and tried like an all around pov. Update: *6/19/2024 We lost electricity at home so instead of studying, I decided to polish my un-polished crack. Everything's the same, it's just written better and I didn't add much.

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Alastor slithers out of the shadows below, stepping out from the darkness that pools underneath you. There are hundreds  of shadows to pop out of, still it’s your shadow that Alastor chooses to spring out from. There’s a smile painting his lips as he materializes. A deer mask covers half his face.

“Goodness,” you say, mirroring his smile. “What am I supposed to do when strange yet handsome Sinners pop out of my shadow without a warning.”

Alastor steps further into the light. “Handsome?”

And oh…oh.

(Oh, indeed. Alastor is wearing a tail-coat, a vest hidden underneath. Oh god he’s wearing a vest. One side of his hair slick back, allowing stray strands to flutter around the deer mask. When you run your hand across his biceps…you feel it underneath your touch—Sleeves garters.)

The smile on your lips widens, and you’re thankful that a mask covers your own face. “I’d call you handsome any day, sweetheart,” you tell him. “If it’s alright with your wife, of course. Such a charming little thing like you surely belongs to someone.”

“I think I like you better than my wife.” Alastor inches closer to press a kiss. “She never compliments me as much as you do.”

A delighted humm escapes you. “Then she’s quite the fool, for you are quite the charmer.”

Alastor shakes his head, a small laugh escaping as he smoothens some feathers that stick out your head. “You didn’t have to join me tonight,” he says. “I’ll be too busy with work to be next to you.”

“Then you should have thought about that before you gave me an invitation to Charlie’s party.” You reach out to smoothen the lines of his tail-coat, pulling on it to adjust its fit around his body. “And I’m already here, wearing a very, very, expensive dress.”

“Do you even enjoy such parties?” Alastor grabs your wrists before your hands can trail any further. “It seems your mind would rather be somewhere else.”

“There’s food and music, and I get the excuse to wear such a lovely dress.” You pull your wrist from his hold, catching his hand to intertwining your fingers with his. “Do you like it? I hope you do, considering I received it along with the invitation.”

Alastor lifts his arm, twirling you underneath to flare the skirt of the dress. “You look almost as dashing as I do.”

“Ha! And that’s precisely why I must join you, deerest.” You smack his bicep in good fun, barking out a laugh. Dear god, he’s wearing the leather sleeve garter tonight.) “With such dashing good looks, I’l fear others may try to take your attention.”

He flicks your nose. “Stop it.”

Alastor slips off the deer mask, gazing straight into you. Those eyes of his shine brighter than the stars above this Hell. He reaches out, and pulls on the ribbon that secures your own mask to your face.

There are feathers on your mask. It mimics the bird you are. Alastor inches closer, staring straight into you once there’s nothing to obstruct his view.

“That’s mine,” you say, trying to grab your mask.

Alastor shoves the deer mask on your face. The force causes you to stumble back a little. He’s such a nuisance, honestly…but …but well, his fingers brush over your feathers as he ties the ribbon on his mask. 

Strands of your feathers flow between his fingers as it lingers. Alastor presses the feathers to his mouth, brushing them with his lips. “I think our masks are a bit too on the nose,” he says, and each word caresses your feathers. “Deer masks suit you much better, and this way, I can spot you from even across the room.”

Alastor inches lower until you meet his eyes. You take the bird mask and tie the ribbon around his head, securing it on him.

There’s a feather that sticks out your head. Alastor picks it out. The stray feather gets waved around until he tucks it within the mask.

You reach out to remove the feather, but Alastor catches your wrist and presses a single kiss on the inside.

“The color of my feathers are different from the ones on the mask,” you tell him. “Come on, take it out. It sticks out a bit too much.”

“I’ll have you know that I quite like the feathers.” Alastor plays with the feather on his mask. “More importantly—tell me about your day. I want to know every second of every minute…it’s been a while since I’ve heard from you.”

“You would know all about my day if you were living at our home with me,” you tell him, crossing your arms. “You know, the home that we’ve built together for the past few decades?”

Alastor plays with the edges of your pinky before intertwining his fingers around your hand. “Or…” he begins, and presses a single kiss on the wedding ring around your finger. “I would known if you lived at the hotel…with me.”

There’s a smug smile on you. “Are you asking me to live with you?”

“Would you?”

“I would.”

“I’m still rather hesitant to involve you with the hotel…yet I found myself sending an invitation anyway.” Alastor presses a kiss on the edge of your lips, letting himself linger. 

“An invitation?”you say, faking a gasp. “That’s weird because I swore the invitation came with a dress as well. Hmmm, now I’m wondering who sent such a piece to me.”

“I found myself sending an invitation…and a dress.” Alastor rolls his eyes. “But the point still stands, it’s safer if you are at our home. It’s quiet and secure and doesn’t have a giant sign pointing straight at its door.”

“Ah yes…that,” you say. “I heard about it on the televisi—newspaper. It must be tiring to be attacked thrice in one day.”

Alastor shakes his head, pulling you into a tight hug. One hand presses on the back of your head, cradling you gently. “Just before I lose you to my job.”

You steal a kiss from him. “As if you could ever lose me.”

Music beats through the cracks of the Hazbin Hotel’s door. Alastor escorts you inside, a bird mask on his face as he runs his thumb up and down the skin of your hand. You adjust the deer mask on your face before following him deeper inside.

The door opens easily, and you walk inside, arm in arm with the Radio Demon. The fun about masquerade balls is being able to hide behind a mask.

 Except from those who really pay attention.

Vox approaches with a steady and confident smile. Two drinks are secured around one hand. The second reaches out for a handshake. 

Alastor takes a step forward, using his body as a barrier.

“Just a friendly one,” Vox says, a charming smile on his screen. “It would be a shake to ruin the Princess’ evening. The music is lively, and the food and drinks are delicious.”

Alastor’s eyes twitch from underneath the mask when he sees you reaching out to shake Vox’s hand.

Well, that just won’t do! Alastor takes the handshake intended for you, grabbing Vox’s hand before you can reach it, and shakes his hand with a firmer grip than needed.

You’re determined to enjoy yourself, and Alastor prides himself for being a Husband.  (Rosie tells him that there’s a difference between ‘a husband’ and ‘a Husband’ with one clearly better than the other.) So, Alastor won’t cause a scene—not today at least.

Vox slides his eyes towards you, a smug smile displayed on the screen of his lips as he shakes Alastor’s hand. It forces you to tighten your hold around Alastor’s arm, leaning into his bicep to hide a scowl.

The handshake lasts longer than handshakes should last.

Vox offers you a glass. “I brought drinks to start,” he says, keeping the second glass around his hold closer to him. “I hope I’m remembering this correctly—but you still enjoy lemony flavors, correct?”

“How delightful!” Alastor tries to take the drink intended for you.

Vox quickly retracts the drink, taking a single step backwards. “It’s for the lady.”

Alastor’s smile widens ever so slightly into a snarl.

You take the drink from Vox, smiling as lemony goodness fills your senses. Not many bartenders keep such flavors. Part of you wonders if Alastor organized the bar to keep your favorite drink in stock.

One hand trails up Alastor’s back as static emits from his skin. It snakes around until it hooks behind his neck to pull him into a kiss. It’s just a quick peck of the lips, but Alastor places a hand around your waist to pull you closer. Such things are reserved in the confines of privacy, but it seems he doesn’t mind tonight.

There’s an imprint of your lipstick on his skin. It’s something you don’t bother mentioning to him

“Just before I lose you to the crowd,” you say.  “I’m sure you can’t leave your post for so long, and I’ve already kept you for far too long. Don’t worry about me—I won’t be too far from your gaze.”

Alastor presses one last kiss on your cheek before walking away.

With a scowl on his screen, Vox turns the other direction.

You trail behind him, smiling at the second untouched drink around his hand. It seems he’s also wearing a tail-coat tonight, but it doesn’t suit him as handsomely as it does for your husband.

“So, it seems you're here,” Vox tells you, that proud Overlord puff on his chest as he walks around the room. “And here I was wondering why the life in the room suddenly became dull.”

“Funny,” you say, matching his steps. “It seems you’re still pining for my husband—Will you ever give up on him?”

“Ah yes…the same husband who disappeared on your for seven years,” he says, casually swirling the second drink in his hand. “He left you once, he can leave you again.”

You take a sip of your drink, letting the taste of lemon slide down your throat even as your eye twitches from underneath the deer mask. “It’s quite hilarious to know you still remember how my husband hates lemon undertones in his drink.”

“Well, I didn’t want him choking on such unrefined tastes.”

“Is this meant for Alastor?” You grab the second glass from his hand, bringing it closer to your nose. “Whiskey. Ah… it was meant for him. What—were you too scared to give it to him?”

Vox barks out a laugh, crossing his arm. “It’s for me, actually.”

“Then drink it.”

“It’s been compromised by your stench.” Vox takes the glass and tosses it away.

From across the room, Alastor swirls his whiskey and allows his eyes to wander across the crowd. In a room full of Sinners, he can never be too careful especially when you’re involved. It’s then that his eyes catch Vox inching closer to you, and it’s then that his grip on the glass tightens.

Charlie smiles at Alastor as he doesn’t seem to be listening to her. That’s alright—it’s quite loud and drinks often tend to loosen him up. Alastor’s looking at her, but his body faces the crowd as he leans on one of the tables. It’s almost as if he’s looking out.

It’s been the same pattern for almost fifteen-minutes ever since Alastor came back with a bird mask instead of his own deer mask. Charlie would say something, and he would nod. From time to time, Alastor would glance out into the crowd in the same direction his body is facing.

“So, I had an idea to get more sponsors,” Charlie tells him, tapping the glass for her soda. “We can do a whole music number with flowers and dancing and singing, and I just thought you could be our main lead! The genre would be rap music.”

Alastor’s eyes slid to the crowd once more. “What a spectacular idea!”

Charlie follows his gaze until they land on you. Well, that certainly solved the mystery of where his deer mask went and where the bird one came from. One of the feathers on Alstor’s mask matches yours perfectly.

“Do you think we can get more TVs for the hotel?” she asks. “And I don’t mean the old ones, but the flat-screens that are about fifty-inches.”

You glance over at Alastor and Charlie when you notice their looks, and offer a small smile and a wave.

Alastor smiles back, giving you a wave as well. “Perhaps.”

“How about some digital cameras?” she says. “All of us could take a happy family portrait.”

“Of course.”

Wait-staff carry trays of different types of appetizers. Vox snatches a couple tiny platters, offering some to you. The first bite causes you to hum with delight. It’s quite delicious…but quite small. Vox offers another tiny plate to you, and it’s grabbed enthusiastically.

It’s great that Vox took more than one.

He bites into the cracker with some kind of seafood on them, humming at the taste. “You’ve aged.”

“Yes, it seems I have.” You laugh at him, shaking your head as you take another sip of your drink. “I’m quite lucky that I’m in the company of my husband to grow old with. It’s quite the treat to be able to live day to day with Alastor.”

Vox offers you a bite of the cracker.

You take it, nodding and humming with delight at the taste. “Oh, that’s quite good—here, taste this one.”

At the sight of your laughter, Alastor’s drink shatters into tiny pieces of broken glass. It shatters to the floor.

Charlies raises an eyebrow at him. It only takes a snap of her fingers for magic to work its wonders and clean the broken glass and replace his drink.

“Apologies,” Alastor says, smile widening just a fraction. It doesn’t fully reach his eyes. “I forgot my own strength.”

Once more, Charlie follows Alastor’s gaze until it lands on you, and once more, the glass in his hand shatters when he sees Vox inching closer to offer you some appetizers and then your laughter.

Charlie snaps her fingers and a new drink appears in his hold. “I’m going to run out of glasses eventually.”

Alastor takes a turn around the ballroom after Charlie kicks him away from the corner. It’s all he can do to call his growing ire to keep the guests happy. Afterall, it’s him who controls his emotions and not the other way around. There’s also the matter of his job.

A Sinner blocks his patch, a doll-like smile on her face. “Do you happen to be the Radio Demon?”

“In the flesh!” Alastor’s smile widens to show off the yellow in his teeth, giving a little bow.

“I wasn’t sure with the mask,” she says, motioning towards it. “My friends said they spotted you earlier with a deer mask, but it seems you’ve changed it. I quite like the feathers .... Although, the one that’s different kind of sticks out.”

A muscle in his cheek tightens. “I’m quite fond of that feather,” he says. “It means quite a lot to me, and I don’t take kindly to those who insult what is precious to me.”

“Oh…of course,” she says. “It suits you quite well.”

She points a finger towards his bowtie. It seems it’s a bit crooked. There’s a smile on her face as she reaches out her sully hands to fix it.

Alastor takes a single step back, making it a point to show it off to her that he’s doing so.

The doll-like smile on her face wobbles a little. That’s fine. Alastor always hated dolls. “Oh…um…,” she says, scrambling to recover. “There’s a stain on your lips.”

His ears flicker for a moment, but he runs his thumb across his mouth. Red stains his gloves. It’s the color of your lipstick. “It seems I do.”

“Been drinking too much wine tonight?” She offers him a handkerchief.

“No need.” Alastor takes out his own handkerchief. It has his initials carefully embroidered on them.  He goes to wipe your stain on his lips, but decides against it. “The wine they serve here is quite bland, but luckily there’s something much sweeter on the palate.”

Her smile fades into a frown when she notices the embroidery on the edges of his handkerchief.

Alastor continues to stand with a smile as she tries her best to compliment him in the smallest of ways. It’s quite nice to hear such compliments that inflate his ego.

Although… It's a bit weird.

The thrill of sudden recognition doesn’t hit as high as before. It’s just stagnant now. Praise doesn’t thrill him like they should.

Alastor allows his mind to wander, and his ego inflated to the highest degree when he imagines you standing before him instead, saying the things this random Sinner tells him. (He should figure out a way to get you to compliment him more.)

Plates of food and dozens of empty glass litter the bar table. It’s the aftermath of downing unlimited alcohol and enjoying some appetizers as insults are hurled that not even a merciful god can forgive.

Vox takes a bite of the olive and flicks the toothpick that came with his drink. It lands between your feathers.

A curse escapes your mouth as you try to dig it out. “Why are you even here?”

“It’s a party.” Vox hands you another drink. “I like the music, the drinks are unlimited, and this is quite fun.”

The drink gets downed in one gulp, and you flick the toothpick at a passing Sinner’s hair. It lands between the strands of his hair. “That’s one more point for me,” you say, pumping your fist. “Come on, TV boy—give me my point.”

Vox’s head flashes. It goes from his face to a screen with both your names on it. The number below your name increases on point before his face returns once more.

You shimmy a little dance as your point increases.

Vox makes a face, cringing at your dance. “You’re such a fucking loser.”

“Ha! His loser,” you say, sticking out your tongue.

“You’re still five points down,” he tells you, scowling as he grabs a passing drink from a waiter. “Why suggest this game if you’re not even good at it.”

You shrug, grumbling a little. “I always win against Alastor.”

“Are we not going to get in trouble?” Vox swirls the drink in his hand. “This is still a royal’s party.”

“Aren’t you an Overlord?” you say, taking another bite of a cracker. “Act like it. I mean, it’s not like anyone’s going to call you out.”

The music catches your attention, and it pulls your focus to the dance floor. Oh…Alastor’s dancing. His broad back puffs out as he moves across the floor with purpose and grace. There’s a charming smile on his face as he dances along the beat of the music.

That looks fun.

 It would certainly be a shame to waste such a beautiful dress by blending in with the decorations on the walls.

You turn to Vox. “Care to dance?”

Vox takes another toothpick, flicking it. It missed the Sinner’s hair. He curses while you pump your fist. “With you?” he says, making a face “Ew—no, that’s disgusting.”

“Alastor’s dancing right now,” you say. “It looks fun.”

Vox raises an eyebrow and glaces to the dance floor. A snarl appears on his lips when he notices that smug smile on the woman dancing with Alastor. “A new challenger?”

You tilt your head, and feathers slide across your face as you observe Alastor dancing. Oh, Vox’s right. There’s a woman with him right now. “Oooooh, who’s that? She’s quite the belle—smash.”

Vox turns to you, making a face. It’s quite funny to see. “Do you even know what that mean—”

“I know what I said.”

His screen shifts and paragraphs of information appear on his face. “Oh…she’s one of the daughters of the Ars Goetia.” The scowl on his face deepens as he continues watching, and he offers an arm towards you. “Come on—let’s dance. Game on, bitch.”

“Just ignore her,” you tell him. “She’s no threat to me, and I allow you to flirt with Alastor all the time.”

“That’s because I play fair,” Vox says, rolling his eyes. “We have our rules, and it creates order. This bitch doesn’t know that…and hasn’t someone ever told her—three’s a crowd.”

Once more, you turn to the dance floor. Alastor’s graceful movements catch your eyes and a delighted hum escapes your lips. His body dances with control and power. There’s awe in the woman’s face as Alastor dances with her. 

That’s alright—she’s only doing her due diligence.

Only a blind fool wouldn’t appreciate how Alastor’s hair sways with each side-step, or how his tail-coat fits handsomely across his back, or how charming his smile paints across his lips, or how the dress-pants he wears compliments how long his legs are.

Vox may be a fool but at least he isn’t blind.

“Holy fuck! Woman—get it together!” Vox points towards the dance floor, to the Sinner dancing with Alastor.

There’s a triumph in her smile. She dances with Alastor as if she won.

Vox watches your expression carefully, chuckling as a cold look steels your face despite the gentle smile. Oh, it is so on.

“Well, this just won’t do. If there’s one thing I hate—it’s those who don’t know their place,” you say, snaking your arm around Vox with a smile. “Game on, bitch.”

Vox escorts you towards the middle of the dance floor, that proud Overlord puff back on his chest. It’s quite easy to match his movements when he always was quite the talented dancer.

“Hey…,” you say, eyes twitching. “What are you doing?”

Vox’ hands hover above your skin, refusing to make contact. “I’m afraid that if I touch you, my life would turn to ruin like everything else that has had the misfortune of meeting you,” he tells you, a triumphant smile on his lips. “And you’re doing the exact same thing!”

“That’s because I’m married. It would be improper of me to be touching such a slimy Sinner.” You slam the point of your heel right on his shoe. “My apologies…it would be much easier to dance if you’re actually holding me.”

Vox steps on your toes, and you snarl at him. “You first, witch.”

“As you say whenever Velvette tells you to take a bath—no thanks.”

“The I guess you say the same thing about shampoo—”

“May I interrupt?”  There’s a wide smile on Alastor’s lips that show off the yellow in his teeth. He stands in the middle of the ballroom, not caring as others give him weird looks for blocking the path. Alastor stands proud as his hand offers itself to you.

Across the dance floor, there’s an irritated look on the woman’s face when Alastor abandoned her mid-dance. There’s a smile on your lips as you show her what real triumph looks like.

Vox smiles at him, and hands you towards your husband. “Of course.”

He takes your hand, playing with the tips of your fingers before intertwining them. A hand snakes around your waist to pull you flush against his chest. The music flows slowly across the room. It’s sweet melodies forcing you to lean your head on his chest.

Alastor squeezes your hand.

You squeeze back.

His legs slide between your as Alastor dips you low, a hand on the small of your back to support your waist. He takes the lead in this waltz, spinning and twirling your around while pressing himself as close as possible to you.

The side of his cheek, nuzzles into the crown of your feathers as you’re swayed around the ballroom.

“I’ve found myself in a bit of a corner,” you say, snaking your hand up and down his back as if to pet it. “I owe Vox two dances. You interrupted the first, but there’s still the matter of the second one.”

Alastor’s hand tightens around you, and shadows flare around the room. It causes dancing couples to instinctively take a step away. “Did he force you into a deal?”

“Not at all,” you say, nuzzling into his hold. “I lost a bet, that’s all. You know me, I get rather competitive, and got a little bored a while ago after getting my fill of food and drinks.”

 “I’ll take your place so just stay far away from him.” Alastor’s smile turns into a snarl. “Don’t worry, he won’t bother you again after this.”

You go on the tip of your toes to press a kiss. “Thank you.”

Alastor twirls you underneath his arm. “I never got to ask…,” he begins. “How do you like my outfit?”

“It suits you very well, my love,” you tell him. “In fact, I have to say that you are the most handsomest of handsome, and those pants really do you some justice.”

Alastor flicks your nose. “Stop it.”

“Should I really?”

“No…,” he says, leaning into your ear. “I want to hear more.”

The dance ends eventually, and Alastor behind you with one hand on your shoulders and the other holding you to escort you like a gentleman.

Vox greets you with a wave, another drink around his hand.

You step out of Alastor’s hold and press a hand on Vox’ shoulder to whisper into his ear. “As you dance with my husband, I want you to know that he’s taking your hand only because I allow it,” you tell him with a smile. “I want you to know that it’s only possible because of the permission I grant you.”

Vox snorts and offers a hand out for Alastor. “Understood.”

The musicians play their instruments and music once again fills the dancefloor. Sinners stay paces away as Vox and Alastor dance, especially given the threatening expression on Alastor’s face. It’s funny how Vox doesn’t seem to mind Alastor’s darkened gaze.  The irritated look on your husband's face makes you a bit guilty. Oh well, you’ll make it up to him later.

The dance ends, and both Vox and Alastor go their separate ways once more. There’s a twinkle in Vox’s eyes as he gives you a small nod of farewell. It has you shaking your head.

Alastor wipes his hands before taking your hand once more. “Let’s go.”

“Already?” you say, frowning. “We’ve only had one dance so far.”

“We can dance to your heart's content, my love…just not here,” Alastor says, fixing the straps of your dress. His hands ghost around the zipper, and it lingers there for more than a moment. “Apparently, I’ve maxed out my working days. Charlie told me it was in my contract and I have to spend them before I can go back to work at the hotel. She practically kicked me out. So, I have the next few days off.”

“That’s good.”

“Shall we go?” Alastor brings your hand closer, pressing a kiss on the ring around your finger. “Home—our home.”

“Really?” you say. “You’re going to go home with me?”

“For the next two weeks.”

Alastor watches your smile brighten as your eyes crinkle. It’s the most precious thing in this ballroom, and its radiance can light up the whole room. You spring up to hug him, squealing as you wrap your arms around his neck. The force of your hug causes him to take a couple steps back to keep from falling over. Alastor places a hand on the small of your back to steady you.

His bowtie is crooked. 

You point towards it,and reach out a hand to straighten the fabric. Alastor takes a single step forward, leaning down to allow more access. The pads of your thumb smoothen his crooked bowtie.

Vox catches your eyes and he toasts a drink in your direction.

You remove the wedding ring around your finger, slipping it over your middle finger instead. The ring and the finger are presented to Vox as you leave with Alastor’s arm around your waist.

Game on, bitch.

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Alastor whenever someone flirts with you : hiss hiss, get away from my wife. Reader whenever someone flirts with Alastor: Fucking understandable. Finally, someone with good fucking taste. This is so funny and silly. Vox and Reader are so sibling-coded that it wonderful. I love fan-fiction. I love how unserious it can be

[katerinathesaint]

stanford!subby!art x f!reader blurb? (probably too long to be a blurb)

warnings: smut, comfort, aftercare!!, slight dumbification?, handjob😁, pet names (sweet boy, baby), slight au bc art and reader live a nice apartment together and it has a spare bedroom that patrick uses sometimes, sub and dom themes, art being sad (the usual), arts foot catching strays, bad writing.

synopsis: arts having a rough day and just wants to relax:((, which you gladly help him with.

a/n: guys this is so rushed i know it’s bad please don’t yell at me or ill cum and cry at the same time please spare me there’s a reason i don’t write long blurbs or fics😖😖😖

Art should’ve just stayed in bed that day. It started off blissfully; he woke up, his arms wrapped around your waist and his nose nuzzled into your neck whilst you slept peacefully. His favorite place to be.

From there, it just all went down hill. When he got out of bed to head to the large bathroom you shared, he stubbed his toe on the doorframe, immediately letting out a quiet grunt of pain and a nearly silent ‘fuck’ and ‘god dammit’.

A little later, after his morning shower and such, he tried making breakfast; tried. His hand reached for the pan he was going to use to cook some eggs for breakfast; some protein before a long day of practice sounded good.

Except, the handle slipped from his fingertips and the pan immediately fell onto his foot, then slammed onto the hardwood floor. He leaned against the kitchen counter for stability, as he cradled his now injured (a small bruise formed later) foot.

Art had prayed that the loud ‘BANG’ didn’t wake you. Sometimes, you were a deep sleeper, other times you weren’t. Luckily, it didn’t seem to have waken you; not enough for you to walk in, at least.

Arts day went on that way for the next 10 hours. Once he made it to the courts, after almost being hit twice while driving there, his coach immediately made him warm up.

The practice that day was grueling, Art wanting to do nothing except to pass out in your arms. It was obvious his coach had a stick up his ass and decided to run all the players of their energy, including Art. Not that he had much energy to begin with.

Finally, after a long ass day of shitty luck, Art made it back to your shared apartment. Patrick’s car wasn’t there, meaning he was probably at some girls place for the night; shocker. He prayed you were still awake. Considering the time, you should be, but every now and again he’d come home to you napping peacefully.

Art walked in, the bag on his shoulder immediately dropping to the ground by the door. He walked a little further, his spirits lifting when he sees you wide awake, watching some tv show.

You turn your head when you hear the shuffling, lighting up at the sight of your boyfriend, and your facing curling in worry after clocking the dejected look on his face.

Art plopped down on the couch, his body slotting in between your legs as he snakes his arms around your waist, letting out a sigh.

You knew Art needed you. You could just feel it. You carded your fingers through his curls softly; the tenseness leaving his body slowly.

“What’s the matter, sweet boy?”

Art lifted his head, locking his gaze onto yours. You could see the exhaustion in them. Poor baby.

“Jus’ need you,” He slurred.

Figures. Too dumb to do anything. He needs you to do it for him.

“Tell me what you need, baby. Use your words.” You encouraged.

Arts brows immediately scrunched together, as he slowly shook his head, “I don’t know, I jus’ need you s’bad.”

Usually, you would push for more, knowing he can use his words. But you couldn’t help but pity him.

“C’mon, up.” You sit up from your spot, Art reluctantly lifting up as well. You drag him by his hand to the bedroom, leaving him standing by the bed as you lay back against the pillows and headboard. Art awaited your instruction.

You speak a quiet ‘c’mere’, Art immediately understanding your minimal language. Art layed himself against you between your legs, your chest against his back. You helped Art tug his shirt off, your hands quickly finding themselves running up and down his toned chest, your lips leaving soft kisses and nips at his neck.

He tilted his neck to side to give you more, letting out soft whimpers at the feeling. He bucked his hips, the boner in his shorts now extremely obvious. You nipped at his ear, the bucking becoming more frequent as he tried to gain some type of friction. Your fingers met the waistband of his shorts, lifting it before letting it snap back against his skin.

“Take them off,” You purred into his ear, his hands quick to move his shorts and boxers off. You remove your shirt that you had been wearing, no bra underneath. Your perky nipples met his back when he leaned against you again, his throat bobbing as he let out a soft moan.

His pretty dick, hard and leaking, was in need of attention, that much was obvious. “What do you say, Artie?”

“Please, please,” The boy was nearly in tears, his body squirming under you as your hand got closer to his throbbing cock. “Please, i’ve been so good, i’ll be good, just- please.”

How could you ever deny him after that? Your cold hand grasped his cock at the base, slowly sliding it up until it reached the tip, where you squeezed a little, just for the already leaking tip to leak a little more. Art threw his head back against your shoulder, letting out a loud moan.

You spread the pre over his tip, his moans getting louder. The noises he let out were just so pretty, you could listen to them 24 hours straight if you wanted.

Your hand found a quick rhythm, languidly sliding up and down his pretty cock, as you whispered sweet praises into his ear and soft kisses to his neck.

“You’re doin’ so good f’me, baby.”

Art was getting closer to his release the harder and faster you stroked, his grunts and moans getting louder. You knew for fact your panties were soaked under your shorts.

You could feel Arts body tensing up, his cock throbbing in your hand, “It’s okay, baby. Let go f’me. Let go.”

That’s all he needed to hear from you before letting out a pornographic moan, his back arching as his cum shot out onto your hand and his stomach. It went on for a few more seconds; Art always had big loads.

As he came down from his high, you peppered sweet kisses along his neck and up his jaw, before moving his body to the side.

His hand snatched your wrist as you lifted yourself from the bed, “Please, don’t go. Please,” He begged.

“Just gonna clean you up, baby.” You pressed a soft kiss to his head before grabbing a clean washcloth and running it under warm water. You brought it back, cleaning up Art and your hand before throwing it in the hamper.

Art didn’t care to get dressed after any type of intimacy, as he claimed it would break said intimacy. You slipped your shorts off and changed into a clean pair of panties, as your other ones were soaked.

You climbed into bed, dragging Art under the covers with you.

“Feel any better?” You asked.

Art simply looked at you and smiled before pressing a long kiss to your lips.

“I feel perfect.”

Good. That was your goal. You and Art feel asleep peacefully, cuddled up into each other’s arms. Thank god you helped him relax.

[skzophreniic]

Numb to the Feeling

MDNI, 18+ content.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 Heard you got a heart, let me see/I need you to split that thing with me

featuring: ex!boyfriend changbin x afab reader, rebound!jisung, bestfriend!seungmin

genre: smut with plot

notes: part two of skzxchase atlantic songs! this one is inspired by numb to the feeling but i think i kinda strayed from it a little whoops.

warnings: toxic relationship. semi-public sex. illegal drug use, alcohol use. self destructive behavior. i am in no way condoning or romanticizing any of these actions, it's just a work of fiction. DO NOT TAKE DRUGS. if you, or any of your loved ones suffer with addiction please click here.

The party hums around you, all blurred lights and slurred voices, but it barely reaches you. The Xanax pulls everything under, softens the edges, turns the noise into something distant and unimportant.

You’re draped across Jisung, legs tangled with his on the couch, the warmth of his body pressed into your side. He’s talking—he’s always talking—words spilling from his lips in a bright, endless stream of whatever thought crosses his mind.

You only catch pieces of it.

“—and then Minho was like, ‘Jisung, if you break another controller, I’m kicking you out,’ but obviously, it wasn’t my fault—”

His voice rises and falls, full of animated gestures, his hands moving as if he can’t contain all the energy buzzing under his skin. He’s grinning, dimples carving deep into his cheeks, eyes crinkling with laughter even though you barely said anything at all.

Jisung is easy.

He makes things easy.

He doesn’t ask why your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes or why your fingers feel too light against his wrist, like you’re not really there. He just lets you exist beside him, lets you slip into the warmth of his presence without asking for anything in return.

Except, you think, maybe he does.

His fingers brush over your bare thigh absentmindedly, featherlight, like he’s testing the weight of his touch. His knee nudges yours, lingers. His laughter softens as he looks at you, eyes tracing the shape of your face like he’s memorizing it.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmurs suddenly, and it’s so gentle, so earnest, that it makes something twist in your chest.

You exhale slowly, letting your head tip against the couch, letting the drug drag you further down.

“Don’t say things like that,” you murmur, voice lilting, almost lazy.

Jisung pouts. “Why not? It’s true.”

You don’t answer.

Because if you do, he might say something softer. He might tilt his head and ask what’s wrong. He might lace his fingers through yours and tell you he’s not going anywhere, that he’d stay if you let him, that he could be everything for you.

And you don’t want to hear it.

You slip your fingers through his instead, squeezing lightly, just enough to make him smile again. Just enough to keep him where you need him—right here, right now, filling the silence with something easy, something warm.

Even if it doesn’t reach you.

Jisung brightens at the small squeeze of your fingers, his grin widening, his body shifting just a little closer, like he thinks you want him to.

Maybe you do.

Maybe you don’t.

It doesn’t really matter.

“I knew you liked me,” he teases, dimples deep, voice curling around the words like he’s savoring them. “You act all cool and mysterious, but I see right through you.”

His knee nudges yours again, deliberate this time, playful. He’s watching you closely, waiting for your reaction.

You hum, noncommittal, tilting your head against the couch. The room is tilting with you, slow and syrup-thick.

Jisung sighs, dramatic. “God, you’re so gone, aren’t you?”

You smile, barely. “And you’re so loud.”

He gasps, clutching at his chest. “Wow. Hurtful. Do you even like me?”

The joke hangs between you, warm and harmless. But for a second—just a second—you think you see something else in his expression, something softer, something real.

It makes your stomach turn.

You untangle your legs from his, shifting, suddenly restless. The warmth of him is too much now, his presence pressing in, his affection curling around you like a weighted blanket, thick and suffocating.

“I need a drink,” you mumble, already pushing yourself up.

Jisung blinks, startled by the sudden movement, but he recovers fast. “Want me to come with?”

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to say no without giving something away.

“Stay,” you murmur instead, resting a hand on his shoulder for just a second, just enough to keep the moment easy, to keep him from seeing the way your pulse has picked up, the way something in your chest is starting to ache.

Jisung watches you go, his smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth, but something else flickers in his eyes.

And then you step into the crowd, and the weight of him disappears.

Only to be replaced by something heavier.

By someone else.

The kitchen is dimly lit, the overhead bulb flickering weakly against the haze of smoke curling through the air. The counters are cluttered with half-empty bottles, sticky red cups, crumpled napkins. Someone leans against the fridge, laughing too loudly, and the bass of the music rattles against your ribs.

You press through the bodies, fingers trailing absently over the countertop, reaching for the nearest bottle of something dark, something bitter. It doesn’t really matter what.

The glass is cool against your palm, grounding, and you tip it back without thinking, the burn slicing through the fog of the Xanax for just a moment—just long enough for you to feel it.

And then, before you can put the bottle down, before you can exhale, there’s a shift in the air.

A shadow at your side. A presence curling close.

Familiar.

Unshakable.

“Drinking on top of that shit?”

The voice is low, rough, curling at the edges like smoke, like something burned out and smoldering.

Your stomach tightens.

Slowly, you lower the bottle, fingers tightening around the glass, resisting the instinct to turn around.

But he doesn’t wait for you to.

Changbin moves in first, stepping into your space like he belongs there, like he always has. The heat of him presses against your side, solid and steady, so different from the featherlight warmth of Jisung, so much heavier.

His eyes flicker down, tracking the movement of your throat as you swallow, as if he can see the way the liquor settles in your bloodstream, mixing with everything else.

“You know that’s a bad idea, right?”

You finally turn to face him.

And for the first time tonight, the numbness wavers.

The bottle is slipping in your hand, condensation slick against your palm, but you don’t move to fix it. Not when he’s this close. Not when the air between you is thick with everything you haven’t said.

Changbin looks at you like he knows you. Like he always has.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

His gaze flickers, slow—over the shape of your mouth, the exposed line of your throat, the slight unsteadiness in your fingers. He catches the way your eyes look past him, darting to the kitchen doorway–your escape. His jaw tightens, just barely.

“You gonna run again?” His voice is low, rough. Almost tired.

Your stomach twists.

You lift your chin, forcing a smile. “I’m not running.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something about him does—something in the way his fingers flex against the counter, like he wants to reach for you, like he almost does.

Then, quieter—like he doesn’t even mean to say it:

“Feels like you always are.”

Your throat goes tight.

He exhales, slow. His tongue swipes over his bottom lip, like he’s thinking—like he’s trying to find the right words, but when his gaze finds yours again, there’s nothing hesitant about it.

"You left Jisung sitting there waiting for you."

You already see it—Jisung, knee bouncing, fingers twisting at a loose thread in his jeans, his smile still there but smaller now. Waiting. Hoping. Something small twists in your chest, but you shove it down, down, down where you always do. “He’ll be fine.”

Changbin huffs a breath, shaking his head. “Cold.”

But there’s no bite to it. No real judgment. Just something heavier. Something aching.

Like he’s used to it.

Like he still hasn’t let himself stop caring.

The realization makes your fingers tighten around the bottle. You don’t want that from him. You don’t want that kind of tenderness, that kind of understanding.

You want him to let you go.

You need him to let you go.

Because you don’t know how to let go of him.

“You don’t have to do this,” you murmur, voice quieter now. “Check in on me. Worry about me.”

His jaw clenches. His throat works around a swallow.

Then, softly—almost fragile in the way he says it:

“I don’t know how to stop.”

The air thickens.

Your pulse pounds—a slow, aching thud, deep in your ribs.

Changbin shifts closer, breath warm as it ghosts over your cheek, his fingers brushing yours—just barely, just enough to feel it, just enough to make your body ache with how easy it would be to grab hold and never let go.

“I don’t fucking know how to stop.”

Your breath catches.

Because he says it like it hurts. Like it’s killing him. Like he’s spent every second since you walked away trying to carve you out of himself and failing, failing, failing.

Your fingers twitch around the bottle, unsteady, your body drawn toward him in a way that feels inevitable, inescapable. Like gravity. Like a force you have no power against.

And maybe you don’t.

Maybe you never did.

Your pulse is a drumbeat, a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs. The taste of whiskey lingers on your tongue, warm and burning, but Changbin’s closer now, and he smells like something heavier, something richer. Like leather and smoke and something achingly familiar.

Something you used to call home.

You should say something. You should step back. You should turn and walk away before this goes too far—before you do something reckless, something irreversible.

But then his fingers ghost over yours again, just barely, and that’s all it takes.

You turn at the same time he does, and your mouths crash together.

It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s teeth and tongues and desperation, the kind of kiss that tastes like regret and whiskey and everything you can’t say. His hands find your hips, gripping, dragging you against him like he needs to feel every inch of you, like he needs to remind himself that you’re real, that you’re here, that you still fit against him the way you always have.

You whimper into his mouth, the sound swallowed by the heat of him, by the way his fingers dig into your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. But you’re not going anywhere. Not this time. Not when the world is tilting and you can’t tell where you end and he begins.

The party is still raging around you, but it barely registers. The music, the voices, the bodies moving in the dim haze of the kitchen—all of it fades, slipping into the background, because the only thing that matters is this. Him. The way he groans when you fist your fingers in his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, closer until there’s nothing between you.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips, breathless. His forehead presses against yours, his hands trembling where they clutch at your hips. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

You drag him with you instead, stumbling through the crowd, through the hallway, through the door of the first empty room you can find.

And then you’re on him again, or maybe he’s on you, and it doesn’t matter, because you’re both starving. Because his mouth is on your throat, sucking, biting, marking. Because your hands are shoving under his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin, the way his muscles flex under your touch.

Because this is what you know.

This is where you both fall apart.

The door slams shut behind you, rattling in its frame, but neither of you care. Not when your back hits the wall, not when Changbin’s hands are everywhere—your waist, your thighs, your jaw, tilting your head just the way he wants.

“God,” he breathes, voice rough, half-wrecked already. “I fucking—”

He cuts himself off with a kiss, like he’s trying to swallow the words before they slip, before they make this more than just a mistake in the dark. But you feel it anyway, in the way his hands shake, in the way his teeth scrape over your bottom lip like he wants to ruin you, like he wants to remind you that no one else can have you like this.

His hands slide up your thighs, gripping, lifting—he doesn’t even have to tell you to wrap your legs around his waist because you already are, already gasping into his mouth when he presses you harder against the wall, the thick weight of him slotting perfectly between your thighs.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, and he groans at the sting, at the way your hips roll against his, desperate, searching. You should say something sharp, something cutting, something to break the tension curling thick in the air, but you can’t. You don’t have the breath.

Not when he’s grinding against you like that. Not when his hands are shoving up your dress, fingers skimming over bare skin, his breath hot and ragged in your ear.

“Tell me you missed me,” he groans, voice raw, rough, breaking just slightly at the edges. “Tell me you—”

You cut him off with your mouth, biting at his lower lip, dragging him closer, closer, like you can stop him from asking things you don’t want to answer.

His fingers slip between your thighs, pressing against the damp heat of your underwear, and he groans, head falling forward against your shoulder.

Your head tips back against the wall, lips parting on a soft, needy sound as he rubs slow, teasing circles over the fabric, dragging out your desperation.

“Been fucking him?” he murmurs, lips brushing the curve of your jaw, his fingers still torturously light between your legs. “Jisung?”

Your breath hitches.

Your body jolts with it, that name, the way Changbin spits it like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging. “Don’t.”

He laughs, rough and bitter, and presses his fingers harder against you, two thick digits pressing firm over the damp lace. You gasp, nails sinking into his shoulders, but he’s relentless, rolling his wrist in slow, torturous circles, like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you with his hands alone.

“Don’t?” he echoes, dragging his mouth down your throat, sucking a mark into your skin like he needs to brand himself into you. “Don’t what? Don’t ask?”

He bites, sharp enough to make you whimper, sharp enough that your back arches away from the wall. He catches you easily, pressing you back down with the weight of his body alone, keeping you right where he wants you—between him and something solid, nowhere to run.

“Don’t bring him into this,” you breathe, but it’s weak, and you both know it.

Changbin stills for half a second, his breath heavy against your skin. Then, he drags his fingers down, down, pushing your panties aside, running a slow, teasing stroke through your folds. You shudder.

His voice is quieter now. Darker. “What? You got a heart now?”

His words sink deep, curling low in your stomach, hot and aching. You want to shove him away. You want to pull him closer. You want to say something sharp, something to cut as deep as he does, but all that comes out is a broken little sound as he presses two fingers inside you, slow and deliberate, stretching you open with that same brutal patience he always has when he wants to make you come undone.

Your nails scrape down his back, desperate, and he groans, rocking his hips into yours like he can’t help himself, like this is torture for him too.

"Feels like you missed me," he murmurs against your skin, his fingers curling inside you, hitting that spot that makes your whole body jolt.

You clench around him, thighs tightening around his waist, and he laughs—low and wrecked, like he’s just as far gone as you are.

"I—" Your voice catches, breaks. Your body is betraying you, rocking into every stroke, every roll of his wrist, every dirty, possessive press of his lips against your throat. "I hate you."

Changbin groans, shoving his fingers deeper, his thumb dragging slick circles over your clit. "Liar."

And maybe you are.

Your head tips back against the wall with a soft thud, breath coming in short, uneven gasps as his fingers work you open, unrelenting, knowing.

Maybe you are a liar. Maybe you have a heart. Maybe it only beats like this—frantic, desperate—when he’s the one touching you, when he’s the one tearing you apart like you belong to him.

Your hands slide up his arms, nails biting into the thick muscle of his biceps as he fucks you open on his fingers, slow but deliberate, every movement dripping with something you don’t want to name.

"You still thinking about him?" His voice is lower now, rougher, like it’s costing him something to ask. His mouth is hot against your jaw, his teeth scraping the skin. "Still thinking about Jisung while you’re dripping all over my fucking hand?"

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Your throat is too tight, your breath too ragged, your body too wound up and strung out on the way his fingers fuck into you—slow, deliberate, merciless.

But silence is still an answer.

Changbin’s jaw clenches. You feel it against your throat, where his lips had been, where his teeth had pressed down like a warning, a brand. He hates this. Hates that he even had to ask. Hates that somewhere, in the dark, rotten part of him that only ever comes out when it’s about you, he actually wonders.

His fingers don’t stop—not yet.

Maybe they should. Maybe he should pull away and let you feel the loss of him, let you suffer for making him doubt even for a second, for breaking up with him after three years–three fucking years. But he’s weak when it comes to you, and you’re so fucking wet, so tight around his fingers, and he’s too far gone to punish himself like that.

Instead, he curls his fingers deeper, watches your mouth fall open, watches your body betray you.

His fingers drive into you harder, rough and unrelenting, dragging slick sounds from between your thighs, forcing them out of you like a confession. Your hips jerk against his hand, desperate for more, but he keeps the pace steady, keeps you on the edge without letting you tip over.

Your hands clutch at him, curling into the fabric of his shirt, but he doesn’t care. He’s too caught up in the way you look like this—ruined and helpless, completely at his mercy.

"Shouldn't even be touching you," he says, voice rough with something that sounds like self-hatred. "Shouldn’t even fucking want to."

But he does.

God, he does.

It's in the way his fingers keep working inside you, curling, pressing, dragging you open like he never stopped knowing you, like he never stopped wanting you. It’s in the way his free hand grips your waist too tight, fingertips pressing bruises into your skin like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers again.

Your breath stutters, thighs shaking around his hips, and he wants to tell you to stop looking at him like that—like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered, like he’s the only one who can break you apart like this.

But he can’t. Can’t.

So he does the only thing he can—he keeps pushing you higher, making you take everything he gives, even when he knows he shouldn’t.

"You don't even deserve this," he mutters against your jaw, voice thick, rough. "You don’t deserve me."

You don’t.

You know that.

But it doesn’t stop your body from clenching down around his fingers, doesn’t stop your hands from grabbing at him like he’s something solid in the wreckage. Doesn’t stop the pathetic, needy sound that slips from your throat when he presses his palm against your clit, dragging slick, messy circles over the swollen bud.

Changbin swears, low and ragged, his forehead pressing into yours like he can’t bear to look at you but can’t bring himself to pull away either. His breath is hot, uneven, his body taut with something thick and aching.

"You’re so fucking spoiled," he mutters, words a breath against your lips, so close you could kiss him if you weren’t falling apart around his hand. "Always taking from me. Always coming back like I’ll just give you whatever you want."

You should say something back—something sharp, something to cut as deep as he does. But you can’t.

Not when he’s pressing into you like that.

Not when his fingers stroke over that spot inside you with cruel precision, not when the rough grind of his palm is sending sparks shooting down your spine.

Not when you’re this fucking close.

Your nails bite into his shoulders, hips rolling into every thrust of his hand, breath coming in short, stuttered gasps.

He watches you, watches the way your body tightens, the way your mouth falls open, the way your eyes squeeze shut like you can’t handle looking at him while he tears you apart.

His jaw clenches.

"Look at me," he orders, voice dark, ruined.

You force your eyes open—just barely, just enough to see the heat burning behind his own, just enough to see the way his lips part when he watches you come undone for him.

His fingers don’t stop.

"That’s it," he breathes, pressing his forehead harder against yours, dragging you over the edge. "Give it to me."

Your body locks up as the orgasm rips through you—hot, all-consuming, the kind that leaves you shaking apart in his arms. A choked cry breaks from your throat, swallowed up by Changbin’s mouth as he presses against you, breathing you in like he can’t get enough.

His fingers don’t stop. Not yet.

He works you through it, dragging out every last shudder, every last pulse around his fingers, keeping you right on that high until it’s too much—until your body jerks in his hold, oversensitive, teetering on the edge of pain. Only then does he slow, only then does he pull his fingers from you, slick and glistening.

Your legs threaten to give out, and he catches you, a steadying hand braced against your waist. It’s unfair, how stable he still is, how composed, while you feel like a live wire, nerves fried and body still trembling.

Changbin lifts his fingers to his lips, dragging his tongue over them with a slow, deliberate flick. His eyes don’t leave yours, even as he groans low in his throat. “Still taste the same,” he murmurs, like it’s a fucking confession.

Your breath catches, shame curling beneath your ribs, but it doesn’t stop the way your body reacts—the way heat surges back to life in your belly, the way your thighs twitch at the sight of him.

He knows. Of course he knows.

His free hand slides up your side, fingers dragging over the fabric of your dress, before fisting it tight, pulling you back against him. He’s still hard, straining against his jeans, thick and unyielding where he presses between your legs.

Changbin's grip on your dress tightens, his knuckles white with restraint, but there's no stopping the way his hips push into you, grinding against the soaked heat between your thighs like he's trying to brand himself into you all over again.

"You think he’ll fuck you like this?" he mutters, voice low, rough, almost dangerous. "Think he’ll touch you like I do?"

Your breath stutters, nails biting into his shoulders, but you refuse to give him the answer he wants. He doesn't need to hear it. He already knows.

Because no one has ever touched you like Changbin does. No one ever will.

He fists the back of your hair, yanking your head back, forcing your eyes on him, forcing you to see the wreckage on his face—the fury, the desperation, the way his lips part like he's on the verge of saying something he shouldn't. But instead, all he does is groan, low and wrecked, before he crushes his mouth against yours, biting, demanding, tearing you apart like he wants to devour you whole.

His hands are rough, bruising as he grabs at you, pushing your dress higher, higher—until his fingers hook into your panties and tear them clean off with a sharp, impatient tug. You barely have a second to react before he's undoing his jeans, his breath hot against your lips, his forehead pressed to yours like he's trying to hold himself together.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, voice dark, ruined. His hands are on your thighs, spreading you open, positioning you exactly where he wants. "Tell me, and I will."

You don’t.

And he was never strong enough to resist you.

He groans your name like a curse, like a plea, and then he's pushing into you, thick and unrelenting, stretching you open with a slow, brutal force that has your fingers clawing at his back, your breath shattering into nothing.

His body shudders against yours, every muscle tensed like he's barely holding himself back, like the control is slipping from his fingers with every inch he buries inside you.

Changbin groans against your mouth, the sound vibrating through his chest, through yours, sinking into the heat pooling low in your stomach. His fingers dig into your thighs, strong and unyielding as he presses you harder against the wall, his body slotting against yours like you were made to fit together.

His cock stretches you open inch by inch, slow but deliberate, forcing you to feel everything—the way he throbs, the way he holds himself back just enough to savor the way your body takes him in. Your breath stutters, nails biting into his shoulders as he sinks deeper, as pleasure licks up your spine like fire.

"Fuck," he breathes, voice strained, forehead pressing to yours. His fingers flex at your hips, gripping tighter, grounding himself in the way you tremble around him. "You feel—" He swears again, words failing him, swallowed up by the heat between you.

His hips roll forward, pushing the last of the way in, seating himself deep, and your head tilts back, lips parting in a gasp. He catches it with his mouth, kisses you hard and messy, like he’s trying to keep you tethered to him, to this moment.

His control is slipping—you can feel it.

In the way his hands roam your body like he’s trying to memorize it all over again. In the way his hips twitch forward, just barely restrained. In the way his breath shakes, uneven, as he presses his forehead to your shoulder, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it hurts.

"You’re gonna ruin me," he mutters, voice rough, wrecked, like he hates how much he means it.

And then he moves.

The first thrust has you arching into him, legs locking around his waist, a broken sound slipping from your lips. The second has him groaning, deep and low, his hands dragging up your back, holding you tighter, closer, like he can’t stand the thought of even an inch of space between you.

There’s nothing slow about it now.

It’s desperate, all-consuming—the way his hips snap against yours, the way his breath comes in ragged gasps between curses, the way he needs you, like nothing else exists beyond this moment, beyond the way you feel wrapped around him, taking everything he gives you.

Your nails rake down his back, dragging red-hot lines over sweat-slick skin, and the way he shudders against you sends a fresh wave of heat pooling between your legs. He’s buried so deep, fucking into you with a fervor that borders on reckless, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets up even a little.

“Shit—” The word punches out of him when you tighten around him, legs squeezing at his waist, urging him closer, harder, deeper. His hands slip under your thighs, hiking them higher, angling you just right—until the next snap of his hips has your breath catching, your vision blurring.

The rhythm turns brutal.

Each thrust slams you against the wall, knocking the air from your lungs, but it’s not enough—not when the pleasure surges higher, tightening, coiling, threatening to spill over with every roll of his hips.

He’s losing himself in it, in you.

The growl that rumbles from his chest is almost primal as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, teeth scraping along sensitive skin. His breath is hot, ragged, desperate, and when his tongue flicks over the mark he’s just left, his pace stutters—just for a second—before he’s slamming back in, deeper, rougher.

His grip on you tightens, fingers digging into your hips like he’s trying to keep himself grounded, like he’s barely holding on. Each thrust is punishing, his pace relentless, dragging cries from your lips that he swallows with another bruising kiss. 

“Fuck—” His voice is wrecked, strained, like he’s unraveling with every squeeze, every pulse of your body around him. His hands slide up, palms flattening against the wall on either side of your head, caging you in as he fucks into you like he has no intention of stopping—like he can’t stop. Every drag of his cock against your walls, every snap of his hips, sends sparks of pleasure searing through you, building, coiling tighter, tighter— 

“Binnie—” you gasp, fingers twisting in his damp hair, pulling him even closer, until there’s nothing between you but heat and need and the overwhelming sensation of him.

Changbin shudders at the way you say his name—broken, breathless, wrecked. He’s always loved the way you sound when he’s inside you, the way you cling to him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. But this time, there’s something else—something raw, something he doesn’t want to name.

He’s fucking you too hard, too deep, but he can’t stop. Won’t stop. Not when you keep pulling him in, meeting every thrust, making those breathy little noises that go straight to his head.

“Say it again,” he growls, his lips dragging over your jaw, over your throat, sucking another mark into your skin like he has something to prove. “Say my fucking name.”

Your fingers twist tighter in his hair, your body arching against his as he pounds into you, reckless, relentless. His hips stutter for half a second when you tighten around him, when your legs squeeze at his waist like you’re trying to trap him inside you.

“Changbin,” you moan again, and his restraint snaps.

He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head against the wall with one hand, his other arm curling around your waist, keeping you right where he wants you. A deep groan rumbles in his chest as he fucks into you harder, faster, his control slipping away with every slick, desperate sound you make.

The bass outside is still pulsing, laughter threading through the walls like distant echoes, but here, in this dim-lit space, it’s just the two of you. The heat of it still lingers—his breath against your skin, his hands that had held you up like you were something holy, something to be worshiped.

Now, he’s unraveling.

Changbin’s forehead nearly brushes yours, his hands braced against the wall on either side of you, like he’s still trying to keep you here, keep you his. There’s sweat at his temples, his breath still uneven as he lifts trembling fingers to your cheek—hesitant, searching.

"You okay?" His voice is hoarse, raw from how he had moaned your name minutes ago.

Your lips part, but the words don’t come right away. Because no—you’re not okay. You are cracked porcelain, filled to the brim with something you don’t want to name. But admitting that would mean admitting something deeper, something messier, something that tastes too much like regret.

So instead, you let your face turn away from his touch.

“I’m fine.” The words are clipped, distant. They taste like steel on your tongue.

His fingers twitch, then fall away.

The shift in the air is immediate. A thread snapping, a wound reopening, the ghost of something unsaid rising between you.

You push at his chest, the space between you stretching like a chasm. Your dress, still pushed up from where he had taken you against the wall, falls back into place as you smooth trembling hands over the fabric, as if that could erase what just happened.

As if it could erase him.

"Don't do that," he says, voice quieter now.

"Do what?"

"That." His hand gestures between you—this distance you’ve forced, this void where warmth used to be. His voice is paper-thin, fraying at the edges. "Act like this was nothing."

You exhale sharply through your nose, willing your hands to stop shaking. "It doesn’t have to be something, Changbin."

His jaw clenches. "You don’t mean that."

You do. You have to. If you don’t, then you’ll have to face the way he looked at you when he fell apart in your arms, the way his fingers had gripped you like you were something fragile, something worth holding on to.

"You got what you wanted, didn’t you?" The words slip out before you can stop them, sharp as glass, crueler than you intended.

The flicker in his eyes is immediate. Hurt, stark and unfiltered.

"Are you fucking serious?" His voice is hoarse, disbelief laced into every syllable.

He stares at you like he doesn’t recognize you, like the version of you that had just clung to him, breathless and wanting, had been nothing more than a ghost.

Your stomach twists, nausea curling at the edges of your ribs, but you keep your chin high, arms crossed tight over your chest, locking the warmth of his touch out, locking yourself in.

"It was just sex," you say, and it feels like something cruel, something vile.

Changbin blinks, breath hitching for a second, like the words landed somewhere deep, somewhere they weren’t supposed to go. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, dragging a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

"Just sex," he repeats, hollow, like he’s testing the words in his own mouth. Then he laughs, but it’s sharp, bitter. "Right. Okay."

He shakes his head, stepping back, and you feel the loss of him immediately, like the world is suddenly too big, too cold. "I don’t fucking get you," he mutters, rubbing a palm over his face before his gaze snaps back to you, dark, wounded. "I mean, you—you wanted this. You wanted me. But now you’re acting like it didn’t mean shit."

"Because it didn’t," you lie, the words leaving a burn in your throat.

His jaw clenches, something desperate flickering in his eyes, something frantic, like a man grasping at fraying rope.

"Don’t do that." His voice is quieter now, lower, like if he says it softly enough, you’ll take it back. "Don’t fucking lie to me."

You inhale sharply, nails digging into your arms. "I’m not."

His lips press into a thin line. He nods once, a quick, jerky motion. "Right," he breathes, his fingers curling into fists. "Then why the fuck did it feel different?"

"Changbin—"

"Tell me," he demands, stepping closer again, and it takes everything in you not to move back, not to let him see you crack. "Because I—I felt it. And I know you did, too."

You shake your head, swallowing past the lump in your throat. "You're overthinking it."

"Overthinking it?" He lets out a breath, something almost like a laugh, but it’s wrong, jagged. His hands go to his hips, his gaze burning into yours. "So what, we just go back out there like nothing happened? Like I didn’t just—like we didn’t just—"

"Yes." The word is sharp, final. You force yourself to meet his gaze, even as everything inside you is screaming. "That’s exactly what we do."

His breath leaves him in a rush.

For a moment, he just stares at you. And then, slowly, he shakes his head, biting down on his lower lip like he’s trying to keep something inside.

"You’re so fucking scared of feeling something real, aren’t you?" His voice is quieter now, but there’s something breaking inside it, something fragile and aching.

Your nails bite into your palms. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

His expression hardens. "Yeah, you do."

Silence swells between you, thick, suffocating. The kind that drowns. The kind that chokes.

Changbin exhales sharply through his nose, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. His fists are clenched so tight at his sides that his knuckles bloom white, like he’s physically holding himself back.

He scoffs, shaking his head again, slower this time, like he’s finally, finally getting it. "You know what? Fine," he mutters, his voice scraped raw. "You wanna pretend like this was just some—some meaningless fuck, then go ahead. Lie to me. Lie to yourself." He steps back another inch, and that loss, god, it burns. "But don’t you dare stand there and tell me it wasn’t real."

His voice cracks on the last word.

You should walk away.

You should turn around, push open the door, step back into the noise of the party, let the bass swallow you whole. You should do anything—anything—but stand here and let the weight of him, of what you’ve done, press into your ribs like something suffocating.

But you don’t move.

Because he’s right. And that terrifies you.

Instead, you cross your arms tighter, your nails biting into your skin. "What do you want me to say, Changbin?"

He breathes out a laugh, humorless, shaking his head again like he can’t believe you. "I want you to stop fucking running," he snaps. "I want you to tell me—tell yourself—the truth for once."

Your throat tightens. "The truth?" you echo, and your voice is a hollow thing, barely above a whisper. "The truth is that this was a mistake."

His face twists, something dark and wounded flickering through his expression like a storm about to break. His breath shudders in his chest, his lips parting as if to say something—anything—but nothing comes out.

A mistake.

You watch as the word sinks into him, as his shoulders go rigid, as something in his eyes dims like a flame being snuffed out. His throat bobs, his jaw clenches, and for a moment, he looks like he wants to fight you on it. Like he wants to grab your face, shake you, force you to look at him, really look at him, and see what you’re doing.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he laughs. Low. Sharp. Bitter.

"Yeah?" His voice is hoarse, wrecked. "That what you tell yourself to make it easier?"

Your arms tighten around yourself. "It’s the truth," you say, though your voice isn’t as steady as you want it to be.

His lips part, then press into a thin line. He looks at you like he’s waiting for you to take it back, to fix this, but you don’t. You can’t.

So, he shakes his head, exhaling a laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. "You really wanna do this again?" His gaze burns into you. "Act like you don’t care? Like this wasn’t anything? Like we weren’t—" He stops, swiping a hand down his face. His voice drops lower, rougher. "Fuck, I’m so tired of this."

Something cracks in your chest.

Because you know what he means. You’ve been here before, haven’t you? In this same suffocating space, standing across from him with words you don’t mean burning on your tongue. It’s been months, but nothing has changed.

You breathe in, steadying yourself. "This was different."

Changbin’s eyes snap to yours. "Different how?"

"It was just sex," you force yourself to repeat, the words feeling like barbed wire in your throat.

"Just sex," he repeats, hollow. His tongue presses into the inside of his cheek before he exhales sharply through his nose. "Right. Like it was just sex back then, too, huh?"

Your stomach turns to stone.

"That’s not—"

"Because I remember," he cuts in, his voice quiet but dangerous, "I remember the way you used to look at me. The way you used to hold me–"

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. "That was a long time ago, Changbin."

He laughs, shaking his head. "So what? It just stopped meaning something to you?" His voice is desperate now, raw with something you don’t want to name. "Because I’ve been trying—I’ve been trying so fucking hard to let this go, to let you go, but then you look at me like that, and —" He stops, his hands running through his hair, like he doesn’t know what to do with them. "How do you do it?" he asks, quieter now, almost like he’s talking to himself. "How do you just turn it off?"

You don’t answer.The silence that follows is sharp, razor-thin. He stares at you, something flickering behind his eyes—anger, heartbreak, disbelief.

The door creaks open.

The sound rips through the tension, shattering whatever was left between you.

Light spills into the room, along with the muffled bass of the party, and when you turn, you see them—a couple, drunken and laughing, stumbling inside, oblivious to the scene they’ve just walked into.

"Oh—shit, sorry," the guy says, blinking at the two of you. His girlfriend giggles, already tugging him back toward the door. "Didn’t know this room was taken."

You don’t think. You just move.

Before Changbin can say another word, before you can let yourself feel, you slip past him and out the door, into the noise, the heat, the blur of people who don’t know you, who don’t know what you just did, who don’t know what you’re still running from.

____________________________________________________________________________

The next morning comes like a slow, cruel punishment.

Your head is pounding—a dull, merciless throb behind your temples, the kind that makes the room spin when you try to move. Your mouth is dry, your limbs heavy, your stomach twisted in a nauseating knot.

You groan, rolling onto your side, blinking against the dim light filtering through the curtains. The weight of last night sits on your chest, thick and suffocating, but it’s hazy—fragments of music, heat, Changbin’s voice tangled in yours.

And then… nothing.

Your brows knit together as you push yourself up, the effort making your stomach lurch. How the fuck did you even get home? You don’t remember leaving the party. Don’t remember changing into the oversized shirt draped over your frame.

Your hands fist in the fabric, fingers clumsy and trembling. Did you do this? Did someone else?

A flicker of panic stirs in your chest. Your heart rate spikes—until a voice, flat and unimpressed, cuts through the fog.

"You look like shit."

Seungmin is sitting in the chair by your desk, legs crossed, arms folded over his chest. He looks exactly the same as always—judgmental as fuck, like he’s been watching you for hours, waiting for you to wake up so he can lecture you.

Which, knowing him, is probably true.

A groan leaves your lips as you let your head fall back against the pillow. "Jesus fucking Christ."

"Not quite." He tilts his head. "Though I did save your ass last night, so you’re welcome."

Your stomach churns. "How did I—?"

"You called me. I brought you home," he says, like it’s obvious. Like it’s not something you should have already known.

Your fingers tighten around the blanket. "Did I—?"

"You barely made it up the stairs," Seungmin cuts in, voice cool. "You passed out the second you hit the bed. You were a mess. Barely conscious." A beat. "You took something, didn’t you?"

You shift under his gaze. "It wasn’t—"

"Don’t bullshit me." His tone isn’t sharp, but it doesn’t need to be. "Alcohol and what else?"

Your throat tightens. "Xanax."

He doesn’t react right away, just lets out a slow breath through his nose. Then, quietly, "Jesus Christ."

A beat of silence stretches between you, thick and heavy.

You exhale, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. "I don’t need a lecture."

Seungmin watches you, expression unreadable. “Do you even know how long you’ve been out?”

Your fingers curl into the sheets. Your body feels sluggish, your head thick with remnants of sleep. “A few hours?”

“Nineteen hours and thirty seven minutes.”

The number hangs in the air like a death sentence.

Nineteen hours.

The longest you’ve gone without a pill in—God, how long? Your stomach twists violently, your hands tightening around the fabric of the blanket. You feel it creeping up your spine—the craving, the panic, the itch under your skin that only ever gets worse.

You don't respond at first. You just breathe through it, shallow, unsteady, like maybe if you stay still enough, the discomfort will settle instead of swallowing you whole. But it doesn’t. It won’t. The ache is inside you now, twisting through your veins, crawling under your skin.

Your body knows.

Your stomach clenches, a deep, sour kind of nausea curling at the base of your throat. You swallow against it, shifting to sit up, but your limbs feel useless—weak, disconnected, fever-hot but shaking. Your fingers tighten around the blanket, grip slipping, damp with sweat.

You force out a breath. Your jaw locks against the answer he’s expecting. The truth. That your head is splitting open, that your body is begging for something, anything to dull the edges. That nineteen hours without it feels like your bones are trying to escape your skin.

But you don’t say any of that.

You wipe a shaky hand over your face. “I just need—”

Seungmin tilts his head, gaze sharp. “What?”

You shut your mouth.

You know what. He knows what.

You don’t have to say it.

The silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. Seungmin doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away. He just watches you, gaze steady, dissecting. Like he’s waiting for you to be honest. Like he’s giving you the chance.

You won’t take it.

Your throat feels tight, like something is lodged there, heavy and immovable. Your hands are trembling where they clutch the blanket, knuckles white. You dig your nails into the fabric, trying to ground yourself, but the pressure doesn’t help—not really. Nothing helps.

Seungmin exhales sharply through his nose, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You’re going through withdrawal.”

The word makes your stomach lurch. You don’t want to hear it. You don’t want to think about it. Because it makes it real—more real than the nausea, more real than the shaking, more real than the fact that you’re already considering how to make this stop.

“I’m fine,” you say. It’s useless. You sound anything but fine.

Seungmin scoffs, unimpressed. “You look like you’re dying.”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Maybe I should.”

His expression hardens. “That’s not fucking funny.”

You shrug, but it takes too much effort, your limbs sluggish and aching. Your skin is too hot, but you’re shivering, cold sweat beading at your temples. It feels like your body is tearing itself apart from the inside out. Maybe it is. Maybe that’s what you deserve.

Seungmin’s jaw clenches, his fingers curling over his knee like he’s physically holding himself back. “I mean it,” he says, voice flat, but there’s something simmering underneath, something sharp-edged. “Don’t joke about that.”

You don’t respond. Not because you don’t want to, but because you can’t. The lump in your throat has grown thick, suffocating.

Seungmin watches you for another moment, then exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “Nineteen hours.” He says it like he’s reminding you, like he’s giving you the number so you can decide what to do with it. “You can make it to twenty.”

Your stomach lurches. You want to tell him that you can’t, that twenty feels just as impossible as twenty-four, as forty-eight, as forever. You want to tell him that you don’t even know why you called him last night, don’t know why you let him drag you home instead of finding a way to get what you needed.

But you don’t say anything.

You just press your fingers against your temples and breathe through the nausea.

Seungmin shifts in his chair, the legs scraping against the floor. You can feel his eyes on you, sharp and assessing. “You need water,” he says finally.

You shake your head. The thought alone makes you feel sick.

"Seungmin."

Your voice cracks, raw and barely above a whisper. But it stops him in his tracks.

He turns, hand still on the doorknob, brows pulling together just slightly. "What?"

You swallow hard, staring down at the blanket bunched in your lap, twisting your fingers into the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered. You feel stripped bare—exposed in a way that has everything to do with last night’s unraveling.

"Just—" You inhale sharply, pressing your lips together, hating the way your throat tightens. "Can you just… stay?"

The words feel small. Weak. And you hate that, too.

Then, with a sigh, he steps back into the room, kicking off his shoes as he moves toward you. "Move over."

You do. Barely. Just enough for him to slip onto the mattress beside you, his weight dipping the bed slightly. He settles in without hesitation, lying on top of the covers while you remain tucked beneath them.

It’s not weird. It never has been.

You’ve known Seungmin too long, been through too much together, for something like this to be anything but familiar. You’re practically family.

Still, when he shifts closer, when his arm slings loosely around your shoulder, something inside you cracks wide open.

"You scared me," he says eventually, voice quieter now.

Your eyes press shut. "I know."

Another beat. Then, "Don’t do that shit again."

You swallow past the lump in your throat. "Okay."

Neither of you move.

For now, this is enough.

The weight of exhaustion settles deeper into your bones, pressing you further into the mattress. Seungmin's warmth seeps through the layers of fabric between you, grounding in a way that nothing else has since last night. Since him. You exhale, slow and uneven, and Seungmin feels it—his grip around your shoulder tightening for just a second, a quiet reassurance he doesn’t put into words.

 "Do you remember anything?" he asks eventually, voice softer than before. 

Your fingers twitch against the blanket. "Some." A pause. "Not much."

 He doesn’t say anything right away, but you feel the way his body tenses for a fraction of a second. "Changbin was looking for you before I found you." 

Your stomach flips.

Your throat feels tight again, panic curling at the edges of your ribs. You don’t want to ask. Don’t want to know. But you do anyway. 

"Did you tell him?" 

Seungmin shifts beside you, chin brushing lightly against your hair as he adjusts. "No."

 Relief and something bitter twist together inside you.

 "He was worried," Seungmin adds after a moment. "Really worried." 

You bite your lip, squeezing your eyes shut. You don’t want to hear that. Don’t want to think about what Changbin must’ve looked like when he realized you were gone. The hurt that must’ve flickered across his face, the frustration that would’ve quickly followed. Seungmin shifts again, this time pulling back slightly so he can glance down at you. "You gonna talk to him?"

 You hesitate.

Your fingers tighten around the blanket, nails pressing into the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored.

"I don’t know," you admit, voice small.

Seungmin doesn’t sigh, doesn’t scoff—just watches you, eyes sharp, waiting. You can feel the weight of his gaze even without looking.

"You can’t avoid him forever," he says eventually. "You know that, right?"

"I’m not—" You cut yourself off, because you are. You absolutely are.

Seungmin shifts beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. "He was losing his shit last night," he says, blunt as ever. "Like, full-on panicked."

Your stomach twists.

"He kept asking where you went, if anyone had seen you leave. It was fucking sad, honestly."

You exhale through your nose, trying to keep your expression neutral, but Seungmin sees right through you. He always does.

Seungmin doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, he leans back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling like he’s picking his next words carefully. You can feel his presence beside you, steady and sure, the way it’s always been.

"You know," he starts, voice quieter now, "I used to think you and Changbin were good together."

Your stomach clenches.

Seungmin doesn’t look at you, just continues like he’s thinking out loud. "I mean, I don’t think I ever told you that. But I did. You balanced each other out, you know? He made you laugh in a way you never let yourself. And you—" He exhales, shaking his head slightly. "You softened him in a way no one else could."

Your fingers twist into the blanket. You don’t want to hear this. Not now. Not after everything.

"It wasn’t enough," you say, barely above a whisper.

Seungmin finally glances at you. "You sure about that?"

You force out a hollow laugh. "We broke up, didn’t we?"

A beat of silence. Then—

"You broke up with him."

The words hit harder than you expect. You knew they were coming, knew that was the truth, but hearing them out loud makes your throat tighten.

You swallow. "It was for the best."

Seungmin scoffs. "For who?"

"For him," you snap before you can stop yourself.

Seungmin blinks, caught off guard by the sharpness of your voice. You press your lips together, exhaling through your nose, trying to reel yourself back in.

He doesn’t push. Just watches you for a moment, eyes sharp, searching. "Is that really what you think?"

You don’t answer. Because if you do, you’ll have to admit it.

That you left because you were scared. That you left because you felt too much, and it made you sick, made you restless, made you want to run before he could run first.

Because Seungmin is right. Changbin never left. You did.

"You were happy with him," Seungmin says after a moment, voice softer now.

Your chest tightens. "I thought I was."

"You were," he insists. "You just didn’t know how to let yourself believe it."

You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head. "It wouldn’t have lasted."

Seungmin doesn’t argue. But he doesn’t agree, either. Instead, he says, "Do you remember when he stayed outside your apartment that night?"

You cringe, shame curling deep in your gut at the memory.

Seungmin shifts beside you. "After you ended things. He came over. He wanted to fix it, but you wouldn’t open the door. So he just... sat there. For hours." He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. "Hyunjin had to drag him back home. Said he wouldn’t stop crying."

Your heart clenches so tightly it hurts.

You remember that night. You remember sitting on the other side of the door, knees pulled to your chest, fingers pressed against your lips to keep in the sobs. You remember wanting to reach for the handle, to take it all back, to tell him you were sorry.

But you didn’t.

And now here you are, running all over again.

"You still love him, don’t you?" Seungmin’s voice is quiet, careful. Like he already knows the answer.

You bite the inside of your cheek, hard. "It doesn’t matter."

"It does," he counters. "And you know it."

Seungmin’s words settle into the silence, heavy and immovable. You want to argue, to deny it, to pretend that it’s not still clawing at your chest—but what’s the point? He sees right through you. He always has.

You press the heel of your palm against your forehead, eyes squeezing shut. “Even if I do, it doesn’t change anything.”

Seungmin exhales sharply through his nose. “Why not?”

“Because I’ll ruin it.” The words slip out before you can stop them, unfiltered and raw, and the moment they do, you wish you could shove them back down.

Seungmin goes still. And then, softer, “You really think that?”

You let out a hollow laugh, tilting your head back against the headboard. “Seungmin. Look at me. Look at the shit I do.” Your fingers twist into the blanket again, as if holding onto something tangible will stop you from unraveling completely. “I push people away. I fuck things up before they can fall apart on their own. And I don’t—” Your voice falters, throat tightening. “I don’t know how to be what he needs.”

A pause. Then—

“And what exactly does he need?” Seungmin asks.

You stare at him, frustrated. “Something steady. Something good. Something I’m not.”

Seungmin’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, his gaze softens, just slightly. “That’s bullshit,” he says simply.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He shifts so he’s fully facing you now, arms still folded over his chest. “You act like you’re some kind of walking disaster, like you’re incapable of being loved, but that’s not true.” His eyes hold yours, steady and unrelenting. “You love harder than anyone I know. You just don’t let yourself believe that people could love you the same way.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

“I—”

“You didn’t leave because you thought you weren’t good for him,” Seungmin cuts in. “You left because you were scared he was good for you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the ribs, knocking the air from your lungs.

Because it’s true, isn’t it?

Your throat is tight, chest aching in a way that feels too raw to touch. You don’t trust yourself to speak, don’t trust your voice not to crack under the weight of everything Seungmin is forcing you to confront.

For a long moment, neither of you say anything. The room is quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on your nightstand.

Then, quietly, Seungmin sighs. “You know, I don’t usually get involved in this kind of shit,” he mutters, leaning his head back against the headboard. “I figure people are gonna do what they want, and it’s not my job to fix their messes.”

You glance at him warily. “But?”

“But,” he says, leveling you with a look, “I think you’re being an idiot.”

You let out a dry laugh, rubbing at your eyes. “Yeah. I got that.”

Seungmin shakes his head. “I mean it. You can keep pretending you don’t care. You can keep running, keep convincing yourself that this is just the way you are.” His voice lowers, softer but no less firm. “Or you can do something about it.”

You swallow. “And if I don’t?”

Seungmin shrugs. “Then you keep living like this. Keep pretending you don’t miss him. Keep waking up in beds that don’t feel right. Keep feeling like shit every time you see him with someone else, wondering if maybe, just maybe, that could’ve still been you.”

You exhale shakily, pressing your fingers against your temples. 

“I’m just saying.” Seungmin nudges your shoulder lightly, voice dipping back into something a little more familiar, a little less weighted. “You don’t have to be so dramatic about it.”

A weak laugh escapes you despite yourself. “Fuck off.”

Seungmin grins. “There she is.”

The weight in your chest hasn’t lifted entirely, but it feels a little less suffocating now. Like maybe, just maybe, you can breathe through it.

You sit with that for a moment, the quiet between you no longer sharp, no longer something that threatens to choke you.

Then, hesitantly, you murmur, “What if I don’t know how to fix it?”

Seungmin doesn’t hesitate. “Then start by telling him the truth.”

You lick your lips, voice dry and unsteady. “I don’t think that’s enough.”

Seungmin exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “Then stop making excuses and figure out what is.”

His voice is firm but not unkind. It’s the way he’s always spoken to you—like he’s giving you just enough space to mess up, but never enough to let you completely self-destruct. And right now, you think he might be the only person willing to call you out for exactly what you are.

You rub a hand over your face, fingers pressing into your temples. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Seungmin is quiet for a beat. Then, “Get clean.”

Your breath catches. “Seungmin—”

“No.” He looks at you, gaze sharp, unwavering. “I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like I don’t see it. The way you drink. The shit you take just to keep your head quiet.” He tilts his head, studying you. “You think Changbin didn’t notice?”

Your stomach twists.

You’ve spent so long convincing yourself you were good at hiding it. That the late nights, the pills, the drinks, the desperate need to fill the empty spaces—you thought it was subtle enough to slip by.

But maybe it never was.

Maybe that was just another lie you told yourself to make it easier to keep running.

Seungmin leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His voice is quieter now, but no less firm. “If you want to fix things with him, if you actually want to try, you need to stop doing this shit to yourself.” He gestures vaguely at you, at the room, at all of it. “Because if you don’t, you’re gonna keep hurting yourself. And worse? You’re gonna hurt him, too.”

Your throat feels tight. “I never meant to—”

“I know,” Seungmin says, and this time, there’s no bite to it. Just quiet understanding. “But you will.”

The words hit harder than you expect. Because the truth is, you’ve already hurt him. Over and over again. You saw the way he looked at you before you left, the way his hands trembled when he reached for you and you stepped back. 

And still, you left.

You exhale shakily, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. “I don’t know if I can.”

Seungmin doesn’t let up. “Then figure it out. Because if you go back to him like this? You’re just gonna break him all over again.”

You swallow hard, hands shaking in your lap. He’s right. He’s so fucking right, and you hate him for it.

But mostly, you hate yourself.

For letting it get this bad.

For not stopping sooner.

For not being the kind of person Changbin deserved to love.

For the first time in a long time, you feel something crack deep in your chest, something that’s been locked up tight behind all the bullshit excuses you’ve been feeding yourself.

You meet Seungmin’s gaze, eyes burning. “What if I try and I still fuck it up?”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Then at least you’ll know you actually tried.”

You stare at him, at the boy who has somehow never given up on you despite all the reasons he should. And then, finally, you nod.

It’s small. It’s hesitant.

But it’s real.

And that’s enough.

For a moment, at least.

Then the panic starts creeping back in—the gnawing, clawing kind that tightens around your throat and makes your skin itch with something worse than withdrawal. If you wait too long, you won’t do it. You know yourself. You’ll convince yourself it’s not worth it, that it’s better this way, that you’ll just end up ruining him more.

If you don’t go to Changbin now, you never will.

So you move.

You push the blanket off and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, ignoring the way the room spins violently around you. Your body protests immediately—your muscles scream, your stomach clenches, your skin feels feverish and too tight all at once—but you grit your teeth and stand anyway.

Or, you try to.

Because Seungmin is there, shoving you right back down before you even get a chance to take a step.

“No.”

Your head jerks up. He looks pissed—more than pissed. His jaw is clenched, his grip firm where he holds your shoulder

Your whole body tenses. “If I don’t do it now, I won’t do it at all.”

“And if you collapse on his doorstep,  what then?” His grip is firm, but not unkind. His voice, though, is sharp. “You can barely fucking stand, let alone have a conversation with him that doesn’t end with you making it worse.”

He gestures at you—at the way your whole body is trembling, at the sweat glistening at your hairline, at the way your legs are barely holding you up. “You think you’re gonna show up at his place like this and suddenly everything will be fine? That you’ll say some magic fucking words and he’ll just forgive you?”

Seungmin sighs, running a hand through his hair. He looks exhausted. Like he’s been fighting a battle he never asked to be a part of.

“Just give yourself a few hours,” he says, voice quieter now. “Let your body catch up first. Then you can go.”

It’s a compromise. One that you should take.

So you do.

You let yourself fall back against the pillows, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. You don’t speak. Neither does Seungmin. He just stays there, silent, like he’s waiting for you to finally pass out.

You don’t. You can’t. Every nerve in your body is on fire, the restlessness so overwhelming it makes your skin feel too tight. You shift constantly, fingers twitching against the fabric of the blanket, but Seungmin doesn’t say anything about it.

At some point, though, he falls asleep.

You wait.

And then, once you’re sure he’s out, you move.

You push the blanket off, biting down on your lip to keep from groaning as your muscles scream in protest. Every inch of your body feels like it’s been wrung out, exhaustion settling deep in your bones, but you force yourself up anyway.

The clock reads 4:12 AM as you slip out the door.

Seungmin doesn’t wake.

And you don’t stop.

____________________________________________________________________________

For a second, neither of you say anything.

Changbin blinks at you, slow and disoriented, sleep still clinging to the edges of his expression. His hair is a mess, sticking up in uneven tufts, and there’s a crease pressed into his cheek from his pillow. He’s shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, one hand braced against the doorframe as he takes you in.

Then, his gaze sharpens.

His lips press into a thin line, his posture stiffening, the warmth of sleep fading into something more guarded. He looks you over once, eyes scanning your face, your trembling hands, the way you’re barely standing upright. He exhales sharply through his nose.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Your stomach twists. “Changbin—”

“Do you even know what time it is?” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it, rough and worn down. Not sharp enough to cut—but enough to bruise.

“I had to come.” Your voice is hoarse, barely audible over the hammering of your pulse.

He scoffs, running a hand down his face. “Of course you did.” He shifts, crossing his arms over his chest. “You high?”

You shake your head. “No.”

He doesn’t look convinced. His jaw tightens, his gaze flicking down to your hands—shaking, white-knuckled around the sleeves of your hoodie. You force them still, gripping the fabric harder.

“I’m not,” you repeat, firmer this time. “I swear.”

A long silence stretches between you, thick and weighted, the kind that sinks deep into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Then, with a quiet sigh, Changbin steps back. “Get inside.”

The warmth of his apartment is suffocating after the bite of the cold, the air thick with the lingering heat of sleep. It smells like him—like cedarwood and clean laundry, like something steady, something safe—but all it does is make your chest ache harder.

You don’t belong here. Not anymore.

Still, you step inside.

The door clicks shut behind you, a finality that rattles in your bones. You swallow hard as Changbin moves past you, his steps slow, deliberate. The kitchen faucet runs, the sound too loud in the quiet, and then he’s back, pressing a glass of water into your shaking hands.

His fingers brush yours—brief, fleeting—but it sends something sharp through your veins.

“Drink,” he murmurs.

You do, even as your stomach twists around the effort, even as the words start bubbling up before you can stop them.

“I—” Your voice catches, raw and unsteady. You clear your throat, grip tightening around the glass. “I’m sorry.”

Changbin exhales through his nose, slow and measured. He doesn’t respond.

You can’t stop. “I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you, and I never wanted to.” The words stumble out, rushed and uneven, spilling into the space between you like water slipping through cracks. “I don’t—I don’t even know how to fix it, but I—”

Your breath hitches. The words pile up in your throat, heavy and unwieldy, choking you from the inside out. Your hands shake harder, fingers tightening around the glass until your knuckles burn.

Changbin watches you, jaw tense, but his eyes aren’t hard. They aren’t angry. They’re searching, flickering with something unreadable, something softer than you deserve.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Your pulse is too loud in your ears. The room tilts. The air feels too thick, your lungs struggling to expand around it.

You don’t even realize what you’re doing—don’t register the way your nails dig into your palms, how sharp the pain has become—until Changbin’s hand wraps around your wrist.

“Hey.” His voice is low, steady. His thumb brushes over your skin, a grounding pressure. "Stop."

You blink, dazed, following his gaze down to where your fists are clenched so tightly that blood has begun to bead at the crescent-shaped wounds in your palms.

Your stomach lurches.

“I—” You try to let go, but your muscles refuse to cooperate, your fingers locked in place.

Changbin sighs, his grip gentle but firm as he pries your hands open. He doesn’t say anything—just guides you toward his bed, easing you to sit at the edge before crouching in front of you.

The mattress dips beneath you, its familiar give grounding you in a way your own body refuses to. The room still tilts at the edges of your vision, nausea pressing sharp against your ribs, but Changbin doesn’t let go. His grip stays firm, steady, his fingers wrapped around your wrists as if to keep you from slipping through his grasp entirely.

You watch, breath unsteady, as he releases you just long enough to disappear into the bathroom. The distant rustling of cabinets, the quiet pop of a cap being unscrewed—then he’s back, first aid kit in hand, expression unreadable.

The soft click of plastic echoes in the stillness as he kneels in front of you, his movements deliberate, careful. He doesn’t speak as he takes your hand again, doesn’t chide you, doesn’t ask why—he just begins cleaning the wounds, swiping a cool antiseptic wipe across your palm with excruciating gentleness.

You flinch. His grip tightens, but not to hold you still—just to remind you that he’s there.

"Relax," he murmurs.

You try. Try to breathe through the sting, try to focus on the warmth of his hands rather than the sharp bite of antiseptic against broken skin. But the moment feels too fragile, too raw, and you don’t know how to exist in it without unraveling entirely.

Your throat works around the lump forming there. “I didn’t mean to.” The words slip out before you can stop them, hoarse and barely above a whisper.

His fingers still against your skin. He exhales, slow and measured, before resuming his careful work. “I know.”

You’re trembling.

Changbin feels it beneath his hands—the fine, uncontrollable shakes that run through your fingers, up your arms, curling around your shoulders like something too heavy to carry alone. He doesn’t know if it’s from the pain, the exhaustion, or something deeper, something far worse.

Maybe all of it at once.

His chest tightens. He’s known you for years, long enough to recognize the weight you carry, the way you pretend it’s nothing. He’s seen you angry, reckless, sharp-edged and self-destructive. He’s seen you laugh through pain, spit out sarcasm like it’s a shield, convince the world that nothing can touch you.

But he has never—not once—seen you cry.

So when your breath shudders, when your fingers tighten in his, when your face crumples, it hits him like a fist to the gut.

It starts slow—just a hitch in your breath, a slight tremble in your lips. Then your eyes squeeze shut, and the first tear slips free, carving a silent path down your cheek. Another follows. Then another.

Changbin’s stomach drops.

“Hey,” he breathes, barely realizing he’s moving until he’s shifting onto the mattress beside you. He doesn’t let go of your hands, doesn’t even think about it—just stays close, as if anchoring you in place.

But you shake your head, ducking your head to hide behind your hair, shoulders carving into yourself, like you’re embarrassed to be breaking apart in front of him.

That’s what gets him. The way you’re trying so hard to hold it in, like you think you have to.

“Don’t,” he murmurs. He reaches up, hesitates for a split second before brushing his fingers against your cheekbone, coaxing your gaze to his. “It’s okay.”

You let out a sharp, broken breath, and his heart clenches so tight for a moment, he’s the one that can’t breath.

He’s helpless against it—the sight of you unraveling, the sound of your quiet, choked sobs. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say that won’t sound useless in the face of whatever’s eating you alive.

So he just does the only thing that makes sense.

He pulls you in.

His arms circle around you, firm but careful, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he holds too tight. A sob tears its way out of you, muffled against his bare shoulder, and it nearly floors him. He tightens his hold instinctively, hand cradling the back of your head, anchoring you as best he can while the weight of everything presses down. He knows then that you could continue pushing him away for the rest of your lives, tear his heart into pieces like you did the day you broke up with him and he would still be here, still be holding you like this if you ever needed him again like the damn fool he was.

The realization settles deep in his bones, heavy and inescapable—he will always come back to you.

You don’t speak. You just stay there, curled into him, hands gripping his hoodie like you need something—someone—to hold you together.

Changbin doesn’t move, doesn’t dare breathe too deep in case it startles you, in case it reminds you of the space you should be putting between you instead of closing it. Instead, he just presses his chin lightly against the top of your head and listens—to your uneven breaths, to the tiny, shuddering inhales that barely make it past your lips.

It takes a long time for your breathing to even out, for the tension in your body to start seeping away. Even longer for your fingers to unclench, for the weight against him to settle, growing heavier, more still.

He tilts his head just slightly, catching a glimpse of your face where it’s tucked into his shoulder. Your lashes are damp, cheeks still streaked with the remnants of your breakdown—but your features have softened, lips parted as sleep tugs you under.

Something in him pulls tight.

He knows you—knows that sleep doesn't come easy for you on a good day, let alone like this. But now, wrapped up in his arms, your body is giving in. You trust him enough, even now, to let go like this. To rest.

It shouldn’t make his chest ache the way it does. Shouldn’t make him feel like holding onto you for as long as he can, even knowing that morning will come, that you’ll wake up and everything will still be broken. That the walls will go back up, the distance will return.

But for now—just for now—he lets himself be selfish.

Carefully, he shifts, tightening one arm around you as he maneuvers you gently onto the mattress. You murmur something in your sleep, brow twitching like you might stir, and he stills, waiting, breath shallow. But then you sigh, sinking deeper into the bed, the tension in your face easing again.

He exhales, moving slowly as he reaches down, carefully slipping off your shoes. The laces are damp from the cold outside, your socks barely warm enough to fend it off. He makes a mental note to find a spare blanket, something heavier, something that will keep you warm.

He tugs the comforter over you, tucking it lightly around your shoulders.

Then, he just—pauses.

Standing there, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, the way your fingers twitch slightly against the fabric.

You have a long way to go.

There are things you both need to say, things you can’t keep burying under silence and unshed tears. This—whatever it is—can’t stay suspended in fragile moments like this forever.

But right now, that doesn’t matter.

Right now, you’re here.

And for tonight, that’s enough.

[cmncisspnandmore]

One Night Stand; Part 6

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley X Pregnant!Reader

Warnings: Smut, Shower smut, Slight breeding kink if you squint, Simon Riley being a literal angel, basically all smut with a little bit of plot.

A/N: Hi loves, imma be real, i wrote this entire part in a day. I spent pretty much my entire afternoon writing this after i scrapped about 4 different versions. This is the best i got at the moment. Im still working on this series and requests. Just life is kinda busy. So please bear with me and enjoy the brain rot. This is also not proofread at all so RIP to any grammar police.

Word Count: 3012... This seemed longer.. sowwie, its smol.

New to the Series? Catch up here: Part 5

You sleepily make your way towards the bathroom door, hand closing over the knob as the incessant need to pee urges you forward. It was a little after 2am, you had fallen asleep rather early having spent most of the day lounging around the apartment. 

Simon was on base for the day, running training exercises with Soap, Gaz and Captain Price. During the 3 months you have been living with Simon, you have come to learn his patterns. Training days meant that 9 times out of 10 he would spend the night on base. The days before a deployment he would make sure to stock the fridge and pantry with your favorites. On Sundays he did laundry, every 3rd wednesday he would get his haircut. Saturdays after returning for deployment were reserved for going out to Soap’s bar and having a well deserved drink. You also learnt his day to day routine, every morning he was home Simon rose at exactly 5:00am, went on a 12 mile run, when he returned if you weren't already awake he would prepare you a healthy breakfast and leave it out for you before heading to work. 

On days when you were awake when he got back from his run he would shower, and you both would spend some time preparing breakfast together. Although those mornings instead of the nutritionally packed meals he usually prepared you often convinced him to make some sort of carb and sugar filled breakfast. Those mornings he would often leave the flat grumbling about how he should’ve run extra. Those mornings were your favorite. 

Since you moved in your relationship with Simon had not progressed further than friends, sure there was still the burning desire that he ignited within you from just looking at you. And you would often linger just a little bit too long in his arms when he would give you a hug. But there hadn't been any kissing, and you haven't managed to end up naked in between his sheets. But that wasn't for lack of wanting.

As you shove open the bathroom door, you fail to realize that not only was the light on but the sound of running water was coming from the shower. As you quickly beeline for the enclosed toilet space, you don't feel a set of brown eyes watching your every move from behind the foggy glass. It isn't until you wash your hands in the sink and glance up into the large mirror on the wall that you realize you aren't alone. Through the fogged glass of the mirror you can make out Simon’s large silhouette, his tanned skin reduced to nothing more than a tan blob. 

“Oh my god!” You squeak, whirling around, your chest heaving as you finally face Simon. He's mostly obscured by the fogged glass door of the walk-in shower, but his bemused smile is clear. “I didn't think you would be coming home!” You mutter out, your cheeks turning pink as he runs his hand across the glass cleaning away some of the fog. Now you can clearly see his face, although distorted by the water droplets on the glass. 

“I should’ve texted you, I'm sorry.. I just didn't want to be late for the appointment in the morning..” Simon says as he reaches up, running his hand through his wet blonde hair.

“No, no! I'm sorry, I should've paid more attention. I'm such an airhead sometimes I didn't realize that there was someone in here..” you rush out as you try to desperately keep your eyes from straying from Simon's face. You aren’t sure if it's the heat from the shower or the pregnancy hormones but it takes all your willpower to keep your eyes from trailing down his toned body. 

Simon pauses for a moment, his dark brown eyes trailing over you, from the adorable flush of your cheeks to the swell of your stomach under the sleep shirt you have on. “It’s alright. Love," Simon smiles. One of his panty dropping smiles that you swear he reserves for only you. It's the smile that sends shivers straight to your core. That leaves you a hot panting mess behind closed doors. Living with Simon and not jumping his bones at every opportunity was damn near torture during your second trimester. You were able to take care of things yourself, but now that your bump had grown substantially, you hadn’t been able to find relief.  

Without thinking, you walk towards the shower and yank open the door, the hot steam pouring out. Little splashes of water hit your skin as you step into the small space. Your sleep shirt and shorts quickly drenched, as Simon stares at you wide eyed. 

“Sweetheart…” Simon warns as your hands come to rest on his wet cheeks, your thumb catching on his bottom lip as he looks down at you, his pupils blown wide. You quickly close the space between you two, your bump pressing against the firm plains of his abs, your arms snaking around his neck as you sharply tug him down to your height. Your lips capture his in a sloppy, wet kiss. Simon groans low in his throat, his chest vibrating against your overly sensitive breasts. A new wave of need pluses through you as you try to get closer, Simon's cock jumping to life as it presses against your lower stomach. Simon's large hands land on your hips squeezing slightly as he turns you, pressing your back against the cold tile wall of the shower. 

A startled gasp rushes past your lips as your back makes contact with the cold tile. A shiver running through you as your wet shirt makes it feel colder. Simon smiles against your lips, one hand coming up to graze over your pebbled nipples through the sopping wet fabric of your shirt. A breathy moan slips from you as Simon peppers kisses down the side of your jaw to your neck. The spray from the showerhead now sprays off his shoulders as he leans lower. 

“Fuck.. Please,” you whine, nails scratching along the tops of his shoulders Simon wraps his lips around one of your nipples, over the fabric of your shirt. The friction from the wet fabric sends waves of pleasure through you straight to your core, your legs starting to shake with need and Simon has barely touched you.

“Such a needy girl…” Simon murmurs against your skin, as he flicks his tongue across your nipple. Your cheeks flush pink at his words but you’re hanging on to each one like they’re your life line. “Why didn't you just come to me if you needed some help baby?” Simon whispers softly, as his fingers trace the bottom of your bump, slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt as he pushes it up.

“I…I don't know,” You mumble your head tipping back against the cold shower wall. 

Simon hums, his lips once again brushing across one of your nipples, pulling another moan from you. “God, your tits are amazing. It’s been hell walking around trying not to stare at them. Knowing that my child is the reason, knowing that they are growing to provide milk for our baby,” Simon whispers against your skin, and you swear you could cum just from the sounds of his voice. 

“Simon… Please…” you whine, it's small and breathy, in any other circumstance you would be ashamed for sounding so weak, but right now you couldn't give two shits if the damn queen of England was standing here witnessing your plea.

“Tell me what you need baby, I don't want to hurt you..” Simon stands back to his full height, his hand coming to cup the side of your face. You force your eyes open, Simon's beautiful brown eyes staring at you. Simon is a large man, in all aspects of his life and the last thing he would ever want to do is hurt you unintentionally. Especially now, as you carry his child within you, he would rather be buried alive again than accidentally do something to hurt you or the baby.

“I need you to bend me over and fuck me senseless. I feel like I'm going to explode,” you whine, your needy hands coming to rake down his bare chest, sending a shiver through Simon's entire body. 

“Whatever you need, Love,” Simon grunts before he bends down and picks you up, nudging open the shower door with his shoulder as he cradles you against his wet chest. He doesn’t stop to turn off the shower or even dry himself off as he brings you into his room. He sets you down on your feet and quickly drops to his knees in front of you. His still warm hands catching the waistband of your wet sleep shorts. He pulls them down your legs, goosebumps erupting across your skin from the sudden change in temperature. 

Simon presses a series of soft kisses to the stretched skin of your stomach, his hands briefly cupping your belly/ “Hi Lovie,” he whispers softly to your bump and if you weren’t so ravishingly horny you could cry. The sight of probably one of the scariest men you know on his knees in front of you talking to his unborn child makes you want to scream in the best way. But your mind quickly goes blank as Simon's fingers trace the smooth skin of your inner thigh. 

“Turn around, elbows on the bed, pet,” Simon stands again, his hands on your shoulders as he gently turns you. As if on autopilot you lean forwards, resting your elbows on the bed, giving Simon a perfect view of your ass. A deep groan hits your ears as Simon's hand comes to massage the puffy flesh of your ass. Your skin prickles with anticipation as his fingers dip lower, gathering the slick wetness from between your thighs. The breath wooshed from your lungs as he thrusts one finger into your slick cunt. 

“You’re so wet for me, such a good girl aren't you?” Simon hums, lazily thrusting his finger before he adds a second. You tip your hips back, trying to make him go faster, this slow languid pace he was setting was driving you mad. You needed to be fucked, and god damn if you didn't get it right now you were going to cry. 

“Si…” you whine, pushing your hips back into his hand as he curls his fingers within you. 

“Hmm?”

“I’m pregnant, not made of fucking glass. I swear if you don't fu-” Your voice cuts off as Simon slams into you in one quick thrust. Your world spins for a moment and if you hadn't been holding onto the bed for support you would’ve fallen over. A startled gasp passes your lips and Simon all but freezes. “No please don't stop, it just feels different but not in a bad way…” You quickly mumble reaching back haphazardly with one hand to try and grab Simon's hip to force him to move.  

“You sure?” Simon mumbles, his hands coming to rest on your hips, as he slowly pulls out before sinking back in. 

“Oh god, yes, please,” you moan, your face now pressed into the mattress. That was all it took for Simon to continue, his hips thrust into you at a rapid pace, obscene moans leaving your lips as he slams home each time. Sex felt different this time, there was no slight burn from how big Simon was but you felt full, so deliciously full. You had been worried about having sex at any point during your pregnancy, having read that some women have no sex drive during pregnancy, especially the 3rd trimester. But thank the lord above it was not the case for you. Your thoughts turn to nothing as Simon lets out a harsh moan, your walls fluttering around him. 

“Fuck baby, you’re squeezing me so tight,” Simon grunts as he adjusts his grip on your hip bones,his fingertips digging into your skin.

“Feels so good Simon.. I'm gonna cum..” You whimper as the familiar coil in your stomach tightens, teetering on the edge of release as he pounds into you. Your skin slapping against each other so loud you're sure the neighbors know what's going on.

“Cum for me baby,” Simon leans forward, one hand wrapping around your shoulder as he pulls you up slightly, your elbows no longer resting on the bed as he pulls you up against his chest. His hips still pistoning into you as he uses the new position to fuck into your harder. You reach up and grab the back of his neck with your hand, anchoring yourself to him, your other hand coming to find the hand still on your waistline. You guide his hand up to your throat where he gives it a gentle squeeze. 

That small squeeze was all you needed to go tumbling over the edge into oblivion. Stars dance in front of your vision as the world goes quiet for a moment. Simon finds his own release moments after yours, his entire body tensing behind you. As you turn to putty in his arms, “Woah, I’ve got you,” Simon whispers into your sweaty hairline as his arms carefully wrap around you and he manages to slip out of you and hold you up. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, fully sated as you lean against his chest. You can feel his heart hammering against your back, one arm firmly around you, right under your breasts the other resting lightly on your bump. His fingers softly rubbing along your soft skin. 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Simon grunts, maneuvering you to the edge of the bed where he helps lower you into it. 

“I just basically jumped you in the shower… “ you mutter, your eyes heavy as exhaustion hits you like a freight train hitting a brick wall. 

Simon pauses as he gathers your wet pj’s from the floor and shoves them into his laundry basket. “You think I would be upset by you jumping me in the shower?” He asks, a small smile on his face. 

You lift your head, watching as he shoves the clothes into the basket and grabs a black long sleeve shirt from the closet. He walks over, standing in front of you still in all his naked glory, the shirt in his hands. “Well.. I mean.. we haven’t exactly expressed wanting more than friendship..” 

“Love, I’ve been taking it slow because I thought you only wanted to be friends… not because I wanted to. God, watching you walk around the apartment, your stomach growing with my child drives me insane, I’ve wanted to bend you over the kitchen counter and fuck you sensless every morning since the first day you got here.” Simon pulls the shirt over your head, and you put your arms through, the shirt still fits loosely even over your baby bump. 

“Oh…” you freeze for a moment, you and Simon had gotten closer over the time you’ve lived with him. You had learnt about his past, about his mother and brother. About his nephew. You held him when he cried one night, his words a broken mess of how he was afraid he would turn out to be his dad. How he wished he could talk to his brother one last time, so he could ask him how he got past the fear of turning into his dad. How he handled the fear of being a dad when he had Joseph.

But the entire time you had lived together Simon had always treated you with respect, he never touched your stomach without asking. He always made sure to keep a respectable distance from you when you were on the couch. He never entered your room without permission and never asked about your life before coming to London. 

But it wasn’t to say you didn’t share things with Simon, he knew your favorite color, your worst fear (unrelated to your family’s passing) , your greatest wish, he knew what you used to dream about being as a little kid. He knew that your favorite food could make you smile on your worst days, and that you liked to watch old sitcoms when it rained. If someone was to look into your conversations they would probably think you were already together. That you probably didn’t flaunt the physical aspects of your relationship. Simon had quickly broken down the walls you had put up around yourself, and had comfortably made his own spot in your heart.

Simon sits next to you, now dressed in a pair of black sweatpants, his large hand covering yours. You slowly look up at him, his brow furrowed as he studies your face. The small scar in his eyebrow evident this close, you reach out running a finger across it. The skin is slightly raised and water drips from his hair onto your finger.

“Then you should stop fighting the urge…” you finally whisper, your hand cupping the rough skin of Simon’s face. 

“Would you be okay with that? With me touching you whenever I wanted… holding you.. kissing you?” Simon whispers, his eyes closing for a moment as he leans into your hand.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, your forehead coming to rest against his, your eyes closed. For a moment you just sit there. Your foreheads pressed together, your breath mingling.

Could you be okay with that?

Could you let someone in that way?

Let someone get close enough that they could see all the broken and jagged edges of you?

Could you open yourself up to losing someone again?

The thought of Simon being gone suddenly, ripped away from you by some unknown, the same person who ripped your siblings and mother away from you makes you want to vomit.

But a small part of you chimes in, the part that knows Simon isn’t defenseless like your family was. Simon was a trained military man, a man who single handedly killed an entire crew for crossing him. He could handle himself. He had proved that time and time again in the field. He also had the rest of 141, the team who would go to the ends of the earth to find him. 

You open your eyes, and look at Simon, the answer on the tip of your tongue as you stare at his beautiful face. His light blonde stubble, the small scars, the crook in his nose, the slightly uneven line of his lower lip. “Yes… I-I want that.. I want all of it.”

Next Part: 7

Taglist: @coffeeandtealol, @natashamea18

[junedenim]

trying to be good

make sense

warnings: angst, smut, piv, i guess fluff

word count: 3.8k

He's perverted wrapped in shame clutching a bottle. He left his embarrassment two hours ago and his eyes stay on you. It's too early to be drinking and he's not, at least not completely. He took two swigs and found himself on a park bench looking for something to do. Something that won't make him feel totally lost and hopeless.

He doesn't usually do this kind of thing so that doesn't make him a pervert, only perverts and weirdos sit and stare at woman every day. He doesn't whistle or make a noise, in fact you probably can't even tell he's there. 

Except you keep looking over at him. For that he should be feeling the weight of embarrassment but he can't manage to tear his eyes away. Maybe that's because he has nothing left. Feeling a mood of embarrassment would mean he could actually feel something. Yet, he doesn't feel embarrassed, he feels compelled.

It's like spotting a deer in the meadow. It's not shocking for the deer to be there but it to show itself to him with no fear of being shot dead; it's a gift of beauty. 

You sit on the grass with two other girls They don't show themselves to him like you have. They're shy with their backs turned to him. You face toward him, you brush your hair out of your face, and look directly at him. You're challenging. It's like you're playing a game of chess and you're close to outsmarting him but not quite.

He'd probably look like a homeless slob if it wasn't for his clothes. His eyes are heavy, there's his unkempt beard, and a cigarette hangs from his lips so sloppy that a slight blow of the wind would send it crashing to the ground.

Your legs are exposed to the sun and to him. He begs to kiss them just like the sun is now. There's enough fabric to cover the rest of you, to leave something to imagine, to make Alex feel like a pervert. God's gift to men wasn't women, it was this woman.

He stands up and your eyes go large. He gets a kick out of freaking you out and he don't know when he became so deprived or maybe he's always been this way, just held back by his own insecurity that he can't even feel anymore.

You break the stare and turn to your friends, sharing a laugh as if you had never strayed away from the conversation to stare at the man walking toward you. Your heart is beating wildly, he can imagine it. He can almost feel it from the desperation he's feeling. All the numbness fading away, wearing off with each footstep.

As his feet meet the grass, your eyes meet his, up through those lashes, beckoning him to move further. And then he keeps walking right past you. Some would say it was that old shyness pulling him away, but he feels the joy that overcomes him from the thought he disappointed you and left you grasping for more and how alive that makes him feel.

The rustle of grass behind him as your shoes hit makes that sick smirk kill him, split him in two. He's tempted to take a swig but the cigarette won't let him. There's a light touch to his shoulder, you not letting him slip away.

He turns around and you stand with less shame than him. You stare. He stares. You leave him in silence and it has thrown him on his back, knocking any ability to breath out of him. "Yes?"

You hold your hand out in front of him revealing money laid out for him. The bill stares at him, taunting him. "I, uh, don't need that, love." He knew he looked rough, the kind of man a woman like you wouldn't approach, but he didn't think he was that down on his luck. He fixes the cigarette and straightens his jacket.

You giggle. "You dropped it."

"Oh," he voices, a sound dipped in laughter. He shrugs, trying to earn cool points back. "Keep it."

You shake your head. "I don't need it either. Not that bad."

"What's that mean?" He questions blowing off smoke behind his shoulder acting like some refined gentleman, trying to scrub the image of a thug.

"I don't know." The bill still lies in your hand pointed to him for the plucking like you're offering him something more than his money back. "Take it. Give it to someone else."

He looks back over at your friends watching the scene. They avert their eyes when they see him looking. He chuckles at his newfound fate of being a chick repellant, at least to some. "We could split it. Get dinner together."

You smile but look with a furrow to your brows at him. "I don't think this is enough for dinner."

"Alright, then let me take you out to dinner. My dime," he offers. Whether suavely or not, he throws his cigarette off to the side. He eases into himself, not feeling a care for what the answer is. He's confident by the glint in your eyes that he doesn't have much to worry about. Even if he did, he could just drown himself after.

But you nod. "I'd have to get my purse."

"Alright, then get your purse," he commands. You dash off and he watches the pull your friends have on you. A mix of confusion and glee for you. You come running back to him in a prance that strikes the same as a doe leaping.

You're locked in a pace with one another. There's an unmistakable space between the two of you. There isn't much warmth in the silence. "You having a good day?" He asks for lack of anything else.

"I think so. You?" You're flirtatious and, as aware of your every move he is, you're even more zeroed in on yourself. So well aware of what makes his insides twist and turn. He would guess that seducing most men is much of the same. People don't tend to vary in what they like. It's all much of the same.

He shrugs. "So-so."

"So-so, how?"

"Well, you see I was over there on that park bench," he points back to his former resting place, "having as worse a day as a person can never and I can't stop looking at this girl."

"Am I girl?" You tease.

Alex lets out a chuckle. "It would seem so."

"Why were you having a bad day?" You ask. He can't tell if you really care or if you're trying to fake concern. He used to not be a person who cared about those things but now he's stuck in this unforgiving mindset.

He tilts his head to try to signal something like maybe the truth will fall out of his ear and not his mouth. He'll lie. There isn't any other way but to lie because what's the meaning in the truth—and god, fuck, he's been so messed up. This isn't how his brain used to work. Why the fuck can't he get back to normal? 

You seem sweet. You have a sweet smile and sweet eyes and you laugh in a way that sounds real, he doesn't think you're faking it, yet, he can't help but believe that you are. He can't imagine you getting any joy from him. He can't imagine being all that funny. 

"Woke up on the wrong side of the bed," he says.

You nod and don't ask further. He can't make up his mind if he likes that or not.

"I don't usually do this," you let out. "I don't feel comfortable around a total stranger, especially a man."

"And you feel comfortable around me?" He has a hard time not thinking of himself as off-putting. It's tough to imagine a person taking interest him because he puts them at ease. He's been called the opposite. Anxiety-inducing and uninviting. His disposition as of late hasn't given off sunshine and lollipops. He's a storm cloud and he dreads it but there's nothing stopping the downpour.

You think it over. You nod. You smile. You say, "Yeah. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."

*

"My father never let me get bumpers," you tell him, holding up the blue bowling ball beside your head. Your tiny fingers slip into the holes looking so fragile like the slightest move might snap them like twigs. "He called it cheating so from an early age I had to learn how to bowl without it. Still, I suck at it."

"You're beating me," he reasons. He spreads his arms out across the orange and yellow chairs. He watches as you lift your arm back and swing it through down the lane. It veers to the left. 

Some might say you aren't wearing the best attire for bowling. The short dress might work for a picnic in the park but it doesn't make well for movement. He doesn't mind, obviously. He doesn't watch the ball, he watches you. It hits two pins but he watches your two legs instead, one bend slightly, your right giant out-of-place bowling shoe rubbing against the left one.

"I'm a frame ahead of you," you tell him. "You got a strike. I got nada."

You sit beside him and take a sip of the water the alley just served you. "We're only a few frames in."

You reach out for the small menu. "Should we get something to eat? Pizza? Do you like pete-za?" You exaggerate, looking to him with big curious eyes.

He chuckles and hides his amusement in his glass of water. "Yeah. Yeah, I like pizza." He likes the way your eyes dart over the tiny menu in an effort to look through every option they have before officially deciding on pizza.

You lift your eyes and meet his dark ones completely fixed on you. A smile tugs on your cheeks. "It's your turn."

He pulls away because you make him, not because he wants to. He wants to stare, he wants to play along. This game—not the one you've bought to play, but the one between words and looks—is placing him back together. "Eager for defeat?"

You sigh, "It would be nice to get this over with."

"And then what we would do?" He picks up his ball and lets it hang at his side.

"Eat pizza." You're matter-of-fact, throwing the menu down and staring at him in the way only a sick person would stare at him when he has a blue ball in his hand. He could drop it then drop to his knees. The undefinable weight on his back has been pushing him down to the ground anyway.

"Why delay the inevitable?" He could be a gentlemen. He could take you on a proper date and after the third date he might attempt to invite you back to his place but all manners have gone. They flew out the window long ago. It's desperation now.

"I don't know what you're talking about." You're serious. You could be an actress if you didn't quiver. Your face is accusatory. You would've terrified him a couple of years ago but he has since lost the shield of caring. There's no use in pretending. He doesn't need in act. He'd leave right now if he didn't pay for the game and has a mouth that salivating for a slice of 'za.

"Uh-huh, sure."

*

Your shoes scrap on the cement and it annoys the fuck out of him. You walk lazily as if you're regaining the ability to walk and he doesn't want to wait. He doesn't want to walk at snail's pace. He wants salvation.

"Do you have a problem with women?" You ask. He hasn't said anything so it can't be about the shoe. Maybe he hasn't fully shaken the shyness and you've mistaken yourself to be the first woman he's ever looked at.

He laughs at the question. It's fake. It's an act. It's a cover-up. Lying. He shouldn't do that anymore. "No. Why? Do I seem like it?"

"No. I think I have a problem with men." 

Oh.

You're being vulnerable and he's the fucking jerk. He's always the jerk and everything makes sense. All those things that landed him on that park bench. They weren't a lie. He is self-centered and he might be a prick. She was probably right. He's been elsewhere lately, long before she even said those things.

"Why?" He can care. He used to. He was sensitive and he cared too much and it hurt him. Feeling numb wasn't a constant. He loved being the shoulder. He loved putting effort in. He loved being dependable. Then, one day, he lost it all. Or maybe it was more gradually then he'd like to believe. He lost parts of himself along the way but it's just easier to blame her than to blame himself.

You sigh and knock into him by accident, at least it looks that way. It might be some seductive ploy you have to get men wrapped around your finger. Fuck. He rubs his forehead and tries to make sense of himself again. Listen. 

"I worry all the time whether people like me or not. Like my sister is so carefree and she doesn't focus on what people think of her. Meanwhile, I spend days agonizing over whether I said the right thing or not. I'll probably look back on this moment, exactly what I'm saying now, and find myself to be so fucking stupid."

"Don't." It's quick and it's final. It's his only word. You glance over with an uncertainty in his eyes. Other people feel this way too, he never thought that before. He thought he was the only one to feel this cut loose from the world, floating off into space. You've grabbed the wire and try to tug him back down. He can catch his breath.

"Why?" Your smile is no longer teasing. It's a friendly invitation. A person in need of reassurance. He sees himself in you. Maybe it's the other way around too.

"'Cause I'm gonna spend all of tomorrow thinking about if I said the right thing."

"You didn't. At least not yet," you assure him.

"So, there's still time to fuck up?"

"There always is." You're laughing at him but he doesn't mind. He can take the brunt of it if it means hearing you laugh. It's what breaks the ice within him. Things feel less big when he finds such enormous pleasure in something so small. 

You tilt your head and look through his eyes into the window of him. "But I'll forgive you."

*

Sex is a savior. All that sin rhetoric is such bullshit because it feels like a cure-all right now. This is the type of sex that leads to addiction. He wants it every which way but he'll take this. Whatever this is. 

You're naked. He's naked. He thrusts into you from above and he feels like he's squashing you like a bug beneath a book. He'd pull away if you hadn't pulled him closer. Every inch is being consumed until there's no space left to separate.

It started slow. Carefully leaning into each other after the front door shut. There were kisses, plenty of them all over, though he can't remember now. He kisses your lips as a reminder. It's sweet, a taste residue provided by your chapstick.

Now, it's fast. Not an unbelievable pace but one that's toe-curling and gives you both a need to catch your breath. He hears yours up against his ear. It's the rhythm he follows. You claw at him. He eats him up inside. Everything feels oddly calm for something so rushed and loud.

The bed creaks. Something that makes him cringe and you giggle. Then, his knee cracks and he feels the weight of age smack itself down on him. You giggle some more, but then you reach out. You trace the scowl lines that cover his face. You smooth out the skin with a soft touch and a careful smile. You know exactly how to mold him. You know exactly how to make things feel alright. 

At least for now. In the middle of the rising action, right when things reach their tipping point. Truthfully, that probably was the tipping point. Not the orgasm that follows but the ability to be seen and no longer feel like everything must be pushed under the rug. There's no need anymore, not in front of you. He can care.

His back rests on the mattress and he brushes the strands out of the way. You lean over off the bed, picking your purse off of the floor. You take out a piece of gum, the long stick kind, crumbling it into your mouth, and offer him one.

 "Does my breath stink that bad?" He questions.

You shake your head. "No, I just like gum."

He takes it. The sugar punctures his tastebuds. Artificial watermelon makes him pucker up, so overwhelmed by the taste. "I can't remember the last time I had bubblegum. You like this?"

You both are on your backs but you've turned your heads to one another, each of you smacking away. "Yeah. Why? You don't?"

"I thought it would be mint. I didn't know people over the age of 10 bought bubblegum."

He's grateful you laugh. He probably wouldn't have. He would have thought the whole time about how maybe he was too old to be doing these kinds of things, even as minuscule of bubblegum. You seem to take it with ease.

"I like it. It reminds me of my youth. It's what keeps me looking so young." You stroke your cheek, even you are well aware of that baby soft skin.

"You are young." He doesn't know your age but it's ease to assume. He reaches out to take the cheek in his hand, giving him the ability to feel that youthfulness, the preciousness, and the vulnerability penetrate him. 

You're still like his hand is a smooth wave passing over you, a breeze taking its time, the mist quenching the heat. You place your own hand over it like you would like to keep him there as if he might possess the same powers you do. "So, do you like the gum?"

Alex chuckles and leans closer with no ability or wish to pull away. "I think so. I've never been able to blow a bubble."

You brighten up. "Really?" Your eyes are wide with a grin to beat him over the head with. "It's quite easy. You just stretch the gum over you tongue, make sure there's no holes, and then you blow."

He ends up spitting it out right onto the mattress. He falls onto his back and you lean over on him in an eruption of laughter. He hides his smile with his hand as the weight of you lands on him and your hand pokes and prods at him, tickling him more.

Somewhere in the process the gum smooshes onto the sheets. You attempt an apology but it just comes out as more laughing. "At least it wasn't stuck in your beard. I got it stuck in my hair once and I had to cut a whole patch of it out."

"Was it noticeable?" You're back to lying side by side, a slight space formed where the gum is now glued on.

"Oh, completely and school picture day was the next week. It was awful."

"I'd like to see that."

"Never," you vow. You shift, sinking further into the mattress and closer to him. "Why is your hair long? Are you growing it out?"

He blows air out, emptying his lungs, and trying to make sense out of something he hasn't be able fully understand yet. "I'm doing something with it."

You hum and don't ask any further. Your hand reaches out and strokes down the strands of his hair. Your nails soothe those never-ending pains his brain has been firing off. You look content, perfectly comfortable here. He could be that. 

"I've kind of let myself go lately. I've been a bit of a mess. Feel like I've been stuck in this spiral that I can't get out of. A riptide of...feelings, uncontrollable feelings. Nothing or everything. I just want to feel like myself again."

You're quiet, attentively listening, stroking his hair. Your breathing keeps him steady and not completely falling off the edge. You smile, just a bit. "This too shall pass."

*

He wakes up before you but doesn't know what to do. He isn't sure if he should make breakfast or take a shower or wake you up. So, he just lies there and waits. You've sunk into the pillow enough to leave marks when you wake up. Your hair is tossed, some falling into your eyes. A touch to move it away could wake you but he touches anyway.

He tried to make this surface level but as you stir and your eyelashes flutter he feels like he has brought all this pain on himself. Everything he tried to avoid is laying right next to him. He shouldn't have engaged in this. 

"Do you wake up with a scowl?" You ask. You fold your arms up and rest your head on them.

He shakes his head, trying his best to rest his face. "I'm just thinking."

You hum. "You do that a lot. See, I talk too much that's my problem. There are worse things to suffer from."

"I'm doing that questioning your every move thing."

You hum again. He almost expects you to take out a pen and paper and start taking notes. You study him. He can feel your eyes trace his skin. "What answers are you getting?"

"What?"

"Well," you sit up and lean over him, "you're asking all these questions of why you did that or said that or what to do next so what's the answer?"

He's silent, unsure of what to say. He feels dumb. He probably does have a problem with women, one that he can't ignore with you leering over him. You answer for him, "I think it's because you wanted to. You don't make a lot of mistakes if you ended up in bed with the girl and she spent the night. Especially when she's telling you she had a lovely time."

Alex cracks a smile. He can't say much else. The truth was in your words so instead of speaking he reaches out and tugs you down to him. With your skin still bare and mind at ease, you rest your head on his chest.

Everything slows down. The slightest touch feels important. It grounds him. He doesn't want to escape this. He wants to relish in it. He can't remember the last time he didn't want to escape something. How desperate he has been to escape this intimacy. But this closeness is what he always needed. To feel someone else understand him.

"I think you're laying on the gum."

*

a/n: i don't know what this is or if i like it but it's something.

[heartthrobin]

press your tulips to mine

steven grant x female!reader

wc: 4.6k

warnings: mutual pining, steven is a shy babygirl, marc playing wingman (but he's kinda terrible at it cause he's also falling in love), no jake (the crowd is booing), no khonshu, steven still works at the museum, post mk s1, no use of y/n

an: rewatched the whole of mk last night and needed to write about my dearest stevie :)) don't forget to repost to support your fav writers

summary: Steven's apartment has become overrun with more bouquets of flowers than any one man could ever find use for, but they would continue to pile up as long as the pretty girl at the flower shop continued to melt him with that syrupy smile each time he walked in.

Steven Grant had never given much thought to flowers.

Sure, he could offer a momentary appreciation for a flicker of yellow growing out the cracks in London sidewalks or maybe if he passed a house with a particularly impressive rose bush he could smile, but beyond that flowers remained mostly inconsequential.

Steven never had girlfriends in high school, or - to be frank - thereafter either.

He’d never had to pick out a bouquet, one that he would need to consider: does this match her eyes? will it match her dress? how does it smell?

In the face of discovering that he was unalone in the occupancy of his five foot nine frame and fighting in the name of an Egyptian moon-god, Steven had less time than ever to consider his frighteningly barren love life or the lack of interest in flowers on account of it.

Isn’t life funny? In the way that we look so far beyond ourselves for answers, when sometimes they’re just around the corner.

Specifically the corner one street over from the museum.

Steven had walked the path to work plenty of times. A designated route. In the days when he still worked at the gift shop, the same route now that he’d been bumped up to tour guide.

Until one otherwise unimportant morning when construction bound his usual way, forcing him a walk further around the block: adding another four minutes to his trip and a view of the quaint shops down Little Russel street.

He hadn’t been down there in months. His last venture had been in search of a pharmacy for sleeping tablets, when Khonshu was still a nightmare and Marc nothing more than a migraine.

Steven noticed first that the pharmacy no longer stood. In fact, the previously white brick face of it’s stand had been painted a lush lemonade-pink. The Petal Parlour.

Almost immediately, in just about the same breath, Steven’s eyes found a woman leaned over a broom and sweeping the edge of the shop step. She was humming, he could just make out a Stevie Wonder tune.

The morning light flickered off your hair as if off the face of a pond out in a beautiful garden. An elderly man passed your work, uttering a greeting, and you'd perked up with a melodic: "good morning Mr B!"

Steven's footfalls stalled down the sidewalk. A man crashed into his back, strewing the contents of his messenger bag around him. "Watch where you're going, asshole!" He'd seethed at him.

By the time Steven had looked up, you'd already retreated back into the shop. He could make out your outline through the stained glass front.

There hadn't been a day since that Steven had taken his normal, considerably shorter, route to work. He got up five minutes earlier each day, brushed his teeth, made a cup of tea and let the memory of you swim behind his eyes. He could hear Marc's sighs every time.

Most mornings you were inside. Steven would deflate when he rounded the block to an empty corner, but he refused to consider it a total loss because - more often than not - he could make out your figure beyond the window fiddling with petunias on a shelf or smiling at a customer.

Some mornings, when he found himself most lucky, you'd be outside the shop. Usually clipping stray leaves off the rows of bouquets that glimmered happily at the people passing down the street. When it rained, Steven was privy to the way your hair clung to your forehead and the smudge of black mascara beneath your eyes. In the sunlight your arms were exposed from under a pink work shirt and a soil-stained apron.

It went like that for nearly a month. Between Steven and Marc's alternating schedules, he learned to appreciate the slim sightings of you he could manage. Marc didn't make it any easier, mind you, with the way he would whine and complain into Steven's ear.

"Jesus, Steven, just go up to her and say hi!"

Once or twice, Marc had managed to gain control of Steven's legs: teetering him drunkenly in your direction.

The fright would rise quickly up in Steven's chest, steering his legs back in the direction he was walking. You'd looked up one of those times, meeting his eye and spilling out a soft laugh that dissolved into a syrupy smile, but he'd rushed off before you could say anything.

Steven's face stayed red that whole day. "See. That wasn't so bad, was it?" Marc jeered.

"That was mortifying." He muttered back.

The bus rocked beneath his feet and his palm was growing sweaty around the pole he was using to steady himself. Frost was creeping up at the edge of the window he was watching out of.

"Okay, so all you're going to do is go in there and ask for ... help with something." Marc clarified again, his voice echoing around Steven's head.

He'd been bugging Steven since he was brushing his teeth before bed the previous night, something about how "I can't handle any more of this, please Steven. Put me out of my misery."

"Help with what?" Steven whispered. A woman looked up at him from her seat. He smiled shyly, turning away from her.

"I don't know ... tell her you're looking to buy some roses. Tell her it's someone's birthday."

Steven nodded slowly to himself. "Okay ... okay."

Marc had worked hard over the last twelve hours at convincing him. The endeavour was initially futile, but after Marc threatened to go in there and ask her out himself with a - frankly insulting - cockney accent, Steven was left with limited options.

He rounded the corner with wobbly legs and The Petal Parlour loomed in the distance. A bunch of sunflowers taunted him with swaying faces.

It drew ever closer and Steven's heart was beating loudly in his throat. The pink brick was crossing his vision now, his footsteps growing heavier, faster, past the floral print on the window--

"Steven don't even think about it--"

Against Steven's will, his legs knotted around each other: collapsing his body in the direction of the white painted door. It crashed open and Marc, more than Steven, caught his body before it hit the tiled floor inside the shop.

"Oh my god, are you alright?"

The shop was cramped now that he'd gotten his first glimpse inside and the three people crowding the space had their eyes on him.

As if appearing from a mirage, you pressed past the people towards him. He nodded frantically, the scalding touch of embarrassment burned his cheeks. "Yeah, yeah ... I'm fine."

Your earrings jingled from where your head was tilted to inspect him. Ringed fingers pressed down over your soil-covered apron. "Okay then, if you're sure."

Your concerned brow dissolved slowly and that syrupy smile he'd seen pointed in other's directions was suddenly overwhelming him with it's warmth. "Well then, can I help you find anything? Are you looking for some arrangement in particular?"

Steven nodded dumbly, he was fidgeting with the edge of his coat. "Yeah ... I'm looking for, uhm..."

"Birthday!" Marc called from somewhere deep in his mind.

"Birthday!" Steven spluttered loudly. There followed a quiet moment of confusion dripping between you and him.

"Jesus, Steven."

Your giggles crumbled into the space before Steven had the ability to conjure more words.

"I-- I'm sorry, I'm being rude ..." Laugher spilt between your words and your cheeks were turning a soft pink, "you want something for a birthday?"

An embarrassed smile had reached up into the corners of Steven's mouth. He liked the tinkle of your laughter, half convinced he could get drunk off the sound. A molecule of pride floated in his chest knowing that he was responsible for it.

"Uh, yes. Sorry, yes." Steven nodded, fidgeting with the bag strap over his shoulder. "Someone's birthday."

"Well, we just gotten some new arrangements in this morning ..." You turned on him, steering across the little shop to a orange, yellow and pink stacked shelf. He followed you tentatively, trying to pretend that he didn't smell perfume where you moved past him. Pretend that it wasn't making his knees buckle.

"They're pretty." He said quietly. You smiled again. You're pretty, he thought.

"Focus!" Marc's sharp voice sliced through his thoughts.

"Who's birthday is it?"

Steven's tongue lodged back into his airways. "Uhm--"

"Oh shit ... uh, say--!"

"My girlfriend's."

"Not girlfriend, you idiot!"

"Oh, alright--" Your hands fidgeted with your necklace, eyes wide.

"My sister." Steven interrupted you again, the argument in his brain between his thoughts and Marc’s voice was rattling his resolve. "I ... not my girlfriend, I don't have ... I don't have a girlfriend."

"You don't have a sister either." Marc quipped.

Steven ignored him. You were watching him with another smile flirting at your lips. "Okay, well, do you know what kind of flowers she likes? Or have an idea of what you want?"

Steven shrugged, head wobbling into a shake. "Uh no ... what kind do you like?"

You seemed taken back by his question. "Oh. Well, I like the tulips. The yellow ones, especially, but they're tough to find around here ... they have tons in Netherlands and Turkey, which not many people know because everyone thinks of them--"

Steven was sure you could see the little birds floating around his head, and how his pupils turned to tiny black hearts: maybe that's why you stopped.

You blushed a velvety red.

"I'm sorry ..." you turned back, hiding your warm face to wave your hand over the shelf of stacked bouquets. "We have some orchids and some irises if you think she might like them?"

"Yes." Steven nodded, hands folding over each other. His eyes were trailing the outline of your profile, savouring the closeness he'd finally been granted. "Those ... they're beautiful. She'll like them."

Your eyes twinkled where you nodded and it made his stomach churn. "Great."

He lingered patiently by the register while you wrapped the flowers with careful hands.

"Say," your gaze flickered up between him and the brown paper. "Do you work around here? I'm sure I've seen you passing in the morning sometimes."

Steven's breath tripped in his throat. She noticed me?

"Yes, now answer her." Marc's voice rung again.

"I-- yeah, I work by the museum actually." His voice stumbled nervously from the back of his throat.

"Oh really? That's so cool!" Your voice lilted with a pitch of interest. "I really like their exhibit on the liberation of India from English colonial regimes. I've only been once or twice though."

Chest buzzing delightfully, Steven nodded. He knew the one you were referencing, it was a couple corridors down from the Egyptian exhibits.

"Well, you should definitely come see the Ancient Egyptian section. The exhibit is huge and we have hundred year old pieces, sarcophaguses and vases and slabs of cave walls with carved hieroglyphics. I work there and it's really the most fascinating--"

"Let her respond, Steven."

But you seemed content to allow him to continue his splurge, your eyes warm and gentle where it caressed over Steven's face. He stopped talking, winding off embarrassed.

"So, uh, yeah."

"You've made a very good case. Maybe I will come visit." You nodded, fingers stroking absently at the edge of the counter. "If you promise me a tour?"

Warm blood rose up from his chest and pooled in his cheeks. "Of course. Anytime."

You handed him the flowers over the stretch of counter. "I never caught your name?"

"Steven." He said quickly, dejection gathering in his throat at the fact that your interaction was nearing a close. "G-Grant. Steven Grant."

You nodded. "Nice name. It's very James Bond."

"Thanks."

"Ask her name!" Marc poked at the back of his brain.

"Uh-- and you are?"

"Oh!" your eyes fell down to your chest where the corner of your stained apron was obscuring the sharpened edge of your name-tag. You shifted it for him to see.

Steven's eyes followed over the letters, he tried your name out on his tongue. It tasted sweeter than he thought a name ever could, rolling off his lips like a song or a bird whistling on a summer evening.

"It's ... it's a beautiful name."

You blushed, eyes moving back to the keyboard for momentary solace before paralysing him with your warm gaze again. "Thank you. I guess I'll see you 'round Stevie."

His mind whirred with how casually the little nickname slipped from you. "Yeah, yeah you will ..."

Leaving the store, Marc called from between the sludge of Steven's muddy mind.

"Good job, Stevie."

-

Steven was consumed by the interaction the whole rest of the day and when then next morning loomed overhead, he could hardly believe his luck when you were pinching together some lilacs out on the front step where he passed.

Half convinced by the nauseating twist in his stomach to just march quietly past, the decision was made for him when you glanced up from the flowers and offered him a friendly wave: “good morning, Stevie!”

His brain dissolved into a warm, gloopy mess. “… Morning.”

-

In the coming weeks, Steven’s apartment had become a botanical garden of epic proportions.

Vases and cups and pots, and whatever he could fit a flower into, lined his kitchen counters and his shelves and his bathroom sink with every possible kind of flower that The Petal Parlour had to offer.

Marc grumbled most days, in search of a coffee mug or apartment keys between what he described the “Amazon jungle in here.”

But Steven paid him little mind. It was a harmless jab and Steven noticed in the reflection of the shop’s stained glass window how Marc watched you too, eyes glazed with a soft affection. He mentioned nothing of it to Marc.

Steven had begun frequenting the shop when he could, on mornings he got up early enough or afternoons when the day’s work brought soil stains across your ruddy, tired cheeks.

He’d bought flowers for every possible celebration to be had in London, seemingly nabbing an invite to each one. Bat mitzvahs, birthdays, weddings, farewells, funerals: he’d bought bouquets for one of each kind.

Each visit would play out similarly. He’d step into the shop, maybe once a week or every other week - with Marc muttering somewhere in his mind, we’re hardly gonna be able afford groceries at this rate - and you’d beam at him from behind the counter or from beneath a brightly coloured shelf.

“What’s up, Stevie?”

The nickname made him shiver every time.

“Let me guess … Christmas in July?” You’d tease.

When he’d find you behind the counter, that was his favourite, because you’d lean lazily over it. It blessed him with the view down the slope of your nose, the smell of your fading perfume, the jingle of your clinking earrings.

“Baby shower.” It comes out almost as a question, curling upward at the end.

You’d giggle softly. “Right. Boy or girl?”

It had been long enough that Steven could just about draw out your work schedule.

Fridays you didn’t work, Sundays and Tuesdays you only clocked in the afternoon. He tracked it with the little greetings he got, or didn’t get, as he passed on the way to or from the museum.

“You know,” Marc was fronting an early morning in August, subjecting Steven to a cup of coffee. He hated the stale taste it left in his mouth. “We’re quickly approaching, if not already long surpassed, the point where you need to actually ask her on a date. You know that right?”

Steven remained quiet in the depths of Marc’s mind.

He stayed like that until Marc had cleaned out the mug and stuck a wet toothbrush into his mouth.

“Can I please just get ready for work now?” Steven muttered after nearly twenty minutes of silence.

Marc huffed, letting his eyes roll back and the toothbrush dangle from his lips.

Steven shook out his shoulders, Marc was always so tense. “Thank you.”

It was only when he’d passed the flower shop that he remembered that it was Friday. A group of school kids were expected at the museum around nine that morning.

He was almost grateful for your absence, it allowed him to wallow in Marc’s words for at least one more day. He should ask you out, god does he want to.

The day passed like most of them do.

The school children were rowdy and mostly impartial to the magnificent feats of Ancient Egyptian architecture, but he took another tour around two o’ clock with three couples and a family who were significantly, thankfully, more engaging.

Steven had just wrapped up the hour, on the tail end of explaining how do we know what hieroglyphics mean? to the man who’d asked, when a flitter of shifting fabric floated past the back of his head.

Emerging like a bottle-green wet dream, Steven's gaze found you drifting under the arch between rooms. Your eyes alight in searching, they caressed momentarily over each framed painting and encased ornate vase.

He'd never seen you in anything more than your tight pink work shirt, which - don't get it mistaken - did enough damage to his psyche on it's own, but he immediately knew he'd never recover from the little green dress that clung to your frame.

A square neckline reached past clinking necklaces, long sleeves brushed along your palm - a job Steven desperately wished was his own - and a ruffled edge that teased an upper expanse of thigh which he'd never before been gifted a view of ... and if you shifted just a little, bent just slightly over--

"Hey, thanks a lot. The tour was great."

The middle aged man's face reappeared into Steven's view: dirtied spectacles pressing down the edge of his sweating red nose.

Steven stuttered, eyes flickering between the man's face and your figure in the distance. "Y-Yeah, of course ... anytime, mate."

Your eyes found him, waving a hand.

Uninterested in letting the American tourists keep him from you any longer, Steven slipped past them towards your nearing frame.

"Stevie, hey." You beamed up at his face, hands playing with the strap of your bag: clearly unsure. "You-- well, it was my day off and I thought maybe I could take you up on that tour, but I just saw the board and it says you'd already finished your last one--"

"Hey, hey," Steven shook his head. "No, I'm ... I'm glad you came. I can take you if you'd still like, I'd love to show you around? It will be like a private tour."

He swore he could dissolve under the shine of the smile you gave him. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Oh—“ you started digging into the bag draped down over your shoulder. “That reminds me …”

Your hand emerged with a single white flower. It’s petals were wide with a barely there yellow dot in the centre.

“I thought it would match the jacket you always wear.” A hand reached out, tugging gently on the corner pocket of his grey trench coat and slipping the flower in so it stuck half out happily. “It’s a white daffodil. Nicked it last night before I closed up.”

Steven’s chest was clenching up with a tightness that felt like his last remaining decisions in this life were to either immediately faint, or kiss you until the oxygen deprivation lead him to faint anyways.

“I—“ His fingers caressed gently at the edge of it’s petal. “Thank you.”

“Give her a compliment, Steven.” Marc’s voice startled him. He was a rare presence when Steven was at work.

The idea prodded at Steven that maybe it was the sound of your voice that had drawn him out.

“You … you look beautiful, by the way.” Steven pressed out, “the dress, it’s — it’s very nice.”

With nervous hands at the edge of the skirt, your looked quickly between the dress and Steven's face. "Ugh, this old thing. Just thought it would be a good idea to get out of my work uniform for a bit."

"I agree ... a great idea." He nodded, "You wanna ... get started?"

"Of course."

Steven lead you over the same route that he walked three times a day, four times on weekends, but somehow still felt itchy between the rooms. He figured it had to do with you gaze pressing curiously over his face, it made his neck hot and he prayed you couldn't see it.

When he spoke, you leaned close into his frame: eyes flickering between his trembling lips and the artefacts he was describing.

"That's so cool ..." you'd whisper to yourself at different points, sometimes a "that's crazy" or a "that's kinda gross", and Steven was drinking in your reactions like a man parched.

The tour closed off at the spot it usually does, with the replica of the Rosetta's Stone near the West Exit. By then, the sun had already sunk behind the backdrop of summer London and Steven's nerves were downright shot.

Your perfume was sending him on a chemical high and he's sure Marc heard every one of his desperate thoughts about the way your fingers tightened around his arm when they'd bump past other visitors moving room to room.

With the dress swaying merrily at your sides, you recounted points of the tour with animated hands flying ahead of you.

"And the way they managed to get those tombs so far underground? Not to even mention the complex tunnelling systems, how much work that would actually take to figure out--"

The tiny birds had returned to flying in circles over Steven's head, Isn't She Lovely was playing absently from somewhere in the depths of his mind.

Your excited hands came to find your sides and you huffed yourself into silence.

Following beside him, Steven lead you two out under the arched gates towards the steps of the museum. The moon twinkled between streetlights, and Steven avoided its gaze. Like he could feel Khonshu’s presence over his shoulder.

“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He smiled at you, a smile that just about suffocated him.

“Enjoyed it?” You laughed. “It was amazing, I mean, you were amazing.”

He laughed softly too, but didn’t respond.

The silence was beginning to turn stale.

“Now is as good a time as it’s gonna get.” Marc pestered.

“Well I should—“ you pointed obviously over your shoulder, before finding the face of your wrist watch. “My bus will be leaving soon.”

Steven nodded. “Yeah … yeah of course. I had fun, you should come by more often.”

“It was … it was very sweet. Taking me on the tour when you probably had better things to do.” Your hand curled over his forearm again, “You’re very sweet, Steven.”

“And you’re very beautiful.”

The words found the air between them before Steven even knew what he’d said.

Your lips parted slightly in surprise, cheeks brushed with a warm pink: “I— thank you, Stevie.”

Steven nodded, not looking at you and suffocating on his own embarrassment. “I’m gonna— need to go finish up inside.”

An unmistakably wounded look passed over your face. It dissolved as quickly as it had appeared.

“Sure.” It was curt. “I’ll see you round the shop.”

“Steven, if you do not stop her so help me God—“

A flurry of hot and cold feelings were chasing up and down his chest: he watched your figure turn and worked to do the same.

The outline of the museum had barely returned to his frame of vision when the cold hand of his subconscious reached out and dragged him down into it’s icy black depths: now watching the view of his eyes as if from a foggy tape recorder.

Marc stiffened his shoulders, turning to where you were bounding down the steps of the museum, heels clicking on each jump.

He chased down after you, skipping two steps at a time.

“Marc, don’t! You’re gonna scare her!” Steven was shouting now, rattling his already shaky consciousness.

He called your name where you’d just reached the sidewalk. You turned up to meet his face.

In barely fractions of a moment, Marc was able to find some sympathy for dear Steven.

Now that he was faced with you himself, as opposed to the blurry lens he’d been cursed to only peer through before, he wondered how Steven ever conjured up the courage to say more than three words to you.

“Steven?”

The light of the street-lamp was flickering in little circles off your eyes in the dim street and Marc was half convinced to abandon Steven in the darkness.

He didn’t.

Rather, he slipped back down into the shadows where he felt Steven surpass him again.

Your brow bent deeper in confusion, “Are you alright?”

If he had time, Steven might have taken a moment to huff at Marc for not even bothering to turn away when he forced himself back to the front, spared you from the sight of his eyes rolling back in their head. But no, you probably thought he was possessed.

“I, yes, that doesn’t matter—“

He could feel ice cold adrenaline pumping down from his brain. Like he did in the seconds before a fight, when the suit would crawl up over his skin.

“Your eyes,” your hand came close up to his face, hesitant enough to just float in its orbit. “They rolled—“

“Will you go on a date with me?”

You blinked up at him. Once, twice.

The silence was reaching far past the limits that it did in all the romance movies Steven had seen and his palms were growing itchy with the passing seconds.

“When?”

Steven’s head was reeling. He hadn’t thought that far, but why quit while he’s ahead?

“Now. Right now, tonight.”

The surprise was fading from your face, replaced with eyes that were glowing around the corners and a smile that made his heart skip every second beat.

“Don’t you have work?”

“You haven’t answered my question yet.”

“If you promise to still come visit the shop ... I would love to go on a date with you, Stevie. Right now.”

Warmth was flooding back into Steven’s hands. “I’ll set up a tent outside on the sidewalk …” he breathed, “you won’t be able to get rid of me.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Steven nodded. Almost tripping on the step up behind him, “I’m going to tell them that I’m leaving. Just wait right here …“

He’d already moved up two steps, legs buzzing with untamed exhilaration.

“Steven, hold on just one sec—“ when he turned, you’d surpassed the small steps separating you.

He’d barely a chance to turn all the way back around when your index finger hooked between his neck and the collar of his shirt and your lips were on his.

They were warm and soft and Steven had no idea what he was doing.

With his experience being limited to the pool of:

A. The girl he’d pecked in first grade on the swings in the playground.

B. A drunken make-out at a college party for a college he didn’t even attend and,

C. His (mostly Marc’s) ex-wife,

It was nothing short of a miracle when his hand came up to find the side of your neck. When he pulled your waist flush against his.

“Atta’ boy.” He ignored Marc.

You pulled back, Steven was pleased to notice your reddened, wet lips.

“Sorry,” you whispered close against him, voice half-drowned out by the rumbling of taxis in the street and people passing by. “Been itching to do that for a while.”

-

taglist:

@pcrushinnerd @since-im-already-here @am-3-thyst @aug-ust69 @hangmanslover @suddenlysteven @nxonlights @lwjmoonchild7 @o-zenith-o @amasdaydream @may-tulip @skarrkiie @thought-u-said-dragon-queen @lxne20 @sangwoahsbat @orihimi-19 @purple-amaranthe @autismsupermusicalassassin @mt2sssss @angie2274 @dancing-pinky-flower @y2kbratzqouturr @brekkers-desigirl @its-me-ya-boi-lisa @softdvng0dness87 @venomous-ko @grilled-steak @emily-roberts @airzonaaa @yomoms-stuff @mess-of-fandom @winter-soul @insomniacrobyn

i couldn't tag some of you, just check that your settings allow for mentions :))

[kaszuma]

Cat and Mouse | Hoshina Soshiro

Part 2 of "Certainly Yours"

pairing: Hoshina Soshiro x fem!reader

summary: you pull away from his touches when he least suspects it.

warnings: Mentions of potential death. But nothing too descriptive. Soshiro centered POV. Lots of inner monologue and pining.

wc: 1,477

--

note: apologies for any mistakes. Not proofread and writing dialogue is hard.

--

A game of Cat and Mouse. You know the drill.

That was the game they had unintentionally started playing. A tug of war between a ‘will they; won't they’ situation. And for any party involved, this usually isn't a game for the faint hearted.

Now whether this had been his karma for choosing a far more skittish way to approach you. It was up for debate. But surely, his affection for you had far since crossed the borders between friends and lovers. And situations like these are no good for the average hopeless romantic.

And as surprising as that sounded. Soshiro Hoshina, Vice Captain of the Third Division's Defense Force, had been one himself. Painstakingly so.

God. It was his undoing wasn't it? He had initiated, no, encouraged, such actions on his own. And because he kept his grip on her so slack and loosened. She had begun to slip away from his grasp. The possibility of a connection, might now have been severed indefinitely.

He was now reaping what he had sown the moment you had decided to challenge his distant affections. When, just this morning? He had been deserving of such a cold shoulder from your wake.

His hand which would’ve given you a curt wave. An innocent greeting no less. Had an elaborate scheme in mind. Mischief was in his very knuckles as he tried to pass by you in the mess hall. Intent on reaching the Coffee machine, just on the other side of the counter, right past you.

And sure, he could've just as easily circled to the other side without needing to get so close to her. But he couldn't help it. He longed for the small touches on his palm. The warmth that spread on the very fingertips that had gotten so used to the grip of hardened blades. A stark contrast to your waist, which had never once retracted from his advances.

In some cases, you had even leaned close to meet his touch. Or initiated them on your own. If you had been at all bothered by his touches, one word and he would've stopped entirely. That was all it took. He just needed you to say stop. Shove him, push him, beat him even. Just tell him to back away and he'll do it no questions asked.

This distance was enough for him. This distance was healthy. Better for the both of you he internalized.

But each time he moved his hand to guide the small of your back. Brush back some of the stray pieces of hair obscuring your face. Not a single word of dissatisfaction came out of your lips. Encouraging him to move further even.

But he never did.

Distance was good for both of them. He had told himself countless times before. Convinced himself that he was undeserving of those eyes that looked at him like he was the world. Worried etched in the very corners of your brows anytime the familiar blare of Kaiju alarm has startled base.

Your eyes had always held a sort of prayer for his return. And each time, he'd try his best to do just that. A silent promise that he has yet to admit to anyone. Not even himself.

But in the likelihood that he couldn't? That he'd one day die of a fatal injury. He'd rather spare you the feeling of dread later down the line. And his grip on you reluctantly loosened. Not finding it in himself to want to start a relationship that could end in ruins. Your ruin.

So his touches did not linger. His conversations are light and never heavy. And his gaze remained fixated from a distance. A silent admiration anytime you had not been looking. Or atleast he thinks you had not been looking.

And it had worked for some time. His advances never held on too tight, and were never serious in that way. Making you second guess all his actions. Unintentionally no doubt.

But this time? you slipped away.

Indulgence wasn't an option for frontliners like him. He damn well knew that. Especially when the entirety of the Third Division had relied so heavily on both Captain Ashiro and his own strength. So getting close to people was always difficult in every sense of the word.

But now?

Fuck.

Somehow it feels even worse to see you brush past him.

His gaze fixated at the back of your head as she wasted no time to say goodbye to him. A curt salute later and she had already been long gone from his sight. Leaving him alone with nothing in the way of his morning coffee.

Damn it. It must’ve been those romance books he read that had compromised his mind. Those cheesy love stories that almost seemes like fairy tales were fantastical to him. A hopeless romantic. But he disliked the idea of having his braon turned to mush because of it. Or at least, that's what he wished it was.

–

It wasn't a few days later that he had encountered you again. This time on the side of the empty stairs leading up to the hallways of the training room. He had been planning to make a short trip to recreate a certain battle in his head. But his feet faltered the moment he saw you heading down yourself. Taking very careful steps with your hands on the rails.

It had taken a few steps of her own to release Soshiro from his stupor. And he shook his head, beginning to climb up himself. This time, noy once attempting to get as close to her as possible. The two brushed past each other as they had headed in opposite directions.

And just as he made the final step, he had half a mind to look back. And like clockwork, he couldn't help but sneak a glance. Just a peak wouldn't hurt. Though his eyes widened, only to find that you had stopped your own steps from proceeding. Still halfway down the stairs. Eyes fixated on the ground where your flats had slipped past your foot.

Your eyes and his momentarily glanced at each other. And back at the shoe that had slipped past your skin. And just as you turn awkwardly to grab the shoe.

Soshiro had been quicker.

“I didn't picture you as the fairy tale type.” He joked. Internally cussing at himself at initiatong the conversation.

Taking a few steps down to grab your shoe for you. His cat-like gaze, one squinted and ever so unreadable, was unchanged. Like usual.

“It's not exactly a glass slipper.” You had quipped. “And you're not exactly prince charming either.”

You watched as Soshiro had moved down a few steps to kneel in front of you. His hand had already gently grabbed hold of your ankle. Wasting no time as he placed the shoe back on your foot.

“Do you not want me to be?”

“It depends.” You shrug. “You're not exactly clear on what you want to be with me.”

…

“And if I say I wanted to be with you?” his breath had hitched momentarily. The only trace of proof, that he had been affected by her. His face had been too well practiced to show any signs of distress.

“Seriously?” You had chuckled.

“You really need to read the room..” you sigh. Crouching down to his level, where he kneeled in front of you. The steps had made it so you were slightly towering over him.

“You know, for someone so observant, you're pretty bad at this.”

“Am I?” Soshiro had chuckled. It sounded almost like bells in her ears. The type that had been genuine and remained distinctly the same even after all these years.

“Just checking Cinderella.”

“Haha.” sarcasm dripped from your voice. Though he catches the brief glimpse you made towards his lips. “Now, just shut up and kiss me.”

And that he did.

The moment he saw you lean down closer to his face, his own hand had moved against the logic of his brain. The only thing that he had internalized was the hammering of his heart that surrounded his eardrums. His calloused fingertips had met the warmth of your jaw.

Lips finally connected as if they had been deprived of each other for so long. Had he not kissed someone before her, he'd have rewritten this moment as his first.

Fuck me. Now he was really in too deep. And he feels the reluctant way she had pulled away from him.

“See? Wasn't so bad was it?”

Soshiro had chuckled dryly. “Oh, just shut up and kiss me.” and you did. With no hesitation and no second guesses this time.

It seems you've won this little cat and mouse duel of yours. Veni, vidi, vici as one might say.

And god did he wish you had won it sooner.

[wendyyyyyyyy]

"I Like It"

This is an imagine based on the song "I Like It" by Stray Kids.

Pairing : Changbin x reader

Warning : None.

Enjoy!

-------

The room was dimly lit, the golden hues of the city’s lights pouring through the large glass windows. You sat cross-legged on the couch, sipping a drink while Changbin leaned back in the armchair across from you, one hand lazily twirling his phone while the other rested on his knee. There was a casual ease to your nights together—no pressure, no expectations, just the quiet buzz of being near each other.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said, breaking the silence, his lips curved into a small smile, but his eyes stayed sharp, observing you in the way only he could.

You shrugged, leaning back and letting the cushion sink against you. “Just thinking.”

“About what?” He asked, leaning forward slightly, his curiosity piqued.

It was moments like these that threw you off—Changbin had a way of making you feel seen and unseen all at once, of pulling you in just close enough to leave you craving more, yet never stepping past an invisible line you couldn’t quite define.

“About us,” you admitted softly, unsure if you were brave or foolish to bring it up.

His brow furrowed slightly, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Us, huh? That’s a loaded word.”

You rolled your eyes, chuckling despite yourself. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” he teased, setting his phone down and locked eyes with you. “Look, we don’t need to figure this out. Isn’t it enough that we like what this is?”

There it was again—the push and pull. A rhythm you’d both fallen into so naturally, a dance of being close but not too close, of wanting and hesitating. It was intoxicating, but also maddening.

“I just…” You trailed off, the words catching in your throat. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think—shouldn’t we figure this out? I mean, isn’t that what people do?”

Changbin furrowed his brows again, and let out a quiet sigh. “Do you think we need to figure this out? Right now?”

His words mirrored the unspoken rules of your dynamic. You didn’t define what you had because definitions brought expectations, and expectations led to heartbreak. It was easier this way—simpler. You liked the feeling, the way he made your heart race without suffocating it.

“But what if—” you started, but he cut you off gently.

“Don’t do that.” His voice was calm, almost soothing. “Don’t ruin a good thing by trying to make it something it doesn’t have to be.”

Your mind raced. If you were to step up further, would that ruin everything? You weren’t sure. You liked him—God, you liked him more than you wanted to admit. But there was something terrifying about stepping beyond the boundaries of what you had.

“What if this isn’t enough?” you whispered, almost afraid to say the words aloud.

Changbin didn’t answer immediately. His gaze never wavered and you met his eyes, soft yet resolute. “This thing we have… it’s good. It’s really good. Why mess with it?”

“Because…” You hesitated, biting your lip as you searched for the right words. “Because sometimes it feels like I want more, but I don’t want to lose what we have now. And it’s confusing.”

He looked at you with a knowing smile, the weight of his attention grounding you as he replied quietly. “I get that, I really do. And it’s not because I don’t care, I just… I like this. I like you. And I don’t want to mess it up by making it more complicated than it has to be.”

His honesty settled in between you both, not heavy but grounding. But, could you let things stay as they were? Could you live with the ambiguity, the what-ifs?

“I don’t know what I want,” you admitted, the words feeling lighter than you expected. “But, I know I like this.”

Changbin leaned back again, his smirk returning as if to diffuse the tension. “Then let’s not decide anything. Let’s just… enjoy this. Just you and me, as we are. Now, stop overthinking and enjoy the moment with me.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head at him. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is easy,” he said with a playful shrug. “You just have to trust me.”

And maybe you did. The way your heart fluttered told you that may be trusting him was enough for now.

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